Prologue
There it was. No matter how rough n' tumble the New World had become, the worst part about it was that 'it' would always be there, hangin' around over ya like some kinda deep, stiflin' fog.
'It' was the smell of it all.
A putrid kinda stench that permeated every single thing y'ever could hope to lay eyes on from here to the edge of the horizon. May be ironic, but as pristine and as pretty as the New World could look sometimes, that stench'd always be there to remind you: This's their world now.
This's the realm of the dead.
If I'm honest, I ain't sure how many years it'd been since the whole thing started. I certainly can't count how many times I'd a'nearly kicked it, or how many walkers we'd ended since the beginnin'; the number'a nights I couldn't sleep, or the number'a nights I just plain wouldn't.
And if I'm honest, that part don't really matter, either. Not in the long of it, and not in the short of it. Gettin' tangled up in the tragedy'a how it all started was one of those luxuries y'couldn't afford anymore. Whether it was your god, my god, karma, or just a matter'a time? Well, that doesn't change nothin'. It is what it is, now.
I ain't tryin'a sound harsh, but it's not like we had any answers, anyway. All the wonderin' in the world wasn't gonna do you no good, 'cause what happened to 'em is just like what happened to most people. All those answers you might'a been lookin' for? Those were long gone. The plague of the undead went down so fast that not'a one of us knows if anyone even had 'em to begin with.
What we do know is, when it comes to geeks, walkers, biters, or whatever y'wanna call 'em, it's one'a them numbers games. If you're gonna be outnumbered -and you will be outnumbered- y'better not be outgunned. It's prob'ly best if y'ain't too shy, neither, though a little bit of time out here is bound to earn ya some brass if it don't get the best'a you first.
But while we're over here bein' honest, I think what sticks with you the most tends t'be the person you've become in the aftermath, and the kinda folks the people around you have become in turn. I damn sure remember every friend this world made me have t'say goodbye to since the beginnin', and every man I had to kill t'survive with the ones I had left; the ones that become family. They're the ones that help keep your own humanity alive, even when its embers're smolderin' under the weight of what it means to have a life in this mess; the ones that make this place the type'a nightmare that can be worth a shit.
So, no matter what kinda peace you maybe could'a found in a moment, or in a sunrise; in an hour, or in a smile; shit, maybe even in the likes of a new day's promise (if you gone wax'n poetic like some hopeful son of a bitch); the 'it,' that smell, will make sure you never forget that the whole world's dyin'. And it's fightin' like hell to take you right down with it.
And if that's the way it's gonna be?
Well...
Come'n get it.