“How do you know?” Michael asks.
“Because he's with me,” Barbara replies. “I can feel him.”
Michael glances along the aisle. He knows it won't be long until more of these men make an appearance. Things were going to have to get moving. “He's with you because he's worried, Barbara. He can't move on until he knows you're safe. You're keeping him here.”
Barbara looks concerned. “I am?”
Michael helps Barbara to her feet. He can barely look her in the eye. She looks so completely lost to reality. “Once you're safe at home, Harold will be able to move on.”
“Come on,” Wendy says, “I'll get you home.” She takes Barbara by the arm.
Oblivious, Barbara walks through the ashes at her feet. “And you'll stay for dinner? I know Harold would love to meet you.”
Escorting Barbara out of the train, Wendy replies: “I'd love to stay for dinner.”
“Wendy,” Michael says. “Stay close to the wall and head away from the front of the train.”
Wendy offers a faint smile. “Be safe, Michael.”
Michael watches Wendy and Barbara leave the train. “You too.”
*
02:15 am
...
One by one, the four man unit enters the car behind the driver's cabin. Each of them is carrying an M4 Carbine assault rifle and is dressed in full body armor. Almost immediately, there's a response given to the scene which confronts them.
“Jesus,” one of them says, looking down at the dead girl lying in a large pool of blood.
Another of the men uses the end of his rifle to turn the second body onto its back. “This one's male. His throat's been cut.”
The man in charge of the group adjusts the headset mic built into his helmet. He peers into the driver's cabin ... and immediately regrets it. He puts his hand over his mouth and coughs.
“So, Stiles? This the work of our boy?”
Stiles, his face still sour from the spectacle he just witnessed, turns to the strapping African American. “Doesn't fit with his profile.”
“Maybe they threatened him in some way.”
“Come on, Webb, a girl and an old man?”
Webb shrugs. “Hey, I'm just sayin'.”
“From what I hear,” Stiles says, “he's a capable S.O.B. People like this wouldn't threaten my sixteen year old kid, let alone this guy. This ha
s to be the work of our girl, Novak. She can be a little
unpredictable
.”
“
Laura Novak? I hear she's goddam crazy
.”
Stiles and Webb turn to the source of the comment. It was Dorsey, mouthing off as usual. Standing no taller than five-eight, and topped with a thick crop of jet black hair, what Dorsey lacks in terms of physical presence, he more than makes up with ego.
“But nuthin you can't handle, right?” Webb says.
Dorsey rests his rifle on his shoulder. “I know how to treat a woman, if that's what you mean.”
Another man steps forward. “That's not what my mom tells me.”
Dorsey flips him the bird. “Fuck you, Newhall.”
Taking care not to get blood on the bottom of his boots, Newhall steps over the body of Becky.
“Newhall,” Stiles says. “Cover the door at the end of the aisle. I don't want any nasty surprises.”
“Your wish is my command,” Newhall says, and heads off.
“Got sumthin on your mind?” Webb asks.
Stiles scratches his chin. “We haven't heard back from the first unit to board the train – or Novak, for that matter.”
“Was she supposed to call in?” Webb asks.
“Not unless things go tits up.”
“So maybe things haven't went tits up.”
Stiles looks over at the body of Jack. “Something's went tits up alright.”
Dorsey is standing over the body of Becky. “Fuck me, this one's a waste.” He starts to lift the bottom of her dress with the end of his rifle.
“Hey,” Stiles barks, “knock that shit off.”
“You think she gives a damn?” Dorsey says, still trying to steal a peek at the dead woman's panties.
“I give a fucking damn, now cut that shit out.”
“Yeah, okay, whatever, man.”
“There's a window broken over here,” Newhall says. “Glass all over the floor and bloody footprints.”
The lights in the car begin flickering.
Newhall looks up at them. “Fuckin' weird atmosphere in here.”
The lights then go out.
“Shit,” Stiles says.
Suddenly, Newhall starts to scream.
“Fuckers!” Dorsey shouts. He points his rifle in the direction of the outcry and opens fire. The weapon's violent outburst highlights his face.
“What the hell are you doing!” Stiles barks. “You'll hit Newhall!”
Dorsey stops firing. “Sounds to me like he's already dead.”
“Well he sure as hell will be now,” Webb says. “You fuckin' asshole.”
“Hey, who you callin' an-”
Stiles grabs Dorsey by the collar of his shirt. “You open fire again without a clear shot, or my say so, I'll put a bullet between your eyes. You hear me?”
“I hear you, I hear you. It's cool.”
“Newhall,” Webb calls. “You okay, man?”
No response
.
The tunnel lights directly outside their particular car flicker and then go out.
“Oh that's just great,” Webb says. He lowers his goggles and switches them to night vision. “Damn.”
“What is it?” Stiles asks.
Webb taps the side of his goggles. “My goggles ... don't seem to be workin' properly.” He flips through the various modes. “Nope, it's all gone to shit.”
Stiles lowers his goggles. “I got it too, like there's some kind of interference.”
“Interference?” Dorsey says, “From what?”
Stiles removes his goggles. “Doesn't matter. Just you keep to the rear, Dorsey, make sure nothing comes up behind us.”
“Gotcha.”
The three of them cautiously make their way along the aisle. Each man can feel the throb of his elevated pulse rate in his temples.
Webb stops. He lifts his boot and puts it back down. “Sounds like we're walkin' in water.”
