Anna feels the cold all at once as the darkness swallows her whole. She climbs into the seat of the sled, pulling her coat around her tighter, and slipping it under her thighs so she can sit on it. The brazier Agathe stoked for the journey, keeps her feet warm, but everything from the knees up feels the cold and bites into her. The horsehair blanket on her lap keeps the snow off, but offers little in the way of warmth. There’s a biting wind, and she wraps her scarf around her neck so that it covers her nose and mouth. Her breath smokes in front of her, and she can feel it freeze against her face. Her eyes water with the cold, and she squeezes them shut, wiping the tears with her gloved hands.
She knows the sled is too large and awkward for her to steer properly, and she’s afraid that if she picks up speed she’ll lose control on the soft snow. Agathe has told her the horse is reliable though, and it won’t spook even if one of the ambulances in front of her should backfire. All Anna has to do is hold the reins, tight she added, and then urge the horse on and guide her along the track. Anna tells herself to stay the course and follow the fresh tire tracks ahead of her. This is no time to get lost in the woods, she reminds herself.
The darkness makes her feel as if she’s going into the mouth of a beast, and she wonders what sort of a beast that would make it? A whale? A behemoth? Isn’t that the same thing, she asks herself? A behemoth? What sort of a word is that for something no one’s ever seen, or even knows what it is, for that matter? There’s something about the snow and the darkness that frightens her; she doesn’t know what it is; perhaps it’s a shadow out of her childhood?
Her eyes search the falling snow, as she peers into the inky blackness of the woods. She feels herself hypnotized by the glowing flakes drifting about her. The woods are nothing more than a stained smear against the snow—a swarthy blur on the landscape that looks as much out of focus as she herself is out of touch. Her biggest fear about the woods is that one day wild dogs, or else a pack of wolves, will attack her and no one will know until they find her bleached skeleton years later. She knows her biggest fear should be the deserters the doctors are always warning her about, but somehow, she doesn’t feel they’ll harm her. She doesn’t know why she feels as certain as she does about it, but believes it has something to do with the sacrifices she’s made over the years. God will protect her, she tells herself as she unconsciously crosses herself. It’s a naïveté born of her sheltered innocence. She does not understand the world of men.
She follows the lights of the six ambulances ahead of her, and an hour later, notices the lights of other automobiles in the distance, at a crossroads. She tries to count them but can’t; there are too many. They’re like distant intruders—an invading army she thinks—and she wonders if they even see her, or where they came from. The single lantern she carries on the sled is useless, but Agathe had insisted she take it. The snow had been falling heavily since leaving the hospital, the flakes looking as large as slices of bread sometimes, and the wet snow feels like a weight on her thin shoulders.
The automobiles skid across the snow as the drivers fight the torturous turn at the crossroads, the only trail a thin ribbon of muddy ice that disappears into the snow ahead of them. One automobile skids out of control, and lodges itself into a snow bank. Two other automobiles stop and several people jump out to help pull it out of the snow. She hears the drivers cursing at each other, sees their breaths smoking in the cold air around them, and notices how the snow finally lets up. She looks up as the kaleidoscope of flakes fade around her, and sees the clouds split open above her. She even sees a star, as a light veil lifts away from face of the moon briefly. An eerie light fills the valley, and a strange silence surrounds her. She can see the rail line to the left—a dark line cleft into the whiteness-—and as they crest a final hill she turns to look at the wreckage below.
The train is a twisted mass of blackness that glistens in the moonlight. It's difficult for her to make out any recognizable shape the way it's laying in the snow. Some of the cars are buried in snow banks. The lights of the automobiles shine into the valley, and broken shards of window glass sparkle like ice crystals in the snow. Steam meanders through the wreckage, its weak tendrils struggling against the cold, and she can see where the steam has lost its battle to escape, where it has faltered and frozen like a ghost against the cold metal. The wind picks up and whistles through the trees where it sifts through the branches that cough up against each other. Snowdrifts blow across the landscape like a fine gauze. The clouds are quick to give way, as if they’re torn from the night, and the moon lights the valley as the automobiles crest the hill.
