THE WRECK
The early darkness of late autumn settled over the flat country. Tiny
lights twinkled from distant farmhouses as the Limited plowed through
the night.
The athletic young man continued to stare moodily out of the window.
The black expanse of country became more thickly studded with lights.
They flashed in the foreground in regular constellations as the train
whizzed with undiminished speed past tall block towers and tiny
suburban stations.
Long parallel rows, narrowing to a point under a distant hazy nimbus,
marked the course of the outreaching arteries of a great city. Warning
bells clanged peremptorily at the lowered gates of grade crossings.
The car wheels crashed noisily over an ever-increasing number of frogs
and switch points, an occasional brilliantly illuminated trolley car
crept slowly over its rails, and the hundreds of green and red and
yellow lights of the widening railroad yards lent a variety of color to
the scene.
That infallible harbinger of an approaching terminal, the colored
porter, had appeared in the doorway, whisk-broom in hand,
when--suddenly--there was a grinding jar; the heavy coach trembled
through its length, and from forward came a muffled roar followed by
the tearing crash of riven metal.
The car reared upward--higher and higher it climbed to the
accompaniment of the terrible crunching grind that proclaims undirected
power and benumbs the brain with the horrid possibilities of energy
uncontrolled. When almost perpendicular the sleeper toppled and crashed
sidewise across other tracks at right angles to its course.
New sounds supplanted the mighty noise of tearing and rending--little
sounds--the sharp jangle of smashing glass, and the thin wail of an
infant. These were borne to the young man's ears as from a distance.
It was very dark and he was conscious of a great weight which seemed to
be crushing the breath from his body. He raised his arms and tore at
the thing on his chest. It yielded slightly to the pressure of his
hands but remained immovable. He reached above it and encountered
metal--a large iron cylinder with projecting pipes twisted and bent.
Frantically he tore at the weight, exerting to the utmost the mighty
strength of his shoulders. Inch by inch he worked it sidewise, using
the pipes as levers until at length it rolled free and settled with a
crash among the wreckage at his side. The other--the thing that
yielded--he lifted easily and sat up, filling his exhausted lungs with
great drafts of cool air.
His head ached terribly. He passed his hand across his forehead and
withdrew it wet and dripping. He struck a match and as the tiny flame
flickered and went out he struck another and another.
At his side lay the torso of the young reporter, his head mashed by the
heavy water-cooler. He shuddered as he realized that this was the thing
he had lifted from his chest.
In the opposite corner the elderly man struggled to release his arm
from the grip of a wedging timber. The body of the porter, doubled
grotesquely, partially protruded from under a seat.
His last match died out and he crept to the side of the imprisoned man.
A heave at the timber satisfied him as to the futility of accomplishing
anything in the darkness and without tools.
He stood erect and groped for the door of the compartment which he
located in the ceiling almost directly above him. Drawing himself
through the aperture, he made the narrow passage, but such was the
position of the car that it was only with the greatest difficulty he
succeeded in worming his way along, using the dividing wall as a floor.
He gained the body of the coach, and from the darkness about him came
groans and curses mingled with great gasping sobs, and that most
terrible of all sounds, the shriek of a woman in the night-time.
He located a window and, smashing the glass with his elbow, crawled
through.
From every direction men were running toward the scene of the wreck,
calling to each other in hoarse, throaty bellows, while here and there
in the darkness lanterns flashed.
Sick and dizzy he lowered himself to the ground and staggered across
some tracks. He snatched a lantern from the hand of a bewildered
switchman and stumbled again toward the overturned car.
Others swarmed upon it. He heard the blows of axes and the smashing of
glass. Already an army of men were engaged in the work of rescue.
Inert forms were passed through windows into waiting arms to be
deposited in long, ghastly rows upon the cinders of the road-bed, under
the flaring torches. A cold, drizzling rain was falling and the smell
of smoke was in the air.
A group of firemen hurried past carrying hand-extinguishers. The
lantern-light gleamed wetly upon their black rubber coats and metal
helmets, from under the brims of which their set faces showed grimly
white. Far up the track an ambulance gong clanged frantically.
The young man reentered the coach through a window and made his way
slowly toward the smoking compartment, pushing his lantern before him.
Reaching the door, he peered over the edge.
Some one was kneeling beside the elderly man, working swiftly by the
narrow light of an electric pocket lamp. As his eyes became accustomed
to the dim light of the interior, he realized that the elderly man
seemed to be resisting the efforts of the other who knelt upon his
unpinioned arm. From between the lips, which were forced wide apart,
protruded the ends of a handkerchief--he was gagged!
The hands of the kneeling man worked rapidly, but not in the prying
loose of the timber which lay across the other's arm. From the side
pocket of his coat, where it evidently had been hurriedly thrust,
dangled a watch chain which the young man recognized as belonging to
the dead reporter.
Suddenly the atrocity of the situation dawned upon him. He had heard of
such things, of the ghouls who haunt the scenes of great disaster,
preying upon the bodies of the dead--robbing the helpless.
With a curse he seized the wirebound railway lantern. At the sound the
man looked up--it was the cigar salesman. The young man swung the
weapon with all his might. It cut the air in a descending arc, but the
other avoided the blow and the heavy lantern crashed against the wall
and went out.
Without an instant's hesitation he dived through the opening and met
the fiend as he was rising to his feet. Together they rolled among the
wreckage. While no match for his antagonist in size, the pickpocket was
tough and wiry and apparently uninjured. He fought viciously, with the
violence of desperation.
The athlete could hear the voice of the elderly man, who with his free
hand had torn the gag from his mouth, roaring encouragement. He
received a stinging blow on the cheek from which the warm blood gushed
instantly. Knucks, he thought, the cur!
Suddenly his groping hand came in contact with the other's throat just
above the rim of his collar. Instantly his fingers closed about
yielding flesh, their ends biting deep between the muscles.
As the clutch tightened the man redoubled his efforts. His body writhed
and he lashed out furiously with hands and feet. Blows rained upon the
young man's head but he burrowed close, shielding his face--and always
his grip tightened--the finger ends drawing closer and closer together.
He was only half-conscious now and the blows ceased to hurt. He
experienced a sense of falling from a great height. His subconscious
mind concentrated upon one idea--to maintain his hold. He must grip
tighter and ever tighter.
The other ceased to struggle and lay limp beneath his body, but of this
he knew nothing. The muscles of his arms were rigid, the clamped
fingers, nearly together now, were locked, and all the world was a
blank.