He turned his head—
Down the corridor.
Through the narrow glass between compartments, he saw it.

Movement.
The infected at the back—
Slowly staggering forward.

Toward them.
Toward the rest.
They didn’t know.
No one knew.

His eyes locked onto a bright red box on the wall, slightly dusted and webbed.

Fire axe.

He stepped toward it.
Tried the latch.

Locked.

Of course it was.

He gritted his teeth, searching for anything—anything—to break it open. Then he saw it.

A zombie. Right next to him. Staring at nothing. Swaying slightly.

Right by the axe case.

Yamada’s breath hitched.
His body moved on its own.

He grabbed the creature by the collar of its tattered coat—spun it, slammed its head straight into the glass of the fire axe box with a bone-cracking crunch.

CRACK.
CRASH.
Glass shattered.

The zombie slumped down—moaning, bleeding from the temple—but still not attacking.

Still acting like he wasn’t human.

Yamada didn’t hesitate.

He reached through the broken glass, gripped the handle of the axe.

It was heavier than expected, but solid. Cold. Real.

He had it.

His breath trembled out of him.
He looked back.

Dozens.
Crawling from the far compartment now.
Dragging broken legs. Snarling.

And they were getting closer.

Yamada wiped the blood from his palm onto his hoodie, tightened his grip on the fire axe—

And started moving forward.

Yamada moved forward, the fire axe in hand.

The infected didn’t react to him.

They brushed past, shoulders bumping into his.

Breathless, rotten. Their skin flaking, bodies twitching.

He moved like a shadow between them.

Until—
He couldn’t anymore.

The narrow aisle thickened with bodies.

Too many.
Far too many.

He tried to shoulder through.
They pushed back.
Unintentionally.

But it was like trying to wade upstream in a flood of limbs and moans.

They were now piling toward the front.

He could see the closed divider door ahead.

He couldn’t reach it.

Not like this.

His body was being crushed on all sides.

One infected grunted, stumbling against him. Another groaned in his ear. Their weight was pressing against him.

No space.

No movement.

His lungs burned.

His heart pounded.

And then—
He stopped.

His hands tightened on the axe, knuckles white.

He looked at the infected in front of him.

Some dragging themselves.
Some crawling.
Some still moaning wordlessly.

They weren’t monsters in that moment.
They were just walls. Living, rotting, twitching walls.

Yamada closed his eyes for a second.

“Sorry,” he whispered under his breath.

Then—

He lifted the axe.

The weight of metal sang in the air.

And with a heavy swing—

He brought it down.

The First Stroke

THWACK!

Steel bit into skull.

The ceiling was splattered with a shower of black, half-clotted blood, and bone snapped like delicate wood. The body drooped, its skull almost splitting in two, but the weight of the bodies behind it held it up, supporting it.

Yamada yanked the axe free with a grunt. A flap of scalp slapped wetly against a window. The next infected leaned forward, almost curious.

The Second Stroke

CRUNCH!

The blade buried itself between collarbone and neck, shearing downward through rib and lung. A gurgle escaped from the lips; the upper torso peeled away under its own rotted weight. Yamada planted a boot against what was left of the chest, heaved, and kicked the carcass back into the throng, buying half a step of breathing room.

Then, He hacked left—took an arm clean at the shoulder.

He chopped right—split a jaw, teeth scattering like loose dice on metal flooring.
Every swing painted crimson brushstrokes across seats, windows, fluorescent bulbs sputtering overhead.

Yet the undead advanced, neither angered nor afraid—just relentless.

A crawler latched onto his ankle. Yamada reversed the axe—drove the pommel down with a savage crack, crushing the skull like rotten fruit. He felt vertebrae pop beneath his heel as he ripped free.

Another grabbed his sleeve. He spun, slicing through both wrists in one arc. Blackened fingers dropped, twitching.

For every corpse that fell, two more pressed forward—an endless tide of meat.

But they still ignored him as prey. To them he was only an obstacle, a piece of living debris between their hunger and the warm bodies ahead.

That suited him fine.

Red Mist Corridor

Blood slicked the floor. Limbs piled against benches. The smell was oppressive—copper, bile, decay. Steam rose where hot viscera met cold air, fogging the cracked windows.

Yamada’s arms burned, shoulders raw, every breath rasping through his throat. But he pushed, foot by foot, toward the divider door.

He kicked a torso aside.
Slashed a tendon.
Brained another crawler.

The axe edge chipped but held.

An errant elbow clipped his jaw—pain flashed white. He staggered; a dead woman with half a face collapsed against him, teeth still chattering. He shoved her back and buried the blade between her eyes, splitting what remained of her skull down the middle.

At last he reached the inner handle.

