Fear drove Jerome forward with a speed he never knew he possessed. He turned onto the nearest sidestreet and tripped over the curb, sending both himself and Lauren to the sidewalk in a tangle of limbs.

"Damn," Lauren moaned. She wheezed and clamped one hand onto her thigh.

Just as quickly as it started, the gunfire had stopped, and the rumbling of an approaching vehicle filled the silence of an otherwise silent, abandoned city.

"Hurry, we've got to hide," Jerome said, helping her to her feet.

Lauren clutched his shoulder in a death-grip and pointed a bloody, trembling finger across the street. "There," she said, pointing out an auto shop.

One out of the two grimy garage doors stood partially open, leaving a two foot gap. Jerome nodded to her and then they set off, Lauren hobbling as quickly as her injured leg would allow. Jerome helped her slip under the door and then followed, scrambling across the cement floor.

Tool chests, loose tires, and car jacks sat throughout. Two long-forgotten cars sat on either side of the garage. Jerome and Lauren hurried to the sales counter at the back and slid down behind it. Their breaths came in ragged puffs, somehow seeming louder than the gunfire ever had been in the enclosed, silent space.

The truck's rumbling grew louder, then stopped. Two doors thumped shut. Footsteps trudged along the sidewalk. Muffled voices grew nearer until words were audible. One said, "They're here somewhere," his voice rough and strained.

"We should spread out and look for them," said the second.

"Wait."

Jerome edged his way to the end of the counter and peeked around the corner. Two sets of boots stood just outside the garage door.

"We'll let the walkers take care of them," the first voice said.

Just as quickly as they appeared, the men turned on their heels and ran back to the truck. The engine rumbled to life then faded as they drove away.

Guttural groans sounded from outside. Five or six pairs of feet scuffed along the concrete. Jerome thought his heart was going to stop altogether, and his mind was completely consumed by thoughts of the approaching biters until Lauren whispered, "Get the door!"

Jerome crept out of hiding and hurried over to the door. He slowly pulled downward, cringing at every creak and whine of the hinges. He allowed it to glide to the ground and, to his relief, the biters outside paid no mind.

"Good call," he told Lauren.

The clacking of teeth echoed through the garage. Jerome pressed himself against the door and pulled out his knife. A scantily-clad walker stepped out from behind the nearer car, pallid skin taut against its ribs. The corpse stalked towards him, gnarled hands outstretched.

Jerome shifted from foot to foot, then lunged forward and slammed the walker against the side of the car. A snarl tore out from its rotted mouth. Hands slithered up Jerome's side. He swiftly stabbed his blade into its temple and it slid down the car, taking his knife with it.

"There's another one," Lauren said.

A second walker appeared in the doorway to a back room. Jerome pressed his foot against the downed walker's chest and attempted to jerk his knife free, to no avail. Lauren's hands smacked against the counter as she shakily tried to pull herself up. She cried out and crumpled back down. The walker snarled madly and started towards her.

Jerome charged forward and kicked the walker's legs out at the knees. It floundered to the floor and wasn't stunned for more than a second before trying to stand. After frantically looking for a weapon besides his gun and not finding one, Jerome kept it on the floor with a foot to its chest. Hands clamped around his ankle. He gasped and tried fervently to jerk his leg free. When it wouldn't release, he reached for his gun.

"Don't!" Lauren's knife clattered onto the granite countertop.

His hand desperately reached for the weapon, just inches out of his grasp. He faltered and joined the walker on the cold tile floor. The hands climbed higher and higher up his leg. Teeth gnashed inches from his calf. The hollow eyes locked with his. He ripped the revolver from his belt and fired. Half of the head splattered against his face. He gasped and quickly swept the muck off with his sleeve.

"Oh God, did it get you?" Lauren shakily gripped the counter again and peered over the top.

Jerome wiggled out from under the dead weight and checked his legs just to make sure. "No, I'm good."

He climbed to his feet and ran to her side. A tear in her jeans exposed the jagged wound underneath. Blood drenched most of her leg above the knee.

"Let's get that wound cleaned up and find a way out of here," he said.

"God, our group." She ignored his outstretched hand and buried her face in her arms.

Shambling silhouettes pounded against the garage door, making the hinges scream. Their hands beat a desperate tune, demanding to be let inside.

Jerome's throat constricted against his suddenly suffocating coat. He gulped and said, "They're fighters."

She pulled the radio from her belt and handed it to Jerome. "Maybe they managed to hide the whole time."

He hesitated to speak, careful to keep his fingers from the buttons. What if no one answered? What if someone did and he had to hear their dying moments? Taking a deep breath, he finally called, "Hello, hello? Ben?"

A gruff voice replied, "Ben can't talk right now."

