Hola! My name is Liz… this is my first story for Walking Dead, and my first story at all on here. So, please be nice, and reviews and what can be improved is appreciated! Please R &R! Set just after the last episode of season two… ;) Please review!

One: Rot-Head

Zombies. Everywhere. I am surrounded, and there is nothing to do but hope. Pray. My knuckles grip around the ridged knife that I got off of some dead man in an SUV a few days ago, my musket-rifle still slung over my back. Dirt and blood smudge my face, sweat drips down my temple as I prepare for the end. I will not go down with pity for myself. As they rip me apart, I will have dignity. I close my eyes and plunge into the feinding spew of rotting corpses, a yell forming on my lips.

I jolt up, yelling in my sleep. Not sleep anymore. I jolt awake, thrusting my arms out as if stabbing at the air, my knife tucked in my hand as I slept swishing in the air aggressively as if not on my own will. I clasp a hand over my mouth until I can stop myself from screaming, clutching onto my knife for dear life so I don't drop it. My legs stop kicking finally, and I settle my shaking frame so as to ensure that I don't fall out of the tree that I fell asleep in. I was keeping watch, and must have dozed off, because my knife was still in my hand. Crickets chirp around me, unfazed by my screaming and hollering. Apparently so are the rotties, if there are any within a two mile radius. I pick my locations strategically so I'm as far away from rot-heads as I possibly know.

I've been alone for nearly two months now, and it's getting to me. The dreams. I sleep in a tree every night, when sleep is necessary, like Petey told me to when we first started as a team. The man I barely knew. An image of his broad, velvety dark shoulders come into my head; the glistening back muscles in a V shape, protectively holding his large body in front of me.

"Big brothers protect little sisters, and you're like my little sister." He'd said in his dark, always-mysterious voice.

"I'm game to shoot just as well as you are. You need all the help you can get, brother." I smirked and reached up to knock the fisherman's cap off his head. I loved Petey.

He taught me everything I knew about the rotties, or rot-heads as he nicknamed the dead, which was a lot. He told me that you don't want to get bitten – that'd kill you, and then you'd come back. Kinda. The only thing that could kill one of them was a shot to the head, or something else to corrupt the part of the brain that kept 'em walkin', as he said. I knew lots about the rotties. Enough that I didn't want to share the information.

By the sounds in the forest, I can tell it's dusk, not dawn. Animals are just starting to wake and become part of the nighttime cast of the forest. I hear the waterfall by the bridge I had crossed earlier. I suddenly remember climbing up into this tree midday. It's turning night; not morning. And this becomes more apparent as I realize how cold I am. I see my breath freeze in the air in front of me, and my fingertips and toes are numb and feel like blocks of ice. After scouting the area where I am perched in a tree with my eyes, I slowly slide down the tree, less gracefully than I imagine it will go. My feet crunch in the leaves and I literally wince at the noise. Though I feel rested, my limbs are crutched and cold, so I move like my legs have been in blocks of ice for the past few hours. Regretting sleeping scrunched in a tree.

My musket fits into the small of my back where I have it slung perfectly, and my numb fingers wrap around the handle of my knife. All the protection I have against thousands of dead roaming the earth.

I wander for a while, my blade at the ready, but I hear and see nothing suspicious, so I head towards the road again, wondering if I might find an abandoned old truck or something I could use to get away from here in. Another thing Petey taught me; driving. It's not like it's all that complicated. He taught me how to drive a stick-shift, and how to drive a modern gear. How to hotwire, if absolutely necessary. It isn't as hard as in the Old World. All you have to do is stay on the road. There aren't ever any other drivers you have to look out for, and if you go off-road, it doesn't matter much. I can press the gas pedal and shift the gears, run the windshield wipers and the windows; that's all I need. As I approach the road, I see something that definitely was not here when I ducked into the woods for rest.

