Clang! Clang! Clang!
The metallic roar echoed through the barren wasteland — a land stripped of life, swallowed by night. Across the endless dark horizon thundered a train, a steel beast devouring the tracks beneath it, engines screaming against the void. Its massive frame rattled and groaned as if in pain, cutting through a world that had long forgotten the warmth of sunlight.
The sky above was an ocean of pitch — black, endless, eternal. There was no moon, no stars, only the rhythmic pounding of wheels on rails, carving through the silence of death.
Inside, the train shuddered violently with every jolt. The air was thick with heat and oil and fear.
In one of the cars, faint laughter struggled against the hum of the engine. Lhen Mang, a man whose face was carved by time and hardship, sat surrounded by a cluster of children. They huddled close to him on the cold metal floor, eyes wide with the kind of wonder only innocence could still afford.
He was telling stories.
Stories about a world that no longer existed.
"It was called daytime," he said, his cracked voice trembling with memory. "Back then, the sun rose from the east and painted everything gold. The air was fresh, and people could walk freely without fearing what lurked in the dark."
A little boy, Bron, leaned forward, his eyes shining with fascination. "Grandpa Lhen Mang, tell us more about the sky! Was it really blue? Like… really blue?"
The old man chuckled softly. "Yes, child. So blue that it made your heart feel light. The clouds were white, like soft wool. People would stare at them and dream."
The children gasped — as if he had spoken of magic.
Lhen Mang smiled, but behind it was sadness. To them, even the idea of sunlight was fantasy. The simple joy of walking on grass, of drinking clean water, of sleeping without fear — all of it had turned to myth.
He sighed. "But enough of that, children. We must not live in the past. The world we knew is gone. What remains is survival."
A faint murmur of disappointment passed through the group, but before they could protest, his words were drowned by the sound of the wind outside — a haunting, never-ending scream against steel walls.
From the darker corner of the carriage, someone was watching.
A boy — seventeen, maybe eighteen — sat alone, his back against the cold metal wall. His ruby-red eyes reflected the dim light that flickered overhead, dull and lifeless. His name was Sunny.
He stared at Lhen Mang and the children, expressionless. In his gaze, there was neither anger nor sympathy — only emptiness.
Foolish, he thought. They waste their strength on memories. Energy that should be saved for work, for hunger… for surviving.
He tilted his head, letting his mind wander. The air inside the cabin was suffocating — thick with sweat, unwashed bodies, and despair.
The cabin they called home — Cabin Six — was a pit. The smallest of the nine. A coffin welded from rusted iron and misery.
Men and women were packed together like livestock. There were no windows, no light except for the weak flicker of the ceiling lamp that never fully banished the dark. The stench was unbearable — a mixture of feces, urine, and vomit. The thugs had given them nylon bags to relieve themselves, but days passed before they were emptied.
It was a wonder anyone was still breathing.
This was life aboard the Wasteland Train — the last known form of civilization, or perhaps its most perfect hell.
The man who ruled this mobile nightmare was Brock — a tyrant, sadist, and predator. He controlled the train through fear and violence. To him, slaves were expendable. Miners, scavengers, breeders — all the same. He owned them, body and soul.
Sunny still remembered the day Brock had tried to claim him. The man's breath had smelled of blood and smoke. Sunny had fought back — bit, kicked, clawed — enough to disgust him. Brock hadn't forgotten.
He ordered his enforcers to beat Sunny half to death, then doubled his work hours. While others mined ore for twelve hours, Sunny worked sixteen. When they slept, he dug. When they rested, he bled.
He'd learned that in the apocalypse, cruelty wasn't survival — it was power.
He'd been born on this train. His mother had ended her life long before he could remember her face. The others said she'd grown tired of being used.
Now all that remained of her was a name that no one spoke and a boy with hollow eyes.
The train groaned again, louder this time, metal screaming against the rails. Sunny looked up. Something was wrong. The rhythm of the wheels had changed — uneven, strained.
Then came the first sound.
Bang!
Gunfire.
A chorus of panic rose from the neighboring cars. Someone screamed, "Zombies! They're surrounding us!"
The train jolted violently, throwing people against the walls. Dust rained from the ceiling. The children clung to Lhen Mang, terrified.
Outside, chaos erupted. The night filled with gunfire and shouts.
"Don't let them near the tracks!"
"Reload, damn it!"
"They're swarming the left flank!"
The air turned sharp with the smell of gunpowder and burning oil.
Sunny could hear it all — the roar of weapons, the shrieks of the undead, the thundering panic of men who thought themselves immortal.
Then came the voice — rough, commanding, unmistakable.
Brock.
"Paul!" he barked over the gunfire. "Status!"
A second voice shouted back, panicked. "Sir! We've lost three men already! They're closing in faster than we can shoot!"
"Detach Cabin Six!" Paul yelled. "We can use the energy surge from the main engine to break through their circle!"
There was silence for half a heartbeat.
Then Brock's voice came again — cold and certain.
"No. Detach Cabins Three, Four, and Five."
"Sir—"
"Do it!"
The order was final.
Inside Cabin Six, Sunny felt the shift — a low mechanical hum that vibrated through the floor. He understood immediately. They weren't saving anyone. They were buying time.
"Hold on!" Lhen Mang shouted, pulling the nearest child close.
The couplers between the cars screeched, metal tearing metal. The train lurched forward, leaving behind three entire carriages — and everyone inside them.
Through the slit in the steel wall, Sunny saw the faint outline of figures running beside the tracks. They were fast — impossibly fast — their eyes glowing faintly in the dark. The undead.
He heard the screams before he saw the carnage. The detached cars fell behind, swallowed by the horde. Gunfire flared, then vanished into silence.
And then — stillness.
The main engine pushed ahead, disappearing into the night, leaving Cabin Six and its passengers alone in the middle of nowhere.
The sound of the train faded until there was nothing.
Just the soft whisper of wind and the distant groan of the dead.
Inside, silence.
Lhen Mang held Bron tightly, whispering comfort that even he didn't believe. The children sobbed quietly, their tears mixing with the dirt on their faces.
Sunny sat motionless, staring at the wall. He could feel the vibration of his own heartbeat echoing through the silence.
So this was how it ended. Not with a roar, but with abandonment.
Outside, something scraped against the metal hull — slow, deliberate. Then came another sound.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
A heavy hand… no, a claw… slamming against the door.
The children froze. Lhen Mang's face went pale.
Sunny stood slowly, eyes glinting red in the dark.
He whispered to no one in particular, his voice barely more than a breath.
"Looks like the night's not done devouring us yet."
The knocking came again, harder this time — relentless, hungry.
And as the world outside screamed, the old train — the steel beast — sat silent and still, surrounded by shadows that no longer belonged to man.