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He stumbled on, the daze so overbearing he wasn't sure if he was even moving. A walker growled and reached for him, but he stepped out of it's way, not even bothering to push it away. He tripped forward and lay there, hoping that death would swallow him up, that the earth would let him disintegrate into nothing but dust. It was strange to him, how he was a whole human, and entire living, breathing being, but he was more dead than those around him. The only things that he felt anymore were the last bits of sanity and hope being torn from him. He was alone, as he had been for seven months now. He'd lost his heart to lack of company and lack of family and lack of humans.

He watched the slow, dragging feet of another walker approach. He didn't try to move. As it moaned and leaned down to take a chunk out of his neck, he heard the painfully bright sound of a gunshot. The walker crumpled and Philip watched as the oily mess of fetid fluid oozed from it's head. He closed his eyes.

He felt hands. Desperate, searching hands. They flew over his skin in a flurry of dancing fingers. "Oh my God."

He felt her fingers press against his neck, trembling. She must have felt something, since she let out a long breath and took her hands away. He opened his eyes for a second to look at her. She sat beside him, her elbows resting on her arms and her gun being tossed casually from hand to hand. She looked worn out, but she was still beautiful.

He closed his eyes again and waited for her to leave him. He wanted to be alone. He didn't want to open his eyes. He heard her sighs and her occasional yawns. She had a nice voice, soft but strong, and she talked to him as if he were awake.

"I don't know who you are," she said quietly. "But when you wake up, I'll be here. I'll watch out for the walkers for you."

He felt a hand rub his shoulderblades and run through his hair. He still didn't stir. He hoped she would go away, mostly for her sake. He was barely sane, and the last thread of hope holding him together was growing thinner each day.

The baking heat of the day beat down on his back, and he wanted to move out of it so badly. He grit his teeth and didn't allow himself to. Another sharp, white sound made him jump. He heard the splatter of guts against the wall, but didn't open to his eyes to see if it was still moving.

The sun lost it's harsh edge after a while, and he felt those hands again. "Hey, now, it's getting late. If you decide you're going to rest here the whole night through, I'll be here. I'm hoping you're not too injured." She let out a soft laugh. "That wouldn't be good at all."

After a few more hours of thinking and hoping and wanting, he felt the cold gusts of night start up. The sun that lit his eyelids red had faded out and now the familiar black had replaced it. He was growing curious about the girl. Had she left? He hadn't heard her talk in a while, nor had he heard any recent gunshots. He opened his one good eye to see her sitting there, obviously exhausted and tense; no one was safe in the open, but at night it was worse. She ran her fingers through her hair, in an effort to relieve some stress, probably.

When she saw he was awake, she closed her eyes and smiled. "Welcome back to the world of the living."

That almost brought a smile to his his own lips, but he didn't show it. She arched an eyebrow at his lack of response.

"Let's go." Her voice wasn't cold, by any means, but he recognized the authority there.

"Why'd you s-stay?" His voice was hoarse from lack of use. He hadn't spoken a word in months. He was surprised he even knew how to. He was somewhat irritated that his question had come out sounding so broken.

Her gaze didn't waver. "Who was the last person you saw alive?" She held out her hand to him, but he didn't take it. He stood up on trembling legs and brushed the dirt off of his pants.

He took a step forward and nearly tripped; she reached out and took his arm to steady him.

"Be careful."

She could feel him shivering, but pretended she couldn't for his sake. They walked for a while together in the dark, listening to their footsteps echo off of grimy, abandoned city walls. They finally got to a door, and from what Philip could tell, it was painted glossy blue, and the knocker shone bright.

She unlocked it with a key, much like he would have at home three years ago. They walked inside and she pulled a matchbook from the shelf by the door. She lit two candles and handed one to him. The sharp trim and the staircase were all crisp and freshly painted. She'd spent time making her home here. She bolted the door shut and turned to walk up the stairs. As they went, the stairs creaked, the old and warped wood protesting their every step.

"You've slept all day. You want to sleep some more?" she asked, unlocking another door. He shook his head.

She nodded. She glanced at him, looking him up and down for a moment, to see his current condition.

