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You slowly back out the door, then turn and bolt.
“HOLY FUCK!” you scream involuntarily as you run for the office door.
Either your running or that scream got their attention, because you can hear the groaning and shambling of the two occupants toward the door of the hotel room.
You get to the office door and open it in a flash. As you rush in you trip on the mat where everyone is expected to wipe their shoes when they enter. As luck would have it, you maintained your grip on the doorknob, and as you fall, you’re able to exert the force needed to slam the door shut as you tumble to the ground.
Breathing heavily, you are still in shock. Your mind reeling in disbelief at the events that have just unfolded and your refusal to believe what you are thinking.
“This isn’t real” you whisper to yourself reassuringly.
You slowly creep toward the door. The only thing you can hear is your heavy breathing. Your hand slowly reaches out for the knob. Your fingers feel the little tab, and you hear a soft click as your turn the lock on the knob, securing your little fortress in the motel.
Suddenly the man that had just been choking down some fingers in room 16 slams into the door, the full weight of his body making the door shudder, cutting his flesh and smearing blood on the glass. He glares angrily at you through the window in the door, face inches away. You notice that his eyes are nearly glowing, and you wonder to yourself if his eyes were that color before he got hopped up on the bath salts or after. You turn the deadbolt on the door as well, and the man lets out a groan and glares angrily at you, an inhuman mix of anger and desperation on his face.
You stumble back toward the desk, keeping your eyes on the windows, not looking where you are going. You fumble and trip, but you get back there, and begin to reach for the phone.
That’s when you notice her.
The female from room 16. She’s just standing there in the parking lot on the other side of the office, staring at you. That’s when you notice that she’s got those sad, pleading eyes again.
“What is she looking at? Is she hallucinating?.” You think to yourself
The crazy bastard at the door seems to have quieted down for a moment, so against your better judgment, you slowly move back around the desk toward the window for a better look. As the light from the sun reflects off of her eyes, you realize that she is slowly walking toward the window that you are safely behind, while constantly holding eye contact.
You notice how sad her eyes are, and how vastly deep they seem to be. You wonder if she knows what she’s doing. You see her face, and despite the matted, blood-caked hair and gore on her chin, you notice those eyes. How deeply fragile and pathetic she looks. It’s like she’s communicating through the glass and you feel the weight of her incredible desperation on your heart as you hover a foot from the glass.
That’s when you begin to realize that you’ve walked the entire way to the window without even noticing and now you and the woman are less than a foot apart, with nothing but a pane of glass between you.
The sudden slam of the male zombie’s body against the glass door jots you back into reality. He looks at the female, then glares at you through the window angrily and groans that same inhuman sound as before.
“This is fucked.” you mutter out loud and suddenly come back to your senses and back toward the desk again.
You remember that the phone is on the desk and that Mr. Burrows keeps a tall gun safe in the back room for protection.
The female begins to make the sad eyes at you again as your fingers wrap around the cordless phone and you continue to inch backward toward the back room. This time however, you refuse to hold eye contact with her and as you get to the doorway of the back room she gives up that tactic, lets out a groan, and begins clawing at the windows and wall with her partner.
You need to call the police. Maybe you should call Mr. Burrows. Your fingers fumble with the phone as your mind considers what to do next;