《Wasio Na Moyo》


 Awakening

    ¡°My heart. Where¡­ have you taken my heart?¡±


    There are stitches lining my chest. Their ridges are black, hard to make out on my skin. They aren¡¯t neat. Cuts branching off of cuts, an insane mix of thread and scar tissue- no surgeon did this. No one¡­ in their right mind. A line runs down my stomach. It feels sweltering hot under my fingers. My hands and arms are covered with sown up cuts, circling them, lining them.


    But the ones on my chest are hiding something terrible. I can feel it missing. I don¡¯t know what to do.


    Everything is in shades of grey. Deep, deep shades. The walls are painted dark up top, with pale tile on the bottom half. There¡¯s a counter along one whole wall, silvery sinks dripping water. Plop! Plop¡­ There¡¯s a rattling and a shaking. I finally notice how I¡¯ve been shifting my weight. The ground is rocking. The room is filled with a quick t-tm, t-tm, t-tm. Like a heartbeat.


    ¡°What did they do to me?¡± Oh, I want to know. Who has done this?


    The floor is white linoleum, but dark grey splatters cover it. They drop from my fingertips. They puddle around my feet. Long streaks stretch from where I stand to a metal door behind me. The door has a small window in it, at the height of my head.


    There¡¯s a pale face on the other side, with blind white eyes, and a wide open mouth- pitch black. The door swings open with a creak and a clank! A thing crosses over, feet slapping the trail of gunk, dripping grey liquid of its own. It breathes loud through its mouth, wheezing and groaning.


    ¡°Aaaaaaah¡­¡± It moans. It takes a few slow, shambling steps before stopping. Its head jerks so hard, I think its neck broke. Another twitch and it looks at me again.


    ¡°Ah¡­¡± This time I speak. We run at the same time. I feel a strange stiffness in my legs, but I push them past it. As I turn, I keep my eyes on the thing. It¡¯s not slow at all. Every limb jerks in strange ways. It moves like a marionette, carried by invisible strings, every jerk and twitch so fast it¡¯s hard to see. One minute it stands there, then a shoulder jerks back, its hand is reaching for me, its foot is crashing down, and it lurches again.


    In a dozen steps I almost crash into another metal door without opening it. Luckily I glance ahead in time. My fingers scramble with the handle before I wrench it open, and slam it behind me. The thing crashes into the door. A fan of liquid spreads across the tiny window like grey ink in water.


    I¡¯m standing on a small piece of walkway between two train cars. Only the guardrails on the side stop me from sailing over the edge. All I make out is the night, and white all around me, blurring past. Endless snow.


    The thing¡¯s fingers scrape down the glass, smearing it. The handle rattles, rattles and turns.


    I run the other way.


    ¡°Raaaaaagh!¡± The thing screeches. I face another door, open and slam it on my way through. This new train car has a flickering light in a lonely ceiling fixture. It doesn¡¯t make anything brighter, but it brings out the color in things. The rows of vinyl seats in the dining car show themselves as deep red, just like the blood splattered over everything. The swaying drapes switch between deep grey and navy blue. The bodies slumped over tables wear all kinds of colored clothing. A lot of black, white and brown. Blues and yellows too.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    It¡¯s horrifying. I take step back. I can smell the stink in this place. As a doorknob rattles behind me, a head moves. A man with a bowler cap sliding off his balding scalp, turns and looks at me, eye sockets spilling maggots, mouth stained red. A little girl in a purple dress falls from her booth and crashes into the ground like a sack of bricks. She drags the tablecloth with her, and a full meal¡¯s worth of fine china comes raining down, shattering on the floor.


    I run as they all start moving. They aren¡¯t going fast yet, but the door already opened behind me. I can almost feel it move, and I rush to avoid the pale thing. The train is already thin, and with the tables and seats taking up room, I have to shoulder past the hungry looking things glaring at me, to hop over the little girl in her purple dress, while she tries to uncurl her finders from thick linen.


    ¡°Raaaaaaaaaagh!¡±


    Another doorway. Another in between place, this time filled with falling snow. I look up to see fat flakes clouding the sky. The melt on my skin, leaving behind a chill.


    I glance through the little porthole in the door this time, before going through. Something¡¯s waiting for me on the other side. A grey shape, standing perfectly still.


    I glance around for clues. Forward or back? Where can I go, surrounded by monsters? Why should I go anywhere? I¡¯m missing my heart¡­


    I do catch a glimpse of a rail around the top of the train car. There¡¯s no ladder, but¡­


    I throw my arms back, bend my knees and jump. I was afraid I wouldn¡¯t make it, but I sail higher than I thought. Faster too. My toes catch on the edge of the roof and I collapse on a layer of snow. It crunches as I move. Wind roars over me.


    It doesn¡¯t sound like a normal wind. It screams like a voice.


    I stand after a few attempts. I keep my feet wide apart, but I still I shake under gusts of wind. I take a step that threatens to spill me over the side. There¡¯s a crash behind me. That pale thing jumped like I did, but from the way it clings to the railing, it barely made it.


    It struggles to its feet while I step, step, step. It shambles, feet twisted in unnatural, painful looking ways. It drags deep furrows through the snow.


