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*****
In the span of a few minutes, her world had collapsed. Her team was dead or missing. She was trapped on a runaway train with monsters.
And this stranger—this terrifying, capable stranger—was the only thing making her feel safe.
"Stay safe," Rebecca whispered, her voice trembling. "We'll be waiting for you here."
She didn't know him. She didn't know his past.
But she knew that when he was in the room, the monsters died. She had gotten used to his massive presence shielding her from the horror. The thought of him leaving terrified her.
Atlas softened his expression. He reached out and gently squeezed her shoulder, mindful of his strength.
"Hey," he said, flashing a warm, confident smile that reached his grey eyes. "Don't worry, Rookie. I'm hard to kill. Keep the convict in line for me."
Rebecca managed a weak, watery smile. "Okay."
"I'll be back before the train stops," Atlas promised.
He turned and sprinted out of the engine room.
[The Corridor – Passenger Car 2]
Atlas moved like a blur. He didn't run; he flowed.
He vaulted over the corpses of the zombies he had killed earlier. He ignored the lurching of the train. His balance was absolute.
He reached the connector between the dining car and the second passenger car.
A figure blocked his path.
It was a zombie, shambling out of the shadows. But it wasn't just any zombie.
It wore a torn, green S.T.A.R.S. uniform. Its arm was bandaged with the gauze Rebecca had applied only minutes ago.
Edward Dewey.
The pilot looked at Atlas. His eyes were milky white, his jaw slack. He groaned, raising his good arm, driven by the insatiable hunger by the T-Virus.
Atlas skidded to a halt.
He looked at the man who had tried to save his team with his dying breath.
"Goodbye, Mr. Edward..." Atlas whispered.
He didn't use the shotgun. He didn't use his claws. It felt disrespectful to blow the man like him apart like a common monster.
He drew the Glock 19 from his waistband.
He raised it.
POP.
A single, clean shot.
The bullet entered Edward's temple. The pilot's head snapped back, and he collapsed to the floor instantly. His body remained whole.
"Rest easy," Atlas murmured.
He stepped over the body and continued moving forward.
[The Rear Carriage – The Bar]
Atlas reached the final carriage. This was the lounge bar, located just before the rear deck.
The roof groaned.
SCREEEEEEE!
Metal tore like paper.
The ceiling of the train car peeled back as if opened by a giant can opener. Rain and lightning flooded the room.
Something massive dropped from the storm.
It landed with a tremor that shook the entire train car, cracking the floorboards.
Subject: STINGER.
It was a scorpion. But it was mutated beyond reason. It was the size of a minivan. Its chitinous armor was a dark, iridescent purple. Two massive claws snapped the air, and a tail tipped with a glistening, venomous barb arched over its back.
It screeched, fixing its multiple black eyes on Atlas.
Atlas didn't flinch. He didn't back down.
He smiled.
"Finally," he growled. "Some real XP."
The Stinger lunged. Its left pincer swept across the room, smashing tables and chairs into kindling, aiming to crush Atlas against the wall.
Atlas used his agility and he ducked.
The claw passed inches over his head, the wind of its passage ruffling his hair.
Atlas exploded upward. He didn't shoot. He wanted to test his limits.
He grabbed the Stinger's arm—a limb as thick as a tree trunk—with both hands.
"HRAAAH!"
He heaved.
The massive arachnid was lifted off its feet. Atlas used the creature's own momentum against it, slamming it sideways into the bar counter. Bottles shattered, alcohol spraying everywhere.
The Stinger shrieked in confusion. It wasn't used to prey fighting back with brute force.
It struck with its tail—a lightning-fast jab aimed at Atlas's chest.
Atlas sidestepped, avoiding it as the creature was still slower than him.
"My turn," Atlas snarled.
SNIKT.
The bone claws extended. Three silver-infused death.
He leaped onto the Stinger's back.
He drove the claws down.
CRUNCH-SQUELCH.
The claws punched through the thick carapace of the scorpion's head as if it were cardboard.
Green ichor sprayed into the air.
Atlas ripped his hand back, widening the wound, then drove his other hand in. He grabbed the creature's internal organs and pulled.
The Stinger thrashed wildly, smashing the walls of the train, but Atlas rode it like a rodeo bull, tearing it apart from the top down.
With a final, gurgling screech, the massive B.O.W. collapsed, twitching in a pool of its own fluids.
[ Target Eliminated: Stinger Prototype ]
[ +90 XP ]
[ +9 EP ]
[ +20 VG ]
Atlas stood up, shaking the slime off his claws before retracting them. He looked at the notification.
"Ninety XP?" he scoffed, wiping his face. "Cheapskate system. The dogs were worth more."
It was on the lower side, likely because the Stinger was a prototype with many flaws and it didn't even have that much strength, but points were points.
He stepped over the carcass and kicked open the rear door.
[The Rear Deck]
The wind on the rear deck was deafening. The train was screaming down the tracks.
Atlas walked to the brake console. He swiped the Magnetic Card.
BEEP. ACCESS GRANTED.
"Billy," Atlas spoke into the walkie-talkie. "Brakes are unlocked. Engage on your end. Now!"
KRRR-CHUNK.
