narrowed so that there was no place to run but into the tangle of girders and struts, that or down again into the rushing cold of the river below and even that near impossible to do.
There was a flatbed beside him but no place to put his hand. He had thought, maybe, to try for where the wagons were coupled, but the coupling was set back, its parts clanging together so that anyone who tried would maybe be crushed to death. He ran beside it just the same, watched as it rocked and swung, metal buffer kissing metal buffer, pipes and cables hanging down. There was no more than a hundred feet now and he could feel his legs begin to go, that and an ache in his chest and shoulder both. A box car came level and he could see how the doors were open slightly, though there was no hand hold that he could detect. He had expected, maybe, a metal ladder, something to reach for, but there was nothing but this gap, swinging away and toward. The boy leaped ahead of him, turning so that he hooked a hand round the edge of the door, blocking him from jumping himself. Then, with a half-turn, he swung his legs up, supple with youth, like a fish flicking itself off into the gloom. Fifty feet and a pain in his chest. Fighting for air. No way to make it, as it seemed, no way to follow the boy whose legs disappeared as the wagon pulled away.
He glanced down at his feet, scared he would trip, looked ahead for the man with the gun he expected to step out in his path. Thirty feet, and the girders like so many arms reaching to embrace him. He jumped at last, risking everything on this, who had no choice to do otherwise, his feet slipping as he took off so that he grabbed lower than he wanted and grabbed with the arm that was shot through and burnt. He caught hold not with his hand but his elbow, bent round the door, his left hand, so that he was facing backwards, away from the direction it was going, his legs flying. Twenty feet.
The bridge was latticed with rusting girders, criss-crossed, a catâs cradle of iron, with space for a walking man but not for legs flying out as the train pulled free of the hill and on to the flat. He twisted himself, throwing his other hand back over his head, gripping the door with his one good hand, pulling as hard as he could, easing himself forwards. It was too late. The bridge was on him. He kicked his legs inward, seeking some purchase and found it where one of the planks of the wagon was broken. His toe jammed into it and the thrum of the girders pulsed in his ears as the shadows flickered and the note of the train changed. Down below, the river sparkled, but all he could see was the flaking brown paint of the slid-back door and the shadow of the girders blinking on and off, on and off. Then they were free and the train hit another gradient, slowing for a moment so that he could ease his foot out and pull on his one good hand. He felt another hand take hold of his jacket and ease him forwards. It was the boy, pulling against the motion of the train and making little difference but just enough to help him lever against the edge of the door and wriggle his chest around it, his burnt chest. It was the pain in the end that helped him do it, urged him on to one last effort.
It was round his waist now and he knew he was safe. He rolled over and in and lay on his back, done, exhausted and destroyed, but in just the same. For a while, he thought of nothing, fighting for breath, one pain contending with another so that he seemed to glow with it, throb as the girders of the bridge had throbbed in his ears. He closed his eyes and everything glowed red, as though his blood were afire. The whistle of the train sounded as it gathered for its descent, proud it had made it, announcing itself to the world. It was some time before he gave any thought to the man with the gun, or the men, since he had no way of knowing how many there were. He wondered whether they had seen him jump aboard, he and the boy who was somewhere behind him
There was a flatbed beside him but no place to put his hand. He had thought, maybe, to try for where the wagons were coupled, but the coupling was set back, its parts clanging together so that anyone who tried would maybe be crushed to death. He ran beside it just the same, watched as it rocked and swung, metal buffer kissing metal buffer, pipes and cables hanging down. There was no more than a hundred feet now and he could feel his legs begin to go, that and an ache in his chest and shoulder both. A box car came level and he could see how the doors were open slightly, though there was no hand hold that he could detect. He had expected, maybe, a metal ladder, something to reach for, but there was nothing but this gap, swinging away and toward. The boy leaped ahead of him, turning so that he hooked a hand round the edge of the door, blocking him from jumping himself. Then, with a half-turn, he swung his legs up, supple with youth, like a fish flicking itself off into the gloom. Fifty feet and a pain in his chest. Fighting for air. No way to make it, as it seemed, no way to follow the boy whose legs disappeared as the wagon pulled away.
He glanced down at his feet, scared he would trip, looked ahead for the man with the gun he expected to step out in his path. Thirty feet, and the girders like so many arms reaching to embrace him. He jumped at last, risking everything on this, who had no choice to do otherwise, his feet slipping as he took off so that he grabbed lower than he wanted and grabbed with the arm that was shot through and burnt. He caught hold not with his hand but his elbow, bent round the door, his left hand, so that he was facing backwards, away from the direction it was going, his legs flying. Twenty feet.
The bridge was latticed with rusting girders, criss-crossed, a catâs cradle of iron, with space for a walking man but not for legs flying out as the train pulled free of the hill and on to the flat. He twisted himself, throwing his other hand back over his head, gripping the door with his one good hand, pulling as hard as he could, easing himself forwards. It was too late. The bridge was on him. He kicked his legs inward, seeking some purchase and found it where one of the planks of the wagon was broken. His toe jammed into it and the thrum of the girders pulsed in his ears as the shadows flickered and the note of the train changed. Down below, the river sparkled, but all he could see was the flaking brown paint of the slid-back door and the shadow of the girders blinking on and off, on and off. Then they were free and the train hit another gradient, slowing for a moment so that he could ease his foot out and pull on his one good hand. He felt another hand take hold of his jacket and ease him forwards. It was the boy, pulling against the motion of the train and making little difference but just enough to help him lever against the edge of the door and wriggle his chest around it, his burnt chest. It was the pain in the end that helped him do it, urged him on to one last effort.
It was round his waist now and he knew he was safe. He rolled over and in and lay on his back, done, exhausted and destroyed, but in just the same. For a while, he thought of nothing, fighting for breath, one pain contending with another so that he seemed to glow with it, throb as the girders of the bridge had throbbed in his ears. He closed his eyes and everything glowed red, as though his blood were afire. The whistle of the train sounded as it gathered for its descent, proud it had made it, announcing itself to the world. It was some time before he gave any thought to the man with the gun, or the men, since he had no way of knowing how many there were. He wondered whether they had seen him jump aboard, he and the boy who was somewhere behind him
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