The radio slipped from Jerome's hands and he caught it just before it could hit the floor. His voice steadily rose as he demanded, "Who is this? What did you do? Listen to me, whoever you are...don't you dare hurt them. You hear me?"

If they did hear him, they didn't respond. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out whatever Lauren said. They got them. His little girl, his wife, his friends, however many innocent souls. They were all at the hands of people who shot first and asked questions later.


Ben had no idea how bad things were about to get until the shootout had already begun. He clambered out of his hiding spot between two of the bus seats and flew to the window, feeling as though he himself had taken a buckshot to the heart when he saw Jerome and Lauren standing out in the open.

They were up against two guys in fatigues - probably military - who not only had a truck to hide behind, but rifles as well. Twenty or more rounds apiece versus the twelve Lauren and Jerome had between them...it wasn't hard to see who was more likely to be triumphant in this battle.

"No," Ben whispered hoarsely. He refused to watch them be gunned down. He smacked the button behind the steering wheel to open the doors.

Marvin gasped and yelled, "Don't go out there!"

Ignoring his father's protests, Ben raised his pistol and ran down the steps. As soon as his feet hit the ground, an arm wrapped around his throat.

A gruff, unknown voice growled, "Drop it."

All of the air left Ben at once. His shoulders sagged as the gun slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the asphalt. Ben's eyes briefly fluttered closed. This was really it. He'd failed.

The man released Ben's throat only to press the barrel of a gun into the small of his back. "Back on the bus," he ordered.

Ben had just begun to turn around when he heard Lauren cry out, and dread crept up his neck like suffocating tendrils. If she or Jerome got seriously hurt or worse out of this...he'd never be able to forgive himself. Not after the way he'd treated them, and not after he led them into this trap in the first place.

His breath hitched as he marched up the steps back onto the bus and came to stand beside the driver's seat. The rest of the group was still hunched down on the floor and gawked at Ben and his captor with varying expressions of shock and horror.

The man said, "Please get in your seats and put your weapons on the floor."

Everyone complied with his rules, slowly rising to their feet and tossing down their weapons, shooting him dirty looks every step of the way.

Tears fell in relentless streams down Rachel's face as she stiffly sank into her seat. "M-my daughter," she stammered, bottom lip quivering. "She's only t-ten years old and in the car behind us. P-please, don't hurt her."

"And my granddaughter," Peggy added. Her narrowed eyes looked the tall, nameless man up and down.

He didn't respond for several long moments, and then he finally said, "Everything will be okay."

Outside, the gunfire ceased. Ben's breath caught in his throat as he looked over just in time to see Jerome and Lauren running up the road, quickly disappearing from view. Their attackers piled into their truck and sped after them.

Ben swallowed dryly, unable to moisten his mouth. Everything in him was screaming to get out there and help them. But with the barrel of a gun still pressing into the small of his back, and walkers slowly drifting into the intersection, he'd never felt more defeated in his life.

Once again, he'd ignored the signs that something was wrong, and people he cared about were going to pay for his mistakes. He dipped his head and fought against the stinging sensation in his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah. Get in there," grumbled another unfamiliar, masculine voice from somewhere just beyond the doors. Courtney and Emma filed onto the bus, followed by a man wearing a heavy coat and bloodstained camouflage pants. He shoved Emma as she started down the aisle and said, "Little shit really put up a fight."

Rachel gladly pulled her daughter into the seat beside her and held her tightly. "Who are you?" she demanded, glaring back and forth from one stranger to the other. "What do you want?"

"I'm Lieutenant John Arnold." The man eased his pressure on the gun and guided Ben towards the seats, then motioned to the shorter man at his side. "This is Sergeant Charles Hill."

Hill mimicked the Lieutenant's stiff motion, swinging his arm towards the window. "The two dipshits that hopped out of their truck like their asses were on fire are civilian trainees," he explained lightly.

As Ben sat down beside his father, he couldn't stop himself from glaring daggers at the men. He wasn't going to fall for their 'nice and professional' routine. Their supposed ranks meant nothing to him. "So, what?" he questioned, scoffing. "You're military?"

"National Guard," Lieutenant Arnold corrected.

Rachel shook her head. "That can't be," she said firmly. "I was at Fort McAdams, I watched the place go down."

"Really?" Hill's mouth momentarily hung agape. "You get it, then. We're on the same side."

Ben grit his teeth. The audacity of these guys, to think they had any chance of connecting with their hostages. He sneered, "I doubt her husband thinks you're on his side. You know, the guy your 'dipshit trainees' are trying to kill."

As if on cue, the pickup truck zoomed back into the intersection. The tires screeched against the road and left black streaks as they slammed on the brakes, pulled a u-turn, and sped out of sight.

"Oh, perfect," Hill griped, slapping a hand to his forehead. "Screw 'em, then. Let's go."

