Chapter 2: The Last Train Out

There were even more people on the subway than during the usual morning rush. I squeezed in with my two suitcases, nearly suffocating in the dense smell of sweat.

It was stifling—shoulders pressed tight, people breathing down my neck. The air tasted like old coffee and nerves. Everyone looked like they were running from something.

I had a strong premonition that more people knew about the lockdown than I’d thought.

The mood was different: less chatter, more frantic scrolling on phones. I caught the eye of an older woman who clutched a dog carrier to her chest, lips pressed in a tight line.

Sure enough, by the third stop—Riverside South—no one else could get on.

The train doors kept trying to close, bouncing off the crowd. The driver finally made an announcement: “Please stand clear of the doors,” but it was pointless. We were packed like sardines.

Bodies were pressed together, heel to heel.

My face was nearly smushed against a teenage guy’s backpack, his headphones leaking muffled bass. Somewhere behind me, someone sneezed and a dozen heads whipped around.

I tried to look out the subway window at the road below. The cars were jammed end to end, like fish waiting to be slaughtered, unable to move forward or back. Some people had even abandoned their cars and started walking.

Seeing drivers get out and pace the lanes gave me chills. One guy, still in his business suit, looked at his phone and then up at the sky, like he was weighing his options.

My unease grew.

Every screech of the wheels against the tracks made my skin crawl. I clutched my bags tighter, knuckles white.

Now, every time the subway stopped at a station, my heart thudded, afraid it would suddenly halt in endless darkness.

My mind flashed through nightmare scenarios—stuck underground, power out, strangers panicking. I braced myself at every jolt.

At Main Street station, I almost ran out with my two suitcases.

The crowd surged, bodies pressed close, but adrenaline carried me. I barely felt the weight of my luggage as I barreled toward the escalator.

A huge crowd poured out of the subway, and I rushed up the escalator, taking three steps at a time.

I heard someone cursing behind me, but I didn’t slow down. My calves burned with every step.

Some people ran for the distant elevator, but there were too many; once it filled up and left, those who couldn’t get on hesitated, then ran back to the escalator.

The elevator doors dinged shut, a few people squeezed in, the rest gave up and hustled back to the main exit. The panic in the air was contagious.

Gritting my teeth, I mustered my strength and carried the two suitcases up, step by step.

My arms screamed, but I refused to stop. I could practically feel the minutes ticking away.

By the time I reached the airport line, the subway doors were already beeping to close.

My heart nearly stopped. With a final burst of energy, I tossed one suitcase inside, lunged for the other, and dove through the doors just as they slid shut.

I barely had time to catch my breath. A little old lady gave me a thumbs up as I collapsed onto the nearest bench.

The airport line’s air conditioning was even colder than the regular line. As soon as I entered, I was drenched in cold sweat.

The relief was immediate, but my hands shook as I arranged my luggage. I realized I’d left sweat marks all over the seat.

I’d thrown my suitcase onto the handrail, denting it with the impact.

I winced, hoping nothing inside had broken. It didn’t really matter anymore.

A kind man handed me the suitcase I’d tossed in. I thanked him, and only then did I realize my palms were hurting.

He gave a sympathetic nod, his own arms marked with red from hauling a duffel bag. We exchanged a look—two strangers caught in the same storm.

Looking down, both hands were swollen from dragging the suitcases, dark red from my palms to my fingertips. I quickly grabbed the cold handrail to help reduce the swelling.

The metal felt blessedly icy, numbing the ache a little. I kept flexing my fingers, trying to bring the color back.

No one spoke on the airport line, but it wasn’t quiet.

The only sounds were the clatter of suitcase wheels and frantic tapping on phone screens. Everyone’s face was blue-lit, reflecting silent panic.

A middle-aged woman beside me kept hitting ‘refresh’ on her news app. A college kid across the aisle scrolled TikTok, fingers trembling.

Everyone was messaging.

A handful of people mouthed silent prayers. I updated my family group, typing as fast as I could, my messages coming out in a rush of typos and auto-correct fails.

I quickly updated my family group, then opened Twitter.

I was desperate for confirmation, for someone to say this was all a hoax, a prank, a glitch in the system.

After a three-second splash ad, I was about to search for keywords to see the latest news, but my followed accounts auto-refreshed and I saw the official subway account.

#ServiceAlert# To cooperate with highway traffic control, from 11:40 a.m. on July 18, 2022, the O’Hare Airport Line will be suspended for the rest of the day….

My blood ran cold. I read the tweet twice, then a third time, just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

The speeding train made a sharp, howling noise from the air pressure, making my scalp tingle.

My ears popped, and I gripped the seat so tight my knuckles ached. It was like the whole world was holding its breath.

Goosebumps rose on my arms, nerves jangling. I realized clearly: this was the last train to the airport.

Everyone around me seemed to realize it at the same moment. A collective shiver passed through the car.

Then came even worse news.

Someone whispered, “They’re shutting down everything.” Another man swore under his breath.

I pulled myself together and searched “lockdown,” “St. Gabriel’s Hospital,” and “Maple Heights,” but all the trending topics were gone.

Nothing. The hashtags that had been blowing up an hour ago were now wiped clean. The silence online was as chilling as the silence on the train.

This kind of cover-up was always handled expertly.

I thought of all the times I’d rolled my eyes at conspiracy theories. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure.

Next, I hesitated just a second and typed the word I most wanted to search.

Fingers shaking, I typed: “Zombie.”

As the train’s arrival chime sounded, my account was nuked.

A big red error message flashed up: "This account has been suspended for violating community guidelines." I stared in disbelief, sweat slicking my palms.

