Near the rear of the car, a young woman leaned against an overturned table, holding a Beretta M92F in a two-handed grip and aiming down the center aisle.
She wore a S.T.A.R.S.
tactical vest and looked no older than twenty.
A few scrapes cut across her face, her expression tense and locked.
About two meters to her right, a man squatted low behind a seat.
He had short dark hair and wore a sleeveless vest, revealing arms with clearly defined muscle lines and a military-style tattoo on his right arm.
A revolver hung at his waist.
Lincoln recognized it instantly: a Colt Python, .357 caliber.
However, its cylinder swung open, empty.
Every round had been spent.
In his other hand, the man gripped an iron armrest—likely torn from a seat to use as a makeshift weapon after running out of ammunition.
Faint red chafing marked both of his wrists, though no handcuffs were present.
In front of them lay four corpses of the infected sprawled across the aisle, every single one shot through the head.
Nine brass casings were scattered on the floor.
Lincoln caught them with a quick glance.
Nine shots for four kills.
Not bad for a girl who looked barely twenty.
The moment Lincoln set foot inside the car, the woman snapped her gun directly toward him.
Fast reaction time.
“Don’t move!”
She yelled, her voice tight with tension but far from panicking.
“Who are you?”
Lincoln still held his M1911, but the barrel pointed downward, unraised.
He glanced at the patch on her chest: S.T.A.R.S.
Bravo Team.
The letters on her name tag were too small to read from this distance, but her gear and weapon were enough to confirm her identity.
She was from the Bravo Team—the unit reported missing in the mission briefing.
“Relax,” Lincoln said calmly.
“I’m not your enemy.”
She didn’t lower her gun.
“Answer my question. Who are you? Why are you here?”
The tattooed man beside her stood up, the iron bar still held tight, though his eyes were far cooler than the girl’s.
He sized Lincoln up, scanning him from head to toe, pausing briefly on the M1911 and the shotgun holstered at his hip.
“He didn’t come from the rear,” the man said, his voice low and measured.
“He came from the direction of the engine. If he wanted to fight, he would’ve opened fire the second he stepped through the door.”
The girl’s barrel shifted slightly, though she didn’t lower it entirely.
Lincoln was in no rush to explain.
He scanned the interior of the car first, confirming there were no other living threats besides the two of them, before sliding his M1911 back into its holster.
Lowering his weapon first proved far more convincing than any words.
The girl’s shoulders visibly loosened.
“My name is Lincoln.”
“I was dispatched to investigate after intelligence reported an incident in this area. Who are you two?”
The girl’s expression shifted, her lips pressing together tight.
“Rebecca Chambers. S.T.A.R.S. Bravo Team, field medic.”
“Our helicopter suffered engine failure and made a forced landing. The team scattered after touching down… I found this train on my own, but ran into these things the moment I came inside.”
Her gaze flicked down toward the corpses on the floor before quickly returning to Lincoln.
“I don’t know where the others are. The comms broke during the landing.”
Lincoln cross-referenced this with the mission briefing in his mind.
It lined up.
Bravo Team lost contact after a forced landing.
However, the briefing stated the entire team was missing, whereas this girl was simply separated from the main force.
That meant the others might still be out in the mountains—or already dead.
“Just you?”
“None of the other team members headed this way?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“It was pure chaos after the crash. Everyone scattered. I hiked down the mountain a bit, found the tracks, and followed them to this train.”
Lincoln nodded, pressing no further.
His gaze shifted to the man in the sleeveless vest.
“And who are you?”
The man met his gaze for a long second, his eyes steady.
There was none of the frantic panic typical of civilians facing danger; instead, he looked like someone who had seen his share of heavy situations sizing up another who had done the same.
“Billy Coen. Former Marine, lieutenant.”
A Marine background, handcuff marks on his wrists, and an empty Colt Python at his waist.
A military tattoo combined with handcuff chafing meant he was almost certainly a military prisoner being transported.
As for the Python revolver, Lincoln guessed he had scavenged it after making his escape.
Lincoln didn’t press him on why he had been locked up.
Not because he wasn’t curious, but because now was not the time to sweat the details.
When facing an unknown threat, sticking together was the best option.
Besides, a trained military operator was worth more than a good gun in an environment like this.
“Do you have any ammo left for that Python?” Lincoln asked.
Billy shook his head.
“Empty. Couldn’t find any .357 in this damn place either.”
He gave the iron bar in his grip a light shake, implying he’d have to rely on it for now.
Lincoln pondered for a moment.
He had forty-four pistol rounds left, plus fifteen plus seven shotgun shells.
With several train cars potentially still filled with infected, their firepower was far from abundant.
If these two joined him, distributing weapons would become an issue.
Right now, however, that wasn’t the top priority.
“The train’s destination is a facility up in the mountains—the Executive Training School.”
Lincoln looked at Rebecca and Billy.
“I found documents in the forward cabin. This is an internal transit line for Umbrella.”
“Everyone on this train has mutated, but the train itself is still on the tracks. If the power system works, it can carry us right near the facility.”
“What if it’s the exact same situation over there?” Billy asked.
“Most likely is,” Lincoln replied, not dodging the question.
“The infection zone in the mountains has already spread. Your helicopter crash-landed right inside its perimeter.”
“Still, a facility has advantages over open woods. It has structures, power, and comms gear. Once inside, we can at least find a way to contact the outside world.”
He paused briefly.
“What was your original objective? If your teammates are still alive, they’ll likely head in that direction.”
“There’s a mansion in the mountains,” Rebecca said.
“That was our initial search target and our designated rendezvous point before the forced landing. If they’re alive, they should be heading there.”
“Is the mansion far from here?”
“Not super close. And the mountains are crawling with those things right now.”
“Then we don’t go there yet,” Lincoln decided.
“We enter the facility up ahead first, find comms gear to patch through to them, and then figure out how to meet up. Charging blind through the forest is too risky.”
At his final words, Rebecca’s eyes flickered.
She was indeed worried about the rest of her team.
After a few seconds of silence, Rebecca clicked the safety back onto her Beretta and slid it into her hip holster.
“Then let me clear the threats on the train first.”
Rebecca’s tone sounded noticeably steadier than before.
“Then we head to the engine room and see if the power system still works.”
Billy didn’t say anything, but he raised no objections either.
He shoved the empty Python back into his waistband, adjusted his grip on the iron bar, and stepped forward.
With that, the three of them began moving toward the train’s engine car.
An Umbrella operative, a rookie medic from a police tactical unit, and an escaped former Marine prisoner—a temporary squad formed without a shred of mutual trust.
Lincoln took the lead, pushing open the door leading to the forward car.
The mountain forest stretching along both sides of the train was pitch black.
The rain hadn’t stopped, sending a fine mist drifting sideways across the connecting platform, cool against their faces.
Far off toward the mountain slope, a faint speck of light glinted through the dark—the location of the Executive Training School.