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Disclaimer: Refer to the prologue.

III. Red On Grey

Run boy run! This ride is a journey to-.
Run boy run! The secret inside of you.
Run boy run! This race is a prophecy.
Run boy run! And disappear in the trees.

"Run Boy, Run" by Woodkid

Her body is falling numb from the cold air sifting into the truck. Peter is beside her, one hand on the steering wheel and the other playing with the cigarette between his teeth as they wait for the line of cars ahead of them to start moving. Alana would ask him to close the window, arms starting to shiver, but the simple action of her uncle smoking is worrying enough to silence her. She wasn't aware that he smoked, not now or ever, but she doesn't comment on it. Not that, or the red-rimmed eyes and tracks of tears down his cheek.

Or the missing presence of her aunt.

Derrick, from the back-seat, is smart enough not to mention anything either, but that hasn't stopped the silent tears of either Hardewick sibling. They hadn't known their aunt long - the woman Peter had married when both Alana and Derrick where in their early teens – but it was hard not to love Sarah, with her easy smiles and round, rather nurturing figure.

Their bodies were falling as emotionally numb as the cold air had made their arms.

It was hard to believe it was real. All of it. Any of it. It didn't make sense, and although Peter had mentioned attacks around the country...this seems impossible. A single effect motion; the cause never occurred. It was as if someone had deleted the events leading up to this, and suddenly here they were; cut and paste, straight in the middle of an apocalypse.

Alana refuses to call it an apocalypse though. Apocalypse means the end, and Alana hasn't even reached the start. It just wasn't possible.

"We need to find James, maybe even meet up with Charles and Yolanda..." Their uncle muses out loud, speaking for the first time since he had returned a few hours ago and ordered them with a cracking voice into the truck.

Alana shoots Derrick a quick look, trying not to notice the fear in her little brother's eyes, and returns a small smile he had mustered up for her.

"James? The army sergeant?"

Peter lets out a breath, not exactly an amused snort, but not nothing either, "James, a sergeant? Man could barely lead himself out of his tent, let alone a squad...Charles Bennet was our sergeant, me and James were just privates."

Peter never really mentioned his army background, but then again, it wasn't something unnoticeable. The man had army training bred into him from a young age, the first son Jackson Renshaw brought into the world, and the one sculptured to take over his own army history.

It's this side of the family, their uncles and aunts and cousins, that Derrick and Alana came to the United States to visit, but it seemed that fate plays a cruel hand.

"Where abouts are they? James 'nd Charles?" Alana asks, tearing herself out of her thoughts.

"Nashville, last I checked," he glanced at the slightly confused expressions on his niece and nephew and re-iterated, "Tennessee; it's about a 6 hours drive to them, then another 4 hours to Robert's house in Atlanta."

Robert, their younger and more academic uncle, with the soft wife Natasha and her son Timothy from another marriage. Their own marriage had produced a beautiful boy and girl, but Laura had passed soon after birth from organ failure, and Robert Jnr was a sickly child. Alana can't remember meeting either of them in person, but they spoke often through the phone, when her own mother sucked up her own pride and phoned her family across the waters.

Derrick groans from the back-seat, "Why don't we meet halfway? Why are Robb 'n' Tash staying down there, all the way in Georgia?"

Peter's lips turn into a thin line, "The CDC; They're ordering everyone to either the military bases or there. Robert's a brain surgeon, Natasha rang up while I was in town and said they're being pulled six ways to Sunday – Robb's been called to the Centre and Natasha's going sick with worry with the little boys."

Alana observes him for a while, his tight fists clenched on the steering wheel with a silent determination, "You don't like it, d'you? The CDC? You don't think it's a good idea."

By the end of her comment, her tone has turned from a question into a statement, and Peter doesn't disagree.

"I love my brother, but he's an idiot if I'd ever seen one," He takes a moment to lick his lips, butting the cigarette out of the window and finally rolling it back up, "I'm no scientist, but these people...they're not going to be cured. Marty transferred heaps of people to the hospital and said himself; there isn't anything to be done..."

"Your aunt -" He breaks off suddenly with a pained grasp of air that surprises both Alana and Derrick. They're silent as they hear his breathing grow erratic and then slow, oddly loud in the vehicle.

"Robert...Robert wants to save them, but it's not going to happen...at least not now, not when it's our best chance to leave the cities; head north, out into the open."

"That's the plan? Get Rob, 'Tash and everyone from Nashville and head out?" Alana murmurs.