Anna urges the horse down into the valley, holding the reins tight and feeling her muscles tense through her arms, in her shoulders, and through her back. She can feel the sled slide sideways as automobiles skid past her, kicking up clumps of frozen snow and ice. She gasps for a breath, feeling panic well up in her chest until the sled straightens itself out and she feels it settle down.
When she pulls alongside the train, she rests her head back and looks up at the few stars and windswept clouds above. One of the doctors calls out to her and tells her to help with the survivors. There are too many dead laying about for her to count. Many of the bodies have frozen in the long wait. The doctors and nurses check each one. The drivers pull the bodies out of the snow and ice, putting them on sleds, and piling the dead off to the side. Anna watches as a man tries to free a body frozen to a twisted axle. He calls her, and asks her to help. She hears a sickening snap as the ice breaks around the body, and she wonders if it is the breaking ice that she hears, or bones.
The few survivors who have managed to find their way out of the broken cars, are huddled together for warmth. Anna can hear calls for help, moans of pain, and crying, still coming from inside the twisted wreckage.
She makes her way to the railcars, stepping over the tangled debris. The smell of death hangs heavy in the car. It is dark, and what light there is casts an eerie shadow over everything. She follows a doctor into a railcar and waits as he examines the wounded. Some of the bodies are buried under the heavy seats, and fallen walls, and they have to pull them free of the twisted metal and broken timbers.
“I think this man’s been stabbed,” the doctor says slowly, looking at a man laying dead at their feet.
“What do you mean, stabbed?” she asks, bending over to look at the body.
“The wounds aren’t consistent with what’s happened here,” he says, looking around. “There isn't anything here that looks like it might have punctured him. It looks like someone’s killed him."
“Why? I mean, who’d do something like that?” She looks at the doctor closely.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense, and I could be wrong. But look at the bloody footprints.” The doctor rips the dead man’s coat open and looks at his bloodied shirt. He feels about the body and looks up at her. “He’s been stabbed. Look, here’s the wound.” He looks at the dead man’s hands, searches his pockets, and sits back slowly, shaking his head. “Looks like he was robbed. There’s no money in his pockets, no papers. The man has no watch, no jewelry. Nothing. It doesn’t make any sense.”
"Are you trying to say that someone came in here and robbed them?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying. Maybe some of the survivors know what happened. It’s not for me to figure out.” Anna follows the bloody footsteps to the edge of the car and looks out. She can see where the footprints lead from car to car. Whoever it was, went from railcar to railcar.
Seven bodies have been stabbed. All of the victims are dead, except for the last one. Anna climbs into the last car and looks at the man. He has lost an arm, but somehow has managed to tie his belt around the severed stump. His breathing is laboured, and raspy. The doctor climbs into the car a moment later, sees the severed arm, and nods at it as he makes his way over to the man.
“Whoever it was, he even went as far as to cut the man’s finger off his severed arm. Obviously, there was a ring the bastard must’ve wanted. I don't know,” he says slowly. “I don’t know how this man isn’t dead. I doubt if he’ll make the trip back to the hospital, though,” he adds with a slow shake of his head as he looks up at Anna briefly.
Anna sits back against an overturned seat, her hand to her mouth. She looks at the man, shaking her head as tears come to her eyes. The doctor pauses, and looks at her before he does anything else.
“What’s the matter? What’s wrong with you?”
She shakes her head slowly, looking down at the man with the bloody stump.
“I think I know this man.”
“Do you want me to save him?”
She looks at the doctor like he’s slapped her, suddenly speechless at what he’s said. She looks down at the man again as she feels her body shake, and nods her head slowly before she says anything.
“You’re a doctor.”
“I’m also a practical man.”
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