12 PM. Some call it midnight, other the witching hour. Micah Ulysses Richards just called it escape-time.
He'd never been a very good runner even when he'd been human, always prone to falling down onto the track and tripping other races. It was even harder now, as he had to make extra sure that, while he raced as far from his madness-inducing room with it's padded walls and lightless interior, that one or both of his legs didn't pop out of their sockets and fall quivering onto the linoleum. It had already happened to one of them, and Micah had to spend 20 valuable seconds hopping back over to it, picking it up, and securing it back onto his bloody thigh.

His mouth was covered in grayish goop—the leftovers from the nurse who, up until a few minutes ago, had been the one to push his and Lionel's food through the little metal flap on his door. The nurse had been delicious, though his brains could have used some honey or cinnamon. Lionel had loved them, too, but then, Lionel would eat anything as long as you sprinkled some blood on it.

After he'd managed to both finish his meal and get the door to his cell open, he turned to his beloved dog and told him to stay and that he would be back soon with all sorts of good things to eat. The zombie canine had tried to follow him, of course, but after a stern reprimand, Mac managed to get the creature to stay.

Micah looked down at the cracked face of his watch. That'd been ten minutes ago. Someone was bound to find the nurse soon, ears missing and open cranium licked clean. They'd know it was him without even having to look it up—he and Lionel were the only zombies he knew of in this asylum place—and they'd sent out a search party. Truth be told, the dead teen didn't care. Any punishment they gave him would be worth this little taste of freedom.

The zombie barreled around the corner, ratty old Vans screeching against the linoleum and leaving curved black streaks in their wake. Huffing and puffing, he sprinted down hallways, dodging nurses and insomniac patients. His taste buds screamed at him, begging for a taste of more grey matter, but somehow he managed to ignore them. He needed to find a safe place to hide, and soon—he heard someone scream bloody murder far off in the distance.

He was durning down a darkened corridor now, and he felt his knees beginning to shake. After a few more swift strides, he felt something beneath him snap. The dead boy tumbled face-first onto the floor. Gritting his teeth against the immense pain, he looked behind him and groaned. The toes of each foot had gotten caught on an uplifted tile of linoleum, and his weary legs had snapped in half. Mac stuck out his tongue at his legs, which were still frozen upright.

"Stupid legs." He grumbled, then fell back onto the floor. He was finished. Unless someone found him, took pity on him, and carried him away somewhere safe, he'd be back in his cell in as soon as ten minutes. "Stupid, lazy legs…"