A security fence has been set up around something obstructed by the sort of security barrier. A faint glow emerges from the barrier – a fire. Blinking a few ten times to assure that I'm not seeing a mirage, I crouch low to the road so I can inch along the side and see closer. As I crawl forward with my knife tucked close to my wrist, I hear faint voices. People! It's been months since I've seen any actual person. Come across many walkers, but never people. I've been driving myself mad with the sound of my own voice. Screaming at night as the dreams become worse and worse. In shock, I head back into the woods, definitely out of view of the others. However many there are.

As I do many times, I hear the two opposing sides of my conscience arguing.

They're going to hurt you. They probably will do what they have to, this is about survival! Not about taking others in! They'll kill you just as fast as a rot-head for your meat!

Fire… so warm. Ask them to share warmth, then be on your way.

They'll shoot you. Skin you like a squirrel.

Do they have food? How long have they been out here?

I audibly growl to myself and stalk into the woods until I find a suitable tree to bang my head against. When I hear footsteps, I leap into the brush and press my back to a tree. But I still hear the voices close by.

"It might just be a wanderer. There are lots of stragglers in the woods." The first voice comes, but all I see is the forest in which his voice casts. There's a snuffle that sounds like someone wiping their hand under their nose. I make a face of disgust and shift the tiniest bit, barely making a sound. By now, when the world's gone to Hell, I've learned to be quiet in everything I do. It's for the best.

"We'll find it then." A slight accent speaks, another strictly male, unless it is a very grizzly female. "Shoot the sorry son-bitch in the head –"

"No," a female voice speaks. Layered in a farm-girl accent, I guess that's she's originally from around here. I pfft silently. Georgia-folk… "Shot would only draw more of them out here… use a knife."

Damn it. I clutch my own knife tighter as I hear the clink and sheen of metal as a knife is pulled out and distributed.

"I'll go find it." The kinda ignorant-sounding voice snorts. Maybe the one who wiped under his nose.

"We stick together." The opposing male voice says; I can hear the annoyance in his smaller tone. "You know that."

He snorts. "Whatever."

"If there actually was a walker. Maybe it was just a squirrel… or something." The woman says.

"Woman! Why don't you just go on back to that piece of shit camp and sit and do your job! We don't need you out here, if you just – "

A swig snaps, and there is a shuffling noise. I hold my breath as the rotty emerges from the woods. Her hair hangs stringy in her face like a mop, tangled and snarled and down-right falling off and volatile. Her eyes glare at me, looking at me only as a meal. The others who I can't see try to take action too late, but I thrust my knife out, yelling as I tackle the "girl". Growls and horrible sounds erupt from her mouth, her rotten breath all too familiar as I plunge my knife deep in her chest and pull downwards until her innards spill out onto my clothing and skin. The stench is fowl and horrible, but she still screeches and reaches for me, her only means of food. I yell once more and slice my knife into her head. She becomes limp, and I feel another pair of arms tugging at my shoulders. I yell louder and plunge my zombie-guts covered blade into the leg of the second creature that is pulling on me.

I know how to deal with these things! Better than anyone but Petey! I spit the blood out of my mouth that must have come from the cut on my gums I must've got when I tackled little-miss-dead over on the forest floor. My knife blade slips across the cheek of the walker, and that's when I smell the scent that is so undead it sees almost unfamiliar. A dirty smell, none the less, but it is the smell of a dirty human being trying to keep clean in the New World. Human blood comes away on my knife and I suddenly wish I could take it all back, but there are a new pair of arms tugging on me again. I fight them, my cap falling off my head, saliva and blood foaming out of my teeth as I struggle against the too-strong arms.

"Get off me! OFF!" I scream, and there are more foot falls, more running into the woods to the scene. I am blinded by the hair that has been ripped into my face, the blood burning in my eyes. I realize that the blood comes from a gash on my forehead, running like thick maple syrup into my eyes, down to my nose. The rust smell hangs close to my nostrils.

"Glenn, I got him, I got him!" the man with the slight accent says in a strained voice as I struggle against him. His arms are muscled, but his body is lanky, and a cross-bow is slung across his back. His hair hangs in his florid, sordid face, his lips chapped and slightly blue.

