Samantha eventually fell into fitful dozing, waking up so frequently she couldn't tell if she'd slept for five minutes or five hours.

She laid curled up on the cold floor of the porcelain bathtub, head lolling as her dark dreams came in short flashes. Memories of her life before the outbreak blurred together with the things she'd witnessed since then. Birthdays and Christmases, blood, death, and despair, all on an endless loop.

After she dozed off six or seven more times, Samantha awoke enough to see sunlight peeking under the door. By that time, in between her restless bouts of sleep, she decided she was not going to die in that bathtub. Maybe on the street, yes, but not in that bathtub. Nobody was coming to help her and she didn't want to die. That left only one option, one she had never entertained in any of her twenty-five years...she was gonna have to fend for herself.

Wisdom from her mother played over and over again in her head. "Rome wasn't built in a day," she always said, during the many times Samantha felt overwhelmed. "Take it one step at a time and you can do anything."

So, what would step one be? Find something to defend yourself with. Samantha ran her finger along the spaces on the tile wall, deep in thought. Her gun was laying out in the alley and there were no more bullets. Unless she was fortunate enough to find a firearm in the apartment, she would be left with no choice but to defend herself against the walkers up close and personal.

Then what? Find a way down to the street. That should be simple enough - if there were any walkers in the hallway outside the apartment, they would've been at the door already with the ruckus she and Carmen had made. The ones on the fire escape hadn't made themselves known for a while, and Samantha clung to the hope they had forgotten about her and drifted away in search of living flesh that was easier to reach.

After that? Survival is all that matters.

Three steps. Find a weapon, get out of the building, and survive. She could do that...or at least the first two.

Samantha stood up and stepped over the side of the tub. She found the door in the dim light and slowly pushed it open, half expecting to see the barrier knocked over and the apartment full of walkers. Instead she could see clear through the TV stand and to the brick exterior of the other building across the alley. She gave a quick sigh of relief as she realized her second step was already going well.

Early morning light, sickly bright and contrasting against the past few days of gray skies, filtered through the broken window Carmen had escaped through. Samantha walked into the kitchen and pulled the drawers open one by one until she found a screwdriver, the closest thing to a weapon she was gonna get. It wasn't ideal, but if a piece of glass worked for Carmen, she supposed she could manage.

She tucked the tool away in her pocket and tip-toed across the carpet, crouching down once she reached the television stand. The fire escape was clear, at least from what she could see through the gaps in the shelves of dusty electronics and movies. The alley, however, looked worse than the day before. For whatever reason, many of the walkers that had followed Carmen returned to the alley. Some stood around idly while others paced back and forth.

The Peterson's truck was no longer surrounded but still as good as gone as long as the keys were on Jake. Samantha's shoulders dropped at the thought of him. He had surely turned by now, sentenced to a permanent purgatory between life and death, with no purpose other than feasting upon the living . Equally disheartening was the fact she had overlooked an integral part of her third step - she had to get a vehicle. She couldn't hotwire cars like Carmen, so she had no choice but to find another way.

But first, she had to find something to eat. Samantha quietly returned to the kitchen and rifled through the cabinets, taking her pick of canned ravioli. After she'd pried the top off with a can opener, she sat upon the counter and debated her options as she ate, spearing cold ravioli one by one.

Samantha's gaze lingered gloomily on a scenic calendar hung beside the refrigerator, flipped to July. In a way, the world had just stopped. She couldn't be sure how much time had actually passed, but she figured they had to be in the beginning of November. Over three months since the outbreak and there was still no end in sight.

Once she'd drained the can of all ravioli and sauce, Samantha walked over to the broken window. She squinted against the blinding sun that was just beginning to peek over the rooftops. Six walkers shambled around on the street below. Dirty, torn shirts and sagging pants hung from their decaying bodies. They walked a little faster than they had the day before, undoubtedly warmed by the sun. Samantha drummed her fingers against the tin can still clenched in her fist. Distracting the walkers seemed to make the most sense, but she knew there would be no going back once she tried.