The lights in the car spring suddenly to life. Standing several feet in front of the men is a woman in a torn pink top and dark jeans. Her hair is a tangled mess and her head is lowered. She's standing ankle deep in blood.
“What the hell?” Dorsey says, looking down.
Everyone is ankle deep in blood
.
The lights go out ... only to come back on moments later.
This time, the woman is behind the men.
Dorsey turns.
The woman looks Dorsey straight in the eye. And then plunges her fingernails into his right socket and tears it out.
Dorsey issues a bloodcurdling scream. His firearm goes off, punching holes in the roof of the car.
The lights go out again, and Dorsey has either dropped his rifle or has stopped firing.
“Jesus fuckin' Christ!” Webb cries.
“Stay calm!” Stiles shouts.
“Stay calm! This is god damn crazy!”
Both men can hear Dorsey wailing and stumbling around in the dark.
“Dorsey!” Stiles shouts.
The lights burst to life again.
Dorsey is on his knees, paralyzed with fear. He's facing the other two men, and is covered in small red and black spiders. Some of them are crawling in and out of his empty eye socket. Standing behind him is the strange woman. Her dark, elliptical eyes focus on the remaining men.
“Shoot her,” Stiles barks.
“But Dorsey ...” Webb says.
“Just shoot!”
Stiles opens fire in perfect synchronicity with the lights going back out. Webb does likewise, and, for several seconds, the car is filled with sporadic flash bursts.
Stand clear of the closing doors, please
.
Ding-dong
.
The car lights up again.
Dorsey is lying on his back. Dead. There's no sign of any spiders, or the woman.
Stiles hurries over to the body. Blood sloshes around his ankles. He looks down at Dorsey.
Poor bastard
.
Webb remains where he is, looking bewildered. “I don't get it. Is this our girl? What the hell's goin' on?”
The lights start to flicker again.
“Webb, lookout!” Stiles cries.
Lights out
.
Webb screams.
Lights on
.
Webb's severed right arm is in the process of falling to the floor. His trigger finger has spasmed and is sending bullets flying in a spiral. One of the bullets strays into Stiles' chest, but fails to penetrate his body armor.
Stiles stumbles backwards.
Webb is still screaming, and clutching the bloody stump at his shoulder.
Stiles raises his M4. He can see the woman standing just behind Webb. He's reluctant to shoot. If he does, he'll almost certainly hit the other man. He closes his eyes and prays the Kevlar is up to the task.
… And then he unleashes his weapon.
The lights go out.
The area surrounding Stiles is illuminated with rifle fire.
After a few seconds, the clip runs empty.
“Shit.” Stiles removes the spent clip from the underside of his rifle then fumbles frantically to open a flap in the leg of his cargo pants. He pulls a clip from his pocket and hastily inserts it into the weapon. For the time being, he does nothing. His breathing is shallow and his heart is pounding. He can't hear Webb. Either the other man got caught by a bullet or the woman killed him.
Woman
? What kind of woman takes down three highly trained, fully armed men?
“Webb?” He can hear his pulse in his voice.
Webb doesn't respond, but Stiles is sure he can hear someone approach his position.
“Webb, is that you?” He wishes he'd equipped a light mount to his rifle. The car is pitch black.
Someone – or some
thing
- is definitely approaching. He can hear their movement through the blood.
“If this is you, Webb ... I'm sorry.”
Stiles opens fire. The woman is highlighted by the weapon's rapid discharge. Terrifyingly, she's standing mere inches in front of him. He releases a startled cry and, in a bid to get away, loses his balance and falls onto his back. Blood splashes across his face and enters his mouth. Spluttering, he scrambles to his feet.
Whatever this woman is, he has to have hit her. She was standing at point blank range.
Stiles decides the best course of action is to head straight for the end door as quickly as he can. He lights up the area in front of himself with sporadic bursts of gunfire. Somewhere up ahead, a window catches a bullet and breaks. His right foot brushes against something. It has to be Webb's body, but he doesn't stop, keeps pushing forward, continuing to use his firearm to offer some light and provide defense.
The neighboring car, brightly lit and potentially safe, is tantalizingly close now.
Almost there. Don't panic.
The lights in the car spark to life. So, too, do the ones in the tunnel.
Stand clear of the closing door, please
.
Ding dong
.
Stiles stops before Newhall's headless corpse. He takes a step back - “Jesus Christ” - and looks around. The head is nowhere to be seen. But that's not the only thing missing. The floor of the train is now completely dry; no blood anywhere, making the previous episode
seem like some kind of weird hallucination - albeit one that's left three men dead. He pulls the helmet from his head and drops it. As crazy a curve ball as this has been, his objective remains the same: capture the man currently known as Michael Rhodes and bring him back alive.
Not wishing to remain in this car a moment longer, Stiles steps over Newhall's corpse and makes his exit.
*
Barefoot and bleeding, both women continue to face-off on a floor covered in glass and smeared with blood. They've visibly dealt a lot of damage to one another - torn clothing, claw marks, gouges - but it's all superficial.
“For someone with nothing, you fight hard to hang onto something,” Laura says.
“You know what?” Amber replies through cut and swollen lips. “You talk too much.”
“
She hasn't said nearly enough
.”
Amber turns to see Michael standing at the other end of the car. He has a rifle pointed directly at Laura. She joins his side. “Hey, I'm glad you're okay. Where'd you get the gun?” Then she notices his wounds. “Michael, you've been shot.”
Michael glances at his arm. “It's nothing." He lowers the weapon. "Looks like you've had your hands full.”