Wow! First Walking Dead fanfiction! I'm really excited, because I promise: this story is completely unlike the others.

My story will feature a female main character, her two young children, and this story will be centered around the love she finds after the zombies have taken over the earth. Okay, I understand, groan all you want, thinking this is going to be another OC who miraculously lives and is optimistic and is beautiful and gets her way. But let me tell you: this story is not that. Not at all.

The main character is someone who has lost so much already. She has already contemplated suicide, almost commits it, but ultimately finds it idiotic. She sees hope for the future, and if not for her, for her children. Their time on the road is a tough one, and even once they find saftey it comes with a price. And, finally, she finds the man she's ready to live for. The love she shares with this man is innocent at first, an almost necessary partnership at first. But it grows and blossoms into something more. Will it last? Find out yourself.

But be warned, this is a dark story. There is little fluff, and even then, it is met with thoughts of loss. This is not meant to depress, but the character I write through is not a happy person.

Expect for some things that are canon to be changed and altered, like character deaths and who are present, but other than that, this is the same plot that is set in the show.

If you're looking for something truly different, you've found the perfect story.

So, grab some popcorn and a drink, maybe even some Rolos, get comfortable, because I'm taking you beyond what you expected out of this story.

I hope you enjoy the ride!

Beyond

Part One: The Dark

Chapter One: The Raven

" '...and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -

Darkness there, and nothing more."

Edgar Allen Poe, The Raven

I hear his screams as I struggle to escape the covers, writhing legs pushing against the mounds of fabric that entrap me. I don't know what do once I'm free; he's still screaming, and I hear tiny footfalls pound down the hallway. My vision goes black for a second. Just one minuscule second. Then I'm back. I have a pistol in my hand, I'm aiming it at his face. The face that we've seen on the news reports on our TV: shallow, grey, accented with hungry, sickly eyes and a drooling mouth. Small fists punch away at the bedroom door, to which I look at with apologetic eyes. The punches escalate as my sobs echo into the night.

They're sick. They're hungry. They'll infect anything they bite. They'll tear you from limb from limb. They'll stuff your guts into their mouth. They'll gnaw away on your meat. They'll turn you into them.

These are all things they said as they displayed images of nameless victims of this disease, as blood splattered on their rotting flesh.

But they didn't tell me this. That he'd be one of them, one of the monsters. That he would leave us to walk this earth alone, with the undead crawling in our wake, ready to cram their fingers into our brains, their yellow teeth into our hearts. He said that we would stay put, weather the storm like we always did. He'd be here for me as we upheld our vows to always be there for one another. He said so many beautiful, empty lies. Lies that I believed.

I pull the trigger.

The recoil bursts throughout my body, and through my eyes where rivers of tears flow, I see his body crumple to the floor. His face is unrecognizable with the gaping hole that spews black blood, the dark fluid seeping into the wood of the floor. As I watch his limbs settle into deathly stillness, I let out my scream. I scream and cry and curse like I had been shot myself.

I kind of wish I had been.

Jason Clyde Riley died by my hands that night.

And that's how my story begins.

With his ending.

For Jason. For my children. For my future.

I awake to the sound of rapping at my door.

Carefully sliding my arms from underneath Sammy's head, I place my feet on the wooden floor as silently as I can. I don't have to move the covers away; I don't sleep with blankets anymore. They feel like a weight.

I slip out of the living room quietly, careful to not make any noise. I enter the foyer, pausing only to grab the knife that I keep in my boot. I approach the door silently, even holding my breath, attempting stealth.

I've had dreams like this before. I forget how they end, but they always end up with me waking up, trying to scream past the gag I had already put on myself.

I place one hand on the door as the other clutches the hunting knife. I lean forward and peer through eye-hole on the door to find piercing black irises greeting mine.

My gasp is almost let out; but I keep it in.

A raven has made its perch on my door, and I observe it as it taps its beak on the white-painted wood.

Strange, ravens aren't common here in the south, especially this time of year.