"We're not going anywhere with you," Ben snapped.

Hill patted the gun at his hip and smirked. "The guy with the gun makes that decision."

"It's not how you think," Arnold said. At last, he tucked his pistol away and slipped into the driver's seat. "It usually doesn't go down this way. In fact, this is the first time it has...it's also the first time Mayer and Koneak have been on sentry duty." Arnold peered out the window at the black streaks in the road and shook his head. "We're building the National Guard back up, into something to help the people. Something like government, since there's none of that left."

Marvin chuckled. "Ambushing people and taking them against their will for their own cause...sounds about right for the government."

"Give it a rest, Grandpa." Hill rolled his eyes. He sat in the seat nearest to the door and looked to the Lieutenant. "What about their car and our truck?"

"We'll send someone for them later once these damn biters have settled down." Arnold started the engine and drove forward.

Ben couldn't drag his gaze away from the left side of the intersection. He kept hoping he'd see Jerome and Lauren, get some sign they were at least alive. His heart sank as the bus turned right, and any chance of knowing was no longer in sight.

Brick and paneled buildings flashed past the windows, along with the occasional walker. Arnold had turned around and was driving them back into the heart of the city. After a while, he launched into an explanation. "The National Guard supports the greater good. You join us and we survive together, with order and organization," he explained, casting a firm look over his shoulder as he drove. "You're either with us or against us because everything you take from the city, you're taking from us."

"You can have the city," Ben said, gritting his teeth. "All we want is to leave, get to Anchorage. Hopefully there's somebody left there that hasn't decided tyranny is the way to go."

Marvin nodded in agreement and added, "And if not, we can live on our own like we've been doing."

"What if Anchorage has a reserve like ours?" Arnold questioned. "What if we grow large enough to expand and set up another base there?" He emphasized his points by tapping his fingers against the wheel. "Long. Term. Stability. That's our goal."

Hill sneered, "And we can't reach our goal with scrappy little rogue groups like you are out here sucking up our resources."

Arnold pulled into the Fairbanks City Hall parking lot and stopped near the back.

The building stood three stories high, with a pale gray exterior and many windows. Most of the windows on the first floor were boarded over, as were the front doors. Two guards stood on either side of another set of doors at the back of the building. The parking lot was more like a parking garage, with various vehicles including a second armored truck.

"Here's how this is gonna work." At last, Hill tucked his pistol away. "You're going to get off this bus in a single file line and follow me over to the doors. You're going to go through those doors one at a time, and yes, that includes the kids." He glared at the youngest members of the group and their guardians. "Lieutenant Arnold and I will frisk you, make sure you're not hiding any guns, bites, or other funny shit. Then, you will be transported to a holding room while we wait for Captain Lancaster. Am I clear?"

Brandon had remained silent for the entirety of the trip, huddled underneath the quilt with Adrian in his lap. As Sergeant Hill blabbed on, his face somehow became even paler. Ben's own heart began to thud a little faster. There didn't seem to be any way for them to get out of this with a happy ending, and least of all Brandon.

Arnold scanned the parking lot before he switched the doors open. "Koneak and Mayer aren't here yet," he commented.

"Like I said, screw 'em." Hill pointed to Ben. "You first, then the Fort McAdams survivor. I want to get you out of the way first, you're the mouthy ones. Everyone else just line up, and don't you fucking dare pull anything."

Ben trailed after Hill, following him across the cracked parking lot with a posture of defeat. The guards greeted their superior with smiles and held the strikingly clean, clear doors open. Hill stepped inside and paused to wipe his boots on the welcome mat.

Arnold took a seat on a nearby desk. He lifted a clipboard and gazed over the top of it at Ben. "Name?"

"Why?"

Hill glared down his nose. "Name."

"Ben Wallace."

Arnold scribbled quickly onto the paper and asked, "Age?"

"Forty."

"Height and weight?"

Ben scoffed. What were they planning to do, sell him as livestock? He crossed his arms and answered, "Five-foot-eleven, one hundred and sixty four pounds...last I knew."

Hill ordered, "Feet apart, arms out." He patted Ben from head to toe, turned out his pockets, made him take off his shoes - everything short of asking him to squat and cough.

Once he was content Ben wasn't hiding anything, Hill jerked his head towards the back of the foyer, and tossed his shoes against the wall. Three large doors stood beside a beautiful mahogany staircase.

"Stand over there," Hill said.

Ben trudged across the carpet and crouched down to retie his shoes. Rachel and Peggy paid their dues and joined him, then Brandon stepped inside and the three of them went stiff as stone pillars.

He held Adrian against his side, wrapped in the quilt. Hill snapped, "Does this whole group have hearing problems? I said -"

"He's just five years old, and he's scared," Brandon said, his voice strained with the effort of repressing a cough.

