Pain dripped into his pool of consciousness like a leaky faucet. Dreadfully antagonizing but he could manage. Then suddenly someone turned the pressure on full and he jolted awake with a series of rasped coughs.

His wrists and ankles felt heavy and he couldn't move. His aching mind swirled as the events of the past three days came running back to him, an eager child to his parent, and he tugged weakly at his bonds.

The ropes wouldn't snap, loosen or even fray in the slightest. She kicked, thrashed, bit, scratched, sobbed, screamed. They laughed. She might as well have been a stressed hummingbird mindlessly battering itself against a window pane.

Her chest hurt.

Her arms, hands, legs, feet.

Her head.

Everything. Fucking. Hurt.

She curled in on herself from her knelt position in an attempt to lessen the agony. As one reached for her she spit crimson saliva in his face and it earned her a shattered rib, an already beginning to bruise eye socket and a steady blood flow from her left nostril. A chipped molar bounced across the concrete, rolling into the shadows, leaving a wispy blood trail. Red blood cells and salt water dampened her cheeks as she stared at the cold, dark, bare floor, peering into her own soul.

It mocked him. This is what happens when you make selfish, careless decisions, he thought. It comes back to you three times over.

He felt scabs beginning to form over the plethora of injuries that littered his face, arms and torso. About a half of a liter of his own blood pooled around the chair he was molded to. "Why don't you fucking cowards untie me and fight me?!" the raspy sound bounced off the walls.

"Maybe you would, if you weren't such sons of b-" the sound of harsh skin contact echoed sharply through the cell and her head snapped aside from the rage induced blow. She laughed humourlessly and spit a dark globule onto the floor beside her with a sick splat. "Fuck me, I actually felt that one. You aren't a bunch of girls after all."

"What are a few teeth? Not much to eat around here anyway." he muttered, coughing violently and doubling over as crimson dripped from his lips. He stayed curled over; the pressure bearing down on his broken ribs let up that way. "Don't suppose you bastards have a cough drop or two?"

"No, but we've got something else you can occupy your mouth with." They all snickered, elbowing each other and her stomach did a backflip. "I'd rather die." "Oh, inevitably, in a week or two. Your friend, however..."

Her chest tightened. "You have what you want. Let him go." she rasped, and she could feel the repetitive drip, drip, drip of blood into her lungs, her internal clock ticking down with every drop.

"Why don't you fuckers show yourself?!" he challenged again, his head still resting on his shaking kneecaps. His vision was blurring in and out, and he could swear he felt his snapped rib scraping against his lung membrane. He watched the blood swirl around him growing, slowly crawling away.

He was walking, walking down the stairs, down the hallway, knock knock knocking on eternity's door, the sound echoing in his head. He felt Death answer and peer out with empty, soulless eyes just as his own lids crashed down like a broken curtain.

"Now, that would be no fun. But we're done with him. We'll let the biters have the remains." Her mind began to race and any colour left in her face drained all the way down to her toes and onto the floor, joining the rest.

One of them noted it and grinned maliciously. "You think we kept him alive? What for?"
"What do you have to gain from lying?" her voice wavered despite how hard she tried to keep it steady.

"Lying? Not to a lady." one mocked and another flicked on a white, blinding light that she only saw for a second or two until her sluggish reflexes kicked in and her eyes squeezed shut. Orange blotches floated around her blackened vision, distracting her from the pain and for a minute she was content; that is, until she worked up the energy to face reality and wrench them open.

There was a glass pane a foot up in front of her, like a window to another cell. On the other side was a slouched and blood caked Morgan, motionless in his chair, head down. It was silent for a moment.

The sound that burst from her sounded like a fatally wounded animal and it was followed by a long string of hateful insults.

She was a typhoon. Large, angry. Hateful. Swirling with relentless rage; her strength was none compared to the several holding her down. But, she pushed on, refusing to stop until her bonds vanished, the bastards vanished; every human, every zombie, everything; vanished.

No matter how many wishes or pleas she sent to whatever powers had long abandoned them were unheard and she finally stilled. She was a sea born shell. Hollow, empty. Weathered. Cracked.

A harsh wave hit in the form of a calloused hand, sending her tumbling across the rocky beach and she plunged into the unforgiving waters - the cold, black, bottomless depths.