With weak steps, feet just barely planting themselves onto the ground, the lanky ginger stumbles in a rush towards the nearest waste bin. His shaking limbs attempt to lift the lid of the dumpster to no avail. He falls to his knees beside it, hands planted on the ground as he feels a mix of stomach acid, and possibly the remainder of the fries he had eaten the day before, rising up his esophagus. As the sour taste touches his mouth, he reflexively seals his lips for just a moment before letting the bile pour out.

The dark-haired girl rushes to his side, wincing at the sight, her nose wrinkling at the putrid smell. Hesitantly, she kneels beside him and begins rubbing his back. She isn't quite sure how it would help, but she recalls her parents doing so to her anytime she had the stomach flu. It had helped somehow.

Parents. Her face droops at the thought of them. She had tried to avoid any thoughts of her family and friends being in peril. Banishing the thoughts from her mind would be the only way she'd be able to survive…Whatever this is. She cannot let the thoughts cloud her mind. With a shake of her head, she urges her nauseous friend.

"Hurry it up, doof. We can't stay. The smell of your vomit might attract some attention." Upon seeing that he had finished releasing the contents of his stomach, she grips onto the back of his collar and pulls him up off the ground. She can hear the gurgling sounds already, aside from the sounds emanating from Dez's stomach. They're somewhat distant, however if the creatures move as fast as the one they had just witnessed earlier, distance would not be much of a comfort. The duo cannot afford to be detected.

"I-I can't…Tr-Trish, I. I ki-, Trish…" He stumbles over his words, shaking both body and voice. He leans down towards her and grips onto her shoulders for balance. "Tri-I k-kill. I. I killed some-w-one," he tries to assert over the tears he's been choking back.

Slap.

It had happened before she could even plan it. But what else could she do? He was losing his calm.

He raises a hand up to his reddened cheek and stares silently at her, his bright eyes wide with a cocktail of pain, shock, and slight terror. The girl really knows how shut people up.

Trish exhales stiffly, immediate regret flooding her own eyes. She retracts her hand, putting it behind her back as if it would conceal the fact that it was her who had inflicted him.

"I'm sorry, Dez. But you can't be having a breakdown. Not now." She brings her hand back around to her front and holds it out to him – her weapon now her peace offering. He takes it without hesitance, nodding in silent agreement. She tightens her lips, taken aback by him forgiving her so promptly – trusting her wholeheartedly even after she had struck him. It eats away at a part of her.

"It's okay," he reassures. "You're right; I need to keep it together. You don't have to babysit me anymore, I promise." He smiles down at her innocently. Ephemeral the smile is, however, as the guttural groans grow louder still.

"They're close. Let's get outta here," Trish whispers harshly, gripping onto his hand and pulling him along with her as she moves in the opposite direction of the growing clamor.

"Wait." Dez tugs at her hand abruptly, stopping them both. "You got any gum?"

"What?" Trish's demands quietly, her perplexed expression calling forth an explanation.

"Gum. Y'know, cause my breath smells like puke," he elaborates. She rolls her eyes up, mouthing the words 'help me' to no one in particular, before reaching into her pocket to procure what he asked for. For the best, probably, she decides, not wanting to have to deal with his bile-breath, either.

"Trish, I'm tired," the boy whines, seating himself down on a crate set against a brick wall in the alleyway. He leans his back against the wall, the straps of his backpack hanging off his exhausted shoulders. "We've been on the move for hours and we didn't even eat anything. When are we gonna stop and find food?"

"Dez, it's only been one hour. I think. And I just wanted to make sure we lost those…Things. Now, shush." She holds up a hand in front of her to silence him, then tilts her head to the side as she listens. She raises her brows at the sound of heavy, rapid breathing nearby – sounding nothing like the monsters they were trying to escape – before realizing that the wheezing had been coming from her friend.

"Dez, are you okay?" She rushes over to his side, grabbing hold of his arms. He nods, looking down at his fidgeting hands.

"Just felt another…Panic attack coming on. I got it under control, don't worry." He buries his face in his hands, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. Trish releases him, but continues to observe with great concern.

"I think we lost them. We can start looking for food now," she obliges to his earlier request. "But, it'll be tricky…We can't just bust into any store, the alarms will go off – calling in every creeper within a five-mile radius, probably." He nods, hands still over his face. She hears his breathing steady itself. She pulls his backpack off of his shoulders, slinging it over her own. "I'll carry the bag. You look like you're gonna faint."

