Pheasant Tracks

The rust plumed bird was sitting on the rail. Live, the bar hummed with electricity as excitable particles surged through the metal, bumping each other, like angry bees in a tight space. The bird shifted its stance, and moved a few inches down the line, the vibrations tickling the soles of its feet. It leant forwards, pushing its long tail feathers down to keep its balance, then dipped its head in a sharp motion at the piece of grain between the tracks. It jabbed again, as the food eluded its sharp beak rocking on its perch like a see saw.

Like a see saw the loose sheet of metal swings from where it is hanging, attached to the wreckage of the carriage. It once formed part of the centre doors but now is the only piece left, a twisted fragment of outer rim. It moves in the October breeze suspended above the ghost of a glass window. Deep in the carriage, someone screams. He repeats the same word, gritting his teeth against the waves of pain pulsing through his legs. The warm blood seeps into his trousers, saturating more of the cloth with every panicked heartbeat. He yells as loud as he can though his voice is hoarse. Can anyone hear him? Was anyone coming? Was there anyone left to come?

The bird struggled with it’s meal, eating had become difficult in a way it couldn’t fathom. The pheasant straightened up and hopped down, onto the track itself. Raising it’s left leg it curled it’s toes and thrust them down into the stones, getting a firm grip and pulling back. The stones remained in place. Undeterred the pheasant continued, digging in vain for seeds and grubs. Then it spotted the worm. Thick, pink and juicy. Both halves writhed, desperately trying to drag themselves somewhere dark and safe. The shrapnel that had inflicted the damage rested nearby, its battered edges slightly charred. The bird tilted its head to the side, examining the potential meal. Normally it had to work at catching its dinner but here lay the worm, all helpless and vulnerable, spread out for it to eat. A buffet of neatly prepared bits and pieces.

Bits and pieces, that’s all they are. The man coughs as smoke from the fire rolls into his nose and down his throat seizing his lungs and filling his eyes with water. He screws them up, letting the tears run down his face. He doesn’t want to see anyway. Bits of people are scattered around him, even in the gloom of the upturned carriage he can make them out. Hands minus fingers poke up in the mist, the remaining digits skewed at odd angles. A bare leg without a foot resembles the limb of a tree, lopped off for firewood. The carriage lights flicker on and off and the fingers cast shadows on the walls, a forest in the twilight. A thick river spills across the ground picking new directions as it dribbles across the carriage’s plastic shell. A river of blood and he is adding to it. The glass embedded deeply in his left leg has severed an artery. But he is still alive. He holds that thought foremost in his mind and grips it tightly. He is still alive and someone must be coming. He keeps his eyes closed and listens to the rhythm of his heart. It is the only sound he wants to hear, quiet but constant.

Quiet but constant, the sound echoed in the distance. The particles in the line buzzed louder but the pheasant didn’t notice. It was hungry, and food was all it cared about. It opened its beak and darted down again, snapping the golden pieces together as rapidly as castanets. It clicked at the worm trying to pierce the pieces and satisfy it’s appetite but still the creature squirmed, always seeming out of reach. Frustrated, the bird tried again, drilling its beak down into the stones in a frenzy, snatching, spearing without pause.

Without pause, he screams for help. Time is running out. The noise grows quieter in his ears, his breathing shallower, the smoke thicker. He doesn’t want to die, not here, not alone but he can feel himself slipping. He is shivering, cold and drained. The man tries to move his arms to hug himself, a last gesture of comfort, but finds that he cannot. More tears. Resting his head on his arms he whispers a prayer with the last of his breath, racing through the words as though they will anchor him to life, hold him in place until someone comes. But there is no one coming, he knows that now. He closes his eyes and all is still. Peace. And then the man stands, turns around and walks away from the scene, out of the carriage and into the daylight, his arms spread frivolously out at his sides, his soul lightly wandering along the tracks.

Wandering along the tracks, the pheasant picked its way across the beams and stones between the rails. They were shaking now, the humming loud and insistent. There was something lying up ahead and the bird approached it gingerly. It was a mess of feathers and blood. Shattered fragments of white bone stuck up in the mess. The pheasant hopped up onto the rail to get a better look and curled its toes around the metal, holding on tight as it leant towards the dead creature. The wind rushed in its ears, the vibrations causing it to shake on its perch. The train tore closer, transparent but just as imposing as the first time it struck. The bird stopped moving and turned its head, transfixed by the sight, by the force of impending death. The wheels thundered nearer eating up the rail. The train screeched and then the pheasant was lost. In that moment they were all lost.