    I take my eye off it a moment to look ahead. This horrifying train is blasting through some winter wonderland, some icy landscape that slides past too quickly for me to see more than shapes. I know to the left is a mountainside and the tracks wrap around it. It¡¯s a shadow looming overhead.


    To the right the slope falls away. The lands around the mountain look like forest, as far as the eye can see. No lights speak of, besides the haze of the moon behind the clouds, and those bright stars I can make out.


    The train car ahead is looks about the same as the one I¡¯m on. I come close to it, as the thing follows behind me. I reach the edge and balance carefully. Like before, I swing my arms, bend my knees and throw my whole body into a huge leap across the gap. I feel the wind pushing me back, fighting me, but I make the other side. I sit there and spin around. It¡¯s easier riding on the roof with my ass instead of tottering around on my feet. I scoot to the edge of the train, while the pale thing reaches the end of the one I was just on.


    It looks so much like a person, except for the way it moves. No living thing would do to itself what that thing does just by walking around, twisting its own body, hurting itself- if it can be hurt.


    When it reaches the gap between cars, it half falls half leaps across. It lands halfway on the roof. Its legs hang over the side, probably scrambling for a foothold to finish the climb. I give it a good kick to the top of the head.


    ¡°Raaaaa-¡± And another kick cuts off its scream. It¡¯s only holding on by the barest margin now. It swings its hand on my next kick and I feel the finger wrapping my ankle. I jerk my foot back while it flails around. It almost had me.


    Boom! This time I put a lot more force behind the kick. Thing is knocked free and flies out of sight. It crashes into metal. Its long scream drags on, getting smaller and cutting off.


    I scoot closer to the edge and lean over to make sure, careful not to lean too far and fall over. It¡¯s gone. No sight of it.


    In that moment, I feel powerful. I almost feel a phantom heartbeat, this wave of exhilaration. But it¡¯s only a ghost of what should be, and something is wrong. I don¡¯t know this strange train, or the nightmare creatures. I don¡¯t know how I¡¯m here. I¡¯m sad to say I don¡¯t know who I am. But I know something is missing.


    I can feel my scars. None of this is an accident.


    Someone stole my heart, and by God, I will find them and take it back.

 Break

    ¡°Where do I even begin?¡±


    T-tm, t-tm, t-tm, t-tm, t-tm¡­


    It¡¯s a big train. I walk through a compartment that has tiny private rooms with bench seats inside.


    The lights on the ceiling barely flicker, giving the whole place color. They give it life. The walls and doors of the private rooms are cherry wood framed in brass. Four rooms line the compartment on each side of the small aisle. Half the rooms are hidden behind the curtains hanging in their doors.


    When I step down the hall, the view through the room to my left is clear. It¡¯s full of bags and suitcases. They seem to be waiting for someone to come back for them. There¡¯s a silver thermos sitting in a cupholder. Money crumpled on an armrest. A brown coat spread across the white leather seats.


    There¡¯s a sign hanging on the door handle: ¡®do not disturb.¡¯ It¡¯s written in green marker on regular lined notebook paper, and hooked over the door handle with a hairband.


    The aisle is thin and claustrophobic. My shoulders brush the walls and doors I walk past.


    Everything seems so normal. There are smears of blood here or there, on a door handle, on a window, or spread in tiny, dripping droplets across the wall. The floor is cream-colored carpet, with green shapes printed on it: squares, triangles, circles, squiggly lines and stars. The doors are closed. They have brass handles. There¡¯s barely any blood on anything. It feels safe.


    Halfway through the train car, I pass one of the doorways and it opens. Fingers reach for my shoulder. I jump away, but not fast enough. Something crashes into my back and throws me down the aisle.


    I struggle against the floor, the arms of undead wrapped around my waist. I hear a click, a door creaking open, then tired groaning. Two more zombies shuffle through a door a meter away.


    I twist and spin and fight, but the thing lying on top of me doesn¡¯t want to let go. I have to yank on its hair to keep its teeth away from my back. I feel the sharp chin digging in while it tries to worm closer.


    ¡°Get the fuck off me!¡±


    I admit, I panic. What am I supposed to do? I push us up with one arm and throw myself backwards. We crash against a door, rattling the whole frame. I slide along the wall, trying to get away, but the thing hangs on. It fights to get a bite of my stitched up skin, and the others are already falling on top of it.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    The pile is heavy enough to drag me to my knees. Those things don¡¯t fight each other, but they don¡¯t help each other either. That saves me. The two that newcomers pull on the one that¡¯s grabbed me, as if it¡¯s a rope, or a hook. They try to reel me in. The zombie¡¯s arms pull tight and it groans. I feel a strain, a strange pain in my stomach.


    ¡°Let! Go!¡±


    I hold onto a brass doorknob until its claws tear away. Something else tears. A line of stitches wrapping around my stomach and gives out. Threads yank on my skin and stretch it.


    I feel like I¡¯m falling out of the bottom of my stomach. I see pale and pink and yellow intestines.


    ¡°Aaah! Aaaaaaaah!¡± I¡¯m falling apart. I¡¯m coming apart at the seams! My legs slide to the zombies.


    I crawl after the half of my body they¡¯ve dragged away. I can still feel my legs. They kick and wriggle. Claws dig into them. I feel teeth bite. I pull the first zombie¡¯s head by the hair and hit it as hard as I can.


