A/N: First WD FF. Had a blast writing this and planning it, I just love those zombie darlings so darn much. I hope those of you reading this share my enthusiasm for the undead and all things Walking Dead.

Full Synopsis: I will be trying to keep in line with the general ideas of both the show and the comic. This story takes place in an unnamed time after Hershel's farm. The group moves on, seeking refuge in an abandoned prison (comic tie-in). On the other side of things, Charlaine Lyzette (pro. SHAR-LANE LEE-ZETT) is a survivor living in the old Georgia State Penitentiary, but she is not just any ordinary Apocalyptite. Miraculously she has a natural immunity to the unknown contagion that causes zombification. Some hell gets raised. A lot of undead slaying and general zombie goodness. Some romance. Angst like a punch in the face. Dark humour up the wazoo.

Michonne from the comics will be making an apperance, other than her, the characters within will be only from the show or OC's.

Warnings for whole story: Rated M for: Language, Violence, Gore. Basically, everything required for a good zombie tale.

Specific warnings, if not the ones mentioned above, will be posted for each individual chapter.

Chapter 1: Natural Immunity

Enjoy ;)

"And I saw another sign in heaven, great and marvelous, seven angels having the seven last plagues; for in them is filled up the wrath of God… And after that I looked, and, behold, the temple of the tabernacle of the testimony in heaven was opened: And the seven angels came out of the temple, having the seven plagues, clothed in pure and white linen, and having their breasts girded with golden girdles. And one of the four beasts gave unto the seven angels seven golden vials full of the wrath of God, who liveth for ever and ever. And the temple was filled with smoke from the glory of God, and from his power; and no man was able to enter into the temple, till the seven plagues of the seven angels were fulfilled." (Revelation 15:1-8 KJV)

Prologue

If there were ever one word in the English language to describe Charlaine Lyzette it would be dauntless; unaccustomed to fear; valiant; indomitable. While most persons lost themselves gradually as the zombie infestation reached its crux, Charlaine found herself - found her true calling amongst the toxic calamity gripping the world by its balls. One who never quite fit in right with the world pre-apocalypse, she truly stumbled upon her niche when the undead masses rose in staggering numbers. As it turns out, the undoubtedly hard life she had led prior to the cataclysmic contagion that all but rendered humans extinct served as the perfect prerequisite for thriving in a fight-or-die new world order. A sharp mind and a strong stomach coupled with finely-tuned survival instincts and a desensitization to the most vicious aspects of violence has allowed her to flourish. She can bash a walker's head in with a baseball bat without blinking; she can kill the abominations that stalk the streets without hesitation or remorse; she can improvise better than McGuyver and rack up a body count higher than Louis Garavito* in a matter of hours if given enough ammunition.

However, beyond her predisposition to surviving living hells, there is one thing that also leaves her incapable of fear, able to be dauntless in these daunting times. And that is supposed natural immunity; an inability to be infected by the most deadly pandemic since the black plague. With every ailment known to man there is a certain given percentage of the population that has a natural immunity. Whether it be through the survival of a far less deadly disease that prepares your immune system for the onslaught of another, such as in the case of milk maids who caught cowpox and then were immune to the ravishing of smallpox, or simply put genetic superiority that protects her, Charlaine Lyzette has little to rationally fear from contact with the undead. Thrice bitten, her heart still beats, her body never once afflicted with fever.

Charlaine Lyzette, a young woman of 24 with light auburn hair and vibrant heterochromatic eyes, was destined to not only survive but also designed to thrive in these historically heinous times.

This story is hers, as well as it is theirs; it is the tale of how the world found its way back to light after being lost in the dark and while this chronicle may in some ways resemble one you have heard before, it is like nothing you have imagined and nor is it like any tale that has yet to be told.

This is the Gospel of Charlaine.

The now-abandoned Georgia State Penitentiary was once the most secure facility east of the Mississippi, home to the most odious and flagitious criminals deemed too dangerous to be housed with serial murderers and those most devoid of empathy. A series of three fences placed mere feet apart from one another, each two stories high and topped with razor wire, secure the prison's perimeter. Strategically dotted along its barbed borders eight guard towers rise sixty feet from the ground, granting 360 degree aerial views of the surrounding area. To the north a large field where colourful wild flowers bloom fades into the horizon, seemingly stretching to the very ends of the earth as vibrant tides of petals and wheat wash over grassy hills for as far as the eye can see. When the breeze blows in just the right way, the sweet scents of lavender, honeysuckle and sassafras can be smelt from within the prison. Amongst apocalyptic times the simple smell of flowers grants an important sense of normalcy and familiarity to the nine survivors within GSP's sturdy walls. To both the east and the south, tall trees densely cover the land in a thick wash of dark green and brown, not a single patch of grass to be seen between the massive trunks of cypress and oak. Miles beyond the woods to the east the Oconee river flows unseen and to the west the Ocmulgee river lies no more than five-hundred feet beyond the fence.

