Prologue - The End is Never the End
Luria Brothers Yard, Modena, PA, 1954
A slow wind blew through the tiny borough of Modena, Pennsylvania, casting a grey blanket of clouds that blotted out the morning sun's light. The tall, dry grasses by the old wrecking yard ebbed and flowed like an ocean's wave, evoking memories of the shining North Atlantic coast that were once her stomping ground. The wind then picked up, howling softly and eerily between the long lines of engines as it swept across the landscape. These beasts, once proud and shining, stood now as testaments to their demotion, blackened and rusted from inattention and exposure to the elements.
In one part of the yard, under a large tin shack for a shed, a lonely steam locomotive stood silent. Because her eyes, a now faded hazel, were the only things able to move on her, she spent her time scanning around the yard. To her left and in front of her were dead steam locomotives; to the right, the wall of an engine shed. It made for cramped accommodations, but she was at least lucky that she had a roof over her head, despite its rust and cracks. Her paintwork, blackened and dirtied from years of neglect, no longer shone the brilliant blue it once was when she was the pride of the line. A slow blink and a glance downward at her front all but confirmed her feelings as she let out a quiet sigh. She wanted to cry, but that time had already passed and she was now dry of tears.
The sound of voices in the distance made her look up suddenly with a quiet gasp. Men in thick lead-lined blacksmithing covers and coveralls soon ambled their way into the shed, jovially conversing amongst themselves as they shared their coffee. Their sounds of merrymaking echoed through the old shed, piercing her ears as she tried to cut herself off from that cacophonous rhapsody. After the noise died down, she seemed to relax and let out a gentle sigh, as one young shop-worker approached her with a hot thermos of coffee. He looked to be about eighteen or nineteen, a fresh face amongst the old guard that huddled around the break area like crows. The male stopped by her pilot's sidesteps and looked at her endearingly, almost nostalgically as he took a swig.
"Well, 832," He said, a sympathetic smile on his face, "How're you feeling today?"
"Fine…" She said hoarsely, her face feeling like stone as she was very stiff to speak. The male continued to smile as he spent his time with her.
"Look, I'm sorry it had to happen like this," He said, dropping his gaze slightly as he set his coffee down on her pilot, "And if I could do anything, I could have by now…"
She looked away and sighed. A flood of feelings began rushing back to her, about how she was demoted from her special train too young in her life, how she was reduced to stopping trains to get by, and then when she just plain stopped running. Her friends, now blurred faces in her memory, began to dwindle as her own service dried up. She could hardly remember any of them now. It was funny to her, a locomotive at 26 years old, and yet she was already feeling like an antique. The word "obsolescence" came into mind as she looked away from the boy and retreated into her own thoughts. The friendly worker soon got the message and grabbed his coffee, finishing up the last remnants of that sweet, energetic nectar, before he loped back to his crew so the day could start. To her, it was just another day at the scrapyard, but that brought with it the lingering thought that any day could be her last day.
A loud rumble suddenly filled the air, directing her eyes above the other rows of dormant locomotives and to the mainline. A set of orange and blue EMD FT-model diesels rumbled past with a fast freight. Its prime movers roared and spat out black clouds of clag as the diesels hustled past the yard, a trail of boxcars rumbling behind it. As the train passed by, her eyes narrowed. She could have thought that symbol of modernity was yelling slurs at her former co-workers and cousins, possibly kicking them while they were down. But alas, it was all in her head, and she returned to looking at the ground, saddened. Around her, the sounds of the scrapyard soon filled the air, as the harsh grindings of a circular saw and the vindictive hiss of a blowtorch rang throughout the yard like funeral bells.
In response, the locomotive shut her tired eyes and prayed to live another day. In those sounds, she saw her brother and sister taken. Then, they came for her cousins and friends. Then they came for her. In all her life, she could not have predicted this, but only one thing was certain:
The Blue Comet could not end this way.
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