"Thanks, Trish," he drops his hands from his face. His watery eyes look up to her, redness surrounding them. He smiles appreciatively.

"Dez, you don't have to feel bad about what you had to do earlier. I mean…Besides, if you didn't, that thing woulda killed me. And you don't want that on your conscience, either," she warns him, shifting the backpack around until it felt, at least, semi-comfortable. The chains within the bag feel substantially irritable to the girl, through the thin fabric. She wonders why Dez hadn't complained sooner.

"I know." He pauses, running a hand through his sweaty locks. "You're right. But, I mean, it was a person, Trish."

"You need to stop thinking like that, Dez. Even if it wasn't a zombie or whatever – if they're trying to kill you, you need to defend yourself. And sometimes that means killing them before they do you in," she continues, gripping him by the shoulders, once again, and shaking him lightly back and forth. She has to get through to him, somehow. He looks on over her shoulders, unphased by the shaking. "Dez, are you listening to me?" the girl demands.

"I hear voices." He pulls her arms down, releasing the hold she had on his shoulders, then rises from the crate. Following the voices, he starts down the alleyway, leaving Trish behind.

"Wait, you doof!" she whisper-yells, chasing after him.

He ignores her command and pushes on, towards the end of the alleyway. The top of a slide appears – and he presumes that it must be a playground. A stack of boxes block the view partially at the end of the alley, but getting around them would likely not be too much of a hassle. He peers over one of the shorter stacks, tension releasing from his body.

People.

Non-zombified people.

Two men, specifically. One, a meek-looking fellow, with a build similar to his own, wearing a bandana in what looked like the US flag print. The dirt and grime makes it hard to be certain. His clothing – as rugged as the bandana. The other, a heftier man in a dark blue, pinstripe suit – small, dark stains scattered on the lower part of the coat, as well as the trousers. What looked like a pair of handcuffs dangles from his belt, along with an assortment of other things Dez cannot quite make out due to the distance. In his hands, the large man wields an equally-as-grand axe. Lucky them, Dez notes. The best we could find was a plastic butter knife.

Eager to run up and introduce himself, he starts climbing over one of the smaller stacks of boxes, until he finds himself pulled back by a small, yet forceful, hand. "Wha-?!" he begins to shout out, before another hand clamps over his mouth. Trish, he infers from the scent of mint and eucalyptus – the unmistakable smell of her hand sanitizer.

"Shhh!" she silences him, and continues to rebuke him in sharp, hushed tones. "What do you think you're doing? Did you not listen to what I said at all?"

"But Trish, they're people," he rebuts, mimicking her tone. Trish releases him, moving towards the boxes to take a look for herself, pushing herself up on her toes to get a proper look. She points off to the side of a building, closest to the two men. She turns her head to face Dez.

"Look," she orders him, turning her facing forward. He moves over to her side, his eyes following the path of her finger. "You see those there? Lying against the wall behind the guys?" she asks, nudging him with her shoulder. Dez squints his eyes to get a better look. Long, sleek-looking artillery lay against the building, with small boxes stacked around them – what he could only assume is ammo.

"Guns?" he asks, turning to face her.

"Yes, you doof. Assault rifles. I mean, the axe, I understand…But an AK-47? And what looks like some sorta M16? Now look at them – do they look like they're wearing uniforms of any kind?" Dez glances at the two men, then turns back to her, shaking his head.

"Exactly. Everyone else is gone. Yet here these two guys are – staying behind with military-grade weapons and no uniforms. Now doesn't that seem suspicious to you?" she asks in more of a commanding rather than questioning tone. Dez shrugs.

"Maybe they're just luckier than us and found better weapons. You can't just assume, Trish," he argues, moving her aside so that he could proceed. He looks over the boxes as he lifts his leg up to begin the small climb over them. Upon doing so, he spots a third person down on his knees in front of the other two.

"Dez, you better–" Trish stops herself, mid-sentence, upon hearing a blubbering voice – someone clearly in tears.

"Please…I told you where I hid the stuff…I didn't mean to steal it – I didn't know it was your stash, please…" The man on the ground seems desperate, and Dez grows wary. Trish debates internally with herself, whether or not she should watch the scene or just pull her friend away.

"What do you think Ray? Should we let him off the hook?" the larger man consults his smaller partner.