I wiped the cold sweat from my forehead with my arm, grabbed my suitcase, and ran out with the crowd.

We poured through the doors like a flash flood, everyone moving as one—no shoving, just grim determination.

All the passengers kept a tacit silence. My hand carrying the suitcase was burning with pain, but I had no time to care.

Pain was just another thing to ignore. Survival came first.

At this moment, the shock inside me was far greater than the pain. The surge of adrenaline made my eardrums tremble.

My whole body felt buzzy, like I’d drunk three energy drinks in a row.

The truth was terrifying.

I tried to block it out—focus on the next step, the next breath.

Entering the airport, security was tighter than usual.

Uniformed TSA agents stood behind reinforced barriers, checking documents three times over. People in blue gloves moved methodically, their eyes tired but sharp.

Besides needing a green health check and a negative test within 48 hours, airport staff led us aside to write down every place we’d been.

They handed out forms and little stubby pencils. I filled mine out as honestly as I could, hands shaking.

My eyes stung from sweat. The woman supervising me handed me a form, and as I wiped my face, I saw the faint words for St. Gabriel’s under her arm.

She tried to shield the form, but I caught the word “Gabriel’s” scribbled at the top. I felt a spike of fear, but tried to act normal.

My heart leaped.

I forced a smile, hoping I didn’t look as guilty as I felt.

I honestly filled in my company address, home address, and all recent public places I’d visited.

I hesitated for a second at St. Gabriel’s—then wrote it down. If they were tracking, I didn’t want to get caught in a lie.

Finally, my pen returned to the current address section.

I checked my handwriting, then double-checked my seat number on the boarding pass.

Next, I handed in the completed form.

She looked over it carefully, glanced at my single suitcase, asked a few simple questions, and let me go.

She smiled, a little too brightly, and waved me through. I walked on wobbly legs toward the security checkpoint.

Others weren’t so lucky. Several people behind me were barred from boarding for unclear reasons, and armed police and people in hazmat suits came to restrain and drag some away…

I kept my head down, eyes on the floor. The muffled shouts and scuffle faded as I hurried toward my gate.

The rest of the security process went smoothly, and there weren’t many people in line.

The usual airport din was replaced with an uneasy hush. TSA officers moved with brisk efficiency, eyes flicking between passports and faces.

Sitting at Gate 43, I finally felt half-relieved.

I dropped my bags beside me and slumped into the chair, letting the cold plastic cool my aching back. My legs trembled as the adrenaline wore off.

Because I arrived two hours early, there were only a few people at the airport.

The overhead speakers played soft jazz, a strange contrast to the tension hanging in the air. A little girl in pink pajamas clutched a teddy bear, sniffling quietly beside her mom.

I found a secluded spot and called my mom. My dad should be driving now, so I couldn’t distract him.

I watched the planes taxiing outside, the distant skyline shimmering in the heat. My hands finally stopped shaking as I dialed Mom’s number.

The phone rang a long time before my mom picked up.

Her voice was muffled, the background noisy. I heard snippets of shouting, carts rolling, the beep of a scanner.

It was noisy on her end, and she spoke rapidly about something, with words like “half-side,” “hens,” and “frozen meat” faintly audible.

She was clearly in the thick of it—negotiating with a butcher, maybe, or wrangling with a delivery guy.

When she finished, she turned to talk to me: “Honey, Mom’s busy here. I just ordered 200 pounds of pork, 100 pounds of beef, 100 pounds of lamb, 4 chickens. Still need to buy wings and drumsticks. Anything else you want to eat?”

I laughed, a little hysterically. “You’re incredible, Mom.” I told her to get a solar generator, batteries, more refrigerators, and that I’d look up the rest online. Because I was in such a rush and constantly tense, my brain was almost crashing.

She rattled off prices and asked about brands. I promised to send a list in five minutes, my mind racing.

After hanging up, I searched Google, Reddit, and other platforms to make a list.

I cross-referenced doomsday prepper blogs, FEMA checklists, even an old Scout manual I found in my bookmarks. My fingers flew over the keys.

After organizing two lists, I finally relaxed a bit and sent them to the family group chat. My mom replied quickly.

Her thumbs-up emoji was almost as reassuring as her voice.

I stretched my stiff neck and looked out the window. The sky was blue, and today was a rare good day in this city.

The sunlight hit the tarmac, turning everything gold. I took a deep breath, feeling hope for the first time in hours.

Hope everything goes smoothly.

I whispered the words like a prayer. Please, just let us get through this.

“Passengers on United flight UA1111 to Willow Creek, please note: boarding will begin in 15 minutes at Gate 43. Please have your belongings ready.”

The intercom startled me. I looked up to see people rising, stretching, gathering their things with the slow, heavy movements of exhaustion.

The scattered passengers around me started to line up. I noticed there were really few people on this flight.

It was so empty you could hear the wheels of each suitcase. A flight attendant checked her watch, her lips pressed together in a thin line.

I didn’t know if it was because people hadn’t heard the news or because of the sudden traffic control…

Either way, I was grateful for the empty rows—less chance of trouble at thirty thousand feet.

As the plane took off, I saw, in a corner of the tarmac, someone kneeling and biting something.

At first, I thought it was a mechanic hunched over a wheel. But then I saw the dark, wet splotch on the ground.

Before I completely lost sight of him, he looked up.

His face was a ruin—eyes milky, jaw slack. We made brief eye contact. Those were a pair of rotting eyes.

I shuddered, clutching the armrest. My mind screamed: This is real. This is really happening.