The fields were swallowed by rainfall, as predicted. A gentle wet splattering filled the lull in conversation between passengers who were now too settled in to do much more than gaze at the passing countryside and wonder where exactly they were.
As the sun set and the rain became obscured under a thick blanket of darkness, it became impossible to say when the rain stopped and the bloodshed began. The passengers can only agree that the train smelled of metal at the station and that the blood didn't belong to any of them.
Somewhere and somehow, overnight it had seeped through the cracking rubber seals along the window edges, gradually coating everything and everyone on board with a scarlet sheen that took almost twelve days to fully wash off their skin.
What's worse still is that they all seem to have developed a shared madness - the belief that they never arrived at their intended destination and that they are now wandering through a purgatory of their own creation. Five managed to kill themselves in order to"alter" their afterlife while the rest remain pinned down in their cells, waiting for us to come and see them again.
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