A/N: Hey everyone! If this is your first time seeing one of my stories, I recommend you go read the first volume of Survive first. These stories focus exclusively on my own original characters, so it'll make a lot more sense that way. Plus it's a pretty good story if I do say so myself.

This is the continuation of that and I'm really excited to share. Thank you for reading, and please drop a review when you're done!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just for fun.

Anchorage was dark.

It wasn't like anyone expected the place to be thriving, street lights on and heat in every home. But as the small convoy of Ben Wallace's group drove into town, every one of their hearts dropped.

The short school bus, brown Buick, and battered old truck rolled slowly through thick expanses of undisturbed snow. There were just as many cars piled up or abandoned as there were in Fairbanks. Snow drifts were taller than the bumpers in some parts, blown up against storefronts three or four feet high in other places.

Many buildings were black, burnt out, and collapsing, a stark reminder of the chaos that had ensued once people realized how bad things were going to get. Bricks and jagged, broken planks of sooty wood peeked out from beneath the snow here and there.

There were no signs that anyone was left, certainly nothing to indicate that the military had lasted. Life and light were gone. Eaten up by a black cloud so much bigger than any of them, bigger than anyone realized. All that was left was death and rubble. Death in the form of walkers, death in the form of bodies wrapped in sheets piled outside of schools and hospitals.

Leftovers of a time that was quickly becoming nothing more than a memory were mixed in amongst it all. Missing pet flyers stapled to telephone poles, the paper faded and torn. Summer yard ornaments, flamingos and plastic flowers, now half-buried beneath the snow. Cheerful bumper stickers boasting a family's accomplishments and interests.

None of it fit. Ben would have been more comfortable if the whole city had been reduced to ash. At least then it would've made sense.

He was disappointed, of course. But not crushed. He'd suspected from the start that this was how it was going to be, but knowing for sure that he was right was a whole different thing.

It was easy for him to keep a level voice and reassure the others as panic set in. Keisha's tears had barely ceased since her husband had died, less than two days ago, but she openly wept once it became clear there was nowhere for them to go.

"What are we going to do?" she'd cried, squeezing her wide-eyed, eight-year-old daughter against her side.

"We keep going." Ben didn't look away from the white, congested road ahead.

"To where?" Lauren's voice was weak, her energy stolen by the gunshot wound in her thigh. It hadn't even begun to heal, and she was showing it, her skin a downright sickly pale.

"I don't know yet." Ben swallowed hard. "But we'll be okay."

The Buick took the lead with Rachel behind the wheel. She ushered them to all the places she was familiar with as an Anchorage native, and their morale plummeted even lower with each one.

The church near where she grew up had all doors and windows boarded over, and there was a large red X spray-painted across the plank on the door. Several of the neighborhoods they passed through bore the signs of past rioting, with broken windows, spray-painted graffiti about them being left to die, and even a few charred cars.

Ben was on edge due to the silence, biting his lip and glancing from one side of the road to the other frequently. Two of the windows on the bus had been busted during the events at the Fairbanks City Hall, allowing fresh air inside, and providing no barrier against sound. Even so, there was nothing.

No people. No cars. No rumbling from generators. Nothing that said civilization had survived.

Their last bit of hope flickered and died as they reached their last-ditch effort, the one thing that had kept Ben, and especially Rachel, going: the two military bases.

They had avoided the area at first, knowing good and well it could've been overrun. So when they circled back around to the far northern end of town, where massive expanses of land surrounded by tall fences topped with barbed wire gave way to complicated compounds the size of some villages around Alaska, nobody was surprised by what they found...nothing.

The fences were collapsed in some places, rammed down by cars. In other areas, the deep divots in the ground proved where vehicles had been trying to get out, while in other places, it was clear some had tried to get in. Even from the road, the slow, meandering forms of walkers were clearly visible near the buildings.

The Chugach mountains stood tall in the distance, broad and spiky, providing a far too scenic backdrop for the collapsed hellhole Anchorage had become. They appeared pink in the afternoon sun, the tall spruces casting strange shadows.

