[b]*Gasp* Please, everyone stay calm. There has been a breach of secur- *Gasp* security. Everyone...remain cal-[/b]

"[i]A mi pokol...?[/i]" The nonsensical gibberish sounding over the PA system slowly fused into recognizable works as Adorján became fully conscious and functioned once again in the bilingual manner he was accustomed to. As far as he was aware, there was no wake-up call requested by the administration when they had arrived at the Four Seasons. 

Though, this sounded more like a panicked warning than an everyday wake-up call. The person at the mic was gasping for breath. Adorján pondered this as he rose from the bed and dressed himself-- he couldn't recall what clothes he'd brought along to the trip and, by extension, was currently wearing and didn't really care much. Adorján was well aware that he was a dense person, socially and otherwise, but he was by no means stupid. He brought along the bulky backpack that sat like a sack of salt against the mint-green wall and took a book in his hand-- his latest fancy, a cooking volume by Jamie Oliver-- in case he’d need to make a quick escape. 

The door jammed on the way out. Adorján forced it with all the strength he could muster. Relatively, this was not much, but it was enough to open the door a smidgeon with a sickly squishing sound and then a ‘thunk’ as though the door had his something hard at full force. The boy stepped out warily, and looked down in horror upon realizing that whatever had been blocking the door was now a bloody mass on the ground. It appeared to be a human (or an ex-human). One impossibly thin arm was stretching out, bony fingers flexing and gripping Adorján’s leg loosely. He threw the packet of dehydrated ghost peppers that had come with the book in its face. 

The mass on the ground convulsed, its hand clenching desperately, and it emitted something like a cross between a breathless scream and a death rattle before ceasing to move entirely. Adorján carefully edged away from the skeletal hand, which had ripped away part of his pant leg, and ran towards the stately stairway leading down to the lobby, thinking it would be no safer to take the elevator in this circumstance than it would if the whole damned building was ablaze. The ornate stairs were no longer anything close to “pretty”, instead littered with bloodstains and human remains, including a corpse with only half its face remaining. Adorján, not nearly as steely and emotionless as he tried to be, had to keep from retching. 

He’d arrived in the lobby (having done everything to keep away the remaining threats, from throwing his right shoe at one’s head to headbutting the other) to see something he would have laughed at, were this situation not so terrifying: four or five of his classmates locked in a Mexican standoff, all pointing assorted weapons and speaking candidly to one another. Adorján tried not to bother them and headed towards the decorated gate, both the entrance and exit to the Four Seasons, hoping to make it home to his mother and away from whatever the hell was happening here. One of the taller, faster boys caught up to him effortlessly and queried: “Where the utter fuck do you think you’re going?”

-”Home.” Adorján shrugged, trying to hide his fear (he’d always been unreasonably scared of the athletic, quote-unquote “cool” crowd). 

“In one shoe, in a world where the dead move, a kid the size of a shrew?” the boy attempted to rap. In the poor light, his hair appeared an eerie white. “That shit ain’t cool.” he finished.

-”There’s no time for this!” a girl about Adorján’s size hissed. 

“Can--” his words caught, and the sandy-haired boy tried again. “Can someone please tell me what the hell happening--?” he’d probably missed a word there. Said a contraction wrong. It didn’t matter, proper grammar wasn’t of the utmost importance like it usually was.