Chapter Two: Dead Train

"My God," Rebecca muttered. Blood covered the green velvet seats. Suitcases and purses lay scattered. Papers and clothes from open luggage littered the elegant, gray floor or draped over the side of chairs. Yet, no bodies.

I need to get the others, she thought. Rebecca turned, put her hand on the door's handle, but stopped. It was faint, but she thought she heard someone's voice.

"Hello?" she said, her voice an octave higher.

Rebecca waited. Among the silence was a low murmuring. The hairs on Rebecca's arms stood.

"Hello," she said again, but to the same result as before.

Rebecca took a few steps toward the door on the left end. Frosted glass took most of the doors upper half, with the words 'Ecliptic Express' laid over it in gold. As she drew closer, the voice grew louder. She grasped the bronze handle of the door, standing there listening for any other sound.

Rebecca could hear her mother now—running in without a plan. You're as bad as your Father was. She yanked and the door slid open. The other side was much the same as the one she had come, in both design and dishevelment. Emergency lights shined over the thresholds. Rebecca was relieved that there was light, though the long shadows made her stomach twist. A stairwell stood to her right.

The voice, which had sounded like a whisper in the other room, filled the whole car. Then there was the smell—that sick, sweet smell of death.

"This is officer Chambers from S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team. Please identify yourself," she said, taking a step forward. Two rows of seats in front of her, Rebecca saw that back of a head. There was no answer, just the constant stream of babble missed with the tapping of rain against glass. "Is there anyone there?"

A man sat in the window seat. He wore a gray suit—torn and bloodstained—and his skin possessed a darker hue. Half of his face had been ripped off, showing crimson meat. A portable radio lay on the next seat.

"Oh, my god," she muttered. There was no way around it now—she had to get the others. Rebecca went to turn, but the corpse rose out of its seat. Rebecca's mouth dropped open. "Sir please sit down," she said, grabbing the medical pack strapped to her side. The man moaned in response. Two hands clamped around her small arms, and the sick smell of death hit her harder than before.

"Sir," she said. The man stood over her by a foot, but all she saw was his eyes. They were completely white—no sign of pain or remorse. No sign of anything at all. Rebecca felt a scream bubbling up from her chest. The man bent forward, his mouth open. Rebecca held the man at bay with her forearm as he bared down.

She positioned her left leg in between her assailant's and shoved him with as much strength as she could. The man tumbled back, his grip weakening. His head struck the wooden armrest with a loud crack.

Rebecca backed away. Was he…going to bite me? The corpse rose, a gash across his forehead. Thick, black blood dripped down his face. He moaned though it wasn't one of pain. It's one of hunger.

She placed a hand over her mouth, running to the door at the end of the car, throwing it opening it, and darting through the entry. Rebecca bent over and heaved, yet nothing came out. The image of that man was burned in her mind. It was as though he were…dead. Rebecca felt as though she were about to be sick again.

The corridor seemed darker than the one she had just left. On her right were two doors, and rain pounded on a series of windows to her left. Rebecca peeked in only to find disheveled bedrooms. Rebecca followed the twisting hall, to find a body slumped over on the ground.

Her breath caught in her throat as she kneeled to see if he was really dead. A dark hole was just visible between his eyes.

"You don't have to worry about him," a voice said behind her. "He's not getting back up."

A young man with dark brown hair stood over her and handgun aimed at her head. He wore a gray tank top, revealing the black, tribal tattoos that ran up his muscular, right arm.

"Billy Coen," Rebecca muttered, heart pounding against her chest. She thought of raising her own weapon, but as she stood slowly, looking down the barrel of Coen's gun, the thought lost its appeal. The dog tags around Coen's neck to jingle as he kept the weapon trained.

"So," he said with a smirk. "You seem to know me. Been fantasizing about me, have you?"

Rebecca clenched her left fist, while her right tightened around the handle of her gun.

"You were the prisoner being transported for execution," she said, as though to reaffirm to herself. "You were with those officers outside…" who you killed.

"Oh," Coen said. "I see. You're with S.T.A.R.S." He drug out the last word, as if in mock realization. "Well, no offense honey, but your kind doesn't seem to want me around. So, I'm afraid our little chat time is over." With that, Coen lowered his gun and turned back toward the hall.

"Wait," Rebecca said, following him. "You're under arrest!"

Billy stopped and glancing over his shoulder.

"No thanks, doll face," he said, raising his left arm. A set of handcuffs dangled from his right wrist.

"I could shoot, you know!" Rebecca said, raising her gun, but Coen ignored her. She grunted, taking a step to chase after him when the window in front of her burst open and something jumped through. It took her a moment to realize that it was—

"Edward!?"

Edward pressed his back against the wall. His blue vest and black pants were ripped and bloodied. Rebecca slid to her knees, hands fumbling for her medical kit.

"God, Edward! What did this to you?!" she said, withdrawing bandages, a package which held a needle and surgical stitching, and another package for a disposable scalpel. Rebecca tore open the scalpel packaging, and cut away at the ripped pant-leg. The wound under looked deep, but it wasn't clean like a bullet hole or a slash from a knife. It looked like an animal bite. She turned to get the antiseptic from her kit, but Edward grabbed her wrist. His blue eyes looked glassy, almost as if he were dazed.

"It's worse than…" he muttered, his face contorting as though each word caused him pain. "We can't…you must be careful, Rebecca. The forest…it's full of zombies and…monsters."

Rebecca froze. Zombies and Monsters? That undead man returned to her mind, and she felt the urge to vomit once again. Edward's grip slackened. He took a ragged breath, and his head fell.

"Edward," Rebecca said, taking his shoulders and holding him up. "Edward?!"

Glass rained down on her as another window shattered. The thing that crashed into the hall landed a couple of feet away. A dog? The Doberman turned. Chunks of its flesh were gone, revealing the wet meat and glossy rib bone beneath. The dog growled as it stared at Rebecca with pupil-less eyes.

Rebecca's eyes widened, raising her gun. The Doberman leaped before she could fire. Its body collided into her. The handgun flew out of Rebecca's hand. The creature's claws dug into the shoulders of her green shirt and it pinned her to the ground. A low growl came up from its exposed vocals. It opened its maw, saliva dripping, as it bent down for her jugular. Rebecca thrashed, looking for something—anything. Her hand grabbed something slender.

Rebecca jammed it into the dog's eye. The disposable scalpel went in up to the hilt. The creature gave a cry before it slumped over. Rebecca shoved it off her, panting.

"Edward," she said, sitting up. "Are you okay?"

She reached over and placed two fingers on his carotid artery. No pulse. Rebecca's breath caught in her throat.

No, this couldn't be! She waited for several seconds. I just need to calm down. Can't find anything like this. After several more seconds, she still couldn't feel a pulse.

Rebecca stumbled back, shaking her head. Hardly twenty minutes ago they had been talking in the forest and now…and now… tears trickled down the sides of Rebecca's face. She grabbed her radio.

"Captain…" Rebecca said, her voice hardly above a whisper. "Edward's gone…I need…I need…"

I need help…