"There's a shower down the hall, if you're interested."

She swore she saw a flicker of interest in his eyes. She looked him over again.

"We'll need to do something with your hair before you go."

She took him by the arm and sat him down on the floor in front of the couch. She set her candle down beside him and the small yellow flame flickered in his eyes. She combed her fingers through his hair, gently untangling knots and tugging leaves out of his dirty strands. He felt his hunched shoulders give out, and he leaned back against her legs. It took all of his energy to keep his head from lolling back. He stared at the wall in an attempt to keep his attention drawn to something. His mind was numb with emotions, swelling like waves behind his eyes.

She hummed a little song to herself, one he recognized as an old Johnny Cash song. He smelled her skin as her hands weaved in and out of his hair, the soft, dusky scent of flowers. He took a deep breath of it and refocused on the wall. After a few more minutes, he felt her hands draw away.

"It's the last door on the left."

He nodded and murmured a quiet, "Thank you."

The soft Southern twang in his voice stood out in her usually quiet house. She stretched out on her couch.

She didn't know this stranger's name, but she knew he had a story. Whether he'd say anything to her about it, or even speak to her again, was something only time would tell.

She heard the shower running and went in to retrieve his clothes. She shook the dirt and dust out the window and scrubbed the grass stains and the smell of dead things out of it. No matter how she tried, the blood did not come out. She hung his jacket on one of the hooks by the door, if he decided to leave. She retrieved a shirt from her room, one that she'd taken from a raid at Walmart, and decided it was big enough to fit him. The checkered fabric reminded her of a tablecloth, but it was the only thing she had for him. She folded the clothes up and stuck them in the sink basin before he got out.

She went into the guest bedroom of sorts, and moved all of her radios and their tangle of cords out of the way. The transceivers and red pushpin-covered maps were covered in a light film, she noticed. She remembered when they'd bombed Atlanta. The cartograms curled at the edges from salty tears she'd shed years ago. She stacked them on the desk and out of his way. She shook the dust off of the blankets and wiped off the nightstand.

She heard the whining of the shower stop and returned to the living room. She left the door slightly cracked to let some air into the musty room.

He emerged looking entirely different. His hair was shining and cut into something civilized, and the untrimmed mess of a beard he'd had was gone, leaving soft, pale skin in it's place. She tried not to stare at the sudden change of character, but failed.

She'd never really seen his face; he'd hidden it under that shock of matted hair the whole time.

He had a softly sloping jawline, and his lips were curved slightly downward. She'd never noticed the patch over his eye before. When he approached her, she realized just how tall he was. He looked strong, the kind of man who could live all on his own with no quandary.

He looked into her eyes like they were windows. His blue one was like the sea, sparkling and bright and shifting. It was like thin ice over salty waters in winter, glacial and sparkling, fragmented and unsteady. She could feel herself melting in his gaze, despite it's gelid mellowness. He turned away from her and sat down on the couch. She saw the muscles in his forearm twitching.

She sat beside him, conjuring up thoughts and stories about him. His life before this, the people he'd stayed with, what he'd done in his time among the dead.

"What's your name?"

She saw the twitching stop, and immediately a certain wariness swept over her.

"I'm _____________." She watched as the tendons in his forearm resumed quivering and let out a long breath.

They sat in silence for a while, watching as the candles deliquesced into tiny stumps of wax. One of them flickered out in it's own puddle of melted liquid, dying away.

"Why didn't you move out of the way of that walker?"

He paused, contemplating her question carefully. "S'pose I didn't care too much."

She couldn't understand his lack of will to live. His passiveness about it. It was frustrating to her in a way she could hardly describe.

He turned to her.

The way the light softened her face, how the yellow-orange fluttered off of her eyelashes and played off of her lips. "You'll be staying in the bedroom there." She nodded slightly, inclining her head towards the shadowed hallway. "The door's open."

He nodded his somber thanks and made his way there slowly, with deliberate steps.

He wondered if she'd follow. Ask him.

He was thinking of a lie, trying to churn one into existence that suited his needs and imagination. He wanted to disguise his own past, dress it in pretty clothing and diamonds.

