You feel an intruder through the soles of your boots long before you see one. Headlamps pierce the murk and a rotting, frankensteined locomotive bellows through the station. They come from some way up country where the icebreakers still beach. By regulation, I must watch every nameless carriage and each barricaded window pass. The safety on my rifle switched off.
At all hours of the day they haul their mile-long corteges through our town with no mind to stop. But on some rare occasions there’s an obstruction. One by necessity will creep in slow and announce its halt in a dull metallic crash. Me and the other boys must prowl up and down either side like foxes hunting for gaps in a chicken run. The only thing on our minds the one order for which we’re paid.
Shoot anything that tries to get out.