    After a few punches the nose crunches. It gives up gnawing on my thigh to scream at me. It¡¯s gums are dark, and teeth sharpened. It¡¯s eyes are covered in a milky film, and yellow gunk gathers at their edges. Black blood leaks from nose and lips and ears. Its skin is pale and cold, with dark veins hiding underneath.


    My fist crashes through its screaming mouth. I hit it a few more times, then grab my waist and drag it to me. My legs slide a little, under that pile of bodies. But the other two zombies crawl closer. They grab a leg each.


    ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing?¡± I smack my hands to the tops of their heads, turning and twisting them.


    They can¡¯t stop their necks bending, and they try to move their bodies to follow, but it¡¯s too little too late. Krck! I jerk their heads to the side, and they stop moving. The skin of their necks bunch and warp like wrung out towels. I see bone poking the skin, stretching it tight. Only their jaws work while they stare at the ceiling. Their pale eyes roll in their sockets.


    The last one, the one whose jaw I broke, rubs its face on my knee, trying to get a bite.


    ¡°Just get off of me¡­ haaaa¡­¡± I sigh. Relief rolls through me as my insides spill back up like magic, and my waist reattaches. That thing still tries to eat me with its broken mouth. ¡°Ha¡­ ha! Hahaha! Hahahahahaa!¡± I lose control and throw my head back. The stitches cinch tight. I barely notice, laughing so hard. I fall on my side and cry.


    After a while, I remember I have to move. I have something to do. The last zombie is rubbing its face into the back of my knee like a dog digging in a bowl. I grab its head with both hands. Krck! And I break its neck.


    I stand slowly, steady myself against one of the cabins and start to walk. I stop. I¡¯m naked. Ass hangin¡¯ out, dick swingin¡¯ around naked. That thing¡­ could have done some damage. I need to fix this.


    I¡¯ve been awake an hour now, at least. A lot of that was spent slinking through a few dark compartments, sitting in silence, feeling empty.


    Since I woke, the closest thing to a heartbeat I¡¯ve felt is the rhythm of the train on its tracks.


    I¡¯ve gotten nowhere. Gotten no answers. And I can¡¯t stand this feeling in my chest. I need to fix this. Just¡­


    T-tm, t-tm, t-tm¡­


    ¡°Where do I even begin?¡±

 Fast

    ¡°That¡¯s better.¡±


    I find clothes in this fancy compartment that almost killed me. I check the rooms, rifling through travel bags, suitcases and purses. Nothing I find fits well, but at least it¡¯s something.


    Boxers. Work boots. A few pairs of socks, so I can fit the heavy boots better. A pair of jeans and sweatpants. Shirts, a sweater and a water-proof jacket. A thick belt. An analog watch. Fingerless gloves. A beanie.


    I wear layers to keep the teeth out of my skin next time. Hopefully, they keep my guts from touching the bare ground again.


    I find a few things to stuff the pockets of my sweatpants and jacket. Dollars and coins. Lighters and matches. Pens and a small pocketknife.


    ¡°Tch!¡±


    All the phones are dead or locked. No signal. No Wi-Fi. I try a few random password combinations: strings of ones and zeroes and nines. The screens fill with asterisks, until each try is rejected. After getting locked out of a few phones I give up.


    I find a silver crucifix to string around my neck. I try to wipe the blood off with a handkerchief, but stubborn bits still cling to the hard to reach places and the fine links of the chain, giving it a rusty, abandoned look.


    ¡°Good enough.¡±


    I pick up a cedar cane with a handle carved like a bird¡¯s beak and a copper cap on the end.


    I feel as ready as I can, so I step onto the little platform between train cars carefully. The wind roars at me again. I clutch the cane and look around. The only sounds are the ones made by the train itself.


    It looks like we left the forest behind. We pass fields, wooden fences, snow covered hay bales and blocky buildings. A few lights gleam on the horizon. We¡¯re getting somewhere.


    The next train car welcomes me quietly. The seats and the floor are dark fabric. The roof and overhead are pale plastic. The windows show fields on both sides. I pass a room I assume is the bathroom, and shuffle deeper, ready with the cane in my hand.


    There¡¯s no sound but train sounds, and no lights but the ones through the windows, in the distance where the snowy ground meets the night sky. The world is grey again, in many shades deep and dark.


    I flinch when the train¡¯s horn lets out a long cry. I glance around to make sure nothing is moving on me, covered by the sound of the horn. The horn wails again, long and lasting. I wait for another cry once it stops, but minutes pass and nothing else comes.


    I ease down the aisle between rows of empty seats. I pass their tall backs and scan each seat as it¡¯s revealed. Bags and purses and wallets sit in easy reach. I could grab one. I could grab a few. The compartments overhead are latched shut. They could be empty or overflowing. I could just pop one open. What I find could save my life.


    I¡­ no. Something tells me I¡¯ve stayed too long in this place. My steps as quiet as I can get them, I reach the end of it, and move outside to reach the next compartment.


    The door is locked. On the other side of the porthole, I see figures moving. They wear white uniforms, with hairnets and caps on their heads. I jingle the handle a few times and one of them looks at me. Pale, angry eyes cut to the side. It gestures with a chef¡¯s knife. ¡®Around! Around!¡¯ is what the motion says.


