“I’ll stay in the middle with your husband and son,” Harry told Jane as he half-carried, half-dragged Walker into the street. “Nic will watch the rear. I need you in front.”

“Doing what?” Jane asked.

“If you see one of those zombies,” Harry explained, “shoot it. In the head if you can, but just shoot it.”

The sun was now low, the street cast in shadow. Soon it would be dark. Jane should’ve been worried about finding a place where they could spend the night, a place where the creatures couldn’t get to them. But with these men, even standing in the middle of the street fully exposed, she felt safe. Safe, for the first time since they’d left the cabin the day before.

She took a look over her shoulder. Nic was at the rear, walking backwards, pivoting from side to side. In the middle, Harry carried Walker, Ryan at his side.

“Keep watching forward,” Harry told her.

Jane nodded and resumed her watch on the street in front of them as they advanced. There wasn’t a creature in sight. Where had they all gone? Surely others nearby had heard the shots. When would they arrive? Or had the gunfire scared them off?

“We’re headed for the stairs,” Harry told her.

Perhaps thirty yards ahead stood a tall metal canopy. Underneath it were two sets of escalators with a wide staircase between them, all leading down. She remembered passing through Bern two weeks before. A large part of the train station had been underground. Based on this and what Harry had said before — about catching a train — Jane guessed that this was the station entrance.

Nic said something, and then he and Harry exchanged a few words in French. They spoke calmly and evenly, but seriously.

“What is it?” Jane asked.

“There are a few back by the marketplace,” Harry replied, “but they haven’t seen us yet.”

She forced herself not to turn her head. Nic had the area behind them covered, and she had responsibilities of her own. Which is when a figure appeared at the top of the staircase in front of her. The weapon shifted in her hands, a signal that she intended to use it. She had no idea if this new way of holding it was superior to the way she’d been holding it before. She just wanted Harry to know.

“That’s Adrian,” Harry said. “He’s with us.” Then he added, “You can let him live.”

Adrian was short and heavy, and he arrived at the top of the stairs out of breath. What was left of his receding hair was a blend of black and white, pepper and salt. He might’ve been Harry’s age or older, it was hard to tell. Like the others, he was carrying a rifle.

As soon as he spotted Harry and Nic, his gaze shifted from side to side, checking the areas they couldn’t see. It was a military move if Jane had ever seen one, although clearly this man wasn’t fit to be a soldier. But weren’t they all soldiers, these Swiss?

Arriving at the top of the stairs, Harry quizzed Adrian in that version of German that Jane couldn’t even begin to understand. When Nic joined them, his focus still on the creatures near the marketplace, the conversation shifted to French.

Ryan was looking up at the events unraveling around him, as if it would all make sense if he just kept watching. Then his eyes found hers, his look a question, but she didn’t have any answers.

She turned to Harry.

“Look, I appreciate–,” she started to say.

“I know,” Harry said, cutting her off. “I can’t explain everything now. Let’s just get to the train. Then we’ll have time. Okay?”

With Walker under his arm and Ryan at his hip, Harry seemed larger than life. His hair was the color of clouds, his eyes the blue of a shallow tropical sea, his muscular arms weathered and bronzed. She had known this man for perhaps ten minutes, yet he had already become integral to their survival.

“Okay,” she said.

Adrian assumed her spot at the front, and the six of them moved quickly down the stairs and into the station. In front of them was a wide corridor. They moved forward, storefronts on both sides, their glass doors intact. There had been no looting here.

Up ahead on the left, the corridor opened up, and Jane recognized the high-ceilinged main terminal they had passed through two weeks before. Escalators and stairs led up to the ground floor, where a terrace overlooked the terminal. Above that was another terrace, and at the top a large translucent skylight, through which the last rays of the sun dully oozed.

Two weeks ago, this terminal had been swarming with people, swerving around each other as they rushed in all directions. Now the masses this terminal had been built to accommodate were gone, either evacuated to the mountains or transformed into flesh-eating monstrosities. Jane remembered the din of hurried footsteps and raised voices, of loudspeaker announcements and rumbling wheel bags. Now the vast space was empty and muffled by a silence their movements were too small and cautious to disturb.