"No," Derrick half shouts from the back, sticking his head in the opening and staring at them both in fear, "No, we head south! Get to the dock if the airports are closed – 'Lana, we need to get home! Mum 'n' Logan are over there, back home, we have no idea what's going on!"

Alana is silent, shaking because she's wrong. This is the apocalypse and she's stuck millions of kilometres from home, her voice is wavering, not at all as strong as she wants it to be as she answers, "We stay with Peter, we find James, Charles, Yolanda, Rob and the others and then we find a way home. I promise, Derrick, we'll get back. But now we don't even know if it's hit there, we don't know anything."

It's kind of odd how time seems to blur and slow down, even stop. How the past and future vanish until there is absolutely nothing but the very instant, a simple start and finish motion. Her blood is pumping, fast, hard and thick in her veins, and she can't feel her wounds; only the thick weight of her leg that refused to bend properly – as if her mind in some rational, deeply hidden thought, understood that now wasn't the time to appreciate her wounds, and blocked out the fire-like burn.

Merle is heavy in her arms, her shoulders protesting under his dead weight, his head lolling around and feet dragging on the ground. Daryl is breathing heavily on the other side of his brother, one hand tight on Martinez's gun, and face paling with every step. The light sifting through the tiny window at their backs is a slight and warm white-yellow – she estimates at a late lunchtime and curses under her breath.

Broad daylight – you'vegottobefuckingkiddingme.

It takes a lifetime to reach the door at the end of the hallway – she almost tripped over Martinez's unconscious body, fingers itching to rip the gun from Daryl's fingers and end his breathing herself. On one hand, she's shocked at the change in her thirst for blood; Martinez never walked through her cell door with a heavy fist and a cruel tongue. But he never got her out either, preferring a blind eye to her cries.

But on the other hand, she's completely numb.

And she's not sure which she prefers.

"Hold 'im still," Daryl grunts heavily, shifting the weight of Merle solely unto her shoulders and creeping silently towards the door. She's less than three steps away, leaning against the wall with Merle leaning against her, crushing her ribs, but even so, she's thankful for the grim determination on Daryl's face, and the gun resting tightly in his palms as he slowly, and painfully, opens the door.

There's a unanimous sigh of relief between the two of them when Daryl nods once, but there's a chill in her bones when she realises that no-one in Woodbury seems surprised of the lone gun shot they had sounded.

What exactly was Martinez's intent, down in the cells? No keys and a loaded gun.

She glances momentarily at Daryl, pushing off of the wall and stumbling towards the door with gritted teeth. Which one of us was not meant to live the night?

They push on through the door and find themselves in a spacious room with open-floor living and a large rectangular table in the middle. She can see the tracks on the floor from where the table was dragged into the room, and the cigarette ash and buds littering the musty cloth.

Voices filter in from down the hallway and her blood runs cold. They all freeze just outside the door, and it takes a few seconds before she realises she isn't breathing. There is another few tense moments before Daryl takes a step forward and lets out a slow whisper; an odd sound with his rough voice, "Jus' sit Merle down 'ere".

They shuffle to the right, keeping their backs to the wall and slowly she slides Merle down, arms straining to keep his weight from falling too fast – keeping the sound from throwing them back into the cells, keeping cold metal from reducing three breathing bodies to only two, or less.

Daryl crosses the room and she tries not to notice the sheen of cold sweat that has broken on his forehead. He's not staggering though, a notion she finds helps her panic. Alana takes the time to glance around the room, fear keeping her feet by Merle's side but eyes tracing over the layout of the building. She skims over the various documents stapled to pin-boards, banners and signs littering the walls in a half-assed attempt at normalcy.

City of Woodbury Police Department,

505 Howard Road, Woodbury, GA 30276

established 1860. (1)

So she's been holed up in the cell of a police station – the thought really shouldn't surprise her; how many places in a town possess cold concrete cells? Yet the thought is absurd; when she was first taken she had been knocked out cold with a friendly smile and a stealthy hand over her drink, away from public eye and then awoke to find her hands cuffed and life threatened. To find herself in a centre where authority figures strove to ensure the safety of the public, yet here beaten by crazed men obsessed with keeping power in the very place that drunken people where held overnight in a much, much simpler time. There's an odd taste in her mouth and she's not sure if it's the now unfamiliar sensation of amusement or disgust.

Although, was it simpler back then? Honestly? At least she knows who the enemies are now, who she can't trust at all.

Everyone but herself.

Derrick excluded.

Derrick.

