I don't own The Walking Dead (unfortunately.)

Rating: M (just in case)

Author's note: The first chapter or two may be a bit slow. Bear with me-It'll get better, promise. Charlie is a character that kept bouncing around in my head for a long time and she's been demanding to have her story told. What that story is, I'm unsure-she hasn't told me that. So I'm in as much suspense and mystery as you guys right now haha.

Any suggestions, constructive criticism, and comments are welcome.

Alright, let's start this ride.

I peek over the barrier and cringe. There are more of them today than usual, staggering or crawling down the street, moaning and ever searching for bleeding meat. I start when I hear barking, not having heard the noise of a dog in . . . forever, it seems like. I watch as all the Walkers jerk their heads toward the noise and en masse move towards it. I feel my gut clench as I see a dog running away from one Walker, only to run into the mass.

I hear the dog's cries as they converge on it—I never knew dog's yelps could sound so much like a human's screams. I can't take anymore so I grab my rifle and sling my backpack over my shoulder and sneak out before I throw up.

Once I had a home. A white house with white walls and two floors, with a bed and a bath, with a family. Once I believed that I was safe.

Lies.

That same home was now painted red with the blood of my family. I haven't slept on a bed in . . . I can't remember. I can't remember the last time I took a shower either, but I suppose that was more a survival measure than anything—at least the Walkers couldn't smell me as easily. And I never slept without a gun in reach or a knife in hand.

Never.

Now my home is a tree with a hunter's platform high above ground. It works rather well—I can see anyone coming and I'm so high and the ladder hammered into the tree is concealed so well that no one would find me unless they were looking.

I arrived about an hour ago and already my stomach has growled more times than I care to count. I haven't eaten properly in days. So hungry. But there's nothing I can do about it now, not with that many Walkers in the city.

I leaned my head back against the trunk of the tree and sighed.

Not for the first time I dream about my family, about how things used to be.

It's these dreams I hate most, because when I open my eyes, I have to face the reality that they're dead and I'm alive and alone. You'd think that after dreaming about it for so long, I would be immune to the gut wrenching emotions, but it hasn't happened yet.

I wonder if it ever will.

A hear rustling which immediately puts me on alert—it's so soft that in my before life I never would have registered it but now . . . I am completely still until I hear the rustle again to my right. I lay flat on my stomach and crawl to the edge, my rifle close at hand. I steady it and look down the scope, searching the area. Nothing appears in such a long time that I almost give up when I spot movement.

And then I watch as a person cautiously comes from around a tree. He's armed to the teeth and looks like he hasn't eaten in a long time either. But I don't call out to him, don't offer any notice of my presence. I've learned long ago that humans can be just as scary and dangerous as Walkers. The only bonus is that when humans kill you, you don't turn into a Walker.

I keep him in my sights until he, finally, disappears.

I relax and go to lean back against the trunk.

I'm just so tired all the time now.

A scream wakes me up in the middle of the night.

It was a man's voice, maybe the man from before? No, no question. It has to be him. He's the only other human around besides me, the first one I've seen for months. The guilt is . . . almost unbearable as I listen to that scream.

He is being eaten by a Walker.

OhGodohGodohGod.

The scream won't stop.

I clamp my hands over my ears and scrunch my eyes shut tight.

I could have helped him but I hadn't.

After a while I uncurl myself, open my eyes, and release my ears and there is no more screaming. My heart is beating as if it is trying to break out of my chest. And then I hear rustling, and a lot of it. I press myself so tight to that platform I think I'm going to become a part of it as I scoot to the edge to look. Fear washes down my spine like a bucket of ice water.

Walkers and a hell of a lot of them.

They're staggering below me and the stench makes my stomach roil. Most if not all of their movements are jerky, unnatural in every sense of the word. Two of them bump into each other and they snarl, but keep going.

Keepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoing.

But it seems like they never end. I've never seen so many together at once, not even in the city. I'm clutching my gun so hard my knuckles have gone ghostly white and I can't feel my hand anymore.

I don't move.

I don't make a sound.

I just watch and pray that they keep moving.