John pulled a wooden cross from the confines of his shirt and held it close to his face. Kissing the symbol of his faith, then holding it in a grip so tight the color drained from his hand.

Three times the cold had invaded his sanctuary and three times he felt the touch of an eldritch evil upon his heart. Whatever creature stalked them in the storm was nothing of God or man. He knew this day would arrive. Death in all its glory, holding arms open in a fatal embrace. He had thought death would take the form of an accident, or derailment.

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Climbing down from his perch in the gondola, John added wood to his stove and sat at the table to enjoy the heat and ward off the cold. He sipped coffee and lit a pipe, waiting for the end to show itself while considering his life.

No one would remember an old rail hand. In one hundred years, people would not imagine what it was like doing this very job, living this kind of life. He would become one of the lost and forgotten.

Unless they rescued a town, then the men on this train might live on in memory or on a memorial.

There was always a purpose to life, even if that life was about to end in the immediate future. John steadied himself and maintained a watch on his train like no other time in his life.

This train would make it to Cloquet, Karl would never quit, and neither would John.