# The train driver (3)

(continuation)

A faint beep reported that the composition was within fifty meters of a reduced speed zone. Peter resumed his post and began slowing down from 19 miles to 8 miles. And then another station. The immobilization was gradual and at that moment the young reviewer was already walking along the aisle to the first door he had found.

He put the key in the slot, let in three passengers, and, stretching himself a little, looked the outside toward the back of the composition. He waited for a moment, then took the key out and handed it to the cabin, which he could follow.


Time flew by. The clock ticked now at 8:24 AM. It was fifteen minutes from the end of a professional, immaculate path, a reference for the young, prominent and already awarded the top of the organization.

- Fifteen minutes! He murmured.

From the moment he had left that station, only London was waiting for him. It was, along the way, contemplating the landscape, rambling on thoughts far past, future. He tried to see himself as the grandfather. Strangely could not see any image. Felt a blockage and did not notice. As he tried to gauge this strange sensation, the cell phone rang.

- Yes, my dear, good morning! Such as?
- Good morning darling! I'm fine and you? Such as?
- Look, I'm like this! - he answered with sadness in his voice.
- You're almost there!
- Yes, five more minutes, and I'm in St. Pancras."
- Listen ... I love you very much, old man!
- I love you too!
- I wish you had the trip with a smile on those beautiful lips."
- All right, sweetheart! Look, there's two minutes left. I'll have to hang up. I have to line up for the 8:39 am arrival.
- Go there then. Until now!
- See you! I love you!
- I love you, too! - Barbara said, then turned off the call.

Peter entered the final stretch of his last trip as a train driver. On approaching the connecting knots of St. Pancras Station, he looked to the right and saw the high-speed composition coming from France approaching, and then on the left, saw the composition coming in from the western side of the United Kingdom .

He looked at his watch; 8:38 in the morning.

The decrease of the machines was made progressively and the alignment came about naturally. As he entered the last fifty yards of St. Pancras Station, Peter caught sight of a huge banner where one could read "Thank you, Peter Steel." He did not count his tears and, alone, he cried.

8:39 a.m. The three compositions fulfilled, once again, the ritual of simultaneous and aligned arrival. On the platforms, dozens of passengers were awaiting the arrival of the trains, and tens of them were traveling daily to London.

On the control panel was indicated the locked wheels and doors unlocked; These were opened and the dozens of passengers began to abandon the compositions that had just arrived, changing, with those waiting on the various platforms.

Peter, sitting at his command post, began to pack his belongings when, as he wheeled, he tapped the cell phone beside the controls, throwing him to the floor. He bent down to pick it up.

BUUUUMMMMMMM!!!

A huge, noisy explosion occurred in the northern part of St. Pancras Station, producing a violent shock wave, which caused the composition, where Peter was, to swerve violently, unbalancing him and throwing him to the ground. The glass was broken and the driver was sprawled on the floor. Outside the screams were more than many. Peter had not realized what was going on, and as he prepared to rise, another explosion occurred, this second even more violent than the first. And so it was that, being thrown back to the ground, Peter felt the carriage topple over, and, frightened, in a darkness of dust that already invaded its confined space, he felt a train carriage coming from France to be thrown over his.

The darkness was enormous.

Peter protected himself from glasses and other projected materials. Groped for his cell phone. He did not find it. He stirred. He tried to see if he had been hit in any way that conditioned his mobility; He moved his feet and hands. - I am fine! - he thought. Put his hands to his head and saw that he had blood. - Damn, I broke my head.

Outside the screams were agonizing and terrifying. Something was heard, as if they were imploding some building.

- What the hell was that?

Leaning to his knees, he reached for a flashlight in a small compartment inside the cabin. He lit it. There was a darkness of dust. He began to listen to sirens of firemen and police, among the many shouts that were heard.

There were desperate cries for help, cries of pain, groans, and the crackling of the fire that consumed something somewhere. He tried to leave the cabin, but the door was locked. He began to panic. The man who was known for his altruism, his tranquility, even in the most difficult times, always with a word of comfort and highly motivational - it was his habit to tell his peers "Everything will go well!" - he now felt alone , Isolated, lost without contact with the outer space to the one where he was imprisoned. Yet he had the ability to play with the situation, in an attempt to control himself - You did not want to end already, now you are stuck in the workstation. - he smiled - If the Authority for Conditions at work come this, I do not know no! - he coughed.

