It was the rhythm of the train that woke me.
Not violently, but steadily. Like a heartbeat that wasn't mine. Metal humming beneath me, the vibrations curling through my sore muscles, reminding me that I was barely alive and still moving forward.
I opened my eyes to the ceiling of the train cabin. Fluorescent lights flickered weakly above, the dim blue of early morning leaking through the windows. The world outside sped past in blurs of trees and metal and smoke.
I shifted slightly.
Pain reminded me I wasn't out of the woods. Literally or metaphorically.
My ribs were wrapped, but sloppily. My thigh wound had clotted, but not cleanly. There was dried blood on my fingers, on my chest, crusted along my jaw. My coat had been peeled off and lay folded on the seat across from me, half-torn, still soaked. The rest of my gear looked like it had crawled through hell which, in a sense, it had.
I wasn't alone.
