zombie_apocalypse_ready/set?id=112579556

My name is Emma Peterson.

I'm fourteen years old, and, well, living in the zombie apocalypse.

I guess that I might as well start off with a little background information, considering the circumstances.

Right now, I'm all alone. However, before about a month and a half ago, I had a mother. About six months ago, I had a father. I may or may not still have a sister, because she was gone before all of this started. Now I have absolutely no idea if she's still alive or not. I'd rather not think about it though, considering she could be the very last family that I have left. Which kills me.

My mother was my best friend. She was the best person I've ever known, and the only person I looked up to besides my older sister, Delilah. I love her. I loved her. She was killed by somebody. Shot in the chest and bled to death, even though I have no idea who did it to her. I saw his face, but the chances I'll ever see it again are slim.

My father died protecting my mother from being bit. He's the one that taught me how to shoot. How to use a knife. Before this mess, how to stand up for myself. How to live, how to be happy. Now that he's gone, his lessons don't seem to help me anymore. I'm not happy, and I sure as hell am not living. Just surviving.

I've been moving a round a lot lately. Never staying in one place for too long. I never find any place that's good enough or will hold up. I always seem to find supermarkets or places that I can hang for about a week, until the area becomes overflown with Walkers, and I'm forced to leave. On foot, might I add.

I've managed to keep the one thing that I like about myself the most, though: my red hair. At all of the stores I've found, there always seems to be something there that I can use to help it stay. And it does. My original hair color is a dark brown, but the red just fits me so much better. Bright, bubbly, kick-ass. There isn't much that's really bright or bubbly anymore, so it keeps me optimistic.

Right now, it's the only thing that I have besides myself, so I like to keep it, regardless if it puts me a little behind my usual daily routine of: stab Walker, keep walking.

My sister always used to say something, and even got it tattooed on the back of her shoulder. Every minute is another chance. Even before all of this happened, she was totally in love with the saying. She would bring it up all the time, whenever it proved to be useful in whatever kind of situation we were in. And now, it seems to be the saying I live by. Every minute is a second chance, considering that every minute that passes could have been a minute you were bit, killed, etc.

Now, we're back to the present. I've been living in a supermarket for the past couple of days. I've got plenty of food, a toilet and some water. Plus a blow up matress in the back of the store. This is the life.

I have to keep moving, though.

It's been about a few hours, probably, and I'm just walking down an open road. Every once in a while, a see Walkers and stab them, careful not to shoot and draw more attention. That's when I see a group of crashed over cars on the side of the road. And that's when I see people. Not moaning, growling, flesh-seeking zombies. Living, breathing people.

I'm not really sure what I'm doing, when I start my way towards them, gun in my hands, ready to do whatever it is I have to.

There's two people, it looks like. One an older man, the other a younger boy. I keep walking, making myself very apparent to them as I make my way over, holding my gun in front of me. The two of them stand and look at me, and I'm not sure what they're thinking until the older man puts a hand out to stop me from walking.

I'm about twenty feet away from them, gun still in the air. "You bit?" he asks.

"Does it look like I am?" I say back, my surprise from seeing people obvious in my tone.

He stands there for a minute, looking me over. "How old are you?" the younger boy asks, taking the Sheriff's hat he's wearing off his head. "Carl.." I hear the older man mumble.

"Fourteen," I say, keeping my enthusiasm under control this time. "Don't move," the older one says, and walks around to the other side of the car. Talking to somebody in it, I guess.

I stand there awkwardly, the Sheriff hat boy staring at me. I didn't even notice I had put my gun down, my arms now crossed in front of me. The older man walks toward me, and I grip my gun. He chuckles.

'I'm Rick," he says, "and that over there is my son Carl." He points behind him. He holds out a hand.

"Emma," I say, reluctantly shaking his hand.

"You all by yourself?" he asks, obviously noticing that I'm all alone in the middle of nowhere.

"Yeah, I am," I say, trying to keep myself from being a smart-ass and saying, 'No, my parents actually just turned invisible yesterday. Weird, right?'

"You guys got a group?" I ask. He looks at me. "How many walkers have you killed?" ignoring my question.

"Too many to count."

"How many people have you killed?"

"Four," I say, not even thinking about it. He looks at me, surprise written all over his face. I guess four is a lot for a girl my age, but I don't think so. Not in this world.

"How long have you been by yourself?"

"About a month and half."

He takes a long look at me, and signals for his son to get in the car. "If you want to come along with us, you're welcome to." I'm surprised. He didn't really seem like the kind that would let in a total stranger.

"We have a big group back at home, so if you're allowed to stay is up to them. But you seem like you can carry your own weight just fine, so I wouldn't worry about it," he says, walking us back to the car. I wonder what he meant by that. He motions for me to climb in, him getting in the other side.

There was a woman in the driver's seat that I hadn't seen before. "Emma, this is Michonne and Carl. You guys, this is Emma. We're gonna take her back to the group. See if everyone wouldn't mind her being here. She's been by herself for more than a month, so I don't think she would be a burden on us."

There's a man outside the car, yards away, screaming something to us. We pull out, ignorning the screaming man and driving away.