[SYSTEM RECORD: FILE #017]Subject: Unauthorized Asset Retrieval / Z-Axis BreachLocation: Ghost Ship, Cabin 01 (Approaching Sorting Center)Time: 07:13 AM

  [Investigator's Record]

  The hand was small. Too small.

  The fingers were fused into blackened claws, permanently locked around the frayed canvas handle of the duffel bag.

  I didn't move. I didn't breathe. I just stared at the cracked, carbonized skin inches from my nose.

  Down in the aisle, the Conductor reached the far end of the carriage. CLANG. The heavy bone shears struck the metal doorframe. The ambient heat in the cabin was still suffocating, but the localized furnace of his massive body had moved twenty feet away.

  I had a window.

  This bag was a glitch. It didn't belong on the manifest.

  My left arm was entirely numb from anchoring my weight against the rusted rack. I carefully shifted my center of gravity, pressing my chest harder against the scorching metal slats to stabilize myself, and freed my right hand.

  I reached for the bag.

  The dark green canvas was stiff, baked into a hard shell by decades of phantom heat. I bypassed the handle—and the child's hand gripping it—pinned the heavy bag against the curved wall with my shoulder, and hooked my index finger into the rusted brass zipper.

  I pulled.

  The zipper teeth were fused with grit and ash. It didn't budge. I clamped my jaw, ignoring the searing heat of the metal rack against my ribs, and applied more force.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Scraaaape. The metallic grind was deafening in my own ears, but the rhythmic clatter of the train wheels masked the sound. The zipper gave way, opening a jagged four-inch gap.

  The smell that wafted out wasn't ash or burnt flesh. It was the sharp, distinct scent of old paper, ozone, and dried blood.

  I wedged two fingers into the dark opening.

  My fingertips brushed against coarse fabric, then something hard and rectangular. I pinched it and pulled it out.

  It was a thick, partially melted plastic brick. An old pager. The digital screen was cracked and black, the buttons fused into a single lump of plastic.

  I dropped the useless brick onto the metal slats. Behind where it had been, my fingers caught on something else. Cold. Metallic. Heavy.

  I dragged it toward the opening. It was a heavy brass key, attached to a thick, braided lanyard. The metal was surprisingly cold, entirely unaffected by the ambient heat of the carriage.

  Before I could pull the key completely out of the bag, the train shrieked.

  It wasn't a mechanical screech. It was a distorted, overlapping wail of a hundred human voices blasting through the carriage's PA system.

  The carriage didn't brake. It launched forward. Inertia threw me backward like a ragdoll.

  My rubber boots lost their precarious grip on the seat divider. My left arm, dead and numb, failed to hold my weight. I slid helplessly across the scalding metal rack, slamming hard against the corner of the carriage.

  The impact shoved my right arm against the jagged zipper opening. The stiff, baked canvas tore violently under my weight, the zipper splitting further as my arm was driven elbow-deep into the dark interior, trapping it inside the rigid shell.

  The collision jostled the bag. The charred, child-sized hand gripping the handle twitched.

  The brittle, carbonized joints cracked loudly. The blackened fingers snapped open, releasing the handle, and clamped down around my trapped right wrist like a vice of dry ice.

  A harsh static burst from the LED board at the end of the cabin, overriding the passenger manifest.

  [WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED BAGGAGE CLAIM DETECTED.][Z-AXIS ANOMALY LOGGED.][RULE 02: ALL UNCLAIMED BAGGAGE BELONGS TO THE SYSTEM.][INITIATING PURGE.]

  Down in the aisle, the Conductor slowly turned around.

  He didn't scan the floor this time. The glowing orange cracks on his faceless head tilted upward, aiming directly at the luggage rack.