Night is falling and a chill starts seeping into your bones. It's not the weather, but the ambience of your surroundings. Below, undead are blundering around clumsily, and they seem to be thickening. Crashes, groans, and thumps have become more common as the darkness grows. Moonlight spills through the open window of the abandoned bedroom you've holed up in.

It was Lawrence's idea to take up shelter inside the stuffy little apartment for the night. From here, if Quinn came to the rendezvous spot, Lawrence would see him. To make it safer, you'd both tugged and ripped at the boards creating the steps from the ransacked pharmacy below to the living quarters above. A musky, dingy basement was revealed beneath them through rotted floor boards. The pharmacy floor looked sturdy enough, you thought. The moisture must have gotten to the small closed-in space under the stairs.

Upstairs you'd be safe. Undead couldn't figure out how to get to the upper floor without the stairs, Lawrence had insisted. Still, it was wise to be as quiet as possible and stick together - which you did after searching the place for supplies. Nothing much could be found. The persons living there had probably taken the important items with them. The most useful thing you could find was a change of clothes and a working shower.

From the floor, back against the wall, you watch the full moon peeking through clouds and think about how screwed up everything has become. Just last night you'd been with friends, laughing, joking, playing games....and today you're thinking those friends are probably dead. Your family might be dead as well. And surely hundreds, thousands...maybe even millions are dead and walking, biting, devouring or infecting.

Lawrence nudges you. He didn't shower, but he did clean up a bit. His army top still had a bit of dried blood above his name. He's gesturing to you, quietly telling you to get on the bed. It probably wouldn't do a lot of good, but you'll try to get some shut-eye all the same.

"It's morning."

The words were like a firecracker, snapping you from your slumber. The nightmare of reality bombards you: living dead, cannibals, death, gotta fight, must live. Your heart pounds and you shoot up, sight distorted with sleep and panic- and then you remember that you're safe for the moment, in a room where they can't reach you. Lawrence's rough features come into view as your waking panic dissipates.

"How long was I out?" you ask.

"About six hours."

You don't even remember falling asleep.

"Any sight of him?"

Lawrence's mood shifted from his regular annoyance at the world to a sadness for his Lieutenant and friend. "No." The familiar stubbornness darkened his features once more. "But he could be hiding as well. Night isn't a time you wanna mess with these bastards. Come on."

You hope that Quinn is okay. It sucks to know another person you know may be dead. Lawrence and Quinn had lost everyone in their crew except each other. Now, the last person on his team may be gone. That must be even worse. You did only know Quinn for a few hours. The failure he must feel-

"I said come on," he spat, cutting off your thoughts. You follow him.

The shuffling of their dead feet, the wheezing coming from their putrid mouths, the clattering alerts you of their presence before you get to the top of the stairs. Initially you had thought you were quiet enough to stay safe. Whether they had smelled you or heard you breathing, one thing was clear: undead did try to get to you upstairs. The rotted floor had clearly given way under their weight, sending them down into the basement.

Lawrence stops, staring at them. He grabs the banister and pulls to check its sturdiness. Your mouth is suddenly dry. You know what he's planning. A few undead have noticed you're both alive and are reaching for you with their rotting, sometimes bony fingers. Their stained teeth are already clattering together in anticipation of chewing your living flesh. Others soon catch on.

"I vote we find another exit," you mumble. Your voice seems to anger them and they snarl and claw at the opening. Others from the rest of the room crowd in, bumping together, trying to get closer.

Lawrence shakes his head. "No other way."

You curse in frustration, knowing after your search last night that he's right.

He tosses his crossbow over his shoulder and uses the banister - still attached to the wall - to steady himself on the thin wood that remained, remnants of the staircase. Slowly, he works his way down a few steps and you follow hesitantly. Just below, the undead are in a frenzy. Jumping, snarling, growling, snapping wildly while they reach for you. You're trembling, but you know they can't get you. There are about twenty steps, because the ceiling of the pharmacy is so high, but if you just keep steady, you'll be okay.

Five steps down and the wall groans, your stomach drops. On the sixth step, the banister loosens, knocking off your balance and almost causing you to fall, but it's still attached to the wall and you hold on. You see the panic starting to grow on Lawrence's face as he turns back. It's safer than trying to continue going down. But a second later, the wall gives and down you both go. Banister still in hand, you both plummet toward the pit of undead.

Escape the Pit of the Undead - PLEASE SKIP TO CHAPTER 45