Daryl reaches the far corner of the room and she finds herself holding her breath as he leans forward on one foot, keeping the gun closer and peering around the side. She subconsciously grabs Merle's shirt in one hand and steps closer to his unconscious body, as if will itself would give her strength to carry him at a moment's notice. Daryl stills, and even from this distance she can see his legs lock up; he moves one of his fists slowly and uncurls his fingers to show her.

Three.

Three hostiles.

Daryl doesn't rush back, so she guesses they're either far enough away to be harmless, or distracted enough not to notice that Martinez still hadn't returned. She gets a jolt of fear at the thought; how soon will Martinez wake up?

Daryl skirts around the large table in the middle, slowly picking up papers and moving them; searching for keys, or maps, or weapons, or anything. He's only a few steps away when the voices pick up again.

"Where the 'ell is Martinez, man? He's takin' forever."

She recognizes Adem's voice almost immediately, but she can't hear the responses from the other two, fear blurring out everything but Merle, Daryl and herself. There's footsteps, echoing down the dark corridors, but all she sees is Daryl stretching out to grab Merle's other side, and them both grunting under his weight. Panic sets in and her feet are shaking, but her mind works far more quickly than her eyes and she remembers the small door to their far right, away from the steps, away from the open room, and long corridor.

"Over there!" She whispers, tugging sharply at the unconscious man between her and Daryl and they stumble slightly, before regaining balance and rushing to the door as quietly as they can. She doesn't consider the possibility that the door is locked, or barred, or what lies beyond, but she stretches out to it, fingers long and shaking.

The doorknob turns and they fall in, barely glancing at the long corridor inside. She lands awkwardly on one leg, twisting and slamming into the wall to her left, and Daryl follows after, pulling the door closed. It's a miracle it doesn't make a sound, and they tumble to the floor, hiding under the fogged panel that the door they passed through holds at chest level. Merle is between them, half sitting on Daryl and one leg thrown over Alana's ankles. She doesn't dare move, listening to the voices come closer and closer until they reach the open room they were standing in just seconds before.

"Joey, go see what the fucks taking 'im so long, we need to get the fuck outta here," Adem slurs, and she's not sure if it's the drink she can hear him place on the table, or his normal drawl that makes him sound completely drunk. There's shuffling, a door opening and a chair getting dragged roughly across the floor.

Her heart is beating hard against her chest, blood pumping fast and pricking at her fingertips. What's going to happen when they find Martinez knocked out? How are they going to get away now?

"Colby, go check if Lucas is finished in th' armoury."

"Go check your fucking self."

There's a heavy pause, then the oddly deafening click of a gun.

"Go check if Lucas is finished. I'm not gonna ask twice."

She can't breath. The only other door in that room led to the one they were hiding behind; not only is 'Joey' going to find Martinez unconscious, but now 'Colby' is going to find the culprits here, cowering. And Lucas, whoever that is, is somewhere in this corridor.

Fuck.

She moves before she even knows exactly what she's doing, barely registering Daryl's tight hold on his gun and the furious whisper that rips from his lips at her. She moves, heart pounding, towards the door, fingers outstretched to grab the handle and keeping crouched to hide under the panel above her head.

She manages to grab the doorknob just as Colby's shadowed figure reaches the door, and not a millisecond after her fingers touch the cold metal can she feel the pull of it on the other side. Her arm strains to reverse the pull of it, keep it locked straight and hard against the door. She bites down on her lip and tastes blood, palm going sweaty and slowly slipping, but she keeps it firmly pressed down and inwards.

There's a second of confusion on the other side, before Colby stops and lifts his hand from his side – the pressure on the doorknob automatically relieved on her arms – and turns to Adem. "It's locked, Lucas probably went out the other door...met up with Ethan."

"Probably gone to th' fucking meetin' like we should be right now!"

She rests her head on the door, gasping for breath and her heart pumps through her head loud and fast. She can hear Daryl let out a low breath of relief, and then she freezes up again at the sound of another man shouting.

"They're gone! They're all fucking gone!"

They hear Joey rip open the door, and even from where they are sitting they can hear his heavy breathing. They can only guess he's holding up Martinez with one arm, eyes wide and face pale. "They shot open the door, they've fucking disappeared!"

"What the fuck are you talking about?!"

"The prisoners, they've escaped! He was knocked out, they took his gun!"

There's a heavy pause filled with panicked breathing

"Colby, check th' cafeteria, there's an unarmed exit in the kitchen, shoot t' kill," Adem's voice is loud, harsh and commanding, and they listen to Colby's footsteps running. Even so, she can hear the thin vein of panic leaking into Adem's voice, "See if Carla an' Amy are still at the front, Joey, get 'em out of range. Leave Martinez in the front offices now, we don't want to hand 'em a hostage."