"Who the hell you callin' a him!" I spit in his eyes, but he is unfazed. I catch a glimpse of the walker I just killed to save their asses as they wrangle me down to the ground, forcing my hands to my back.

"Stay down!" the dirty man yells, his breath freezing in the air, all I can see besides his torso. The rest of my vision is blocked by the freezing ground.

"Daryl!" a shout comes from what I guess is about fifteen or so yards away, and more footfalls come in the grass and fallen leaves. Great. Attract more zombies while you're at it, will ya? Why don't you go fire some shotguns into the forest too, you damn fools… "What happened?"

You really want hillbilly over there to explain, faceless person I can't see? Daryl must be the one who pinned me, with the bow. "He was –"

"She." I hiss almost inaudibly.

"Shut up." He kicks my head slightly with the toe of his boot, a harsh nudge. "She musta been hiding out here. Walker came straight out of the woods, she killed it. Then attempted human murder."

"Daryl, it wasn't like that." the first male voice I heard out here speaks. "She probably thought either one of us was a walker. She was just being precautious."

"You say that, but look what she's done to your little pussy southern belle!" he paces like the piece of whitetrash he is, ready to start knocking my already crooked teeth out. If I wasn't pinned, I'd squeeze his nipples so hard he'd never want to take his shirt off again. There is the sound of sobbing, and distress, but I can't see who it is, only that it's a girl. Now it all makes sense; that's the one I must've cut.

"Maggie!" a younger girl cries and there's a thump on the ground. I see her shoes, a pair of ranch boots, and her wet, dirty pants tucked into the edges. Just by her legs, I can tell she's a tiny little things, smaller than me. "Maggie, oh Maggie!"

"I'm alright." Maggie clears her throat, I recognize her as the one who was with the two men. "Just a scratch."

"Scratch, Maggie, that kid stabbed you!"

"Beth, I said I'm fine!" she snaps, and Beth continues to sob.

"Can I get up now?" I say in an almost bored voice. What can I say, the ground it boring!

"Stay down." An authoritative voice speaks, but I don't really sense the cruelty hinted in Daryl's.

"Hard to have a conversation down here on the ground."

There are a few whispers, then the same voice speaks again. "Let her up, but holder her arms."

I'm yanked up by my collar, feeling the grubby hand on my neck as I'm pulled to my feet. I get vertigo for a second but my vision comes into focus. It's dark, as it was before. It must have been about an hour since I hopped out of my tree. No wonder it's completely dark now. My eyes adjust to the dark to see a small group of people standing in a half moon circle, surrounding me, and the oaf that holds my arms behind my back. I tell who people are by feet; the little one I the ranch boots is Beth. I can also tell my her sobbing, and clinging to a short haired woman who must be Maggie. I heard the name Glenn, but I never identified his shoes, so one of the men must be him. I can smell Daryl behind me, holding onto my arms. I can't see his face. I don't know the rest of the people. A fairly large black man is stanched against a tree with a rifle cocked and pointed at me. A woman with short hair shaved like a boy's stands beside him, a frightened innocent look on her face, and another woman with long dark hair who is shivering sandwiches a little boy between them who looks more interested that afraid, wearing a sheriff's hat. An old man with thinning white hair stands over Maggie and Beth. A man wearing a stained t shirt seems to be the only one not pointing a gun at me.

"What's your name?" he says, walking slowly closer to me. Daryl snorts, and I feel his warm breath on my neck.

"Assholes!" I spit at him, whoever the man is. But it feels so strange to be in contact human beings after so long! "Is this how you treat human beings!"

"Yeah, when they're jumpin' on topa other human beings with a knife!" Daryl growls behind me, his voice just in my ear. I elbow him in the ribs, but he barely moves.