"The rules still apply to scared five year olds," Hill replied. "Put him down and step back."

"Please, just let me hold him," Brandon said. He'd hardly finished speaking before he gasped and his legs buckled, but he managed to remain standing. Sweat rolled in beads down the side of his pallid face.

Hill's eyes narrowed. He rested a hand on the pistol at his hip and growled, "Put the kid down."

There was no time left to negotiate, and Brandon knew it. He let out a shaky, shuddering breath, kissed Adrian on the head, and grunted as he set him down. The wound on his side was exposed in its full glory, sunlight gleaming inside the foyer. The bite was an oozing, crimson hole, and the entirety of Brandon's clothing on that side had been stained with blood ten times over.

"Oh, shit!" Hill hollered and lurched back a step. "Arnold, he's bit!"

Brandon raised his hands placatingly. "B-but I'm okay right now," he said.

"Christ, you look as good as dead already," Hill snapped. "How the hell didn't I see it before…"

Arnold slunk over to them, one hand on the back of his neck. He gave a sidelong glance to Brandon and shrugged. "I guess we'll just put him in a room alone until it's time."

"Nah, I'll show you what we can do." Hill swiftly pulled the pistol from his holster.

"Don't!" Arnold dove forward and attempted to knock the gun out of his hands, but he was too late.

Hill strode forward, fired a single, point-blank shot, and it was all over.

Adrian wailed hysterically as his father's body dropped at his feet. Rachel screamed and shrank back against the wall, trying to shield Emma's view with her own torso. Marvin leapt forward and pulled the distraught little boy away from the nightmarish scene.

But Brandon wasn't dead yet. Blood gurgled in his mouth and poured from the gaping hole in the side of his head, but his glossy eyes found his son. He slurred out, "I...love…"

He breathed his last breath before he could finish.


No matter how much he wanted to, Ben couldn't look away while two men in ill-fitting fatigues dutifully scrubbed the lobby's carpet. Their gloved hands periodically dipped large sponges into a bucket, turning the sprawling crimson patch on the floor into a red, sudsy puddle. Sergeant Hill stood off to the side all the while, still and silent, watching the cleanup of his victim without batting an eye.

One woman, wearing jeans and a pink jacket, took the lead in wrapping Brandon's body in a dirty sheet. She was assisted by two more men, who hoisted Brandon up and carried him out of sight somewhere outside.

Arnold seemed to have given up on any protocol they had and didn't bother taking the rest of the group's details as they came into the City Hall lobby. He quickly patted them down, not nearly as thorough as Hill had been, then sent them to stand with the others by the staircase.

Ben glanced down the line of people at his side and the uneasiness he felt at finding only five people at his side was almost sickening. One dead, two missing, and it couldn't have been much past noon.

"Let's go," Arnold said.

Ben followed the lieutenant up rickety wooden stairs and looked over his shoulder once they reached the top to confirm there were still five people with him. They turned at the landing and climbed a second staircase, this time stepping out into a hallway so immaculate their forms reflected against the polished tile. Black and white portraits of past city officials hung along the beige walls.

Most of the doors were closed but one sat wide open. Three children huddled around a circular table, rather grimly scribbling into coloring books. As the group walked passed, a stony-faced woman stood from her seat on a small couch and closed the door.

They approached the end of the hallway, where an older man guarded a set of double-doors. His gray hair was buzzed close to his scalp like he was military, but he wore an argyle sweater and khaki pants. He asked,"Everything alright, Lieutenant?"

"It's under control, Keith." Arnold pushed open the rightmost door and glanced at Ben as he waved them inside. "Captain Lancaster will be in soon to give you your introduction."

Ben's stomach dropped as soon as he stepped foot in the room. It was long but not particularly wide, probably a former boardroom. All of the windows were boarded up from the inside, leaving nothing but cracks of sunlight and small lanterns to illuminate the room. Ben wrinkled his nose as the musty smells of dirty laundry and unwashed bodies seized his nose.

A middle-aged man and woman sat together on a couple sleeping bags, warily eyeing the newcomers. There were far more sleeping bags and blankets than there were people, and Ben had a worrisome feeling that many more people had inhabited this room not long ago.

"Ben?"

He squinted as a familiar voice called his name, trying to make out the shadowy forms huddled in the corner. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, his mouth fell open. Keisha and Aaliyah sat close together on a blanket.

"Whoa," he said. "I didn't expect to see you again." He'd never had the time to consider the Evans had been prevented from leaving Fairbanks too.

Relief flashed across Keisha's face but disappeared when Arnold pulled the doors shut. Her eyes scanned over the six of them, then she frowned. "Don't tell me you're all that's left…"

Ben hesitated, sharing an uneasy look with Marvin. There was no point in telling her all of the details, especially not with Aaliyah present. Someone was missing from her family, too, and Ben hoped the reason for Clarence's absence wasn't as tragic as Brandon's.