The group hung to the right where the ceiling was low, flanking the terminal and following the corridor as it curved to the right. On each side of the corridor, ramps and stairs led up to the platforms that made up of the heart of the station. Signs hung from the corridor ceiling that on a normal day would’ve displayed departure times and destinations. Now these signs were ominously blank.

About halfway down the corridor, Adrian turned and moved quickly up a ramp; the others followed close behind. At the top, Adrian and Nic split off from the group, moving in opposite directions along the platform, their guns out in front of them. They scanned the area for signs of any threat, but as far as Jane could tell they were alone. A half-dozen platforms, each serving two sets of tracks. A massive space with a high concrete ceiling, open at both ends. But no creatures, no people, and no trains.

No trains, that is, except for the one waiting on the tracks in front of them.

It was a single towering railcar in front of a red locomotive. The railcar had two levels, like the one they’d ridden in from Zurich to Bern. At the front of the car, Jane discerned a compartment where presumably the driver sat.

The two doors on the side they were facing were closed. Inside the forward door, visible through a large window, a man stood watching them. He was tall, lean and muscular, with shoulder-length brown hair and a messy beard. As soon as Nic returned and gave the man a nod, he turned a lever above the door and it slid open. Adrian entered immediately and quickly stepped through a small door on the left that led into the driver’s compartment. Nic took a position in the open doorway, waiting.

Harry stepped in front of Jane, still holding Walker at his side.

“This is your last chance,” he said. “Once we leave, we’re not stopping for anything.”

“Where are you going?” Jane asked.

“Into the mountains,” Harry replied. “A town called Kandersteg. Adrian has set the tracks. If all goes well, we should be there in an hour.”

“And we’ll be safe there?”

“We think so. There shouldn’t be too many zombies, and the army is elsewhere. There’s a house in the hills all by itself, plenty of supplies. Even with a few extra people, we should be fine for six months.”

“We were just in the hills,” Jane said. “There were hundred of those creatures. We barely made it out.”

“I can’t promise you anything,” Harry said. “But at least you won’t be on your own. And Markus can take care of your husband’s wound.”

Harry gestured at the man who’d opened the door. He smiled at them and raised an eyebrow.

“He’s our medic,” Harry said.

Jane nodded and together they entered the train, Harry leading the way down a narrow corridor. An automatic door slid open, and they moved past some chairs to an open area that Jane saw was intended for bike storage. Along one side was a row of large backpacks, each one stuffed full and with a rolled sleeping bag tied to its top. Harry lowered Walker gently to the floor.

The train door hissed closed, and Jane heard Nic and Markus exchange a few words in French. Then she heard one of the men climb a set of stairs, and a moment later the automatic door opened and Markus loped down the corridor to join them.

He extended a hand and said, “Markus.”

“Jane.”

As they shook, he seemed to scrutinize her, holding her hand longer than necessary. In any other context, she would’ve thought he was hitting on her, but surely that could not have been the case here.

“This is my husband Walker,” Jane told him, “and our son Ryan.”

Markus nodded and released her hand. Then he turned to Harry, who had untied one of the sleeping bags and was unrolling it on the floor next to Walker.

“Läbt er no?” Markus asked.

“Ich glaub scho,” Harry said.

The two men looked down at Walker. His eyes were closed, and his lips were slightly parted. The T-shirt that Jane had wrapped around his wound was dark with dried blood, as was most of his left side. He wasn’t moving at all.

“Bisch sicher?” Markus asked.

“Nei.”

“What are you saying?” Jane wanted to know.

Markus looked at her but said nothing.

Harry said, “Your husband will be fine.”

Just then, Adrian appeared.

“Sind alli parat zum go?” he asked.

Harry nodded; Adrian turned and quickly walked away.

Markus opened one of the backpacks and pulled out a leather case and what appeared to be a bottle of vodka. He knelt down beside Walker and opened the case. He took out a bottle of hand sanitizer and cleaned his hands. Then he took out a pair of scissors.

“We’re going to leave now,” Harry told Jane.

Jane nodded and watched as Markus cut away the T-shirt that was wrapped around Walker’s wound. She kept watching as he set the makeshift bandage aside and cut open Walker’s shirt, revealing a dark, blood-crusted hole just under his collarbone. Ryan turned away, but Jane couldn’t stop staring. She had seen it before, but only now, in the safety of the train, was it finally sinking in. Her husband had been shot.

