Disclaimer: I do not own the Walking Dead.

Trigger Warning: This story contains sensitive material up to/not excluding: suicide, self-harm, mental illness, psychiatric facilities, trauma, substance abuse, sexual trauma, violence, etc. Please do not read if you feel you will not be able to safely do so. This story is meant to help bring awareness to mental illness and relate to the struggles that many face.

Prologue

If someone had told me that being locked in a mental institution would guarantee my survival during the initial outbreak of the apocalypse, I would have told them that they should be the ones locked up – not me. Of course, the key to my survival hung on the 'locked' part, and on the kindness of one of the nurses that didn't leave us to rot. Pretty stupid on her part, honestly. Who would let patients deemed 'a danger to themselves or others' out into the rest of the world? But hey, I wasn't really in a position to protest at the time.

I wish that someone would have told me to stay there and lock the doors. I never would have had to kill any rotters. I wouldn't have trekked to my hometown in Georgia to look for my family. Wouldn't have found my reanimated corpse of a mother tearing apart my screaming father. Wouldn't have had to kill them both. I could have just quietly, peacefully faded from existence at Raleigh Rehabilitation Center. Wasn't that why I was locked in there in the first place?

But I also would have never found my brother and my nephew. I never would have found my new family; drawn together by something stronger than even blood – survival. I never would have found love – real love – not the kind that dumps you and leaves you stranded at a gas station.

I wasn't even close to being stable before the apocalypse. If anything, the death and trauma I experienced made it more difficult to deal with symptoms of an already difficult diagnosis. But I am more than my diagnosis. I am more than death and trauma. I am a survivor. And fuck the world if they thought Jamie Lynn Grimes was gonna roll over and watch the human race border on extinction.

Chapter One

"Fuck! Fuuucckkkk!" I screamed, punching the steering wheel. The horn sounded loudly, but I didn't care. How was I out of gas again already?! "This is fuckin' bullshit!" I probably should have cared about the rotters that could be attracted by the sound, but there were only a few out there. Besides, I had more pressing concerns. Like the whiskey that was only half-empty. I was so pissed at the world. Pissed at the gruesome death of my parents. Pissed at them for sending me to a mental institution in North Carolina. Pissed at my brother and his family for being separated. Pissed at the rotters that constantly tried to turn me into a snack.

I took a swig, trying to wash away the burning tears in my eyes with the burning whiskey. "Don't be a pussy." I grunted, clenching my fist and digging my nails into my palm, resting my head on the steering wheel, causing it to wail one long continuous note. My dull, mousy brown hair fell down to shield my face, desperately needing to be washed. Unfortunately, water was a scarcity that couldn't be wasted on hygiene now-a-days. "Suck it up." I ordered through clench teeth, lifting my head from the horn. I pulled my hair up into a scraggly ponytail and threw on my Emory University cap – nevermind the fact that I was kicked out months from graduation. Turns out they didn't like the chances of their suicide rate increasing, which I found out the hard way when a particular self-harm mishap was mistaken as an attempt. Not like it mattered now. That was years ago and everyone I knew was probably dead anyway.

No, not everyone. Rick couldn't be dead. He was strong, and smart. As a cop, he would've had access to weapons. He would've protected his family. But why didn't he go back for mom and dad? It made no sense. Why hadn't my parents gone to the refugee center in Atlanta like everyone was supposed to? Why didn't anyone come for me? How long had my mom been one of those things? She didn't exactly look fresh…

I threw my door open, crawled out of the car, and threw up what little I had in my stomach. The whiskey burned twice as bad coming up as it did going down. My groan echoed that of the rotter making its way around my parents' hatchback. I glared at it, stumbling to my feet and pulling a huge ass screwdriver out of my pocket. The eye was the easiest way to kill a rotter, but I missed it slightly in my not-so-sober state and had to push harder to finish the deed. I shoved it away, struggling to maintain my balance, grimacing at the gunk it left on my boots. I surveyed the highway, counting the rotters in my vicinity. I was lucky. There were only two somewhat near me and half a dozen more than a quarter mile away. Of course, the forest could conceal more…

