AN: First Walking Dead fanfic ever, thought maybe I'd give it a go! :) There are two timelines that will hopefully flow from one another. Further explanation in the next chapter, where it's needed.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, plot, etc. are the property of their respective owners (AMC & Robert Kirkman). The original characters and non-canon plot are the property of myself, and I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of The Walking Dead. No copyright infringement is intended.

Prologue

Cold is the water,
it freezes your already cold mind.
Already cold, cold mind.
And death is at your doorstep,
and it will steal your innocence.
But it will not steal your substance.

'Timshel' by Mumford And Sons

Alana can taste the small amount of warm blood spilling over her chin as her lips part with a shuddering breath. Her hands shake, grasping desperately for purchase along the frame of the upturned car. In fact her whole body is shaking despite the humid temperature.

Adrenaline? She doesn't think so. The rush has long gone, leaving her shaking and unfocused. Her eyes try to remain on the truck less than twenty metres ahead – just get there and you can rest, just keep walking – but it's spinning, the whole world is twisting and throwing her off balance. Groaning, she shuts her eyes tight, grinding her teeth together. Focus. Focusfocusfocus.

She chalks it down to a low blood sugar level, but it hurts to try and think of when she last ate, what she last ate, so she's determined to ignore it. Ignore this. Ignore everything. Get to the truck, lay down, think, process, plan. But the pain in her leg refuses to quieten and the makeshift bandage is starting it's own trail of blood down her right leg. She feels like screaming, but that would attract unwanted attention, unwanted trouble, and instead the hot tears fall down her cheeks in silent frustration.

She doesn't want to consider the possibility of serious blood loss, however plausible it may be, because she refuses to believe her situation can get any fucking worse. The bullet had skimmed her right thigh, and although burning like wildfire, the stream of red has slowed. She had only just realised she didn't have her semi-automatic at the junction over a kilometre from where she stands now, and her knives were long gone, but she knew that from the start; all up making it nearly impossible to walk down the dark highway by herself, unarmed.

Nearly impossible.

She hasn't come across any biters for at least an hour now, a fact that doesn't smother the fear in the pit of her stomach, and those she had seen, she'd spotted them before they did her. But everything is catching up – it's getting so hard to ignore – and her feet are faltering, breathing coming shallower. She would slap herself if she had the energy, slap herself for being so stupid, so careless, so unprotected, so pathetic. She can imagine the look on James' face if he caught her like this, stern and worried and cold and – nonononono don't think dontthinkstopstopstop.

The cry escapes her before her left hand has a chance to clasp her mouth closed, the shaking now moving to her shoulders. It's too late; too late to stop the images of his broken body in the grass, fingers outstretched. Too late to stop the sound of his screams and the smell of decaying flesh to run mayhem in her mind. She's trying to ignore it. Ignore this. Ignore everything. Don't notice Derrick isn't here with you, don't think about having no idea where he is. Don't think about whether he's alive or dead or bitten or worse, don't think about your camp, about your group, about your brother, get to the truck, lay down, think, process, plan.

Derrick. Fifteen, blue eyes, brown hair. Derrick. Long fingers, toned arms, strong legs. Derrick. Lost, gone, separated. Armed though, she thinks, armed and most likely with Peter. Peter would look after him. Peter would make sure he's okay. Until I get there, until I can look after my baby brother again. Derrick. Safe, breathing, alive.

She nods once, shifts her weight from one foot to the other and grimaces at the pain. Her arms haven't stopped shaking, but she continues on. The truck is less than ten metres now, and the feeling of accomplishment is so strong she can almost feel the cool metal of the vehicle underneath her fingertips.

By the time she does, the moon has risen to her left and the air taken a cooler side. She pulls herself into the passenger seat with a whimper, closing the door with a small thunk and automatically feeling safer. The truck tilts forward into a ditch, making sleeping in the front almost impossible. It hurts to move her right leg and her mind recoils at the idea of re-wrapping the wound, but the rational part of her says that she tend to it. However, instead she can feel the tears streaming down her face. She's quiet though, allowing the stress, pain and frustration to seep out of her though silent tears. Oh god, Derrick. Peter. James. Sylvia. Natalie. Ben. Charles. Rebecca.

Gone. Or dead. Or both. She allows herself a few minutes to mourn them, all of them but Derrick and Peter, because they can't be dead. They can't. She thinks back to the camp-site, the blood and the screaming and the desperation that clawed its way into her chest. The bandits had attacked fast and silently; slaughtering men, woman and children.

