Well, if she wanted to abandon him to be buried in piles of writhing flesh, she could have done that already. She'll probably do what she says and back him up. Might as well keep moving. He moves in next to one wall, grabbing at the x where his cords are tied around one of the nearby creatures and pulling it along on impulse. Human - or living, anyway - shields are a pain in the ass, takes a lot of strength to manage a squirming, struggling thing and this is no exception, even putting aside the fact that the creature's face, such as it is, seems to be staring at him the whole time. There is an urge he is vaguely aware of to stop and try to make out its expression. He suppresses it.

During all this Roland, of course, has no attention to spare for finding exits. Even if he did, it's anyone's guess whether he'd be able to note them - the teeth biting at his sleeve as he slides against the wall, the wetness oozing from it which has started to soak his right side, none of it registers as particularly unusual to him. Whether they break through these enemies to whatever memory he's guessing waits on the other side or whether they fall into something else altogether is out of his control. This is not a new feeling, and Roland does not particularly mind it.