(A/N: Hello, readers! I'm back with another chapter! Enjoy :)

Dearest reviewers...

Rasha007: He's closer than you think... ;)

enchatmentanjel: Haha thank you! Negan is my crazy brother from another mother, it seems, because I just love writing for him. :P

An Amber Pen: I'm trying to stick true with TWD's shock factor and those "omg, did they really just do that?" moments! :D Don't you love when TWD throws those awesome twists at you (except when one of your favorite characters dies *cries over Shane and Merle*) Bree's gotta learn fast but she's a quick study! After all, she's a drama major!

And on with the story...

CH. 8: Bree - Back in the Wild

Doubt comes with the cold breeze of the night.

I shiver in my light jacket and pull the soft fabric tighter around my body. It doesn't help much.

Somehow, I managed to survive those three weeks in the wilderness before but it hadn't been this cold back then. The knowledge of creating fire hadn't been necessary. Tonight, it was an absolute necessity. The cold was biting at every inch of my body like a teething puppy, keeping me from shutting my eyes and getting some much-needed rest.

I shiver as another round of cold wind pushes against me. I snuggle back in the rotted log I found for shelter and try to keep warm by rubbing my arms. If only my arms were two sticks. The termite infested wood makes a good shelter against the wind, but I can't help but to think that it might be better used as firewood.

Unfortunately, I don't know how to make a fire. I curse my lack of survival skills and snuggle closer against the wood. Negan offered to teach me some day. We were hiking through the forest together and he was busy listing off all of his survival skills. "Starting a fire was the first thing my old man taught me," he boasted.

No, not Negan.

My fingers curl in at the memory of the sadistic madman and I start to hyperventilate. I clutch at my face. My eyes bulge, my face grows hot, my breathing gets more rapid and shallow and suddenly… I'm back in the basement of one of the factories of Sanctuary.

Blood is spattered across the grey cement floor in puddles of red and drip down the walls in thick, bleeding lines. Harry's mutilated corpse is in the middle of the room, staring up at me. He's little more than mushy clumps of disheveled flesh hanging on to broken bones. His one blue eye is staring up at me, accusing me, yelling at me, screaming at me:

You threw this party.

I was killed because of you.

It's your fault.

My hands and knees hit the floor. "I didn't mean for you to die, Harry!" I sob at the corpse. "I just wanted you to feel proud of yourself. I didn't want you to get hurt…!"

Harry doesn't bat an eye, doesn't move a lip, and yet I still hear him speak as clear as day.

Liar.

The word bounces off of the walls and multiplies into a thousand "liar's". It fills the room like static, clogging my ears up until it's the only sound I can hear. I grab my ears and squeeze my eyes shut but I can still hear Harry, and this horrible squishing noise, and Lucille crashing down onto his body over and over and over and….

I scream.

I'm not sure how long my scream lasts but when I open my eyes, I'm back in the forest, still lying down inside of a rotted log.

My eyes dart around me, expecting to see the blood-soaked basement but only termites greet me. Their little white forms inch around the dead wood, oblivious to the nightmare of flashback I just experienced.

I break into uneven, ragged sobs that hurt my throat. Clutching at fistfuls of my dark hair, I rock inside of the rotten log and whisper, "I'm so sorry, Harry! I'm so sorry. It is my fault…."

The hoot of an owl snaps me out of my hysterics. I sit up on my elbows and listen. Thankfully, nothing else makes a noise. The wind picks up again, blowing right through the opening of the log. I shiver and curl into a ball until all I can see is darkness.

Okay, Bree. Let's pretend we're at a beach, why don't we? There's sand under my feet, the warm, bright sun over my head, people clad in a wide variety of brightly-colored bathing suits, and the ocean's lapping at my toes.

I'm not alone in the middle of the forest with a crazy murderer looking for me, maybe even close to finding me. I'm not about to starve to death because I have absolutely no food with me. I'm not about to freeze because I never learned the most basic of survival skills.

I'm not the reason that an innocent man was savagely beaten to death.

I let out a strangled sob and shove my face into my hands. I don't expect any tears to come and they don't. I've cried myself completely dry. I just heave and whimper and shake.

Something rustles in the distance and it sounds big, much bigger than an owl. I lower my hands from my face and lean my head up so that I can hear a bit better. Another noise, this time closer. Yes, it's definitely something big, human-sized at least.

Oh no. Please, don't let it be Negan. Please, with all of my heart, I pray that it's not Negan.

A familiar groaning noise sounds through the clearing, followed closely by dragging footsteps. I relax but only for a moment. I know that it's a Puppet now but that's only better by a small margin. My scream from earlier must have drawn him out of the forest. I curse at my own stupidity and start thinking fast.

Quietly, I reach into the darkness for my bag. Once I touch its smooth surface, I plunge my quivering hand inside and fish out my pocket knife. I pull it in front of me and fidget with the thing until I get the blade to flip out.

