Chapter 3: Panic and Paranoia

"Everyone return to your seats. We'll handle this."

Two Amtrak police officers showed up, voices tight and uniforms looking suddenly too thin for the job. They pushed the crowd back, taping off the restroom and leaving only a narrow path. The passengers shuffled away, nervous and pale.

Whispers erupted everywhere—rumors and theories bouncing from seat to seat. The steady rumble of the train was drowned out by a wave of anxious voices.

"There must be a murderer on this train," said a man in a John Deere cap, his voice cracking.

"This is too cruel. Two people have already died," a woman whispered, clutching her son. Prayers mingled with curses. Some people just stared at their shoes.

"No way. When we get to the next stop, I'm getting off, no matter what," a teenager in a Letterman jacket said, his knuckles white around his backpack.

A woman nearby shook her head, "I wouldn't dare get off. If the killer escapes with us, that's even more dangerous."

The logic made a sick kind of sense. The argument grew, voices tumbling over each other, fear and reason blurring together.

Some people tried to act tough. "Relax, what do you think this is, the Wild West? The Amtrak police will catch the killer. Everybody chill."

But nobody really believed it. The nervous laughter died down, replaced by silence and the creak of seats.

Uncle Ben kept scanning the car, his fear contagious. If he didn’t think the police could handle it, I knew we were in real trouble.

I wanted to shout the truth, but if people freaked out, it’d be a stampede. That thing could pick us off easy in the chaos. Sometimes, keeping quiet was the only way to keep folks alive.

Across the aisle, a group of college kids started whispering. One pointed at the blood oozing from under the bathroom door, his voice barely above a tremor: "You think it's even human? That cut—no way a box cutter did that."

Another girl hugged her sweater tighter. "Yeah, I don't think it's a murderer either. Why make such a scene? What kind of grudge would make someone do that?"

The arguments got sharper. A man gestured wildly, "If it was a person, there’d be a fight. Somebody would hear."

A woman added, "No killer would risk being caught in the act—it takes too long."

The only answer left was the scariest: something that could cut a person in two with a single stroke.

A hush spread through the car. If it wasn’t human, there was nothing the police could do. People looked at each other, suddenly afraid of every face.

Uncle Ben sat slumped, lost in thought, jaw working as if chewing over old nightmares. He looked even more haunted than before.

I tugged his sleeve. He finally sighed, "I didn't expect that thing to chase us this far."

He clammed up immediately, glancing away. I wanted to press, but something told me not to.

My mind spun back to the weirdness of this whole trip—Uncle Ben dragging us home out of the blue, quitting our security jobs without warning, the company suddenly going under. Grandma Carol wasn’t even sick like he’d claimed. Was it all connected?

I watched him tap at my phone, eyes darting, desperate for news. It was like he was waiting for something—or running from it.

He looked up, voice gentle but firm: "Stop thinking about it. You won’t figure it out. Not telling you is for your own good."

I nodded, trying to trust him. After all, since my parents died, Uncle Ben had been all I had. I forced myself to remember backyard barbecues and baseball games, pushing the fear away.

But just then, the roar of engines outside the train snapped everyone’s attention. Men in black trench coats stormed aboard, led by a bald giant who barked, "Nobody move. Prepare for inspection."

They moved with military precision, boots thudding on metal floors. Whatever was happening, it just got a lot more serious.