Everyone can remember where they were the day that the world ended. It wasn't something that anyone would ever be able to forget. It was the largest tipping point for everyone, a shared experience that would determine the future of the human race, if there was one at all.
Emma Swan had been at her home in Boston, Massachusetts. She'd finished chasing her skip barely an hour before and had made it back just before her son was due to go to bed. Everything was ordinary, the same life she'd been living for the past five years. It was comfortable, sitting beside Henry on their sofa, a hot cocoa with cinnamon each and not a single care to be had. The radio blasted behind them in the kitchen, singing songs that Emma hadn't bothered learning the names to, happy to let the lyrics wash over her in the background as she and Henry worked to defeat the latest dungeon boss, not that Emma was very good at this game, preferring to press random buttons and do her best not to die.
And then the broadcast sounded.
It was like stepping out of her life straight into a nightmare. The entire city was in panic. People were screaming as they raced through the street, desperate to get out of the built up areas and instead go someplace safe, a refugee camp that had apparently been opened near the outskirts of the city. That was where she and Henry had been heading. Their entire lives had been packed up into the trunk and backseats of her yellow bug, not that it was a lot, mostly food Emma thought it was worth taking, a few of Henry's comics and as much necessities as they could manage. Anything else, anything sentimental, had been left behind. Not that there had been much, Emma having never been the sentimental type, but there were the odd photos of her and Henry that she'd not had the heart to leave behind, and Henry's storybook, of course.
Now, she was grateful she'd kept them.
After the refugee camp had turned out to be a bust, Emma had hit the highway to go as far and as fast as she could, dragging Henry away from the city they'd called home as it fell to the dead. It was a ghost town now, full of monsters wearing the faces of people who had been lost to what could only be called an epidemic. The world was falling, and Emma refused to allow her son to fall alongside it.
Sleeping rough followed that. With nowhere untouched by the creatures Henry had taken to calling 'risers', those who died and rose again, the two of them had taken to sleeping anywhere they could manage that kept them safe and out of reach. Emma's preference was to help Henry climb into the dip of a tree in the woods, and to fasten him to the thicker branches by his belt. It wasn't comfortable, but he was out of reach from the risers, and Emma could easily keep watch over him.
That was how the first few months had gone. Raiding empty houses for food and maybe even shelter for the night if Emma could barricade the door enough. Then the next morning they'd be gone and back on the road, siphoning what fuel they could from the cars they came across. Emma didn't know where they were going, but being on the move made it feel like there was a plan, that all they had to do was survive until someone came to save them and fix the shit-storm that was the world. That hope had died after perhaps a month for Emma at least, right after she'd seen someone become one of the beasts she and Henry had been avoiding. She hadn't known who it was, having stumbled upon them on a raid of the house. He was alive when they got there and Emma had gone so far as to try and tend to his wound. He had not been alive when they'd left.
Emma would never forget how Henry had screamed at the sight, the damp wash cloth he'd been dabbing at the young man's face dropping from his hand as the man opened his inhuman eyes. Emma had nearly lost Henry that night. Had she been on a watch out on the porch or even on a run for food then it could have been too late. She'd met people who had lost loved ones and for the first time in her life Emma realised how blessed she was in this world to have only one person she cared for. So long as she kept Henry alive, she wouldn't be alone. She could mourn the world they'd had as she lounged atop the roof of a suburban home, and she could grieve for the little things she'd never realise she missed, like showers or pillows. But she wouldn't have to mourn for her son, and in a world gone to hell in a handbasket, that was all she could ask for.
And then she'd met David and Mary-Margret on a raid of an old convenience store. The area had been mostly riser free and Emma felt better having Henry by her side and not holed up in some random house or her nearly useless bug, gas being a lot harder than expected to come by as time wore on.
They'd seemed harmless enough, mostly due to them having Emma's gun in her face, her pack filled with as much ammo as she'd been able to pilfer on her rounds. Henry had been the one to make her lower it, telling her that they didn't hurt other survivors, and that there was safety in numbers. And so they'd joined forces, the bailbonds person who refused to relinquish her red leather jacket, the ten-year-old without hope to sleep through the night, the pixie-cut school teacher and the self-righteous sheriff.
