Hey! First Walking Dead story ever…

Okay, first fanfiction story ever, but I promise you, I put a 110% into this. It is relatively well written, though I appreciate any criticism and corrections. I'll update at the very least, every week, maybe sooner. I'll try to keep the chapters a fair amount of words. I don't wanna end up giving you guys not enough to read every chapter.

Rating could change depending on demand… Eh, let's be honest. It all depends on if can keep my hormones under control.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Walking Dead. If I did, I'd probably kidnap Daryl (aka, Norman Reedus) and force him to teach me how to work that crossbow of his. You can take that as sexually or non-sexually as you like.

The story my darlings!

Stiff = zombie or walker

"That's the last one," I muttered, wiping my knife on the grass. While I removed the old blood and decaying flesh from my weapon, I kept a wary eye on the once moving corpses.

A hand tugged on the back of my shirt, urging me to stand up. I didn't need to turn around to know who would be there. I didn't even suspect for a minute that it would be a stiff behind me, but nevertheless, I kept my knife ready as I stood upright.

"We need to keep moving," a strong, male voice advised. I nodded, turning around to face my only travel companion in this cruel new world.

A strong chin, stubble increasing day by day, a graying but full head of hair, and dark, sincere eyes.

My father.

"Okay, dad," I agreed. I stuck my weapon in its place, feeling its reassuring weight against my hip. The trees around us provided shade from the sun trying to force its way through the leaves. It was the only thing keeping me from sweating profusely in the heat of the day. By my estimation, winter should be coming soon, but it didn't seem to be cooling down any. However, the woods, with their trees, provided cool safety from the heat of the day.

Most people would think that the dead would be out here, in the woods, attacking animals or taking refuge in the abundance of land. Most people would initially reason that they belonged in the woods, as if we were living in a cliché horror movie and all the big bad monsters were stuck in a haunted forest. However, despite a few stiffs crossing our path every now and then, the woods stayed generally clear of bloodthirsty zombies. They would be out here soon, I knew that, but for now, most of them were still roaming the cities. They stayed within the confines of buildings and civilization, where people used to inhabit. There was still enough fresh meat to keep them satisfied. There were still enough bodies to keep them satiated.

My father handed me his gun as he shrugged out of his backpack. I held onto the cool metal, relishing in the safety it could deliver, as he retrieved a map of Georgia. We had already passed though a good portion of safe areas and hazardous ones. We'd marked them down on the map. In any case that we would need to back track, we would be able to remember which areas to avoid. A red marker and a blue one. Areas circled in blue contained little to no zombies. Areas in red, well, they had too many to even begin to comprehend.

He took out the blue marker, marking down the fifteen miles we had hiked today in the ink, he nodded to himself.

"We should be finding a farmhouse or a building pretty soon. It's about ten or so miles in between every one and we spotted the last one about five hours or so ago, so I'm guessing if we press on, we'll find shelter for the night." I smiled lightly, thanking the heavens that my observant father was with me. We were fortunate enough to make it out of Atlanta alive together.

My smile dropped as I remembered all the people that didn't.

I handed him his gun when he had the backpack on. He didn't comment on my miserable frown.

My black combat boots were nearly silent as we resumed our journey. I hadn't quite perfected the noiseless walk yet. I still alerted the stiffs to our presence occasionally. I'd slip up, step on twig or some dry leaves, and then they would notice and attack. My father however, had adapted better than me. His feet, though larger and in sturdier boots than mine, made no noise on the dry ground.

It was silent for about the first half hour, but I grew tired of the quiet quickly.

"Dad?"

His eyes scanned the forest, searching for stiffs, before he nodded to me. "Yeah?"

"Do you think… do you think they're still alive?"

I didn't stop to observe his facial expression. I didn't try and force an answer out of him as we walked on. I didn't want one, not really, but I still needed to know. I needed someone with all the answers. I was just a scared, little girl, looking to her father for reassurance in a time of need. I was twenty-five, I was supposed to be able to handle the world, but I guess I had never really prepared for it to throw me this kind of curveball.