Markus opened the bottle of vodka and took a swig. He offered the bottle to Harry, who shook his head, and to Jane, who did the same. Then he set the vodka down next to Walker’s head and extracted from his case a sponge, some soap, and a bottle of water. After wetting the sponge, he soaped it up and began to clean Walker’s wound.

Suddenly Walker woke up, wide-eyed and in obvious anguish, and a strange, guttural noise erupted from his throat that was not quite a scream.

“Du hesch rächt,” Markus said to Harry, “er läbt no.”

Walker tried to sit up, but Markus pulled him roughly sideways so that he could clean the wound on his back. Markus said something to Harry, who placed an open bandage on part of the sleeping bag. Then the two men lifted Walker and placed him on the sleeping bag so that the bandage was directly under his exit wound.

Markus leaned forward, and as his fingers probed Walker’s throat, searching for a pulse, he stared into Walker’s eyes, trying to get the wounded man’s attention. Eventually Walker’s eyes steadied and he focused on Markus.

“All I have for the pain is this,” Markus said, showing Walker the vodka. “Can you drink?”

Walker nodded, and Markus pressed the bottle to Walker’s lips. The wounded man drank several gulps, eager to exchange a shattered shoulder for a burning throat. Finally Markus had to pull the bottle away from him, leaving Walker gasping like a man saved from drowning.

“Can you move your arm?” Markus asked.

Walker shook his head.

“I know you don’t want to,” Markus said. “But I need to know if you can. Can you move your fingers?”

Ryan, who had been standing with his face pressed into Jane’s arm, suddenly stepped past her and walked away. She waited a moment before following him out, watching as the fingers on Walker’s left hand wiggled weakly. Then she turned and moved back out into the entryway, feeling relieved as the automatic door slid shut behind her, separating her from her husband’s agony.

She found Ryan standing by the door, staring out at the platform.

“Ryan,” she said.

But he didn’t acknowledge her. His focus was fixed on the platform. Jane stepped forward and stood behind him to see what he was looking at.

There was a girl on the platform, perched just a few feet away from the door. She was perhaps eighteen, maybe a year or two younger, and dressed in a short-sleeved form-fitting black top and a small white skirt that barely reached the tops of her thighs. Her hair was long and dark, the kind of even, lustrous ebony that you can only get out of a bottle. Her skin — on her sharp-featured face, her skinny arms, and her long, slender legs — was colored the unnatural, icy green that had become so familiar. Her cloudy eyes were staring into the train. Staring at them.

“Looks like she was out when it happened,” Jane said.

“Out?”

“At a club or something.”

Ryan nodded.

Then he asked, “When what happened?”

Jane’s lips parted as her brain fumbled for an answer. Then the floor shifted and the train slid forward.

As the train moved away, the girl turned her head to watch it go. Ryan stepped toward the window so he could still see her. When the train’s path shifted slightly to the right and the girl was about to slip out of view, he raised his hand and waved. Standing at her son’s side, Jane thought she saw the girl’s arm twitch. Some part of her, some part that was still human, had wanted to wave in return.

“She seemed alright,” Ryan said.

“She was one of them,” Jane said.

“But she wasn’t too messed up. She was still…”

His voice trailed off. All the books he’d read, but he couldn’t find the word.

“Intact?” Jane offered.

“Yeah. That soldier in the forest. He said there was medicine.”

Ryan looked up at his mother.

“Do you think he was telling the truth?” he asked.

Before Jane could answer, a voice from above said, “There is no medicine.”

They turned and peered up a steep, narrow staircase to their left. At the top stood Nic.

“Shoot on sight,” he continued, “those are their orders. If you become one of them, or even if you are only bitten.”

“What is it?” Jane asked. “What’s happening?”

“No one knows,” Nic said with a shrug. “It’s just happening.”

The train was out of the station now, picking up speed. They moved onto a bridge, traveling on the tracks closest to the edge, making it appear as if the ground beneath them had vanished. Jane and Ryan looked down at the river below. It was the same river they’d crossed earlier, but now it was much further down and bathed in the deep orange light of dusk.

At the other end of the car, Walker let out another scream. Jane looked up at Nic.

“My husband,” she said. “His wound.”

“He is only shot,” Nic said with a shrug. “Better to be shot ten times than bitten once. Better to be shot twenty times.”

