He was still a few blocks away from the hospital when Daryl smelled the smoke. Tall trees blocked his sight of the sky, but he saw the billowing black clouds as soon as he turned the corner. The difference between the streets was night and day: a postcard-worthy scene of a quiet small town street one moment and something out of a war movie the next. National Guardsmen patrolled the street, rifles in their hands. Behind them, the hospital and its auxillary buildings were burning.

"Get back," a guardsman growled as Daryl rolled up on his bike. "Area's under our control now. Turn around."

"My – I have someone in there," Daryl replied gruffly. He stared in disbelief at the scene. This morning his biggest problem had been a corroded battery holding up their work flow. Now it's the god damn apocalypse. He scanned the smaller builings and wondered desperately which one had been Beth's office. She couldn't have made it from the TV station back here before the fires started, he decided. "You seen a blonde girl come back here the last few minutes?"

"Dead or alive?"

"Alive!" Daryl replied in shock. The bike rolled forward a few inches as turned and took everything in again.

"No one alive is coming back here. Ain't no one in there. Not anymore," the guardsman replied, rasing his rifle. "You ain't getting in. You don't want to get in there. They're all dead. If they ain't dead, they'll be dead soon." Gunshots peppered the air, and the guardsman and Daryl whipped their heads toward the medical compound. A door had been forced open and hostiles in bloody hospital gowns were stumbling out of the central medical building, their eyes wild as they reached out hungrily at the guards.

"Jesus," Daryl spat, leaning back as the guards posted at the building opened fire.

"I don't know how they keep busting out of there," the guard muttered. "They're strong for dead people."

Daryl had seen enough. "She ain't here, then."

"You'd better hope she isn't, brother," the guard sighed. "Get out of town while you can."

Daryl nodded, then took off for Beth's house.

The house had been in decent shape lately, and the men had been fairly proud of that. At the current moment Merle could not give a shit less about the state of his home at the moment. He tossed provisions together, dumping out drawers and pulling apart closets to find what he was looking for. Everything was packed everything into two large canvas bags. Merle's military training kicked right back in now that he needed it, and he was glad for it. Canteens. Extra clothes. Some canned food. First aid supplies. An extra set of combat boots. His baggie of the good stuff. Once it was buckled into the bag, he heaved it into the bed of the pick-up.

"Fuckin' walking dead," Merle grumbled to himself. "Gotta be shittin' me." He headed to the garage and pulled items down from shelves. Tent. Sleeping bags. Fishing poles. Tackle box. Cast iron skillet. He usually loved camping, but this wasn't going to be a typical trip when he'd get high and enjoy being back in the great outdoors. He snarled at nothing in particular and passed his bean bag board and bags. "I wish," he mumbled. He came across the small arsennal of hunting weapons the brothers kept. "Come to daddy," he purred, cleaning the shelves and loading every last shotgun shell into the pick-up.

When the truck seemed to be packed, Merle frowned. Sure, life had a funny way of kicking you when you're down, but he'd been on the top of his game lately with the shop and the house. He had a group of decent guys he hunted and bowled with and he'd stayed out of trouble. It felt good to have his life straightened out. Daryl seemed proud of him, though he'd never say it. The Dixons weren't mushy and touchy-feely, and Merle liked it like that. The dread creeping over him wasn't about the walking dead or what perils they'd face, but about the very real danger that he'd spiral back down into his drug-fueled stupor again. He didn't want it, but he could taste the bitterness on his tongue. "Fuckin' dead assholes," he hissed as he went back inside to grab a pack of cigarettes.

"Do you remember your name? Hey, stay with us. No, no, no, don't sleep. Hey."

Beth slowly opened her eyes. Beautiful people she'd never met were leaning over her wearing identical expressions of concern. "Do you remember your name?" someone asked again.

"Beth." She tried to sit up, but everyone pushed her back down.

"Take it slow," the anchor said. "You fainted, Beth. You're at the TV station, remember?"

Beth nodded. "Yeah. How embarrassing." She turned her head to the side slowly and found they'd laid her on a long conference table in the news room. "I'm okay." Slowly sitting up, she wondered how long she'd been out. The same images of soldiers shooting civilians were playing on the TV, so she couldn't tell if it had been a minute or an hour.

"Feel free to stay here as long as you need," a woman the same age as Beth said. "It'll be a little hectic here, but you don't need to go out there and deal with god knows what when you've just fainted." She smiled kindly as the others went back to what they were doing.

"I need to go home," Beth said, swinging her legs off the table. She regretted the move as soon as her head began to spin.

"Yeah, I've fainted before. I hate seeing blood," the blonde said. "Here. Just take it slow. Sit for a while. Get your blood pumping again. I'm not saying I'm holding you prisoner here, but you can't leave just yet. Deal?"

Beth frowned, then nodded. "Okay." She sat down in a computer chair, laid her head back, and closed her eyes.

"You've been out for a few minutes," the blonde said slowly. "We've got reporters all over town. The Guard took over the hospital. It's on fire. I'm sorry."

Unphased, Beth replied, "I'm not surprised. There are so many hostiles there now." She opened her eyes and bit her lip. "Oh, please don't say that on the news."

"We don't have to, unfortunately," the blonde replied. "One of our crews is there. They've got live pictures of it on air now."

"Ugh," Beth groaned.

"I'm the assignment editor, by the way," the woman continued. "Mary."

"Beth."

"I need to get back to the phones, but yell if you need something. I'll try to keep an eye on you to make sure you don't go down again. You should try to stomach a little of the footage. It's always harder to see this stuff in person," Mary said. "You think watching a kid die on TV is tough – you aren't going to make it out there as stuff gets worse. The second you leave that door, it gets real."