He waited hesitantly at the doorframe.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked. He could see the worry on her face without even looking.

"Nothing," he said, his mouth twitching up in a small smile. "It's fine."

She nodded and went to light another candle before the other went out. She went to her room and set it on the desk, illuminating the writings and journal entries and notes from people she'd invited in that were scattered across it.

People she'd never seen again, people she'd seen die, people who she'd seen die twice.

She hoped that her mysterious guest would not be one of those people. She liked his quiet voice, his Southern hum, and his silence and his dry replies.

She sat down to write down her needs for the following month. She'd found a new route to the water supply, which had been keeping her water running for a while, and would be for quite some time. She didn't worry about that. She was low on rifle ammunition, but she still had plenty of pistol shot left. She had enough food; she'd gone on a run two days before.

There was nothing she needed in particular. She closed her eyes and closed the composition book. There was no use in writing down the same thing repeatedly. It would only hurt her hand.

She crawled into bed and looked at the streets from between the cracks in the wooden boards.

She forgot why she'd put them there; she lived on the third floor of the tiny apartment building. Paranoia had been strong when she'd first arrived in that small town, and she had never really noticed how it had governed even the most minuscule details of her life.

Philip lay awake thinking about the sudden rush of feelings he'd thought he'd buried.

He'd never truly loved his wife. She worked all the time and frequently forgot things such as birthdays and anniversaries, and though they didn't mean much to Philip personally, her distance from him had ultimately driven him away from her. He hadn't even felt like that in his high school days. He'd always been the quiet kid, who talked of things that didn't matter to others, and who was dismissed overall. Women had never flocked to him as they had his brother. He'd lived somewhat distanced from the female population due to his resentment for them. They'd pushed him away and set him out of place. He'd been awkward his entire life, and even the occasional rounds of sex he'd had at Woodbury had been an emotionless thing, more of a distraction than a sentimental endeavor.

But he'd felt a warmth and a comfort that he hadn't felt in a long time when she'd run her fingers through his hair. He recalled her thumb brushing his cheek as she had undone a tangle in the front. Her touch had been like lightning, but it didn't shock him.

He turned onto his side and closed his eyes. He was exhausted from a long day of traveling and pretending to sleep and walking with biters. After a long time, he drifted off, thinking about his reinvention.

She'd fallen asleep a long time ago, having shifted from thoughts of the man in the room over to dreams.

She rose with the sun, and went in to make pancakes. The powdery substance wouldn't expire for another two years. That would have disgusted her before, but it comforted her now; food in any crisis was a nice thing to have. She stirred in the water and turned on the small stove. It's batteries were going to die soon. She nodded and wrote it down; that's what she'd forgotten yesterday.

She put the pancakes on a plate and set them on the table. She hovered outside of his bedroom doorway, frightened to wake him, and afraid to speak. She knocked gently and he opened the door. His hair was messy and strewn out of it's distinctly neat style of the previous night, and his shirt was crumpled.

"T-There's pancakes on the table," she stuttered. He tilted his head to the side, before nodding slowly.

"Thank you," he said. He went into the kitchen, and she closed the door. She sat down on the opposite side of the table and he looked up at her from under his eyelashes, trying to decipher her.

He saw her smile, but her lips twitched falsely. He squinted at her, focusing more intensely on the minute tics in her face. He couldn't figure out exactly what she was thinking, but he certainly had a good idea. He was slightly downhearted that she was afraid of him, but he'd gotten used to the feeling. He cleared his dishes away, but he did not eat. She noticed, but didn't say anything.

"I need to go on a run today, to get batteries. If I don't come back, you can take what you want. You can stay, if you'd like. I'll show you where-"

"I'll go with you," he interrupted.

She cocked her head in surprise. "You really want to-"

"I say what I mean," he said sternly. She nodded, and gave him a brief half-smile. He grabbed his jacket and opened the door. He looked at her as if she were missing something quite obvious. "Let's go before the good gets gone."

She signalled for him to follow her.

"We walking?" She could practically taste the disgruntlement emanating from him.

She pointed to the old, rusted Buick resting in the field around the back of the apartment. She hopped in the the driver's seat and turned the key. It roared to life after a couple of turns, alerting nearby walkers. He ducked inside the passenger seat and they took off down the road, the dead reaching after them.

