Park Min-jun—he had to think of himself by that name now—settled back into his seat and began what Rama's memories called "battlefield assessment." But unlike the Indonesian SWAT officer's urban warfare scenarios, this battlefield was filled with civilians who had no idea they were about to become casualties in a war they didn't know existed.
*Know your allies. Know your terrain. Know your enemy.*
His enhanced senses swept through the car like invisible radar, cataloging details that would have been meaningless to his old self but now held the weight of life and death. The elderly couple three rows ahead—the man's breathing was labored, suggesting heart problems, while his wife kept a protective hand on a medical bag. Potential medical supplies, but also liabilities who would slow down any evacuation.
Behind them sat a young mother with twin boys, maybe eight years old. The children were restless, occasionally standing to peer out the windows or bothering other passengers. Their mother looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes suggesting she'd been traveling for hours. In a crisis, maternal instinct would make her both fierce and unpredictable.
*Children complicate everything,* Mad Dog's voice whispered with cold pragmatism. *They cry, they panic, they draw attention. Sometimes the needs of the many—*
*No.* He cut off that train of thought immediately. Whatever darkness lived in Mad Dog's memories, he wouldn't let it consume him. Children were to be protected, not sacrificed.
Across the aisle, a businessman in his fifties typed furiously on his laptop, muttering under his breath about quarterly reports and budget constraints. His fingers moved with the desperate speed of someone facing an impossible deadline. Soft hands, expensive suit, gold watch—a man accustomed to having others handle his problems. Likely to freeze or become hysterical when the violence started.
But then there was the woman by the window, two rows back. Mid-twenties, athletic build, wearing practical clothes instead of fashionable ones. Her book was written in English—something about military tactics—and she held it with the confidence of someone actually comprehending the complex material. Most tellingly, she sat with her back straight, occasionally glancing around the car with alert eyes. Security training, possibly military background.
*Potential asset,* Rama's tactical mind noted. *Could be trained, could be trusted.*
*Or could be a threat if she questions your authority,* Mad Dog countered. *Watch her carefully.*
Near the front of the car, a group of university students occupied a cluster of seats, their backpacks stuffed with textbooks and their conversations a mix of academic stress and weekend plans. Young, healthy, adaptable—but also inexperienced and likely to panic. Still, youth meant they could learn quickly if given proper instruction.
The most concerning passenger sat alone in the very first row. A man in his thirties, wearing a rumpled business suit and constantly checking his phone with increasing agitation. His leg bounced nervously, and he kept glancing toward the door leading to the next car forward. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the car's comfortable temperature.
*He knows something,* both voices agreed simultaneously. *Question is: what, and how much?*
Min-jun's enhanced hearing picked up fragments of whispered phone conversations as the man made call after call, each one more desperate than the last. "...can't reach them..." "...something's wrong in Seoul..." "...the news isn't reporting..." The man's voice cracked with barely controlled panic, and his eyes held the wild look of someone who had seen something traumatic.
Outside the windows, the Korean countryside continued its peaceful procession of rice fields and small villages. Everything appeared normal—farmers working their fields, children playing in schoolyards, traffic moving along parallel highways. But Min-jun's borrowed memories knew how quickly normalcy could shatter. One moment you were riding a train through pastoral landscapes, the next you were fighting for your life against creatures that had once been human.
The intercom crackled again. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're continuing to experience delays. Our estimated arrival time in Busan has been pushed back by approximately two hours. The dining car remains open for your convenience, and we thank you for your continued patience."
Two hours. That could mean anything—genuine mechanical problems, track obstructions, or attempts by authorities to contain whatever was happening in Seoul. But the conductor's voice carried new stress markers that Min-jun's enhanced perception caught immediately. The man was reading from a script, and he didn't believe a word of it.
*Information is power,* Rama's memories reminded him. *But so is the lack of information. What aren't they telling us?*
Min-jun stood again, this time making his way toward the front of the car with measured steps. He needed a closer look at that window, needed to assess the situation in the adjacent car more thoroughly. But he also needed to do it without alarming the other passengers or drawing attention to himself.
As he approached the nervous businessman in the front row, he allowed himself to stumble slightly with the train's motion, catching himself on the man's seat. "Sorry about that," he said with an apologetic smile, using the contact to lean closer.
The man's phone screen was visible for just a moment, long enough for Min-jun to read a text message thread filled with increasingly frantic exchanges. "...military cordons around Seoul..." "...hospitals overrun..." "...they're saying it's some kind of virus but people are..." The message cut off mid-sentence, the last timestamp over an hour old.
"No problem," the man mumbled, quickly closing his phone and avoiding eye contact. But his hands were shaking now, and the acrid smell of fear-sweat was unmistakable.
Min-jun continued to the front of the car, positioning himself near the door to the next car while pretending to study a route map posted on the wall. Through the door's small window, he could see more of the adjacent car's interior.
The scene was worse than he'd initially thought. At least a dozen passengers were on their feet, but their movements were wrong in ways that made his combat instincts scream warnings. They swayed and lurched with an unnatural rhythm, as if their inner ears had been damaged or their nervous systems were malfunctioning. Several had dark stains on their clothing—blood, vomit, or worse.
But most disturbing were the ones still in their seats. They sat motionless, heads lolled back or forward at uncomfortable angles, and their skin had taken on a grayish pallor that spoke of circulation failure. Yet occasionally, one would twitch or make small jerking movements, like marionettes controlled by a drunk puppeteer.
*Early stage infection,* the tactical part of his mind analyzed. *Motor control degrading, higher brain functions shutting down, but still some physical animation. Classic reanimation pattern.*
*Fresh meat,* Mad Dog's voice added with disturbing satisfaction. *Still soft, still slow. Easy kills if you move fast.*
A movement caught his attention—one of the standing figures had turned toward the rear of their car, toward the door where Min-jun now stood. The thing that had once been a middle-aged woman in a pink blouse began shuffling in his direction, drawn by some stimulus he couldn't identify. Sound? Movement? Scent?
Her face, when it became visible through the window, was a mask of blank hunger. Her eyes had clouded over completely, milky white orbs that somehow still tracked movement. Her mouth hung open, revealing teeth stained with something dark, and a thin line of black fluid dripped from her chin.
She reached the door and pressed her face against the glass, leaving smears of dark liquid as she pawed at the barrier with fingers that bent at wrong angles. Behind her, other figures began to take notice, their attention drawn by her movements.
*They're attracted to us,* Min-jun realized. *Whatever senses they have left, they know we're here.*
He stepped back from the door casually, not wanting to give the impression of retreat but needing to put some distance between himself and the growing collection of infected faces pressing against the glass. Their movements were becoming more agitated, more coordinated, as if the presence of uninfected humans was stirring something primal in their decaying nervous systems.
*Time is running out,* Rama's voice urged. *Soon they'll find a way through, or the infection will spread to this car through other means. You need to prepare these people.*
But how do you tell a car full of innocent civilians that the dead are walking, that their peaceful journey has become a nightmare, that their only hope for survival lies in the hands of a man who shouldn't exist?
Min-jun walked back to his seat, mind racing through possibilities and preparations. Every step was calculated now, every movement serving the larger purpose of keeping these people alive. The calm before the storm was ending, and when the violence finally erupted, he would need to be ready to become something these people had never seen before.
He would need to become their guardian, whether they understood it or not.
The infected continued to press against the door, their numbers growing as more of them caught the scent of living flesh just beyond their reach. Soon, very soon, they would find a way through.
And then the real test would begin.
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