Without Hope, a walking dead fanfic

Prologue

"God, Grace, and Mercy of."

Day 33, Post-Outbreak: Kendallville, Indiana.

Hope…

It seems like there isn't much of that left in this world. We strive and fight for every meal, a sip of water is something many are willing to die for. Lately I've been counting the seconds away, waiting for the next of us to die. Whereas hope has all but died in this new world, death has come to prosper…

Many of us can barely remember what life was like before the Turn, before the dead rose and began to tear any of us unlucky enough to still be alive into pieces. Before it seemed that the largest stresses in the world came from taxes and bills, a school project that hadn't been finished, or maybe a test the next day. I think it is safe enough to say that that isn't the case anymore. We stress to find our dinner, stress to find water we can drink, stress to find a safe place to call home for the night, we stress about closing our eyes because we can't trust the people around us anymore. At any point they could snap, they could go ballistic and try to kill us over the last can of food.

Sleep used to be considered an inconvenience to most of us, having to spend nearly eight hours a night doing nothing. Eight hours of dreaming of things that would never come to fruition, but in the new world sleep is a memory. A time when life was simpler, a time when we could spare eight hours, when we didn't have to worry about someone stealing from us, and most of all… It's a way to escape the blood and gore our world brings us today.

So when you ask me about hope, I'm going to respond with dreams. A constant, nightly reminder of when I had a bed and a home. When I wasn't on the run twenty-four seven, when I could stand to waste more of my time. That's what hope is for me. A warm bed, a warm home, and a warm meal.

Unfortunately, that isn't what I dream about anymore. I used to dream of endless sleep, sometimes I'd dream of exploring the stars or breathing underwater, but not anymore. Now my dreams are haunted by faces- The faces of those I've lost, the ones I called family, friends, even random passerbies on the street. I see them all. Everyone I've lost along the way. I see the way they looked before the Turn, before the dead overwhelmed them and changed them for the worse. My mom's brown eyes, the scruff of my father's recently shaved beard, and my sister's constant nagging of my driving. I would give anything to go back to that time, to tell them all I love them once more. To apologize for everything I did wrong, to let them know of what was coming… Maybe they would still be alive if I had done something different…

It's just me, my brother, and group of ragtag survivors that we managed to pull together. For all we know it's just us. We have no way of knowing how many others survived the Turn. It's been about a month since the Turn, though it feels like it was just yesterday that it started to hit the fan.

The news reports are still so vivid; people got torn apart on live television. Uncut footage of the throats and flesh being devoured by the dead, it plays on repeat still anywhere still unlucky enough to have power and people.

We're still camping out in my hometown. Kendallville, I never thought I'd actually be here when the world ended. Then again, I never expected the world to end with flesh eating corpses. At an approximate ten thousand people population, it's a bit hard not to attract the attention of the dead. We managed to set up some blockades on Main Street, not enough to hold back the dead- But enough to know that this is where we have our camp set up.

During the night, if we make it back, we camp out on the roofs of the interlocked buildings that trace up the road, huddles around tiny fires trying to cook whatever food we managed to get that day. It's a small amount of rooftops, mainly focuses on the side with the Strand Movie Theatre. Luckily the buildings are connected, so it isn't a hop as much as it is a step. Thirty-two days of day scavenging and nighttime terrors. We have the radio turned on every night, waiting for something. A report of a cure, or help, or anything. The good thing about that static we get is that it's easy to fall asleep to.

We managed to get here before the police station had been raided, and we managed to find a few weapons- The Kendallville Force wasn't very large, but they had enough to get by. I didn't take any firearms, my aim is horrible. Instead I took my father's machete and his tomahawk, both are Studies and Observation Group certified.

I'd recount the days of the beginning of the apocalypse, but I'd rather not haunt myself with the stories of how my family died. Not yet, at least. I blame myself for all of them. My brother and I barely managed to get away, I can't help but wonder how it would have turned out if I had been the one to- Never mind. I don't want to think about it.

I think I'm going to keep writing in this notebook, maybe it'll help me come to terms with what happened, and maybe when I die it will help whoever finds it next survive. It's about an hour until dawn, according to my wristwatch and the gleaming orange light on the horizon. I don't know what the plan for tomorrow is, but what I do know…

Is that when everyone else wakes up, day thirty-three will begin.

Author Note-

Thank you to anyone who read this far, if you could please comment on the story to let me know if you liked it or not, I would greatly appreciate it. I am accepting OCs at the moment, so if you'd like to drop one off for me- Go ahead! That's all from me, apart from another thank you. :)