They made quite the team. Mary-Margret had basic first- aid and even had the hindsight to bring first-aid kits along with her. Emma and David each had a weapon of their own, ones they were anything but afraid to use and were more than willing to pull them on any threat that befell their loved ones. And Henry, well, Henry had kept them all sane in his own little way. As they sat inside a broken up living room in the home of some accountant, or maybe a lawyer, he'd be the one to spark conversation, to take everyone's mind off of the hell waiting just outside the door.
Maine, that's where they were going. Of all the places.
Mary-Margret's stepsister was the mayor of a small town there and since they had no other ideas of what to do, that was where they were headed. The road was long, with dangers lurking behind the trees and fear behind every corner. There had been a couple of close calls, risers – or walkers, as David called them – breaking through windows and sneaking into camps. But they'd made it. Against all the odds, they had made it.
Sure, they'd picked up a couple of others on the way. A slightly unbalanced man named Jefferson and his still sweet eleven-year-old daughter, Grace, were the first, David had picked them up as they gathered water by the creek. Jefferson had lost his wife in the first wave and he and his daughter had been on the run ever since.
Merida had been next, the fiery haired scot having pulled her bow on Emma as she patrolled the woods. After persuading her that Emma was in no way a threat, Merida had conceded to joining them, along with her three younger brothers, Hamish, Hubert and Harris, not one of them a day over fifteen and armed with everyday household tools.
August had been the last one to join them, a writer, making his way to Maine where his adoptive father was hopefully waiting. Everything was finally beginning to look up. David was even sure he'd find his twin brother, James, in Storybrooke. Emma thought it was a slightly naïve thought, to believe that a radio message every morning would be enough to get through to his brother, but David was adamant, and as it happened, correct. James had been there, much to David's relief. Emma personally thought he was an arse, but that was hardly important.
Storybrooke was everything Mary-Margret had described it as, but suited to the world that had been born. The entire town was fenced off, alleyways blocked off with school buses, tree branches carved to a spike set before the fences to ensnare walkers before they had the chance to break through. The survivors had been welcoming enough, Regina only sneering slightly at the new arrivals in the town hall. They'd met many people then, a young woman named Ruby with crusty, chocolate brown hair pulled tight into a ponytail who lived with her crossbow wielding grandmother in the BnB above the old woman's diner. The downstairs was entirely out of use, but the upstairs was clear, with enough spare beds to house the strangers for as much time as they needed. August found his father, Marco and Merida would provide as much food as she could manage from the forest with her bow.
It was almost perfect, or as perfect as any place could be in this world of boarded up windows and the dead rising.
And then the horde came. It tore through the town like a wave. Mary-Margret and Regina managed to gather as many people as they could, leading them away to the town hall. It was solid enough, the main room bare of windows for the walkers to see them through. So long as they kept the main doors boarded as tight as possible, and everyone inside was ready and armed - not to mention quiet - they could just wait it out, either for the horde to pass or for those who were willing to fight against it in the streets to control the problem.
Emma had been one of those people. She had taken to one of the boarded alleyways running off of main street, hiding behind an over turned school bus, gun steady and her pack secure on her back in case she needed to hide out somewhere. Jefferson, who had lost his daughter a few weeks earlier was beside her. If she'd thought he was unhinged before, then there were no words to describe the manic look in his eye as he watched the walkers clawing and groaning in the street. Emma had been able to see Mary-Margret from where she was stationed on the roof of the library, her bow held firmly in her grip as she picked off those who strayed towards her friends. David was in the opposite alleyway with Graham, their bodies masked by the abandoned car blocking off that particular alley way. There were others of course, armed with either guns or very heavy weapons used for more brutal, melee attacks. Overall, Emma thought they stood a chance. It they stayed quiet and didn't draw attention, the walkers should pass on by and when they were out of the towns perimeter they could repair the wire and go back to sleeping with both eyes shut for a little while.