I reach out for the door knob, meaning to scare it off, but I hesitate. I gaze through the peep-hole again, and sure enough, a dozen of the undead amble their way down the dirt road that runs a hundred feet from my house.

As I commend myself on my decisive skills, I notice about three of the decaying bodies catch notice of the raven rapping on my front door. They steer towards the house.

My heart quickens then. I know I'm safe behind a two-and-a-half-inch piece of painted wood, but what if the rest of them follow and bombard my door? What if I bang my door, chasing away the bird, but then the nine other infected notice and proceed to claw their way into the house?

I act, suddenly, my fist connecting with the door, and a solid thump! reverberating through my arm and throughout the house. I hear the caw of the raven, the subtle beat of its wings. I look through the hole. The hungry eyes of the dead follow the raven, and to my relief, their arms claw the sky as if they could pluck the bird out of the air. But the raven neatly dodges them, flying away like I wish I could. The dozen infected turn away from the house and in the opposite direction.

Before I turn away from the backs of the undead, one catches my eye. It's the tallest one of the group and I notice with a twang of sadness that I recognize him. A bright red hat with layers of dirt and grime slopes on his head, with the words 'No Hats Allowed' written on it. I choke back what feels like a laugh and a cry, but I let a tear slip down my face. I reach for the door knob, meaning to run out there and go to the familiar man, to the face of my childhood.

But I stop. I numbly place my hand back to my side, which grips the hem of my shirt.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

I step back from the door, taking deep breaths to calm myself. I brush away the tear with the sleeve of my green button-up, finally turning around.

Two dark-haired figures recede back behind the wall that separates the foyer from the living room, the light sound of tip-toes creeping back to bed.

"It's no use," I call softly. "I saw you knuckleheads."

I follow in their steps and walk back into the living room, the sight of my seven-year-old, Saul, and nine-year-old, Samantha, greeting me. They're dressed and cling to their pillows and blankets, all ready for the journey out of this place. I smile at them, they return it with toothy grins.

Saul is a tiny thing, short for his age. His eyes are a striking blue color, almost like lightning. His sandy blonde hair was recently buzzed off, much against his wishes. But I think he understands. Samantha has my black hair, and she didn't fight me when I cut it. She's lanky and tall, just like her father was when he was at that age. Her eyes are the exact color of mine; stormy grey.

"Did you sleep well?" I ask, stepping forward and checking their work on getting dressed. Saul buttoned his shirt wrong, and Samantha needs a belt for her drooping jeans.

"Yep," they chide sweetly, although sleep remains on their faces and hunching shoulders.

As I loop a belt through Sammy's pants, I tell Saul to grab a few energy bars and bottles of water for breakfast. He returns and together we have our meager meal. I start cleaning up, explaining the terms and conditions to the one keepsake I agreed to let them bring.

"If it's a toy, make sure it's noiseless. Completely silent. And if it's a photograph, you can have a sheet of plastic to cover it so it doesn't scratch. Don't worry about books. I have plenty of those." They grumble as I crack a smile. I then add, "And remember… we may never come back here..." I feel my heart sink at the thought of what I should say. "… like this. People may steal things. The house may burn down. I don't know what'll happen. So make sure it's something you can't live without."

Once I'm done, they dash up the stairs to their old rooms, the ones I gutted of sheets and blankets and hauled into the living room. I had banned them from going up there, and surprisingly, they've obeyed. As I gather up the last box of dehydrated food, I hear their footfalls pound overhead and can detect their voices.

I'm happy to get them out of here, take them somewhere more secure. Maybe even a group, but that seems like a faraway dream. We're heading southwest, where the last news reports said refugee camps thrived, especially in Atlanta. But that was more than a month ago, around the same time... he... died...

Sure, I'm taking a chance. But even here, in the backwoods of southeast Arkansas, the dead are only appearing more and more every day and show no signs of stopping. I'm going to risk our lives, yes, but I'm not going to act like a sitting duck. Rileys don't roll that way. That was Jason's motto.