They drove in silence for a while before he opened the storage in the front. A couple of old tapes fell out, and he smiled. He hadn't heard real music in a while, and he'd really missed it.

He stuck in an old Boston tape and much to both of their delight, it worked. The radio crackled and the intro chords to "More Than a Feeling" filled the car. He listened to her humming along and looked out the window, thinking about the past, something he'd been doing a lot of.

Less blood, less guilt, less complications.

He swallowed and closed his eyes.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, watching as he leaned back against the seat. She reached over and brushed his shoulder. He tensed.

Her touch lightened for a moment before she drew away. She pressed the gas harder, and the car shuddered.

"Shit," she sighed, running her hand through her hair. She'd known it would break down eventually, but she'd been hoping it wouldn't have been this soon. She slowed down to a normal speed and the car stopped shaking so hard. She tried coasting as much as possible and after a few minutes, they finally reached their destination.

"You know how to hotwire a car?" he asked quietly.

She nodded.

"Good."

They pulled into the parking lot and searched for an empty vehicle. Finally, they found an old Mazda. She pulled the screwdriver, the pliers and the handmade door-opener from the backseat of the Buick before getting out. He grabbed a gun.

"I'll get you your batteries and some other things we might need."

She nodded hesitantly. "I'll be in in a bit. If you need me-"

"I won't."

She nodded again before quickly moving to unlock the Mazda. It was easy to unlock, and much to her enjoyment, the dashboard was so cheaply made that it didn't take much time to pry open.

She began stripping the wires, carefully but quickly; efficiency was key in this day and age. She touched them to the brown wire and she felt the car purr. She smiled and let out a long sigh. She closed the driver's door and drove around in it for a bit. She didn't like that tacky blue color, but it sure drove nicely.

She pulled in front of the store and pulled her gun from her holster. The familiar weight in her hand comforted her as she walked in. She found him glancing at picture frames, all cracked and dusty. He had the things they needed already, and it appeared there hadn't been any trouble.

"Let's go," she whispered, motioning to the door. He nodded and followed her out.

"Mind if I drive?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I would have brought tapes if this had a tape player."

He tossed the bag at her. She rummaged through it and brought out an old Johnny Cash CD.

She smiled at him gratefully. "You like Johnny Cash?"

He didn't answer. They rode in silence, happy to be listening to something that didn't sound like the effects in a horror film.

That moment of hazy summer air, lip-licking, slow blinking, quiet breathing, and the low picking of a guitar melted away the thickness between them, and for a moment, both people forgot about the hell they lived in, and enjoyed a moment of normalcy.

He coasted into the back lot and unlocked the door. She grabbed the bag from the back, and when they reached the front door, it was already open. _________ felt terror wash over her.

"I thought I-"

"Shh." He pressed his finger to her lips and pulled his pistol out of his holster. He pushed the door open slightly, and held his gun out in front of him.

His hands no longer trembled.

She drew her own weapon and they crept through the house. Not even ten feet in, three walkers emerged from the first floor apartment's kitchen. They scrambled upstairs, to avoid making any noise, but the walker followed.

She saw her guest's jaw clench as they began ascending more quickly. At the landing near the top of the stairs, more walkers coagulated the way up.

"We're turning back."

"I have to go back! I have-"

"We're leaving."

He kicked the biter down the stairs. She turned to look up. There were only six or seven on that landing, and if she ran, she could make it all the way up.

She looked back him one last time before darting upstairs.

She saw her guest reach for her, and the panic in his eyes was unmistakeable, but she ignored it.

She drew her gun and shot the first three down. She slammed a fourth against the wall and kicked another down the stairs. She pulled her knife out of her sleeve and stabbed the last one in the eye. She pushed up another flight of stairs and pushed her door open. She grabbed her other weapons off of the coffee table and ran to get extra things from the kitchen. She saw the CDs on the table and grabbed them. The moans grew increasingly louder. She grabbed her first aid box, a matchbox, and a candle.

