Chapter 1: The Beginning

Part 1

The heavy steel door of Car 7 hissed open. Cold air, thick with the smell of metal and dust, immediately hit Maya Lin-Larsen’s face. She shivered, pulling her thin sweater tighter around her.

The train car was mostly dark, illuminated only by a faint, flickering emergency light near the ceiling. It cast long, dancing shadows across rows of stacked suitcases and strapped-down trunks.

Maya’s two-year-old daughter, Lily, had woken up crying for her bottle. The specialized formula, essential for Lily’s sensitive stomach, was in a forgotten bag, somewhere in this cavernous luggage car.

She stepped inside, the rhythmic rumble and sway of the Rocky Mountain Express feeling more pronounced here, far from the insulated passenger berths. The metallic clang of the wheels on the tracks echoed loudly.

“Formula… formula…” Maya murmured to herself, her eyes scanning the dim aisles. She spotted a large, dark duffel bag near a stack of crates at the far end. It looked promising.

She took a step, then another, navigating the narrow passage between the luggage. Her worn sneakers squeaked faintly on the grimy stainless-steel floor.

That’s when her foot brushed against something soft, yet unnervingly heavy. A quiet gasp escaped her lips.

She looked down.

A man lay sprawled on the floor, his body awkwardly twisted. His conductor’s cap had rolled a few feet away, resting against a suitcase.

Maya’s breath hitched. “Mr. Kincaid?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the train’s roar.

Marcus Kincaid, the kind, elderly conductor who had helped them board just hours ago, was motionless. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the low ceiling.

A dark, sticky pool of liquid was spreading beneath his head and neck. It reflected the faint emergency light in a gruesome, metallic sheen.

Blood.

A wave of nausea washed over Maya. Her stomach clenched, and her knees felt suddenly weak. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to suppress a scream that threatened to tear free.

She couldn’t move. Her feet felt glued to the spot. The train continued to hurtle forward, its relentless rhythm now sounding like a menacing heartbeat.

Marcus Kincaid’s hand was still gripping something tightly. Maya forced herself to look closer, her gaze dragging down to his stiff fingers.

It was a thick, coiled cable, glinting dully in the dim light. One end was ragged, violently torn. The other end, still clutched in his lifeless hand, seemed to drip with dark fluid.

It was a hydraulic brake bypass cable. She recognized it from a safety briefing she’d attended years ago, back when she’d been a railway intern.

A cold dread, far deeper than the chill in the car, began to spread through her. This wasn’t just an accident.

She slowly straightened, her eyes wide, darting from the dead conductor to the surrounding machinery. The air suddenly felt thinner, colder.

The emergency brake line. She remembered its location from her training. It was supposed to run along the interior wall, a thick, red cable.

Her eyes frantically searched the wall above Marcus. The thick red conduit was there, but it stopped abruptly. A clean, deliberate cut had severed it completely, leaving a gaping void where the manual emergency brake line should have been.

Panic, sharp and icy, pierced through her. The train was accelerating. She felt it, a subtle but undeniable surge of power.

The rumble intensified, vibrations shaking the very floor beneath her feet. The stacks of luggage seemed to rattle more violently.

Her gaze snapped to a small, illuminated panel on the wall near the door she had entered. It was a digital speed gauge, rarely glanced at by passengers.

The numbers flickered.

70 mph.

Then, 71.

72.

They were climbing. Rapidly.

Maya’s mind raced, trying to make sense of the impossible. Marcus was dead. The brakes were sabotaged. And the train was speeding up.

She knew this route. She’d studied it extensively during her internship, learning every curve, every grade, every potential hazard.

The Black River Trestle Bridge.

Her blood ran cold. The image of the bridge, condemned for structural instability after years of disuse, flashed into her mind. It was a rusted, crumbling skeleton, meant only for emergency bypasses, and certainly not at this speed.

She remembered the local news reports, the signs posted near the tracks, the official warnings. The bridge was less than eight miles away.

Eight miles, and they were gaining speed, hurtling toward a certain disaster. The train roared, a metallic beast devouring the dark mountain pass.

The numbers on the gauge flashed again, mercilessly. 80 mph.

Then, 81.

The condemned Black River Trestle Bridge loomed ahead in her mind’s eye, a death trap waiting in the pre-dawn darkness.

Part 2

Maya didn’t hesitate. The thought of Lily, alone in their berth, spurred her into a desperate sprint.

She pushed past the heavy luggage car door, bursting into the quieter, carpeted passenger corridor. The urgent thud of her own heart echoed the train’s accelerating rumble.

Berth 4B. Their compartment. She reached it, her hand already raising to knock.

“Julian! Julian, wake up!” she cried, her voice hoarse with terror. She hammered on the door, her knuckles stinging.

A moment of silence. Then, a low click. The door was unlocked.

Hope surged through her, brief and fleeting. She yanked the handle. It didn’t open.

The door remained stubbornly shut. It was locked from the *inside*.

“Julian? What are you doing? Open the door!” Her voice was shrill, desperate.

A muffled voice came from within. “Maya? What’s wrong? You’re screaming.”

It was Julian’s voice, calm, almost sleepy. Too calm.

“The conductor! He’s dead! Marcus Kincaid is dead in the luggage car, Julian! And the brakes are cut! We’re speeding towards the Black River Bridge!” The words tumbled out, a frantic, breathless torrent.

Another pause. Then, a soft, dismissive chuckle.

“Honey, you’re having another episode.” His tone was gentle, but laced with an unnerving patronization.

“No! Julian, listen to me! I saw him! There’s blood! The speed gauge read 81 mph!” She rattled the door handle, tears of frustration and terror welling in her eyes.

“Maya, love, you need to breathe.” His voice was now more firm, still soothing. “It’s okay. You’ve been having these vivid nightmares since Lily was born. Remember?”

Her stomach twisted. He was doing it again. The familiar tactic, chipping away at her sanity.

“This isn’t a dream! This is real! He’s dead!” she screamed, her voice cracking.

“Marcus just helped us load our bags an hour ago. He was fine. You probably just imagined it, darling. Sleep deprivation does funny things.”

“He had the brake cable in his hand! It was severed!”

“You’re exhausted, Maya. Delusional. You need to come back to bed. Relax. Everything’s fine.”

The blood drained from Maya’s face. He wasn’t going to help. He believed she was having a psychotic break, or he wanted her to believe it.

He was locking her out. Leaving her, and Lily, to face whatever came next.

The train roared louder, a monstrous sound now, drowning out her frantic pleas. The speed gauge in her mind flashed higher numbers.

You are Maya Lin-Larsen. Your husband has locked you out, dismissing your terrifying discovery as a delusion while the train hurtles toward disaster. What do you do?

A) Force your way inside and search Julian’s locked leather briefcase for evidence. 👉 Read CHAPTER 3A

B) Believe Julian’s reassuring words and return to bed to calm down. 👉 Read CHAPTER 3B