Page 8 of Locked & Loaded

We stand there for a moment, looking at each other, the heat of the compartment pressing down on both of us. The train rattles on beneath our feet, carrying us deeper into the Norwegian night, and the reality of the situation hits me with the timing of a bad joke.

We’re stuck.

We’re fucking stuck in here.

Chapter 2. Chris

The door doesn’t move.

I pull again, harder, feeling the metal handle bite into my palm. Nothing—just the same stubborn resistance.

“Shit,” I say, and the word hangs between us, too small for the situation.

Mads steps back, his mouth pressed into a flat line. He’s already sweating through his T-shirt, dark patches under his arms and across his chest. The compartment feels like a coffin with bad ventilation, and my skin prickles despite the heat.

I ignore it.

“Try your phone,” Mads says, reaching for his own. “Maybe we can get through to someone.”

I pull mine from my pocket.

No service.

The bars are empty, but I still try to send a message to Roman. It hangs for a few seconds, the little wheel spinning with insulting optimism, before the red exclamation point appears beside it.

I stare at it for a moment, then turn airplane mode on. Count to fifteen. Turn it off again.

The bars appear for half a second, disappear, appear again, then vanish completely.

Perfect.

There’s no service in this fucking metal hotbox.

“No service,” I say.

Mads is already thumbing through his contacts, jaw tight. Roman’s name flashes on his screen as he tries to call, but all he gets is the thin, ugly sound of failure. He lifts the phone toward the ceiling, then toward the window, like the signal might be hiding in one of the corners out of spite.

“Fuck,” he mutters, cutting off the call and shoving the phone back into his pocket.

Then he turns back to the door and hammers on it with the side of his fist. Three hard knocks, then a pause.

“Hello? Anyone out there? The door’s stuck!”

He keeps at it for a solid minute, alternating between hard knocks and open-palmed slaps, raising his voice until it starts to go rough. The metal door vibrates under his hand, but nobody answers. When he finally stops, silence drops over us again—just the rhythmic clack of the wheels and the suffocating heat pressing in from every side.

Mads runs a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

“They can’t hear us,” he says. “These doors are too thick.”

“Maybe they’re asleep,” I say, though it’s barely past midnight.

We stand there for another moment, listening to the empty corridor.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No voices. No one coming to help.

Mads turns and drops onto his bunk with a defeated sigh. I sit on mine, facing him, and that’s when I feel it: the cold sensation starting at the base of my skull, a slow crawl I recognize immediately.