[SYSTEM RECORD: FILE #019]Subject: Pathfinding Constraint / Z-Axis UtilizationLocation: Ghost Ship, Cabin 01 (Approaching Sorting Center)Time: 07:16 AM

  [Investigator's Record]

  I shoved the heavy brass key deep into my jacket pocket.

  The canvas duffel bag was cumbersome. I dragged the stiff, frayed strap over my head, resting the weight diagonally across my chest and left shoulder. The coarse fabric dug ruthlessly into my collarbone, and the simple act of lifting the heavy canvas sent a sharp, burning tear through the fresh zipper cuts on my right forearm. I clamped my jaw until my teeth ground together, forcing my exhales through my nose.

  Down in the aisle, the Conductor continued toward the far end of the carriage. Every heavy step he took sent waves of heat distortion rippling down the aisle.

  He was heading for the door to Cabin 00. The locomotive.

  Sitting right beside that door was the Bride.

  I couldn't wait for him to leave. There was nowhere else for him to go. He was going to stand guard at that door. I had to close the distance while his back was turned.

  The floor was an automatic purge zone. The passenger seats were occupied by charred entities with valid manifest tokens. Touching either meant triggering the system.

  I looked up.

  Running parallel down the center of the ceiling, just a few inches out from the luggage racks, were two stainless-steel rails. Rows of green plastic grab handles—the kind commuters hung onto during rush hour—dangled from the bars, swaying slightly with the train's motion.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Twenty feet of monkey bars.

  My left arm was a dead weight, trembling with severe muscle fatigue. My right hand was a bloody, frostbitten claw.

  I slid my body off the scorching metal slats of the luggage rack.

  I dropped two feet. My right hand snatched the nearest green plastic handle. My left arm, too numb to grip, hooked awkwardly over the steel bar itself, taking the brunt of my weight in the crook of the elbow.

  My shoulder joints cracked. The sockets screamed under the sudden weight. The train lurched, swinging my dangling body horizontally over the aisle. I locked my core muscles, fighting the momentum to stop my oversized rubber boots from kicking the seated corpses below.

  I hung there, suspended above the furnace.

  The Conductor didn't turn around.

  I focused on the next section of rail, two feet away.

  I swung my body forward, unhooked my left elbow, and lunged. Instead of aiming for the plastic ring, I threw my deadened left arm blindly over the next section of the steel rail, hooking the crook of my elbow around the cold metal. I transferred my weight.

  Every swing tore at the fresh cuts on my right forearm.

  My frostbitten right wrist ground against the hard plastic. Handle by handle. I moved like a crippled pendulum over the silent, charred passengers.

  I closed half the distance. Ten feet left to the door.

  The carriage jerked into a sharp right bank.

  My injured right hand slipped. The green plastic handle was slick with my own fresh blood. My fingers lost their grip.

  My right side dropped. My left arm, still hooked violently over the steel rail, suddenly took my entire body weight along with the heavy canvas bag. The shoulder socket popped with a sickening crack, the bicep muscles on the verge of tearing.

  Driven by the train's sharp bank, my dangling body swung outward, away from the central aisle. My boots grazed the top of a seat divider.

  I stabilized. I was still in the air.

  But the sudden drop had consequences.

  A heavy drop of blood detached from my bleeding right wrist.

  It didn't hit the aisle floor.

  It landed with a soft, wet tap squarely on the ash-covered lap of the passenger sitting directly beneath me.

  The corpse stopped vibrating with the train.

  Slowly, its carbonized neck snapped upward.