Disclaimer: I am not Robert Kirkman; I DO NOT own the Walking Dead in anyway whatsoever. [Slight Spoiler]- If I did own the Walking Dead, Beth would still be alive. All I have is my OC's and this plot of the story. Hope you enjoy.

The Beginning: Paying the Price-

The crunch of stray pebbles on the asphalt underneath my feet and the whispers of the slight breeze rustling the leaves were the only sounds echoing through the area; the never ending road, surrounded by towering trees. The sun was high in the sky, but the heat was that perfect, bearable temperature.

Some would believe this to be a peaceful setting, perfect for a calm walk, where you just relax and forget about the world around you, even for a moment. Bask in the glow of the sun and the silence.

Nowadays, it was only a dream to find peace, to relax, even for a moment; a dream once neglected by many before . . . All of this.

Each crunching sound of pebbles against asphalt made me cringe; I didn't want to alert anyone- or anything- of my presence. These towering trees kept me on edge; they were perfect places to hide from unsuspecting victims to get attacked and eaten by those . . . Things. I'm not sure what to call them; zombie sounds too comical for this horror.

Every time I think of them, I picture those blank milky white eyes, the rotting flesh sliding off their bones, accompanied by that vile smell that makes me gag . . . Their hands ripping through their victims bodies like paper; shoving their screaming, flailing, fresh kill into their mouths as if they were starving. Those growls and screeches that keep me from sleeping.

Despite this, I only felt pity for those things; they used to be people just like me, but they were caught and now, they're either inside those things stomachs or just . . . Different. Forever wandering, forever waiting for their first kill to come straight into their blood stained clutches.

Will that be my fate? The only things that remains of me is either my walking, soulless corpse or flesh between their teeth?

I know for a fact that I'm not going to be one of those things. I'll be sure of it.

The silence was the worst of all; it was peaceful yet cruel. It left you with your thoughts, but in this world, your thoughts were either dark or depressing. It was calming when you couldn't hear those monsters growl, but it was a reminder that you were alone.

Today, my thoughts were on my future, but most were just questions with no answers.

Am I the only person left? Or are there others? When will my luck run out; when will I die? How will I die? Am I going to be those monsters next meal or turn into one of them? Heck, I'm already a wandering monster, all I need now is one of those poisonous bites and that's it for me.

You still have another path.

Great, that voice was back. It always came back when I thought of death.

All you need is one bullet, one bullet to end this torture; one bullet is the price to pay and you'll see your family again. You won't be alone anymore.

The image of my mother and father standing side by side, in a beautiful field, flashed in my mind. My broad fathers black hair I inherited was free of his own blood, his slightly tanned skin on his shoulder was devoid of the bite. He was smiling, his brown eyes holding warmth and happiness that I haven't seen in a long time.

My mother . . . She was still beautiful, even if her right arm was missing, an aftermath of a fatal car accident with a drunk driver before this horror began. Her hair cascaded down her back in golden waves, and her forest green eyes, the same as mine, held the same emotion my father held.

Her light skin was also missing a bite mark on her neck.

I wanted to reach them, but there was an invisible force keeping them from my reach.

The price to pay is a bullet.

The fantasy broke like glass when my foot caught something, causing me to fall; I managed to move my face from kissing the road at the nick of time.

A vice-like grip wrapped around my ankle, growing unimaginably tighter. I looked over, and I started to gag.

All that was left of this sickly monster was one arm, a head, and it's torso; its guts hanging out from where its legs should've been.

What should've been whimpers but was only a puff of air that escaped my mouth as I reached for my sheathed knife in my camouflage pants pockets.

With one arm, it dragged my foot closer to its face, trying to bite through my black leather boots. I felt the worn handle in my grasp, so I sat up, and slid the stained sheath off its smooth blade.

I didn't think about who this man used to be, if he was a good or bad person, where he worked, who his family was or if they were alive.