"What about the armoury? I'd go straight for the weapons!"

"Lucas was in there, he locked up before he cleared out – just go take care of of the girls, alrigh'?!"

There's another set of footsteps running off, and a moment of silence before they can hear Adem let out a growl of exasperation and follow after Colby, who had started shouting loudly and indistinctly.

"Shit."

She moves closer to Daryl and Merle, breathing heavily and mind running fast. She glances down the lit up corridor and notices only three doors, two to her immediate right, a few metres apart – both leading into the armoury on her guess - and the other straight ahead, and the end of the corridor, the natural light filtering in from the window. She nods to herself once, then turns to Daryl.

"Okay, I need you to stay here with Merle. I'm going to check out the armoury."

"Nah, we gotta outta here, the doors righ' fuckin' there." Daryl whispers back, struggling to stand up and pull his brother with him, as Alana shuffles back a step and shakes her head.

"We go out that door, we're gonna have that guy, Lucas, coming straight after us. Plus, we need bullets, weapons; we're not gonna last five minutes outside those walls with only your gun and a hundred biters on our ass."

"Why don'-"

She shakes her head at his protest, "I need you here to stay with Merle; if he wakes up, I can't keep him quiet, I need you to do that."

Daryl grits his teeth, curling his fist into Merle's shirt and taking a breath as if trusting Alana is physically paining him. She understands, although she finds the action annoying.

"So wha', you reckon ya can get rid of that guy? By yaself?"

Can you kill a man?

She takes a shaky breath, refusing to meet Daryl's eye, "Just wait here. I'll be back in a moment", before turning on her heel, still crouching, and reaching for the door ahead of her. The metal is cool, just like the door next to it, only this one holds a man most likely armed and dangerous. This is walking into the battle, not skirting past one.

She slowly opens the door, feeling a tinge of relief when the hinges move without a protest and a sound. Alana peers in slowly, inching closer when there isn't even a hint of a figure in sight. The walls are packed with different guns, benches lined with cases and ammunition. She can slowly make out the outline of a large cupboard in the corner, and subconsciously prays for a backpack within it's walls.

She takes a step forward, stretching up so she standing fully in the doorway, feet turned towards her destination and heavy with anticipation. There's a sound behind her, so soft that if she hadn't already been holding her breath she would have missed it.

"Be careful"

She makes no movement to say that she's heard, saving them both the inevitable embarrassment. Alana doesn't take sentiment from it, either way. Business deal. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Don't die, that will mess up our deal quite badly. Please and thank-you.

She closes the door behind her without a glance backwards, and waits a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room, in contrast with the bright corridor. A faint sound of music reaches her and she tries to find the source, guessing it to be behind the island wall in the middle of the room.

Alana slowly walks to the other side of the room, sticking to the benches and keeping a catalogue of the valuable items she sees. Her hand reaches out for a large knife she laid eyes on and just as her hand hovers over the metal, the music stops.

There's a curse, a sounds of pockets shuffling and then the music starts up again. Slightly louder, but still as muffled as before. Her fingers grip around the knife with a soft precision, the weight unfamiliar but comfortable in her palm, and she moves closer to the island.

Her footsteps are soft on the concrete floor, but her heartbeat is so loud she finds she can't hear anything other than that, and the sounds Lucas makes as he moves around. She rests on the corner of the wall, seeking comfort in the cold metal to calm her down, before shifting her right foot and peering past.

Lucas is a tall man, wiry muscles on his arms accented by the clean wife-beater he is wearing. His shaggy mop of a brown hair sifts over his ears, so thick she almost misses the ear-buds sitting in his ears, the cords dangling down his chest. He's younger than she thought, but she refuses to think about that, about his name, about his life, because he's standing between herself and freedom, and she needs to get rid of him.

She thanks whoever is up above that the man is wearing earphones, the music loud enough to drown out her movements, and takes one step forward, hand tight on the knife in her palm. She's worried that he'll turn at any moment, catching sight of her moving towards him despite the lack of sound. She doesn't think of actually killing him, of the consequences on herself, only the fact she needs to get this done, and nothing is going to stop her.

Alana is only one step away from his, hands in front of her, stilling at every one of his movements, when a loud drawl sounds from the hallway.

Merle.

