She was trapped. The decaying hands of the dead pounded on the other side of the door as she struggled to hold it closed with the weight of her body. She'd never get out alive. The rest of the group had surely left her by now. She was going to die in this rat-box of a room alone. Her breathing grew rapid. Her heart pounded so hard that she thought her fingertips might explode from the pressure of the blood rushing to her extremities. She bounced against the door as they began to out-power her. The crack in the threshold got wider and wider. They were getting in. Her feet slid on the hardwood floor as the door opened, crushing her against the wall and knocking the air out of her lungs. One of the corpses turned, seeing her once inside the room. Its sunken eyes were set ablaze by the sight of her. From behind its thirty-two bloodstained teeth a snarl sounded- now the others knew: a meal stood cowering in the corner, pressed against the wall like a long pork sandwich.

Mila snapped upright, sweat drenching her chest and forehead. It had been a long time since she had had a nightmare; maybe since before they had taken refuge in the prison. She kicked the sheets off of her legs, hoping to alleviate some of the feverish heat that stifled her. She held her head in her shaking hands until her heart rate and breathing returned to normal. It was just a dream, she told herself.

She slid off of the top bunk, quietly landing on her toes so that she would not wake Hosea. She stepped in close to check on him; it was obvious by the slow, deliberate rise and fall of his chest that he was sound asleep. She was glad that he had not tried to speak with her the night before. Maybe Hershel intervened and told him to give her some space, or maybe she was just too obvious in her attempts to avoid him.

She dressed herself quickly and pulled her red Ozark Trail backpack from its place beneath the bed. She decided that it would be best kept light and only packed a couple of bottles of water, a flashlight, and a first aid kit in the middle, medium-sized zippered pocket. Along her belt, she fastened the holster for her silver Smith & Wesson and the sheath for her black-handled Bowie knife. Once she was confident that they were secured and satisfied with her provisions, she peeked out from behind her curtain-sheets.

She trudged down the stairs and outside. It was cool and rain misted down from the hazy, indigo sky; the sun had yet to rise above the horizon. She surveyed the yard. Parked to her left were the cars used for runs and Daryl's motorcycle. By the grey Impala, Glenn and Sasha were adding the last of their things to the backseat floorboard and Daryl was depositing a red gas can into its open trunk. With her pack slung over one shoulder, she ran to where the cars were parked.

The three looked up, having heard the sound of Mila's boots tapping on the pavement. "I was starting to wonder if you were gonna make it," said Sasha. "Did you oversleep?"

"No. I thought you guys were leaving when the sun was actually up," she explained, mildly confused.

"Nope," Sasha shook her head. "Gotta get an early start. One of the newcomers mentioned a strip mall about thirty miles out. That's where we're headed. There's no telling what's between here and there."

"Well. I'm glad I didn't miss the trip," she said, shooting Daryl a seething glance. He looked away, pretending not to notice, wiping his hands on the red rag that usually hung out of his back pocket. He lifted his crossbow off of the roof of the car as he approached the driver's seat.

"Let's go," he grunted. Mila rolled her eyes as she tossed her bag in with the others and took a seat in the rear, passenger side of the car. The engine revved as Daryl turned the key and put it in drive, and the chain link gates rattled open for their passage.

"Well, end of the line," Daryl said matter-of-factly as the car slowed to a halt in front of the pile up. "Looks like we're walkin' from here."

"About how far from here is that strip mall?" Mila asked, leaning between the two front seats to inspect the collided vehicles.

"'Bout four miles," he answered gruffly, motioning for Glenn to hand him his crossbow.

Daryl, Glenn, and Sasha exited the car simultaneously and started grabbing their gear; Mila got out a few seconds later, realizing that she was being left behind again. Once everything they needed had been removed from the car, Daryl locked the doors and pocketed the key.

"Let's check these cars on the way back through," he said, squinting and glancing into the windows as he weaved through the wreckage. Mila checked the chamber of her pistol and made sure that the safety was on; she did not want any gun safety slip ups on her first official run. She shortened the straps of her backpack so that it did not sag so low on her back. It would make it a little harder for her to be grabbed this way. "Keep up!" Daryl ordered. Her comrades had all stopped, looking back at her now. Embarrassed, she jogged to reach them, one hand on the hilt her knife.

"Sorry," she muttered. Daryl shook his head impatiently and marched away, Sasha on his heels.

"You can stick by me," Glenn said with a soft smile. It must have been obvious to him that she was feeling out of place and unsure of herself. She smiled in return, blushing.

"Thanks, Glenn. I'll do that."

The two of them hung back from the others without speaking further. A twig snapped in the edge of the woods, and Mila's hands shot to her knife, eyes wide and wild as she searched for the source of the sound. Glenn, Daryl, and Sasha scanned the tree line calmly.

"It's just one of 'em," Daryl stated as it staggered into view.

"I'll get it," volunteered Mila.

"I'll help you," offered Glenn. She could not help but wonder if it was because he thought she could not handle it. Mila consented with a quick nod anyway and started towards the body, taking in the sight of it. It snapped and snarled as it shuffled closer. It had once been a young woman. She wore a tattered white shirt that hung loose over her shoulders and gathered again at her hips by an elastic border. The collar was lined with a thin, twisted rope and its tassels swung between her breasts. Her auburn hair clumped in lifeless locks around her face. But what was more noticeable than anything else was her lipless mouth in which her large, yellowing teeth laid exposed, lining her gums like tombstones in a graveyard.

Mila unbuttoned the snap that held her knife in its place and pulled it carefully from its sheath. Glenn walked around the walker's right side, eyeing Mila as her lip curled in disgust. She grabbed it by its throat, pushing it back, off balance, and plunged the blade through its eye. It's hissing ceased and it crumpled into a lifeless heap on the ground. Mila took a step back and exhaled before a proud grin spread across her face. She looked at Glenn, who smiled back, and then at Daryl, but he was already ambling away. She wondered if he had even seen it. Her pride sank back down into the pit of her stomach as she pursed her lips and put the knife away.

At this rate, it was going to be a long walk.

Note: It's always bad news bears when someone has a nightmare before a big mission.