At the thought of Jason, I have to swallow hard to remove the lump that forms in my throat. The ring that sits on my finger feels like a cinder block. I place the box down, trying to relax my suddenly aching muscles.

As I work the knots out of my shoulders, I notice that I haven't picked my one item. The thought hits me like a brick; so crushing and damaging. Why was I trying to suppress the thought of him anyway?

I guess I was just afraid to leave.

Without even thinking, I sprint up the stairs the same way as my kids did and walk down the dimly sunlit hallway. I pass wedding photos and pictures of Sammy and Saul's kindergarten graduation. I pass them without really looking, because I notice that Jason is in each one of them, his brown eyes glimmering, pride smile beaming. I also notice in the ones I'm in that I have my long hair. It touched the small of my back, naturally wavy and the deepest black. The color of the night sky, Jason said once. He would've been mad to know that I cut it. And not just any trim; it's exactly one inch in the back and three inches in the front.

I pause only to warn Sammy and Saul that we're leaving in a few minutes and they better make their choices quickly. After that, I head towards the last door on the left, my breathing becoming ragged as I step closer.

My hand grips the door knob, I can't help but notice that I'm shaking.

Slowly, I crack the door open.

The first thing to greet me is the smell of lilac. That was scent of the perfume that I wore frequently; the only perfume Jason liked.

But quickly after comes the smell of death. I fight the urge to throw up, cupping both hands around my mouth. I step out, forcing what little food I have in my stomach back down.

"Mommy? Are you okay?" I hear Saul call from down the hallway.

"Yes, sweetie," I assure, casting him a smile. "I'll just be a moment."

I compose myself, brushing back my bangs from my hot forehead. It's late summer, and outside, I can hear the cicadas sing. The trees by the window do not stir, it's dry as a bone out there.

Feeling courageous, I venture back into the bedroom, this time the ends of my shirt covering my nose.

I quietly examine the bare mattress, repressing many memories that fight into my brain. I amble around the room for a bit, unsure what to take. I scour the jewelry drawer only to find that I can't choose between the silver heart pendant that Jason got me for our second anniversary or my grandmother's cameo brooch. My fingers trace every ring I own, every chain of gold. I was never a big fan of jewelry, in fact, I detest receiving or wearing any. But now, as I see them glimmer and shine, I can't help but pick up every piece and admire how beautifully crafted they are, recalling the exact moment I received it.

I move on, trying not to linger. I can't take any longer.

I think about bringing the half-full bottle of lilac perfume I have left, but fight against it. What if it breaks and those infected are attracted to the smell? I solemnly set the bottle back down on the vanity.

I spot a book on the nightstand beside the bed. As I move closer, I see that it's a lengthy collection of Edgar Allen Poe's poems and short stories. I contemplate taking it, but I can't even bring myself to touch it. It's so heavily marked by Jason's presence; coffee stains that frame pages, his scent that is buried in the ink, his fingerprints immortalized in hot wing sauce on the cover. I can't bear the thought of our blood seeping in the pages, our fingernails pocking the leather binding.

But I smile at the thought of his face buried in a book, his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. I recall how the corners of his bright blue eyes crinkled warmly whenever I lingered at the door, watching him become immersed in a book. He would call me over and set me in his lap, and I was welcome to read with him. We would sit like that for hours, sometimes too distracted by one another to move past one page.

Those thoughts warm my heart for a moment.

But the clock that ticks in my brain warns me that if I linger, we'll lose the light.

I suddenly knew what I knew I should take.

I go back to the vanity and throw open my jewelry drawer, pulling out the cushion case that displays my rings. There, underneath it, is a small box no bigger than my thumbnail. It's bright pink, with a tiny loop on top of it. I quickly grab it. Placing the ring case back down, I see a thin silver chain forgotten in the corner of the drawer. I pluck it from its place, wrapping my hand around both items, placing it over my chest.

The only things that sum up my whole time here, with Jason, is my wedding ring and this box.

Somehow, it fits us, me and him. Forever our time together is there, in the past, and I will never forget it. Never.

That's when I turn on my heel and leave.

No ceremonious words. No grand finale.