He cleared his throat and said, "We've gotten kind of separated."

Keisha stood and walked over to join them, regarding Rachel with an expression of concern. Tears had been welling in her eyes since her husband's voice came through the radio but finally spilled over after what happened to Brandon and hadn't stopped since.

"What happened?" Keisha asked softly. "You're not just separated, are you?"

Rachel tensed and guided Emma to go visit Aaliyah. After a moment of hesitation, the ten-year-old compiled and plopped down beside her old friend. Rachel's breath hitched and she choked out, "Jerome and Lauren got left behind downtown. A-and Brandon, oh God..."

Keisha put a hand over her mouth and shook her head as the unspoken implication of Rachel's words sank in. Silence mounted between them for a long moment, all of them too shell-shocked for words.

After composing herself, Keisha explained, "We were almost out of town when this convoy cornered us. Captain Lancaster will try to talk this place up like it's something special, but I don't buy it. We tried to tell him we didn't want to come with him and he was so pushy...things got physical. Clarence got in a few good punches, but they took him away and we haven't seen him since." She looked downwards, closing her eyes.

"They're sick bastards," Peggy exclaimed. The strangers across the room flinched at her booming, obnoxious statement, but Peggy carried on, unphased. "We need to get out of here as soon as possible, I don't care if we have to burn the place down with them in it."

"You're right." Rachel wiped her eyes then tucked a stray lock of brunette hair behind her ear. "We've got to get back downtown before it's too late."

"Do I really have to spell this out?" Peggy glanced unsurely between Rachel and Ben then placed her hands on her hips. "One or both of them are probably walker chow. Lauren could barely move and Jerome, well…" She trailed off and quirked a brow, looking down her nose at Ben. "Going back for them is not only stupid, it's hypocritical."

Ben stiffened, ready to give her a piece of his mind, but she held up a hand to silence him.

"What was that you said when Brandon wanted to go after his sister? No rescue missions, right?"

Keisha began, "I know - "

"This is different," Ben spat. Peggy wasn't going to flip this and make him out to be some biased jerk that didn't care about the group as a whole. He'd had enough of that theory. If she couldn't see the difference between looking for people whose location they couldn't even guess and going back for people they watched go down the street, that was her problem. "We know where they are," he said. "We saw them go."

"You know where they were," she corrected with a little smirk. "If they've got half a brain between them, they're not there anymore. We have no idea where these guys are watching from. If we go back, we could drive right into another ambush."

Without another word, Rachel stomped off and joined the kids. She sat beside Aaliyah and Emma with her knees pulled to her chest. Peggy watched her go and rolled her eyes.

Marvin shook his head, scowling at Peggy. "You want to leave 'em behind, just like that?" He chuckled humorlessly. "You could really do it, couldn't you?"

"It's not like I want to," Peggy said, throwing her hands in the air. "I don't have any ill-will against Lauren or Jerome. We can't go back for them! Our big plan is to escape and drive right back to a block known to be under watch and crawling with walkers? Really?" She paused, glancing incredulously at the two men before her and over to Rachel. "You have to realize how stupid this is."

Ben wasn't sure what pissed him off more - that Peggy's attitude didn't even end while they were being held captive, or that he had to admit there was some truth to her words. Any number of things could have already happened to Jerome and Lauren. Still, heat flushed his face and surged down his neck. He was tired of her. He wanted to tell her to just shut up already. He felt like letting her know he'd gladly trade her for Jerome and Lauren, given the chance.

But before he could say a word, both doors swung open.

A slender, camouflage-clad man stepped into the room. Bruises ranging from purple to yellow to black covered both of his eyes and his lip had a deep split. He carried a folding chair in one hand and opened it with a jerk of his arm, then sat down.

Ben guessed this was the guy he'd heard so much about. The one that was supposed to give them an 'introduction', the one Clarence pounded. He didn't look very captainly; underneath the bruises his face was very youthful, and his tousled sandy hair didn't have a speck of gray.

"I'm Captain Lancaster," he said, looking out into the hallway over his shoulder.

A young woman entered, carrying a tray piled with fruit cups and granola bars. Ben did a double-take and inhaled sharply. This wasn't just any girl, it was Samantha.

She stood with sagged shoulders, shrinking meekly under the surprised eyes of the group. Keisha shrugged when Ben turned to her with wide eyes.

"I was going to tell you but I didn't get the chance," she said.

"How?" Marvin asked, his voice rising an octave higher than usual. "When? What happened to Jake and Carmen?"

"You didn't tell me your group was so big, Sam." Lancaster gnawed his lip, biting back a grin. "Have we got 'em all now?"

