The Train of the Dead

Chapter Twenty Two

For a moment, all Michael could see was darkness behind his eyes. All he could hear were the agonized, terrified screams. All he felt was sheer terror. But not pain. He didn't feel the burning, torturous pain consuming his body. For a brief moment, he considered that it hadn't sunken in yet. It had to have happened. Unlike last time, he heard it all.

The sharp slicing. The squelch as metal cut through the air and connected with flesh. And, most hauntingly, the screams. Screams of pain and terror and agony. They repeated in Michael's ears, until he could hear nothing else. They varied in volume and shrillness, but all ran together, until they were one long scream.

But not him, Michael realized. It took a while for him to realize that none of the screams came from him. They surrounded him, making him feel like screaming as well... but he wasn't. He opened his mouth, and nothing came out. Not even a gasp or cry.

It hasn't sunken in yet, he told himself, squeezing his eyes shut. But it will in a moment. That thought filled him with terror. Or maybe I'm already dead. But it didn't feel that way. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, almost as loud as the screams.

But one stood out. A scream that he had never heard before, but somehow, he knew exactly who it came from.

His eyes shot open. And the next moment, he regretted it as he saw the blood pooling on the pavement. Bile rose in his throat, filling him with dread and nausea. But it was nothing compared to what he saw when he turned around.

His father. Or rather, what remained of him. His eyes were somehow open, blank and glassy as they stared up. His mouth was open, but he had stopped screaming, gaping silently. Michael tried to focus on his face. Despite what a horrific sight even that was, devoid of all color or life and his eyes glazed with pain, it was better than the sight right below that made Michael's stomach churn and his mouth ache as he choked back nausea. The blood pooling across his father's body, soaking through his shirt and spilling out onto the pavement...

Michael couldn't prevent looking, no matter how hard he tried. And when he did, he couldn't prevent his horror. He closed his eyes, turned to the side, and let the contents of his stomach spill out of his mouth, joining the blood staining the platform. The metallic, rancid, toxic smell rose, almost making him sick again.

He heard Mr. Yamamoto yelling, heard Tomiju gasping and Riku choking. But their voices faded into the background.

Michael felt weak and light-headed. He could barely breathe – and he couldn't look away from the horrific sight in front of him. He collapsed to the platform. The blood covered his body, seeped through his clothes. His father's blood. As he felt the sticky, metallic sensation beneath his fingers, another wave of nausea overcame him. He forced himself to choke it down.

He couldn't tear his gaze away from his father. His still, unmoving father, his face blank and hollow and at the same time filled with pain and agony. And it was because of Michael. Because he had jumped in front of him...

Michael felt tears fill his eyes, breaking through the empty numbness. For a moment, he was almost grateful. They blurred the image of his father, the blood coating his body. Then as they fell from his eyes, stinging his face, he imagined that he was bleeding as well. But as soon as they fell to join the blood and puke on the ground, his vision cleared again.

For the first time, a scream escaped from Michael's throat. He collapsed on top of his father, not caring as more blood stained his clothes. He vaguely realized that he was probably worsening the wound, but he didn't care. He tightly clutched his father's still, motionless body. He was cold, so cold – except for the blood coating his abdomen. The blood was warm and sticky... but even that became cold the more contact it made with his body.

Michael raised his face to his father's, feeling a jolt as he realized that he was staring right at him. He almost wished that his eyes were closed. His blank, hollow gaze seemed to be directed at Michael, his dark eyes boring into him. But at the same time, there was a flash of emotion – pain, sorrow, anguish. And it was all Michael's fault.

All my fault, Michael thought, feeling another wave of tears as he lowered his head. All my fault... he jumped in front of me. It should've been me...

His thoughts turned to Akira and her mother. How would they react? He knew the terrible agony he felt was nothing compared to how they'd feel. They had known him all their lives – and Michael barely knew him. He had only just started getting to know him... and now, he'd never be able to.

He should've let me take the blow, Michael thought. His family needs him... and they don't need me. They barely know me. They'd miss me much less. How... how could he do this?

"Why?" The word forced itself out of Michael's throat, shaky and uncontrolled. "Why, Dad? Why would you do that? You shouldn't have..."

His words were drowned out by his tears. They fell onto his father's body – his father's corpse. Onto the blood.

This is all a nightmare, Michael thought, clutching his father's blood-stained suit. Any moment, I'll wake up.

But it couldn't be. It was too real. The corpse was too real, too cold and still. The blood was too real, too warm and sticky. And his father's blank, lifeless gaze was too real – it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He felt like a little boy as he sobbed into his father's chest. He had never gotten the chance to do that before – and he never would again. There was no warmth, no arms surrounding him, holding him. Just the metallic scent of blood and bitter taste of his tears.

He vaguely registered the familiar sound, and the familiar coldness that encompassed him. He knew the Teke Teke was behind him, about to kill him... but he didn't care. He only cared about the horrifying sight directly in front of him. Even as he heard the axe raise above his head, faster this time than the previous times, it only made him jump slightly. No terrified panic striking through his body, no temporary cessation of his rapid heartbeat. It almost felt tiresome at this point, repeating the same motions. The only thing he focused on was his father's body, right in front of him.

It wasn't so much that he wanted to die, or craved death. He remembered his mom, and friends at home, and even his sister, as annoying as she was. He was still terrified of dying... but he simply didn't have the energy to fight. He knew that she would win in the end. She had succeeded in killing his father, so did he really think he could outrun her?

His tears continued to fall. He started weeping again, quieter than before. And then, the axe came down.