I remember it. The news report announcing the swarms of people fleeing cities, clogged highways, rioting near grocery stores. Mom would pace around the living room.

"I knew it," she'd blurt out, "this wasn't something that was just going to blow by."

At that point, I couldn't fight her on it. I had for so long. Thought that most the people at school were paranoid for wearing face masks or just not showing up at all. That only idiots would be stocking up on food. I had thought it would blow by, was sure of it really. Every other disease did. But there we sat watching a town riot n television well our own sank into chaos.

I remember driving for hours. All of us packed into a vehicle that was too cramped to move. We had watched as city lights slowly faded or people begged and waved from the side of the road for help.

"Can't risk it," Mom would say, "it could be a trap. They could just be wanting us to stop so they can take our vehicle and drive away."

I don't think they did. I couldn't see the woman who was covered in red and tears having the ability to take our food. Or the man who held onto the hands of four children be hoping to fool us into giving our vehicle. I watched as they shrunk in the back window, never to be seen again.

I grew bored. Texted my friends since the phones still seemed to work. Amanda was huddled in a church with dozens of people. Ryan was at his dad's winter cabin with most of his family. John was still at his house, watching news reports well waiting for his mom to get home.

I remember the dead who shambled aimlessly. We were cooking sausages over a fire at my grandma's farm when I had seen one so close. Lumbering out of the woods. A woman, still in her pajamas, her eyes glazed over, her left hand eaten away at. She groaned and growled, reached in our direction. Mom had to bash her head in with a shovel.

"Never hesitate," she said, "always go for the head, nowhere else."

We added her body to the flames that night. I watched as they licked up her limbs and charred the putrid flesh.

It was hard sleeping at night. The television never broadcasted much but our radios still worked. Sometimes we'd get a government announcement or evacuation plans but mostly it was other people who were broadcasting for help or looking for other survivors.

One woman who was pleading for help, her vehicle had broken down and she was surrounded. Another who was in a helicopter and looking for a safe place to land. Then there was the man who was so calm in his prayers, a verse from the bible I had not heard before. His broadcast ended so suddenly.

I remember the growing numbers of dead that showed up to the farm. And one day, it was too much. They scratched at the doors and banged against the windows. Mom handed me a hammer, just the sight of it made my insides roll. Three weeks ago I was going to school, talking about summer vacation. I had not killed one of the infected nor did I want to.

We fought our way through. Shooting, stabbing, swinging. The bodies continued to pile up at our feet but no matter how many we killed, there was always more to take up the empty space. Their hands reaching, jaws gaped open. We didn't all make it. I watched out the window of the truck as the dead surrounded my grandma, grabbing her lifeless body.

"I know it is sad," Mom told us, "but you have to make sure you survive, if you are still breathing, you keep moving!"

I used to think of how harsh she was. Who could say such things, do such things, and still only think of themselves? I had never seen this side of my mother. Never even knew she could possess such an attitude like the one she presented.

I remember the night she proved me wrong. She had flung herself between one of the infected and myself, letting it sink its teeth into her chest rather than let it get to me.

"This will be the hardest thing you will ever do," she finally said to me, "but this world is changing and you need to change with it. You need to live."

She whispered how much she loved me with tears in her eyes. I held her hand as her voice got low until not even a breath escaped her lips. I knew she was gone but I could hardly raise the gun to her head. Pulling the trigger didn't just kill her, it killed what was left of who I was.

I've pulled the trigger a lot more since then.

Hey!

So just a small intro to the story! Haven't done a Walking Dead fanfic in awhile so figured why not, let's see where it goes.

I do plan to tie in this character with some from FTWD and TWD but not so much a direct main focus on it, more so some small encounters and so on. But we will see where it goes!