She took a shaky breath and hurled the can out the window. It bounced off the middle of the road and clattered noisily all the way over to the sidewalk. The sound was unnatural and loud enough in the morning hush that the walkers immediately alerted. Those already on the street groaned excitedly and charged the can, while some of the walkers from the alley wandered over to investigate.

Just to keep their attention, Samantha snatched a glass dog knick-knack off a nearby shelf and tossed it out a few feet to the left of where the can had first landed. She then hurried over to the television stand and peered out past the fire escape. Only a couple walkers were left in the alley, oblivious to her presence thus far. Taking a deep breath, Samantha pulled the television stand just far enough from the window so she could slip out onto the fire escape. She found the screwdriver in her pocket and gripped the handle tightly as she stepped out onto the landing, narrowing her eyes as the bitter cold fell over her.

She hurried down the steps and cringed every time the metal staircase squeaked. When she finally reached the ground, her heart seemed to lurch into her throat as she realized not all of the walkers had gone all the way to the street. Some had stopped at the end of the alley, just far enough left that they were out of her sight from the window. Samantha stumbled to a stop and pressed a shaking hand against the bricks as several of the walkers started towards her, stumbling forward and rasping enthusiastically.

They're slower than usual, Samantha thought, raising her screwdriver defensively. But as the walkers neared, Samantha knew she'd been kidding herself all along. She didn't have the guts let them get any closer, to practically allow them to touch her so she could stab them. Her breathing sped up until she was almost wheezing and instead of trying to kill any of them, she darted between two approaching pairs and ran out towards the street.

Desperate groans and hollow clacking of snapping teeth grew in volume at Samantha's back. The walkers who had been momentarily occupied by the tin can and dog sculpture were now much more interested in chasing her. Her feet thumped against the asphalt, growing slower as a stitch in her side cramped painfully. She didn't even want to know how close the walkers were or how many there were as she charged down the street, frantically looking for an escape.

The street was still lined with vehicles, but Samantha's hope was running out. Unless they had gas in the tank and keys in the ignition, they were useless to her. She ran to the nearest vehicle, a blue two-door truck with a flat tire. She tried the door and was dismayed when it wouldn't budge. She moved on to the driver's side door of the next car in line, a green pickup, and groaned when she got the same result.

Samantha ran to a silver car on the other side of the street. She peered through the window and gasped in disbelief at the sight of keys on the dashboard. She didn't hesitate to pull the door open and fall inside, chest heaving as she caught her breath. She seized the keys and fumbled with them for a few moments before she found the one that fit into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life after her first turn of the key.

Despite the mirror's warning that 'objects look closer than they appear', the walkers certainly appeared close. They were closing in around the car. Some slammed their hands against the hood and windshield. Samantha stomped the gas pedal and sent the car hurtling forward. She sped along faster than she ever had, leaving the walkers in the dust. She swerved around any walkers and occasionally went up on the sidewalks.

A triumphant grin spread across her face, knowing she had made it. Well, she'd survived - but now where was she going to go? Even with a map, she didn't have any idea how to get back to Red Fox Creek. The smile faded from her face in a flash as reality came crashing down. She may have escaped the walkers, but her ordeal was far from over.

The car screeched to a halt as Samantha slammed on the breaks, coincidentally sliding just past a stop sign. She'd ended up at an intersection, surrounded by one storey houses and small, clustered businesses. She yanked the glove box open and was disappointed to find nothing more than fast food wrappers and a pack of condoms.

What on earth was she going to do without a decent weapon, food or shelter? She clutched the steering wheel and fought the rising hysteria that left her wanting to scream and cry. Getting herself out of the apartment alive after Carmen had left her was more or less a fluke. It hadn't had much, if anything, to do with her own survival skills. She couldn't see herself lasting another night.

