"Guess he was close enough that time," Emily said, slinging the smoking AR-15 back over her shoulder as she turned toward the entrance to the room.

Tristen scrambled into the dorm on all fours. His hands bleeding profusely from all the broken glass in the lobby. His face was exceptionally pale—a combination of always having to wear the mask and pure, unfiltered terror. He slid up against a wall and clutched at his chest, hyperventilating. With shaking hands, he reached into his pocket and pulled out an inhaler, jamming it into his mouth and sucking in eager breaths.

Emily was at his side. "Are you shot? Bit? Where's the blood coming from?"

He held up his hands, showing his deeply gouged palms. "No. Just the glass. I'm... not shot. Or bit. Just... hold on a second," he panted. "Need to breathe..."

Emily cut the electrical tape at his wrists and stroked his cheek comfortingly. "Okay. You know," she tilted her head to the side, examining Tristen, "you're not bad to look at without the mask," she said quietly.

"My mask!" he choked, moving to stand up.

Emily kept him on the ground, holding his shoulders. "I think you're okay. If you haven't turned by now, I think you're good."

"How do I know?"

"Do you want to eat me?" Emily asked, raising an eyebrow salaciously. Tristen squinted as though he didn't understand. "Let me rephrase... do you want to consume me?"

He thought for a second. "Uh... no?"

"Then you're fine. We'll circle back to the eating thing later," she said, patting his shoulder. "Once we find Roy and blow his fucking head off."

Jane crouch-walked over to the two, shaking her head at Emily. "Jesus, you're just like Frank—always thinking with your dick." Then to Tristen, "Are the other kids okay?"

"They're... tied up."

"How many zombies?" she asked.

"Uh... five... maybe. Or six."

"Do they have weapons?"

Tristen nodded, unable to get any more words out around his ragged breathing. His thin face was dotted with spots of blood and dirt, bright lines were drawn through the grime where his tears had begun to dry up.

"They killed Sam. Ate him," Tristen squeaked.

Jane stood up. Her countenance oozing determination.

"And not in the good way, I expect," Emily said. "Frank! What are they doing?"

Frank had stayed stationed by the window, rifle at the ready, prepared to engage if and when they brought out another kid. "I don't see anyone moving."

"Then we need to get out there. Find Roy and kill that fucker," Emily said.

"Emily! This is about more than your personal vendetta! We need to get those kids. We can't just rush out there all willy-nilly and hope they don't shoot us. We need a plan."

"I fucking know that Frank! Excuse me for being a little short-sighted about wanting to murder that rapist fuck-face out there. I know we need to get the kids. That was implied. So, what's the plan General Patton?"

"Just... let me think for a second." He started absently stacking shards of glass on the floor, blood still dripping off his hands. He wiped his hands on his jeans.

"What the fuck? Do you want some clothes to fold too?" Emily chided.

He realized what he was doing and looked up. "Right. Okay... let's..." he scanned the room. "Where's Jane?"