"Would someone please get Forghorn Leghorn offa me!" I scream, and chaos erupts again. I somehow get loose of the hillbilly, trying to make a break for it, and I make it into the trees with yelling and footsteps behind me. I scoop up my hat off the ground and continue head over heels, stirring up leaves as I run. I scream at the top of my lungs as a few foul-mouthed rotties emerge in my path, their disgusting decomposing teeth and skin giving off a distinct odor and their broken, raunchy arms reaching for me. The corpses drag themselves after me as I slowly back away, still clutching my hat in one hand, my knife in the other.

An arrow goes by me, barely whizzing past my ear. At first I think it is that dumb bufoon shooting at me, but the arrow impales the closest rot-head coming towards me. I suddenly remember that I am holding a knife and stick it in the closest zombie's head, giving it a twist until it stops struggling. The three go down, and I am on the ground in seconds, but this time, I can tell it isn't Daryl on top of me.

"I'd advise you stop running." The man who wasn't pointing a gun at me breathes hard, and the other footsteps behind him cease. "You're not going to run anymore. Are you…"

"No, sir." I whisper, a sob escaping my lips, but I dry it up before he gets me to my feet. I let them confiscate my knife and pat my pants down for more weapons. An Asian kid, who I learn by their conversation is named Glenn, finds the pocketknife tucked in the side of my shoe, and the amo box in my jacket pocket. Of course, they take my rifle along with the rounds.

"I thought this was the zombie apocalypse, not the Asian Invasion." I snort at Glenn, who pockets the knife for himself.

"Never heard that one before." He rolls his dark eyes. "If I were you, I wouldn't say anything trying."

I pfft. "What, is that guy in charge of you?" I roll my eyes over to the one who didn't point his gun at me, who I learned is named Rick. He looks nice enough, but those ones are always the psychos.

Glenn hesitates. "Kinda."

"So, it's a Ricktatorship?" I smile, but Glenn does not return it. "Was that your girlfriend I sliced?"

He says nothing.

"I thought she was a rotty."

He turns back towards me and adjusts his baseball cap that is pink and orange. It might have been red and orange at one point, but the sun's washed it out to a pink and tangerine color. "Rotty?"

"Yeah, you know… the zombies. Rotties." I toss my shoes at his feet and he picks them up, dumping rounds of ammo out of them a piñata.

Glenn smirks. "Rotties? We call them walkers… or geeks."

"Walkers. Humph, not bad. Not as interesting as geeks. I don't see any glasses and pocket protectors on any of 'em. I've never seen a preppy zombie."

His eyes roll up to meet mine. "That's the modern term for geek… you know, a nerd. But in the circus, there used to be a – well, a distasteful group of performers called geeks. They did stuff like eating hair… biting heads off of birds…"

"Wow, you know a lot… I guess because you're Asian, they're always geniuses."

He scowls. "You should probably stop talking now."

"What, am I your prisoner?"

He doesn't say anything, but that says it all. They tie a rope around my hands behind my back, and bring me to their camp. A lot of them have returned already while I was stripped of my supplies, and the boy with the sheriff's hat automatically stands up when Daryl and the dark man who I learn they call T-Dog leads me to their small enclosure. They all stare at me like I'm an exhibit at a museum, but I just smirk at them. Daryl throws me down to the ground where I am forced to a sitting position.

"Daryl…" the woman with the long dark hair looks up at him. "She's still a kid."

"No I'm not. I'm eighteen."

Mag-pie shuts up as I glare at her. She didn't look too happy to begin with.

"So, is this your sorry excuse for a jail?" I piff. "Not much of a jail."

"We don't gotta answer to you." Daryl paces back and forth. "You're the trespasser."

"Trespasser? Last I checked, the cities owned the roads. And no one owns the cities anymore. So doesn't that make the roads all of ours? I could claim this road if I wanted… you don't own it."

Rick still doesn't draw his gun at me, but crouches down to my height, which is pretty short, considering I am sitting. He looks like a common man. Nothing too handsome or ugly about him, and he looks like an average American man. His nose is a little big, and he's dirty like every other human being left without the use of the shower. Rick's hair is slightly long and he hasn't shaved in a while. But there is a softness to his eyes that makes me want to trust him. Petey didn't like to trust people. He said they drew guns at you. But Rick didn't draw his gun at me when everyone else did.