In the crisp morning silence, a strange sound broke into Samantha's overwhelmed mind. A low rumbling came from somewhere nearby. She froze, trying to pinpoint what it was and where it was coming from. She didn't realize it was a vehicle until a tan, armored truck rolled into sight across the intersection.

Samantha gasped. Walkers were bad enough, but she did not want to be caught alone by strangers who could want to rob her or worse. She tried to press herself as low as she could in her car, the upper half of her body on the passenger's side floor while her legs stretched over the center console and onto the seat. She clapped both hands over her mouth, irrationally afraid her ragged breathing would give her away. The gritty rumbling grew closer and closer until Samantha was sure the truck was just across the street, then the engine shut off. The truck's door opened and thumped shut.

Too terrified to move, Samantha squeezed her eyes shut and listened to the fast pounding of her heart.

Moments later, there was a tap against the driver's side window of the car. Samantha flinched. The muffled voice of a man said, "You know I can see you, right?"

Samantha's eyes flew open. She slowly turned her head and was sure she was about to have a heart attack when she saw a man looking back at her. He wore tattered fatigues and held a rifle in a relaxed manner, pointed towards the ground. Fear had clutched Samantha's voice in it's grip. All she could do was slowly raise her hands, show that she wasn't going to fight, and give up.

An amused grin spread across the man's young face. He slung the gun over his shoulder and opened the car door. "I'm Private Lancaster," he said. "What's your name?"


Three days had passed since Brandon received the mysterious, jumbled message over the walkie talkie. Most of the group was convinced the message had to be from Samantha, and their concerns only grew as time went on and the trio that should've returned long ago never even radioed in.

This was day six, and Clarence Evans had his mind made up - Jake, Carmen, and Samantha weren't coming back. A three day run didn't turn into a six day run unless something had gone wrong. In Clarence's opinion, the only logical explanation was that they were dead or worse. Much to his exasperation, nobody else shared his beliefs. No matter how dumb or unlikely it was, everyone including his own wife refused to stop clinging to the idea that their missing friends could show up at any time.

So, Clarence let them live their fantasy. They could pray and watch the camp road like hawks all they wanted, but to him, life went on. His plans for his family couldn't be put on hold for a day that was likely to never come.

Nearly two inches of snow had fallen overnight, and this time, it stuck. The world was blanketed in white as far as the eye could see, sparkling blindingly bright against the sun. Clarence knew there was a good chance this was only the beginning, and with no weather channel to turn to for a heads-up on incoming blizzards, he was itching to hit the road. But of course, there were a few loose ends he had to tie up first. He was a man of his word, and when he'd told Ben he would take care of things so he could grieve, he meant it.

With their old shooting range turned into a cemetary, Clarence had simply hung a few rusty old cans from a leafless tree at the edge of the scrapyard as targets. He eyed the swinging cans, riddled with bullet holes, and gave Lauren an approving nod. She was standing about fifty feet from her targets and had a proud smile across her pale face.

"Well done," Clarence praised, and just as he was about to remind her to switch the safety on, she did so without prompting. It had done Clarence's heart good to watch the young woman hone her skills over the past few months. She held the AR-15 rifle comfortably, pointed towards the ground. Clarence grinned and turned to face his other students.

He'd wanted to teach everyone basic gun skills since the start, but it was only within the past week that most of the group got onboard with the idea. Aaliyah and Emma stood at the opposite side of the scrapyard, far from where the shooting was taking place. Their gloved hands moved fast in a quiet game of Miss Mary Mack. A few feet away, Brandon sat atop a stack of old tires with his ankles crossed. When Lauren handed in the rifle and returned to the sidelines, he gave her a high five.

Clarence walked over to the UTV parked near the gate and returned the AR-15 to its protective bag. Jerome and Rachel, who sat in the front seats and had been watching rather indifferently thus far, went rigid when Clarence pointed towards Emma and said, "You're up."

