*I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.*

Chapter 10: Dying

There is a time and place where you give out, a time and place where you let the darkness come and trample right over your tired body.

And this is that time and place.

I lay sprawled out on the cold floor of an empty room with four walls and a roof. There is no table now, no chair; I'm not even bound. Just me, my achy hands, ugly scars, and blood-filled mouth.

It got quiet long ago . . . Or maybe I just accepted that I am going to die. Reality sucks, karma's a bitch, we were dealt shitty cards – yeah, I get it. We always pull the short straw, don't we? There is one light source in this room dangling from the ceiling like a fancy earring. I'm on my sore back and my eyes watch the object slowly swing back and forth.

Jus' when I thought you was wisin' up . . . Now look at ya, lyin' on the ground like used rubber.

Hi, Dad.

You're dyin' here. But you know that, don't'cha?

"So?" I question the ceiling. "Good a day as any."

You never would've made it anyways. Too much of a coward.

"Shut up." I spit, sitting up. This causes me to choke on some blood resting in my mouth and I go into a coughing fit until I can see the crimson liquid spilling on to the floor.

Don't let the world spoil you, honey.

Mom.

Remember who the enemy is.

Somehow, I have collected enough strength to climb to my feet. My ears pick up on noises outside. Voices.

"Why can't J interrogate her? That's his line of work, anyhow." a stranger talks. I don't know who "J" is. Maybe Jay like the name – doesn't matter.

"You heard Governor," that's Merle. "'Sides, she's just a kid. Won't hurt ya none."

You're okay. Still Mom.

I'm okay.

You good?

I will be, Daryl.

The steel door opens and Merle appears with a chair. He sets it a few feet away, I glare at him. Then, Merle is gone and in walks a nerdy-looking guy with round glasses. Great.

The door slams shut and the new man approaches. He has a plate in one hand, clipboard in another; looks nervous but I don't know why. I swallow; eyeing him as he puts the plate on the chair. He holds the clipboard, clicks the pen attached to it. "Hello." he greets and I realize he was the same person questioning Merle out in the hall. "My name is, uh, Milton. I'm – "

"They're gonna kill him, right?" I interrupt because I could care less if his name is Milton or Mark or Matthew or whatever. They have Glenn, Maggie, too, and that's all that matters.

Milton peers over the clipboard. "I do not believe their intentions were to that extreme with the concerns of your friend."

"Family." I correct. "And there were two of them, not just one . . ." I have no idea where Maggie is and Glenn, well, he wasn't doing so well. I look straight into his eyes. "They're dying. I am, too. But you already know that."

"I – I do not know."

Of course you don't.

Milton adds, "And I am terribly sorry for that but I have some questions I was instructed to ask you."

"I'm not playing." I turn around. Stare at the back wall. Maybe the walls will close in and suffocate me until there is nothing left. Until I don't matter. Until I won't have to be questioned.

"Yes, you are." I look to him, quirk an eyebrow. "And you will. This – this could mean life or death for both you and your . . . 'family'."

I move back around.

He gestures to the plate. "I brought you a sandwich,"

"You trying to bribe me?"

Milton shrugs. I won't eat, I know that.

"What's your name?" he asks. I think about lying. I think about a lot of things, actually, but then my real name slips off my tongue so there's no hiding there.

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen." I answer, staring at the door to hide my shame. Can't believe I'm doing this – "Give or take."

Milton scribbles some notes down on the pathetic clipboard. "Your name is interesting . . . any reason for that?"

"What?" That can't be part of the questions.

The clipboard falls to his side. "Well, I'm the middle child. My older sister was Molly; my younger brother, Michael. My mother favored the letter 'M'."

I go to the thoughts running in my head. Not all of them are bad. "My mom just liked nature, I guess."

"I see . . ." He doesn't write anything down. "And her name?"

My eyes retreat. "Why're you doing this?"

This. This as in: why are you here? This as in: how are you still alive? This as in: what does it matter?

And this is Milton's answer, "For research, mostly," He fixes his glasses. "And loyalty – seems to me that is how most of us get by these days."

Doesn't have to be unless you change.

"Let me ask you something, River," he starts, and I hate the way strangers say my name, "Have you ever wondered if those things are the cage holding back what that person once was? Is?"

We're all infected.

"I try not to think about it." Because if I do I won't be able to breathe; won't be able move.

Won't be able to kill.

Just die.

I'm dying now.

"Fair enough," Milton answers. I guess it is, isn't it?

Milton asks about where our camp is at. I say we were just passing through – not even from around here. I tell him that we have a whole lot of muscle, that we have ammunition, that they can track . . . And the more I talk, the more I start to believe it myself.

After everything, I ask Milton who the Governor is but he doesn't reply.

I don't want to know the name of the person I'm going to kill anyway.

Martinez stands at the door for a little bit. I can see the shadows of his figure from under the object, can hear him fidgeting around, mumbling things. We all talk to ourselves.

And then – after minutes and minutes pile onto each other – he leaves.

There is no chair anymore because Martinez took it away. He did, however, leave the plate. Closing in, I swipe off the pitiful ham and cheese sandwich from the plate, and it flops to the floor. My hands run over the plate – it's glass alright – and my palms are probably stinging, but I can't feel. Probably.

No handbook was ever created for killing people and I realize this as I smash the object into the wall, breaking it into many pieces. There's no right way, not exactly a wrong way either.

My fingers find a shard.