Lucas jolts, turning to his left and she jumps, wrapping her arm around his left shoulder. He shouts, yelling in surprise, and stumbling backwards into her, throwing them both into the wall. He kicks back, and all the air in her lungs is automatically lost. She fumbles on her knife, gritting her teeth and panicking as he continues to shout. Her arm is still around his left shoulder, her shoulder-blade pressing painfully into the wall, and hand gripping his shirt to keep her legs from falling under her. She brings her right arm up, slamming the knife into Lucas' neck, and upwards, feeling the warm blood spill over her fingers.

He doesn't die for a while, gurgling in his throat loudly, and thrashing under her arm in a pathetic attempt to survive. She's glad she's not on the other side of him, she can't see the light in his eyes or the fear etching itself into his face. She's glad when he stops, and falls against her, hitting the floor with a thump and fingers outstretched, as if to grab a small thread of faith to keep him alive.

The music continues on, the ear-buds laying dejectedly by his chest.

Alana ignores the blood on her hands, the dark red splatters on her own neck and jaw-line, hands shaking and an odd taste in her mouth, to bend down and quickly rip the knife from his body. The blood spills forward to create a red lake on the ground, and she stands above it, half mesmerised as it swirls on the grey concrete.

The door, the one she didn't enter - but guessed correctly to lead into the same room - swings open, and she finds Daryl standing there, staring at her and the knife in her hands. Not exactly shocked, but not exactly not either.

She raises her eyes to meet his, blue and blue, before he nods once and murmurs, "Merle's ou' again, barely up for a coupla seconds."

It's her turn to nod, the sound of his voice breaking her from whatever sort of trance she was in, and she turns slowly, stepping over the dead body, and makes her way to the cupboard she noticed before, ripping open the doors and breathing easier when she sees the backpack within.

She quickly fills it up with everything and anything, sticking to the knives and ammunition than the heavy guns and Daryl seems to be looking over. She slaps his hand away as he reaches or another, and he withdraws it with a flinch and a scathing blue-eyed glare. Was that the type of fire in Lucas' eyes as her arm wrapped around his body, before the fear set in?

"C'mon, before someone comes looking for Lucas," her voice wavers of his name and she hates herself for the emotions she's feeling against her will, "or your brother wakes up again."

She makes her way to the door she entered through, moving through the now half-empty benches with the heavy backpack resting between her sore shoulder-blades, and a deeper feeling of conviction. They can do this. It's going to be okay. She opens the door and finds Merle slouched against the wall, unconscious once again, legs sprawled ahead of him.

"He didn'...I mean, no-one woulda heard, could barely hear ya from ou' 'ere." Daryl is behind her, murmuring quietly, and shuffling around her to reach out for his brother and heave him up on his right side. She steps forward and grabs Merle's other side, acknowledging the sentence with a small nod and yet still shaking, despite the fear of someone having heard Lucas gone.

Together they heave Merle down the short corridor, Alana feeling more confident with the backpack resting on her back and Daryl seeming more stable, colour on his cheeks and gun steady in his palm.

The light from the door in front of them is bright and warm, and Daryl opens it without hesitation, pausing for them to bask in the sunlight for a few moments. It wouldn't have been a big thing for Merle or Daryl, but she hadn't seen the sun, felt the wind on her skin, for over two weeks. The feeling is indescribable, and she can feel a bubble of joy resting in her lungs.

They peer out into the open space, finding themselves staring at a police car-park, the labelled vehicles long gone and replaced with a single ordinary truck. They both nod, relieved, and Daryl yanks them both towards the truck straight ahead of them, finding good fortune when they see it unlocked. They both place Merle in the in back, the pack removed from her shoulders and placed next to him, before closing the door with a hard metal clang.

"You know how to hotwire it?"

He shrugs, "Did it once, don' see why I can't again."

He moves towards the car door, but she places a hand on his shoulder and stops him, "And if that doesn't work? You stay here, try to do...that, I'm going to check the station. There's gotta be some keys laying around. There's only one truck, for chrissake."

Daryl tries to protest, almost angry she doubts him, but she's turned on her heel and running back towards the station, back inside. She had a death-wish, there's no other way the thought should have crossed her mind.

The armoury is clean, corridor completely empty, and she already knows that the open room has nothing of value, Daryl having checked it beforehand. She steps lightly into the open room, heading for the front reception when she hears the steps of Adem and Colby ahead of her. They're talking in heated arguments, and not five seconds later she hears them leave the station from the front entrance. She prays to God they don't turn right and head for the car-park, or at least that Daryl has the sense to hide behind the seats.