A big grin spread across Emma's face and she turned away from her and Aaliyah's game without a second thought. Her boots crunched against the snow as she trotted over. She waited patiently while Clarence dug around in a ratty duffel bag and found a Glock nine millimeter, a compact pistol he thought was perfect for beginners.

"Hey, Courtney," he said, catching the teenager's attention. She stood farther back than everyone else, leaning against a post in the rusty chain link fence. She raised her eyebrows questioningly at Clarence and he asked, "I know you can hunt with the best of 'em, but how much experience do you have with handguns?"

"Um…" Courtney wrung her hands together. "Not very much."

"Well, I think you're ready to learn." Clarence beckoned her over with a swipe of his hand. "I think I only need to tell one of you this, but guns aren't toys," he said, looking meaningfully to Emma. She pressed her lips together tightly and nodded. "In the world today, guns are tools. Knowing how to properly use one just might save your life one day." Clarence pulled a loaded magazine from his coat pocket and held up the Glock. "First things first...this particular gun has no safety switch. Once the clip is in, it's ready to fire."

"Whoa, don't you think that's a little extreme?" The UTV shook as Jerome twisted in his seat to fully face Clarence, his eyes wide. There was an appalled edge to his voice as he demanded, "Can't you start her out with something a little more sane?"

"Man, you're the reason instructors don't allow parents to hover in real classes," Clarence snapped. "You agreed to this, remember?" He popped the magazine into the pistol with a soft clack, punctuating his statement. Jerome sank back down and didn't say anything else. Clarence turned away with a huff and flicked his eyes between Emma and Courtney. "I'm starting you out with this because there is no safety. I want to make sure you know to treat every gun like it's loaded."

He kept his index finger pressed along the gun and turned his hand so the girls could see, careful to keep the barrel pointed towards the ground. "No matter what, you keep your fingers off the trigger until you're ready to shoot, and you never point a gun at anyone unless you're prepared to kill. You don't ever use a gun to scare or intimidate people, understand?"

Clarence waited until both girls had nodded to relax and lower the gun. "Alright, Emma. You're going first," he said. The ten-year-old perked up at this, flashing her nervous father a smile. She adjusted her beanie so there was no danger of it falling over her eyes and followed Clarence through the scrapyard. Fifteen feet seemed like a good starting distance for a child, so Clarence pointed to a spot beside a heap of rusty scrap metal and nudged Emma into the appropriate stance.

"Stand with your feet firmly planted, about as far apart as your shoulders," he directed. He transferred the Glock to her hands and carefully molded her fingers in the right places. Emma held her pointer finger as far as she could from the trigger. "Go for that can in the middle, Lauren didn't tear it up as bad," he said. "Take your time and slowly pull the trigger when you're ready. It's gonna be loud but it's nothing to be scared of, it's just noise."

One corner of Emma's mouth hitched upwards as she squinted through the sights. She zeroed in on the cans dangling from the thick branch, blowing softly in the breeze. Then she pulled the trigger. She flinched at the loud bang and stumbled a couple steps backwards, her mouth hanging open. Clarence quickly came up behind her and grabbed her hands, which had been wildly swinging the gun up and down.

"Whoa," she breathed, blinking at the gun in disbelief.

"Come on, you weren't this scared when you shot a hole in Lauren's roof," Clarence quipped. "Just take your time. Don't jerk the trigger, gently curl your finger around it." He figured her parents must've been close to having heart attacks by now, so Clarence took a furtive peek over his shoulder towards the front of the scrapyard. Sure enough, Jerome now stood just outside the UTV with his arms crossed over his chest. His icy gaze followed Clarence's every move.

Clarence simply shook his head - it wasn't his fault the kid panicked - and looked back towards the tree. None of the cans had any new holes, but the tree branch they were tied to was missing some bark. "Alright," he sighed. "Whenever you're ready."

Emma raised the gun, lined up the sights, and swiftly pulled the trigger. The middle can jerked sideways and clanged into the others. Emma cheered, "Hey, I did it!" and turned towards her parents with an ear-to-ear grin. Rachel, along with some of the others, gave her a little round of applause.