I've never killed a person before; someone who mattered. Just walkers or people trapped in cages, as Milton put it.

A thirteen-year-old girl should never have to do this.

There are footsteps sounding in the hall I've never seen and I guess someone heard.

I just want to go home.

Martinez bursts through the door and he's not who I really want to kill, but he's still a person.

So I lunge.

Red. There's so much red. Red on Martinez's face, red on my palms, red in my eyes –

I don't hear anything, I don't feel anything, and I don't even think I'm still alive until my body is thrown against a wall. My head is fuzzy.

Martinez isn't dead.

And neither am I.

I stare into his brown eyes, head splitting. He looks hurt and I feel bad and then I can't see anymore.

I'm being moved again but I don't know where.

Probably to my grave.

A door squeals open, I can see again, and then I'm tripping over my two numb feet.

Another room. Another hard floor.

I get swept up and dragged into a warm body. The door slams and the aftermath of the action echoes, ringing in my ears. I try to fight the arms holding me close but I can't. I don't even feel here.

Buried deep within all of the strangers, I find something familiar, "River . . ."

"Glenn – " I choke out, wrapping my arms around him. My eyes feel wet as I bury myself into his shoulder; breathe in the scent I know. I hate hugs and getting close but this feels more right than wrong. It feels – it feels like coming home, just a little bit. Just a little, tiny bit . . .

I talk into his shoulder, "You're here."

"And so are you." Glenn replies.

"I thought – " No.

"So did I."

Pulling away, we get a good look at each other.

"Your cheek is bleeding." he says, wiping something cool off my burning skin. I hiss. "Sorry."

Glenn is bad . . . He's really, really bad. His face – oh my God, his face . . . Black and blue and purple and red –

"Your whole face is bleeding." I reply. More realization dawns and I want to collapse right here and now. "Glenn, we screwed up."

"Yeah," he breathes, "I know." I notice a sharpened piece of wood wrapped in duct tape beside him, then. Looking further back, my eyes spot a shattered chair, overturned furniture, more blood – a body.

"Glenn, what – "

He ignores my wandering eyes and question, stands up and asks, "Have you seen Maggie?"

"No." Glenn pulls me to my feet as I answer. "I was alone."

Bending down, he slowly picks up the makeshift weapon. I know it hurts. I'm in pain, too.

But that doesn't matter.

Glenn claims he has a plan, a way out. And I want to know what happened in this place, but then the door opens, my stomach dropping, before words can get to me.

The weapon is in Glenn's grasp as he steps in front of me. He is poised and ready to go.

Merle comes in, Martinez behind him.

I am frozen, breathing hard as my throat clenches.

Merle holds out a hand to Glenn's striking stance. "Uh-uh,"

Martinez points the gun at us.

A man I've never seen before drags a girl in. Maggie.

Maggie isn't wearing a shirt.

My jaw drops.

Glenn lunges but Martinez just points his weird looking gun at Maggie, who is trying to cover herself up. Glenn drops the wood and it clatters to the ground.

Things happen. I'm pushed to my knees and so is Glenn. Maggie is scooted over to the side, forgotten and exposed. My eyes glue themselves to the floor and I can't decide if I am scared or not. I ought to be, though.

Because this is it.

The man paces back in forth between these four walls, the heels of his boots clicking on the hard floor with each step. The sound echoes, bounces, until it is swallowed up. I watch his worn boots as he goes; my blood-filled mouth is open as labored breaths of air travel in and out of it. My face stings, my eyes feel wet, and a blood droplet falls down from my cheek and stains the floor.

The boots still and so does my heart for a moment, but I refuse to look up. You would think someone would want to know what their killer looks like, but no, not me. This man doesn't deserve any words from my lips, much less my eyes.

"We're done playing games." he says, but I don't think I am. I'm pretty sure I could go for another round of hide and seek. I hide the information everyone is so desperately searching for and they try to seek it – drag it out of me – little do they know I'll never tell . . .

The boots are back to moving and this time they come for me. His shadow looms over my crumpled form, swallowing me up like this room swallows his footfalls after a brief hesitation. His fingers find my chin and they force my stiff head up.

I stare death in the face, green on green, and then the man opens his mouth to speak once more. "Now, you're gonna give up where your camp's at."

My eyes move over his shoulder to the two people behind him – his people – with their smug looks and deadly weapons. They would die for this man right here, I know that, and I will die for my family both with me now and back home.

Lazily, my gaze slides back over to the person gripping me with his cold stare. "No can do . . . mister." I spit, my tongue gliding over the blood that has settled in my mouth, and I can taste the metallic liquid there.

He lets go of me, backs up a few feet, and then his gun is out; a shiny revolver. Quickly, he takes three strides forward and closes the distance between us. The revolver presses against my forehead, it feels cool against my burning skin, and I realize that this is the first time I've ever looked down the barrel of a fully loaded gun.

The gun clicks. "So unwise . . ." the man mutters to me.

This is where I will die.

I will die in a smothering room with a man I don't know and in a place I'm unfamiliar with. Bruised and bloody, I will go out quickly like turning off a light. Alone – I will die alone even though there are others in here with me.

You always face death alone.

I think about the rest of my family back at that safe haven I never gave up as the man pulls the trigger.

Heyyyyyy, would you look at that! We're all caught up with the prologue! Sweet! :D

I'm doing a bit better so thank you all for the support. You guys sure know how to make my day.

Until next time . . .

~ Rainy