At this stage of winter, it seemed like the sun hardly ever appeared. The days were so short, offering few and precious hours of daylight. Ben estimated it was barely past 3 PM, and soon it would be night.

He thought they would at least find refuge from the worst of an Alaskan winter, but instead Anchorage was far snowier than Fairbanks had been. The mountains made for a less severe winter by shielding the city from much of the severe cold, but now even that wasn't a plus - the cold was the only shot they were going to get at refuge from the walkers.

Now, here they were. Anchorage was dark. And there was nowhere left to run.

By the time the group found somewhere to stay for the night, the moon was peeking out from thick clouds in the black sky.

It was nothing special, just a three-floor apartment building they had found in a relatively walker-free part of town. When the issue of making sure the place was safe came up, Ben realized for the first time just how screwed they were.

Carmen and Lauren were hurt, and though they both pushed themselves and were willing - if not eager - to take care of walkers, Ben wouldn't allow it. If he was being honest, his reluctance wasn't out of genuine concern so much as the fact he needed them back at one hundred percent as soon as possible, and delaying that at all was foolish.

The past few days had taken a toll on Peggy and Marvin, the two oldest members of the group. They were both irritable and winced a lot; sleeping in trucks or on the bus wasn't good for old bones, nor was the cold.

And then there was Keisha and Jerome. Jesus, where would he even begin with them? Ben had been getting the feeling like he was walking on paper-thin ice whenever they were around. Both of them were fragile, mentally battered by Fairbanks. He was reluctant to ask for their help, and sometimes he even forgot they were around. They hardly spoke while on the road.

Ben still wasn't even sure what all had happened...or more accurately, what Jerome had done. He wouldn't say, beyond admitting he'd killed Lancaster. The only one that even gave a shit about that was Samantha, who Ben couldn't wait to get rid of.

Or so he thought.

He had had every intention of dropping that girl off at the first clear part of town they found, and then he caved.

The night before they finally made it to the city, when they'd stopped for the night and got out to make sure the woods surrounding them were clear, the subject had come up.

"There's no telling what we're gonna find tomorrow," Marvin had said, his breath an icy cloud in the dim evening light. "What are you going to do about Samantha?"

Ben rolled his eyes, glancing at Jerome, whose expression gave away nothing. "I think I've already made that clear," he replied. Carmen and Samantha had been kept separate the entire journey, Carmen in the Buick with Jerome, Rachel, and Emma while Ben had the joy of Samantha on the bus with him.

All she'd done for two days was snark and whine. She clearly didn't want to go out on her own, and yet just wouldn't keep her yap shut. "Captain" Lancaster had clearly done a number on her during their brief time together, because Samantha absolutely would not let up about how great he was and how Jerome had single-handedly ruined Alaska now.

She was so consumed by that, in fact, that Ben had started to think she'd gotten over Carmen leaving her behind...until they all pulled over to regroup and they came face to face. Samantha wouldn't let up, calling her a traitor and a murderer and injecting comments anywhere she could get them in until Peggy finally told her to shut up.

The whole time, Carmen refused to acknowledge her. It was quite a change from her usual hair-trigger temper, but it told Ben what he had suspected all along - there was more to her than met the eye.

But Samantha? She was just as she'd always seemed: weak. A coward. She offered nothing to them but trouble. Ben was ready to be rid of her, relieve their weakened and vulnerable group of some dead weight.

He would've, too. He came close. And then, Jerome spoke up, as they were trudging slowly through the sparse woods.

"We can't make her go," he'd said, voice quiet and rough. "We all know she'll die."

Ben scoffed. "Yeah, but do we care?"

Jerome turned to him coldly. "I sure hope so. Otherwise, you might as well drive right back to Fairbanks and put on a National Guard uniform."

That had sealed it. If Jerome, the one she had pointed a gun at, could be so compassionate, then Ben figured he'd better muster some give-a-damn as well.