I grabbed my crowbar from the hatchback, wishing more than once that my parents trusted me enough to tell me the key-code for the gun safe. Then again, I wouldn't have told me, either. "Aim for the eye, Jamie." I said, reminding myself what my father always said: work smarter not harder. Of course, my father never said to stay sober during the end of the world, but hey, couldn't really blame him for not addressing that one. The rotter closest to me was once a woman, and I felt that familiar churn of guilt in my stomach as I was reminded of what I had to do to my mother merely a week ago. Was it a week already? The days seemed to blur together. How long had it even been since this whole shit-show started? A few weeks? A month? More? I growled, glaring at the stupid beast, deciding to forgo my original plan. I wielded the crowbar like a baseball bat, releasing an animalistic yell as I used brute force to beat her head in. "Why'd you have to go and get bit, huh?! I could have protected you!" I screamed, hitting her over and over again even though she was long dead. "But you sent me away! You sent me away when I could have protected you! Fuck you, mom!" My arms jolted painfully as I hit pavement through her pulverized brain. I dropped to my knees, arms shaking next to her. I whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." I swallowed, trying to push away my anguish to focus on other things, like how many miles I'd have to trek on foot into the city. I looked up blearily to look at the skyline of the city again.

"Hey, watch out!" A voice yelled, startling me with its proximity.

I leapt to my feet, trying to keep my balance as my heart raced. There was a young Asian man who appeared from a dirt road obscured by the trees. I was so shocked that I barely heard a faint shuffling noise behind me.

"There's one behind you!" He shouted, still making his way towards me.

I spun around, using my momentum and stance to hit the rotter with my crowbar like a baseball bat again to knock it away from me before aiming for the eye. Again, I missed and had to push hard to get it through the brain. "Jesus." I panted. I needed to get a grip, or I was going to be rotter chow.

Now, it seemed I had other worries. I turned back towards the stranger, recalling other experiences I'd had in the past few weeks. Unfortunately for me, they ranged from friendly to hostile. Some offered me help, even a place in their group, but I had to know what happened to my family. Others merely tried to rob me. One wanted one last piece of ass during the end of the world, and I barely managed to escape with my life and my dignity. My eyes flashed to the stranger now only a few yards away, my eyes flashing warily to the baseball bat in his hands. I didn't see a gun on him, but you could never be too sure.

"Are you okay? I heard screaming. Was that you honking the horn? That was uh, that was a little close." He said, shifting nervously and taking another step closer.

I narrowed my eyes at him, slightly lifting my weapon. "Don't come any closer." I stated firmly, my voice taught.

"W-what? I'm not going to hurt you. I just helped you!" He stuttered, eyes wide.

I straightened up, heavily concentrating on not losing my balance as the world shook a little. Okay, so maybe whiskey wasn't the greatest idea in the grand scheme of things. Noted.

"Just because you happened to wander on by don't mean shit. I don't owe you anythin' – not supplies, not favors, not nothin'! Got it?" I snapped at him, feeling on edge.

"W-what? I-I would never ask f-for something like th-that! I-I mean, not that you're not p-pretty or anything, but I wasn't…" His face turned red. He seemed to fumble for something to say. "I'm Glenn."

I studied him for a moment and he shifted under my gaze. Finally, I smirked, walking toward him to shake hands. He eyed my hand covered in gore warily before gulping and returning the handshake. "Jamie. I wish we could have met under better circumstances." I said, deciding to go easy on him since he didn't seem to have a gun or to be the rape-y-type. "Listen, could you point me in the direction of the refugee center? I'm lookin' for my brother and my nephew – Rick and Carl Grimes. I thought it was in Atlanta, but the city looks like shit from here."

Glenn shook his head. "There isn't a refu – wait, did you say Carl?" He paused.

I stepped towards him, eyes widening. "Carl Grimes. He's twelve, about yay-high." I raised my hand, estimating his height. "Dark hair, and the same eyes as me." I pushed my cap back, in case he couldn't see the icy color under it.

"Holy shit." Glenn raised his eyebrows, taking his cap off and running his hand through his messy hair.

I shifted impatiently, my hands on my hips. "Well? What the hell are we waitin' for?"