She turned back around to come face to face with a walker. She screamed, before stabbing it in the face as hard as she could. She jerked her weapon out from between its eyes and swallowed hard.

She darted down the stairs and shot the last two blocking her way out.

When she got out, she ran for the car, jumping in the unlocked passenger side.

She tossed her bag of weapons into the back and pulled the CDs out.

The silence suddenly caught up with her, and she paused. He was waiting in the driver's seat, his entire arm twitching. She slumped forward and closed her eyes.

"You're a goddamn fool," he growled. He put the car into gear and slammed his foot down on the gas.

They drove in silence for a long time. The sun, which had been up for hardly an hour when they'd left on their run, sunk far below the horizon line. The whip-poor-wills and crickets and other night sounds met their ears. The occasional walker emerged from the woods, but they never stopped once.

Eventually, he slowed down, and they rolled over the hills leisurely. He pulled into a little Shell station and ran inside. When he got back out, he'd brought two red gas containers and a matchbox. She heard him filling the tank and the jugs, interrupting her quiet reverie.

She got out and moved to the backseat. She tore out the cupholder in the back, and it revealed the trunk. She smiled to herself. In the trunk, there were blankets and some poker cards. She pushed the back seats forward, and turned on the light. She spread out the blankets in the trunk and across the back seats. There would be room for both of them to sleep.

He knocked on the window, his face masked by confusion. The heaviness of uncertainty lifted from his face when he saw what she was doing.

He opened the front door and put the two gas canisters in the passenger seat. He looked back at her for a moment, holding her eyes. She met his own gaze just as fixedly. He finally broke it and he slammed the passenger door shut. He crawled into the back after locking all the doors. She curled up in the trunk and he took the backseat.

The silence remained broken only by their quiet breaths and the outside breeze.

She shivered. She wished there were more blankets.

He turned to face her, watching her bury herself deeper under the covers.

"Philip," he whispered quietly. "Philip Blake."

She turned to him. How her eyes sparkled under the faint moonlight filtering in from the trees, her small smile, how her lips formed the quiet words she said. "It suits you."

She looked at his face so differently, all of the sudden. Her eyes softened, and her gaze cooled. She blinked slowly and reached up to him. He felt her fingertips brush his cheek, and rest there for a moment. Her hand was cold. He put his hand over hers for a moment, before allowing his fingers to wrap around her wrist and squeeze, hard. He saw her flinch, and he loosened his grip. "Don't-Don't touch me."

He wanted to draw away from her, but his fingertips drifted over to her face on their own accord. He jerked away.

"No."

She closed her eyes and turned away, pressing her body against the backs of the seats. She was taut, he could tell. He could feel her walls coming up and enveloping her in their cold, solid arms.

He knew, because he'd built them before.

As he settled down for the night, he went off thinking about his family, and the girl less than three feet away from him and the stars above and the creatures outside. He calculated his best moves, he thought long and hard. He knew what he'd have to do in the morning, and hell, he'd do it fast. He fell asleep with a solid decision in his mind and a coldness that he'd formed, one made to brace himself against everything else in this godforsaken world.

When the sun came up, and __________ opened her eyes, she turned to find that the car was empty. "Philip?"

She crawled out of the trunk and scrambled to the front seat. She scanned the store, but it appeared empty. There was no sign of him. Everything he'd had was gone with him.

He couldn't have gone far. She leaped into the driver's seat and did a quick and reckless U-turn out of the gas station. She flew down the road. She let out a laugh, thinking about how she would have been going at least twenty over the speed limit.

After a few minutes, she saw him stumbling along, his hand in his pocket, his shirt untucked. He seemed to be admiring the scenery.

She slammed on the breaks and he was jolted out of his musings.

"The hell are you doing?" he asked coldly. "I left for a reason."

"Why?" she asked, her eyes showing a mixture of desperation and betrayal.

"Ain't no need to stick around, is there?"

"I need you to stick around! I need another person! I need it!" She was pleading with him. He heard the fingers of panic begin to strike chords in her voice. He tried to focus on something else.

"Well I sure as hell don't! I don't need you at all, I don't need anybody. All a person does for you is leave you, whether by choice or by chance, and I don't need that, not anymore!" he shouted. He could feel his hands shaking. "I don't need to lose another damn person out there."

