"Let go," she whispered. "Save your daughter."

The train screeched into Busan station at 7:02 PM. But as the doors opened, Seok-jin saw them: thousands of infected, waiting in the dark terminal.

Seok-jin's fund manager instincts—risk assessment, asset protection—kicked in. He grabbed Soo-min, threw a suitcase into the aisle to trip the first wave of infected, and ran. Behind them, the living became the turned in seconds: foaming mouths, broken limbs snapping into place, a choir of wet growls.

Soo-min started to cry. A wet, child's sob.

The tunnel came at 4:47 PM. The train died. Lights out. In the absolute dark, you could only hear the breathing of the infected—and the breathing of the living, trying to be quieter than death.

He held the door with his back, arms stretched wide like a cross. The first infected reached him. He didn't scream. He just looked at Ji-ah and smiled.

Seok-jin looked at Soo-min. Then at the horde. Then back at Soo-min.

"Seal the door!" Dong-chul yelled.

They made it to car 9, where a hulky factory worker named Dong-chul was using a fire extinguisher to bash skulls. His pregnant wife, Ji-ah, stood behind him, calm as stone.