Escape is my first and really my only plan, never mind the flimsy knife in my hand. I've never actually had to face off with one of these things. I'm pretty sure it's going to take a lot more than just a little pocket knife to take down a Puppet of that size.

If it's a Puppet. I have to check and make sure.

I scoot to one side of the log and peer out just enough to get a glimpse of the clearing.

Sure enough, there's a Puppet. It's a giant one, too. He lumbers into the clearing like a baby just learning how to walk, smacking at the air, head twisting from side to side.

Ugh, these things are disgusting. This one's intestines are hanging out of his fleshy gut and flop around like a bunch of wet noodles. All of that excess weight causes him to stumble a few times, but he doesn't let that stop him. He wobbles to the center of the clearing and stops there. His nose goes in the air and he inhales. A second later, his dead eyes fall on my log.

Oh crap.

I quickly duck back inside and scramble into a sitting position. My heart is drumming away at my ribcage, ready to take the leap right out of my throat. I can hear the overweight Puppet making its way over to me. His excited, hungry groans are getting closer. I wrap my arms around my knees and whimper.

The world suddenly becomes silent. No more wheezing, no more dragging—nothing. I lean my head back against the log and mutter a thousand and two prayers to God, knowing that He's going to hear one of them. A tear finally falls out of my eye and drips down my nose. It lands squarely on my trembling bottom lip. I lick up the salty tear and continue to pray.

A pair of fat hands take a sudden dive into the opening on the left side of the log. They claw wildly in the air, trying to scoop out the meal they know that's inside.

Holding back a scream, I scoot away from that opening and position myself closer to the other side. I stare at the rotting wood above my head, my knife pressed against my chest. I blink away tears and try to keep my panicked breathing down to a minimum.

Please, just go away and leave me alone. Please don't—

I let out a shrill scream as the fat creature dives headfirst into the log. His short arms make a grab for my leg. He's able to latch onto my ankle, but I shake him off. I scoot away and try to crawl out of the opposite hole, only to find it blocked by yet another Puppet. Its rotten face snaps at my face and I'm forced to go back the other way. I scramble backwards, using the heels of my sneakers to push my body, and scream as the first Puppet grabs onto a handful of my hair.

I slam my hand over my mouth to stifle my screaming. I don't want to draw any more of these things. I wince as the monster gives my hair a sharp tug in his direction. My eyes widen as I see it lowering his salivating mouth to my exposed throat. Drool and brown blood drip on me in a disgusting fountain of muck.

Mustering up all of my strength, I drive my knife through the monster's chin. It shoves up through his mouth, stopping him from taking a chunk out of my throat. With a cry, I give the knife a twist and pull down, towards my waist. The monster only utters a low moan as his bottom jaw flies away from his face in a burst of spittle and gore. His giant tongue lolls out of his disfigured face now, dripping grossness on my face. He dives in for another try at my neck, never mind the fact that he might not be able to eat me without use of the bottom half of his face.

I scream again as my knife, now seeming to have a mind of its own, reenters his skull. This time, the knife enters his eyes. The monster utters a gruff growl and releases my hair. I use the moment to scramble away from him, taking my knife and his detached eye with me. The other Puppet still hasn't managed to get into the log, so I won't worry about him for now. All of my attention is on this guy.

My foot connects with what's left of his head. His head smashes against the roof of the log. My foot connects again and again until all that's left of his head is a mashed, bloody pulp. I give one final kick and split the roof of the log apart. I sink back and breathe heavily, taking in the damage that I caused to the creature.

My first kill. I don't know how to feel about it. I'm happy to have survived, but seeing that human shaped creature's still body steals some of my joy and exchanges it for guilt.

My stomach protests at the leftover brain dotting the log and I have to look away. I still have another Puppet to deal with, even if I don't like it.

It turns out that Puppet #2 is the least of my problems.

All of the racket has drawn more of the creatures out of the woods and they're all headed for me. There has to be at least twenty of them, stumbling out of the forestry and into the clearing.

I scramble out of the collapsing log and dash out of the clearing with my duffel bag in tow. I can hear the decaying bodies rushing after me. I dive through the woods, dodging low-hanging branches and upturned roots. The shuffling shrubbery and growls tells me that they're still hot on my trail. I continue running.

I'm just thinking that I've put a good enough distance between the Puppets and I when I find myself falling over another one. My foot catches on the Puppet's lying down form and I land flat on my face in the dirt. I spit the dirt away and scramble up on my feet. My hand desperately searches for my pocket knife.

I hold it up once I find it and point it at the cursing Puppet.

Wait… Cursing? Since when did these things learn how to talk?

I lower the knife as the "Puppet" climbs to its feet, still cursing at me. It's not until he opens his tired blue eyes that I realize that this thing is definitely not one of the undead.

Who could this blue-eyed, foul-mouthed stranger be? ;)

Thanks for reading and have a blessed day!