Jerome scurried from shadow to shadow, using trees and bushes for cover. Even if he looked and felt silly, he knew this was a 'better safe than sorry' situation. The street may have seemed clear from the roof, but they thought the intersection was clear too.

He reached the end of the street without encountering any biters and hurried around the corner, crouching behind a thick cottonwood near the sidewalk. From there he had a clear view of the intersection and that was when his heart dropped into his stomach.

The strange armored truck was still parked at the opposite stop sign. The camp's new car, the one Emma had been in, still sat at the curb. But there was nothing but open space where the bus was supposed to be. At first he began to panic, worrying they'd been gunned down right there, but there were no signs of a struggle.

The only blood and bullet casings were from his and Lauren's gunfight. A dozen or more walkers ambled throughout the street, but none of them were familiar faces.

Suspecting the group wouldn't be there was one thing. Seeing that they were gone for himself was another. He stifled a sigh and leaned against the tree's rough trunk, curling his blood-caked fingers into the bark.

Escaping the shootout unscathed was a miracle, now here he was with the group's rescue solely on him. Him. Jerome Dufour, who had to be one of the most inexperienced survivors, who was smart enough to admit to himself that he hadn't had much to do with his own survival thus far.

He'd never been religious and hadn't given God or Jesus or whoever much thought at all in his life. But with such an unknown road ahead, he found himself praying. Let them be okay, he pleaded silently, looking up to the overcast sky in hope someone was listening. Show me what to do and give me the strength to do it.

He turned and eyed the oil trail, wondering if his prayers had already been answered.

He stood and continued to follow the trail, frequently glancing up to scan his surrounding for threats, undead or otherwise.

The streets he traveled had been upscale neighborhoods at one point. Two storey-homes, white picket fences, and a sea of snow-covered fallen leaves in place of once manicured lawns.

The oil only continued for a few blocks before the black stream thinned to sparse droplets. Jerome trudged to the last drop in sight and stopped to figure out what was next.

This must've been the part where he had to 'follow his gut', as Lauren had said, but the prospect caused a surge of panic. One mistake could lead him farther from his people...that was, if he'd even gotten any closer.

"Okay, okay," he whispered, forcing himself to focus. There were no turns in sight and obviously they hadn't driven into one of the houses. The street ended in a t-junction, which narrowed his choices down to 'left' or 'right'.

Jerome jogged to the end of the street and only looked to the left before he froze, eyes widening. The black, bullet-riddled truck was abandoned in the middle of the street thirty feet down. The driver's side door hung open and the faint ding-ding-ding sounded endlessly.

His chest constricted at the sight of four biters a few feet from the truck, clustered around a large, bloody lump in the road. He was sure they'd set their sights on him at any moment, but they were so busy shoveling handfuls of innards into their rasping mouths they hadn't even noticed he was there.

Jerome backtracked towards the house on the corner and crouched where the concrete steps met the porch. One way or another, those biters had to go. That truck had been going somewhere, and Jerome had to continue up that road to check for more clues.

However, he'd barely escaped two biters in the auto-shop. Going head-to-head with four of them was out of the question. He'd have to figure out some way to tear them away from their precious meal.

This should be simple, Jerome thought, turning his attention to the stones within a flower bed beside the porch. He leaned over and gathered some of the stones into his arms, then stood up. He edged his way towards the street, careful to stay hidden from the biter's line of sight just to be safe.

The house across the way had a large picture window beside the front door. He took a handful of rocks from his arm and hurled them towards the shimmering, sunlit glass. As the window smashed into billions of shards, Jerome pressed himself back against the house.

He waited with every muscle in his body prepared to move, ready to run for it once the biters came to investigate...only they never did. After standing there for far too long, Jerome craned his head around the corner and scowled. None of the dead found the noise interesting enough to stop feeding.

Well, shit. Back to the drawing board. Jerome let the remaining rocks in his arms fall to the ground. If noise wasn't going to distract them, he had to assume only the temptation of live meat would. He released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, knowing he had to be more direct.

"Hey," he called, allowing his voice to waver. It was just him and the biters, and they didn't care how scared he was. "Come on!" He thumped his fist rhythmically against the house's siding and cringed, every fiber of his being urging him to stop.

The only female biter slowly turned and locked eyes with Jerome. Crimson pulp dripped down her rotted face and plopped onto her ripped, billowing dress.

Jerome stopped pounding and took a couple steps back as she started towards him. "This way!" He clapped his hands a few times and the other biters followed.

Jerome bounded around the porch, sweat chilling his face. The biters were moving fast now that they had prey in sight, and all it would take was one misstep for them to descend upon him.