"Well done," Clarence said. "Three more, then it's Courtney's turn. Make them count."

One out of three shots met their mark, but Emma was thrilled nonetheless. Clarence took the gun and began getting Courtney set up while Emma returned to the UTV, a little more bounce in her step. Whether it was her age or she just paid closer attention, Courtney required significantly less instruction. She held the gun just right, hit her target four out of five times, and kept her finger comfortably off the trigger when not firing, all on her own accord.

Just as Clarence was considering giving her a chance with one of the bulkier handguns, Ben and Marvin strolled into the scrapyard.

"Hey, Ben," Rachel greeted cheerfully. "You here for shooting lessons, too?"

"Nah, just thought I'd see how everyone's doing," Ben answered with a shrug.

Those who hadn't laid eyes on Ben for almost a month seemed surprised to see him, but Clarence doubted any of them were more shocked than he was. The way Marvin talked, Ben could hardly bring himself to get out of bed most days, so Clarence couldn't help but wonder if there was an ulterior motive.

He narrowed his eyes and watched warily as Ben stopped by the UTV. Rachel launched into an animated recount of her daughter's shooting lesson, laughing and motioning with her hands. At the end, she added, "We thought of inviting you guys along, but I wasn't sure if we should disturb you or not." She focused solely on Ben as she spoke, not sparing Marvin a glance even though he stood a foot away.

"Well, it's kind of hard to miss unless you're deaf." There was no edge to Ben's tone, but when he smiled, it didn't reach his eyes. His wrinkled clothes looked like they'd been slept in more than one night and his hair, which was now grown past his ear lobes, definitely hadn't been more than finger-combed for a while.

"Hey, Lauren." Clarence snapped his fingers to catch her attention and waved the younger woman over. "Why don't you try Courtney out on the three-fifty-seven magnum? I want to talk to Ben for a minute."

"No problem," she said, grunting as she rose from her relaxed position against the fence.

Clarence turned around and started across the scrapyard. Ben already stood near the front, a strange look plastered on his face as he graciously held the gate open. Clarence figured he heard what he said to Lauren, but was caught off guard by his readiness to talk nonetheless.

Clarence swept past him and led the way towards the creek. The overcast sky had turned the murky water a pale gray and patches of frosty ice lined the rocky banks. Clarence trudged forward, leaving a trail of large footprints through the otherwise undisturbed snow. Ben kept pace, occasionally casting Clarence a curious glance.

Neither of them said a word until they were well out of earshot from the others. Then, Clarence came to a stop at a steep, heavily wooded area a few yards from the creek. "So," he began, locking Ben into his firm, stony gaze. He'd been slowly racking up things he'd like to say to the man for a month, but now that they were face to face, Clarence found his resentment fizzling out. Sure, maybe he didn't like the way Ben had just up and left without a word, but a verbal ass-chewing didn't seem like the appropriate response anymore.

Some of the tension left Clarence's rigid posture as he sighed. "Has your dad been keeping you in the loop?" he asked, deciding it was best to start slow.

"Not really," Ben replied. He buried his hands in the pockets of his dark bomber jacket and leaned back against a nearby tree. The way he opened his mouth but paused, staring off at the slow, rippling water, led Clarence to believe he had something else to say. If he did, he must've thought better of it.

"Well...a lot of things have changed," Clarence said. He had to wonder if Ben even knew about their three absent people, or his plans to leave Red Fox Creek. Just how much had Jerome and Marvin sheltered him, as if he was some fragile thing that was going to break at the slightest stressor? They hadn't done him any favors. He was stepping back into the real world, a harsh, nasty one he'd had the luxury of hiding from. Clarence grit his teeth at the thought. "Maybe I should've visited but hell, I didn't know what to think when you dragged your trailer out of camp," he admitted quietly. He lowered his gaze to the hard, snowy ground beneath his boots. "Nobody did."

