Jane was thrown into an old office with a big picture window looking out on the hangar. Frank and Tristen were in that plane across the now blood smeared expanse of slate-grey concrete and she knew she'd have to find a way to get to them.

Her legs were shaky and enfeebled, crumbling after a few seconds when she attempted to stand. So, she settled in on the old threadbare carpet, on her hands and knees, staring into the 70s era burnt orange and chocolate brown fibers. She dug her fingernails in and bared down with her abdomen, squeezing zombie cum out of her raw vagina. A little pool formed between her knees, soaking in.

She felt haggard and shrunken, berating herself for being so helpless. But there were just too many of them to fight.

Unless you were Emily.

In direct opposition to the madness she'd just endured, she cracked a half-smile as she pictured that little spitfire smashing the head of the guy who'd been holding her wrists.

She spit blood onto the carpet. Some of the men had seen fit to smack her around a bit to give the whole rape experience a more complete feel. They knew it wouldn't hurt her, but it just felt like the situation called for it. So, they'd smack her head from behind or bounce her face off the table as they thrust away.

The blood looked thicker seeping into the 70s shag, deeper than it had when she'd been stabbed... or shot. It looked almost normal rather than the watery pink diluted fluids she'd been expelling as of late.

She checked her pulse and felt nothing.

There was no pain in her nether regions, though she could certainly feel there'd been a great deal of activity down there. She felt stretched out and used but not hurt. She cogitated on the actual feelings she had experienced.

If there was no pain, there couldn't have been pleasure, right?

She'd been too preoccupied by the immediacy of the heinous acts being performed on her to recognize any kind of noteworthy sensation. Rage and horror were all she'd recognized.

Had any of it felt... good?

She certainly hadn't had an orgasm, but she recalled feeling tingly down there, had felt the repeated pressure against her cervix, had released angry moans triggered by each thrust. She had definitely felt... things. Her ruminations weren't meant to lessen the blow of being raped but instead acted as a litmus test for what she hoped would eventually happen with Frank. She just wanted to know, if they did end up together at some point, she'd be able to bolster her emotional responses with at least an inkling of physical sensations.

She looked around the room, her eyes tabulating any items that might be useful. The space was pretty cleared out apart from a few framed photos of vintage aircraft, a cracking leather couch, a long-dead office Ficus and finally, an old, heavy wooden desk.

With significant effort, she crawled over to the desk and pulled herself around the side, yanking at the drawers. The first one she opened on the lower right produced a half-full bottle of Dewar's blended scotch. She smiled a little as she thought about Frank and his desk theory. She pulled it out and set it on the carpet then continued ransacking the drawers and eventually found what she was looking for: something with a point. A pen. She sat back against the wall and took a breath, then stabbed the pen into her forearm.

No pain.

She pulled the ballpoint out and watched a bead of dark red blood bubble up and begin to drip.

She wasn't alive... but she was getting better.

Fuck. What if I do get pregnant?

She decided to ignore the thought and figured, if she was going to get to Frank and Tristen, she'd better try to stand again. She got to her knees, placed her palms on the surface of the desk and hoisted herself to her feet. Her legs wobbled but remained firm. She took a few steps, still leaning on the desk and felt blood pour into her cold limbs sending pin pricks across the surface of the skin. After slowly, jerkily walking in circles a few times, checking the door, which was locked, she began attempting some high stepping the way she'd seen middle aged ladies do in affluent neighborhoods. She did her best to emulate their movements though, she was pretty sure those rich trophy wives weren't spattering zombie semen on their feet as they burned away the calories.

She'd placed the bottle of scotch on the desk, half-thinking she'd be able to give it to Frank at some point. As she continued to circle the room, her eyes kept being drawn to it, inspecting the way the light shone through the amber liquid, how the surface would ripple as she got closer, vibrating the raised floor.

Fuck it.

