*Author's Note* (sigh) I have to admit I find FF not user-friendly in the extreme. Perfect example: The angle quotes I was using to connote the use of a different language (other than English) being spoken don't translate. As well, the multiple star * symbols I was using to note the passage of time don't carry over. Ugh. So, for my purposes, not because it actually makes any sense, whenever people are speaking a language other than English I will note it initially in text then place a star * before and after the statement. I will also try to use their horrible horizontal line to denote time passage or POV change. I absolutely hate how that looks but what am I gonna do? (Besides publish this elsewhere -hint: archive03 in the format I prefer). Sorry about that. Anyhoo, on with the show!

7/25/2015 07:04 EST

Atlanta, GA

"What the hell is happening up there? Dollars to donuts someone's got their thumb up somebody else's puckered asshole."

At that, Michonne looked up and saw the hulking man, who just a few minutes earlier had been laying on the horn of the truck behind her, standing at her side now. His face was scrunched in concentration, eyes peering down the long row of cars stretched out for seemingly miles in front of them. Michonne hadn't seen a traffic jam like this since she'd traveled the Grand Truck Road in India as a student abroad. At least then there had been vendors along the sides selling refreshments and trinkets. It was sweltering out here at seven in the morning and nothing was being passed around but pure attitude.

"I don't know." She said finally looking again at the great gorilla of a red-haired man at her side. "You have the better vantage point, what do you see?"

The man shielded his eyes from the sun's relentless glare and squinted to look. "Nothing. Nothing but a buncha idiots outta their cars."

Michonne looked around amused by his lack of self-awareness. Still, it was true. Everywhere she looked, people were out of their vehicles trying to determine for themselves what exactly was happening.

"We should get back in our cars in case traffic starts to move," she said to him, suddenly feeling apprehensive.

This was not the day for her to be late.

She had a presentation to give in two hours for her bosses at the CDC. Even three years later, Michonne was still shocked that she'd scored her job working as a public health attorney surveilling at-risk populations and influencing public health policy for the governmental agency. Truthfully, she was surprised she had even wanted to work in that arena again. Yet here she was eager to get to work, enjoying every minute of her very demanding job. More importantly though, she was safely behind a desk not having to worry about placating vain warlords just to get medicines into villages or having to negotiate with prevailing juntas just to cross imaginary borders. She'd left that life behind and had not looked back once.

Well, basically.

She sat back in the driver's seat of her coupe, closed the door and stared at her hand on the steering wheel. She didn't know why she hadn't taken her engagement ring off yet. It wasn't as if she regretted breaking her engagement. It had been wrong of her to even accept Michael's proposal in the first place but she had in an effort to convince herself they could be happy. And they could have been, she believed that still, if only she hadn't received that letter from—

Michonne screamed.

A police officer on a motorcycle careened into the side of her car taking out the large ginger man that was standing next to it. The officer himself flew up into her windshield shattering the glass into a million pieces that still remained intact in the frame. He moaned and Michonne scrambled out of the car from the passenger side. She climbed awkwardly onto her hood to check the officer. Releasing the strap on his helmet, she reached under his clothes to check for a pulse at his carotid artery. It was weak and thready.

The officer moaned, grasping at her sleeve.

"Sir, are you okay? I'm gonna call 911." She reached in her blazer pocket and realized she'd left her cell phone in the car. She looked down and it stared back at her, separated by glass, on her dashboard.

"Shit. Can someone call 911?" She shouted. Looking around she saw no one responded. The people nearest her stood staring in shock at something down the rows.

"All right Sir, don't move, okay?" Michonne peered over his body onto the driver's side planning to hop down and check the big man on the ground. The officer tugged at her blazer moaning louder pulling her attention back to him before she could see about the other.

"What?" She asked leaning forward. He moaned again indecipherably.

Placing both hands at either side of his head, she leaned forward, putting her ear to his mouth.

"Run." He gurgled. Michonne recoiled immediately as his directive became clear.

As if he'd said it loudly enough for everyone to hear, the people near the cars next to her took off down the row. Looking behind her then and down the row she saw what they had seen. A great wave of humanity making its way up the rows in her direction. People were running down the aisles, some were climbing up on the cars and they could be seen going up and down each peak and valley, while some tripped and were left behind, trampled.

Curiously, one in every tenth person lunged at their fellow runners, taking them down like the cheetahs and gazelles she'd once seen on the Tanzanian savanna. Michonne needed a moment to comprehend what she was seeing.

"Run." The officer spread eagled on her hood said again, pulling her out of her momentary stupor.

The first, fastest people were already sprinting past her car. Mostly men and some women, some dragging terrified children with them, flew past her.

Now, Michonne. Now!

