Prologue

What's in a Name?

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Saints are sinners who kept on going.

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"Dumb motherfucker," she muttered, leaping like an elegant huntress from a weathered log back onto the dry and cracking prairie grass. "Look at this stupid son of a bitch on his own, running from fuckin' Walkers; thinkin' he's John Wayne or somethin'."

She rolled her eyes as she ran, partially at the moron who got himself in such a dangerous situation and partially because she was talking to herself. This girl, this woman, had been chasing this man for two miles into the heart of the Cynthiana Woods before she'd finally gotten the Walkers in her line of fire. She jerked back her arm once she found a good position atop a solid stump, slid the bow she sported over her back and reached for an arrow. With one swift motion she pulled back the string, propped up the arrow and released it. The arrow struck the first Walker in the back of the skull and knocked it down to the ground. The others kept running after the man (who was wearing a ridiculous hospital gown) as if the fallen Walker didn't exist to begin with.

Her long, thick braid of hair flew through the air as the young woman dug her heel into the slick dirt to cease her steps. She skidded by the fallen Walker, yanking her arrow from its skull without coming to a complete halt before carrying on after the man again.

The man gasped for air, he hadn't fully gotten his barrings or recovered from his gunshot wound for that matter and now he was on the run from some sort of deranged mental patients in a now unaccustomed world. He was seemingly alone, confused and unarmed. He hobbled along the path from the hospital he'd escaped from with a heavy limp, fearing he would reopen his wound. His heart was pounding so hard that he was certain it would explode within his chest. He had always considered himself a level-headed man, calm in chaotic situations, and the friend most could rely on for advice when things went to hell. However, this was a whole new ball game and he was sitting the bench. Hell, he wasn't even in the stadium anymore.

The second arrow went through the other Walker's temple, causing it to stagger for just a moment before toppling to the earth. The woman repeated her prior motions to retrieve her precious arrow again. The final Walker was a giant, over six feet and three hundred pounds and faster than he looked. The man wearing the hospital gown suddenly pummeled to the ground. His foot had struck an eroded root and lost his already unsteady balance. The Walker was only a yard or two behind him now, the man turned over and covered his face with his hands. The Walker opened his mouth wide, bending over to take a healthy bite of fresh human meat when an arrow head appeared straight through its mouth. A slight moan escaped its rotting lips before it began to topple forward. The man rolled over to the side to avoid the weight of the creature landing atop him. His heart still racing, he pushed himself back away from the Walker, further now as the woman approached to take back her arrow and place it in her arrow rest.

She hovered over him now, giving him a good look for the first time as he did the same to her. He was a handsome man, older than she was herself by a decade or so. He had shaggy hair and a slight beard but didn't appear as if he always kept himself that way because it didn't seem to suit him. The woman extended her hand for him to accept. His hand was disgustingly clammy, but she did not choose to comment.

"Wha–?" he began, unable to formulate a full thought.

Before he could go on the woman pulled a silver handgun from the back of her pants and made sure her target was right between his eyes. The woman was very pretty, shorter than average with pale skin and coal black hair. Her eyes were navy blue and a big as saucers. She wore tattered blue jeans and brown leather boots with a plaid shirt. She looked like a farmer but there was no denying her specialty was to hunt.

"I see you're wearing a bandage," she said, suddenly on edge. "Is that a bite?"

"A what?" he stammered.

"A bite," she repeated. "Tell me why you're wearing bandages, or I will shoot you dead. I gave you another chance at life, and I won't hesitate to take it away. Now were you fucking bit or not?"

The man could see the tightness around the woman's mouth, the unsuppressed anger in her eyes under her thick black hood of lengthy eyelashes. She puffed a free falling strand of black hair from her eyes so carelessly, the man could tell it happened enough for the action to become involuntary. The woman shoved the tip of her gun against his forehead now, the cool metal chilling his perspiring skin. The man could taste it; a nervous tension that came perilous close to fear. The man's vision was blurry. Most who suffered a gun shot wound had time to recover, time to rehabilitate in the hospital under the gentile care of trained doctors and nurses not escape from serial killers only to have a gun pointed in their face a minute later. His mouth was dry and his head foggy from dehydration and sheer delirium. He opened his mouth to respond, but his weak body struck the ground without a moment's hesitation. His mind went black and his world was darker.

–

As the night's mists burned away, Cynthiana, Georgia took form around them, emerging ghostlike from the predawn gloom. The woman had never been to Cynthiana before, unfamiliar with area entirely, but she knew it was a typical place-to-raise-a-family type of town, a local High School with dreams of someday having their football team win State, Stepford wives with their 2.5 kids at every Piggly Wiggly, and the hottest gossip only being the new stop light over off Fremont Street. The man, however, knew that the town was never more beautiful than at the break of day. West of Main Street, Ma Pratchett's Bakery sat at the end of a long line of churches and banks and would release the sweet scent of freshly baked donuts, cakes and cookies each and every morning that would make anyone with working sensory organs come running. Upriver, the sun would shine so bright off this one particular spot on the Cynthiana River (which was much more of a creek than a river) that you'd swear you'd go blind from looking directly at it. Downstream, the trees grew so thick that from far a person could question if anyone could squeeze between the mass density of tree trunks. On warm summer nights, the local kids would gather round the Cynthiana woods and double dog dare each other to go in alone as is some sort of terrifying creature would escape and eat them alive. Now-a-days they'd be right.

