The Fish

He sat on the edge of a railroad, every part of his body aching, delirious from the lack of sleep and food, hyper aware of every noise around him. Amongst that struggle, random memories invaded, one he especially loved.

His Grandfather was a storyteller at family gatherings for years on end as far back as he could remember, and he always told his stories the same way.

His favourite was about a fish.

His Grandpa would splay his hands out for dramatic effect, the children sitting in a semi circle around him. Older ones rolling their eyes, younger ones wide-eyed. How he was fishing alone, and he would spin the tall tale about the trout that was the same size as a moose, reeled in by his own virile strength. How he just about had him hooked and into the boat, and as he looked into his beady little eye, the fish "snapped the line right in front of me while it laughed, the fish did!" he would say.

He barked a laugh as he compared his situation and the absurdity of remembering such a random thing. He was in a fight for his life, this was true, but he was not a fish, dangling on a line.

He was in the middle of nowhere, without a clue to which way to go, what direction to pursue, delaying the worry he'd have to give in to this struggle after days of hiding and running in the jungle. He was the one that got away this time. He shook his head and leaned over his legs, the burn of the creosote in his nose clearing the fog, jerking him back to where he was.

He'd stumbled on the rail line by pure chance. He didn't want to cry; he'd drank nothing except rain off of leaves for the past four days, and crying would waste precious water. But the relief of civilization, and a path to somewhere that he could get help? Well... Once he got where he needed to be, then he could cry about it.

Dogs bayed in the distance. His heart hammered in his chest, responding to that sound with panic, knowledge that pursuit was coming. He had to hide. But how? He looked around him, seeing more dense brush, more of the same green. He could climb a tree? Burrowing into a bush would do nothing if there were dogs. They could smell him a mile away. Anyone could. He was filthy, his own stench repelling even him.

It would do no good to hide.

He was done running, his legs could carry him no further. Without food, his body just wasn't working beyond the adrenalin spiking through him.

The baying was met with vibration on the rails, his feet picking up the gentle buzz before his ears did. A train was coming. As the rails began to sing, and the baying got closer, he swivelled his head up one direction, down the other. Which way was it headed? Could he hook onto it, climb into a crevice on a car and ride it to safety? Or would doing that be his death? Trains were big, fast-moving... He was not a movie-star stunt double that could tumble and leap. He could barely move without wheezing, for God's sake.

The train came into view off of his right. The dogs were closer, and he heard human voices peppering the swish of bodies cutting through the trees. It was now or never, and if he hesitated, he would be dead. Either from the train, or his pursuers.

He stood off to one side as the train came closer. He thanked his luck that old-fashioned freight cars, not tankers came into view. Those would have ladders, and flat roofs. He closed his eyes, prayed to God he could find the strength, and readied himself, standing like a wrestler about to jump into the ring. His legs shook from the effort, his stomach roiled in anticipation, and he couldn't catch his breath, the gravity of his situation taking hold.

Cars chundered past, covered in graffiti, the chachunk-chachunk as they rolled a familiar sound. Had he been a boy again, he would have stood open-mouthed in wonder, being so close.