    I look around. Not exactly clear what I should do. Trying to get in, where zombies are waving weapons at me sounds like a bad idea. I see one of them hobbling around with a boiling pot. No. No.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    So what¡¯s the plan? I glance up. That¡¯s the only way. I leap to the roof. I judge it wrong and fall on my face again. Next time, I¡¯ll jump from farther away, and jump harder. Either way, I¡¯m moving over the locked cabin. When I reach the edge of the roof, I find rubber wrapped around the gap between cars. There¡¯s no way to get down.


    ¡°Shit!¡±


    The train rocks and rattles. My foot slips and scuffs snow. I fall on my hands to keep from sliding over the edge. The dark surface of the train is revealed where icy powder is scraped away. Down below, The steel of the tracks and snow covered ground flash past.


    I leap across to the next roof, searching for a way back down. Instead I find another rubber corridor between the cars. My way is blocked off. I cross another roof, slipping and sliding, only to find more rubber. More than a dozen cars ahead, the engine leaks smoke into the air., I cough it in, blinking stinging eyes.


    It¡¯s starting to look like I won¡¯t find my way back inside. I cross the coupling and walk along the roof. Snow crunches underfoot and I struggle for balance. The train shudders as it runs along the tracks.


    The next junction has no rubber corridor attached. It¡¯s just a metal grate floor, with metal railing on the sides. I drop on the grate with a clang. The doors on either side aren¡¯t that dense metal with tiny portholes anymore. They¡¯re polished wood, with brass handles and massive windows. Snow gathers on the ridges and frost covers all the glass, making the interior look hazy and indistinct. Grey not-darkness. Shapes on shapes and quiet things.


    I should go back to see what that strange room was, with its frantic, knife-wielding zombies. Don¡¯t want to miss something important.


    I open the train car¡¯s door to find a dining area. Two long booths line the wall on the right, and two-person tables line the other. Golden lights glow from lamps on the tables. Round white lights shine on the ceiling. After all the monochrome gloom, the room seems to glow with the light. The drapes, lampshades, table covers, floor tiles, paint and furniture are all deep, royal blue, or pale yellow.


    There¡¯s not a single speck of blood, and only one person stands inside. It bows from across the cabin while I close the door.


    When I move into the room, it matches me, step for step, perfectly silent. It wears a serving uniform: shining shoes, black slacks and a white apron with deep pockets, a white shirt with ruffles on the chest, a black vest, black gloves and bowtie. Dark hair is pulled back in a single braid, not a hair out of place. Slanted, cloudy eyes sit in a pretty, tan face filled with dark veins. If not for the zombie eyes and the strange, red lips, it would look just like a regular woman.


    ¡°Um, hello?¡±


    The zombie bows around the cloth hanging on its arm, and from nowhere she hands me a paper.


    ¡°What?¡±


    When she says nothing, I look at what she handed me. A menu: thick paper, folded like a brochure. I open it. No pictures. Blocks of text cover every fold. The headings are deep and dark red. They seem like they should be seeping out of the paper, smearing my hands.


    The rest of the words are embossed in golden, flowing script that stays in my head as I look away. The symbols float in front me. I try to blink glowing words out of my mind. They fade and I glance back to see the menu in English.


    ¡°What?¡± I say again.


    It¡¯s just a normal menu. The prices are in Roman numerals, but the options? As regular as can be. Starters. Seafood. Meat. Salads. Soups. Chef¡¯s Special. Beer, wine and mixed drinks.


    ¡°Can you talk?¡± I hand the menu back, and the zombie takes it in silence. ¡°I have so many questions.¡±


    I get no response, no sign that it knows what I¡¯m saying.


    ¡°Hello? What is this place? How did we get here?¡± I wave around at the cabin. ¡°Why are you dead things walking? And everyone else, where are they? What happened to my body? Where¡­¡±


    I look into its dead eyes. ¡®Where¡¯s my heart?¡¯ I want to say. ¡®How could someone take that from me?¡¯


    The zombie points to one of the side tables, pulling silverware out of its apron.


    ¡°No. I¡¯m not here to eat, just to talk.¡±


    The zombie glares at me and bares bloody teeth. I think it understands.


    ¡°Just tell me where I am. What¡¯s going on?¡±


    I lean back when the zombie shoves the menu in my face. The biggest heading catches my eye. ¡®Luke Duke¡¯s Infernal Cooking, Circa 1328¡¯. And under that: ¡®Finest dining on the engine!¡¯


    ¡°Infernal¡­ there a demon in that kitchen?¡±


    What the devil? Haha¡­


    The zombie points to the door behind me. After a few moments of silence, I back away. I¡¯m not hungry. I¡¯m not looking for a fight. If I can¡¯t find answers here, then it¡¯s time to move on. With every missed beat and bloodless breath, I fear I¡¯ll fall apart.


    I know my heart is out there, somewhere. Somebody stole it- tore it right out of me and left me for dead. Now I have to get it back before it¡¯s too late. How long can a man live without his heart? How long do I have? I don¡¯t even know how I¡¯m standing¡­


    I need to hurry. I need to make myself whole again.