Once again he flashed the smile that had confused her before, the smile that had seemed so out of place. But now she felt she understood it. He was a man with a gun, a soldier. It wasn’t his place to show fear. He was there to protect, and to reassure.

“Come here,” he said, waving them up. “Meet the others.”

Jane and Ryan climbed the stairs to join him.

There were perhaps a half-dozen people on the upper level, sitting in turquoise high-backed seats along both sides of the car with an aisle running down the middle. The seats were arranged in pairs facing each other, and each set of four had its own window with a small table jutting out of the wall.

As they moved down the aisle, Nic introduced them to the people they passed. First was Harry’s wife and their daughter who appeared to be in her thirties. Then came Adrian’s girlfriend and his two children from a previous marriage, both in their teens. Names were exchanged but they slipped Jane’s mind almost immediately: the names were all Swiss and strange and easy to forget.

Jane could sense that these people were wary of her and Ryan, who unlike them had no personal connection to the men in charge. The language barrier didn’t help. Only Harry’s daughter seemed to speak and understand English.

Eventually they arrived at a young girl sitting alone. Nic took the seat beside her, introducing her as the daughter of his girlfriend. The girl barely acknowledged Nic. Her focus was out the window, on the terrain that they were slipping through with increasing speed. Nic invited Jane and Ryan to take the seats across from them.

“Her name is Hélène,” he told them.

The girl kept staring outside. Her dark hair, thick and straight, formed a curtain that drooped forward, partially obscuring her face. She was, Jane guessed, perhaps a year or two older than Ryan.

“She only speaks French,” Nic said, as if to explain the girl’s silence.

“Where is her mother?” Jane asked.

“She is dead,” Nic said. “She was supposed to come with us, but I had to shoot her. She was one of them.”

He shrugged, but the sadness in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Hélène was there when it happened,” Nic said, pausing for a moment to let this statement sink in. “She is unhappy with me. But still she must be taken care of.”

Jane nodded. She understood. The girl’s cold shoulder wasn’t simple teenage surliness. It had been a necessary death, perhaps even a charitable one. But for Hélène, Nic was still the man who’d killed her mother.

Jane glanced down the aisle. The rest of the seats were empty.

“What about Markus?” she asked. “Didn’t he bring anyone?”

Nic didn’t respond. He was looking over her shoulder, raising his eyes as someone approached them. Then Markus appeared and dropped into the seat directly across the aisle from Nic, diagonally facing Jane.

“No,” Markus said, “because Markus didn’t have anyone to bring.”

He sat slumped, his long legs sprawling. In one of his blood-sticky hands, he clutched the bottle of vodka. It was now half empty.

“How’s my husband?” Jane asked. She glanced at Ryan and saw him waiting for Markus’s response.

“The wound is clean,” Markus said. “I put on a bandage. He lost a lot of blood. Harry is giving him food and drink.”

Markus took a swig of vodka and then offered the bottle to Jane.

“No, thank you,” she said. She desperately wanted a drink, but the time wasn’t yet right.

“What day is it?” Ryan suddenly asked.

As Jane struggled to remember, Markus interjected.

“Today is Saturday,” he said.

Ryan looked puzzled.

“That can’t be right,” he said. “It’s got to be Wednesday or Thursday–”

“It’s Saturday,” Markus insisted.

Ryan glanced at his mother, who shook her head. She had no idea.

“Are you sure?” Ryan asked Markus.

Markus leaned over the arm of his chair, looking serious in a way that he hadn’t before. Jane watched Nic watching Markus; he appeared to know what was coming.

“Yesterday, God died for our sins,” Markus said. “Soon He will be reborn. But today is Saturday. There is no God.”

Ryan still looked confused.

“I know what you’re saying,” he said, “but it’s more likely that Jesus died on a Wednesday. If you read the Bible carefully–”

Markus let out a loud laugh that caught the attention of everyone on the upper level. Every conversation was abruptly cut off. Even Hélène snapped out of her daze.

In the ensuing silence, Markus sat back, took another swig of vodka, and peered across the aisle at Ryan.

“Son, whatever day it was Jesus died, whatever day it is today, the point is this: God is dead.”

He raised his bottle as if leading a toast.

“Welcome to the mess He left behind.”