She hadn't had time to grab her things, dashing to find Derrick and Peter, their estranged uncle. She remembers finding them, gunshots, screams and her own gun recoiling in her hands, the burn of a miss-aimed bullet tearing through her leg and Peter pushing them towards their car. Then James falling on her and then nothing. Nothing but black. She woke up later with a throbbing head and a missing family, surrounded by dead bodies with single shots to the head. James was above her, squashing her into the grass and covering her from sight. It only took a second to realise he was dead.

She's convinced Peter got Derrick out of there safely. Convinced they were set up somewhere safe, most likely with the other countless men, woman and children whose bodies she hadn't identified around the camp. She tries to ignore the inconsistencies with everything that happened, the things that don't add up.

Where were the attackers? If her camp had taken care of them...then why did they leave her? Why did they leave their tents and their possessions?

She fancies that the thieves left in a mad rush and took care of the biters they had attracted with their gunfire, but that doesn't explain the left over items. Who in their right mind passes up on extra blankets and tents, when they had attacked for that exact purpose? Who could be set up well enough that they'd pass on extra provisions? Certainly not outsiders...right?

She uses a small amount of water from her backpack to clean her right leg, shoving the extra t-shirt she grabbed into her mouth to muffle her whimpers and clean up the running blood afterwards. Every few minutes she scouts out the window for biters and finds nothing, a welcome but uneasy sight. She places the extra-shirt in the seat beside her and tries to catalogue the items she managed to scavenge from the camp.

Washing her mouth out with a minimal amount of water, she winds down the window and spits out into the cement, taking a few minutes of baited breath to wonder if anyone, anything, heard her in the truck. She gets the call of an owl in return and shivering, she rolls up with window, leaving a minuscule crack at the top so she might have a better chance of hearing something lumber up the highway.

Unarmed and wounded, she's glad that the world around her is figuratively dead - in the best way possible of course.

She clambers into the back-seat of the truck where the tilt of the vehicle is less noticeable and wraps the military coloured canvas jacket around her body. She's thankful that the windows at the back at least are slightly tinted - a dark grey in the night - but still shifts down into the little crack between the seats and the drivers back, fitting uncomfortably in the cramped space. Don't draw attention to yourself. Small and unnoticeable to both the dying and the alive, and those stuck in between.

Her promise to plan, plan for tomorrow and getting back to Derrick is out of mind as soon as the warmth spreads through body, and although she knows she should be realistic and rational and thinking, exhaustion rears it's head and sleep pulls her under. Tomorrow. She'll plan tomorrow.

...tomorrow...

It's not a few hours later before voices pick up down the highway, carried by the wind, waking her slowly from her sleep. Her thoughts are groggy, slow, and she can ignore the pain in her leg easier now she realises with relief. The sounds pick up, travelling closer and closer. Obnoxious voices, accented voices, commanding voices. None that belong to anyone she knows, she realises with a sharp bout of panic.

She tries to calm herself down, but her mind goes on a rampage with images of bloody knives and leering faces. She presses down into her little space tighter, covering all her tanned skin with fabric so the contrast in colour isn't as severe. Or at least she hopes. She tries to remember, tries to backtrack; did she leave any blood on the car door? Anything that points to a living, breathing thing within the vehicle? Anything at all?

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

No.

Godfuckingdammitno.

Her t-shirt is still in the front seat. They might have overlooked the random spots of blood on the door, the organised drops along the highway, but her t-shirt is inside the car. One the front seat. Wet with blood and saliva. Without tinted windows and in plain sight.

She's shaking again and this time it's not from adrenaline or low blood sugar (although she's sure that's still a problem), it's raw, unadulterated fear. Her large camp had dealt with outsiders a few times. Dealt with by a single shot to the head for each one present. There is, after all, a reason they were outsiders.

She's well aware of how exactly inhumane humans have become.

There is a soft metallic tapping on the front window that freezes her blood. Her heart is beating fast, loud in her ears and her hands have clenched tight around her jacket as if that could save her. Her breathing is shallow and rapid, one hand covering her mouth so she doesn't scream.

They might pass. They might pass. Quietquietquiet.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Oh-

The back-seat door opposite her swings open with a bang and no warning whatsoever. She scurries back further into the metal behind her, the backpack digging painfully into her spine. Her breathing has all but stopped and her heart is pounding in her head so loud she's afraid she can't hear a word the figure in front of her says. It only takes a second of look at the shadow in front of her to discern that it's a heavily built male with a weak crop of greying hair; the moon above his left shoulder highlights one side of his profile and she can just make out a clean shaven face and a wide, toothy grin.

There's a laugh - a loud guffaw that hurts her ears - and a gesture to his left, calling for the rest of his group. He turns slightly - blue eyes, strong shoulders - and she catches a glimpse of the men behind him, a collection of at least three others.

"Well looky here boys, we's afound ourselves a camper."

AN: Lemme know what you guys think! Continue? Stop? Thank you for checking it out either way! :)