"What? And just let all of his buddies think they can get away with stealing from us. No, I don't think so, Sam." Ray shakes his head, cracking his knuckles as he stares down the man on his knees before them. Dez pulls his leg back, continuing to watch the scene over the boxes. Trish joins beside him, her curiosity getting the best of her.

"Please, please don't do this…I'll give you anything!" the sobbing man begs, leaning forward and touching his forehead to the ground in front of him, in prostration.

"Oh, now you're just making it too easy for us." Ray signals to the larger man with a nod. Sam hoists up the axe, aims, and before the groveling man could look up again, gravity does the dirty work.

Dez falls backward onto the ground behind him, just before the axe hits its target. He winces upon hearing the sound of the impact, hoping that it would drown out the sound of his fall. Trish continues to stare at the scene. Even with all of the distrust she had built up from assessing the situation earlier, she would not have been able to predict this. She pries her eyes away from the gushing mess, staggering backwards and nearly tripping over Dez's form, now in fetal position on the ground.

With a huff, she pulls the boy to his feet, hoisting him up from the underarms. She tugs at his sleeve, jerking her head towards another path off their current alleyway. She proceeds towards it. Dez follows – wordlessly, without resistance.

"Dez, talk to me," Trish implores the boy, who had remained silent for the past half hour or so as they navigated their way through the alleys, in search of some means of sustenance. So unusual it is for him to stay as mute as he had been. After what they had just witnessed, she had expected another breakdown – but nothing. It is no secret to her that he had been doing everything in his power to suppress his emotions. Which is good, right?, she second-guesses herself. What am I so worried about?

After what seemed like an eternity, he speaks up, looking onward. "Trish…You see what I'm seeing?" She follows his line of sight, spotting the open door to what looked like the back of a restaurant.

"It's already open. Which means…No alarms, right?" he asks, turning to her – looking feeble and desperate, licking away at his chapped lips. She could hear his stomach growl, somehow causing hers to do the same. Before he could even manage to take a step towards the door, she blocks him with her hand.

"Not yet. There could be creepers in there. We can't just barge in – we need to prepare." She scopes the premises for anything that could possibly be used as a weapon. She eyes a rusty pipe lined along the side of an ancient-esque building. Dropping the backpack, she heads on over. She crouches down, wraps her digits around the base and begins to pull. "Get over here, Dez!" she calls out. He rushes over and crouches behind her, positioning his hands just under hers on the pipe and his right foot on the wall, in order to gain more leverage. He pulls along with her, with whatever little strength he has left.

Eventually exhausted by the strain, Trish releases the pipe, her palms reddened and irritated as a result. She lays her head back onto her friend's chest. Dez continues pulling. The stubborn pipe remains, slightly loosened, perhaps, but overall – unmoved.

"Dez, leave it. It's not going to budge." The girl slinks her way out under his arms as he resumes, just as stubborn as the pipe. She notices the way his face had yellowed from weakness, and takes hold of his hands which continue to adamantly cling on to the piece of metal. She pries his hands away, digging her nails into them in order to get them to release.

"Yow!" he yelps out, rubbing the back of his hands. "Did you have to use your nails?" Ignoring his cries of pain, she proceeds, hesitantly, towards a low window. With a deep breath, she positions her elbow up against the glass in the pane. She pulls it back as she steadies her breathing and closes her eyes.

"Trish, what're you–?" Before Dez can finish, the girl smashes her elbow through the pane, shattering the glass. She winces. Not as easy as they make it seem in the movies.

"Trish!" the boy rushes to her aid. "Why would you do that?! You're bleeding, look!" He takes her bare arm and plucks out the few pieces of glass that had been slightly lodged beneath her skin. Acting quickly, he uses one of the larger pieces of glass to help him tear some of the fabric off the bottom of his shirt. Wrapping the piece of cloth around her wound, he continues reprimanding her. "Trish, are you thinking straight? Why would you do this to yourself? And you coulda set off some alarms, too!"

The girl pulls her arm away abruptly after Dez had just finished tying up the cloth-wrap around it. She bends down, picking up the two largest glass shards she could find.

"Now we got some semi-decent weapons," she states, handing off one the shards to him. "You're welcome."

"Wh–"

"–Remember, Dez. You see a creeper, you aim for the head. Kick it away to throw it off, then just–"

"–Please don't pull anymore stunts like that. We don't have any proper bandages or ointments or anything. What if your cuts get infected? I mean, I guess we can use your hand sanitizer…But what if tiny pieces of glass have already–?"

