Beeping. Faint. Rhythmic.
A steady pulse, then silence.
Then nothing.
Joseph Black's eyes fluttered open. Blurred white light poured in through a cracked hospital window.
His body ached, every nerve screaming from disuse. His mouth was dry as bone. The room smelled of bleach, dust, and something rotting.
"Claire...?"
The name slipped from cracked lips. Unknowingly drawing something closer.
He tried to move but pain flashed through his muscles. IV still in his arm, line hung slack at his bedside. Machines around him were dark, long dead. Sunlight fell across the sheets, exposing his figure in a hospital gown.
Then, a shadow appeared in his hazy vision.
A figure moved near the door.
Soft footsteps.
Familiar curves.
Blonde hair.
"Claire?" His heart lurched.
She stepped into the light. Her face gentle, tearful tilted to the side.
"You're awake," she whispered.
Joe blinked. His vision swam in and out of focus. "Am I dreaming?"
"No," Claire said. She reached out, touched his cheek. Her hand was cold but real. "You've been asleep a long time."
"I saw you…" he murmured. "You died. I saw the papers. John..."
"We're waiting, Joe," she said softly, voice trembling. "Just come with me."
He tried to sit up. She stepped closer, the light catching her face and something shifted.
Her eyes were cloudy and hollow.
Her mouth hung open at an unnatural angle. Flesh around her neck was torn, ragged like it had been chewed apart. Her hand on his face was cold and discolored.
Not warm.
The thing wearing Claire's face groaned and then lunged at him.
Joe clumsily rolled from the bed, crashing to the floor just as the walker slammed into the mattress where he'd been. He coughed violently from the fall, his throat dry as he scrambled backwards, blood rushing through his limbs that hadn't moved in weeks.
The walker groaned and turned toward him again, dragging its foot across the tile, arms reaching hungrily.
He reached for something, anything within reach, and grabbed the cold metal IV pole. As the walker lunged again, he swung with all the strength he had left in his weakened form.
CRACK.
It went down in a heap, motionless. Blood pooled on the floor, thick and dark.
Joe lay there panting, staring at the thing's motionless body.
Claire's face…no it wasn't. "Just a hallucination", he muttered.
He looked at his shaking hands. Not from fear, but exertion.
"What the hell is going on?"
Joe sat in the corner of the hospital room for a second, still shaking from the encounter. His lungs burned. Every muscle in his body ached like they were being ripped apart and stitched back together at the same time.
Across the floor lay the body of the thing, the monster that was once human. Its skull was caved in from the IV pole still clenched in Joe's shaking hands.
"Not her," he whispered. "Not her…"
He pushed himself to his feet, nearly collapsing again. His legs felt like glass, brittle and unsteady. Whatever coma he'd been in, it had taken its toll.
The room was small—private, maybe—but there was no chart, the clock had stopped funtioning, he had no idea of how long he'd been unconscious.
He shuffled to the door and closed it gently. Then pressed his ear against it. At first silence. Then… shuffling.
Slow. Messy.
More of those creatures wete out there.
Joe looked at the room one more time and noticed the bathroom. Walking slowly, supported by the IV he made it inside and tried the tap. It worked, the water looked clear.
That was all Joe needed, he scooped multiple mouthful of water almost choking as the water hit his dry throat. With water in his system his head was a little clearer and he felt something under the hospital gown.
Pulling it aside revealed a clear tube in his pecker. Joe cussed, "Fuck! This is gonna hurt."
Grabbing his dick and the hose he tried pulling, didn't budge. He sighed then pulled as hard as he could. It came out, but he collapsed to the floor.
"Mmm.."
After recovering, Joe pulled the IV out of his arm. Ditching the IV stand he grabbed the lid of the toilet reservoir, then walked to the door.
Pressing his ear against it once again he heard faint sound to the left.
Joe slipped into the hallway and crouched low. The corridor was dim, lit only by fading sunlight leaking through narrow windows. The overhead lights were dead, some of the ceiling tiles hanging down.
Blood stained the floor in streaks and pools, some dried to a crust, others disturbingly fresh. What was weird was the blood stains on the walls, all roughly at head level.