Samantha gripped the tray a little tighter and shook her head. "Not even close," she replied, frowning at the group that was so much smaller than she'd last seen it. Then, she turned to face Marvin. "Jake didn't make it. Carmen got away but she probably didn't make it either. I think she broke her leg and we were both out of bullets."

Ben could tell this was a condensed version of whatever really happened. There simply had to be more to it. If he had to bet who survived out of that trio, he would never have put his money on Samantha. He would've loved to hear the full story but she stepped forward and set the tray down on a nearby cardboard box then retreated into the shadows before anyone could ask more questions.

"Eat up." Lancaster rubbed his hands together slowly, watching them with an odd gleam in his eyes. When none of them went for the food, he pursed his lips. "Anyway...I'd like to start off by apologizing. I've heard about what happened, with your friends being left behind and what Sergeant Hill did." His jaw tightened and he shook his head. "Mayer, Koneak, Hill. They don't represent us. That's not what we're about."

"Then what are you about?" Ben demanded. The Captain could play nice all he wanted. That didn't make up for their losses, nor did it explain why they were taken in against their will.

"Preservation," Lancaster replied proudly. "Lieutenant Arnold, Sergeant Hill, and I made it out of Fort McAdams by the skin of our teeth. We knew right away what we had was pretty good before it went to shit, and would benefit society if we recreated it. So, we did." He smiled. "This place has been going for just over a month and look at us. Twenty-something strong with enough supplies to live comfortably."

"What happened?" Marvin narrowed his eyes. "You had the manpower, you had the supplies, the Fort was far enough from town walkers shouldn't have been too bad…"

Lancaster looked to his feet then cleared his throat. "Things just didn't work out," he said. "I uh...I was told we had fellow Fort survivors in our midst." His gaze flicked across the six of them. Rachel reluctantly raised her hand. Lancaster blinked, his brows raised in surprise. "How did you get out?"

Rachel wrapped her arms around her knees. When she replied, her voice was hardly more than a whisper. "It's all one big blur, it was so dark."

Ben could tell by the white sunlight filtering through the window boards that midday was upon them. Daylight was burning and there they were listening to some kid with blacked eyes praise his month old group to the moon.

He said, "Alright. So...what's the deal? Why are we here?"

For a long moment Lancaster glowered at Ben, his expression shifting from fairly happy to irritated in a flash. "The National Guard was assigned to Fort McAdams. There were thirty of us. Trained soldiers and it still went to hell."

The chair's metal legs scraped against the tile as Lancaster abruptly stood up. He paced back and forth, wringing his hands. "I almost died the night it all went down. It was total chaos. So dark you could hardly see your hand in front of your face, people running around screaming. I was trying to help everyone get out. I guess one guy didn't want help, 'cause he stabbed me right in the gut."

Lancaster lifted his shirt. A purple, poorly-healed scar ran for three inches just above his jutted hip bone. "Luckily Keith found me and saved my life."

Ben did his best to keep a straight face as a wave of dread crashed over him. That sounded awfully similar to Jerome's story about what happened during his escape from Fort McAdams. In fact, it was almost word for word. Perspective was the only big difference. To Jerome, he was defending himself. To Lancaster, he was the victim of a random act of violence. How would he feel if he knew his attacker's wife and child were sitting ten feet away?

Ben glanced anxiously to Rachel and his fears were all but confirmed. Her face had turned a ghostly pale and when she met Ben's gaze, she nodded a single, tiny nod.

As Lancaster tucked his shirt back into his pants, he sauntered towards Ben and didn't stop until they were nearly nose-to-nose. "I've seen plenty of people like you in the past couple months," he told him quietly. "You think you can make it on your own, you think you don't need anyone else. You're wrong. That guy stabbed me and left me for dead. That's how people are now."

Lancaster clasped his hands behind his back and started pacing again. "I can't risk one of my guys going out there to serve this group and getting shot or stabbed because someone decided we're a threat. If you're not with us, you're against us."

Hardly a second passed before Marvin scoffed. "So you're just gonna keep us in this room forever?"

Lancaster turned on his heel and held the older man in a death glare. If he was expecting a compassionate response to his story, he was telling it to the wrong group. After everything his men had done, Ben doubted he was alone in thinking everyone would've been better off had Keith kept walking that night.

The Captain stared at Marvin a moment longer, then answered, "You will be held here until I can find a suitable role or mentor for you...assuming you cooperate. He smirked. "Samantha's been here, what? Almost two weeks? And she jumped at my offer to personally mentor her." His attention turned to the middle-aged couple crowded together on their sleeping bags. Neither of them had uttered a word since the arrival of Ben's group, their expressions never changing from mildly irritated.

"We can't force you to do anything, of course," Lancaster added. "If you want to take the McPherson route, you'll come to know this room very well."


