The Island's Swansong

VI - Company

Edging deeper into the tunnel, I kept my hands on the brake and throttle, trying to balance Abigail on the lowest possible speed. Inching forward, unimpeded for now, beads of sweat trickled down my neck, heart thumping as whatever was blocking the light grew closer.

"So far so good," Abigail tried to provide some general reassurance. With vision impaired, the tunnel felt as if it got longer the further we traveled, like some sick illusion that warped the mind.

Slivers of light.

They were the size of pencils, scattered from rail height to the top of the tunnel, across the full width of our enclosed underground path.

"Is that... the end?" Abigail asked.

"We'll take it slow," I flexed my fingers. We drew closer, the fractures in the darkness cracking further. Within no time, they were right in front of us. I took a deep breath, holding it, praying we'd come out of it unscathed.

Rustling, scratching and clattering crawled its way over Abigail's front end. Vines, ivy and a matted bed of weeds passed over the windscreen and disappeared over the top of the cab. The ruckus of the wall of vegetation faded as it passed along Abigail's roof. The end of the tunnel had just been overgrown.

My arms collapsed off the controls as I slumped in relief. Abigail continued rolling as she coughed. "Eugh, I think I've got plant on my lip."

"We're okay," I reassured her. With the tunnel behind us, I scanned the line ahead. Receding forests ran along on both sides. A distance signal at the forefront of an approaching curve hinted at the junction we needed. I pressed forward on the accelerator, taking us gently away.

Luckily the points were already set when we reached the junction to Ballahoo. I guided Abigail over them with the same precaution as earlier, before pushing on down the double track branch-line. In the years since the island's abandonment, young trees had reclaimed the space around the rails. Branches battered and scraped Abigail's roof and side, some bending to the point of snapping as we powered through. "Ow!" she yelped once or twice.

"Sorry!" I called from the cab.

"Don't worry," came her response, "There's no one to see me in such a state anyway. The seaside will be worth it."

I didn't answer. Her oxymoronic defeatist optimism was a strange concept to process. Risking it all for one final adventure... the strength of character of these engines was remarkable.

Buildings sprang up on the horizon: the remains of Ballahoo. The tall church spire still stood. Black blotches indicated where roof tiles had partially caved in, and the tower's parapets crumbling in places. The station would be awfully close to there. A signal box drew near on the left of the line, as did the sides of a bridge.

"Woah, okay," I slowed Abigail down.

We came to a stop by the signal box, overlooking the road that ran beneath the bridge. "Let me inspect the bridge before we cross," I told her as I climbed out of her cab.

"Alright."

I hopped over the wall by the signal box, balancing as I traversed down the embankment to the road below. The road tarmac bulged and cracked as plant roots from sprouting bushes forced their way underground, displacing soil. The central town flowerbed, a dazzling palette of purple, yellow and pink in the show, was now overrun with tall grass and weeds that spilled out over the pavement, rising from every crack and gap between the paving slabs. Roof tiles and shattered window glass littered the streets. Derelict houses and shops stood empty for as far as I could see.