He felt the heavy thud of the magnetic clamps engaging. The wheels locked. Sparks flew in massive showers from the tracks, lighting up the night.
The train began to screech, slowing down violently.
Atlas grabbed the railing to steady himself.
Then, a flash of lightning illuminated the valley below.
Atlas looked into the distance, toward a high ridge overlooking the tracks.
Standing there, soaked in rain, was a figure in white robes. It was waving its hands like a conductor leading an orchestra.
Dr. James Marcus. The Queen Leech.
The figure turned its head. Even from this distance, Atlas felt its gaze. It opened its mouth, and a haunting, operatic note drifted over the wind, harmonizing with the screech of the dying train.
Atlas narrowed his eyes.
"Sing while you can, Opera Boy," Atlas whispered, the wind whipping his hair. "I'm coming for your XP next."
---
Location: The Ecliptic Express – Rear Deck / Tunnel Entrance.
Time: 11:40 PM.
Billy Coen threw his weight against the manual brake lever, veins bulging in his neck.
SCREEEEEEECH!
The train's wheels locked.
The sound was deafening—a high-pitched shriek of steel grinding against steel. Showers of sparks, bright as magnesium flares, erupted from the undercarriage, illuminating the dark valley in stroboscopic flashes.
But physics was a cruel mistress. The momentum was too great. The Ecliptic Express was a thousand tons of iron moving at ninety miles an hour on rain-slicked tracks. It slowed, but it didn't stop.
Atlas stood on the rear deck, the wind whipping his hair. He looked past the sparks and saw the end of the line.
Ahead, the tracks disappeared into a tunnel mouth that had been barricaded with debris—fallen rocks, timber, and old construction equipment.
"Hold on!" Atlas roared into the walkie-talkie.
"We're crashing!"
CRUNCH.
The train hit the barricade with the force of a meteor strike.
The locomotive didn't just derail; it buckled. The engine car slammed into the tunnel wall, crumpling like a soda can. The kinetic energy rippled backward through the cars. The dining car twisted, lifting off the rails. The passenger cars slammed into each other, metal shearing and tearing.
Atlas was on the rear deck when the world flipped sideways.
Gravity lost its meaning. The rear car was whipped around like the tail of a cracking whip.
Atlas lost his grip on the railing.
He was thrown into the air.
He tumbled through the darkness of the tunnel, hitting the gravel ballast, rolling, bouncing, and smashing into the wall.
THUD.
He slid down the wall, coming to a rest in a heap of dust and debris.
Ten meters away, the train completed its death throes. The fuel tanks ruptured.
BOOM.
A massive fireball engulfed the wreckage. The heat was instantaneous, searing the air in the confined tunnel.
Silence followed, broken only by the crackle of flames and the groan of settling metal.
Atlas lay in the dark. His tactical jacket was shredded. His skin was bruised slightly. But under the surface, his body had taken the brunt of the impact. His bones were intact. His organs were unruptured.
He groaned, rolling his neck.
"Ow," he muttered, spitting out a mouthful of dust. "That... could have gone better." The fall did not result in any physical injury.
He pushed himself up. The train was in an underground service parking lot connected to the tunnel.
"Atlas!"
The voice was high, frantic, and bordering on hysteria.
"Atlas! Are you there? Please answer!"
It was Rebecca. She sounded like she was crying.
Atlas grabbed his walkie-talkie. It was cracked, but the light was still green.
"I'm here, Rebecca," Atlas replied, his voice calm and steady, cutting through her panic. "I'm fine. Just some minor scratches. Stay put. I'm coming to you."
He checked his gear. The Remington shotgun was gone—lost in the tumble, probably buried under tons of steel.
"Damn," he whispered. "I liked that gun."
He drew his Lightning Hawk Magnum from his thigh holster. It was scuffed but functional. He checked his Glock 19. Still there.
He moved toward the wreckage.
Through the smoke and flames, he saw two figures huddled near the service exit. Billy Coen was supporting a coughing Rebecca Chambers.
When Rebecca saw Atlas emerge from the smoke—battered, covered in soot, but walking tall—her knees almost gave out with relief.
"Atlas!" she gasped. She looked like she wanted to hug him but held back, settling for a shaky exhale. "You made it. I thought... when the car flipped..."
"Takes more than a train wreck to put me down, Rookie," Atlas said, flashing her a reassuring grin. He looked at Billy. "You good, Marine?"
"Banged up," Billy grunted, wiping blood from a cut on his forehead. "But alive. Looks like we finally made it."
"Yes," Atlas nodded, looking at the burning inferno behind them. "The train has stopped. But the ride isn't over."
"What is this place?" Rebecca asked, coughing as the smoke thickened.
They looked around. The tunnel exit was completely blocked by the twisted wreckage of the train. The fire was spreading, consuming the wooden sleepers and the oil leaks.
"No matter where we are," Rebecca said, her eyes stinging, "we need to leave. Now."
She pointed behind her, toward the burning train cars.
Movement.
Through the curtain of fire, shapes were stumbling.
Zombies.
But these weren't just the shambling dead. They were on fire. Their clothes were melting, their flesh blackening and peeling, but the T-Virus drove them forward. They roared—a sound of sizzling meat and rage—as they spilled out of the wreckage.