"–I'm fine, Dez. Now let's go get some food in you before you start hallucinating from hunger. Remember that one time? The whole thing with the goose?"

"Don't remind me." He sighs. "Alright, then. Ladies first." He gestures for her to start. She rolls her eyes.

"What a gentleman," she snarks, coldly. She peeks in through the slightly-ajar door, leaning and listening in to check for any strange noises. Comforted by the silence, she kicks the door wide open and slips into the darkness. Dez scoops up his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder as he follows her in, much more cautiously than she.

"It's hard to see in here," he complains, scanning his eyes across the room.

"Your eyes will adjust. Pretty sure this is the kitchen. There's gotta be food around here somewhere…Check the top shelves and cupboards, I got the bottom cabinets." She proceeds excavating, gripping the glass shard in her hand, mildly slicing through the skin of her palm. It doesn't take long before Dez makes a find.

"I've got croutons and soup crackers here…Oh! And some…Jam?" He drops his backpack onto the ground, setting his glass shard down on the counter. He stuffs the two boxes and the jam jar into his bag, worrying about how crammed it's getting. "Hey, you think we can use these chains we got at the club as some sorta weapon? 'Cause I'm not sure what we could use them for."

"Maybe…You'll need to know how to wield them properly, though," Trish inputs, looking through the lower cabinets. "Let's see…Maraschino cherries…Peanuts…And here's some…" she frowns. "Pickles." Ally. Scenarios of her best friend in danger flash through her mind like a horror movie trailer. She shifts around uncomfortably on her knees.

"You okay, Trish?" Dez leans back, to get a better look at her.

"Yeah, I'll be – DEZ! LOOK OUT!" she shrieks in alarm as she sees the skeletal figure looming over the boy. Dez turns around and leans backwards, sliding his back against the lower cabinets and falling to the ground. The creature closes in, barely making a sound the whole time, its boney jaws opening and closing as it nears him. Dez reaches his hand up to grab his shard off the counter, only to retract it as the monster snaps at him, just barely missing his arm. Trish jumps on top of one of the counters in front of her and attempts to steer away its attention.

"Hey, ugly!" She waves her arms, beckoning the creature towards her. Now distracted, it turns its mug to face her – giving Dez just enough opportunity. He swipes his shard off the counter, hopping back up onto his feet. In one quick movement, he hammers the glass piece down onto the stalker's head. The creature struggles, jaws wide open as if screeching, but not the slightest noise escapes. Dez pushes the glass in deeper, piercing through the tender skull – gritting his teeth and trying his best not to look away. Trish jumps from counter to counter, rushing over to assist him.

The creature does not seem to want to give in and starts grabbing at him, just barely missing as Dez maneuvers his body away with each swipe. His hand remains in place, still gripping onto the remaining portion of the glass still sticking out. Trish joins him finally, taking her own piece and plunging it into the other side of the being's head. After a few more moments of struggling, clawing at them both, the stalker finally goes limp. The duo emit a simultaneous sigh of relief, pulling out their gooey shards and letting the corpse collapse onto the kitchen floor. Dez, shaking beyond control, collapses onto his knees beside it, releasing the shard from his hand.

Trish shakes her head, her mind flooding with doubt. How am I supposed to watch this ginger twenty-four-seven? She kneels beside him, setting her own piece of glass down next to his, and engulfs him in an embrace. He nestles his head into the space between her neck and shoulder, trying to steady his breathing. She rubs his back, hoping to God that he would not have another fit. It's likely that they'll have to deal with much worse along the way, she presumes. How can she possibly manage to always be there to save him or calm him down?

He pulls away from her, rubbing his eyes. "That one w-was quiet," he stammers, setting his hands down in his lap. She can tell he's doing everything he can to remain stable. "Th-there are quiet w-ones, Trish. We won't be able to hear the-em c-c-c-coming."

"Then we need to stay on full alert until we can find some sort of safehouse." She pushes herself back onto her feet, holding out a hand for him. He takes it, and she pulls him up off the floor. "Let's stuff as much as we can into your bag and get out of here."

"And maybe find another bag. We could use all the food we can carry." He procures a few more small boxes of assorted dry foods off of the counter and crams them into his bag.

"Dez…You know I can't always be there to protect you, right? It's not that I won't try. Or that I don't want to…It's just…" Trish trails off, looking down at her cut-up hands in shame.

"–I know. It's okay, Trish. Like I said, you don't have to babysit me." He gives her a weak smile, which she reciprocates with uncertainty.