He slammed the lever. The divider door groaned, slid halfway—and jammed on gore-clogged rails.

Behind him, dozens more bodies lurched forward; a wall of rotten torsos pressed at his back.

Yamada wedged his shoulder into the gap, screaming with effort, forcing the panel wider by sheer will. Metal screeched. Something in his shoulder tore, lightning-hot.

He burst through.

The door clanged shut behind him, cutting off the horde—temporarily.

He stood in the connecting vestibule, chest heaving, shirt drenched red—not all his own. Blood pattered from the axe head in slow, heavy drops.

Ahead lay the next carriage—and beyond it, his friends, unaware of the red river about to crash through the gate he’d barely dammed.

Yamada spat iron-tasting saliva, set his stance, and hefted the axe one more time.

Yamada burst into the next compartment—

And froze for half a second.

The zombies—

Packed wall to wall, groaning and stumbling, limbs flailing in that same mindless hunger. Every inch of space filled with rot and movement, the air thick with the stench of dried blood and the slick sound of dragging feet.

They hadn’t seen him yet.

But they had heard.

He didn’t wait.

He roared.
Not out of fear—but rage.

The axe swung like a guillotine.

A spine cracked. A head flopped sideways, almost detached.

Yamada plowed through the crowd like a wolf in a sheep pen, his blood-slicked boots slipping but never stopping. The undead were a wall—but walls break when you swing hard enough.

Then he saw—
Sudo—on the other side,
after—
One.
Two.
Three compartments—

frantically working the manual override lever. Sparks spat from the exposed relay as he pounded the controls with his fist.

Yamada sould see whats happening there. 

Yamada narrowed his eyes.

Three compartments between him and Sudo.
Three carriages overflowing with death.

If he stopped to chop every single one—he’d never make it.

And not a single infected had turned toward him.

They moved around him—brushing past as if he wasn’t there.
As if he belonged.

Yamada’s breath caught in his throat.
They didn’t see him as prey. Not yet.

His eyes darted ahead—through the filthy windows—where dozens of undead were pushing forward, a flood of limbs and rotting flesh surging toward the front compartments. Toward the people. Toward his friends.

“No.”

Yamada gripped the axe tighter, knuckles whitening.

Then—he shoved the nearest infected aside.
It grunted, stumbled—but didn’t retaliate.

He slammed his shoulder into another, then another.
None fought back.

But they were clogging the path, and time was bleeding away.

One slash.
The axe cut through a neck clean.
Blood sprayed like ink—but the infected beside him didn’t even flinch.

Another swing—through a knee. A body dropped.

Zombies collapsed left and right, but the others kept pressing on.

By the time he reached the second carriage, his arms were coated in black-red gore.
His boots sloshed through layers of decay.
His shirt clung to him—drenched with sweat, blood, and something else.

He shoved one more infected out of the way and spotted the last sliding door—just ahead.

Through the tiny window, he saw Sudo—frantically slamming at the manual override lever, sparks flying from the relay.

Yamada’s eyes narrowed.

One more last compartment.

But just as he took a step forward—
CRASH!

The reinforced door in front of Sudo buckled—
hinges shrieked.
Metal bent inward.

And then—
they poured in.

Dozens of infected burst through.

Sudo stumbled backward, nearly losing his footing—
his hand still gripping the lever—
but it was too late.

“SUDO!” Yamada shouted.

—No one could hear his voice.

Yamada could see it—

Bodies jammed shoulder to shoulder.
Screams. The grinding of steel on bone. The hiss of breathless, lifeless throats.

They were outnumbered.
Wildly. Horribly.

Too many.

Too close.

Too loud.

Masaru shouted over but Yamada could hear nothing.
Sakura was backed into a wall, her hands trembling but still swinging that broken pipe with everything she had.

J-in’s saw still not working, striking one infected in half, but more kept crawling in from the shattered doorway.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not nearly enough.

Sudo stumbled back.

A zombie’s moved forward

Just then—

Yamada didn’t think.

He moved on instinct.

He threw.

The fire axe spun through the air—
a blur of metal and rage—

THWACK!

The axe buried itself deep into the side of the infected’s skull—
inches before it reached J-in.

The creature dropped instantly.

J-in gasped, chest heaving.
Sudo blinked, stunned, staring at the lifeless body.

Yamada didn’t wait.

He pushed through the last infected blocking his way,
knocking them aside like mannequins—
until his shoulder slammed into the sliding door.

As Yamada entered the compartment.

He was soaked in blood.
Eyes calm.
Breathing steady.

He walked over to the zombie and yanked the axe from the back of its head. As he pulled it free, a wet shlurk echoed through the compartment.

He turned to the group, wiping the blade on his sleeve.

“Do you have some alcohol left?” he asked, almost casually.