"You c-can't leave!" Tears shone in her eyes. How young and lost she looked. He felt his resolve cracking. "You've overstayed and now you have to stay. Damn it, please!"

He looked at her for a moment, at the salt water trickling down her cheek. His glare shattered as the part of him that wanted to let himself care about her pushed its way out. He wiped her tears away, looking into her eyes with a mixture of loss and hesitation. He saw the trust that he'd had merely hours ago fracture into a thousand pieces. Maybe it was for the better.

He rounded the car and slid into the passenger seat, avoiding her eyes. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat, listening to the quiet static of the radio. They drove through an abandoned city, with crumbling ice-cream shops and old houses flaking away on their stone foundations. The city had been stopped in the middle of the day.

Hoses lay strewn across lawns and deflated basketballs rested in gutters. She pulled over for a moment and just stared. The empty boulevard seemed so desolate and lost. A reminder.

She leaned forward on the wheel and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, trying to steel her nerves and stop the tears from flowing. She finally gave in, and she felt herself slump against the dashboard, the sobs racking her body.

She cried for a long time. She couldn't think, or feel anything but her own sudden realization. They were so alone out there.

She sucked in a large breath of air, and stopped another weak sob from exploding out of her mouth. She felt a hand on her back, rubbing gentle circles. "Now, now. It's alright. It'll be okay. We're gonna be okay."

She sat up and took another deep breath. He rested his hand on her shoulder. His touch, though fleeting, was something she'd needed at that moment. She turned to look at him and she opened her mouth to say something, but he hushed her.

"I'm gonna drive now, and we're gonna go find a safe place for the night, alright?" His voice was assertive but soft.

She yielded to his request and they continued on.

He drove and drove and drove. He drove well past sunset. Finally he drifted off the road from exhaustion. He rested his own head on the dashboard and took a deep breath. "Hey," she whispered, with a small smile. "You and I both know you need rest." He turned to look at her briefly, before nodding slowly in submission.

They both crawled into the back, yawning and stretching. He curled up and closed his eyes. She'd have thought he'd been sleeping, he'd gotten so still, but the troubled expression on his face told her otherwise. She reached up and brushed his face, allowing her hand to rest against his soft skin. His eyes fluttered open and she saw dread flutter there for a moment. She rubbed her thumb along his cheekbone, careful of the minor scratches there. He put his hand to hers and drew it away. His fingers stretched between hers and lingered there, and he never looked away from her. She inched closer to him, and suddenly, she felt his warm, soft lips pressed to hers. He let out a shuddering breath and her own hitched.

He pulled away slowly. "I'm so sorry."

She squeezed his hand. "Shh."

He looked into her eyes again.

His sea-glass, brewing-storm eye shone with a something she couldn't comprehend. She pressed her lips to his again. "I'm sorry too."

His fingers weaved into her hair, the soft warmth comforting yet frightening.

He let out a long trembling breath and pulled her head to his chest. "Don't you ever run off like you did, don't you ever chase after biters. Don't you ever do that again. I will-"

"Shh," she murmured.

His soft, slow heartbeat thudded in her ears, and the air in his lungs was blown out with a quiet whoosh. He buried his face in her hair, and he closed his eyes.

The morning came slowly for both of them, and waking up was difficult. The sun pierced the window like a knife, angry and searing.

He let out a sigh and watched as _________ curled into his chest, her face pressed into his shirt. She began to stir.

How beautiful she was, with her hair tousled and messy and her tired lips full from sleep. He smiled and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Mornin'."

"Good morning," she yawned.

A sudden thud rocked the car, as a few walkers slammed into the door.

He crawled into the front seat and tapped the wires quickly. More walkers emerged from the woods. He threw the car into gear and jolted down the road. ___________ felt dizzy for a moment after slamming her head against the back of the trunk, but she gathered herself together. She clambered into the front seat and rubbed her temples.

His mouth turned up in a wry smile. "Gonna have to get used to it sometime, sweetheart."

"Sometime," she grumbled. "Where are we even going?"

