Death Train

Run.

Keep running.

Don’t stop.

Branches whip at my face as I tear through the trees, lungs clawing for air that won’t go in fast enough. The ground is a mess of roots, rocks, and hidden holes—each one daring my ankles to snap—but I don’t slow. I can’t.

Boots pound behind me. Heavy. Deliberate. Too close.

I thought the woods would be safer than the streets. No drones humming overhead. No cameras blinking on every lamppost. No Zenith soldiers barking orders like they own every last scrap of land.

But trees don’t stop bullets.

A crack splits the air. Bark explodes beside my head, spraying splinters across my cheek. I duck instinctively, arms flying over my face—not that they’ll do anything against a rifle.

My foot snags on a root. I slam into the ground, pain detonating through my ribs. The canopy above tilts and spins—green, grey, dizzying—before my body remembers its one job: don’t die. I claw at the dirt, pushing myself upright.

Move, Ellie.

Move.

I shove off a tree, legs burning, chest squeezing tight. Sweat stings my eyes and soaks into my lashes. My clothes cling to my skin—heavy with heat, terror, and the stink of running for your life. Every breath scrapes my throat raw.

“Target moving east!” someone shouts.

Good. Keep guessing.

The forest used to feel safe. Dad brought us here every summer for “screen-free weekends,” back before Zenith outlawed half the internet and drowned the other half in propaganda. Back when the worst things lurking in the woods were leeches and Mum’s cooking attempts.

Now every crack of a twig sounds like a gun being cocked.

The mark on my neck burns—a tiny backwards Z, seared into my skin on Documentation Day. It always itches when I sweat, like it knows they’re hunting me.

Another shot. Closer.

The Death Train flashes in my mind—not the sight of it, but the sound. That low, grinding roar of metal on metal, worming through every street and home. Whispered warnings at school. Furtive stories exchanged at the market.

They take you. They put you on the train. No one comes back.

I’m not going on that train.

My chest tightens—not just from running, but from everything that dragged me to this moment. Dad vanishing two years ago. Abby leaving and never returning. And Mum—ripped from our home yesterday while I hid inside a wall like a coward.

The memory slams into me.

Her wild eyes. Her shaking hands shoving the backpack at me. “Be quiet now, my darling. Not a sound.”

The panel closing. Boots crashing through our home. Her scream.

And then nothing.

I grit my teeth and push harder.

But the woods thicken ahead—dense undergrowth clutching at my legs like it wants to drag me back into Zenith’s arms. My lungs burn. My legs feel like wet sand. I won’t outrun them forever.

I need to hide.

My frantic gaze darts around the trees. There—a massive paperbark, its roots twisted above the earth like pale wooden serpents. Beneath them is a hollow just big enough for someone small and terrified.

I dive, belly-first, wriggling beneath the tangle of roots. Mud presses against my cheek. The air is old and damp, filled with the smell of rot, sap, and secrets. I coil tightly, arms wrapped around my knees.

Footsteps crash closer. Three sets. Maybe four.

A polished black boot appears inches from my hiding place—wrong in the wilderness, like a stain. Voices rumble above me. Low. Impatient. Like I’m not a person, just an objective. A numbered task.

Something cold taps the ground near my shoulder—gun barrels probing the undergrowth.

My heart hammers so fast I can’t breathe. A pathetic, tiny whimper slips out before I can choke it down.

Idiot.

I slap both hands over my mouth.

The boots pivot.

No. No. No—

I squeeze my eyes shut and pray. I haven’t prayed in years—not since Zenith closed the churches and turned them into Community Education Centres. But right now, I’ll pray to anyone listening.

A gunshot cracks through the forest.

I jerk, bracing for the impact.

One second. Two.

Nothing.

I open one eye.

The boots are gone.

The forest has gone eerily still, like even the wind is holding its breath. A few birds chirp tentatively, confused by the sudden silence.

I don’t move. Not for a long time. Dirt clings to my cheek. Tears slip sideways, disappearing into the mud.

Two years ago, Zenith promised peace. Order. Safety. A world without war or hunger. We lined up on Documentation Day like obedient citizens—stripped naked under harsh lights while they scanned our eyes and branded our necks.

I still see that family in front of us. Three children gripping their parents, eyes wide with fear. One scan beeped wrong. Men in white coats swarmed in. The oldest girl vanished into their arms while her siblings screamed.

Zenith called it “mental health intervention.” Everyone else called it what it was: kidnapping.

I wipe my face with a shaky hand and slowly wriggle out from under the roots. My muscles scream. My knees are scraped raw. My palms are torn. Sweat and dirt cling to every inch of me.

The forest is quieter now. Too quiet.

Maybe they shifted the search back to the streets. Maybe they think I doubled back. Maybe they’re circling for a better angle.

I adjust the backpack on my shoulders and start moving again—slower this time, quieter, weaving between the trees with every nerve stretched thin.

For a few minutes, it’s just the rustle of leaves and my own ragged breathing.

Then—something sharp pricks the side of my neck.

I slap a hand there and yank out a dart. Thin. Metallic. Red feathers trembling at the end.

Oh.

Cold spreads instantly, flooding my veins like ice.

My legs buckle. The trees tilt and blur. Voices push through the haze—two men stepping into view as if they’d been waiting for gravity to do their work.

Warm rope bites into my wrists. My ankles. Fingers shove my hair aside, checking the Zenith mark branded into my neck.

I want to fight. I really, really want to fight.

But the darkness is stronger.

It drags me under before I can stop it.

Mum... I’m sorry.

Everything goes black.

Somewhere far away—miles or inches, I can’t tell—voices blur together.

A girl’s voice first. Soft. Young. “Is she... is she alive?”

A deeper voice answers, tense and low. “Get her inside.”

Boots scrape. Metal clanks. The world tilts.

Another voice—older, sharper—cuts through the fog. “We don’t have long. Patrol’s doubling back.”

My mind tries to cling to the words, understand them, but the darkness pulls harder.

The last thing I hear is the girl whispering, almost to herself:

“I’ve never seen anyone run like that.”

Then nothing.