"I simply can't build my hopes on a foundation of confusion, misery and death...I think...peace and tranquility will return again." – Anne Frank

The sun wasn't as hot as it had been in previous days. It was only slightly overcast thanks to much needed cloud coverage, which was a small blessing, all things considered. The only sound for miles was the wind humming through the trees on either side of the deserted road, rustling branches and their leaves. Even though that sound was so incredibly faint, it was silent enough to pick up on it without straining one's ears to listen. On the dry, cracked pavement of the road, dead leaves from the autumn before remained; orange, scattered and brittle. There was only one other sound and that came from the shuffling of feet, dragging tirelessly along that empty road, heading in no particular direction.

A bead of sweat appeared upon Georgie Brant's forehead and rolled down her left temple, down her cheek and then dripped off onto her shoulder. The old, tired elastic hair tie that had been keeping her long and unruly ginger locks bound had taken its last breath, so to speak, and snapped about a mile back. Her hair fell down her back and over her shoulders, which only resulted in her feeling even more warm and sweaty than she already was.

She looked down at her bare arms, covered in a sheen of dirt, dried blood, and salty perspiration, and couldn't help but smirk at how naturally tanned she found her skin to be, considering how easily her normally fair skinned used to burn after a couple of hours in sunlight. That was all pre-outbreak, of course, when family vacations to Disney World or beaches on the eastern seaboard were a luxury; a luxury that now felt like a forgotten dream or a story of something that had happened to someone else once upon a time.

Technically, it had happened to someone else.

Those things happened to the woman she used to be: the wife, the mother, the sister, the daughter.

She was none of those things anymore. Not really.

Now, she was just a survivor, a fighter, a killer…

…Alone.

She started this journey into this fallen world alone and, for the last four and a half days, five by nightfall, she was once again in the same place. Amidst her fatigue, the hunger, the dehydration and the aching in her feet and legs from so much walking, she seemed able to find some amusement in recalling memories to keep herself entertained. "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" by Green Day seemed to pop into her head, which led to her singing it quietly in barely a whisper as not to call attention to herself by any ramblers that might be lurking mindlessly in the woods on either side of the road. The lyrics fit well in this moment. It was oddly comforting, in some strange way.

"I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known. Don't know where it goes, but it's home to me and I walk alone…" she hummed the music part, and then chuckled, maybe from possible delirium setting in, at how the lyrics really did seem like they were written about her, as if somehow the band had been able to see into the future and know what was in store for her.

She had no watch anymore to tell her what time it was, but she knew it was close to late afternoon or early evening, judging by the arch of the sun in the sky, which peeked out from behind the clouds every so often. She didn't have much of anything anymore, truth be told; but who, that had survived the outbreak, did? The clothes on her back weren't even hers. She found them in an abandoned house in an abandoned cul-de-sac almost a month ago. They had been clean and they fit. That was all that mattered. Her boots she took from someone she had previously traveled with but had died at the hands of a rambler. She weren't using them anymore. There was no point in letting them go to waste. The gun tucked into back pocket of her pants only contained three bullets and that, too, she took from someone she had been traveling with that had died.

It was recent, in fact; four and a half days ago to be precise.

The poor soul had emptied two shots into a rambler before more descended on him, and ripped him apart, causing him to use what strength and sense he had left in him to put a third bullet in his own head so he wouldn't feel any more pain or reanimate as a rambler.

Georgie swiped the gun and was hoarding those bullets until absolutely necessary.

That was what her trusty hunting knife was for.

It was one of the few items she had brought with her on her first trek alone into the world, when she still had her truck, food supplies, bottles of water, clean clothes and more weapons and ammo. Of course, then the gas had run out, and she syphoned as much as she could to keep going, but even then there wasn't much more she could do.

She had been spared the chaos of Atlanta by a family of four who were driving away from that direction, headed west toward Birmingham. The husband, a Hispanic man by the name of Morales, had cut her off to stop her. He had got out of his car and Georgie had removed her right hand from the steering wheel to grip the handgun she had laying on the seat beside her, just in case. He held his hands up, sensing her guardedness, to show he meant no harm. He had walked up to her window and told her that if she was headed to Atlanta, it was a lost cause. It was not the safe zone everyone was promised. It was overrun by the dead. He and his family had just left a caravan of people who were risking a trip into the city to seek out possible help and answers at the CDC but his family wanted to seek out family in Birmingham. Morales told her it was her call, whichever decision she wanted to make. He even offered that she could tag along with them; strength in numbers and whatnot.

