𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐃 → 𝑫. 𝑫𝑰𝑿𝑶𝑵

I. Where Did The Party Go?

CHAPTER ONE
WHERE DID THE PARTY GO?

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HOW DOES ONE ADAPT TO the end of times? How does an individual stare into the eyes of the dead, shove a knife into it's brains, feel the blood kiss their skin, and make it a regular affair in their everyday lives? How could you make that world your world and learn to take it with a grain of salt?

Is it even possible?

Calla Stark was edging toward no — it wasn't possible. Granted, the world had only gone to shit three weeks ago and she'd not taken a single step out of the hospital she had once worked at. What had once been a vast compound of medical professionals and civilians was now a ghost house — dead bodies scattered the floor, blood spilled over the tiles and painted the walls a terrible rusted red-brown color which, Calla just had to say, did not match well with the soft shade of baby blue wallpaper.

Above her, the lights flickered — too soft to be considered a strobe light but aggressive enough so it sent chills down her spine. It casted a light over the halls that made Calla's shadow appear like more of a lingering demon than her own shady reflection. From the surgical rooms, a scalpel is her only choice of weapon, and as her fingers tightened over the skinny metal handle of her weapon, her entire body shook.

The Stark woman was sure — almost one-hundred-percent positive that this hall had been cleared two weeks ago, after she'd finally gained enough nerve to step out of hiding from a hospital room with one of her more personally assigned patients. It was pure luck that there hadn't been many. The other dead ones, though, Calla hadn't quite gotten to them yet — she didn't plan on getting to them at all, really. Not by herself, at least.

Good thing she wasn't alone.

Calla rummaged through a labeled bin of medications — upon searching the hospital rooms three weeks ago, she'd come across just one patient in a room that'd been left alive and, for the most part, unscathed.

His reports had been his only source of information: Grimes; Fetal gunshot wound to the abdomen; unresponsive/unstable. He was alive as far as she knew, and she planned on keeping it that way. It was one thing to be stuck in this damned hospital, all alone with no clue as to what the world was looking like outside the premises, but going out there defenseless and alone? That was even worse.

Calla wouldn't do that. Mainly because the woman just wasn't brave enough. She settled with waiting for the man to wake up from his coma — assuming he would ever wake up — and coming up with a game plan only then. Because, again, she was too much of a coward to go out and face the world that'd been conquered by the dead to do it alone.

The hospital, as usual, was dead silent. Other than the distant groaning of the dead from outside the windows — some stuck in the rooms they'd died in — Cal heard nothing but the sound of her breathing and her own pounding heart in her chest. She spent most of her time in the same room as Grimes when she wasn't out looking for food, water and medication. Leaving it, coming out into the hospital which was now drenched with the scent of death, always had her heart threatening to slip out of her ribcage and her stomach twisting in knots.

So you could only assume how she reacted upon hearing the sound of feet padding unsteadily against the tiles, followed by whimpering and ragged breaths.

Calla stopped what she was doing, snatching her scalpel from the ground beside her and standing to her feet. Her eyes were wide, she was biting her lip in an attempt to keep her breathing under control, and before she could peer around the corner at the source of sound that'd alarmed her, a man turned the corner. The same man she'd been looking out for, for weeks.

He stopped in his tracks, Calla was frozen behind the receptionist desk, not knowing what might be running through his head — gunshot wounds weren't the most common of sorts; not unless it was a criminal that was cursed with burden of baring it.

"Miss?" He croaked, reaching out a hand. The young woman was tense where she stood, holding out her petty weapon as a silent threat. "Miss, I-I don't–I'm not gonna hurt you."

Calla swallowed dryly, she believed him. Almost. She just couldn't be sure.

"You're awake," She barely whispered. "It's about time."

Grimes leaned on the desk for support, swaying as he spotted the mangled corpse sprawled on the ground of the waiting room. Tears brimmed in his eyes — whether from the pain of his wound or the unnatural scenery before him, Calla couldn't tell.

He shook his head, "What happened here?"

Δ

"ABOUT FIVE WEEKS," The young woman continued, "That's how long you've been out. It all went down three weeks ago, that's how long I've been here."

The silence didn't stay long, but Rick didn't break his stare at the water bottle Calla had saved for him as he said, "You didn't leave?"

The woman shook her head. "When the military came, I hid in one if the rooms under a bed. Didn't wanna get shot down like the others — thought I'd be able to get out and find my family when those guys were gone. I went looking for others, but everyone was either dead or dying. Then I found you."

The man shook his head, disbelievingly before burying his face in his hands — whether because he wanted to cry or because everything Calla was telling him was bringing on a nightmare of a headache, the Stark woman didn't know. For all she knew, she was beginning to reek of blood and death just like the bodies out in the corridors and it was starting to irk him.

"My family," Rick mutter into his palm, "I have to find my family — my wife, my son."

"Okay," She nodded. "But, we should wait. You're wound, you aren't well enough–"

"No, this–this can't wait," He uttered. "I need to find them–"

"That's too much of a risk, Mr. Grimes, you're still hurt–"

"Rick. And you can't change my mind," He said, and he said it so sternly that Calla was afraid to argue. His blue eyes — as kind and sorrowful and terrified as they were — pierced hers, and she was sure that arguing was useless at that point. He was a family man, nothing mattered more to him than finding his wife and son. Calla couldn't blame him. She wanted nothing more than to find her own family, but they'd be on the other side of the state and that was assuming they hadn't left their area.

"Okay," the woman finally agreed, nodding. "Okay."