He felt the difficulty increasing in the airways. He tucked the shirt in front of his mouth and nose. He knocked with the flashlight on the interior wall of the cabin. Due to the noise, he could barely hear the noise he had made - the more the others. - thought.

The minutes passed. He listened to the movement outside. He had lost track of time. Leaning against one of the interior walls of the cabin, he was surprised by a third explosion, more violent, more ferocious, more devastating. The carriage rolled over in a back room. Peter flipped again.

"What noise is this?"

With the violent impact and overturning of some of the train composition where it was, the access door to the cabin gave way and a space opened. Peter dragged himself close to her and struggled through.

It was now in the aisle.

He pointed the flashlight and what he saw was not pleasant; Many bodies stretched out along the carriage. He dragged himself as best he could. As he crawled, he pointed the beam of light in several directions. With every body he found, he tried to see if the person was alive.

- Sir, how are you? Sir, how do you feel? Take it easy, everything will be fine! - was saying

Suddenly, as he advanced toward an exit, he felt a hand gripping him. It was a small, fragile hand. He looked in the direction of that hand.

- A child! - he murmured.
- I'm afraid! - whined a girl who would not have more than seven years of life.
- Relax, my beautiful one! - he said,  - Everything will be fine. - He approached the child. - Can you move? - he asked her.
- Yes! -. said the girl, girding herself with him.
- Who are you with?
- With my mother, - she said, continuing, - but I do not know about her. - she cried.
- Calm down, Peter is here. - he tried to calm her down, stroking her hair. - Where's your father?
- I have no father, only mother!"
- What's your name, my sweet?
- Rachel.
- It's all right, Rachel! Peter's going to get you out of here and we're going to find your mother, right?

Little Rachel nodded, squeezing Peter's right arm. Carefully he drew the child out of the debris he was in, and, shielding her with his right arm over it, they moved slowly along the aisle.

When he came near an area where he could see a light, Peter found himself lying on the ground, already in a corpse, with his friend reviewer. He had been one of the victims.

- Hello! Can you hear me? Hello!
- We're here! - said Peter.
- Hello! We are here to help. - he shouted, once more from the outside, which Peter associated might be someone from a fire department.
- We're here! - cried the train-driver. - There are a lot of people here.
- Keep calm! - he asked. - Let us help you.

- Everything will work out. - said Peter to Rachel, running her hand through her hair. The little girl hugged him.

It took about half an hour for the rescue team to create a small safe passage into the composition. Through it they passed two firemen and some aid material to the artificial respiration, four bottles of oxygen and respective masks. The first aid was given, while others outside proceeded to the disqualification of that and other compositions, in order to guarantee a rescue and rescue in security.

- But what happened here, anyway?-  Peter asked one of the rescuers.
- We were the target of an attack, sir!
- An attack?
- Yes sir! A terrorist attack.
- I heard three bursts.
- Yes, there were three of them. There are a lot of dead people. - the rescuers responded, as he altered the oxygen masks between the survivors.

When they got out of the carriage where they had been trapped more than four hours after the blasts, Peter looked around and did not recognize St. Pancras Station. As he stared in despair at the destruction around him and all the paraphernalia of firefighters, policemen, and lifeguards, someone directed him to one of the ambulances. Peter, who did not let go of Rachel's hand, crouched before the child:

- Let's go Dear?
- My mother!
- Let's deal with the wounds, and then I'll come and help you find your mother.
- promise?
- Yes ...- he said, kissing her forehead, -I promise.

Fifteen years have passed since the bombing of St. Pancras Station. At the age of twenty-two, Rachel embraced Peter and Barbara after receiving her graduation diploma at Harvast. It had been a glorious feast, and Rachel was now a lawyer.

- Thank you, Father ...- hugging Peter -... obliterated, mother ...- hugging Barbara -... you are the best parents in the world!
- Thank you darling! - they said in unison. - You're a very special girl to us. - said Peter, while Barbara stroked her hair.

- London, 9:39 - Miguel Branco