She thanked him for the warning and the information he could afford her. But she had someone who might be looking for her and she had left them a note saying she was going to Atlanta. Even if she didn't go into the city, she needed to stay near it, just in case.

They shook hands, wished each other luck and continued on their separate ways.

So much more had happened since then but none of it would compare to that one moment in her life, a day prior to meeting Morales, before she got on the road to Atlanta. It was the defining moment that determined who she had become now. It was nothing she wished on anyone, good or evil. It was not something anyone should ever have to witness and experience in their lifetime and she would never be able to get the images out of her head until the day she died. And she hoped that when the time came, if she couldn't do it herself, for whatever reason, that anyone who was with her would put a bullet or knife in her head so she could die with dignity instead of reanimating into a sad, disgusting, rotting shell of who she once was.

The clouds got a tad thicker overhead once again and it was yet another small blessing. The pulsing heat let up somewhat every time the sun disappeared. Even if it was just thirty seconds, it helped.

Out of the silence around her, there came a familiar hum of an engine and gravel from the road being shot out from underneath tires in multiple directions. It was approaching at a quickening pace, from behind Georgie. She turned her head slightly to see a tan, Ford Taurus Wagon with a cargo box on the roof draw nearer to her. She figured it was built in the 90s, but she wasn't sure on what specific year. Her father and brother used to know exact years, makes and models of practically any vehicle ever made. They had been the Rain Man of the automotive variety.

She stopped walking and narrowed her eyes at the car that came driving past her on her right. She was able to catch a glimpse inside at the driver's seat long enough to tell it was either an effeminate man or a petite woman with a very short haircut.

Georgie should've waved and signaled down the driver. Safety in numbers was the way to go these days, but not every person was a good person. Not only did she have to fear the dead, but the living weren't always that great either. Sure, she'd traveled and lived with some people, off and on, over the better part of the last fifteen months, but they hadn't all been a bed of roses. Sometimes she wished she could just go back to those two months after the outbreak began, before she went out onto the road alone, when she was still holed up in the comforts of her own home with her family, albeit dwindling.

Before her thoughts could get any further away from her, she noticed the car had slowed down and then come to a complete stop about a hundred yards up the road from her. Georgie strained her tired green eyes to see that the driver of the car was craning their own head slightly to glimpse Georgie in the rearview mirror. The car sat idle for probably about only thirty seconds or a bit more before the break lights came on as the car shifted out of park and then slowly began to back up. The closer it got to Georgie, the more she inched away toward the opposite side of the road.

Placing her right hand behind her back, she let her fingers wrap around the grip of her handgun in her pocket. Her hunting knife, which was secured in its leather sheath which was hooked to her belt, just wasn't practical in case she needed to defend herself against this driver. She would have to get close to use the knife and who knew what the driver was packing, weapons-wise, in that car.

Georgie eyed the driver – it was a woman, with mousy features and short, greyish hair – and gave her a nod of greeting.

"I thought you were a walker at first. That's why I kept on driving," the woman spoke, almost apologetic. "The way you're walking, dragging your feet; from behind you looked like you might be a walker."

"Well, I'm clearly not."

The woman nodded in agreement. "How long have you been on foot?"

"Almost five days."

"By yourself?"

"Just me and my shadow."

The woman looked forward, resting her left elbow on the front beltline molding of the opened, driver's side window. After a moment, she looked back at Georgie; squinting from the waning sunlight overhead. "It's gonna be dark in a few hours," she commented. "You have shelter?"

"If you count bushes as shelter, then yeah."

The woman frowned and then looked more fully upon Georgie, sizing her up. "How many walkers have you killed?"

"Walkers? You mean the dead?" Off the woman's nod, Georgie replied with, "Too many to count or remember."

The woman nodded, accepting this answer. "How many people have you killed?" the woman asked.

Georgie paused, thinking. "More than I wish I had to."

"Why?"

"Most were mercy kills. Only one was to protect myself."

The woman nodded yet again. It was almost beginning to annoy Georgie. The woman moved her arm inside of the car and gestured to the passenger seat. "Hop in."

"Really?"

"Yeah," she replied. "You shouldn't be alone out here."

This time Georgie was the one who nodded. "Thank you."

Still cautious, despite the kindness shown to her, Georgie took her time walking around the front of the car and then pulling open the passenger door. With an aching sigh she bent down to slide into the seat and it suddenly felt as if she was sitting on a cloud. After walking for so long and barely sleeping, if at all, getting to rest like this was like heaven to her.

Georgie shut the door and looked over at the woman. "I'm Georgie."

"Carol," was the response.

Without another word, Carol switched the gears from park to drive and put her foot on the accelerator; destination, unknown.