The door was untied slowly.
Carefully.
Every movement felt louder than it should.
Every breath heavier.
The moment it opened—
Silence greeted them.
Too much silence.
The corridor stretched ahead.
Dimly lit.
Empty.
Or at least—
It looked empty.
"Stay together," the husband whispered.
They stepped out.
One by one.
The air felt different.
Colder.
Heavier.
Every sound echoed.
Footsteps.
Breathing.
The faint hum of the train beneath them.
They moved forward.
Slow.
Controlled.
The first compartment they crossed—
Was abandoned.
Bags scattered across seats.
Food packets torn open.
A phone lay on the floor—
Its screen cracked—
Still recording.
The wife looked away.
Because her mind filled in what her eyes didn't see.
Then—
A sound.
Soft.
Scraping.
Everyone froze.
From beneath a seat—
Something moved.
The husband raised his hand.
Silence.
A figure crawled out.
A man.
Or what used to be one.
His movements were wrong.
Limbs dragging unnaturally.
Head tilted.
Eyes empty.
The moment he saw them—
He charged.
"Back!" someone shouted.
But the husband stepped forward.
Timing.
Precision.
Control.
As the infected lunged—
He shifted—
Grabbed its arm—
Used its momentum—
And slammed it into the seat.
"Hold him!" he shouted.
Two men rushed forward.
Pinned it down.
Struggling.
"Don't stop—move!" the old man barked.
They moved.
Because stopping—
Meant dying.
And behind them—
The sound of struggle faded.
But the fear—
Didn't.
Because now they knew—
This wasn't an accident.
This was everywhere.