Author's Note: Agghhhhh fghfgh. I'm so sorry this chapter is late as hell. I've had serious writer's block, as always. My knack for fanfics has gone down terribly... :/ Please enjoy this chapter. R&R

CHAPTER 6: Pretty Boy Blues

Rochelle ran into the bathroom, locking the door and slamming her back against it. She panted heavily.

"Man…"

She checked each stall for any corpses, finding none. Walking up to the sink and peering into a mirror, she looked at herself in silent terror. Look like shit, she thought, rubbing her cheeks and smoothing her hair down.

From everything other than the deep bite in her wrist that was bleeding like a motherfucker, she was fine. Perfectly healthy - as a horse, one would say.

Rochelle let out a slow breath, unraveling the soggy bandage from her wounded wrist. When she tossed the wrap into a nearby garbage can she winced. The sight - and smell - of the bite was unbearable.

Sad thing was that she knew she only had a few more hours and she'd be one of the undead.

The walls are closing in, she thought in a rush of panic, adrenaline coursing through her veins and pulsing painfully in her temples. Her eyes darted around the room, eyesight sharpening tenfold.

The hell…?

Letting loose a moan like if she were shivering from the cold, her skin color faded into a dull caramel and her irises shifted to a pale cerulean.


Nick trolled the streets of Savannah. He'd lost Rochelle and Coach. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"Oh joy."

No zombies in the vicinity, he thought dryly, taking a moment to attempt to gather his thoughts that had scattered horribly ever since the zombie apocalypse began.

And - being the smart, suave man he is - he knew better than to scream. It'd lure the blood-hungry undead that were lurking around in the shadows.

Not realizing where he was walking, he stepped into a puddle of human (he pondered the thought) entrails. They squished upon impact of his foot. Raising his precious foot in the air, taking another horrible, squishy step into guts, he cursed and jumped back into a parking meter, eliciting a loud clang and rumble of coins from within the device.

"Fuck," Nick growled, clenching his fists and rubbing his shoulder. Damn that parking meter, Nick thought.

Moans of the undead sounded from yards away, and Nick felt his skin crawl. Run, fast, now, go.

His russet-colored pretty boy loafers took off on the sidewalk, so fast they were bound to leave skid marks. The wild screeching grew closer.

"Son of a bitch-"

Nick crashed into a random store, stumbling through the aisles and picking a staircase to climb. Hopefully those fucks don't follow me, he thought as he began to think about his dire need for ammunition.

He slammed the door and locked it, jumping a few feet back and staring at the slab of metal that divided him from the ravenous undead. Nick rubbed the side of his face, feeling stubble. Time to shave, he thought absently.

A frenzy of earsplitting pangs and pounds sounded from the other side of the door. Nick mentally groaned, trying to keep quiet to see if they'd go away. After a few minutes of pure banging, the noise stopped. All he heard was silence.

Silence was nice.

He turned around and looked at the room he was standing in: it had three windows, big and easy to jump out of… onto the street… from about twenty feet in the air. He doubted he could land it and not break his legs.

Nick swore he could hear the dramatic music begin to play.

Loud rumbling footsteps were heard from the bottom of the stairs, and he knew what was coming for him. "A God damned Tank?" he growled, fingering the trigger on his magnum as he weighed his options.

Shoot the fat fuck or jump out the window. Shoot the fat fuck or jump out the window…

With one immediate punch to the door, the Tank busted through, sending Nick on his back a few feet. He cursed out loud as there was no point in being quiet at that moment.

"Fuck fuck fuck."

He scrambled to his feet and chose the closest window. He leapt forward and shielded his face, a blind fall to the ground. Nick opened his eyes right before his body made contact with the concrete, and somersaulted into a stop. His back and ass felt the lovely ache of free-falling.

"Remind me to never do that again," he told himself, rising painfully and dashing down the street, the roars of the Tank in the background sending his neck hairs stiff.