The detective sighed and adjusted the Stetson balanced on his head, fingers rubbing the brim lightly. "Where're the survivors?" he asked, looking over to his deputy. "They're over that way. Shaken up, but there were more survivors than deaths." he replied, gesturing down the tracks to a small mob of people milling alongside the derailed train. The detective nodded. The crash was most likely an accident, but the police had to investigate anyway.
He staggered down the embankment dotted with scraggly sage to the wreck. The red dust of the desert clay had been kicked up in the skidding crash, settling over the train and the injured that remained in the train car. He could hear the groans drifting from the dark maw of the doorway as he approached. Could smell the burned oil and fuel and the spicy sent of crushed desert plants.
Carefully he stepped inside, the floor at such an angle he had to stand on a seat, surveying the mess inside, scattered bags and those too badly injured to move curled helplessly on the inner side of the car. This car was a windowless one, solid metal that should have only been used for transporting cargo. It was sweltering in the car, and some of the seats, hastily bolted down, hadn't been firm enough to stay in place during the tumble. They'd come free and pinned or thrown their passengers.
He detective sighed and rubbed his brow. He had work to do.