Upon closer inspection, Jerome discovered there were two holes in Lauren's thigh. To his limited knowledge, this was the best case scenario. It appeared the bullet entered the front of her leg and exited a few inches away through her inner thigh. Thankfully, he didn't have any reason to think the casing was lodged inside or had hit bone - not that he'd know what to do if it had. He was acting solely on whatever he picked up from movies and Rachel's work stories.

"I wish I could do better than this, but uh...for now it's all I've got." Jerome walked over to where Lauren had boosted herself up to sit on the counter. In five minutes he'd managed to collect all the auto shop's clean rags, but of course there wasn't so much as a Tylenol.

Lauren curled her fingers around the counter's edge in a white-knuckle grip and squeezed her eyes shut. Jerome tentatively prodded a loose piece of denim aside to get a clearer look at the exit wound. It was twice as large as the dime-sized entry wound. His stomach turned at the mess of bloody, shredded flesh.

"What are you waiting for?" Lauren asked, cracking one eye to glare at him after he'd hesitated a moment too long. She jerked her thumb towards the garage door, where an unknown number of walkers continued to pound away. "We're gonna have to move soon."

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Jerome began laying the cloths across her thigh. After he'd arranged all seven of them to overlap both wounds, he unbuckled his belt and whisked it from the loops of his pants, then used Lauren's knife to gauge a couple new holes in the end.

"This is going to be the really shitty part," he said, casting her an apologetic look.

"Just get it done." She ran a hand through her hazel hair and smiled nervously. "I'll do my best to not kick you or scream and bust your eardrums or anything."

With this jimmy-rigged medical care, he wouldn't be surprised if she slugged him. He gently lifted her leg off the counter and slipped the belt underneath. Lauren whimpered as he pulled the belt as tight as he could, securing the rags in place. Blood pulsed from either side of the leather, saturating the cotton rags almost instantly.

Once Jerome was content it'd do the job, he slipped the latch into one of the new holes and tucked the end in. "There," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "All done."

"Thanks." She lowered herself onto one foot then supported herself against the counter.

All Jerome could think of was what could've been going on down the street at that moment. His family could've already been shot or torn apart. They could be bleeding out in the street, suffering unspeakable agony. They could've even died and turned. And what could he do? Lauren could barely walk let alone run. They didn't have half a dozen bullets left between them and now they were down to one knife. Even if they took some of the tools laying around the shop, a wrench or screwdriver wouldn't do much against a heavily armed, human enemy.

"I don't know what to do now," he admitted.

A metallic screeching cut off Lauren's reply. The right side of the garage door popped off the track, providing a large crack between the door and the wall. Bony legs blocked out the temporary flash of sunlight as the walkers pushed onward. Lauren whirled to Jerome with wide eyes, nearly knocking herself off balance.

He took her under his arm and then shuffled around the counter and downed walkers into a second, smaller garage. This room was half the size of the last one, with space for only one vehicle, though there wasn't one. All of the doors were shut and there were only two windows, leaving them in near darkness once Jerome kicked the door shut.

"Oh, man..." Lauren grunted as Jerome deposited her on the floor. She gripped her knife tightly in both hands and stared at the door as if she expected the walkers to rip it off the hinges at any moment. Seconds ticked by and the snarls stayed in the distance. She exhaled shakily. "Okay, at least they haven't got through yet."

"Yeah." Jerome's dark eyes flicked from corner to corner, searching for something to block the door. A few shelves of auto parts and fluids sat here and there but he knew from experience shelves wouldn't cut it. Tool chests lined the walls but most of them weren't more than a few feet tall. The largest chest also happened to be closest to the door, but this one appeared too heavy for one person to move.

He sighed, opting to lean against the door for the time being. They couldn't stay there long anyhow.

For a few moments neither of them uttered a word, they just focussed on catching their breath. Then Lauren peered to her right, where a narrow staircase led up to a battered metal door. "I wonder what's up there," she said curiously. "Maybe a way out?"

"I don't know about that, unless we sprout wings." He frowned but started up the stairs anyway. If nothing else the roof could be a vantage point, or a temporary escape if walkers broke through. Once he reached the door, Jerome knocked and leaned close to listen for signs of undead on the other side.

He turned back to Lauren and said, "Cross your fingers," then pushed the door open.

Frigid air blasted inside and chilled him to the bone. The weathered tar-and-gravel roof stretched before him, contained within cement half-walls. He walked around the stairwell wall to view the rest of the roof and froze at the sight of a figure slumped in a lawn chair. He relaxed once he realized this person was long dead. Limp hands with chipped, painted fingernails hung from either side and dirty blonde hair flapped around a gaping hole in the back of its head.

Jerome crept closer and grimaced, pulling his coat up over his nose before the stench of decaying, suncooked corpse made him gag. The lower half of the deceased's face was blown off, leaving sunken, rolled back eyes. A double-barrel shotgun laid beside the chair, along with an empty beer bottle. He paused, running a hand over the thickening stubble along his jaw.

