Hey guys!

Just a few things I think you should know before reading... I've only ever seen the show, so anything related to the comics will not apply in this fanfic. Also, I'm just playing with the universe for now, I don't know if my characters are going to meet with Rick's crew, so I'll leave that to your suggestions :-) And finally (and that's my most important point) English is not my native language. At all. I'm a French writer who's crazy enough to try and submit something in a foreign language. Please excuse the mistakes, misspellings and other absurdities you may find here ^^'

I hope you'll find this story interesting anyway, so on with the show!

"Lane, get your ass over there!"

More than once I wished I had a gun. Now that I do, I just wish I could go back in time. I remember my 3rd grade teacher – a young woman whose parents' had cursed with a scrunched up nose and a sorry face. She would always tell us that there's good in everyone. Seriously, kiddo, you just have to open your eyes and look for it. I used to scoff in the back of the classroom and get scolded for it. Back then, she had power over me. She was the authority. And now? Now look at me: 26, dirty, banged up and alive. Mrs Mills? Dead. And moving.

No kidding.

One of her eyes is missing and the other barely hangs from her eye-socket. Her skin is rotting on her bones. Her hair is scarce on her head and hangs limply from her sunken temples. Her jaw is raw, skinned to the bone and snaps every so often, whenever she smells fresh meat around. That is, if she can smell anything with the freaking hole that stands in place of her nose. I much preferred the scrunched up thing she had when she was alive.

Yeah, that's the thing. She shouldn't be moving, being dead 'n' all, but the fact is that she does, and more than when she was actually breathing.

Yeah, that sucks.

For me that is.

'Cause there's no way I'm letting her take a bite of little ol'me. Not if I can help it. And judging by the gun in my hand and the blade at my side, chances are that she's gonna be dead in a few seconds. Deader than she already is, I mean.

"Lane! 'the hell are ya doin'?"

Scowling, I dived to safety when more gunshots erupted. One caught Mills in the right arm. She swayed, staggered, grunted in a kind of surprised way – I made it my personal project to give meaning to the grunts of the walkers – and reached for me once again.

Stubborn, aren't ya?

Turning, I poked Sean with my gun. He shot me a glare.

"Cover me, would ya?"

I didn't wait for his answer. I knew he would do as I said, even if he wouldn't be happy about it. As I thought, I heard him fire as I sprinted for the bag of supplies that lied under a tree, right in the middle of a very nasty, very hungry horde of walkers. I dashed through the mob, slashing at everything I could and trying not to panic because, fuck, that must be the dumbest thing I ever did! I vaguely heard Sean swear like a sailor, no doubt cursing me for my absolute lack of rational thinking and for one second – just one second – I agreed with him. I dodged a clawed hand, slashed a dead man across the face and gouged another's eye out. Couldn't risk firing in this mob. Too loud, too many of them. Let the noise of the others draw them away from me. Stumbling, I took a page from Sean's book and swore between my teeth. Yeah right, let's count on noise to save my ass when I'm bleeding like a fucking pig in the middle of a fucking horde.

Bloody hell, I'm an idiot.

The wound on my thigh isn't deep, but I'm bleeding all over the place. I must be reeking of blood. Well, for the walkers, I guess I just smell like dinner.

A big guy came from my right, grunting and bleeding from a shoulder wound. Who the hell aims that off target? I mean, come on, the guy is twice the size of any of his dead pals. Surely his head shouldn't be that difficult to shoot? As if hearing my thoughts, Sean fired and the walker's skull exploded like an overripe fruit. Ew. Now I'm drenched in brains and stale blood. For a moment I thought I would heave, but the sight of another walker reaching for me made me reach for my gun instead. I fired once, twice, ducked, ran, jumped and punched, and then the tree was there and I reached for the bag, grabbed it and swung it, catching a walker in the head. A loud snap followed and I didn't stay to see what had become of the head. Instead I ran back, as fast as I could, all the while dodging dead people and bullets. Sean can shoot as hell, but the others aren't as good with a gun as he is. Neals almost killed me once. Said that he'd aimed right and that I had no business walking in his line of fire. His line of fire my ass!

I dodged two more walkers and there she was, Mrs Mills and her hanging eyeball. Jumping over the ledge of the window, I quickly handed the bag to Mary-Ann and checked my gun. Three bullets left. More than enough for what I had in mind. Sean retreated from his post at the window and ran to us.

"C'mon, let's get outta here!"

Mary-Ann nodded, always the obedient kid, and Neals called for retreat. Gareth, Jay, Liz and Coal all left their hiding places, all the while firing at the approaching walkers. They barreled through the back door and climbed into the car, piling up in the backseats. I hung back. Liz noticed – of course she did, the woman has a freakin' sixth sense or something, she always knows where we are and what we're up to, the snitch.

"Lane, you comin'?"

I felt Sean's eyes drilling into the side of my head.

"Yeah, gimme a sec'."

Turning on my heels, I came back to the window, spotted my 3rd grade teacher, and lodged a bullet in her skull. She reeled back and fell, then stopped moving. Other walkers soon trampled over her in their haste to get to me.

Smirking slightly at a job well done, I raced back into the car and the old Buick roared to life. And then we were speeding away from my elementary school, away from our camp and dead comrades.

"What the hell was that? You could've been killed you idiot!"

Gareth punched me over the head, his shaggy beard quivering as he raved at me for my suicidal ignorance and deliberate stupidity. He was a scholar like that, our Gareth. Tough old man with a serious hunch for sour whiskey and bad poetry. I like him, in spite of his violent tendencies. He keeps Mary-Ann safe when I'm away on my many "suicidal missions", as he likes to call them. I prefer the term "survival necessities", but I guess that's just a technicality. Soothing my injured scalp with a hand, I had the gall to smile and shove him to the side. He fell onto Liz who squeaked, but didn't add anything. He rearranged himself into the seat and glared. Having been on the receiving end of many of his glares, I merely rolled my eyes and stretched my legs.

"That, my friend, was the illustration of one of my favorite sayings."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"Which is?"

I smirked.

"Revenge is best served cold."