A zombie apocalypse, who in the world would've been prepared?

I heard him sigh and I tensed, waiting for some form of comfort.

"I'm not sure."

I could feel my spirits deflating. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I knew that giving me the honest answer was for the best. He didn't want me to get my hopes up. He required me to be prepped and ready for what fate would throw me. I wasn't a baby anymore and I wouldn't be treated as one. Because he loved me, he wouldn't sugarcoat our situation. He would give me the truth and then leave me to cope with it in whatever way I could.

Just like always.

It was then that I felt grateful. He wasn't babying me. I wasn't getting any special treatment. I had never been coddled and I wasn't about to be now. A ghost of a smile on my face, I tilted my head in acknowledgement. He was treating me as an adult, giving me only what I needed to stay strong. My father was still looking out for me, just in a different way than before.

"Thanks," I breathed. The deepening lines of his face stretched as he offered me a tired smile, understanding without any explanation. After another beat of quiet, I opened my mouth to speak again. "If we find them, when we get to Florida, and they're alive, where will we go from there?"

My father became thoughtful. He was a leader through and through, but even he had his faults. He couldn't plan everything out, because in the shit world we lived in now, plans never really ended up working the way you wanted them to.

He didn't give the classic "I don't know" anyone else would offer up as an excuse. No, despite things not always working in our favor, my father was a leader. He would work to protect me and keep order as well as he could.

"I'm thinking Camp Blanding. I heard they were still holding up in all this." I nodded. I could question him further. I could ask what we would do if Blanding wasn't safe or if they wouldn't take us in, but I didn't. We were taking this one step at a time and truthfully, I feared the reply I would receive if I asked. That dreaded "I don't know" hung over my head, always the possibility of being an answer.

My mind flashed back to a multitude of stiffs, all patrolling the grounds of a once peaceful area. Bodies littering the ground, blood and flesh everywhere, filled my head. A place that surely was once safe, now nothing more than a feeding ground. I grimaced.

"I still can't believe Fort Benning was… I can't believe it was overrun. It was supposed to be the refuge people were looking for. It was supposed to be safe," I murmured, my head still spinning with the sight of so many dead, moving and unmoving.

I noticed the sun making its descent downwards through the branches, but didn't comment, knowing that if my father was wrong, and we didn't find shelter, we'd either make camp or sleep in a tree.

I could feel his dark gray eyes turn on me, but I didn't want to look back at him. I didn't want to see the sadness, the loss. I didn't want to see the strength fighting against the desperation.

"You have to let it go, we'll find something better, Rebecca. Just forget it ever existed, it's gone now," he instructed me softly. How could I? How could I forget what had been burned into my memory? Instead of saying this, I simply nodded.

Most people didn't realize how important small goals were. Just having something trivial to look forward to. Discovering shelter. Finding food. Getting through the next city without being bitten. It was what kept me striving for survival. I made me put one foot in front of the other. After a while though, even small goals wouldn't save me from the hopelessness. I needed something big, something to look forward to-something that forced me to believe that it would get better. I needed something to push me to accomplish those ever important small term goals. My main goal, the thing that kept me going, was my mother and sister in Florida. Riley, younger than me by three years, couldn't even lift a gun. My mother, her sweet face and innocent disposition, wouldn't be able to handle the horrors of the apocalypse. I needed to get them. I was working toward getting to them.

I knew my father would never admit it, but his long term goal wasn't the same as mine. His objective was to keep me alive. If getting to Florida meant dying, he'd head the opposite direction and forget all about my sister and mother. Not that he didn't love them, because he did, but why would he risk his remaining family on a whim that they just might be surviving?

My head lifted, breaking my staring contest with the ground in front of me. I pushed these thoughts aside, trying to fill them with cheerfulness as I spotted a hopefully abandoned farmhouse.

"What did I tell you?" my father chuckled. We smiled at each other, knowing we'd be relatively safe for tonight.

Small goals, small goals.

