CAKE | 01 — Cryptobiosis

The train station is still and almost empty. The air placid. You and a few other people are waiting for the next train. You continue reading your book, standing on the platform, shivering. It's unseasonably cold. You have just arrived here, your connecting train will depart in ten minutes. When your train entered the station a couple of minutes ago an express intercity train sped by with a deafening sound. So sudden and loud was the suction it created, it startled you. It’s all so quiet now. You look away from the book, close your eyes and take in the sun. You turn your head and open your eyes. This is the moment you notice that the express train had stopped. It wasn’t passing through. It was slamming the brakes. Probably another hold up. Happens often enough on this route, you think to yourself. Then you notice small crispy pieces of paper floating around the tracks at the last wagon. White as snow. You see a man on the halted express train pressing his face to the glass window and turning his head in your direction. You stand there, shivering and continue reading your book. A remarkably gripping non-fiction on the ecological threats to the Great Lakes of North America and the fish and organisms populating it. It says that tardigrades are eight legged micro-animals, smaller than a millimeter. They occupy lakes and other waters and are incredibly resilient. The only creature who can survive the extreme conditions of outer space. Or a nuclear explosion. And thus outlive humans. You close the book and put it in your bag. That's when you perceive the sirens in the distance. There are more and more of them, getting louder and sharper, coming closer. You hope they are heading for your station. Something is off. It’s too many scraps of paper.

As the fire engines and emergency units arrive, you start walking back towards the exit and look at the tracks. You look again, as if another look would undo what the first one distinctly showed. Next to the rails lies a piece of a human body. As big as your torso. It looks like somebody has curled up and you are looking at her from above. Exposed flesh. With some fabric in one corner. No blood. Shouldn’t there be blood? You notice that you’re trembling. Slowly you realize that somebody just died here. Emergency workers in heavy gear and police men storm up the stairs to the platform, swarming it. Putting equipment down, gesturing to each other, running back and forth while you just stand there. An older woman is nervously typing into her phone. Like you in a few minutes from now. I will be late. The rail tracks are closed. One of the emergency workers is yelling at the woman. Have you taken a photo of it? A photo of what? She looks intimidated. Maybe she really has not noticed the piece of corpse on the tracks.

The next day local newspapers report of an emergency situation. Personal injury is what they call it. The articles focus on the delays and cancelled connections. No word about the man who on a sunny Wednesday morning in April at around 9 am decided to jump in front of a speeding express train and within seconds was ripped into pieces. Just as you were reading about tardigrades, those tiny creatures that can withstand the vacuum of outer space. Whether 230 degrees below or 150 degrees above. Doesn’t make any difference to them. They go into cryptobiosis. It enables them to outlast unfavorable living conditions. Sometimes they remain in this state for decades. They curl up in a small ball and wait.