I don't know how long I ran after the gas station.
My legs were jelly. My throat burned. I could barely think.
Then, up ahead, I saw them.
Five or six people gathered around a parked car in the middle of the road. A silver sedan, dirt-caked, one door hanging open. They were silent, unmoving.
I slowed down, waving a hand.
"Hey—!" I called out.
No one turned.
I walked a little closer. Maybe twenty meters away.
That's when one of them twitched not like a person, but like something had just reanimated. Its head jerked up. Its neck was torn open. Another turned, its jaw half-gone, hanging loose from one side.
Zombies. I believe it now.
I stepped back slowly.
One of them screeched loud, fast and lunged toward me. The others followed, all arms and teeth and dragging limbs.
I ran.
Full sprint. I didn't look back. I didn't need to. I heard them fast, stumbling, scraping feet. A snarl echoed off the trees. My lungs burned. I shoved through brush, stumbled across a ditch, nearly tripped over a rusted sign on the roadside.
Takao Station – 2km
Takao.
That stuck. I remembered that line — the Chūō Main Line. It went straight to Tokyo. I used to ride it with my dad when I was little. From Saruhashi to Takao, Hachioji, Mitaka straight into Shinjuku.
If I could follow that track, I'd find the city.
I didn't stop running until I hit the edge of the forest again and collapsed behind a broken fence. My whole body felt like it had been peeled apart and taped back together.
I passed out.
When I opened my eyes, the sky was dull and gray.
I was lying in dirt, under a tree, my back stiff and legs sore.
I sat up too fast. Pain lanced through my spine.
I was still alone.
Still alive.
I let out a single breath of a laugh.
"I'm still alive…?"
It didn't feel real.
Then I remembered everything or pieces of it. The gas station, group, car.
Fear had scrambled everything, but I remembered one thing clearly: I had run.
I stood up slowly.
Should I go back to the house?
Back to Mizuki? Back to the locked room, to the dog bowl, to the old man I lost?
I was too scared. I couldn't face that.
So I walked.
For hours.
I stayed quiet. Off the middle of the road. Always watching my back. I didn't speak. I didn't cry. I just kept moving.
Where were the people?
The silence was heavier than screams.
Then I saw it, leaned against a guardrail.
A bike.
It was rusted and old. Front wheel a little bent. The chain was dirty, but the pedals moved when I turned them.
I looked around.
Still no one.
I got on and pushed.
The tires wobbled but held.
So I pedaled.
Hard.
I passed another road sign:
Minami-Kurosawa Station – 1km
Not Takao, but close enough. Probably a local stop along the same rail line. I turned down the path and rode the rest of the way in silence. The air was damp. Fog was starting to settle again.
When I reached the station, I stopped pedaling and coasted to the front steps.
It looked like it hadn't been touched in a long time. Concrete walls, moss-stained. Two cracked glass doors. No lights. No people. No signs of recent activity.
Just the name printed on a rusted sign overhead: 南黒沢駅 – Minami-Kurosawa Station
I wheeled the bike up the ramp and parked it near the wall.
The platform was completely empty. No benches except one half-rotted under the awning. The rails were still intact, stretching off in both directions, disappearing into the trees.
And there, tucked beside the ticket counter, was a vending machine.
Red. Dusty.
But powered.
I didn't believe it at first.
I pressed one of the buttons.
The interior lit up.
I saw five bottles of water. Three canned coffees. Most of the machine was empty.
I pulled out what few coins I had left in my pocket. Somehow, it was enough for one bottle.
I pressed the button. The machine clicked.
A bottle dropped into the tray.
I grabbed it, opened it, and drank.
Warm. Tasted like plastic. Didn't care.
I drained half the bottle in seconds.
Then I sank down onto the bench and stared out at the tracks.
It was quiet.
The wind moved through the trees behind the station. The fog was getting thicker near the woods. I couldn't see the far end of the platform anymore.
But I was still breathing.
Still moving.
Still lucky, for now.