His eyes opened slowly, taking in the dim natural lighting as his slitted eyes found the strength to widen. His vision was still blurry as hell, but he could see light – he was alive, for now. He could feel a cool sensation on his forehead that felt so heavenly, he prayed to the good Lord for it to never end. Blinking several times, light turned to colors, colors turned to shapes and shapes turned to fully restored vision. He motioned to move his hand to rub his eyes only to realize his hands were constrained by ropes; tied around the posts of the four poster bed he rested upon. His hospital gown was removed as will leaving him shirtless, only his boxer shorts to clothe his aching body.

"Finally," an all too familiar female voice sighed in an exasperated sort of way.

The woman who had saved his life only to threaten to take it away was leaning over him. She sat at his bedside, and it was that woman who was responsible for the cool feeling upon his forehead. She was dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth, occasionally bringing it down to his cheeks and neck. His chest rose and fell a bit quicker when he realized he was constrained but a large part of him felt that this woman would not hurt him even considering their history.

"Where am I?" he breathed.

"Safety," she replied curtly in her thick Southern accent, "that's all you need to know for now."

"How did I get here?"

"I dragged your sorry ass," she said, growing tired of his question in a hurry. "Try losing some weight by the way – ever heard of Adkins? That no carbs, all protein diet – the Walkers seem mighty fond of it–"

"Walkers?"

"Those things that were chasing you earlier," she frowned, looking at him as if he was an idiot. "Where have you been...?"

"Rick," he said. "Rick Grimes."

"Well, Rick Grimes, I would have thought you–"

"Wait, aren't you going to tell me your name?"

"No," she replied as if he'd asked her the time. "As I was saying those–"

"You killed those people today," he interrupted as if he was accusing her of a crime.

"People?" she scoffed, laughing lightly. "Those weren't people, you idiot – those were Walkers. They were people once but not now – not anymore."

"I don't– I don't understand," he said, shaking his head. "They were people, but it was like they were decaying. I saw them when I woke up at the hospital. Some were missing body parts – open wounds and couldn't still be able to move around or breathe for that matter but they started chasing after me like they want to get me or–"

"They wanted to eat you," she said, looking him square in the eyes. "Listen, Rick Grimes, I don't know what your story is and frankly I don't really care, but those things that were chasing you today – those Walkers – aren't people. They're not your friends, they're not going to see your face and suddenly realize what they're doing is wrong, that they're thirst for human blood is wrong. Believe me. You have two options when facing a Walker; run or fight back. I favor the latter."

"How can you kill something that is already dead?"

"I don't know why, so don't bother askin'," she said firmly, "but fuckin' up their brain is what ends 'em. If you can destroy their brain then you can destroy them."

"How do you know that?"

"Trial and error," she smirked, and Rick couldn't help but smirk too.

Rick went to itch his chin before he rembered his hands were tied again. He jerked his wrists involuntarily and looked up to his female counterpart for assistance.

"Can you untie me?" he asked, his arms beginning to ache.

"Not up to me," she shrugged, leaning back and taking the cool rag with her.

"Then who–?"

A burly, dark complected man and his son walked in just as Rick asked his half-question. He was carrying a gun, cocked and ready and the still unnamed woman appeared unfazed as Rick squirmed only slightly.

"He up yet?"

"Bright eyed and bushy tailed," the woman said sarcastically, unmoving from his side.

"What of his wound?" asked the man anxiously, threateningly. "Is it a bite?"

"Hasn't come up," she shrugged casually.

"Hasn't come up?" he snapped. The man shook his head at her and turned his attention back onto Rick. "Mister, what was it – the wound?"

"It was a gunshot," said Rick.

"Anything else?" asked the man.

"Gunshot ain't enough?" Rick replied and the woman snorted.

"Listen, I ask and you answer – common courtesy, right?" the man spat, pointing the gun closer at Rick's forehead.

"It was just a gunshot, Morgan," said the woman, gently placing her long, slender fingers on the barrel to cause him to lower his weapon. Rick could see he wasn't very determined to kill him judging by how easy it was for the woman to push down the gun with her faint touch. "I changed the bandage myself. I looked for any other cuts or scratches – nothin'. He ain't even got a fever."

Morgan slowly lowered his gun enough to place it in his belt. He looked back to his son who stared with wide eyes. He wore a defeated expression. Rick had been born with an uncanny expression to be able to read people. From a young age he could judge whether or not someone was trustworthy or a friend worth keeping, good or evil and so on. He could tell that Morgan was a good man just by looking at him. Rick had been wrong on an occasion or two, however, and he hoped this would not be one of those occasions. Morgan leaned over and drew his blade.

"Take a moment," he said, holding the tip of the knife an inch from Rick's eyes, "see how sharp it is. Try anything, and I will kill you with it. Don't you think I won't."