Ben nodded slowly. Gunshots from the shooting lesson at the scrapyard rang distantly through the woods. He sniggered, turning his cold blue eyes on Clarence. "Having them do that out there is an interesting choice," he commented. "I hope there aren't any walkers along the road that can hear them."

"I haven't seen a walker out there in weeks," Clarence retorted, his voice sharp with contempt. Ben would've known that himself had he bothered to check in once in a while, at least act like he gave a damn. "Have you got something to say?" he questioned.

"You've really stepped up but that doesn't make this your group," Ben said bluntly, shrugging. "That's all." Clarence scoffed and his eyes nearly bulged out of his head, but before he had a chance to respond, Ben continued, "I know you want to go to Juneau and that's fine, I just hope you're not under the impression we're all tagging along. With that warm welcome back there, I'm not sure who's even with me anymore." Ben's face fell for only a moment. "But whoever 'my group' might be now, we're not going to Juneau," he said, "And if you're gonna stay with us, you're gonna have to respect that. That's way too big of a gamble with no supplies and no real plan."

"And what exactly is your plan, Ben?" Clarence chuckled smugly. For someone who had supposedly been out of his mind with grief, he sure had some strong opinions.

"I'm thinking about Anchorage," Ben said.

"Anchorage?" Clarence repeated, mouth falling open in disbelief before he erupted into harsh, humorless laughter. "Man, you've got to be shitting me! You're gonna go to the biggest damn city in the whole state but look down your nose at me for hoping Juneau's alright?" He whistled and shook his head. "Hats off to you, Ben. I'll admit, I don't have balls that big."

Last he knew, the population of Anchorage was almost three hundred thousand people. More than half of them had to have been walkers by now. Faced with that prospect, Clarence was more confident than ever that he knew what he was doing.

Ben's eyebrows pressed close together, drawing out the lines on his forehead. "I'm not gonna stand here and justify myself," he said. "Just tell me loud and clear, are you with me or not?"

"No," Clarence replied resolutely, shaking his head. "I'm not, Ben. Keisha and I already talked this over a hundred times and we decided we'd be going on our own if it came down to this."

"You're sure?" he questioned, tipping his head doubtfully.

"Positive."

"Okay." Ben exhaled heavily. "I'm sorry to see you go, and I mean that," he said, meeting Clarence's eyes with sincerity. "You've been very valuable to this group."

Though he had no intentions of saying so out loud, Clarence had to grudgingly admit to himself that he felt the same way about Ben. There were many things they didn't see eye-to-eye on, but there was also one trait they shared: initiative. Both of them were the type of people who didn't like to let anyone else take the lead. Brandon, Lauren, Peggy, Samantha, Jake, Jerome - they were all comfortable looking to Ben and Clarence for guidance rather than taking the reins themselves.

And there was nothing wrong with that, there was a reason almost every business, organization, or group in the world had a certain pecking order. President, vice president, cabinet. Chief, lieutenant, officers. There just had to be one person in charge for it to work, not two people who had become polar opposites fighting for power.

What gave Clarence pause was realizing who Ben really was. Clarence had learned to stand on his own two feet during his time as a Marine. There was a reason their motto was The Few, The Proud. If you weren't a tough, headstrong bastard, you didn't survive. Especially not after being sent off to Vietnam. But Ben, just a gold miner of all things, had developed that steel exterior and determination all on his own.

For several long minutes, Clarence and Ben had stood in silence, minds racing. The only noise was the soft sloshing of the creek as the wind picked up. Then, Clarence chuckled dully. "I sure didn't imagine things playing out like this when you picked me and my family up off the side of the road," he said. He'd been so naive back then, thinking this would all blow over in a few weeks.

"You can take food, weapons, whatever you need." Ben flippantly waved his hand and started back towards the scrapyard.

