Read Chapter 5: Closed Doors

The scream came from Coach 7, a woman’s wail that cut through the recycled air and the low hum of frightened whispers. Élise was already moving, Marcel one step behind her, his radio crackling with panicked crew chatter.

“Stay back,” she said, pushing through the knot of passengers clustered in the aisle. A young man—mid-twenties, corporate lanyard still around his neck—was on his knees between the seats, his body convulsing in violent, wet coughs. His face was the color of putty, and a thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. The woman beside him, presumably the one who screamed, had her hands over her mouth, backing away.

“He was fine,” she stammered. “We were just talking about the delay, and then—he just—“

Élise crouched, keeping her distance. The man’s coughs were deep, productive, and she caught the glint of something at the corner of his lips. Not blood. Greenish. Viscous.

Her stomach turned. *Same as Wilde’s sample.*

A man in a suit stepped forward, voice rising. “That’s it. That’s the same thing as the other one. We need to get him off this train. Now.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the car. A woman clutched her child closer. “He’s contagious. We’ll all get it. Throw him in the luggage car or something.”

“Isolate him!”

The mob’s energy sharpened, feeding on fear. Élise stood, positioning herself between the sick man and the crowd. “He’s not going anywhere. He needs medical attention, not a cage.”

“And who the hell are you?” the suit spat.

Élise opened her mouth, but Marcel stepped forward, his voice carrying authority. “She’s with me. A public health consultant contracted by Eurostar.” The lie rolled off his tongue smooth as butter. “We’re going to establish a proper quarantine. Everyone remains calm.”

“Quarantine where?” a woman demanded. “We’re trapped in a tin can under the sea!”

Marcel glanced at Élise. She answered. “The dining car. It’s mid-train, has its own ventilation, and we can seal the doors at both ends. We move the sick there, and anyone who’s had close contact.”

“How do we know who’s had contact?” the suit asked, eyes darting to the coughing man. “He shook hands with half the carriage during the meet-and-greet in Paris.”

Élise’s blood chilled. “Meet-and-greet?”

“Eurostar business networking event,” a woman offered. “Everyone in this car was there. First class too.”

*Twenty minutes. Possibly fifty people.*

The pathogen was moving faster than she’d calculated. Airborne droplets, fomites—handshakes, shared champagne flutes. This wasn’t a slow burn. It was a fire.

“Marcel,” she said quietly, tugging him aside. “We need to move now. Not just him—everyone in this car goes to the dining car. We’ll do triage there.”

Marcel’s face tightened. “You’re talking about quarantining half the train.”

“I’m talking about containing half the train so we don’t lose all of it.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded, raising his radio. “All crew, we’re executing Protocol Delta. Clear Coach 7 and the dining car links. Move non-essential passengers to Coaches 3 through 6. Instruct them to keep masks on if they have them, cloth over mouth otherwise.”

The PA crackled to life a moment later, Marcel’s voice strained but level. “Ladies and gentlemen, due to a medical emergency, we are temporarily reconfiguring passenger areas. Crew will guide you. Please remain calm and follow instructions.”

Chaos, however, is not calm.

The transfer was a nightmare of flailing arms and shouting voices. Élise directed crew with hand signals, isolating the visibly symptomatic—three more now, including the original man—into the dining car’s galley side. Passengers from Coach 7 were herded into the main seating area, their fear palpable.

And then came the protests.

“We’re not going in there!” a man shouted, shielding a woman and two children behind him. He was older, salt-and-pepper beard, expensive coat. “We were nowhere near him!”

“Sir, you were in the same car,” Élise said, keeping her tone measured. “We need to observe you.”

“Observe us? You’re locking us up with the sick!”

“It’s a precaution,” she insisted. “A few hours of observation.”

The man’s wife—or partner—stepped forward, her face pale. “We… we spoke with him. The first one. At the meet-and-greet. He was very friendly. We shook his hand.”

Élise’s attention snapped to her. “The first victim? The man who collapsed in Coach 3?”

She nodded, eyes wide with fresh fear. “He introduced himself. Said he was in pharma sales. Gave us his card.”

A jolt shot through Élise. *Contact with victim one.* She pulled out the dead man’s contact list—wrinkled, hastily folded—and scanned the four checked names. Two were unfamiliar. But she looked up at the family, and her mind made the connection: the father’s name was on that list. Checked. Clear as day.

“You need to come with us now,” she said, her voice firmer. “All four of you.”

“No!” the father barked. “We’re not sick. The kids are scared enough.”

“Sir, you were in direct contact with a deceased and now confirmed infected individual. You are a risk to everyone on this train.”

“Get away from us!” He shoved his hand out, pushing Élise back a step. The crowd stirred, some taking his side, others shouting for them to go.

Before Élise could respond, the father’s youngest child—a girl of maybe six—coughed. A small, dry cough. Then again. The mother’s face drained of all color. She looked at Élise, and in that look was the terror of certainty.

“Oh god,” the mother whispered. “She was sitting on his lap. At the event. He gave her a lollipop, we thought he was being kind.”

*Contact. Direct. Prolonged.* And the child’s immature immune system was already responding.

Élise’s mind raced. This wasn’t just one cluster. The network was spidering outward: the dead man, the meet-and-greet, the family, the child, now the new symptomatic patient in Coach 7 who had *also* been at the event. The contagion was spreading along contact lines, unchecked, and they had no way to trace everyone.

“All four of you,” she repeated, voice steel. “Now. Or I will have security physically escort you, and that will be far more frightening for your daughter.”

The father’s defiance crumbled. He pulled his children close, and the family shuffled past Élise into the dining car, their eyes hollow.

She watched them go, her chest tight. When she turned, Renaud was standing at the far end of the corridor, arms crossed, watching. His face was unreadable, but his hands—folded beneath his biceps—still trembled faintly. His gaze swept over the quarantined car, over the frightened passengers, over Élise herself. Not the look of a man coordinating a response. The look of a man tallying inventory.

She walked toward him. “You have a problem with how I’m handling this?”

Renaud’s thin lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Not at all, Dr. Fournier. You’re doing exactly what I’d expect.”

“And what’s that?”

“Containing the problem.” He tilted his head toward the dining car. “But you should know—there are more people on this train than are accounted for on the manifest. And at least one of them is in that room.”

He turned and walked away before she could ask who. Marcel appeared at her elbow, breathless, a tablet in his hand. “We’ve got a new problem.”

“What now?”

He turned the screen toward her. “The manifest—there are two entries with no names. Classified passenger compartments. One in First Class. One in Coach 3.”

Élise stared at the screen, her pulse hammering. Coach 3. Where the dead man had been sitting. Where Wilde’s sample came from. Where her stolen files had disappeared.

“Who?” she demanded.

Marcel shook his head. “Security clearance I don’t have. Only Renaud does.”

She looked back down the corridor, but Renaud was already gone, swallowed by the shadows of the train. And somewhere in the choking dark of the tunnel, the air grew thinner, and the list of unchecked names grew longer.