Trish stirs in her sleep, awakening slowly, but surely – completely disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. In her lucid state, she assumed that everything that she had experienced the day before must have been part of a dream. Of course, finding herself in the club, one she could have sworn that she had dreamt up, is enough to get her on edge.

And if that isn't enough, Dez is nowhere to be seen.

She sits up on the couch, tossing the tablecloth, which she had used as a makeshift blanket, aside. She turns her head to the empty sofa chair that her friend had fallen asleep on last night. The impression on the place he sat still fresh, she figures that he must have gotten up just recently. He couldn't have gotten far, now could he?

She slides off the couch, onto her feet, stretching out her torso. She pushes at the bottom of her back with her palms, straightening out her spine. With a couple cricks and cracks, some slightly misaligned vertebrae are popped back into place. It's a wonder she was able to fall asleep at all last night, the couch feeling as rugged as a boulder, and just as stiff.

Wait a second, she pauses as she gathers her thoughts. Sleep. She had fallen asleep. Shit, she curses internally, recalling what she had promised her friend the night before.

"Yeah, I'll keep watch now, Dez. You rest. I got this."

"Y-you sure, Trish? I-I…I don't know if I can even go to sleep. I'm scared."

"Just shut up and go to sleep, you doof!"

"Fine…"

"DEZ!" she calls out to the boy, growing more and more perturbed by the eerie silence following the echo of her own voice. The very un-Dez-like silence. Certainly if he was scoping about, his clumsiness would lead to quite the cacophonous commotion, knowing just how he is. Especially when he's trying his darndest to stay quiet.

Her heart rate speeding up by the second, not just at the thought of her own self being all alone in an uncertain situation – but, frankly, fearful for Dez's sake. The poor boy, as much as he enjoys playing "superhero", would never fare well in an actual combative situation. His inability to fend for himself resulted in Trish taking on the burden of that responsibility. And she's already lost sight of him.

She calms her nerves by humming a tune; one of the songs her bestie had written for her when they were young. Ally's words always managed to somehow encourage her and help her feel at home.

Ally…Trish squints her eyes shut, praying internally for her best friend's safety. And for the safety of her friend, Austin, as well. Knowing them, they're probably looking after each other. Austin's strong enough, Ally's smart enough – they must be okay, she tries to reassure herself. And her family are the De La Rosas – as tough as she is. They'd be fine, as well, right?

"Dez!" she calls him once again. The continued silence sends sharp chills up her back. Where the heck did that whack-a-doodle run off to without telling me?!, she wonders, her mental raging on the verge of being released externally – her fear threatening to come alive as anger. It's the only way she would be able to deal with the situation, if she wishes to keep it together. Anger would save her.

"T-T-T-Trish?" her friend's quivering voice replies as he emerges from the men's room. "I-I was just in the b-b-b-bathroom." He wraps his arms around himself as he continues to shake. "The b-bathrooms here are really cold."

"You idiot, you had me worried for nothing!" she rebukes him as she marches over to release her pent-up fury in the form of a shove. He loses his balance, but manages to catch himself before falling by grabbing onto the short girl's shoulders for support.

"But I had to pee," he explains with a pout. She pries his hands off of her, then drops them from her grasp.

"I don't care. You should've woken me up and told me you were going!" she crosses her arms and sits herself back on the couch. Dez takes a seat back on his sofa chair.

"Trish, you saw something – didn't you?" He leans forward, resting his elbows in his lap. He scans his eyes over her irritable mug, looking for any clues as to what could possibly be going through her mind. "You're scared."

"I am not. And…I-I didn't see anything, you doof," she rebuts, lowering her eyes to cold, tiled floor. She picks up her feet and pulls them under her on the couch for warmth. Dez could practically feel the uncertainty reverberating through her otherwise commanding voice. He hoists his tired frame off of the chair and takes a seat next to her on the couch.

"Look, you have three different ways of calling me 'doof', okay? I know the differences between them," he begins to explain. "There's you doof," he states, his tone caked in bitterness and annoyance. "You say it like that when you're irritable. Or maybe gassy." He scrunches his brows together, attempting to mock her facial expression, as well. Trish rolls her eyes. "Then there's, you doof," he coos, smoothly, a coy smirk upon his face. "You said it like that when you're trying to thank me or something, but you don't wanna actually say it. Or when I make you laugh. The affectionate doof." Trish, eyes half-lid and her rage slowly growing, nudges him with her elbow.

"Just get to the point!" she urges.

"The way you just said 'you doof'," he continues, turning a deaf ear to her temper for the moment. "…That's the nervous 'doof'. The defensive 'doof'. The kind you use when you're unsure. The kind you use when you're scared." He rests a hand on her shoulder. "What are you afraid of? You know something I don't – don't you?" She raises a brow at him, scooting away on the couch. His hand drops from her shoulder in the process.