She looped around, cutting her circle in half and made a beeline for the bottle. With a determined hand she grasped the cool glass neck and went back to her exercise, testing the weight of the bottle as it hung in her hand. It felt good to hold, to know it was available. She felt like she wanted a drink but not because she really wanted it—but because Frank would want it. Because holding it made her feel closer to him.

Outside the bay window two soldiers stood conversing and occasionally glancing over their shoulders to make sure Jane wasn't doing anything untoward. They were heavily armed but casual in their demeanor, evidently not concerned with her calisthenics or interest in distilled beverages.

She contemplated throwing the bottle through the window but really... what would that accomplish? They'd just come in and restrain her again. She absently rubbed her darkening wrists where the soldier had been holding her. There were contusions blossoming. Tiny capillaries had burst under the skin and began to clot. She articulated at the joint and felt nothing painful, but the presence of the bruise added another sliver of hope.

Her mind reluctantly went back to the B.4 zombie's plan. She hadn't had her period. She hadn't ovulated. Even before she'd died, she'd experienced irregular menses due to her shitty diet, rapid weight loss and excessive exercise. The chances of getting pregnant were fairly slim but... there was a chance. Which meant...

Jane walked up to the window and tapped on it with the bottle as though she was inviting the boys in for a little drink. She waggled her thin eyebrows and nodded as the soldiers looked in. One shook his head and mouthed the words, "fuck off." But the other seemed more interested. After a brief debate between the two, they decided to enter the office.

Jane did her best to look enticing as they entered the musty room, swaying her hips in her soiled dress and doing her best sorority girl impression by making cutesy faces and puckering her lips.

"What the fuck is this about," asked the more serious of the soldiers.

"Nothing. I just thought you guys would like to have a drink with me," she offered smiling bashfully.

"You want to celebrate getting raped? You're fucking crazy," the soldier snorted. "Besides, we're zombies. We can't get drunk."

"Have you tried? I have and I got wasted on rum a few nights ago."

"What's your point?" the other soldier chimed in. "We wouldn't drink even if we could get drunk. We're supposed to be making sure you don't do anything stupid."

"Like what? Break this bottle and shove it into my uterus ruining any chances you fuck-sticks would have at getting me pregnant and therefore cutting off all hopes of a bright zombie future?" She fluttered her lashes and shifted her weight to her other hip.

"Wha..."

"I'm just kidding. I can't do that. That would be stupid because then, I'd no longer be useful to you and thus, expendable. But..." she said flipping the bottle in her hand, so she was holding the neck like a hammer. "...I can do this." She swung the bottle around fast and felt the vibration of the impact reverberate down her arm as the hard glass connected with the first soldier's chin. He lurched back as the glass shattered in a spectacular shower of sparkling shards and russet liquor. With the broken neck of the bottle still in her hands she vaulted forward, plunging the razor-sharp impromptu weapon into the guy's face. It stuck there looking like a comically oversized nose.

The other soldier was on her in an instant, struggling to capture her spindly arms. She gracefully shimmied out of his grasp as the first soldier attempted to pull the broken bottle from his perforated visage. He got it out just in time for Jane to push it right back into the open wound. She continued pushing until the soldier's back hit the wall. In one fluid motion, she crouched down, grabbed the guy's ankles and literally pulled his feet out from under him. He hit the ground with a dull thud and tried to bring his hands around to again, remove the offending bottle from his face. But Jane already had one of her knees bent up to her chest, her foot hovering above the screw-on cap. She channeled Emily—her fearlessness, her initiative, her moves—and came down like a jackhammer, pushing the glass deeper, slicing through cartilage and bone, penetrating through to the brain where it severed all signals.

The other soldier finally managed to grab her arms and pull her away from the dead man on the floor. A black pool of coagulated blood began to spread.

"Woo!" she yelped. "That was great!"

"Get down!" the soldiers growled as he forced Jane to her knees.

"And it proves my theory," she panted.

"Fuckin'... hold still." The man was pulling her arms behind her back and putting on the zip-tie cuffs.

"I'm too valuable to kill."