He reached the privacy fence and flung the gate open. Nothing lurked in the backyard besides brown, overgrown grass and a swing set, so he hurried to the middle of the yard and paused. "Come on," he murmured, the world around him falling away as he waited with bated breath for the biters to reappear.

As soon as they staggered through the gate, Jerome bolted for the opposite stretch of fence. He leapt upwards and the lattice top of the fence slammed into his belly, bringing his escape to a screeching halt as a stinging ache radiated through his midsection. He groaned a string of curse words and heaved himself the rest of the way over, tumbling into the gutter below.

The biters reached the fence seconds later and pounded against it, but the thick wooden panels barely moved.

Jerome pushed himself upright, taking a moment to catch his breath. Fresh bangs and scrapes throbbed throughout his arms and legs, which had taken the brunt of his fall. The body the biters had been feeding on laid a few feet away. Most of the flesh had been torn from the bone, and everything that should've been inside him was splattered in the street.

Jerome leaned forward to get a better look and deflated back again. A few tatters of familiar camouflage fatigues hung from his legs. Although this guy tried to kill Jerome and Lauren, Jerome couldn't help but feel a little somber. Nobody deserved to die in agony, being ripped apart and devoured.

He climbed to his feet and tentatively moved forward. The man's face had been almost completely torn away, but one eyeball remained in a hollow socket. It couldn't have been long since he died; he hadn't even turned.

Jerome winced and thrust his knife into an ivory stretch of bone at his mangled forehead. He wrenched the knife back and flicked the gunk off, then replaced it at his hip. He walked to the truck next and plopped onto the soft seat, pulling the door shut.

Despite knowing it wouldn't work, he turned the key a few times. Naturally, the engine refused to do anything but splutter and cough. "Figures," he grumbled. He opened the center console first and combed through the items within, hoping to find some clue where these people came from. He tossed receipts and food wrappers aside before reaching the bottom. A few gun shells and a pencil laid amongst crumbs and cigarette ashes.

The glove box yielded similar results and once he was content this truck didn't contain clues, Jerome deflated against the seat. "

Shit." He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, elbows resting on the steering wheel. He only had a few hours before the sun set, and he didn't need to be out in the open with biters at dark. It was him against the world, and he was losing, but the fight wasn't done until he found his family.

With nothing else to be done, Jerome hopped out the truck and continued up the street.

Soon, the houses became sparse and were replaced by expanses of vacant lots. Tall buildings peeked through the nearly barren trees. Jerome glanced around for anything besides overgrown, undisturbed grass and dusty vehicles. He was growing desperate for any sign of life, some indication that the living had at least passed through here in the past month.

Biter carcasses laid every few yards but Jerome couldn't tell how recently they'd been killed. All of their heads had gaping holes where someone had delivered some well-aimed headshots, but their blood was already brown and coagulated.

His heart grew heavy as he came upon another four-way stop. Three paths faced him and he had no way of knowing what any of them would bring. Just when he was beginning to fret, the all too familiar pop-pop-pop of gunfire sounded in the distance.

The shots halted just as quickly as they started, and Jerome was beginning to think he imagined it when a couple biters staggered out from the recesses between two shops across the way. He stood still as stone, praying there was enough distance that they wouldn't pick up his scent. The larger biter, a heavily rotted man with only a bone for his left arm, turned every which way trying to pinpoint the source of the noise.

The gunfire began again, this time with more intensity. Whoever was firing this gun was doing it as quickly as they could. The second biter, a smaller female, immediately started up the road, dragging one foot behind her. The other followed, and after a few moments, Jerome was third in line. He lagged far enough behind that he wasn't overly worried about getting noticed, but close enough he could watch their every move.

He stepped carefully along the sidewalk, watching for anything that he could step on and draw attention to himself. He'd been up close and personal with biters enough to last him a lifetime. The gunfire slowed as they approached, but it was enough to hold the biter's interest. Jerome ducked behind a parked car as they came upon a hill steep enough that it obstructed his view of the other side.

The walkers had just reached the slope's peak when another shot echoed through the block. The male walker's head exploded, nearly eliminating it completely, and the rest of him rolled back down the hill.

Guts and slop flew out along the way, leaving a trail behind the corpse as it came to rest a few feet from Jerome.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no…" The smooth, deep voice of a young man sounded from somewhere beyond the hill. Something metallic clattered to the street. The female walker groaned enthusiastically and started down the other side of the peak. Jerome heard a few more panicked noises from the man, then the tell-tale squelch as some type of melee weapon silenced the biter's quick moans.

Jerome peeked over the car's trunk and through the windows. Half a man bobbed along the incline. He clutched a hammer and turned circles, searching for any more biters. Jerome recognized him as one of the men that had shot at him and Lauren.