Further down the hall, the walls were marked in red handprints and desperate messages:
> "Help us"
"They're dead, they're ALL dead"
"We sealed the lower wing. It's not enough."
"Nothing can stop them"
Onlys a dozen feet away, a walker limped past an open doorway. Then another. Their groans were quiet, directionless.
'They're everywhere!', Joe thought.
His bare feet padded softly on the cold tile as he crept along the wall, the toilet lid still in his hands. He passed a room with the door ripped off its hinges,inside a nurse lay half-eaten on the floor, one hand still twitching.
He didn't look twice and kept moving stealthily.
A sign near the ceiling read:
> STAIRS – DOWN TO FLOOR 3 ➝
Joe reached a corner and peeked down the corridor. A walker stood just ahead, swaying in place. It hadn't noticed him... yet.
Just in front of him at the end of the opposite corner. A fire axe. Emergency red, hanging on the wall behind cracked glass.
He dashed across then ducked into a nearby supply closet and shut the door silently. Heart pounding in his ears.
Inside, he found his salvation.
With a shaky breath, he observed his new weapon. The weight felt good in his hands. A little heavy. But could deal some real damage.
After catching his breath, looked around the small dim room and was glad to find some hospital scrubs he could wear. Only down side was that there were no shoes.
Joe opened the door and stepped back into the hallway. The walker turned toward him, groaning.
"Come on," he muttered.
It stumbled forward.
Joe didn't hesitate.
He raised the axe and swung, burying it deep into its skull. The body crumpled at his feet.
Joe placed his foot on the walker and yanked the axe free. Looking at the walkers feet, he found some bloody white shoes. Pausing for a second, he shook his head and kept moving.
He passed more rooms, some filled with nothing but rot and silence, others housing things better left unseen. He stepped over bones, blood, and the discarded wreckage of what had once been a hospital.
Another sign ahead:
> STAIRWELL – 20 FEET
And next to it—two walkers.
Joe gritted his teeth.
"Let's go."
The hallway ahead was narrowed by gurneys and machines. Flickering daylight spilled in through cracked window panes, casting long shadows over blood-slick tile.
Joe stood pressed against the wall, watching.
Two walkers hovered near the stairwell door one dragging a twisted leg, the other swaying like it didn't know where to go. Their jaws worked endlessly, as if gnawing on the very air.
One of them had once been a surgeon, still wearing the tattered remnants of green scrubs and a shredded mask around its neck.The other a patient in a stained gown.
Joe clenched the axe tighter but didn't move.
His muscles were still jelly. His heart pounded, still physically drained. His stomach started growling. One wrong swing and he'd collapse before finishing the job. He didn't have the strength for many more fights.
Think, damn it…
He looked around and spotted a rolling cart knocked against the wall. Empty syringes, shattered trays, and a dented oxygen tank lay scattered nearby. Joe crept over, took one of the trays, and tossed it down the hall behind him.
CLANG!
The metal echoed like a gunshot.
Both walkers snapped toward the sound and started limping in that direction, snarling low. A walker in one of the rooms also shambled out drawn by the noise.
Onve they passed by, Joe moved.
Slow steps. Axe held close. Every muscle burning. He slipped past the walkers, heart in his throat. The surgical walker turned halfway toward him, Joe ignored it and kept moving.
It didn't notice.
It turned back and kept following the noise.
Ten feet.
Five.
Joe grabbed the stairwell door handle, pulled it open an inch at a time.
CREAAAAK.
He flinxhed slightly, glancing back, but the walkers didn't react.
He slipped through and shut the door behind him as quietly as he could.
Once it clicked shut, he slumped against the wall and let out a shuddered breath. The silence was deafening. His chest heaved. Every nerve screamed.
The stairwell was dim. The emergency lights above didn't help at all. The concrete walls were smeared with bloody handprints. Far below, a door banged against its frame—open, then closed. Open, then closed.
Joe descended slowly, gripping the railing to keep his legs from giving out.
Somewhere between the floors, he passed a set of open doors.
He didn't know it, but just one level below, Room 210 held a man named Rick Grimes, still unconscious in a hospital bed.
Joe kept moving.