The locomotive whistled—long, low, and defiant—cutting through the drizzle.
“Not a trap,” Anya breathed.
By day seven, the terrain changed. The suburbs gave way to farmland, but the crops were gone—choked by neglect or eaten by the desperate. They passed a farmhouse with a painted sign: FREE HUGS . A skeleton in a sundress sat on the porch, a revolver in its lap. Elena took the revolver. Three bullets left. zombie retreats
“We go through,” Elena replied. She pointed to a sandbar fifty yards downstream, littered with debris. “The current keeps them pinned. We wade the shallows.” The locomotive whistled—long