Now that Jerome was seeing him up close, he could tell this guy was hardly more than a kid, definitely in his early twenties. He still wore the camouflage cargo pants, but the top had been ripped away to reveal a gray undershirt. Blood streamed down his forearm from where a jagged chunk had been ripped away just above his wrist. The jet black swathe of hair atop his head was matted and speckled with pink and red blobs.

He turned a final circle then collapsed to the street, his chest heaving as his breath came in unnaturally quick puffs. "Dammit...God dammit." His voice cracked and he began to weep.

Jerome pulled the revolver from his waist. He flipped the chamber open and stared at the two bullets within, then snapped it shut.

This young man was there for the taking. Bitten. On his knees, bawling like a baby, armed with nothing more than a hammer. Some may have called it karma. What comes around goes around and all that. But Jerome felt like this was a test, one of those 'find out what you're made of' moments, and he was failing. He should've been blind with rage, he should've wanted to charge at him and rip his throat out for shooting at him and being with the men who took his family, but he didn't.

Chances were this guy hadn't started out as some monster who shot at strangers, he'd been turned into one by circumstance, by the world they were living in. And Jerome was moments away from doing the same thing.

Even if he could justify it, he hated the idea of raising his gun on anyone. However, he had no choice. Maybe this man hadn't either. He did, however, open fire on two innocent people and could've been the one that shot Lauren. His accomplices had taken everyone Jerome cared about. He almost certainly could tell Jerome where his family was. He was gonna have to talk, and there was only one sure way Jerome could make him.

Jerome stood from his hiding place and started up the slope with the pistol raised.

"Hey," Jerome called to the stranger, tensing when he looked at him with an expression akin to seeing a walking corpse for the first time. "I don't - "

The young man tossed the hammer aside with a clatter and threw his hands in the air. "P-please don't kill me!" He wailed and babbled pleadingly. "Th-that was all Mayer, I swear!"

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Jerome said, slowly lowering his pistol. Careful to keep his tone neutral, he asked, "What's your name?"

The man's lips trembled but he didn't speak. He glanced around unsurely, like he expected there to be someone else. Finally, he croaked, "Yuka Koneak."

"Okay, Yuka…" Any bluffs Jerome was gonna try to intimidate him with vanished from his mind as he started up the slope. Yuka cowered down, and his breath quickened the closer Jerome got until he was nearly hyperventilating. Jerome kept ten feet between them just so Yuka wouldn't keel over right then.

"This doesn't have to end badly for either of us," Jerome told him. "I just have some questions I need you to answer."

Yuka's dark eyes looked Jerome up and down, seeming to evaluate him. Then, he said, "W-what if we help each other?" Jerome raised his eyebrow questioningly, wondering what there was left to help with. Yuka sniffled and wiped his face on his arm, clearing the accumulating tears, snot, and muck from his tan skin. He shakily extended the other arm and nodded to the gaping crater of a bite low on his forearm.

"I got it about fifteen minutes ago, it's not too late," he said.

"Not too late for what?" Jerome asked. As far as he knew, the only way to help someone with a bite was to stop them from turning, and that didn't seem to be what Yuka was getting at. In any case, his arm looked bad. Jerome was surprised he could even think straight, with the pain he must've been in.

"If you amputate a limb soon enough, you won't turn." Yuka hiccupped a few times and he choked on another sob. "Th-this guy in my group got bit and we cut his leg off. H-he never turned."

"Really?" Jerome frowned. He'd never heard that one before. Not that it mattered, everyone in his group got bit in the worst places possible, where there was no way to amputate.

Jerome looked thoughtfully to the horizon, where the sky was still overcast but beginning to take on the midnight blue hue of dusk. Yuka probably wouldn't make it through the night either way. He'd already lost a lot of blood, and some back-alley amputation without proper medicine and care would finish him off.

There were more pressing issues at hand, like the whereabouts of his group who, last Jerome knew, weren't at death's door. Still, the guy was obviously clinging to the idea that he had a chance, and Jerome didn't have it in him to crush it.

Jerome clenched his jaw and silently cursed himself. "I'll see what I can do," he said.

Yuka relaxed a little, allowing his arms to sink. "Thanks, man. If - "

"First things first." Jerome reluctantly brought his gun back up and Yuka raised his arms again. "What the fuck is with your group? Where did you take my family, and why? You better tell me everything, or I'm not helping you with shit. Got it?"

Jerome's anger spiked as he remembered this kid hadn't been crying when he hopped out of a truck and held innocent people at gunpoint without a second thought. He took a menacing step forward, as if staring down the barrel of his gun wasn't intimidating enough. "Tell me where my family is," he demanded, his voice so low it was almost a growl.