Beth closed her eyes. If all went according to plan, she'd get home to the farm, away from people, away from everything, and not have to see anything more.

"Beth."

Yoshi yipped happily and danced around Daryl's feet as he let himself in.

"In a minute," Daryl grumbled. "Beth!" He stormed through the house. "Beth. Beth?" When he was certain she wasn't home, he groaned and plopped down on a chair. "The hell is she?" he pondered aloud. Everything was just so in all of the rooms, so Daryl was certain she hadn't packed and hit the road. His phone hadn't received any messages all morning, and he couldn't get any to send, either. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of Beth since he left her house that morning. There's no reason she'd have stayed at the TV station. She clearly wasn't at the hospital. Think. Think. Fuck. They'd left a note at the shop instructing Beth to go home if she happened to show up there looking for them. Daryl didn't have a single reason she'd need to go anywhere else in town. Frustration boiled under his skin and he knew the only remedy was finding the damn girl. Merle's right. Girl's a pain in the ass. Could be out of here by now, he thought sullenly to himself as he picked at a thread sticking out of a hot pink throw pillow.

Yoshi scratched on the door and whined.

"Fine," Daryl snapped, letting the dog out into the front yard. As he watched the dog sniff around, he realized in relief that she'd have to come back to the house. Beth loved the dog more than anything and wouldn't leave him behind. Daryl wrestled with his choices: stay at Beth's and wait for her to come home for Yoshi, or venture out and try to figure out where she'd ended up.

Beth was taking a few steps around the newsroom, testing herself before trying to leave, when a news crew came barrelling in from the attached garage.

"Jack's bit!" someone screeched.

Mary jumped to her feet. "Beth, come here." She wrapped her arm around Beth and dragged her to the other edge of the room as the crew laid a man in a shirt and tie on the table Beth had just been on.

"Jack," someone cried.

"The hospital lady," a photographer called, motioning for her. "Come here! Help us!"

Beth pressed her self against the wall. "I'm not – I can't. I'm not a doctor."

"Don't you work at the hospital?" the photographer snapped. "He's bleeding out. Please."

Beth stared at the man, who was drenched in blood and writhing in agony. Her stomach churned, but she couldn't force herself to look away. Muscles and veins were hanging out of his neck, draining blood onto the table beneath him. It looked comically similar to what she'd seen in gory horror movies.

"She's from marketing, she doesn't know anything." Mary replied frantically. "Call 911."

"Lines are tied up and 911 isn't answering," the anchor said quickly, slamming down his phone. "We just reported it, now it's confirmed."

As people scrambled to stop the bleeding, Beth stood frozen in place.

"Jack, Jack, no," a reporter cried as a photographer hopped onto the table and began chest compressions. With each sickening crunch coming from his chest, more blood sprayed from his neck.

"Stop it," Mary cried. "He's gone. He lost too much blood. Oh, my god." She fell to her knees and covered her face with her hands.

Beth knew what was coming next. Instinct told her to find her purse, get her car keys, and run, but a morbid curiosity held her to the spot. Her tongue had turned to lead and though her inner self was screaming for her to warn everyone to kill the corpse's brain, she became a silent observer and let everything play out. The news crew was reacting in different ways. Someone had punched a hole in the drywall while others were gathered around the body. A door slammed as someone hurried away, away from the pooling blood under their former colleague.

Get away from it, Beth's mind screamed. Her lips didn't move. Her heard pounded in her ears and she wondered if she'd faint again. You'll get eaten, Beth convinced herself as she took deep breaths and focused on staying awake.

When the corpse jerked into a sitting position just a moment later, a woman shrieked and a man cheered. "Jack! We thought-" His words were cut short when Jack's reanimated corpse caught him by the throat and pulled a handful of flesh free.

The screaming drowned out her own thoughts. At last, Beth stumbled away from the wall and snatched her purse from a shelf. She dug for her keys and staggered down the hallway toward the front door. The screams were joined by banging and crying, but she didn't stop. Tears began to stream down Beth's face as she gasped for air. She tumbled out the front door and landed on her knees on the sidewalk. "No," she cried out, turning her eyes skyward. "No!"

An old woman was shuffing across the street in her slippers, taking her sweet time as old ladies were wont to do. A pick-up rumbled toward her, and she turned to face it, cocking her head in interest at the sound. Her expressionless face stared blankly toward the oncoming traffic, not sensing imminent danger.

Merle stopped and honked. "I ain' got all day. Get movin'. C'mon, granny." When the woman began dragging her pink slippers toward him, he swore. It was one of the hostiles he'd seen on TV. "Move," he called out the window, hoping she - it? -would wander out of his way. Though the end of the world was surely upon them, he didn't want to hit someone's grandmother with his truck. "Move!"

The hostile snarled and snapped her dentures together, picking up speed.

"Fuck it," Merle growled, putting the truck back into drive and stomping on the gas. He held eye contact with the body as he sped toward it. When the woman hit the windshield and rolled off onto the road behind him, he slowed and glanced in the mirror. Nausea immediately swept over him. War was one thing, but running down an old woman was nasty. He flung the door open and wretched onto the pavement. He'd just wiped his mouth when a gurgling caught his attention. The old woman was slowly getting to her feet, staring at him the entire time. One of her arms was broken and jagged bones jutted out of her shoulder. A rib poked through her nightgown and her face was now bloodier than before. Yet she still reached out and snarled as she inched toward Merle.

"No, no," Merle groaned. "Fuck this shit." He slammed the door and took off down the street, his hands trembling for the first time in his life.