A high pitched whirring rang through the room it was unbearably piercing and it demanded attention like a crying child.
Her hand slid from beneath the warmth of the duvet, fondling and pressing the various buttons on the alarm clock, before her eyes had even opened. Even after jabbing her index finger at the snooze button several times the affronting squeal of the alarm refused to desist. Her eyes flew open and her pupils dilated adjusting to the darkness of her bedroom. Though it was hardly what you would call a bedroom it was more of a cell.
Set into the wall were two identical rectangular coves one on top of each other which, with a thin mattress and duvet, served as a bunk bed within the concrete wall. Each of the coves had a small ledge cut into the cinder block acting as a shelf: the lower shelf was home to an alarm clock, a toothbrush, a comb and a small knife whereas the upper shelf held nothing. She threw of her covers and her hand was immediately gripping the handle of the knife. She slipped the knife into her pocket and stumbled over to the chest of drawers pushed up against the wall adjacent to the sleeping compartments and grabbed the baseball bat which lay on top of the dresser. She felt the blood-stained wood in her hands it was light and smooth but definitely not at home.
Her footsteps took her to the door and before she knew it her right hand was grasping the door handle. She exhaled deeply blowing loose strands of blonde hair out of her face. Her grip on the door handle tightened and so did the grasp of the butterflies which were raging war in her stomach almost forcing themselves up through her throat wanting to burst out her mouth she swallowed them back and pulled the door open.
The intense shriek of the alarm paired with the bright lights of the corridor in contrast to her dim cell was like a sharp slap in the face. She recoiled from the chaotic hallway covering her eyes to let them customize themselves to the harsh light. She stood in the doorway and watched as the sea of people flooded past her in a wild frenzy all carrying a myriad of assaulting weapons and dressed in coloured variations of her deep blue flannel pyjamas the image might even be comical if it was any other circumstances. Even children as young as 8 were equipped with kitchen knives or and a whole set of questionable clearly homemade armaments.
Just then a little girl holding a mace made out of tiny knives driven through the end of a piece of wood and wearing lime green pyjamas started to tug on her hand. The colours of their pyjamas were the only thing they had a choice in she had chosen deep blue for her own pyjamas because it reminded her of the night; the night sky that she had not seen for months. The night is never black there is always promise of light so for her it was the colour of hope the colour of possibilities.
"Rose," the little girl began her voice melodic but riddled with fret "I forgot where we are meant to go" she gasped "everyone is running around everywhere and someone hit my knee with their makeshift axe thing and it started bleeding," tears started rolling down her flushed cheeks. Rose Tyler was never one to walk away from a crying child particularly not this one. Rose had cut her ties from almost everyone she lived alone in her cell and spoke to no one: no one except this one little girl. Amelia was the girls name but she had forced Rose to call her Amy – 'Amy sounds nicer it's not so girly' she had said and Rose had agreed even though she had loved the name Amelia.
"That's alright mate you can come with me," returned Rose squeezing the girls hand reassuringly "let's have a look at that knee then, shall we?"
Amy gave out a teary nod letting her red hair fall into her face over her milky pale cheeks. Rose had always been in awe of Amy's gorgeous ginger hair it was bright like searing heat of a camp fire in winter or the insistent beating of the sun on her back - it reminded her of things that she thought she would never have again. Rose let go of Amy's hand and knelt down at her feet and lifted up the pyjama trouser leg which she noticed on closer inspection had a small rip which was stained with blood on the fraying edges.
The laceration was short and shallow nothing too serious in normal circumstances. However, these were not normal circumstances. The creatures were slow; they ambled aimlessly; they were stupid but they could smell blood and if you were bleeding you were caught.
You had nowhere to hide