Walkers were becoming rather run of the mill. No matter how much remorse he carried for killing them, the 'kill or be killed' nature of the world was becoming more and more apparent. Suicides, however, still sent a sorrowful pang through his heart. Imagining the desolation someone must feel to take their own life was almost too much to bear, especially after Kate.

Jerome briskly turned away and walked to the opposite side of the roof, stopping at the gritty half-wall. Crispy leaves skittered along the street below. Ravenous moans from the front of the building carried to the roof. Jerome realized with a jolt of that this was a way out after all.

There wasn't a walker in sight, they were still busy trying to get inside. It wasn't as far to the ground as he expected, especially not with the dumpster below. He could easily drop down and run back to the intersection...and then what? He doubted the group was just sitting there playing I-Spy, waiting for Jerome and Lauren to come skipping back. Surely they either drove off themselves or were taken elsewhere by the strangers. Even worse, if he found everyone dead...

Just as he was ready to give up hope, something caught Jerome's eye. A dark trail of fluid ran down the middle of the road. He leaned over the wall and squinted, recognizing the glistening black substance almost instantly.

"Motor oil," he commented, biting back a smile. The pickup's oil tank must have been nicked during the shootout. Assuming they drove somewhere nearby, they may have left a trail behind that would lead Jerome right to them. Maybe it wasn't a solution, but at least it was a start.

He went back inside and plodded down the stairs, taking a seat on the last one. "Well," he began, rubbing the back of his neck. "We've got a couple of options."

"Listen, I know you're French but you've got to stop with this 'we' stuff." Lauren readjusted herself against the wall, carefully moving her bad leg. "If you've found a way to go, you have to go."

"You can't be serious," he said, staring at her in disbelief. "I'm not going without you. No one else knows where you are, what if something happens to me?" He fervently shook his head and swung his hand towards the door. "We've got a clean getaway. All of the biters are busy trying to get in the front."

She snorted. "Are you gonna piggyback me across town? Because I can't go any farther on this leg."

He focused forlornly on her wound, brows furrowing. Leaving her behind just wasn't right. She was in no position to defend herself. If the biters did break inside, she'd be trapped. Besides, it was a real possibility he wouldn't be able to come back for her. There had to be some way to bring her along.

After a moment of consideration, he suggested, "How about I rig you some crutches?"

"I'll still be too slow," she replied, shaking her head. "Those guys either wanted to rob us or take us somewhere...God only knows why. You don't need me dragging you down while you figure that out."

"What if they got away and drove back to camp?"

"Someone had Ben's radio," Lauren curtly reminded him. "I'm guessing they were ambushed just like us, but that's a guess. You have to go see what you can find and trust your gut."

There was no way in hell he was leaving without knowing the group's fate, so what else could he do? He used the railing to stand up. "Alright," he agreed with a nod. "How many bullets have you got left?"

"Not many, maybe one or two," she answered. "Just take this, you need it more than I do." She pulled the knife from her coat and handed it off to Jerome. He reluctantly tucked it away and waited for her to elaborate. She pointed up the stairs and explained, "I want to hide up there. If I'm quiet, the walkers might not find me if they get inside."

"If that's what you want." He came to her side and helped her to her feet, offering support in place of her bad leg.

When they reached the door, Jerome booted it open and led Lauren over to the corner where the half-walls met.

"Hopefully you'll have a bit of shelter from the weather here," he said, lowering her onto her rump. He started to shrug off his coat but stopped when Lauren wildly waved her hands.

"No, no," she chided. "Cut the chivalry, you're going to be just as cold."

With nothing else to say, Jerome walked over to the long-dead corpse at the opposite corner. He lifted the shotgun from its place beside the lawn chair, where it'd laid so long that an outline of dirt was left behind. The weapon's sleek wooden grip slid through Jerome's hands as he reached the chamber and popped it open. He counted only two shells inside and sighed as he snapped the latch shut.

"There are only two rounds," he informed Lauren.

"That's fine, I probably won't even need it." She took the shotgun as Jerome handed it off and positioned it across her lap. Sweat glittered against her pallid face and gathered in the dark circles beneath her eyes. "So...this is it," she commented.

"Yeah." He scuffed his boot against the roof, casting a reluctant gaze down the street. Somehow none of it felt real. Everything had been okay just that morning, just a few short hours ago. Soon he would find the fate of his group, good or bad, or worse, he wouldn't find anything at all. He turned his attention back to Lauren and promised, "I will come back for you."

"Just focus on finding the others and not getting yourself killed first, okay?" She raised her trembling fist.

"You've got it."

They fist-bumped and then Jerome dropped over the half-wall.