"Okay, okay!" Yuka nodded fervently and stumbled over his words as he tried to explain everything at once. "We - I - they're National Guard, we're recruiting people."

"Bullshit," Jerome spat. He tightened his fingers around the pistol and fought down budding fury. "You're really gonna look me in the eye and lie? The National Guard is gone."

"No, I swear," Yuka replied earnestly. "There are three or four guys left from the refugee center, it went down so they've been trying to create something similar. We need people more than anything, so we keep watch around the block for people to recruit." He paused, only continuing once he saw Jerome wasn't going to charge him. "Your people should be fine unless one of 'em pulled a gun or something. We can't use people if they're dead so we try to keep things peaceful."

Jerome almost laughed. "Hopping out of your truck with your guns up isn't peaceful."

Yuka hung his head and sighed. "It was our first time on sentry duty. Mayer said there were too many of you, we had to make sure we were in control."

Both men stiffened at the sound of raspy growls and uneven, approaching footsteps. Biters scuffed along from the backstreets and shadows on either side of the slope, slowly closing in around them. Jerome tucked his gun away and snatched up the hammer instead.

"Don't mess with me," he said, then grabbed a fistful of Yuka's shirt and pulled him to his feet. "Let's go."

Yuka stumbled and struggled to keep up as Jerome hurriedly dragged him along the road. "Go where?" He eyed the nearing walkers, undoubtedly nervous without a weapon to defend himself.

"You tell me," Jerome replied. "Where'd your group take my group?"

"Uh…" Yuka gulped. He hesitated, seeming to know whatever he was about to say wasn't the best idea. "Help me with my arm, then I'll tell you," he said, with much less conviction than Jerome expected. "I-I'm sorry, but if we wait too long, it might not work."

"Fine," Jerome conceded, but not before cutting the younger man a look that let him know just how dissatisfied he was with this arrangement. "How much thought have you put it into this?" Jerome asked as they hurried aimlessly up the road. "Do you even know what you're asking? It's gonna be the worst pain of your life, and without proper bandages or antibiotics…"

Yuka started to speak, but his words morphed into a shriek. He reared back when two biters fought their way from behind some withering bushes nearby as they rounded a corner. The two men backtracked at first, but more groans sounded from behind them.

Jerome whirled around and realized they were far from losing the biters, and more had joined the hunt. He froze for a moment, his focus bouncing from one walker to the next, until he remembered he had to act.

He lunged to the nearest walker and wailed on it with the hammer until it collapsed, unmoving, to the street. A second walker filled its spot almost immediately and Jerome dropped it with one strike to the head.

In their desperate haze to escape, Jerome and Yuka had wound up in another residential block. Houses lined the street as far as Jerome could see. This was a neighborhood, somewhere with much less supplies than a commercial district, a place most people had left behind long ago.

It went against all of Jerome's experiences in Fairbanks, but there were walkers everywhere he looked. In every yard and loitering randomly every few feet in the road, some were clustered together in the driveways. No matter where they were waiting for fresh meat, they were all locked onto Jerome and Yuka, and excitedly started towards them.

"We can't outrun this many," Jerome said, mouth suddenly dry as a bone. His 'fight or flight' instinct was not leaning towards 'fight' - it rarely was - but there would be no quick getaway this time. Two men couldn't go up against dozens of walkers, not with two bullets, a knife, and a hammer.

Trying to run for the cars parked behind them was a risk Jerome was not willing to take. If they were locked, as most abandoned cars seemed to be, they would be surrounded in five seconds flat.

"We have to hide in one of these houses," he decided aloud, his words short and curt.

"Give me my hammer." Yuka held his hand out expectantly. He shifted anxiously from foot to foot, his gaze darting from the nearing walkers to hold Jerome's gaze. "I can help you fight while we run for it."

Jerome plopped the hammer into Yuka's waiting hand. He didn't have time to think it over, even if he wasn't certain that hammer wasn't going to be stuck in his skull as soon as his back was turned.

"Get ready and follow me," he said, forcing his voice not to tremble. He pulled Lauren's knife from his belt and took one final steadying breath, then darted for the closest house.

Yuka and Jerome slashed, stabbed, and shoved their way through the approaching mass of walkers. Jerome was running on survival instinct after the first ten seconds, aware of little other than the rank breath, fingers brushing against his arms, and the near-rhythmic action of bracing his arm against the walker's chests, stabbing them in the temple, and yanking the knife free. Yuka followed close behind and provided backup for the walkers that were right on Jerome's heels.

The house loomed ahead, seemingly never any closer. It was more rundown than the other houses Jerome had seen, with cracked foundation and rickety looking steps. There was an upper floor, however, and Jerome had a feeling that's where they were going to end up anyway.

