Author's Note: This a stand-alone story and has no connection to any of the aired episodes.

Disclaimer: I Don't Own The Walking Dead Or Its Characters.


Supply runs were always a little unnerving for Paul.

There was always a chance that he wouldn't be coming back.

A chance that something would go wrong.

And more often than not, things did go wrong.

Take his last run for example; he had found himself a fairly decent stash of canned goods in a small abandoned supermarket, when two men showed up and held him at gun point.

Although Paul had a way with words, and was pretty exceptional when it came to hand-to-hand combat, he wasn't very skilled when it came to guns. Especially when it came to guns that were pointed at him.

Had there only been one armed man, he would've wrestled the gun from his grip, effectively giving himself upper-hand. But because there were two, he thought it'd be best to play it safe. He didn't want there to be any bloodshed. If there was one thing he hated, it was the loss of precious human life. And he hated to be the cause of it even more so. The two armed men had been testy enough as it was, going as far as to threaten shooting each other, so the last thing he wanted to do was something rash to push their buttons. Last time he narrowly escaped with his life.

Yet still, there was something about supply runs that he found likable. Maybe it was the thought of all the possible findings he could scavenge, or maybe it was just the thrill of putting his own life on the line for the betterment of other people that he found enticing. Or, more than likely, the thought of finding more survivors. Other living, breathing people. People who would be willing to join their group, and could help out in their community.

Whatever the true motivation he had for a supply run was, he just hoped that this next one wouldn't be fatal. For any of the possible parties involved.