A voice she hadn't heard in years filled her mind. Pulling her skirt up, she wrenched one shoe off her foot and kicked off the other. Rearing back, she brought the stiletto heel down on the glass of the windshield finishing the job the officer started. It broke into a million iridescent pieces before her. The officer fell back like a ragdoll stretched across her dashboard. Michonne dusted the glass off and grabbed her cell phone. She was preparing to scramble over her roof and onto the truck behind her when the officer grabbed her again. Blood was now pouring out from his sleeve, over his hand and onto the cuff of her blouse where he held her. He coughed up more. Blood covered the whole lower half of his face now. Sticking her phone in her bra, she began to open his jacket to look at the wound he must have sustained.

"No." He insisted. "Run. Run."

Obediently, Michonne let go. But he still held her with surprising strength.

"Run. Run."

"I can't if you don't let me go!" She shouted at him as the number of people passing began to increase. The first of the car hoppers was gaining on her, already on a hood only two car lengths away. The officer coughed up enough blood to clear his passages temporarily.

"Gun." He said more clearly. "GUN."

Understanding finally, Michonne reached into his holster then and pulled out his Glock, slick with his life's blood.

"There." He whispered, pointing with the finger on the same hand, apparently the only part of his body he could still move.

She looked the way he was pointing. The Georgia-Pacific Tower—the UK's consul general's office was there! Without ever knowing how good the piece of advice he'd given her was, the officer gasped his last.

Without thinking further, Michonne leapt off the hood of her car crashing into two men running in their suits, one who inexplicably still carried his briefcase. He swung it at her thinking she was one of the things he was running from. The corner of the hard leather case connected with her cheekbone. Knocking both the gun and the phone from her hands, they went flying. The gun slid under a parked car and the phone a few feet away. The man with the briefcase lurched back to his feet and continued running. The other grabbed for her phone. They both leapt for it at the same time, Michonne scrapped both the pantyhose and skin off her knees in the effort. Her hand closed around the phone, securing it in her grasp before the man elbowed her in the solar plexus. She fell back stunned and winded as the people who had been running around them both didn't bother anymore, stepping on her legs and hands. She screamed in pain as he attempted to wrest the phone out of her hands.

A foot out of nowhere kicked the other man in the face ejecting blood and teeth everywhere. Large, strong hands dragged Michonne to her feet unexpectedly and pulled her out of the way, in-between a car and a van parked at the sidewalk.

"You okay, Sis?"

She barely had a chance to register the large, burly Black man with kind, if frightened eyes and a full beard before he rejoined the crush of people. Then he took off down the sidewalk, without the answer to his question but with the speed and agility of an athlete. Panicked people crushed both her attacker and cell phone underfoot. In mere seconds, she watched the light go out in his eyes. Getting on her hands and knees between the vehicles, she dragged herself under the silver sedan to retrieve the gun from where she'd seen it fall. As she crawled under the car, she heard moans and a gnashing sound accompanied by ear-splitting screams.

Whatever had caused the riot had caught up with the runners. There was a frenzy of screaming and crying. Michonne watched the feet as they passed her position, saw as some left the ground pouncing on others. The bodies on the ground being trampled were increasing in number. Her hand reached for the Glock lying near her in the gutter and pulled it to her chest. As she watched, a small girl who had tripped with her mother and was subsequently trampled began to tremble. Michonne assumed it was some sort of ghastly death rattle, until the girl's one, uncrushed eye reopened. It rolled back down from inside her head and focused with blood-shot clarity on Michonne hidden beneath the car.

Michonne gasped.

The girl reached a mangled arm in her direction connecting instead with the calf of a woman running by. Pulling her down, she bit into the passer-by's ankle ripping out her Achilles' tendon. Michonne put her hand over her mouth to smother any horrified sounds she may have made. Shoeless and hurt, Michonne wasn't sure how she planned to make it the twenty or so yards through the alley to the UK Consulate building but she knew in that moment she had to try. Dozens of feet still sprinted by on both sides of the car. She looked toward the little girl again only to find her feasting on the leg of her victim, her attention completely averted. Michonne struggled out from under the car on the other side, using the bodies of the fallen as cover.

Getting her feet under her in the midst of the best and fastest reverse burpee she had ever done in her life, one her trainer would have been proud of, Michonne sprang to her feet and sprinted across the sidewalk, down the small side street, miraculously not colliding with any person or thing as she did it. Reaching the doors of the building she was stunned to find them locked. Looking behind her quickly and then looking into the building she saw a security guard cowering in a corner behind the front desk.

"Hey!" She slapped the glass of the door with her open palm frantically. He looked up but didn't respond. "Hey!" She screamed again growing apprehensive about shouting.

