Train to busan

June 16, 2026 – 9:07 AM

Location: Daejeon Station, South Korea

The morning train from Daejeon to Busan was late. Hana paced the platform with her younger brother, Min-jun, nervously checking the time. She was 27, sharp-eyed and alert; Min-jun, barely 10, clutched her hand tightly. Their parents had gone missing two days ago when the outbreak began in Seoul. Now, all they had left was a backpack, a fading phone signal, and each other.

A siren wailed in the distance.

Hana tried not to panic. “Don’t let go of my hand, no matter what,” she whispered.

The train screeched into the station—its windows dark, but the doors opened. Oddly, no one disembarked. A chilling silence followed, broken only by the distant echo of gunshots.

Min-jun hesitated. “Is this the right train?”

“It’s the only train,” Hana said.

They boarded, choosing a car near the middle. A few passengers sat scattered: a teenage couple huddled together; an elderly man gripping a cane; a nurse in bloodstained scrubs texting frantically. No one spoke. Everyone shared the same question: How far will this train get before everything falls apart?

9:22 AM – Somewhere South of Daejeon

It started in the last car.

A shriek. Then pounding. Then chaos.

A bloodied man stumbled in, eyes wild, veins darkened, limbs twitching. He lunged at a businessman, tearing into his neck. Screams rippled forward through the train.

Hana slammed the door shut between cars. “We have to move—now!”

The survivors scrambled forward. In just minutes, the back half of the train was infected. The conductor’s voice crackled over the intercom, panic barely concealed. “Please stay calm. Emergency stop ahead at Gumi Station. Do not open inter-car doors.”

But it was too late. The infection spread fast. The zombies weren’t slow—they sprinted, leapt, clawed. And worst of all: they were relentless.

10:01 AM – Gumi Station

The train screeched to a halt. The few dozen remaining passengers bolted for the doors—only to find the platform swarming with the undead. A woman was pulled under the tracks; a soldier’s gun jammed mid-shot.

Hana, Min-jun, and five others retreated back onto the train, sealing the doors. Their group now included the teenage couple, the nurse, the elderly man, and a gruff security officer named Jae-hyuk. His arm was bleeding.

“We can’t go back,” Jae-hyuk panted. “The cities are gone. Busan might be the last safe zone.”

“But we can’t reach the conductor,” the nurse said. “The front cars are infected too.”

Min-jun’s voice was small. “What do we do?”

Silence.

Then Hana stepped up. “We fight forward. We clear each car until we reach the front. If no one’s there—we drive the train ourselves.”

Jae-hyuk raised an eyebrow. “You know how to drive a KTX?”

“No,” Hana admitted. “But I know how to survive.”

11:10 AM – Car by Car

They moved with purpose. Hana led with a fire extinguisher; Jae-hyuk had a pistol with just three bullets. The nurse wielded a metal pole. Every car they cleared was a war zone—tight quarters, no backup, close calls.

In one car, they found a mother-turned-monster cradling her dead infant. No one spoke. They simply moved on, eyes averted.

Min-jun grew quieter, clutching his toy robot like a lifeline. Hana worried. He was too young for this kind of world.

“We’ll make it,” she told him. “We’ll find the sea. You’ll see waves again.”

He nodded but didn’t smile.

12:34 PM – Conductor’s Cabin

When they reached the front, the cabin was empty—and locked from the outside. Through the narrow glass, they saw the conductor, slumped forward, his face twisted, jaw unhinged.

“Dead,” Jae-hyuk muttered. “But the train’s still going.”

The nurse checked the controls. “Looks like it’s been set to automatic.”

Then the train lurched violently. On the tracks ahead: debris, flipped cars, a collapsed bridge. The train would derail before reaching Busan.

Jae-hyuk looked at the switches. “We can decouple the back cars. Lighten the load. Maybe we can slow enough to survive.”

“How do you know?” Hana asked.

“I don’t,” he said. “But it’s better than dying sitting still.”

12:47 PM – Final Choice

With the brakes unresponsive, Jae-hyuk ran to manually detach the rear cars. As he moved, Hana noticed something—his arm. The bite mark.

“You’re turning,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got maybe ten minutes.”

“Let me go,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

He shook his head. “You’re not dying today. That kid needs you.”

Before she could argue, he shoved the controls into her hand and locked the door from the other side. “Take care of your brother.”

She screamed his name—but the train kept going.

Moments later, the rear cars disconnected. Hana watched from the window as Jae-hyuk disappeared into the distance, gun raised, alone with the monsters.

1:03 PM – Busan Outskirts

The train slowed enough to crash safely into a sandbank just outside Busan.

Emergency teams rushed in, flame-throwers ready, sweeping the wreck. They found only five survivors: Hana, Min-jun, the teenage couple, and the nurse.

A soldier raised his weapon when he saw them.

Hana didn’t flinch. “We’re not infected. Check us.”

They did. They were clean.

For now.

Epilogue – One Year Later

Busan became the last bastion—a walled city lit by solar lights and patrolled by drones. The infection had spread across Asia, and the mainland was lost.

Hana became a leader in the refugee zone, organizing scavenger runs and teaching survival tactics.

Min-jun never let go of his toy robot. He still had nightmares but spoke more. Smiled sometimes.

On the wall of the safe zone, someone had spray-painted:

"THE TRAIN NEVER STOPS. BUT NEITHER DO WE."

And Hana, looking at the horizon, knew it was true.