I barricaded the doors quicker than I anticipated. I was the only one in my group left; all of the others had died and joined the walking dead. I took shelter in a Bass Pro Shop Outdoor World place; it even had its own restaurant. I found some stale bread and water, took that with me upstairs to consume, and then I sat among the clothes and wept. I had been running alone for six months now, but I was the last runner in the southeast region of the country. I didn't have a name anymore; I was Runner. If anybody were to ask me what my name was, that was the answer. There are Runners, there are Medics, there are Journalists – that's what I was hoping to be after college until my university became overrun – and there are zombies. The Runners, such as me, usually gather supplies for Medics and send reports to Journalists as soon as we can access a computer. The Journalists act as messengers: they're the Hermes of the country now. They send information via radio depending on what part of the country you're from. I'm the only Runner in the southeast region now, so our radio transmissions are limited but they are looking for new potential runners. Medics are those who keep supplies of medicine, as their name suggests, and do their best to keep us Runners healthy.

I was able to hack the computer-type registers at Bass Pro Shop – we were trained by the Journalists on how to do this – and was able to send a report from there after I was weeping. I was safe here at Bass, but there were loads of zombie herds in the area. No one knows for sure how the zombie infection began, but once it started to spread it spread quickly. I'm sure the Medics knew but didn't want to come out and say anything, probably to try to keep the panic at a minimum but it's a little late for that.

When my group was alive, there were four of us. There are a few different kinds of us Runners. There are Sprinters, who just run for their life and make it; Archers, who are good with a bow and arrow or crossbow; Gunners, who can shoot a gun, most likely while running and still have great aim; and Campers, who run until they find a great hiding spot. I started off as a Sprinter, but I met others from each kind of category and we formed an alliance and helped each other and taught each other. Now, I'm a hybrid of all four categories. I have no other choice. It's the only way to survive.

Our Camper used to tell stories of how a friend of hers told her about a man called The Doctor, and how she experienced him when she lived in London. She said he would help us and save the day and save humanity. This Doctor never came but it was a good thing to hold on to hope to, but I gave up about four months into the apocalypse. I met her within the first few weeks. I was the Sprinter and she was a Camper so she would try to keep up with me – which she was pretty good at – and we would stop when she found a hiding place. She was perfect at finding safe havens, but one day we all found a place and she sacrificed herself to make sure we all got in alright. Once the zombies were done with her and left, our Gunner stepped out and shot her in the head. She was the first one gone in our group and I cried the whole night.

Our Archer and I had a relationship of sorts, which kind of blossomed after that night. He was there for me after our Camper died, whereas the Gunner just sort of patrolled the place; he was relatively heartless. Our Archer would hold me during sleep shifts to make sure I was okay and it helped me cope. When our Gunner died it was just him and I and things went really smoothly for about two weeks. Then they got him when he couldn't run fast enough and I knew I had to leave him behind. And then I was alone. I was alone and I just prayed that this Doctor would come to help.

A week later, while I was still at Bass, I heard a strange noise coming from downstairs. I prepared my gun thinking it would be the zombies but I saw a blue police box form right in front of my eyes by the staircase. I still kept my gun ready, and a tall man that was dressed rather nicely stepped out very casually. I saw that he wasn't a zombie or in the process of turning, so I lowered my gun. Based off of the legend, this had to be him. This had to be The Doctor.

With heavy breaths, I sighed in relief and closed my eyes for a moment. I didn't want to start crying again. I had to be strong. I was the last Runner in Region IV which consisted of eight states, and based off of leaked reports there weren't very many other Runners in the other nine regions. Rumor has it that Region X doesn't have any Runners anymore and Regions VI and IX only have one left as well.

The man came upstairs and found me trying to hold myself together. "Hello?" he began; like my friend said, he had a British accent, and that's when I knew it was him. My expression went to what must have been wonder to anger.

"Doctor?"

"You… you know me?" he asked, confused.

"Where the hell have you been?!" I screamed. It wasn't a question; it was a command.

"Well, I just took a trip to Italy, met the nicest family that had quite a nasty alien problem-"

"I don't give a shit about your alien problems!" I snapped. I was choking back the tears at this point. "I waited for you! I believed in you! She… she believed in you and its too late! I believed in you! For her! For all of us! And now she's gone!" That's when the tears began streaming, the utter loneliness kicking in. "They're all gone."

"Hey, hey, hey," The Doctor rushed over, holding me to calm me down. "Who believed in me?"

"Our Camper. She sacrificed herself for us. She always talked about you, you know. She said she lived in London for a few years and you always saved the day when shit got weird. Our Gunner killed her for good before she could become one of them."

"One of whom?" The Doctor asked. He genuinely looked confused when I looked up to him, making eye contact.

"Look for yourself." I pulled myself away from his grasp and led him to a window, in which he saw an absolute wasteland. The streets were desolate; the rest of the shopping plaza looked like it was abandoned, and save for me it was. Out in the distance, by a nearby restaurant, was a single zombie roaming by himself. I grabbed my binoculars to get a closer look at him; he looked like our Archer. When the zombies got him, I didn't have it in me to kill him. In my bag I was able to carry a bottle of water, some nonperishable snacks and weapons. "Can you cut a small hole in the glass?" I asked The Doctor. He nodded, took out a strange device and did such. I pulled a small sniper rifle out of my bag, attached the silencer, and The Doctor stared in awe as I prepared myself. I hesitated for a longer time than I would have liked to, but it had to be done. Once the cross hair was focused on his head, I pulled the trigger.

"Who was that?"

"Our Archer," I answered gravely. "Someone I loved."

"And where are we?" The Doctor asked, almost bemusedly.

"Region IV of the United States," I looked to him. "More specifically, Florida. Welcome to 2013, maybe the Mayans weren't so wrong after all."

"Is this the only region with a zombie problem?" he asked. I laughed sadly.

"Nope. Even the president himself got bit. I feel bad for the poor bastard who had to shoot him in the head when he saw Mr. President the zombie. Must be traumatizing. That's when the government collapsed, when the president turned. It's the whole country, Doctor. This country is run on Medics, Journalists and Runners like me."

"And what's your name?" he asked.

"Runner. That's what my instructions were. When anyone asks you, you don't have a name. Identity doesn't matter in the zombie apocalypse. You're either a Medic, a Journalist, a Runner or a zombie. I am Runner."

"Runner what?"

"Just Runner. Kind of how you're just The Doctor. I'm the last Runner in Region IV."

"Well then, Runner. I'm The Doctor. Looks like you all could use my help."

I smiled at him. "I think we could."