I drove the knife straight into its skull. Black blood sprayed about, on my dark red shirt (not sure if my shirt was originally red or stained blood anymore), and a smell so putrid emerged; I turned away and puked up pieces of an apple I ate earlier, into the grass. I wiped my mouth when I finished and just . . . Stared at what I did.

It's white eyes dimmed, unmoving, staring into space with its haunting eyes. My knife was embedded into its skull, the blade tainted by the blackness oozing from the wound.

Tears fell from my green eyes, and they wouldn't stop; the dam already broke. No sound left my mouth as I bawled like a toddler, crying for this monster, that was once a man, once a human, like all the other monsters I shot and stabbed. They deserved a life filled with happiness and hope and joy . . . Not this. Not living the rest of their days a shell of what they once were.

I cried for my father; Peter North, a big, strong, gentle giant. He was the level-headed one in the family; he calmed my mother, my brother, and I from our hysteria when the news reported the outbreak. He was the planner. He is now gone, my last memory of him was begging me to pull the trigger, he didn't want to be a monster and kill any of us, his family.

I, at least, granted him his last wish when no one else could, with a bullet in his brain.

I cried for the betrayal my older brother committed; waking up one morning in the cramped tent with my mother, finding half the food gone, most of our weapons gone, and a note. In his chicken scratch he called writing, he repeated the words sorry over and over like a mantra, saying its was his only way to survive. I don't know where he is now, but i pray he hasn't shared the same fate as a walking dead person, no one deserves this, not even his scum self.

I cried for my mother; Olivia North. Such a strong, resilient woman. She was the fiery one in the family; never backing down from a fight and never letting her disability bring her down from doing what needs to be done.

It was my fault she parished. I was so intent on killing the horde around us that day, I killed all but one. The one that took away my only comfort left, my rock that kept me from spiraling into madness the new world plagued me with. One deadly bite in the neck ended her.

Promise me . . .

I can hear her voice echoing through my jumbled thoughts clear as day, as if she were right next to me.

Promise me . . . That you will live through this.

I understood the reason I keep remembering this day; these were her last words, her voice holding so much emotion and strength, her last wish to me. She didn't wish for me to end her life, but to keep mine going.

There is hope for this world . . . And when it's all over, you'll help build our humanity, our hope back. You will not share my fate.

This was why I stayed on the other side of that fence. Why I can't bite the bullet, I have to find a way to end this, and if it's to kill every single one of these demons plaguing the world, then so be it.

I remembered her last breath escape past her lips, her body turn cold, and her chest stop moving. When that happened, I immediately slid the knife through her temple, so she wouldn't come back.

I slowly stood up from my kneeling position, pulling the knife effortlessly back from the dead skull, and wiping its essence into the grass, before sheathing it back into its place. My tired body felt the weight of my backpack grow heavier; my photo album, the only remains of my family besides my sketchbook, the material objects that became my artificial rock and my reminder of my promise.

I pushed on. I saw the edge of the woods form into grassy plains. I saw stray wanderers miles away, they weren't going to be a problem. I kept going.

I love you so much, Autumn.

My name is Autumn North and I was born a mute. I cannot speak, but words are not a disadvantage to what I must do.

I have a mission; to be the cure of the Walking Dead, to destroy them throughout this world. I don't know how and I don't know when or if it will end, but I will try. Even if it means killing every last one of these demons, or even if it means I have to discard a part of my humanity, a part of myself, to defeat the monsters I will face. What I also know is where my first stop will be:

Atlanta.

BOOM! This is sort of a beginning prologue/chapter 1 sort of thing. It's just a small idea I kept toying with, and today was the day I decide to start writing it. If you, the reader, want me to continue this story, I will. If there are any complications: I use too much description, any of the tv show characters are a bit OOC (out of character), my OC's (original character) are a bit Mary-Sue-ish . . . Please be respectful and let me know with constructive criticism; I have too much of a low self-esteem to handle lots of "You suck!" Or "Go die in a hole and never write again!" Or something. Once again, I hope it's a

good start and I hope you like this story. Lots of love and lots of walkers.

A.H.P