Chaos had officially broken out in the streets. People were running in every direction. Michonne ran to the window closest to him and banged on it with her gun-butt. Seeing it in her hand seemed to frighten him more. Immediately, she put the gun behind her. "Let me in! I've got to get to the consulate!"

The timid man shook his head and sank further into the corner.

A glint reflected in the glass caught her attention. Michonne turned in time to see a man lunging headlong at her from ten feet away. She side-stepped him like a matador with far more calm than she thought she possessed. His head cracked open against the plate-glass of the building with a sickening sound.

"Geezus Christ!" She exclaimed as his bloodied remains slid to the ground in front of her.

That didn't even make sense. He killed himself, mindlessly. Michonne had had enough.

"Open this door or I'll shoot the glass!" She had no idea if the glass was bulletproof, but she was determined to empty the entire clip finding out. She lifted the gun aiming at the same bloody spot the man's cranium had probably weakened.

"Okay. Okay!" The security guard shouted, lifting his hands in surrender. He pointed to the revolving doors and pulled out his keys. Michonne ran for the door pushing as soon as he bent to unlock it. As it began its slow revolution another of the things appeared as if out of nowhere, trying to push its way into the tight space between the wall and her section. Suddenly, the guard stepped into the opposite space and pushed back to keep it from closing.

His intention quickly became clear. He was going to stop the doors from revolving and effectively allow the thing to wedge its way inside the space with her.

Michonne turned and banged on the glass with her fist, "What the fuck are you doing? Let the door go!"

She watched as he shook his head no, trying to reach down and relock the doors while simultaneously keeping it from revolving any further.

God forgive me. Michonne whispered to herself bringing the gun up level with the face of the formerly human thing snarling at her. She pulled the trigger. The recoil was stronger than she remembered wrenching her shoulder and blowing the thing back out of her space. The noise in the tiny compartment was momentarily deafening. But afterward, the doors revolved smoothly enough for Michonne to squeeze through to the other side just as the security guard relocked it. Michonne walked over to him and lifted her arm fully intending to pistol-whip the coward who had twice jeopardized her life in less than five minutes, but she paused taking a deep breath to calm herself.

"What's your name?" She asked instead, as he shrank under her hard gaze.

"N-Nicholas, Nicholas Thompson."

"Tell me Nicholas Thompson, is there anyone else here yet?" Michonne looked at the time on the large marble clock on the wall. It was still only seven-twenty in the morning.

"M-most people don't start coming in until eight."

"Anyone up in the Consul General's office yet?"

"Probably just Andrew. He's their intern. He always comes early to open up."

"Floor?" She said marching with purpose across the empty lobby.

"Twenty-seven." He said wiping the dust from his knees as he rose.

Michonne pushed open the heavy stairwell door. "Nicholas?"

He looked at her.

"You better smarten up if you want to make it another twenty-four hours."

Michonne thought she was going to die as she ran up the first fifteen floors but got her second wind on floor twenty. Entering into the cool atrium of the Consul General's office, Michonne knew immediately something was wrong. The fine hairs on her arms and on the back of her neck rose as they had whenever she knew a meeting with one of the factional warlords was headed south in the old days.

The office was completely silent and yet she was distinctly aware she wasn't alone. As she had been taught, Michonne put one hand under the other to support the gun and put her finger on the side of the trigger keeping it pointed down by her feet. She looked around, firearm at the ready.

"Hello?" She said softly. "Andrew? Anyone?"

She almost dreaded the response as she moved behind the receptionist's console. She picked up the phone listening for a dial tone. There was still one. Despite the burgeoning anarchy in the streets, the services hadn't yet broken down. Reaching for the remote for the reception area television she turned it on. The BBC, naturally, was the station of choice. They weren't reporting anything out of the ordinary. So it wasn't international. Michonne exhaled. She flipped around the channels while still looking intermittently around the room. The local news that was her best choice, she realized. Her stomach dropped when she saw the test pattern on the first channel. Switching then to CNN, which was Atlanta-based, she prayed for something different, and was disappointed. Across five local and two cable channels, there was nothing but dead air and a test pattern. Her heart sank.

Just then, a shadow fell across the frosted glass of the back office. Behind the frosted Union Jack seal she saw a face. It turned to her, eyes bloodshot and wild. It snarled and banged itself against the glass. Andrew. Clearly, he was unable to open the door. Whatever happened to these people had turned them into their baser selves, wild like animals and driven by similar impulses yet unable to accomplish more than the most basic functions. The part of her that admired the scientists she spent day in and day out with was more curious than horrified. The rest of her; however, was scared shitless.