 Buffer

    Six zombies sit among the empty rows of seats. Hunched and silent, they rock with the motion of the train. The closest one is just a few meters away, in a righthand seat. She¡¯s turned a little, so her foot rests in the aisle. Her hair is covered by a fancy hat with a fake rose sitting on top. She even wears glasses, not that she needs them to stare at the back of a headrest.


    I move a little closer and nothing happens. Outside the windows, the landscape flashes past. The zombies keep rocking. They¡¯re dressed for winter, bodies hidden by heavy jackets, long coats and scarves. The hands hanging in the aisle are covered with mittens. They wear hats and fur-lined hoods.


    The train car is cluttered. The overhead compartments are bursting with luggage, so much that most of the doors won¡¯t close. Purses and backpacks sit on top and underneath seats. A wallet and a sparkling watch rest in the seat across the aisle from the zombie with the fancy hat. In other places, little bits of wealth wait, sitting in easy to reach places.


    A trap. How can there be such an obvious trap?


    As soon as I step close to a zombie, they¡¯ll pounce. If I take my eyes off them, they¡¯ll move in. I can tell just looking at the backs of their heads. They may be still and quiet, but there¡¯s a tension in the air. Every few seconds, a flies wings buzz. There¡¯s a hush beneath the rattling of the tracks, the chugging of the engine, the distant sound of wind. Underneath it all, there¡¯s this sensation as if the cabin is holding its breath.


    I wipe sweat off my forehead. What are the odds I run fast enough to get through? Low. I can probably shake one off, but that might take a while. They latch on like leaches. I might be faster and stronger, but they turn the tables when they lunge.


    Those suicidal jumps push past their limits. It¡¯s what really makes them dangerous. If one grabs hold, drags me down? Once it lunges, the advantage is spent, but it¡¯ll still be over. I won¡¯t gamble with another zombie pile.


    I won¡¯t be torn apart. Gnawed to death. Eaten alive¡­


    Whether I take it slow or rush as fast as I can, something¡¯s gonna grab me. I can try the roof, but that¡¯s a good way to fall off and die. A last resort.


    I need to get through. I need them out of the way. That means a fight¡­ facing death. I remember the feeling of fingers digging into my legs. I remember the sound of stitches ripping open and my insides falling out. I remember being helpless, and that¡¯s no way to go.


    Why does it have to be this way?


    ¡°Hello?¡± My voice cracks, sliding out like a shy whisper. ¡°Hello?¡± I try again. It doesn¡¯t make a difference. The zombies play dead. If that¡¯s how it¡¯s gonna be¡­


    How can I fight this many? Even if the aisle is thin, there¡¯s no stopping them from climbing over the seat backs. If even one gets behind¡­ the end.


    I need to draw them back, draw them out.


    I ease the door behind me open again. Cold air and the sound of the wind rush inside, dragging on my clothes and chilling my skin. I push the door wide open, until it¡¯s caught by the breeze and swings into the railing. It crashes loud enough to make me jump. I glance around quickly. Every loud noise makes me feel like there¡¯s a nightmare hiding in the sound, just waiting for a distraction to slip out.


    A deep breath almost calms my nerves. I watch the room while the door smacks against the railing, banging again and again. I get more and more tense as seconds pass and nothing happens. Am I gonna need to knock one on the head?


    Suddenly, the zombie with the fancy hat stands up. She shuffles out of her seat and turns my way. Her cute little slippers slide across the ground as I retreat. I duck through the door as the rest rise to their feet. They move, turn, and shamble, all at the same time. They form a line of hungry faces.


    There¡¯s so much emotion in them. They look so intense. A few have patches of missing skin, bloody marks or torn hair. Dark blood leaks from their tear ducts, their nostrils, their ear canals and the corners of their mouths. Their eyes are opened wide. Their expressions are twisted. Whether the skin is pale, tan or dark, the black veins show through, like shadows cast on their faces.


    One of them tries to smile with its mouth open. Maggots crawl on its tongue and spill to the floor like pale raindrops. My skin crawls and a wave of buzzing flies swirls around me.


    These are angry, greedy undead. Seems they don¡¯t like being kept waiting.


    I flex my fingers and spread my feet wide, sinking a little lower. I tense when fancy hat gets close, but I¡¯m not ready for her lunge. She comes from farther away than I expected, crossing a meter with a wide-armed tackle. I cross my arms to take the impact, and my feet slide in the snow.


    She tries to bite through the layers on my arms, jerking her head and sheering off strips of fabric. Dead blood sprays on my face as she tears her own lips. Her grip is terribly strong. In her frenzy, she tries to wrestle me to the ground. I lean back as far as I can, then I headbutt her once, twice, and break her jaw with my forehead. I grab her by the shirt and raise her off the ground.


    The fancy hat flies off in the wind and she screeches. I smash her against the railing and shake her grip. With a little effort, I heave her over the side without losing the cane.


    The next zombie stumbles through the door and lunges. I get the cane up in time to shove against its chest and slow it down. I barely stop it from wrapping its hands around me. I lean away from its swiping claws and crack it across the jaw.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    It stumbles to the side and screams as I get good handfuls of its collar and belt. I lift it, hold it past the railing and let it sail away.


