When the oh-so familiar purring sound of the back-up generator stopped. That's when the chaos truly began. Before then, everyone was safe and secure, over-confident that they'd have enough to keep going, and enough security to keep whatever was out their locked out. But that's a problem when the security is electrically based.

Suddenly, out of a few seconds of 'what the hell's' and a few exchanged glances of a similar sentiment, we were screaming. Panicking. Frightened. For Evelyn, the apocalypse was late. But how it slammed down on her, hard. Colleagues began actually entertaining the notion of going out and finding their relatives, friends, anyone they knew outside. People ran, escaped alone, and were never seen again. The survivors, if you could call them that, became fewer and fewer, perhaps going from 100 to about 20. They found out in those weeks that cowardice was very similar to intelligence.

For a few more weeks, it all died down, and they began to function as a team, every so often going out in groups to find supplies, which was just food and meds. Evelyn and her group had everything they needed, working in a storage facility, and, compared to how others must have been living, they had it good. She and her fiancée had their own safe, a mattress, and a bedside clock operating on endless supply of batteries. Again, it was safe. Possibly too safe.

…

Daryl was so tired, it hurt. It hurt to walk, run, stop, think. It hurt to think of his group, out there, who was left. The savage attack on them still rung clear in his mind, the gunshots, the screams. Up until then he had to put up a pretence, for Beth. She'd lost her father, and the last thing she needed was a reminder. He'd vowed to stay strong for her, so she would be influenced to be likewise. But now, she was gone, and the only thing he had to stay strong for was keeping him running.

After long, long roads and vast numbers of trees, the exhaustion overcame him, and his crossbow collapsed from his hands, followed closely by him. He wasn't sure how long he sat there, on the road, the distant thought of how stupid that idea was sneered at when he quickly realised the world he was in. That's when he looked up, and the several faces looked down.

Those days passed by like a nightmare you had no control over, and he'd never wished for someone to save him before then. Violence and competition was all that filled the time, and he wondered whether they were just a normal group of middle aged guys, thinking they were on a drunk spree. He saw his father in a few of their eyes, watery and cynical, like the world owed them more than a couple of jars of moonshine. They didn't see walkers as things that were once people. They saw them as a ticket for looting, stealing anything that was of worth to anyone else but them, and the odd squirrel.

That changed then they happened upon a factory, dilapidated from the outside, but otherwise looking more secure than a lot of buildings. Something struck within him, and for a second, he wondered whether anyone in there was alive. Only an idiot would leave this place, surely.

…

As soon as the metallic snap sounded, Evelyn's eyes shot up. Her heart began hammering in her chest, causing the dizzying sickness of nerves she'd forgotten. In her time alone, fear began little more than a foreign word. Because she only had to deal with the dead. However, the mass of voices that broke in were a reminder that the world had made the living desperate.

Placing her book down next to her on her makeshift bed, which was actually a shelve in the archive unit, she pulled her weapon's back up from the shelf below, and began the painful process of unsheathing a katana from a dufflebag without making noise. She was unsuccessful, but thankfully, a man shouted, "Claimed!" at just the correct time. Sitting back up, Evelyn tucked her long auburn hair behind her ear, and waited. She checked the clock, embedded in a ceramic bears' stomache, next to her, and watched the silence second hand tick by.

…

Fuck this, Daryl cursed under his breath, finally giving in to the anger building up in him over the choir of snoring surrounding him. He stood up straight, aiming his crossbow at any body that stirred, before stepping silently from the garage. He'd been staring at a door for hours, and hadn't been curious or irate enough before then to explore it. He wouldn't let on that he was also a little cautious incase one of Joe's men thought he was trying to escape, something he was always planning on doing.

The door had a small black block next to it, similar to the one outside on the gates. That was surplus, as he assumed it was a scanning device, and he nudged the door open with the tip off the crossbow. The room behind it was dark, and vast. Like a warehouse. He wasn't sure how big it actually was, because shelves created a maze within it, but the ceiling was perhaps 30 feet above him, dark and practically invisible in the night. He wasn't too confident on finding anyone in here. Much less alive.

…

If her hearing wasn't so attuned, she wouldn't have picked up those footsteps, even on the concrete. She held her katana in her fist, even as she slept, and, as they became closer, the temptation to open her eyes became more and more alive. Would this person kill a living person, just sleeping? Would they kill something they thought was dead? She cursed that she didn't have a head wound to make it look like someone got here first.

A creaking sound alarmed her, terrifyingly close, and her eyes snapped open.