That had worked out fine until Jefferson jumped the bus. Even now, Emma couldn't understand why he did it, throwing himself into the arms of the walkers nearby, his gun fire drawing back those who had already passed. Everything fell into chaos. Jefferson managed to take down some of them, or at least, the same number of walkers to however much ammo was in his gun, and then a few others with his knife before they really got a hold of him. He took a bite to the arm first and Emma knew that they could have saved that, just chopped off the tainted limb and hoping the fever didn't kill him. But then he took one to the shoulder, and then his neck. His eyes had found Emma's in the mania and she'd known without words what he was asking.
Old Emma would have hesitated. She'd have thought that maybe there could be a chance, however slim, that he could be salvaged from the wreck. Hell, old Emma may even have cried for Jefferson, the unbalanced man with a dead wife and who lost his daughter far too young, only to follow her out a similar way. But old Emma was gone. It took a second for Emma to line up her shot, pulling the trigger and effectively putting Jefferson out of his misery. And then she'd seen Henry just over the road, in the blocked off alleyway beside the one David and Graham hid inside. He was alone, Emma saw that much, a gun held far too loosely in his hands and pointed out towards the walkers, but his eyes were on Emma, wide and afraid. He'd seen what she'd done to Jefferson, she knew that, and she also knew that he didn't understand. They didn't kill the living. That was how they worked. It was how the survived as a makeshift community. It was seeing him there, seeing the walkers as they too noticed the small boy, alone and vulnerable behind a chain link fence that led Emma to do something incredibly brave and so incredibly stupid.
While some of the horde closest to her was distracted with whatever was left of Jefferson, Emma followed his lead, jumping the lowest point of the tipped up school bus and standing out in the open. They'd spotted her, of course, she'd have needed a miracle for them not to - especially after the sound of her gun firing - but she was already semi-prepared for that. Skirting the buildings, she tried to weave her way to the front of the horde, firing her gun into the air like a shitty cowboy in one of the shitty cowboy movies they'd never make again. But that wasn't the point, the point was to drive the walkers away, to distract them enough that she could get them away from the town, away from her friends and away from Henry.
Where she sat now, miles away, the horde still audible through the forest around her, she noted her plan was far more stupid then brave. Sure, bravery plays a very integral part to even attempt such a stupid act, let alone pull it off, but what Emma had done was irrational above everything else. She still had the horde on her trail or, at least those of it that were too determined to become distracted by something else, and she had no way of knowing she'd even made a big enough difference to save anyone. This world, this god awful world had made her reckless. The things she had done to survive she wasn't proud of, but the things she now knew she was willing to do, they damn near terrified her.
Emma had never felt uncomfortable when she was alone, in fact, even after Henry had been born ten years' prior, Emma had craved solace. But now there was nothing she despised more. She'd found a cabin in a clearing in the woods, or Graham had found it and showed Emma. It was well away from Storybrooke, a forty-minute drive at least and Emma felt as though she'd been walking for days until she'd reached it. It was a safe house of sorts, the wooden door having been enforced with sheets of tin by Graham, a little project of his for if a run should go bad. Boards covered the windows and curtains were thrown over them to keep any light in. It was cold in the singular room, and in Maine that was far from pleasant, but Emma could manage. There was nowhere to make a fire, not unless Emma wanted the whole place going up in smoke, but there was a thin, not too prickly camping mattress in the corner, a cupboard stocked with enough supplies to last perhaps a month for one person, less than that for more. Emma didn't have any hopes of sticking around, not when she didn't know if Henry was safe. A few nights was it, she told herself, long enough for the walkers to become interested in something else, then she'd be gone.
She'd said that over a week ago.
She had taken to scouting the area every morning, gauging whether or not she could start her way back to Storybrooke without drawing too much attention or being followed by the much smaller – yet, still very much a threat – horde. If that happened, then it would all be for nothing. All she could hope now was that her friends had the good sense not to go after her, and pray that they would keep on surviving until she got back. That was all that mattered now.