It didn't take long to check the perimeter of the house. The building was safe, maybe even unscathed in all this. Food remained stocked in the pantry-canned foods and boxed items mostly. The people who had lived there had either left, unable to take much with them, or had died and wandered out, searching for a different kind of food source.

I refilled our packs with all of the goods, leaving out two cans of beans for dinner. I found a few useful looking knives stuck in some drawers and smiled at the score. Once upon a time, I might have cringed at the thought of ransacking a potentially deceased person house, but as I constantly reminded myself, it was a new world. There was no room for remorse and guilt.

This knowledge didn't stop me from releasing a sigh at an old picture frame, encasing a picture of a happy, older couple.

I heard my father's steps creaking on the wood above me as he searched the upper level of the house. The doors and windows, a priority as soon as we stepped into this house, had been shut tight and locked. Though we could find anything to board them up, it didn't matter. Sleeping in this sanctuary would be better than resting in the open outdoors.

My legs, though slender and strong, were not built for walking hours and hours with no end. Our truck, the one we had owned before this all started, broke down as soon as we escaped Atlanta. We'd been heading toward Fort Benning when it happened. We suddenly had to continue on foot, unable to find another working vehicle.

That had to have been the worst part of the trip. Not the zombies trying to eat us or the empty, broken down cars we encountered, but the walking. I had never been much for endurance. I could run well enough and for a good amount of time, but I had never focused on stamina. After that first day of going on foot, I could still remember the soreness of my legs and feet. I winced, thankful that I had built up some muscle and I didn't have to through that amount of pain anymore.

The next vehicle we rode in, a hotwired-I had gotten one hell of a dirty look from my father at that particular skill-blue Toyota made it about halfway out of Fort Benning. It stopped moving for the same reason every other automobile we stumbled upon did-no fuel. There was no gas anywhere. Every time we tried to siphon some fuel, we came up with nothing. It had either run out or been taken by other unknown survivors.

It had been a week since that Toyota slowed to stop in the middle of the highway. One week of trudging through the forest. When we came to the outskirts of a town, we'd go in. We'd gather supplies and check for working cars, but we wouldn't stay. We'd move on, keep searching for something better, all the while trying to reach my sister and mother. It got lonely and tiring, but it kept us alive.

I ran a hand through my hair, heaving out a tired breath. As I pulled my hand away, I noticed the grime and dirt that stuck to my fingers. I wrinkled my nose in disgust at my own growing filth. As soon as we found a shower or a bath or a pond, I was jumping in as quickly as I could.

As I heard my father climbing the steps, heading back down toward me, I picked up my pack, waiting for his verdict. Upstairs or downstairs? Did he deem it safe enough for both of us to sleep at the same time? Would we have to take turns keeping watch like so many times before?

I stared at him, noticing his now bulkier backpack and realizing he had been as prosperous as I had been in finding supplies.

"We sleep upstairs tonight. It's safe enough, we'll be able to hear and wake up if anything goes astray." I sighed gratefully.

"Thank god," I laughed, already in a lighter mood as I headed toward the steps. Dinner forgotten in my mind at prospect of sleeping in an actual house tonight, I bounded up the stairs as quickly as possible. Old dust entered my nose, indicating the abandonment of this home. I didn't care, happy to have a good night's rest after sleeping in trees for the past few days.

It didn't take me long as I headed into a bedroom to notice the beds. I let out an excited squeal. I clasped a hand over my mouth, knowing we still had to be quiet. I cursed my loud screech and waited for a reprimanding from my father.

I heard the chuckle from my father in the next room as he heard my sound of delight and I relaxed.

I hurriedly dropped my bag to the floor along with my durable leather jacket. I kicked off my boots hastily and released my hair from the ponytail it had been trapped in. With a deep breath, I made a run for the bed, spreading my arms and legs out wide as I flopped onto the soft quilt and mattress. The old bed gave a slight groan of protest before quieting.

I wrapped myself in the covers, resting my head on a rough, lumpy pillow. Today had been a good day. We'd found shelter and food. More than that though, I could feel something coming. Something good. Something I would need to work for. Something forcing me to keep going, keep living.