Keeping her eyes on Andrew stalking her from behind the glass, Michonne reached for the phone again and called her friend Jacqui's desk at the CDC. It rang uninterrupted until the standard voicemail greeting came on. She racked her brain for Jacqui's cell number. No answer there either. She tried the main switch board. Someone always answered that number, yet nothing. The poison control number, which was supposed to be manned twenty four-seven, three sixty-five was next, but again nothing. Michonne struggled against a rising panic. Andrew stared at her. His red eyes following her every move as he snarled and banged his head against the glass unceasingly.

Think. Michonne. Think.

She looked down at her ring. Mike. Picking up the phone again, she dialed his number and got a busy signal. She tried her cousin, her aunt, her favorite Cambodian restaurant, any number she could remember— all busy. That wasn't good. That meant the switchboards were filling up with panicked calls all over the state, possibly soon the country. If she was lucky she probably had another thirty minutes before all calls in and out of the state of Georgia ground to a halt. Without her cell phone or an address book her calling options were severely limited.

She had one number left. She didn't know why she even still remembered it, other than it belonged to her beloved mentor. Michonne racked her brain to remember all the numbers in the correct order as she picked up the receiver yet again to check for a dial tone. It took her three tries on three different lines to finally get one and then she dialed slowly. Watching as the person formerly known as Andrew watched her wasn't aiding her recall.

"Nine-one-seven," she recited aloud to which Andrew snarled from behind the glass. "255-0176."

The phone rang for what seemed like an interminable duration as Michonne held her breath.

"This is Deputy Secretary Greene…"

Voicemail. Fuck.

Michonne nearly slammed down the phone in despair. When the message finally beeped, she spoke as if she were hopped up on Ritalin, speeding through her situation in a more frightened tone then she thought she would hear coming from her own mouth. It took her a moment to figure out what was going on with her, but soon it became apparent. Without being fully cognizant of it, Michonne realized Andrew became increasingly agitated any time she spoke or moved. As she left her message, he snarled and snapped with more and more urgency banging more than just his head into the glass. Michonne realized then if he ran headlong into it, as the one downstairs had, he would break through and be on her in a matter of seconds.

Just then, another line on the telephone switchboard rang startling Michonne. For the briefest of seconds she was confused by this turn of events. Picking it up and putting it to her ear with the same hand that held the gun, she spoke tentatively.

"Hello?"

"Oh, thank God," Hershel Greene's soft, calm voice washed over Michonne like a gentle wave. "Michonne?"

"Hersh?" Her heart leapt with relief.

"Where are you? What the hell is happening down there?" The UN Deputy Secretary-General's southern accent somehow grew stronger anytime he spoke about his home state. "It sounds like all hell has broken loose in Atlanta. Are you safe where you are?"

Michonne looked at Andrew staring unblinkingly back at her. "For the moment, I don't know how much longer that will be."

Hershel clearly put his hands over the receiver and spoke to someone else. "We're getting reports of cannibalism, random attacks, some sort of outbreak?" He asked her a second later.

"Hersh, I can't confirm any of that officially but I'll still tell you yes. Yes to all of it. I've seen it with my own eyes." As if no time had passed at all, Michonne put back on her UN investigator hat.

"Have we got him?" Hershel spoke to someone else, he was clearly having multiple conversations at once. "Yes? Hello? Hello?"

"Hello?" Michonne replied confused by what was happening on the line. If they got disconnected Michonne was unsure what she would do. Speaking to this man felt like the last tether binding her to what she'd previously known as reality.

"Hello?" Another voice said in response.

Michonne's stomach did a full revolution threatening to bring up the meager breakfast she'd had this morning. She recognized that country boy twang anywhere, even in her dreams.

"Hello, can you hear us?" Hershel asked then.

"I can hear you." He said, his voice so clear it seemed as if he was in the other room. "Michonne?"

"Rick?" She said hesitantly, unbelievingly.

She heard someone exhale but she was unsure which of the two men it was. She looked down at her engagement ring for some reason and twisted it so the stone sat in her palm. Closing it into a fist, she squeezed the diamond solitaire so hard it cut into her palm.

"Michonne, I got Rick on the line because he's in a position to come get you. We need to bring you both up to New York."

"New York? Why?" Michonne questioned, though she wasn't opposed to it. Right now, she wasn't opposed to anything that would get her out of there but it didn't make any sense.

"Michonne, I'm at Camp Lejeune in Jacksonville," Rick cut in impatiently. "I can be there in two hours. I need to know, are you in a place where you can be safe for another two hours?"

Michonne sighed eyeing Andrew. He snapped at her, blood and saliva smearing the glass. She could try. She would try. "Yes."

"Then hang tight," Rick said in that flinty voice he used when they had been in their toughest spots and he would brook no argument from her or anyone else. "I'm coming."