"The only thing that's scaring me right now is the fact that you pay way too much attention to the way I say things, you doof."

"See!" He snaps his fingers. "That's the angry one," he states smugly, pulling at his suspenders with pride. "I'm good at this." Upon releasing them, they snap back onto his chest. "O-ow." He rubs the stinging, afflicted area. Trish bursts into laughter, louder than she would have allowed herself if she could control it.

"You doof," she states between her giggles as her laughter dies down. Dez points to her.

"There – that's my favorite. The affectionate one. Although, I gotta say, the angry one is pretty funny." He lets out a light laugh. Trish pushes him, albeit playfully, off of the couch.

"You really wanna know what I saw?" she asks, pulling him back up onto the couch by his arm. He nods, leaning forward towards her upon taking his seat again.

"Uh, yeah."

"You're not going to like it. You might not even believe it. Heck, I think I'm just going crazy."

"Well, I already knew that," he teases, his cocky smile returning. The second her eyes hit his with her signature glare, the smirk drops before it even has the chance to fully form.

"I…I think I saw…Well, the guy was limping. And I only saw him for a few seconds between all those people rushing by." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "He looked kinda sickly from what I could tell. I dunno. It creeped me out, but I didn't really get a good look–," she focuses her sight back up at him and finds his eyes enlarged, staring off beyond her.

"Z-zombie," he says softly, his voice sounding strained.

"Well, I don't know if that's what it was, Dez. But yeah, it kinda looked like it." Dez grabs hold of her upper arms. She could hear a strange, guttural sound coming from behind her – and the chills return, piercing their way up her spinal column.

"No, Trish." He forcibly turns her around to match her sight with where his own eyes had been. "Zombie." Her eyes had widened to mirror his, even prior to seeing the beast. The sounds it emitted had done plenty.

Zombies were supposed to look human, weren't they? Too far gone, Trish assumes. Sure, its body certainly replicated the look of a man, but the animalistic way it navigated forward, on all fours, made her question if it really ever was one. Its shoulder blades switch off, up and down, as the skeletal figure approaches them with puma-like movements. The thick, gurgling sound continues to spew through what was left of its mouth – jaw half-gone and its tongue flopped out to the side. The dark green-ish skin just barely coating the flesh-deprived body is translucent. The internal organs inside are visible, pulsating slowly within its bodily chambers. A being beyond one's most vivid nightmares. Those dark, hollow sockets where its eyes must have once been – could it even see them?

"Holy shit!" she screams out, unable to contain herself. Probably the worst possible thing to do with a creature whose hearing had probably been amped up through the lack of sight. It was bad enough that it probably already locked onto their scents. The creature stalks stealthily towards them, gaining speed as it maneuvers around the tables and chairs to reach the two.

Weren't zombies supposed to be slow-moving?

Dez's grip tightens on Trish's arms – frozen in a state of utter terror. Acting quickly, as it turns out Dez would not be able to do the same, she breaks his grasp on her and pulls him up off the couch. Her clasp on his arm fastens as she heads for the barricaded door. She releases her hold on her friend's arm and pushes the furniture out of the way as Dez stands idly – still paralyzed in horror.

"You idiot! Help me out here!" she pleads, glancing back as the creature powers towards them. Its movement had slowed, as if assessing the situation. The anticipation made it all the worse.

"DEZ!" she cries out again, hoping to get through to him this time. He manages to snap out of his trance and grabs hold of the nearest blunt object he could find. A microphone stand. Trish snatches it out of his hands and directs him, "I'll take care of that…Thing. You pick the lock."

Dez gives her a slight nod, still finding it difficult to move. He reaches a trembling hand into his pocket, retrieving one of Trish's bobby pins that he had tucked away in there. His hands have trouble taking hold of the lock, his shaking only getting worse. Trish guards him from behind, hissing at the approaching creature. For the moment, it seems to back off. Dez fumbles with the pin, struggling to direct it into the keyhole of the lock – the creature's gurgling throwing him off all the more.

The skeletal figure draws closer to them, no longer intimidated by the curly-haired girl's snarls. She grinds her teeth, holding the mic stand out in front of her in a defensive position. "Hurry it up, Dez," she hisses at him between her teeth. Sucking in a deep breath, he pulls himself together and manages to get the pin in position.

Click.

At the sound of the lock's release, the ghoulish being launches itself at the girl with a raspy screech.

"Trish!" Dez shrieks, his voice heightening several octaves, turning around with his back against the door. He lets out a stream of air, relieved at the sight before him.