By the time they reached the porch, both Jerome and Yuka were out of breath and covered in muck from head to toe. Jerome hurried to the door and tried to push it open. He cursed when, of course, it was locked. He backed up to the steps, dashed forward, and threw himself into the solid oak.

The door refused to give and pain jolted through Jerome's already battered body. He slumped to the porch and stood up just as quickly. Yuka stood at the base of the stairs, pounding away at any walker that came within reaching distance. Jerome grit his teeth and launched himself forward once again, aiming as close to the jamb as he could. This time, the door flew inward with an explosion of splintery wood.

Jerome, still a little dazed from breaking inside, staggered into the house. He didn't have to beckon Yuka to follow. The younger man bolted after him and slid to a stop at the end of a long gray couch, centered in the living room they stood in.

"Hurry, get the other end!" Yuka braced his hands on either end of the couch's arm rest, growling as the rough fabric caught on his bite wound.

The two of them slid the couch towards the door. Jerome stumbled over the humps in the carpet the couch made and narrowly missed busting his chin on the arm he'd been holding. He quickly recovered and bore his full weight against his end of the couch while Yuka pulled. They were halfway there when a walker stomped inside.

Jerome whipped out his revolver and used the last two bullets putting it down. Yuka grabbed the walker by its decayed arm and thrust the corpse out of their path.

With one final heave, Jerome slid the couch into place before the front door. Luckily the door hadn't detached from its hinges and slammed shut behind the couch.

"Shit..." Yuka shook his head and exhaled slowly, puffing up his cheeks. "I think we'd be better off going upstairs and blocking the stairway."

"You go ahead." Jerome edged his way toward the next room where a long table and chairs sat. "I'll be right up." He reached the doorway and paused to add, "My name's Jerome, by the way."

"Where are you going?" Yuka's thick brows furrowed.

"Just go." Jerome dashed through the dining room and into the kitchen. A heavily-curtained window above the sink provided the only dim light. Jerome blindly moved forward and spotted a door next to the fridge. All of this was based on a hunch, but he'd noticed the house had an attached garage, and hoped the previous owners had some decent tools.

He pushed the unlocked door open and quickly scanned the enclosure for biters. Once he saw it was clear, he hurried to the back of the garage, where there was a workbench and above it, a pegboard.

Many types of tools hung on the wall, but Jerome only grabbed three things: a roll of duct tape, a hammer, and a hacksaw.


As darkness fell over Fairbanks City Hall, the boardroom Ben and his group were being held in took on an ominous gloom. The events of the day and the uncertainty of their futures hung in the air, almost a palpable cloud of blackness.

There were a few dim lanterns throughout the room that shrouded the dozing forms of the survivors in pale blue light. Emma sat with her head in her mother's lap, who stroked her hair as she napped. The youngest Dufour's eyes were still red and puffy from where she'd cried herself to sleep. After watching her father get shot at and subsequently left behind on a walker-infested street, Ben wondered if she would ever recover.

And then there was Adrian. There was no question that what he'd witnessed would stay with him for the rest of his life. His own father, bitten and later murdered all in front of his own eyes. He was nestled under Rachel's free arm, but hadn't slept. He surveyed the room with wide eyes and flinched every time there was a sound out in the hallway.

Ben did much of the same. He sat with his back against the wall, facing the doors, wondering if Lancaster or Samantha would return before morning.

They'd already come back twice, once to offer dinner and then to provide everyone with thin blankets and stained pillows. Ben left the plate of roast squirrel and sliced tomatoes untouched, and he hadn't yet slept. How could he, when he was being held prisoner and his best friend had been left for dead?

Across the room, the older couple that had hardly looked in Ben's direction in all the time he'd been there, slept curled around one another. Ben's gaze remained on them for a while. They were lucky to have each other. That would've been him and Kate in a few more years.

Ben's focus was thankfully interrupted when one of the doors squeaked open, slicing the room with a large strip of light. Captain Lancaster leaned inside and looked at Ben. "Come here," he said quietly, motioning with his hand.

Ben took a deep breath and reluctantly followed Lancaster out in the hallway.

Keith, the man who had been guarding the door earlier, was gone and had been replaced by a younger woman with thin, blonde hair sitting in a lawn chair. She looked Ben up and down, then returned to the paperback novel in her hands. A larger lantern sat beside her feet.

"So," Lancaster began, leading Ben to the middle of the hall. "How's your group?" Ben's only answer was a scathing glare that, if looks could kill, would've dropped the so-called Captain where he stood. Lancaster cleared his throat and said, "Again, I'm sorry how this all happened."