"Are you hurt?" he asks as it seems like a million eyes are on me.

"No." it's strange, how I don't feel the need to spit in his face.

"You must be hungry." He swallows and I watch his adam's apple go down his scruffy neck.

"Haven't eaten in days." I nod. "You hog tied me, got me thinking about ham, Rick."

He chuckles and rubs his chin on his shirt collar. "What's your name, hon?"

"Why do you need to know? You think I have an army hiding or something? Why should I tell you?"

"Because there are more of us than there are of you. And we have food."

Daryl suddenly yanks him aside, and T-Dog grabs his arm. I can hear them hissing words to each other, rather audibly for trying to be quiet. "Rick! RICK! You can't just walk around giving away our food to strangers you find in the woods! Damn, man! I thought you were much smarter than that!" T-Dag's slight ghetto voice wavers, mixed in with the sound of the fire.

"Man, you wanna go around and give any bitch who tackles a pussy human, be my guest, ain't my call…" Daryl shrugs and paces back and forth.

"She thought I was another walker!" Maggie yells, but Beth tugs on her arm, shushing her. Obviously, Maggie over there has a mind of her own. "She's a bitch, but she's a smart bitch!"

Glenn laughs into his hand, and the kid in the hat laughs boyishly before the dark-haired lady shushes him. I learned that her name is Lori by the others around me. I'm still yet to know the kid's name.

"Maybe if you people had a proper place to wash, I wouldn't mistake country bumpkins for rot-heads." I roll my eyes. "You're set up in the road, come on."

"You were in the woods." Daryl spits saliva onto the ground.

"I was headed out to South Carolina." I decide to tell the truth, since Rick is looking at me, and like I said, I kinda trust Rick.

"What's in South Carolina?" T-Dog begins cleaning out his gun with a raggedly cloth.

I refuse to talk. "I'm not saying anything. Especially since I'm tied up."

"You got other people?" Daryl paces closer. "They're probably watching us now. Gonna ransack us for supplies!"

"Calm down, Digity Dash… I don't have any other people, or whatever. You're the first people I've encountered for months."

"You're alone?" Rick asks.

"Isn't that just what I said?"

"She was alone, in the woods." Glenn clears his throat and inches closer to Maggie. I did get her good on the cheek. Well, it's a good knife I have. Meant for cutting skin. It's the best knife I've ever used for taking down one of those wretched, rotting corpses. Or geeks. Now that I think about it, I kinda like the name Geek for one of them. Rotty is still better, but still…

"Don't mean there aren't others with her."

"You already have my weapons, what're you going on about, Doofasa? I'm tied up! It's not like I'm some crazy-ass mofo struggling against my bindings! You really think they'd miss me? Even if they did, they probably wouldn't come back for me in this crazy-ass world."

"Alright, that's it! YOU DAMN BITCH!" Daryl lunges for me, but T-Dog and Glenn catch him as if he's done this before. I wouldn't doubt it. "WE SHOULD KILL HER NOW!"

Rick yells. "We all just need to settle down, and think this through!"

"That's right, Rick! Always thinkin'! Now we're in this mob a shit!" Daryl spits at the ground again. "Damn stupid, that's what. Kill the dumb bitch. We don't have room for another!"

"I saved your ass from a zombie! Suuure, Little Bo Peep got a scratch, but it's better than a torn off face."

"We didn't need no savin'. We take care of ourselves."

They let the point sink in. Rick crouches down to my height again. "What's your name?"

"Paige."

"Paige… where do you come from, Paige?"

"Tennessee. Up in Gatlinburg." Who knows, maybe these people aren't so bad after all? Except Daryl. He's pretty bad.

"Oh, so you've come a long way?"

"Damn straight I have."

He scowls, his face serious, then he rises off the ground. Let me go, I will to whoever is listening. God sure isn't. No one talks to me, and I nod off to sleep against my own shoulder.