It felt like seconds.

Margot had just ended her turn as one of a pair on guard duty, giving the next duo in line a soft tired smile as she dragged her half-frozen carcass to her sleeping bag. The winter had been a difficult one, and spring was barely here, teasing them with glimpses of budding flowers, and the gentle caress of warmth during the daylight hours, while winter reminded them at night, that she wasn't quite done. It was chilly enough during the late night hours that fingers and toes often went numb, and all someone could do to pass the time was watch how their breath created little white puffs in the air.

She was looking forward to spring.

Margot had fallen asleep with thoughts of wildflowers, and warm days filling her head. But she awoke to screams. A shrill sound that was cut off before it could finish, the panicked sounds of her group as people sprung up from make-shift beds, the rustling noise of people moving in the dark, reaching for whatever weapon was usually at hand. There was no thought, just movement, she'd gone through this enough, so many times, that her body simply reacted, her thoughts a panicked mess as she desperately clung to the handle of her machete.

It was still too dark, she couldn't tell where everyone was. The screaming had subsided but replacing it was a mess of noise from every side. Shouting, orders, questions, calling for friends, loved ones. But worst of all, even beyond the panicked note in the living voices was that awful, wretched sound those things made, it was a gurgle, a low terrible moan that didn't sound like a human throat should be making it.

But they weren't human, not anymore...

Before Margot could properly get her bearings, she was slammed into from behind, and before she could react to that, there was something clutching at her, tugging at her shirt, digging its fingers into the thing fabric and ripping. The smell of rotting flesh hits her nose as she swings her blade.

She fights like a cornered animal, all bared teeth, and blind fury, and perhaps that works well enough for now. But there is no grace to her attacks. Only fear mingled with the desperate need to survive, to live—raw and powerful and unrefined. Savage. Her arm shakes with effort as she pulls her blade out of the creatures face, her entire body trembles at the wet spray of blood that doesn't come from her deader, but from something else, it's warm, too warm.

She can taste bile as she pushes through the spaces between shapes, not sure where to swing, and terrified of killing someone living. So she doesn't, she tucks into herself and runs, fleeing toward the small opening in the doorway, and somewhere in the back of her mind, it occurs to her that it should be locked, and that is likely how the deaders got inside..." Outside! C'mon!" She hopes someone can hear her in the chaos.