I couldn't help myself as I fell asleep. Two words crept into my mind, reminding me of the short burst of joy I'd received just moments ago. They made me reflect on my achievements of the past and contemplate my achievements of the future. Two words, echoing in my head.

Small goals.

I groaned sleepily, raising my head from the slightly scratchy pillow. The tank top I'd been wearing for the past week clung stickily to my skin, working against me in the humidity of the night. My jeans were twisted uncomfortably around my legs as I kicked myself out of the blankets, wondering what had woken me up. My eyes squinted into the dark, searching for the source of disrupt. However, as I scanned the room, I found nothing. I couldn't even sense a disturbance in the atmosphere. My nose detected nothing but the mustiness from an old house and the musky scent of the woods. No scent of decaying bodies reached my nose, no blood or decomposing flesh made itself known. It couldn't be a zombie; the lack of a rotten odor entering my nose told me that. I heard nothing besides my nervous breathing. No scraping on the old woods floorboards, no slam of a door, no bang on a window.

Something had woken me up though. Despite the zombie apocalypse keeping me on high alert, I couldn't break the habit of being a heavy sleeper. If something had forced me to venture out of the refuge of a numb sleep, then it was something important. I cautiously reached for the knife I'd placed under my pillow, keeping it clenched in a tight fist. The gun, carefully resting on the side table, glistened in the moonlight that had managed to slip through the trees and through the window. I rolled off the bed, grabbing the lethal metal as I crept toward the door.

As if God had decided to bless me in that exact moment, my feet were soundless as I slipped out of my room.

I took notice of my fathers closed door, deciding not to bother him. If it ended up being one harmless stiff scratching on the door, trying to get in, I would kill it efficiently and quietly. I could take care of myself, though I preferred to not be alone, I could make it on my own. I could do what needed to be done to survive.

As I reached the bottom of the steps, my hold on my weapons faltered and I froze.

The door stood wide open. Wind, heavy with hot heat, blew in, finally making the smell known to me. I repressed a gag, tears forming at the corner of my eyes and bile rising in my throat. Just enough moonlight came in through the open door to allow me to see.

Blood. So much of it. It stained the floors, splattered against the walls, poured across the body. I closed my eyes as I took in the carcass, immediately trying to forget the open and bloodied corpse. I didn't want to see the body parts marred with bites and hand marks. I didn't want to study the strewn limbs and intestines.

That face, with the subtle expression of power, remained strong, even in death. The determined set of the prominent chin and narrowed dark gray eyes staring directly at me told me he went down with a fight. I choked back a sob, knowing exactly what did this. I finally forced myself to actually see the face of the body.

It was my father, lying on the floor, his entrails ripped out.

I tried not to scream as I backed away, accidently dropping my gun and knife, but too frightened to go near the body to pick them up. My breathing became harsh and uneven as I backed away, my eyes unsure of where to go as they flicked around the room.

My whole being became paralyzed as I bumped into a chest. A soft, slimy chest that heaved against my own. Raspy breaths reached my ears as my eyes widened to large saucers of green. I slowly turned around, already recognizing the scent of death and desperation.

I wasn't prepared for the sight before me. My mother, dressed in a ripped dress covered with guts and dirt, gawked hungrily at me. Her yellow and cloudy eyes unseeing, only comprehending me as her next meal. She inched toward me, her once beautiful auburn hair stringy around her shoulders and brushing against my face. She opened her mouth, letting out a hiss. I couldn't move a muscle as I gazed stupidly at her. She had bits of flesh stuck to her teeth as she bared them at me. I tried not to think about whose flesh she had just ripped into.

I didn't go down fighting like my father. I didn't do anything. I simply stared at the woman who had raised me. She lunged forward, but all I could do was watch her with wide, terrified eyes. I sucked in one last breath.

And then screamed as she bit into my neck.

Tell me what you thought! Good, bad, atrocious? Sorry for not having Daryl in these scenes, he will be comin' in soon!

Thanks for reading!