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The situation was so fucked. Here they were, locked inside a storage unit, fucking praying that asshole didn't get in. No matter how much Naomi denied it-- this was some zombie shit.
He felt his panic was warranted. They were gonna fucking die. It was a zombie apocalypse and they were at ground-fucking-zero.
“Travis?” Naomi was sat across from him, and they’d given up on the pretense of whispering. Mike, or whatever the hell was left of him, knew where they were– if the groaning and pounding and screaming from the other side of the door said anything, anyways. What was the point in being quiet? “Hey. Hey, what’s going on?”
He felt dizzy. He knew he was hyperventilating, the quick motions of breathing an attempt to calm down. Was there less air in the storage locker? They didn’t vent all the units, some didn’t have climate control– it was cheaper that way. Was this unit seriously not vented, were they gonna suffocate in here?
Fuck, he couldn’t breathe.
“Travis!” Naomi hissed, shaking his shoulder. He snapped his mouth shut, swallowing thickly.
“Fuck,” he breathed, curling forward. He buried his hands in his hair, “Think ‘m havin’ a panic attack.”
“Wh–” Naomi pulled away, “Now?!”
He snapped his head toward her, pulling in desperate wheezy breaths like there wasn’t any air left in the world. He fumbled for words around his dry mouth, “Yes, now!” he gasped, looking back toward the ground, “I don’ ‘zactly get to–” another breath. He cut himself off, grinding his teeth and clenching his eyes shut, “Decide. When t’ freak out!”
His hair was falling in his face, damp with sweat. He let out a pathetic sound. Fuck he couldn’t breathe. He knew he was having a panic attack, he knew he needed to calm down. Slow his breathing. But his mind was moving a mile a minute, it was like he couldn’t remember how slow he should be breathing.
Beside him Naomi was swearing, muttering to herself with a frantic tone to her voice. He scraped his nails down his scalp, pressing his eyes into his knees until it hurt. Fuck, this was not the time.
If only his body could get with the fucking program, because it seemed to think it was the perfect time to be so debilitatingly terrified he couldn’t breathe. His chest heaved, over and over again. More screaming echoed outside the storage unit and he jumped, the rise and fall of his chest getting quicker.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Naomi raised her voice, “Travis. Travis, look at me. Take a breath, okay?” She said, grabbing his shoulders. He lifted his head, looking up at her through the tears and hair obscuring his vision, “Take a breath.”
“I’m–” He gasped like he was drowning with nothing to save him, “Tryin’.”
“I know, I know. Just– uh, just follow my breathing, okay?” She grabbed his hand, and he noticed for the first time just how much he was shaking as she placed it at the top of her chest. He could feel the rise and fall of every breath, the quick heartbeat behind her ribs, “Breathe. In, and out,” she said, exaggerating each breath.
She was breathing too slow. A broken sob came from his throat, and he hung his head again. It hurt, his chest hurt, trying to slow his breathing felt like he was suffocating. Like someone was actively squeezing his throat and setting a hundred pound weight on his ribs.
“Travis, come on, you’ve got this.” Naomi squeezed his hand, taking another set of big breaths, “Come on. Keep trying, everything’s gonna be alright.”
“But it’s not!” He yelled, gesturing at the door in time for Mike to slam against it and scream her name, “We’re– we’re– we’re gonna fucking die!” He stammered, throat raw, “There’s some fuckin– infection shit some fungus and it’s gotten into everything and what the fuck are we gonna– gonna do?” He couldn’t. Breathe.
More tears streamed down his face, hot and tacky. Each breath he took was wet and short. He could feel Naomi’s heartbeat under his hand, tapping slower than his– pounding in his ears, every single beat a constant tap-tap-tap taking over his hearing, threatening to burst from his chest– but still fast. Her face looked stricken, reared back.
“Sorry,” he got out, thunking his head down on his knees, “Sorry. Sorry, sorry, I can’t–”
“It’s okay,” she soothed, quietly, “We’re gonna figure it out. We can’t do anything if you’re… like this, okay?” her free hand ran through his hair, the other gently running circles on the back of his palm, “You need to try to slow your breathing. Please, just try, okay?”
He whined, shaking his head. He’d been trying.
The world was starting to feel fuzzy and off-kilter. He forced himself to breathe in through his nose, and out through his mouth. The conscious effort of going back and forth forcing it to slow, “There you. Good job, just like that, okay? Keep breathing.”
More pounding outside the door. He flinched with his whole body, the jittery shakiness of all his muscles nearly making him tumble to the side. It was only Naomi being so close, her hands on him, that kept him from doing so.
“He can’t get in, remember?” Her nails carded against his scalp, “Door’s locked, solid metal. Infected with that— that crap or not, he can’t break through. So just ignore him, focus on me. Focus on breathing.”
In, and out. In, and out. The constant rise and fall of her chest. The perfect thump, thump, thump of her heart.
He slumped toward her, and she let him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. His head was against her chest now, that rise and fall right beside his ear. He kept following it, slowing his breathing carefully enough that it didn’t hurt so much.
He knew how to get out of a panic attack. He felt so stupid, every single time it was like he forgot. Didn’t matter how much it sucked in the moment, it worked. And he knew it worked. So why could he never just get over himself and breathe?
“Feeling better?” She said, hand rubbing up and down his back. He groaned, covering his face with his hands.
“Yeah,” his voice was rough with shed tears, “Sorry. It’s–,” he shook his head, taking another set of slow, careful breaths, “I get them. Sometimes.”
“Oh.” Naomi frowned, “I figured it was just… y’know,” her arm pulled away, gesturing, “The horrifying life or death situation.”
“That too.”
He sat there, still focusing on his breathing. He tried to push away as much of the invading thoughts of their innevitable awful, awful fucking death. If he thought about it too hard, he would spiral again. They didn’t have time for that.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“Is it?” He pulled away, shuffling in the small space so they weren’t so close, “Sorry,” he repeated, “I used to get them all the time as a kid, y’know? And then they kinda stopped when I met… the guys, that I used to run with. Or maybe I just got better at ignoring them, I dunno. Haven’t had one that bad since being released.”
She hummed. Another pounding on the door, another flinch from him, “I think this warrants it.”
He eyed the rattling metal, fidgeting with shaking hands, “Yeah. Yeah, it probably does.”
There was a sound above them. His brows furrowed, it sounded like…
It was a car. That was a car pulling into the lot.