    Something crashes into me. I stare into cloudy, angry eyes. Sharp teeth chomp in front of my face, and little flecks fly through the air. I feel movement: an itching in my scalp, discomfort in my neck, and I shiver. I realize there are maggots crawling on my skin.


    I resist opening my mouth to scream. Instead, I punch and struggle until I can get the cane between the thing¡¯s teeth. It chomps down until I hear the wood creak and crack.


    Another body crashes into us. My feet slide and slip, then we smash into the other door. Hands pull at my shirt. More and more reach for my face, until all I can see are broken, bloody fingernails. I throw myself back and forth, ramming into the door and pushing off, trying to shake loose.


    I get a little space, grab the zombie¡¯s head, tearing handfuls of weak hair. I pull on the cane between its teeth and twist its head around. Krck! With a jerk, the neck snaps. Down it goes, dead weight slumping against my legs.


    I fight to stand as the next one pushes me into the door. Teeth dig into my shoulder, right at the base of the neck. Its hands slide up my back. Its legs press between mine. I feel like my whole body¡¯s covered by it, chest to chest, breathing its foul breath, disgusting beyond belief. It feels too intimate, looking down the side of its face while its jaws try to gnaw through my shoulder.


    I squirm, but I have no leverage to shake it off. All I can do is scrabble for the door handle digging into my back. I manage to wrap my fingers around it and twist. We go tumbling through.


    I collapse to the floor like a broken doll, crumpled up, winded and dazed. The zombie lies heavy on my chest, fingers digging into my back, and it jerks its head.


    ¡°Aaaah! Ow! Fuck!¡± I feel the flesh tear. A piece of meat falls from its teeth as it opens its mouth and leans in again, digging into the side of my neck. I grab its head and hammer its jaw with the end of the cane. Another excruciating bite tears skin and I scream.


    ¡°Aaaaaah!¡± Finally its jaw breaks. I stare at it. Bits of my body sit in its mouth with the maggots and the broken teeth. I snarl and shove it against the wall.


    Already, another zombie looms above me. I rock back and get my feet up in time to catch it. Its chest crashes down on the soles of my boots and it lets out a mournful moan.


    Is that disappointment I hear?


    Another zombie piles on top. Their arms wriggle as they claw at me together, like a four-armed monster. My knees strain under the weight.


    I grab for the mournful zombie¡¯s head. My palms slide along his fat cheeks and scrappy beard. He¡¯s trying to get a bite of my finger, but he¡¯s not fast enough to stop me from covering his pus-filled eye sockets with one hand, and cupping the back of his skull with the other.


    Krck! I break his neck and he sags like a ragdoll. Only the drool falling on my stomach and the twitching in his face show he¡¯s still undead.


    For a few seconds, we¡¯re stuck: A pile of zombies trying to claw their way to me, a paralyzed zombie, and me, pressed to the floor and holding them off with trembling legs.


    I start digging in my jacket as fast as I can. I come out with the little pocketknife and struggle to flick it open. I shift my hips as they pull the paralyzed one aside. I catch the next by the neck and hold it off. Its fingers claw at my wrist, squeezing and squeezing. I hiss from the pain.


    The blade on the pocketknife clicks into place and I swing, cutting along the zombie¡¯s scalp, drawing a line of dark blood. The next swing buries the blade in its jaw. I tear it out, leaving its mouth barely hanging from one side. Its face is a bloody mess. It screams in rage. Mucus spills out of its mouth in viscous strings.


    ¡°Ugh¡­¡± Disgusting.


    I stab its arm and shoulder until a hand releases my wrist. I saw at the fingers of the other hand. I cut into my own skin, but soon enough, its hand falls away. I¡¯m able to push it back and slide from under it.


    I stumble to unsteady feet. Feels like it¡¯s been a while since I¡¯ve stood straight. I must¡¯ve been on the ground for less than¡­ less than a minute. A vertebra in my spine pops when I stretch out. I hop back and glance around. I don¡¯t want to fall into an ambush or suffer another tackle. I¡¯m sick of being dragged down and chewed on.


    Walking through a train isn¡¯t supposed to be this difficult.


    ¡°Shoulda taken the goddamn roof.¡± I growl. I sigh out a whole lungful of breath. I feel spent, like a whole lifetime of effort just left me. I don¡¯t have time to rest. Two more.


    A tall zombie in heels, blouse and pencil skirt stands in the doorway, fur coat swirling in the wind, holding something sharp and shiny in its hand. A little child zombie sits in front of her, wearing a bulky jacket with a fuzzy hood. It clambers over its fallen comrades on hands and knees. Clambers isn¡¯t the right word. Scurries is better. The thing is fast. It gets to the top of the pile and leaps, arms and legs spread wide to catch me.


    I snatch it out of the air by the neck. Its teeth click and clack as it wraps around my arm, like a monkey climbing a branch. I jab the knife in its spine. Its movements falter, becoming sluggish and twitchy. I draw my arm back and pitch the little one at the slender zombie. She ducks, so it flies over her head and through the doorway.


    She holds a pair of scissors out to me, threatening. This seems like a bad deal. One lunge and those things end up buried in my neck. I¡¯ll be helpless as a paralyzed zombie, eyes rolling in my head, waiting for the teeth to come.