"Sorry doesn't change shit."

Something on Lancaster's bruised face shifted, leaving his eyes a little darker. "I brought you out here to level with you, stop treating you like a captive. But if you'd like to just keep being an asshole, we can turn right the hell around."

Ben snorted and crossed his arms. The audacity of this guy never ceased to amaze him. "Well, excuse me."

Lancaster growled irritably and stalked off towards the stairs. "Let's go," he ordered.

Ben trudged after him up the staircase until they reached the third floor. One side of the short hallway was lined with large, clear picture windows. Ben stopped for a moment to take in the view of snowy streets and slow-moving walkers, darkened houses and bare trees.

His gaze lingered on the moon's faint crescent shape in the purple sky. He wondered if at that moment, Jerome and Lauren could've been looking at the same moon...or if they had been dead for hours.

After they'd stood in silence for a while, Ben unwilling to initiate any sort of conversation, Lancaster said, "I'll let you in on a little secret...I promoted myself to Captain." Ben suppressed a scoff and looked at him quizzically. "See," Lancaster continued, "When this all started, I was just a Private. But after everything that happened, I couldn't start something like this and still have people calling me Private." He chuckled to himself. "Nah, that just isn't fitting."

"I've been leading a group too," Ben said. "And I never bothered with fancy titles."

"You never bothered with any form of structure, either." Lancaster turned on his heel and continued leisurely down the hall. Ben thought he was awfully brave to turn his back on him. "Samantha told me a little about how you guys. I think you'll all fit in well here." He stopped when he reached the end of the short passage and turned back to Ben with an almost believable expression of remorse. "It sounds like Brandon would've been a great addition."

Ben couldn't bear to look at him for another moment. He redirected his attention to the wall and the inspirational posters that lined it. "So, what? We don't get any say in whether we stay or not?"

Lancaster didn't answer for a few moments. "We already discussed this earlier," he finally said, voice quiet but firm. "If you leave, you're putting this movement in jeopardy."

Ben laughed. "Oh, so you're a movement now?"

All of the calm left Lancaster's face in a flash. He bared his teeth as he stormed forward, grabbed Ben by the collar of his jacket, and began dragging him back downstairs.


Jerome and Yuka were quick to barricade themselves in a bedroom upstairs.

Yuka collapsed onto the queen-sized bed as soon as they were inside, panting and cradling his bitten arm. The room contained only furniture and a few family photos, certainly nothing useful. Some of the walkers downstairs had already slipped past the couch, but Jerome was sure there weren't enough inside to worry about yet.

Just to be safe, he slid the desk and bookshelf in front of the door, sending books and pens flying to the floor in the process.

"We should hurry," Jerome said, coming to stand at the foot of the bed. Urgency was weighing him down more than ever. Everything was moving too fast and he knew time was going to run out soon, not only for himself but for his group, wherever they were. Jerome returned to the supplies he'd thrown down when he ran into the room. He gathered the hacksaw, duct tape, and hammer, tucking the latter into his belt but dropping the saw and tape onto the bed.

"I'll ask one more time," he began slowly, waiting until Yuka's dark, apprehensive gaze met his to continue. "Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?"

They both knew sawing Yuka's arm off with nothing to clean the wound or even dress it, with less than a thimble-full of first aid knowledge between them, was not the best idea...but it was also the only idea. Yuka looked at the hacksaw for a long moment, then nodded firmly.

"Alright," Jerome sighed, already feeling his strength waver. He motioned for Yuka to stand, and once he did, Jerome snatched the sheet from under the duvet. "The plan is to amputate just above your elbow then pack the wound as much as I can." He used Lauren's knife to start a tear then began ripping the thin fabric into long, wide strips.

When a few long seconds had passed without a response, Jerome looked to Yuka apologetically. "Do you want to try something else?"

Yuka sank back onto the mattress, scrubbing at his face. "No," he replied softly. "But we might as well get this out of the way now…" he paused, scrutinizing Jerome with narrowed eyes. "My group is mostly just like your group, just like me. Normal people - good people that got recruited and are just trying to survive." For a moment the only sound was the walker's eager pounding and the rhythmic tearing of the sheet as Jerome took in this information. "Some of them are assholes, I'll give you that. But most of them aren't. And there are children." Yuka emphasized the last part of his statement, correctly guessing he would strike a nerve.

"I'll try my best to make sure no one gets hurt," Jerome said earnestly, dropping the strips of sheet into a neat pile on the bed. "Trust me, that's the last thing I want." He strode across the room and grabbed a pen off the floor, then dug through the desk until he found a notepad. "Do you know what street we're on, Yuka?"

"East Fifth Avenue," Yuka answered, frowning dubiously. "Why?"