I press my hand against my heart and shut the door.

I shake the spray can, eyeing the pastel green canvas in front of me. Around me, birds chirp in the trees, the leaves they hide behind speckled with brown and black from the excessive summer heat. I hear Sammy humming a tune by the old elm tree, near the place we buried Jason. Saul waits in the Jeep, impatiently tapping his fingers against the dashboard.

I take a deep, deep breath, trying to clear my head. It spins a million miles per second, my brain rattling in my skull. Swallowing hard, I stop shaking the can of spray paint, trying to decide what to write.

Should it be a poem about our loss? Or words of encouragement? About the emptiness that festers in my chest, the darkness that loomed over my fate?

Why am I doing this? Leaving the familiar and abandoning comfort? Why am I even trying?

For Jason. For my children.

I bite my bottom lip as my hands move without my permission, my finger pressing down the trigger of the spray can. The black paint lands on the side of the house with a gentle hiss, and my arms move almost poetically as I write my reason, my purpose:

For Jason. For my children. For my future.

Stepping back, I examine my work. The ebony paint drips, reminding me of the fluid that wept from Jason's gunshot wound. I push that thought from my brain, occupying it by dropping the can to the ground and taking more calming breaths.

That's when I hear the call of the raven.

I whip around to see the dozen of the undead I saw this morning, only to my horror, about another fifteen joins them. They drool and moan as they trudge down the dirt road nearer to me, and again, I see the tall man with the dirty red hat. My eyes squint against the sun, and surely enough, they've seen me. I am their prey now.

I fight my fear and pull out the gun I had strapped to my thigh, my body finally catching up to the severity of the situation.

"Sammy! Get to the car! Now!" I yell as loud as I can, and to my relief I hear her sneakers hit the gravel and the sound of the Jeep door slamming shut.

I run to the vehicle, my instinct telling me to turn to and look at the monsters, but I fight it. They aren't close enough to catch up that quickly, but I know I can't delay.

I reach the Jeep, pulling the dark grey door open, jumping in, and start it up. I'm about to close the door and drive off, until a sudden feeling stings my gut.

I hit the button to open the sunroof, and I stand to face the twenty-seven undead that are easily sixty yards away from us. I bring up my pistol and level it at the forehead of the tallest one.

"Cover your ears, Sammy," I say calmly. I hear her whimper but obey. Saul curls up next to her, pulling the hood of his coat over his head.

Tears threaten to overwhelm my eyes as I take aim at the familiar face: the dead, red vein-webbed eyes that find mine the same color as a storm, the remaining hairs that peek from underneath the hat black with strands of grey. My heart beats wildly in my chest. Time slows as I look at the monster that was once a man, a husband, a father.

I squeeze the trigger, the gunshot scaring off the raven that perched on the railing of my porch. I don't even hit it the first time, but it grazes the shoulder. Blood spews everywhere. More tears sting my eyes. The second bullet goes through its chest, more blood, more tears. He doesn't even slow down.

Finally, my thrid shot doesn't perfectly in the middle of the forehead, it's off by two inches to the right, but I accomplish my task. I watch with foggy eyes as the monster falls to his knees, blood cascading from the wound, hungry eyes still on mine as it slams into the earth.

I don't have time to think about what I did, I slide back into the seat and close the door, clenching my fists over the steering wheel. Pushing my foot on the gas pedal, I send us down the road, towards the hope of better days.

My thoughts race about the unthinkable act I just committed, but the unfathomable vision of my children torn apart by that monster makes my stomach clench with disgust. I peer into the rear view mirror at my children, seeing that they are just as shaken up as me. I calm them quickly, telling them we're finally heading towards a better place. They nod their heads innocently, but not even that can bring a smile to my face.

I look past them to the speck of black that lays a ways behind us, the horde of moving dead bodies ambling in our wake. Further behind them, a blot laid in the road, the second thing I've killed since this all started.

He won't be the last.

"I'm sorry, Dad."

All right! So, what did you think of the first chapter? Hate it? Love it? Let me know in a review!