[center][h1][color=DodgerBlue]Ciel[/color][/h1]
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[hr][center] Location - Back of the truck, heading towards Newnan [/center][hr]

Ciel was barely conscious when he heard Marx's ear-splitting scream. No doubt about it now, something had gone wrong. Likely they'd been found by walkers or raiders or even wild animals. He made one last futile attempt to sit up, weakly shifting his arm and trying to prop himself up on his elbow, but an intense wave of nausea hit him and he fell back, his small fragile frame going limp. His breathing slowed a bit, but remained shallow and labored, as if he weren't taking in enough air with each breath.

Perhaps if Ciel had been older, more experienced, or at least had gone through a real tragedy or two, his unconscious delusions might be interesting to remark on. But alas, the kid had been raised upper class and spent the majority of his childhood alone and friendless. He didn't even really know what a ghetto was. Though he was an orphan, had been alone and starving for the better part of the last three years, and had even cannibalized a person at one point, none of that had really traumatized the kid. Strange how the ones you'd think would be affected most by these cataclysmic times are often actually the most stoic. 

So naturally, the dreams that swam through his unconscious mind were little more than garbled nonsense. Scenes from the recent past mixed in with some of his earliest memories, faces and voices distorted in a way he couldn't quite place. Even in his dreams he felt sick, his unconsciousness offering no comfort. It felt much more like an acid trip than actual unconsciousness, as if on some level he hadn't realized that he was no longer awake. Even the stranger imagery that plagued his head, like feeling insects burrowing into his flesh as if he were a decomposing corpse and watching people melt away into gory puddles, failed to alert him that this was all in his head. 

From the outside, he could easily be mistaken for dead. His breathing was so weak it was hard to notice, and he lay cold and limp in the back of the truck and failed to react to the rampant mayhem that raged on like wildfire, totally unaware that two women had died in his last few moments of consciousness. A few locks of his hair had fallen away from his face when he fell back, revealing that his face held a vacant expression, his wide blue eyes only three-quarters closed. He appeared... helpless was the best word to come to mind, though Ciel would have loathed to be called such a thing. If he ever woke up at all, it didn't look like it was going to be soon.