Jerome wrote down the address then tucked the note in his pocket. "A lot of good it's gonna do to save your life if you spend the rest of it trapped in this house," he said. "I'll make sure someone from your group knows where you are."

"Oh." The doubtful look on Yuka's face fell away in an instant. "Thank you, I hadn't even thought of that," he said. "You don't know this area very well, do you?"

Jerome shook his head, making Yuka grimace.

"That's going to make giving you directions pretty difficult, then."

"Just tell me as much as you can about where your group is," Jerome said, eager for any scrap of information he could get. "I'll figure it out."

Yuka pointed to his right. "Just keep going east once you get outside. My group is at Fairbanks City Hall. Big, gray building that kinda looks like a prison, twice the size of anything around it." He let his hand drop and went quiet for a moment. "It's damn near a straight shot from here. Just go left at the first turn you see, then right at the next turn, then straight. Got it so far?"

"I think so." Jerome nodded and scribbled onto a second note. He silently repeated the directions over and over, willing himself to not mess this up. "Anything else I should know?"

"There are people on guard duty so you're not going to get within a hundred feet of the building unnoticed while there's still daylight," Yuka said. "And most of the people inside are armed and are not gonna let you just walk in and get your family." His jaw clenched and worked furiously, like whatever he was about to say gave him great distress. "You'd be better off creating some kind of distraction and sneaking past them. Most of the guards keep watch out back."

Feeling like the air had been knocked out of him, Jerome deflated. He hadn't planned on waiting until morning to leave. No one had that much time. But once again being left without a choice, this time destined to wander the streets in the pitch black dark, left him worried and bitter. He heaved a heavy breath, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying and failing to keep his cynical thinking to a minimum.

Before, everyone used to say he was the most optimistic person they'd ever met. He always had a glass half full attitude and a positive outlook in mind. That optimism had been fading bit by bit since the dead started walking, and Jerome was starting to think that his well had completely run dry. All he could think of any more were the negative outcomes, which, unfortunately, also seemed most likely.

"You need to lay on the floor." Jerome stepped forward and gathered his supplies. He had to keep moving or he was going to sit in the corner and give up. He tucked the sheet strips under his arm and gripped the hacksaw's blunt side with trembling fingers. Yuka sank to his knees in front of the desk, then maneuvered to lay flat on his back. One arm was held tightly to his side while the other, the one with the bite, was extended outward.

Jerome stopped short at the sight of him, having to look away as his stomach tightened. He'd never guessed that morning that his day would entail sawing the arm off a stranger.

He set the supplies aside and crouched beside Yuka. "Hopefully this will help you not lose so much blood," he said. He slipped a long strip of sheet under Yuka's bicep and tied it as tightly as he could.

Yuka winced at the material squeezing against his bare skin. He took one look at the tourniquet then quickly redirected his gaze to the ceiling. "Hopefully," he agreed, his breaths coming in fast puffs.

"Okay," Jerome muttered, for no reason other than to hear something beside the walkers banging around downstairs. He gripped the hacksaw tightly in both hands and lined up the gleaming metal teeth just above the crook of Yuka's arm. He took a final glance at the younger man, unable to take the sheer terror written plainly across his paled face. "I'm gonna do it now," he said, clearing his throat.

Jerome pressed down against the saw and slid it back and forth, grinding a deep gash into Yuka's bicep. Yuka screeched and snatched his arm away. He curled into a ball and writhed around in the expanding pool of his own blood. Jerome had fallen backwards, his back pressed against the bed's footboard as he watched Yuka with round, panicked eyes.

"Go!" Yuka wailed and slammed himself onto his back. He threw his arm back out and, when Jerome hadn't moved, pinned him with a furious glare. "Finish it!"

He couldn't. This was too much. It was crazy, barbaric, cruel.

Jerome could already see bone and ligament glistening within the gushing wound. All this agony and for what? Yuka wasn't thinking straight and Jerome couldn't help wondering if it would've been more humane to just...let him go peacefully.

But that wasn't his decision. This crazy, cruel idea was the kid's only chance, and no matter how miniscule, everyone deserved that chance. Jerome was the only one who could make sure Yuka got his. Although everything in Jerome screamed to run as far away from this situation as he could, he crouched beside Yuka, using one hand to keep him in place.

Jerome fought back a wave of nausea and dragged the saw to and fro, again and again, shredding tendons and muscles until he scraped bone. By now shock was settling in and Yuka's ear-splitting screams had lessened to senseless moans. Some of the biters had climbed the stairs and were now pounding the bedroom door.

