So tired, but the train was less than a mile away. He kept walking on the tracks, at this point he was indifferent to what happened. Four miles to the junction, and he knew the train would overtake him. But with a stubbornness unlike that of himself, he pressed on. The weariness was beginning to set in. His feet were dragging through the gravel track bed. By now, he was numb to the cold that clung to the the tracks. He stumbled, and fell down onto the tracks. The weariness was deep entrenched. He looked down at his leg, which was shooting molten pain up his frozen nerves. His pants leg was growing darker in the dim moonlight. He could hear the rumble of the train's massive engine clearly now, drawing ever closer. But, there he remained, on the tracks, clutching his leg. He saw the light coming closer. The deafening whistle did nothing to stir him. There he sat, utterly alone on the tracks, staring at the train, as the weariness finally took over.
Only five miles to the junction, he thought to himself with what was a hint at excitement. The night had been terrible, and he knew it as well as anyone. A cold had overtaken the tracks, and even the scorching heat of the boiler couldn't pierce it. And on top of that, he felt like he hadn't slept in days. There had been times when he knew for sure he'd let sleep take over, but with only five miles, four miles now, the weariness had set in his his bones. He pulled the whistle, the sharp report would've startled him at any other time. He thought he saw something one the track ahead. It had to be the exhaustion playing with his mind. He closed his eyes for just a second. When he opened them again, he saw for a split second, no, it couldn't be. And then the train was gone, the world replaced with a blanketing darkness.
Too much like Jack London?