Chapter 2: Rules for Survival

"Don't make any calls."

My hand had just closed around my phone when Uncle Ben stopped me cold. His fingers snapped down on mine, his whisper fierce and urgent. For a second, he was all overprotective parent—except this time, his voice trembled just a little.

He leaned in, voice barely audible over the train’s constant clatter. "These damn things? They're always listening. GPS, mic, everything. You call out, you’re basically lighting up a target on your back."

I stared at him, totally thrown. "Uncle Ben, what exactly is that thing? Why can't we use our phones?"

The question tumbled out of me before I could stop it, panic prickling at my scalp. My brain flashed through every urban legend and internet horror story I’d ever heard, but none of them made sense here.

Uncle Ben didn’t answer directly. He just rubbed his jaw, searching for words. "It can look like anyone in here. Smile, talk, walk—but there’s nothing behind the eyes. If you want to get technical, it’s like...a fake person. Looks real, but there’s nothing inside."

He shook his head, glancing nervously toward the restroom. "But this thing... this thing kills. No hesitation. No reason."

He squeezed my shoulder, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. "You see someone looking hollow—dead eyes, no spark—don’t even breathe the same air. Move away. Fast."

I was still lost. "Why does it kill people? Logically, even ghosts or monsters need a reason to kill, right?"

It felt ridiculous, but my voice shook anyway. I needed some kind of explanation to hang onto, something that made sense in a world I thought I understood.

Uncle Ben met my eyes, his voice unsteady: "That thing... it was just born."

The words made the hair on my arms stand up. I’d never seen Uncle Ben look so scared—raw, helpless fear in his eyes.

I froze, but then the pieces started falling into place. Late-night TikTok binges, stories about apex predators—the ones that don’t belong anywhere, so they tear everything apart just to see what happens. The most dangerous creatures aren’t part of the ecosystem—they’re the ones nobody knows how to stop.

My mind conjured images of invasive pythons in the Everglades, destroying everything in their path. But this wasn’t a snake. This was something new—something that could pretend to be us.

It was like an animal hiding from predators, but its best disguise was a human face. That thought sent a cold sweat prickling down my spine.

I glanced around the car—no barking dogs, no cats in carriers. Not even a single yappy lapdog or a goldfish in a plastic cup—just us and the miles of empty track. We were trapped together, and it was hunting.

Still, I couldn’t wrap my head around it. What kind of thing tracks cell phone signals? Was it a skinwalker? A wendigo? Some kind of cryptid?

I remembered the stories we swapped around bonfires—skinwalkers, wendigos, Jersey Devils. But none of those legends fit. They didn’t kill this way, and they didn’t track people by their phones.

I thought of those old monster books, all gore and torn bodies. But the cut I saw was clean—surgical. Nothing like the messy chaos in those stories.

I remembered Uncle Ben showing me how to cut wood with a handsaw—how hard it was to get a straight edge. That memory made what I’d seen in the restroom even more horrifying.

My throat felt like sandpaper. I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breathing. All I could hear was the distant hum of the engine and the nervous whispers of passengers.

Suddenly, a guy in a Seahawks cap complained, "Man, this is weird. Why is there no signal? I can't even get through to 911."

Someone else tapped at their phone, frowning at the empty bars. It was the kind of frustration you felt miles from civilization, but this time it felt like something darker.

A woman nearby tried to joke, her voice too high and shaky: "Dude, relax. There are Amtrak police on the train."

The man just slumped back, glancing anxiously at the two officers in uniform up ahead.

Uncle Ben’s face drained of color. He yanked me up, pulling me away from the scene. His grip was tight and scared, and I didn’t fight it.

We shoved through several cars until he finally settled us in a crowded section—families, crying kids, a grandma clutching her purse, the whole Midwest melting pot. Uncle Ben kept scanning faces, making sure there was a buffer of strangers between us and whatever might be lurking.

He dropped into a seat, fists clenched so hard his knuckles went white. He hunched forward, as if trying to disappear. I’d seen him chase a coyote with nothing but a tire iron, but now he looked ready to bolt. It made my own fear bloom even bigger.

He opened his mouth a few times, but no words came out. The silence stretched between us, heavy and sharp.

After a while, I leaned over. "Uncle Ben, I need to use the bathroom."

He grabbed my arm, voice flat and cold: "No. You can’t go anywhere that’s empty. Do it here—use a water bottle. I’ll cover for you."

I stared at him, cheeks burning hotter than the train’s radiator as I fumbled with the bottle. Every shuffle or cough in the crowd made me flinch, my embarrassment fighting with fear. Uncle Ben shielded me, glaring at anyone who dared look our way.

As soon as I finished, another scream ripped through the car. Panic erupted. Someone sprinted down the aisle, yelling for help. The tension snapped, and everyone leapt to their feet.

Uncle Ben and I joined the crush heading for the restroom. There, we found the same guy who’d tried to make a call—cut in half at the waist, just like the first. This time the blood was fresh, the metallic tang filling the corridor. People stared, frozen with horror. The silence that followed was even worse than the screams.