Jerome swept a hand down his clammy face, clearing the sweat and blood splatters that had accumulated, and bore down on the saw, using all his weight to chip away at the bone. He reached the other side faster than he expected and sliced through the remaining flesh until Yuka's arm detached and thumped softly against the carpet.

Yuka, panting and shaking and still mumbling incoherently, took one look at his severed arm and that was that. His eyes rolled back and he went completely limp.

Jerome figured it was for the best. At least if he was unconscious, he wasn't in agony.

Jerome quickly dropped the saw and ripped away the tourniquet. He wrapped the sheet strips around and around the stump, then wound duct tape around it in a thick shell. Blood had saturated the strips before he could blink and more dripped from the gaps in the tape. Jerome's hands were once again slick with muck, this time human. Knowing that somehow made it worse. He grimaced and wiped his hands on the bed, smearing the crisp white duvet with crimson.

By now, there were too many biters against the door for Jerome to go back downstairs. The chorus of rasping growls and slamming hands told him he couldn't even open the door and take them down one by one, as he had planned to. He was going to have to figure out a way down from a second story window without breaking his neck.

Though Jerome wasn't thrilled by the idea, the only way he could see himself getting out the window was by rigging some kind of rope. He went through the bedroom and gathered all the remaining sheets and thin blankets he could, stripping the bed and then turning to the closet. He'd already looked while trying to find something decent to barricade the room and mostly found nothing but clothes, but now he thought they might come in handy. He pulled three long dresses from their hangers and tossed them on the bed.

Jerome joined the sheets, blankets, and dresses together with thick double and triple knots. The end result was a ridiculous, almost cartoonish excuse for a 'rope', a winding snake of cloth that could've stretched across the room and back. He checked the knots a second time and shook his head skeptically.

Last he knew, he weighed a hundred and seventy-some pounds, and the rope didn't look that strong. As long as it got him close enough to the ground where he could fall without breaking something, he supposed that would have to be enough.

He secured the rope inside the closet, tying it tightly to the clothing rod. Then, he moved to the window facing the backyard. The sun had nearly set by now, bathing the street in the pale purple-blue hue of dusk. Jerome yanked the curtains down and, to his surprise, saw fat, fluffy snowflakes coming down in droves. He pulled the window up and booted the screen out.

Cold, crisp air flooded in, momentarily stealing Jerome's breath. He rubbed his hands together, warming them, and retrieved the other end of his rope. He tossed it out the window and pursed his lips. It only reached about halfway down the house, leaving six feet of open space to the ground.

Sucking in a steadying breath, Jerome sat on the windowsill with one leg in, one leg out. He wrapped both hands around the rope, just above a large knot where he'd connected a dress and a blanket, then lowered himself out painstakingly slow.

His arms trembled with the effort of supporting his own weight, even after he'd braced his feet against the side of the house. The material sliding through his hands seemed to stretch more with every moment. Eager to reach the ground before it all fell apart, Jerome hurriedly rappelled down until his boots met the final knot. He wiggled down the last few feet then dropped to the ground.

He landed on his feet but quickly toppled over, jarred by the landing.

Just as he stood, a walker rounded the corner of the house and came nose to nose with Jerome.

His breath caught in his throat. The walker's milky blue eyes held his gaze for a split second, then it continued staggering across the lawn.

Stunned and shaken, Jerome slumped against the house, blinking after the walker in shock. There were no 'rules' in the apocalypse, but he couldn't see any reason why he hadn't just been devoured. Then, he saw it - or rather, smelled it - his clothes and skin were still covered with walker muck from where he and Yuka cleared a path to the house.

From head to toe, Jerome was caked with brown, coagulated blood, grayed brain matter, and who knew what else. He definitely smelled like one of them, and apparently that was enough for a biter to decide he wasn't worth eating.

Suddenly, Jerome didn't mind being covered in filth. He was grateful for it.

He pulled the note from his pocket and squinted at his scribbles. Between the dark, the shaking of his hands, and the snowflakes saturating the paper, it wasn't easy. Finally, he read, left at the first turn, right at the next turn, then straight. Jerome tucked the note away and kept a hand on the hammer hanging on his belt loop, just in case the walkers decided he didn't smell too bad after all.

He traveled through the backyard and onto the street, stepping as carefully as he could to muffle his steps. Most of the walkers still milled around the front yard, and he was glad to leave them behind.

He went up the road as fast as he could without drawing attention. His eyes darted around every few seconds, expecting walkers to appear anywhere, and they soon did. They lingered in the darkened corners of yards and side streets, but they paid little mind to Jerome. He turned left and then right, and once he was onto the long street where he was just supposed to go straight, all he could do was pray he was on track.

Soon enough, a building two or three stories higher than any of the others around it loomed ahead.