"And what about a vehicle?" Clarence doubted they were ever gonna see Peggy's truck again and he had no right to Brandon's bus. When the seconds ticked by and Ben seemed to still be mulling over the question, Clarence added, "Would you like us to walk?"

"We'll go out tomorrow and get you a car," Ben said. "We're gonna need a second vehicle anyway if the truck is a loss."


As night fell over Alaska and everyone was peacefully tucked away in their beds, Jerome laid awake. He stared up at the pitch black nothingness inside of the dining trailer, trying desperately to fight the growing heaviness of his eyelids. Sleep had become his worst enemy. For weeks, his short and fitful slumbers were scarred by nightmares and the gory flashes of his most haunting memories. No matter how much he tried to stay awake, the long days filled with physical labor always left him wiped out.

Dread settled in Jerome's gut like a cold stone as his consciousness faded away...

"Let go of me!" Jerome bellowed and tried to yank his arm out of the stranger's death grip to no avail. He could see the shadowy stranger's mouth moving in the fiery flashes of muzzle blast, but whatever he said was drowned out by the deafening, constant gunfire. Freshly turned walkers were closing in all around, stealing escape routes one by one. Rachel pounded frantically on Jerome's shoulder, and he could tell by the urgency in her eyes that it was time to go. Jerome's free hand found the knife in his belt, and in one swift motion, he plunged the blade into the stranger's gut.

The young man released Jerome at once. Both hands went to his stomach after Jerome had retracted the knife. Slick blood splattered the asphalt at their feet.

"I'm sorry," Jerome croaked, unable to tear his eyes from the dark splotch on the man's shirt, the potentially fatal stab wound he had delivered. There was a brief lull in the gunfire and the man's wet gasps as he staggered backwards nearly stopped Jerome's heart. "I'm sorry. I had to. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." he repeated, louder and louder as Rachel took his other arm and started dragging him along with her and Emma…

For the first time in his life, Jerome had started reliving exact recounts of his past experiences in dreams. His chest heaved lightly at the memories of running through the dark, unsure if he and his family would ever see the light of day again. His elbows thumped against the thinly carpeted floor as he tossed and turned inside his sleeping bag. Just far enough away to remain oblivious, Emma and Rachel snoozed in their own heaps of blankets. He was briefly aware of a draft from under the door chilling the sweat on his face before he drifted off again.

Jerome drove along in his old car, Rachel beside him and Emma in the backseat. All three of them were smiling and Emma sang cheerfully to some pop tune on the radio. The sun shined impossibly bright in a cloudless, beautiful summer sky.

"Hey, Jerome," Rachel started, pausing to turn down the music. "Where are we going?"

Jerome frowned. He was certain he should've had an answer, but his mind was blank. "I don't know," he said, his voice flat. There was nothing but straight highway ahead as far as he could see, completely void of any other vehicles.

"No, you need to tell me." Every shred of joy had disappeared from Rachel's face, replaced with anger. Slowly, she repeated, "Where..are...we...going?"

"I-I told you, I don't know," Jerome glanced at her nervously. Something wasn't right. The look in her eyes had become one of pure hatred. His heart thumped faster and faster as a strange feeling of foreboding crept in.

She slapped him on the arm and screeched, "Where are we going? WHERE ARE WE GOING, JEROME?" The sky outside faded from blue to gray as she repeated her question over and over, increasingly loud and furious. Her last "WHERE ARE WE GOING?" was harshly cut off as something smashed into the side of the car.

The car tumbled over and over across the asphalt, coming to rest in a ditch. Jerome groaned at the pounding in his head and forced his burning eyes open. Erin's seat was empty, but the way he was now laying, Jerome had a straight view into the backseat. Emma was still upright in her seat, looking back at him with wide eyes. The pop song on the radio was gone, replaced with a familiar, crackly emergency broadcast message.