Walls ten inches thick, made of steel reinforced concrete, render Georgia State impeccably impenetrable against outside forces. A true modern-day fortress, GSP is infallible by design. Virtually impossible to enter and even harder to escape from, its infallibility, its very superiority was ultimately its Achilles heel. In 2008 a series of prisoner riots that warranted a severe lock-down to be initiated claimed the lives of over fifty inmates and all but twelve of Georgia State's two-hundred guards. The technology woven into GSP's controls and regulators was on the cutting-edge of science, and the electronic lock-down sequence that was put into motion that day had not been used by the prison before. After all the careful designing and reinforcing, it was a deadly mishap and atrocious violence of internal origin that lead to its heinous demise. A malfunction voided the override sequence on the main doors and the guards were locked in with inmates for an entire weekend. Often regarded as the bloodiest two days in recent Georgian history, the horrific actions that took place forever scarred the prisons reputation. Unable to recover, Georgia State Penitentiary was eventually closed, left untouched by time in the middle of nowhere, Georgia until the old warden opened the facility to a group of six Apocalyptites he happened to stumble upon.

Sheer dumb luck is the name of survival more times than not. Then again, isn't that how it has always been?

Georgia in the summertime is about as close to the weather conditions of Hell as you can find on Earth. Scorching heat and oppressive humidity drags you down like a pair of lead weights attached to your ankles, unrelenting for days on end. Even the relief of a rain storm is miniscule and short-lived at best, especially so on days when the thermometer climbs above one-hundred and the sun burns with such intensity that it audibly blisters the very air you breathe, thus scorching your lungs and leaving you praying for hellfire.

Even Charlaine, who grew up in the bayous of Louisiana where ancient superstition runs deep, can barely withstand the weather – if only because she hates the inability to function properly when bogged down by sweat and the beginnings of heat stroke.

Most certainly though, she hates the unbearable heat because it fogs her concentration and fucks with her normally impeccably accurate aim.

Way beyond irritated, a low growling sound emits from Charlaine's throat as she glares down from the guard tower to her untouched, undead target still stumbling around. She quickly loads another round into the bolt-action chamber of her military-issue sniper's rifle, slamming the bolt closed with more force than needed.

Besides her in the tower stands Heath, a tall, bald man with skin as dark as night and eyes as pale blue as the morning sky, holding a pair of high-magnification binoculars by his waist as he watches Charlaine again squint her right eye, an amazingly vibrant shade of aqua blue, and look through her M40's scope with her honey brown left eye; again aiming for one of the twelve zombies that gather around a dead raccoon twenty feet from the prison's main gate.

"Everything all right?" Heath asks, suspiciously eyeing the way she holds the rifle so tight her knuckles have become as white as fresh snow.

"Yeah." Charlaine snaps.

Obviously, everything is not alright.

Heath, apparently not picking up on the fact that it might be a bad idea to do so, decides to offer the tall redhead a tip, "You need to aim a little to your right to offset –" He starts but is quickly, and rude through intention, interrupted by Charlaine who looks away from the scope to instantly glare at Heath with her two-toned eyes widened a great deal.

"I know what I need to do! Hell, I can take out an enemy target from a half-mile away! Do you know how many other people in the world can make a shot like that, HUH?" Angrily, she berates the older man as if he just insulted her.

Heath holds up both his hands, taking the smallest step back, "I'm guessing not a whole lot…. Considering," He gestures to the hoard of walkers devouring their road-kill dinner with his binoculars. Charlaine's eyes follow the line of his extended arm to the zombies below. A small amount of tension eases from her visibly clamped jaw, softening her flushed round face.

Not looking at Heath, but rather still focused on the walkers, Charlaine responds with a distant "Yeah. Exactly." She subtly nods along absentmindedly to her words, unaware of the action and lost in her mind.

Even living through the end of the fucking world, every now and then she is still caught off-guard by her new, walker-infested reality. It is just so... so... unbelievable. Physically dispelling her own thoughts with a shake of her head, she takes in a deep breath and then again takes aim, this time slower and with a much calmer aura than before.

Breath in.

Exhale. Squeeze.

She squeezes the trigger, firing off a round directly into the skull of some nameless cannibalistic corpse who was unlucky enough to die in a gaudy Hawaiian shirt that made him stick out in a crowd, a shirt that made him unlucky enough to become Charlaine's intended target during practice with Heath. With not much else to do since the apocalypse hit, Heath and Charlaine like to spend their days up in the North guard tower, picking off the dead one-by-one for fun. The sound of the shot echoes off the nearby tree line, ringing loud like church bells. Undoubtedly it will draw more undead to their position, but that just means more targets, which means more to do.

Sound is not a big concern for her or her group. It's not exactly like any of the walkers can get up and over the fences. And even if they do, there are booby traps set all over the compound in case of emergency. If one walker takes the wrong step, BOOM, a landmine sends zombie kibble-and-bits twenty feet in the air and thus the problem is eliminated.