Trish had managed to position the mic stand just right, impaling the creature through its center. The rotting flesh must have been just tender enough.

However, being shish-kabobbed by the stand isn't enough to "kill" this undead being for good. It struggles to break free as Trish keeps her grip on the stand, lowering the creature to the ground, unable to hold it up for too long. It moves up further on the stand, sliding its corpse along the staff – closing in on the girl.

"Dez! Do something! You're the zombie expert – how do we kill this thing?!" she demands, glancing back at her friend.

"Th-the b-b-brain. You g-g-got to decap-pitate it. O-or smash its head in," he stammers, his voice faltering. But that's just what he learned from movies, shows, and comic books. Would it actually work?

"Great. Now go find something to smash its head then, will ya? I can't hold it off that long." She pulls back to avoid the swing of its boney hands. The gurgling gets louder.

"You want m-me to do it?" his eyelids gaping to their fullest, dilated pupils trying to take it all in. This is happening. It's actually happening, he urges himself to realize. Without even needing her to respond, he scopes the room for the best possible object.

"Dez, don't make me ask again – or ugly here will be the least of your problems," the fiery girl threatens, shoving the creature back down half the length of the stand with forceful kick.

Getting the feeling back in his feet, Dez moves swiftly towards the bar. He procures a few bottles off the shelves and rushes back over.

"Dez, I get that you're scared, but this really isn't the time to be having a drink. I didn't even know you did," she comments, raising a brow at him – kicking the creature back again as it drew closer to her.

"I don't. I'm not even old enough, Trish," he rolls his eyes. "Besides, these are empty."

Eye-rolling. Good. He's calming down, Trish notices, hoping that it would last.

He picks up a bottle and aims carefully at the back of the creature's head. He pulls his arm back to swing, but freezes just before making any forward movement.

"Trish," he utters. "This is a person. A human being. What if they can be cured?" He drops his arm. "I can't just kill someone."

"Dez, if I turn into a zombie cause you're too chicken-shit to kill this one, you're gonna be the first I go after – you hear me?!"

"But, Trish…" he starts.

Trish goes for another kick, however this time around, the creature had caught on. Its bony fingers latch onto her foot before impact. "What the–?!" she tries to pull away, but it clenches tighter, widening its partial-jaws over her ankle. "DEZ!" she pleads, her anger washed entirely away by sheer panic.

SMASH.

Bottle one. The creature's turns its head around, now oozing darkened liquid from the skull. It lets out a violent screech at the redheaded boy.

SMASH.

Bottle two. With half its face now smash in, it releases its grip on Trish's leg. She backs up, still gripping onto the mic stand, just in case. The gurgling continues as it reaches a limb out towards the boy.

SMASH.

Bottle three. The beast goes limp. Dez moves in closer, poking at the creature's crushed skull with the remaining part of the bottle held in his hand. No movement. He tosses aside the broken bottle. Trish drops the stand, as well as a breath she did not realize she was holding in.

"Dez, I swear, if you ever have second thoughts about saving my life again, I will k–," she starts berating him, only to have the rest of her words muffled by his chest when he pulls her into his arms. She sighs, wrapping her own around his waist. Resting his head on hers, he sobs into his hair. She rubs his back, attempting to soothe him.

"I'm sorry, Trish," he chokes out. "I'm so sorry."

"C'mon." She releases him, pushing him away. "We can't stay here." He nods, wiping his reddened eyes with his sleeve as he lumbers over to the main entrance. He pulls the lock off the chains, pocketing it for future use. Slipping the chains off of door handles, he turns to Trish.

"Go grab my backpack. It's next to the couch," he instructs her, sniffling as he tries to keep it together. "We should keep these chains, we could use them later." She does as told and retrieves the bag, taking the chains from him and stuffing them inside.

"I found some water bottles earlier, I'm gonna put them in, too." She collects them from the table she had set them down on earlier and packs them into the bag, on top of the chains.

"Any food?" he asks as he takes hold of one of the handles to the double-doored entrance.

"No. Couldn't find any. They must've cleared out the fridges. Lucky us."

"We should probably go find some, then. I'm starving."

"Open the door slowly. We need to check and see if the coast is clear," she advises as she zips up the bag. He nods silently, taking the bag from her with his free hand and swinging it over his shoulder. He pulls lightly and the door effortlessly cracks open, the blinding daylight piercing into the darkness of the club they had grown accustomed to. Squinting his eyes, Dez peers through, assessing their surroundings.

All is clear. All is quiet.

"Alright," he takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, still struggling to prevent himself from having a nervous breakdown. Uncertainty emanating from his voice, he asks, "…Let's go?"

"Let's."