"There's a place I know. It ain't too far. Good shelter, pretty cleaned out. Not too much of a journey, but it's a little obscure."

"You've traveled around here before?" she asked.

"Got to find a safe place when you're alone, don't you?"

She nodded.

She glanced out the window, remembering her little house, her charts and her maps and her candles.

"We'll find a real nice place, eventually. Might take a bit of exploring, but you don't mind that, do you?" He smiled that warm smile of his and __________ could only return it. "Where'd you come from, before all this?"

"I've never really had a place before, just traveled a lot. I never really knew how to stay in place until I found my apartment."

"We'll find you a better one," he said, his voice confident and convincing. "I promise you."

She laughed. "Alright, Philip."

She saw his grip on the steering wheel tighten and she furrowed her brow.

"We'll be there 'fore sundown, and we'll set up a fire before the light fades."

"We're running low on gas."

"Well, there aren't any stations for a long while now, the exits are all blocked off. We'll have to walk some when this one finally gives out. We got the two containers full of gas, but those will only take us so far. We'll get there and then we'll have to leave this behind. We won't have enough to get to another station after."

___________ swallowed hard. "Great. Really."

He chuckled. "I've got your back, no worries, darlin'."

After a while, he swerved off the road, and stopped the car.

"What are you doing?" she asked, peering outside. There were only a few walkers lurking in the field off to their left, and she didn't see much in the woods.

"We ain't gonna make it past here with this car."

"We're going through the woods?"

"We have to."

She sighed.

"I'm sorry, I forgot all about this."

"Is this place really-"

"It's worth it, I promise."

She nodded and grabbed her weapons from the car, slinging them over her shoulder, tucking them into her belt.

"I can hear them." He stared at the small group shuffling their way. He drew his bowie knife and then turned around. "Go."

They took off running, ducking under draping vines and leaping over the swelling masses of weeds bursting from the uneven ground. "How much farther?"

"A couple miles, I reckon."

More walkers were emerging from the woods, collecting like condensation on a water glass.

"Go, faster!" His voice cracked from lack of breath, and his eyes were wide in fear and lack of resolve. She dropped her heavy bag of weapons; she'd come back for it when they found a place to hide. He held onto his own pack, but he certainly wasn't hindered by it.

They ran, faster. He was ahead of her by a bit, his long legs covering miles while she only gained feet.

He disappeared into the brush, merely minutes later.

She took another deep, shaking breath and kept pushing forward. She followed his footprints, until finally, the dirt was smothered in ivy and weeds. She couldn't go searching for something already lost.

She came to a clearing, but already, walkers had accumulated in their small groups. Eventually, hordes would come.

They weren't as quiet as she'd thought.

Her head pounded and her breaths were sharp in her lungs. She let out a cough of dry air, and swallowed her bile. Her eyelashes trembled with sweat and frustrated tears.

She couldn't call for him, and she couldn't listen for him. Only a fool would yell in these woods.

She shook her head and drew her gun. She walked forward, her legs burning and her tendons loose and weak. A flush of hot wetness stole over her body, leaving a slick morass on her skin. She swallowed again, trying in vain to wet the desert on her tongue.

She looked around her, but nothing was registering. She was lost in the forest, with nothing but two guns and a knife, and she was alone. She didn't know how to get back. She didn't know where the hell she was. She felt like vomiting again.

She heard the gurgling of a walker and turned around quickly. She clubbed it in the head with the butt of her gun, until nothing but thick, greasy fluid and a chunk of skull remained.

She stood up again and kept trudging forward.

Her hands trembled.

The fine hairs on her arms prickled as drops of sweat paved wobbly paths to her hands.

She clenched her gun tighter, feeling a numbness in her fingertips and an aching pain in her knuckles.

"Philip," she whispered.

The wheezing of the cicadas was her only reply.

The thought of Philip drifted out of her head after an hour or so of painful plodding.

She felt like tilting her head back and letting out a scream.

She heard the snapping of twigs and a coarse groan.

Her head jerked in a frenzied, terrified manner, spinning, searching.

She pulled her gun out of its holster and prepared to swing.

The walker that emerged was unusually lethargic. In its mouth, was a piece of checkered fabric.