In the apocalypse, your contingency plans better have their own contingency plans.

Looking up from her sight, Charlaine smirks as she hands the rifle over to Heath, "Try and beat that shot. I got the mother fucker right between the eyes."

Heath trades his binoculars for her rifle, taking his time loading a round into the chamber while Charlaine scouts the zombie crowd with the binoculars in search of Heath's next target.

"I got it," Charlaine smirks, "Larry King." She snickers.

"You're going to have to be more specific than that. They all kinda look like walking corpses." Heath jokes, unable to keep a stupid grin from creeping up on his elongated face.

With a wry look, Charlaine mockingly laughs at his joke.

"Oh, fuck you, Lou, I thought that was funny." Heath defends, using the nickname (Lou being short for Louisiana, her home state) she had acquired since it was decided her given name was far too girly and therefore unsuitable for a woman such as herself – by Charlaine herself, none-the-less.

"Well, it wasn't." Charlaine says. She brings the binoculars back to her eyes, begrudgingly searching the crowd again for a more unique target. After a few moments marked by a comfortable silence, she again speaks up, "Texas Larry King. That good enough for you?" Cheekily, she asks.

In the spirit of good fun, Heath flips her off before using the rifles scope to find the aforementioned Texas Larry King. While Heath looks for his named target, Charlaine sweeps over the open field to the North of the prison compound with the binoculars. What she was looking for, Charlaine didn't know, she just felt some sort of compelling urge to check the fields.

And boy, is she glad she did.

Charlaine lowers the binoculars, quickly checking the outer lenses for dust or debris before finding them clear and therefore finding herself utterly surprised beyond words. Just to make sure it isn't some sort of delusion brought on by sleep deprivation or heat stroke, she hits Heath in the upper arm with the back of her palm to grab his attention just as he was lining up his shot.

"Hold on." Heath demands. With her brown and blue eyes unwaveringly focused on the far distance, she again slaps him in the upper arm with the back of her palm, only this time much harder, above and beyond the crucial bruising point.

"What?" Heath shouts, lowering the snipers rifle and holding it by his side.

"Out in the field." Charlaine says, sounding absolutely flabbergasted, as she holds the binoculars out for Heath to take with her right hand, pointing to the field with her right.

Heath takes the binoculars from her, quickly pulling them up to his eyes. He looks out at the magnified field bursting with hues of pinks and purple, amazed to find a small group of five people running towards the prison with precise balance; obviously not the sort of people that are commonplace to see, the very people that he and Charlaine were shooting at who are stuck in a nightmarish place between life and death.

There are five people, five real people running towards the prison. Five living people, like walkers only with heartbeats and without that nasty 'I want to eat your face' complex.

Five survivors, just like them – just like their group of nine residing within Georgia State's fortified walls.

"They must have heard the broadcast... Heath, this is... this is." Charlaine fumbles to find the right words. From within the prison, they have been broadcasting a message on a repetitive loop, alerting anyone within a five-mile radius with a radio that they can provide safe haven for those who require it.

Heath is stunned to silence as he lowers the binoculars. He exchanges a worried look with Charlaine, telepathically coming to the same conclusion.

Those people sure as shit chose the wrong day to seek refuge. They chose the one day when the undead are gathering in swarms just beyond their front gates; they chose the worst possible day to come knocking.

It is Charlaine that voices the concern Heath cannot find the words for, "They're going to run right into the pack of walkers down there."

"What do you want to do?" Heath asks, unknowing and unable to divine an answer by his lonesome.

"Alright," Charlaine breathes, holding a cupped palm over her forehead as she thinks. With her tanned arm at at such an angle the scarred-over bite mark which wraps around the side of her left wrist is visible, slick scar tissue in the form of 32 teeth dully glistening in the scorchingly bright sun, "You get down there with whoever's closest and take out as many as you can. I'll get the fucktards I can from up here and make sure no walkers get close to them."

Heath nods once in agreement then rushes down the ladder, wasting not a single second. Charlaine puts down her bolt-action sniper, leaning it against the small half-wall that wraps around the gaurd tower. She darts into the small office at the top of the tower to collect her M110 SASS, a semi-automatic sniping rifle much more preferred when multiple targets are to be involved. Snapping in a fully loaded magazine, she rests the cumbersome rifle against the wide frame of an open window for steady aim. She breathes slowly and gently to quell the haze of adrenaline fogging her thoughts and twitching her fingers. She finds focus and takes aim for the first walker she spots beginning to deterr from the group by the gate.

Breath in.

Exhale. Squeeze.

So many zombies. So little time.

This should be fun of epic porportions.

*Louis Garavito is a Columbian serial killer who confessed to the murder of 140 young boys (rumoured to have a body count of over 300, though). He is often called "The World's Worst Serial Killer" by the media.

I am extremly interested to know all thoughts on this, so please...

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