    I snag a body off the ground, using it like a shield as I charge her. When I get close enough, I toss the body as hard as I can and tackle her through the doorway. I feel the scissors puncture my side and snag on a rib, but I¡¯m committed. I wrap her in a bear hug and take her down, sliding across the snow.


    I pull back from her biting teeth and grab her legs. I drag them up around my waist, then I jump to my feet.


    ¡°Huff!¡± I adjust my grip. She tries to sit up and reach for me, eyes twisted in rage. I spin around and she screams.


    ¡°Raaaaaaaaaaaaa!¡±


    I spin around again.


    ¡°-Aaaaaaaaaaaa!¡±


    And again.


    ¡°-Aaaaaaaaaaa!¡±


    I let go. She sails over the railing right as a tree trunk flies past. Her scream cuts with a thud.


    A quick glance around shows me all is quiet. Just crippled zombies laying around, groaning. And me¡­ last one standing.


    I dust my hands off. It doesn¡¯t get rid of the damage on them. It doesn¡¯t lift the fatigue weighing them down. It doesn¡¯t shed the filth or erase the stench. But it makes me feel better.


    For a moment, a wave of exhilaration sweeps through me, like a force bursting under my skin. It fills me with this sense of fulfillment. Accomplishment. Strength. Confidence. I don¡¯t know what to call it, but for a moment it brings my tired body relief. It fades and leaves a tingling sensation in its wake.


    I take some time to toss the other zombies off the train. Each one that goes leaves me feeling energized. Once they¡¯re gone, I close the doors and stand on the junction between the train cars. I lean on the rail and try to clear the smell of death from my nose.


    It doesn¡¯t work, but a few minutes of wind on my face is the closest thing to peace I think I¡¯ll get.


    I¡¯ll take whatever I can whenever it comes.


    I¡¯ve decided to treasure the calm moments.


    I have a feeling I won¡¯t be walking an easy road.

 The Kennels

    ¡°This can¡¯t be good.¡±


    The next train car looks different, like a giant shipping container someone pulled from the bottom of the ocean. There are no windows breaking up the metal walls. Grime is plastered to every surface of it. The door is covered in rust like a coat of paint. Bits of dirt and dust and rust break off in the wind. The metal groans from deep within.


    I try the handle, but it doesn¡¯t budge. I take some time to look around. This dirty compartment is out of place with all the others I¡¯ve seen. There are only a handful of train cars left before the engine. Most seem to be containers like this one. I see them stretching ahead, curving to the right as the train rolls along the tracks.


    We¡¯re going around a coast. It¡¯s a peninsula, I think. Rocky shore and breaking waves lies to the left of the tracks. Scrubby undergrowth and scattered trees lie on the right. Still no sign or real civilization.


    Through compartment windows, I¡¯ve seen big buildings, like warehouses or shipping yards. I¡¯ve seen silos and water towers in the distance. I¡¯ve seen distant roads and billboards. No towns. No light at all. Even the moon and stars are covered by clouds. And it is oppressively cold, depressingly so.


    I wrap numb fingers around the door handle again, and push a little harder. Seems jammed. I lean up on it and push and push. It barely budges.


    I take the bird-beaked cane in hand and whack the end of the handle as hard as I can. After a second and third swing, rust rains from the door handle. The cane snaps from the impacts. I toss it aside and pull on the door.


    Stuck. Wedged into the frame good. I put a foot up on the wall and pull with everything I¡¯ve got.


    Grrrnk!


    The door explodes open with the sound of tearing metal. I land flat on my back and look down at the cloud of flies leaving the doorway. It¡¯s as thick as smoke. The air is buzzing with them. They cover everything.


    The constant motion of the swarming flies makes the inside hard to make out from where I am. It¡¯s just a shifting mess. The smell reaches me, and I choke on my breath. I cover my face with my hands. My eyes are burning. My stomach heaves.


    I tear some of the rags out of my pack and wrap them around my face. My breath hitches and I gag. What can smell as terrible as this?


    Once again, the only way forward is something I¡¯d rather avoid. I¡¯ll just have to rush through and deal with the disgust.


    I ease up to the door and open it the rest of the way. The smell is powerful, almost overwhelming. I ignore it to look inside.


    Even to my lowlight vision, this place is gloomy. It¡¯s the flies that make everything seem so dim and hazy. On each side of the container, there¡¯s a wall of cages up to the ceiling. They¡¯re full of still forms.


    Something drips from each one and pools on the floor. The metal bars are caked in something not quite solid. The smell of rotting corpses and shit is enough to make me dizzy.


    These are people¡­


    The cages are so small, many had to curl up to fit inside. They were left here, feces and blood clinging to the bars and floors of their cages. They were left in the dark.


    All the people are dead. Only the flies make any sound. Only the insects are moving. The cages are filled; all those lives reduced to piles of rot covered in maggots. Their slumped forms are covered with the pale things, to the point that they look like snowy mountains.


    The bodies sit in piles of sludge. It drips down and collects in a thick stream at the base of the cages. A mat of wriggling larvae lies on top. They¡¯re constantly crawling around and falling off of things. They break away from the mass and wriggle across the aisle. I glance at the ceiling, half expecting maggots to be crawling up there.