No time to think about that, get the keys, get out of there.

She finds the keys fast, sitting on the top bench in the reception, and cold in her palm. Feeling a firm sense of victory she turns and heads back, light on her feet and far more calm than she has been in a while. Except for when a large figure slams towards her from the left, and knocks her to the ground.

Martinez.

Fuck.

He's above her, legs straddling her waist and fingers around her throat. There's blood trickling from his forehead, a present from Daryl, and there are purple marks around his neck, courtesy of herself. She's gasping for breath, lips parted and eyes searching for a way out in panic. Tears spike at the corner of her eyes and she claws desperately at his face, trying to throw him off. The keys fall from her palm to the ground, and black dots dance across her vision as she feels herself getting weaker.

Martinez yells out, screams something she can't exactly make out, and then he's gone with a cry of pain, and a hand to his head again. The weight is removed and blackness spreading across her eyes as her throat gasps shakily for air. There's a firm grip on her forearm, the sound of keys getting picked up from the ground and she's getting pulled down the corridor, legs shaking and sudden comprehension flooding into her as a familiar face shoves her ahead.

"...he's got a gun..."

She doesn't hear the bang of the gun, but she does see the pain that floods across Daryl's face as blood spills from his waist and Martinez' figure goes to reload. Alana reaches out for Daryl, screaming indistinctly, shaking and regaining her strength as her lungs breath in and out and pulls him into the open room and down the corridor.

They fall through the door to the car-park, Martinez's screaming still loud in their ears and the sound of men spilling down the road in their direction at the call. The panic she's feeling is making it harder to breath, a shaking making it awkward to open the door and shove Daryl into the passenger seat, fingers curling around his fist and removing the key there. She's not thinking about it as she whispers soft words of encouragement and desperation, just stay with me, please, just don't go, and shuts the door on him, seeing the side of his face already paling again, worse than he was in the cell.

Jesus fucking christ, no.

She turns to make her way to the other side of the truck, heart in her mouth and gravel skidding under her boots. As she turns though, she sees a sole figure ahead of her,through the gates of the front entrance to the car-park, and her blood turns to ice.

She catches his gaze, the striking blue burning dangerously while he grits his teeth, and she skims over the white patch covering his eye, confusion entering her system. The noises around her bleeding into one long scream scratching at her ears. Alana stumbles back, foot finding purchase in the gravel and he stares at her, painfully scrutinizing.

He takes a step forward, fist clenching, lips turning into a ready snarl and she can hear Daryl in the van – groaning at her to hurry th' fuck up. The Governor takes a step forward and she takes three back, fingers fumbling on the door of the car. Her blood is pumping and she's beyond terrified, ripping open the door and climbing inside faster than she thought possible.

Her left hand has twisted the key before she's even closed the door, foot slammed down on the pedal before she's judged her surroundings, and she swings the truck around, peeling towards the other end of the car-park and the gate exit on that side.

They smash through the wire fence without hesitation, and she swings on the wheel fast to readjust themselves on the road. Merle gives out a groan, an audible protest to the speed they reach, and she allows herself a brief moment of happiness as at least one Dixon brother seems to be recovering.

Daryl holds unto his side painfully and lets out short gasps, but keeps his eyes open, for which she is relieved. That man has the worst fucking luck. They wait for the noise of cars to follow behind them. They wait for the gunshots to hit their back, rip into the fast dying silence of the roads. Empty roads.

Nothing happens and they continue speeding, reaching one unmanned wall faster than she thought possible. She opens it without help, without any trouble either although the panic is building, and doesn't bother to close it behind her as she speeds out – no destination in mind, but a fast burning fear chasing them.

She's staring out at the road ahead of her, but all she can see is the Governor. His lips morphing from a snarl to a calculating grin, fists uncurling, mouth shutting close without a sound, a yell, to alert the others. He continues grinning, and nods only once...

Woodbury fades slowly behind them and in a moment of distracted insanity, it briefly flies through her mind if now is a good time to mention she doesn't actually have a license.

(1) The address is taken from the Senoia, Georgia Police Station, as well as the established date. Senoia is where they film The Walking Dead (Woodbury scenes, anyway), so it's a bit of a fiction and fact mash-up.

AN: I created a map for the Woodbury Police Station, just to show the layout of the place. It's nothing amazing but if you wanna check it out, the link is in my bio!

I was going to split this chapter into two different ones, but I liked the way it ended here. It was a horrible chapter to write, so I'm asking for some thoughts on how it went! Please?