It can't hurt to look. It's been dead quiet for hours now. The horde must have shuffled on looking for some other living meat. The others might have made it. They must have thought I was dead, made a run for it. Maybe they even killed most or all of those things before they went. I can't just stay in this closet. It stinks of piss and sweat and adrenaline in here, and there's no food or water. No one's coming for me; no zombies, no soldiers, no survivors, no one. They must be gone.
It can't hurt to look.