He then cut the ropes that bound Rick to the bed, looking to the woman after doing to. He turned to exit the room after doing to, affectionately leading his son with him. He nodded to Rick and the woman to follow.

"See," she teased, "ain't up to me."

"He your husband?" asked Rick, rubbing his sore wrists with rope rash.

"No," she laughed. "I met Morgan and Duane a couple days ago. We ran into each other passing through town – his wife had just... turned. She'd been scratched by a Walker and it didn't take long for it to turn her."

"You mean–"

"Oh, yeah I forgot to mention that," she began. "If you're scratched, bit or gnawed on or anything by a Walker you're done, gone, kaput, game over, buddy. You get this terrible fever, like your skin is going to melt right off your bones then you start to hallucinate and then your bones feel like they're gonna shatter, like glass – then you die. It ain't long after you die that you come back as a Walker. Have you been livin' under a damn rock or somethin'?"

"Basically," he said. "I've been in a coma."

"Well, you woke up at one hell of a convenient time, didn't ya?" she smirked, taking to her feet. She moved to the water basin to rinse the rag she'd dabbed his face with, turning her back to him. Rick slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position, feeling the immense pain in doing so. "What did you think you were doing out there today anyway? I spotted you next door and chased you as far as–"

"We're next door to my house?" he interrupted suddenly.

"You live next door?" she asked.

Rick looked around as if he hadn't really seen the room he occupied before, "Fred and Cindy Drake – this is their place. I've been here."

"Not anymore," she replied. "This whole goddamn town is deserted – everyone is dead."

"No," Rick spat, "my wife – my son are alive. I know they're alive at least they were when they left."

The woman paused her motions in the water basin, gnawing on a pregnant pause. She turned her head slightly to the side but did not look at him, "and how do you know that?"

"I found empty drawers in the bedroom, "said Rick with confidence. "They packed some clothes – not a lot but enough to travel. My wife took photo albums too. I'm telling you – they're alive."

"Then they're in Atlanta," said a voice from the doorway, coming from the little boy from before. The woman dried her hands and smiled down at him.

"You're right, Duane," she replied.

"Atlanta?"

"Refugee center there – big one," said Morgan. He reentered and leaned against the doorway, wiping his hands clean in a manner that lead Rick to believe he'd been cooking. "There was a broadcast before the airwaves went dead – told everybody to go Atlanta for resources and military protection."

"Plus that Center is there," said Duane.

"He means the Center for Disease Control," said Morgan. "Rumor has it they're trying to cure this thing. If you're family is still alive then I bet that's where they'll be."

"Then that's where I'm going," said Rick, getting to his feet only to immediately topple over in agony, gripping his aching wound. The woman moved quickly, kneeling down to grip Rick's forearm to steady him. He cringed in pain before turning to meet her gaze.

"Oh, no you're not," said the woman. "You're still recovering from that gunshot wound, and you're no good to anyone if you get an infection with us having no antibiotics. When you've gotten you're strength back in a few days I will personally help your reckless ass find a car and some supplies to get you the hell out of here before you get us all killed."

"I have to find them," he insisted.

"And you will," said Morgan, "but not like this. Now, everyone come on eat some breakfast – it's gettin' cold."

Morgan turned to return to the kitchen again and Duane followed suit. The woman helped Rick back onto a sitting position upon the side of the bed. He nodded his appreciation. She returned the favor before heading for the doorway and pausing for a moment more.

"The water is fresh in the basin if you'd like to clean up before you eat," she said. "After breakfast I'll make a run to your house and search for anything you'd like me to bring back for you – clothes, valuables or anything like that. Just let me know."

"Thanks," he said, half smiling at her from the bed.

"Don't mention it," she replied, turning back towards the door.

"No," he said, causing her to cease her steps once again. "I mean for everything. Thank you for saving my life."

She didn't reply or even more for that matter. It was like she had turned to stone, transformed into a statue before Rick's very eyes. The woman was not used to appreciation or gratitude for good deeds. It was not as if she had not committed kind acts, far from it. She had done many good deeds and been a grand member of society especially sense the end of it. However, she had not been thanked for any of her goodness, not once in fact. After what seemed like an eternity she cleared her throat and spoke a single word.

"Charlotte," she said.

"What?" Rick replied.

"My name," she said quietly. "It's Charlotte Broussard."

"Well, thank you, Charlotte Broussard," said Rick.

"You're welcome, Rick Grimes," she replied before disappearing into the kitchen, leaving Rick to look on after her.

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A/N: Well, this is my first Walking Dead fic so be gentle. I understand this is going to be hard to write because Rick is married to Lori with Carl in the mix, but I cannot stand Lori. I could go on for hours just listing my reasons for my hatred for her, but alas I must digress. I don't think I am alone, so I think it's alright if I write this little story. You will just have to wait and see how I turn things around. I am going to make sure this character I am creating will not be a Mary Sue. If you suspect she's turning into a Sue then let me know because I will turn her into a damn Walker. I'd rather see her as a Walker than a Lori-Acting-Mary-Sue. Thanks for reading.

Next Chapter: We learn what Charlie was before the Walkers, where she was before she met up with Morgan and Duane, and Rick and Charlie grow closer against his better judgment.

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