Sweat gathers along the brow, fingers squeezing around the handle of Marvin's combat knife till her knuckles turned alabaster white. Tears prick the corner of the eyes, teeth uncomfortably grinding together and, oh, how her back smacks against the wall behind her, nearly knocking out the air in her lungs.

Claire has to remember to breathe even when breathing feels impossible, even when it feels as if there is no air left in Raccoon City. How could there be when the infested crawl along the sidewalks, the floorboards, the walls. Then there's the knocking, the banging, the groaning, the straining yells long lost from vocal cords unstrung.

The smell of death is cloying, it surrounds itself around her head attempting to suffocate her further. Where is Chris when she needs him? Where is he? He was supposed to always be there—why wasn't he f*cking here?

They're here. The infected, the zombies, they're here and they're grabbing her wrists, her arms. They're here. Here to rip her to shreds, until she is nothing but meat and severed limbs.

"Stop," She snaps, attempting to yank her arms away from decaying hands, loose teeth. "Let me go," is the continuation of her pleading to deaf ears and even deafer minds. "I said let me go!"

Nails dig into something soft—something sweet—fingers digging deep into the throat of someone unrecognizable until they are recognizable. Your eyes are wide with surprise, some fear, lips parting as a shuddering breath rasps through them. You do let her go, arms falling down onto the bed sheets just as she lets you go, scrambling off the bed and onto the floor.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what happened—I'm so sorry." What's worse? The nightmares that plagues her most nights or the fact that Claire has put her hands on you?

She can't tell.