Early morning. Crowded train and no place to sit. Balancing coffee and swaying with the turns. Snow outside. Red cheeks and runny noses. Lots of wool and mittens and scarves. Quiet.
“Sir, I’m feeling a bit dizzy. Can I have your seat?”
As he gives up his seat, the old man grumbles something about how if she’s so dizzy, then she should be at the doctor instead of in the train. The lady sits down and dabs sweat from her brow. Her hair is grey-brown and matted. Frumpy. Quiet.
“M’am, have a tissue. You’re bleeding.”
The frumpy lady gingerly dabs her brow again and the tissue is soaked in red. Another tissue? Soaked. Dripping blood. Matted hair, matted with blood. Make-up mirror and full pack of tissues from the nice passengers. The old man was right, she really should be at the doctor. I’ve heard they recommend stitches for cuts like this… at least a butterfly… at least something more than tissue, anyway. Drip, drip. Quiet.
“Sir, are you alright?”
The indian fellow in the three-piece suit holds a kerchief over his mouth and faints in melodramatic fashion. Passengers scramble to catch him. Water, anyone? Take his coat off. Muggy, suffocating, hot, crowded. Another passenger faints. A girl screams. No room to move. Drip, drip, drip.
“Pull the emergency brake! Open the doors! No! Stop the train! Shut-up! Let me out! Move!”
And then zombies attack!