    This is madness. What do you say to something like this?Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    I take my first step, and the boot sinks down, popping the little bodies it steps on. I swat at the flies buzzing in my ears and landing on my face. I blink them away and take another careful step. And another.


    The soles of my boots begin to stick. Little tendrils of filth cling on. I keep my eyes on the door at the end of this walk. These walls of cages seem to close in. They loom over me, their dank smell cloying and thick.


    I feel my head lowering as I go. I feel myself holding my breath until it hurts. I notice fingers reaching for me, so my gaze drifts.


    Those fingers reach between the bars. On all sides, I see hands pressed against the cages. Fingers peeking through the bars¡­


    They were reaching for help.


    I take a shallow breath and gag on it. This time I can¡¯t hold back the bile rushing up. I pull the rags from my mouth and vomit in front of my boots. All that comes is stomach acid, but the heaving still wracks my body and hunches me over. After a while, I fight it down and cough out the last of the caustic fluid.


    I try to spit that little bit out. Opening my mouth fills it with a flavor I can¡¯t begin to describe. I keep moving past the bars and hands and people trapped inside.


    They were trying to reach past grimy bars because it was all they could do, until the end. My eyes are burning when I reach the door. Tears are spilling out, flowing heavy and hot down my cheeks.


    I twist the door handle easy enough, but it doesn¡¯t open at first. I ram it with my shoulder until I burst out into the snow and cold air. I lay there, taking deep breaths and digging my fingers into icy powder.


    For a while, I can¡¯t find the strength to push myself back up. I lay there shaking. I clench my stomach and smash a fist into the ground.


    There¡¯s no time for this. I have to be moving. Another shipping container looms over me. Another rusty, metal door. I climb to my feet and test the handle.


    Stuck.


    I twist it and use my whole body. Once it¡¯s turned as far as it will go, I tear the door open. I jump away from the wave of flies that flows out of the doorway. I swat at the cloud as I walk into another compartment full of cages.


    It¡¯s the same putrid scene. Death and gloom and despair. I feel dizzy, blinking and breathing in the disgusting, buzzing air. Every time I blink, the door seems farther away. Metal bars and grimy floor stretch.


    I burn the sights into memory. This place isn¡¯t something I¡¯ll ever forget. I wouldn¡¯t want to. If something like this can happen to people¡­ I would want to remember. If I were them, I¡¯d want to be remembered.


    I take a few steps, then reach a gap in the wall of bars. I see an alley between them. I turn and see a path on the other side too. The walls of cages are broken by alleys on both sides of the aisle, each one a few meters long.


    ¡°What the hell is going on?¡±


    This container looks at least ten meters across. It can¡¯t be. The train isn¡¯t even close to that wide.


    ¡­ Is this container bigger on the inside?


    An illusion. Maybe¡­


    I walk down the alley to the left, surrounded by the doors of cages. I stare through the bars, at the rotting corpses. In death, they all look the same. Naked. Faceless. Maggots make meals of them. Flies land to lay their eggs.


    I stop at the grimy metal wall at the end of the alley and retrace my steps. It¡¯s real. I look down the strange, long path and wonder if I should head straight for the exit. There¡¯s no real reason to waste time here.


    I can leave the filth behind. But¡­ it¡¯s not filth, is it? These were all people. Men and women¡­ probably children.


    I walk down the other alley, between the cages. There¡¯s nothing new to see. No surprises. Still, I look in every cage, at every slumped form. I wish there was more to set them apart, more to tell who they were. I wish they seemed more human.


    I reach the end of the alley and turn back.


    It¡¯s slow going through the container, ignoring the smell, walking down every pathway.


    Some cages are empty. Were they never filled? Was someone removed and never returned? How many people were trapped here? A hundred? More?


    Why?


    Who did this? Who would? Who could?


    All these people died where they were kept, packed in like dogs and abandoned. Was I in one these cages? Am I some kind of chattel?


    I know someone cut me apart. They pulled my heart out. And whatever they were doing, it was organized. It was big. Where did they even get all these people? I suppose¡­ they could have been zombies.


    A part of me wants to poke something through the bars to see if it moves. I resist. These bodies have been through enough, and what will the answer help?


    I reach the far door, but when I put my hand on the handle, I feel the urge to look back. Rows of cages line a long path. I should do something for them.


    I pull off my pack and dig around the rags and dollar bills.


    There¡¯s a tiny candle in an aluminum tin and a lighter near the bottom.


    I go back to the center of the container and light the candle. The tiny orange fire adds a circle of color. It shows a world of brown and grey and sickly yellow squirming things, with flakes of rust dusting it all.


    I place the candle on a clear patch of floor, surrounded by muck. Hands together, I bow.


    ¡°Rest in peace.¡±


    I get the door open without too much trouble. I ease it closed and lean back. I pull the rag off my face to breath the fresh air.


    The lands outside have lost their snow, but the trees are still barren, and the wind still ice cold. On the distant horizon, the night is getting brighter, just barely.


    Dawn is coming. At least I¡¯m moving forward. And I can keep going. I have to. I¡¯ve seen what happens to the helpless.


    ¡°Rest in peace¡­¡±


    I let the wind cool my face until I¡¯m ready. I move to the next compartment. Another shipping container, but these walls and this door are clean.


    The door opens easily.