At sunset, when the sky was bruise purple, we were racing across the salt flats, digging intense grooves in the white crust, making our own track. The trains were a recent addition to the races and ours was ten cars long and outfitted with nitrous oxide rockets. We ran in a heat with just other trains and we all cut through the approaching night, whooping and hollering, and not caring if we won, only thrilling in the speed and the passage of air over our heads.
It was ludicrous of course. But we didn't care. All things can happen, given enough time, even trackless train racing in the desert. We held hands as we pushed the throttle harder. The air grew colder and faster. The other trains belched and wailed but we kept going, and when we reached the grandstands, we didn't stop, we didn't even slow down. We went past and on into the night. We knew the mountains were somewhere up ahead, or should have been. The radio crackled. Where are you? What are you doing? Stop! For the love of God, it's all over! Come back!
No, we all thought. No. Not on this day. We climbed out of the cockpit of the lead car, and made our way way to the last car. We had to leap across the hitches as the salt sped by below. We laughed and grabbed each other's shoulders. We hugged.
I was the one who unhitched the last car. Friction gained dominion and we slowed. The front of the train quickly disappeared into the darkness. We rolled along it's grooves, and then stopped, crunching on crystals. In the distance, at the mountain, an orange fireball rose up, and a few seconds later, we heard the crash with the mountain. We screamed and threw our hands in air. What lovely destruction.
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