Windkill

A firm gust of wind staggered Bryon as he came to a stop at a rail yard and stared in astonishment at the assembly of rail stock.

Like two images, one superimposed atop the other, he could see several trains waiting in the yard for clearance to depart while wreckage stretched to the sheer eastern wall of the valley. Flat cars and box cars lay twisted and crushed, much of the wood charred, yet they seemed to melt away as he watched, the spectral trains gaining substance.

A chill worked its way up his spine as vague human shapes pushed carts of munitions to loading ramps set next to the tracks then manhandled the ammunition onto the rolling stock.

Recovering a small sense of presence of mind, Bryon twisted the camera on his chest to face the rail yard. People had to see this. If not to support his sanity, then to at least take part in his collapse. Part of Bryon wanted this to all be a step of submerging into the depth of insanity. That was an easier idea to accept than the truth of his vision.

If there really were old locomotives, workers, and munitions at this rail yard, then he was right. This valley was reverting to a different time. It took no leap of thought to understand ghosts would only be interested in one occurrence, one event.

They were all walking in a powder keg waiting to explode. If the explosion recreated, then it might be just like the ghosts, a passive demonstration. But the fear Bryon felt suggested the ghosts would be unsatisfied without a demonstration.

Spinning on his heel, he ran west, hoping he would find the road quickly. They had to get out of the valley.