Ever since his face and neck had basically been flayed open by the creatures, Randall had been staying in the clinic.
Specifically, in the open basement where they had managed to set up a small room for him.
It wasn't much, but compared to the bus, it almost felt luxurious.
A surprisingly comfortable bed. A battered bedside table with a dim lamp. Four solid walls that didn't rattle with every gust of wind.
Most importantly, no giant windows.
No endless stretches of glass that couldn't be covered, forcing him to stare into the darkness every single night while knowing those things were staring right back.
No seeing the creatures every night
The only eye-level window was the small pane built into the basement door.
Through it, he could currently see Marielle frantically rummaging through the medicine cabinet.
Drawers slammed open. Bottles rattled. Cabinets banged shut.
She looked desperate.
Which meant someone was hurt.
Badly.
That cabinet held the stronger medications, the supplies they tried not to waste unless they absolutely had to.
He watched as she hurried back upstairs with an armful of painkillers, gauze, a clean sheet, IV supplies, and only God knew what else.
Yeah.
Someone was definitely in bad shape.
Randall leaned back against his pillow with a quiet sigh.
He just hoped it wasn't someone he actually knew.
Really hoped so.
A few seconds later, the sounds reached him.
Muffled at first.
Then louder.
Someone screaming.
Kristi's voice cut through the noise, calm but strained as she tried to reassure whoever was on the table. Even she sounded scared, which wasn't something Randall heard often.
Boyd was shouting orders to someone.
Footsteps pounded across the clinic floor.
Metal trays clattered.
More screams echoed through the building, raw enough to make even Randall flinch.
Eventually, they faded into weak groans.
Then silence.
Randall didn't mind waiting.
People assumed he was the kind of guy who had to act immediately, always charging headfirst into everything.
Most of the time, they were right.
He was just like that in every other aspect of life.
But tragedy...
Tragedy could wait.
There wasn't much you could do while people were still trying to save someone.
So he waited.
Only after the clinic had gone quiet did he finally push himself out of bed.
His cheek immediately protested.
The movement pulled at the dozens of stitches that held his torn skin together, sending a sharp sting across his face and down his neck.
"...Shit."
He winced, rolling one shoulder before making his way upstairs.
The clinic was eerily quiet now.
The examination room stood empty.
Bloody bandages overflowed from a trash bin.
The metallic smell of fresh blood still hung thick in the air.
No Kristi.
No Marielle.
No Boyd.
Just silence.
Then he noticed the bed.
Fresh, blood-soaked sheets covered someone from the waist down.
Whoever it was hadn't moved once since he'd walked in.
Randall slowed his steps.
Dead?
He couldn't tell.
The eyes were closed, face pale beneath the harsh clinic lights.
He recognized you.
Only vaguely.
He'd seen you around town a handful of times.
You definitely hadn't come in on the bus with him.
You'd already been trapped here long before he arrived.
Still...
A dead person he didn't know well was still a dead person.
Still a person.
You weren't moving.
He stopped beside the bed, studying your face for a few quiet seconds.
Damn.
That was rough.
He wasn't exactly squeamish, but seeing that much blood after everything he'd gone through himself made something tighten in his chest.
Poor bastard.
He lingered there for another moment.
Then...
Your eyes opened fast.
Randall practically launched himself backward.
His shoulders jerked, his injured face pulling painfully as adrenaline shot through him. His heartbeat spiked so hard he could actually hear it pounding in his ears.
His breathing became uneven for a second as he stared at you with wide eyes.
"Jesus, fuck!"
He clutched his chest with one hand, glaring at you through his surprise.