⚠️ CONTENT WARNING: Chapter 49 ⚠️
Yo—before you dive into this one:
This chapter goes full horror mode. Like, not jumpscare nonsense—this is "quiet rage, moral collapse, and blood on the wheels" type horror.
If you've got a soft spot for:
🧠 psychological breaks🩸 graphic violence / execution🚬 mental unraveling via cigar monologue🚨 sudden cold-blooded choices😶🌫️ moral ambiguity so thick you could spread it on toast
…then maybe take a breath before reading.
This chapter isn't just scary. It's personal.
And Rick? Yeah. He's not the guy you met in Chapter 1 anymore.
Read with caution.
Or, y'know… run.
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It didn't blink.
It didn't sway with the train.
It just stared—right into the drone's lens.
And somehow…
It knew they were watching.
The figure didn't move like it should've. Didn't react to the shaking of the train, or the blur of the world speeding past. It simply remained. Fixed. Like a nightmare nailed to the floor of reality.
Then—
A hand slid out from the open side window of the train car.
Pale fingers. Steady grip.
Holding a silenced pistol.
777's breath hitched.
Rick's grip on the dash tightened.
"Don't—"
Pfft.
A clean, quiet shot.
The drone exploded mid-air in a puff of smoke and sparks.
The screen on the van's dashboard went dead.
Just a flicker of static left behind.
Rick slammed his hand against the steering wheel.
"Son of a bitch."
The van jolted as the brakes kicked in hard.
Obstacle detected.
Ahead—thick, moss-covered logs piled across the rails, dumped in just the right way to stall pursuit.
777 leaned over Rick's shoulder, still processing what just happened.
"Let's get out. Clear the track first. Then we chase."
Rick nodded once, jaw locked.
They kicked open the doors, boots hitting the gravel with a crunch.
Outside, the air was damp and heavy. Pine-sap thick. The logs looked like they'd been dragged straight from the forest—fresh-cut, still oozing sap.
"Somebody did this on purpose," Rick muttered.
"No shit," 777 grunted, already grabbing one of the smaller trunks. "Who drops tree corpses on a rail unless they're trying to stall an apocalypse van?"
They worked fast.
Shoulders slamming into the wood, fingers digging under splinters, sweat sticking to their necks.
Rick rolled a log off the edge of the track and it thudded down the slope with a thump.
777 yanked another back, muttering curses under his breath the whole time. "This is how horror movies start, by the way. Two guys removing a tree, then boom—stabbed by possessed lumberjack spirit."
"Shut up and lift," Rick growled.
One log left. The biggest. Heavy and soaked through. They both gripped it from either end.
"Three—two—go!"
Muscles strained. Groaned.
The log lifted, swayed—
—and then they rolled it off to the side.
It hit the ground with a deep, soggy thunk.
Rick took a breath and scanned the tracks.
Clear.
But the train was long gone.
Too far ahead now.
He looked at 777.
"We lost the drone."
"We still got the baby."
Rick turned back toward the van, eyes locked on the road ahead.
"Let's move."
They rolled back onto the railway access road, van wheels kicking up dirt and gravel as they trailed the tracks. The forest felt too quiet now—like even the trees were holding their breath.
Then—
The van screeched to a stop.
Rick's eyes narrowed.
He pointed ahead through the windshield.
"Look who we've got here."
There, sprawled across the rail—just off the steel, like fate had tossed him aside—
was the same masked figure they'd seen at the back of the train.
Alive.
Barely.
Face uncovered now. Breathing ragged. Hands clutching at his ribs like something inside was trying to escape.
The man looked up with blood in his teeth.
"Help me…" he gasped, voice thin as paper.
Rick stepped out of the van with a silence that said he was done talking.
He walked up, slow and unbothered, crouched next to the broken man, and grabbed a fistful of his hair.
"Jennifer," he said calmly, lifting the man's head.
"Scan his face."
A few digital tones chirped, then—
"Scan complete," Jennifer's voice returned. "Subject identified: classified-level Japanese biotechnologist. Status: missing for two years."
Rick's jaw twitched.
Then—
Without hesitation—
he slammed the man's face back into the ground.
Hard.
"Help… me…" the man wheezed again, a final plea.
Rick stood.
Cold.
Unshaken.
Pulled out his pistol.
One clean shot.
CRACK.
The man's skull snapped back. Blood fanned into the dirt like spilled ink.
Silence followed.
From the van, 777 had seen everything. He blinked, then swallowed hard.
"Yeah," he muttered under his breath. "He's done. Rick's officially snapped. Peak frustration arc. Time to act professional or I'm next."
Rick climbed back into the driver's seat, his eyes dead and hollow.
He stared ahead, then quietly asked,
"You still got those cigars?"
777's voice wobbled. "Y-Yes, sir. Do… do you want me to throw them?"
Rick didn't look at him.
"Give one to me."
"…Yes, sir."
777 reached into his pocket, hands shaking, pulled out a slightly bent cigar.
As he passed it over, his thoughts spun.
"He never smokes. Except… back in the loop. What the hell is going on?"
Rick took it, lit it with a flick of the van's dashboard lighter, and drew in deep—long and slow. The smoke curled around his head like armor.
"You won't take one?" he asked flatly.
"No, sir," 777 answered quickly. "Smoking kills."
"Yeah," Rick muttered. "Right."
But he didn't throw the cigar.
He restarted the engine.
The van rumbled awake.
And without a second thought—he shifted gear and drove forward.
Right over the scientist's body.
The tires crunched with a wet snap. Blood and bone spat from beneath the undercarriage.
Rick didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
"Rest in hell," he muttered, eyes locked on the road.
In the passenger's seat, 777 went pale.
He didn't speak.
Didn't joke.
Because the man sitting beside him?
Wasn't Rick.
Not the one he knew.
Rick, driving the van, smoke curling from his cigar, eyes locked on the road ahead.
In his mind, the thought crawled back like an old scar itching under the skin.
"Well… now I'm back to my old self."
The words tasted like rust and regret.
"The version I buried under peace, under missions, under that fucking lie of 'retirement.'"
His fingers tightened on the wheel.
"The old me. The one I swore I'd never be again. The one who solves problems with bullets and burns bridges with blood."
The ash from the cigar crumbled near his knuckles.
"I tried. I tried to be better. For Tobey. For the family I lost. But maybe... that man was never real."
Outside, the world rushed past in silence.
Inside the van—
A monster was at the wheel.