They heard it before they saw it.
Low. Broken. Uneven.
Growls.
Not one.
Not two.
Many.
The group slowed instinctively.
Their steps faltered.
Their breathing grew louder.
"Go back…" someone whispered.
But there was nowhere to go back to.
The husband stepped forward.
"No," he said quietly.
"We don't have time."
The door creaked open.
Slowly.
Reluctantly.
And then—
They saw them.
Three.
Standing in the compartment ahead.
Still.
Unmoving.
Waiting.
Their bodies were twisted in unnatural ways.
Their heads tilted at impossible angles.
Their breathing came in broken, uneven rhythms—
As if their lungs no longer understood how to work.
For one second—
No one moved.
Then—
All three turned.
At the same time.
And charged.
"RUN!" someone shouted.
But the space was narrow.
Too narrow.
There was no room to escape.
Panic exploded.
People stumbled into each other.
Hands pushed.
Voices broke.
The husband grabbed her hand instantly.
Pulled her toward him.
Positioned himself between her and the oncoming threat.
But it wasn't enough.
Not this time.
They were too close.
The old man stepped forward.
"Go," he said.
The husband grabbed his arm.
"No—"
"GO!" the old man roared.
The first infected reached him.
He blocked it.
Held it back.
The second lunged.
He pushed it aside.
The third—
"MOVE!" he shouted again.
This time—
They listened.
The husband pulled his wife forward.
The group ran past.
Past the struggle.
Past the moment.
Behind them—
The sounds began.
Impact.
Struggle.
A sharp cry—
Cut short.
Then—
Silence.
No one turned back.
No one could.
Because looking back—
Would mean accepting what they had just left behind.
And right now—
Survival demanded something cruel.
Keep moving.