"...uncountable severe emergencies in all counties, Alaska cities and their levels of disaster are as follows...Anchorage, stage seven catastrophe. Nome, stage nine catastrophe. Fairbanks, stage nine catastrophe. Juneau, stage eight disaster. Once again, Nome and Fairbanks are now stage nine catastrophes…"

Emma's meek, scared little voice said, "Papa?" then broke into frantic screaming as infected appeared at the windows. The glass was gone and they reached inside with ease, clawed hands just inches from her bare arms. She pulled and pulled at her seatbelt but it refused to release. "It's stuck, I can't get out," she wailed, looking desperately to Jerome.

"Baby, I'm coming," he gasped. Jerome tried to squirm out of his seat but found he couldn't move at all. He was pinned against the dashboard from the chest down. No amount of flailing freed him, all of his strength was used to try and push the seat off of him in vain. He couldn't even turn his head, he had no choice but to watch as the walkers dragged themselves through the windows, one on top of the other. One walker in particular caught Jerome's eye. It had a blurry mess for a face but an auburn ponytail like Erin. As Emma's screaming seemed to become one continuous sound, the infected's bared teeth neared her shoulder…

Jerome sucked in a desperate breath and sat straight up. He had already started kicking his way out of the sleeping bag before his surroundings registered. The darkened interior of the dining trailer slowly came into focus - the small kitchen at one end, and a heap of boxes behind the table. There were no infected, there was no car, and Emma wasn't in danger.

Jerome snatched the lantern from beside his pillow and clicked it on with trembling fingers. He had to see to know, to make sure it wasn't real. The soft glow of LED light illuminated Emma's curled up form. Her innocent face was slack with sleep, undoubtedly off in happier dreams than her father. Rachel was laying with her back facing Jerome, but just the sight of her took some of the tension out of his rigid muscles.

He glanced at his crumpled bedding and briefly considered going back to sleep. The thought had popped into his head for all of a second before he muttered, "Fuck that."

This was the last straw. He could handle reliving the fall of Fort McAdams like some twisted timewarp, but seeing his wife and daughter like that was too much. These weren't the nightmares he had before, where it was just nonsense scenarios that were over as soon as he woke up because they were impossible. Losing Rachel and Emma was very possible. And the fact that he now couldn't go to sleep without being reminded of that made him angry.

He knew it was irrational; who the hell was he mad at, his own brain? But nevertheless, Jerome's blood boiled a little hotter every moment. One thing he knew for sure was that he needed to do something besides sit there stewing in his own misery. He moved through the trailer as quietly as he could, pulling on his boots and zipping up his coat.

Lantern in hand, Jerome went out the door. The frigid air hit hard against his flushed, clammy face but he charged onward. There was no way to sneak across ground so icy and crisp, so Jerome wasn't surprised when Brandon called out.

"Hey, what are you doing up so early?" He asked, barely above a whisper. He stood from his chair on the roof of Peggy's trailer and came to crouch at the edge.

"Just need some air," Jerome answered, lingering by the sooty remains of their campfire. His gaze flicked to the dim outline of their dwindling woodpile at the front of Lauren's trailer. That's what he could do, look for firewood. They had been burning more than usual anyway thanks to the cold and the snow had dampened the rest beyond use. Jerome was aware of Brandon's eyes following his every move as he grabbed the ax from where it had been leaning against the wood and dropped into the driver's seat of the UTV.

"Whoa, what are you doing? Jerome?" Brandon huffed as he got no response. He hurried down the ladder and jogged over to the passenger's side. "What are you doing?" he repeated. "Nobody else will be up for another hour or so."

Jerome's eyebrows rose a little at that. He'd certainly slept longer than he thought. "Well, I can look for firewood by myself."

"In the dark?" Brandon pursed his lips when Jerome held up the lantern. "Dude, did you forget about the bear that almost ate your face the other day? Or you know...walkers?"

"Don't worry about it," Jerome snapped. He backed out before Brandon could reply, leaving him standing there with his mouth hanging open. The UTV's headlights sliced through the misty darkness as he drove out of camp and along the bumpy creekside path.