Still, when it came time to clear the apartments, it wasn't Samantha that stepped up. Ben and Jerome wound up being the ones to put their lives on the line, going through each hallway and room with nothing more than a flashlight and pistol apiece. There was no one else to help. Ben wasn't about to let his father do it, he wouldn't have trusted anyone else but people who were too injured to help, and he wanted someone to keep watch outside, too.

That role went to Rachel and Peggy. They stood atop the short bus with rifles while Ben and Jerome were checking out the building.

Thankfully, there wasn't much to find. Every floor had two or three walkers, but they were disposed of before they ever had a chance to cause a real threat.

Jerome seemed to have gotten over his reluctance to kill walkers pretty quickly, Ben noted. He supposed being responsible for the death of a real person put things into perspective.

It wasn't long before the group had hauled what meager belongings they had left into the apartments, and went to one of two neighboring apartments. Most of them weren't thrilled about having to sleep on the floor or share beds when there was a whole floor of apartments to choose from, but Ben wanted everyone kept close.

They couldn't separate again. Bad shit always went down when they were separate.

Once everyone was settled in for the night, they sat awake in a small living room. The soft glow of Ben's lantern on the coffee table somehow made them all look even worse. It cast an eeriness against them, darkening the bruises on Jerome's face and highlighting the tear-stained cheeks of Aaliyah and Keisha. The dark shadows of exhaustion that enveloped them all seemed even heavier.

Ben, lounging on the couch, lightly drummed his fingers on the armrest. "Well," he began, his voice too loud after such a long, grim silence. "I think it goes without saying we can't stay here forever."

"We still have options." Peggy sat in a recliner chair across from the couch, her feet propped up on the table.

Marvin crossed his arms. He sat beside Ben, and shared a look of apprehension with his son. "Look, I tried to hang onto some hope when we were heading here, but I think it's time we face facts...we're on our own. But the good news is, that's nothing new." He gave a forced, encouraging smile. "We'll be okay."

Keisha sucked in a gasping breath, tears streaming down her cheeks. Despite how distraught she was outwardly, her voice was level. "How can you say that? We're already not okay," she said, adjusting Aaliyah's position on her lap. "We have nothing, we have nowhere to go, we've lost too much."

Ben said, "The alternative is giving up and we're not gonna do that, so trust me...dad's right. We'll be okay."

Peggy guffawed. "Trust you?"

A stillness immediately spread through the room. Everybody froze, and there was such a silence Ben could hear his own heartbeat. He frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Peggy," Rachel warned, shoving off from her position leaning against the wall. "Now is not the time."

Peggy crossed her arms. "Come on, are we all supposed to act like we didn't hear him screaming at Lauren in the woods about how much he hates having to deal with us?"

Ben's throat constricted a mix of embarrassment and anger sending behind it. He had suspected his conversation with Lauren may have been overheard but this wasn't how he expected it to come out. "That's not how it was," he said, his tone wavering.

"Okay." Peggy scoffed.

Ben sighed. He didn't want to deal with this. It was like a weight bearing down against his chest. "If you really want to get into this, save it for another time. We're all too tired and bitchy to think straight right now."

"So you're not even going to deny it?" Peggy questioned, her icy gaze holding him like a snare.

He clenched his jaw and met her eyes. "I never said you shouldn't trust me."

Peggy started to laugh, then Rachel took a step forward and said, "Enough. None of us knows the whole story and now isn't the time to get into it. So far, Ben hasn't done wrong by any of us."

Ben tensed, waiting for someone to mention how he almost left Clarence and Lauren to fend for themselves against walkers to save his own ass...but no one did. Clarence was dead, and Lauren was resting, healing from a gunshot wound. For now, that was one thing that didn't have to be drudged up again.

"Thank you," he said quietly, nodding to Rachel.

She relaxed a little, crossing her arms. "All I know is we need to stick together. We can't push forward if we don't."

Marvin said, "I know we don't want to admit it Peggy, but come on - me and you couldn't make it on our own."

She just curled her lip and gave no further response.

Rachel began to pace a little bit, causing Jerome to frown. She avoided his eyes and cleared her throat. "I know we can't stay here long, but...I was hoping at least for tomorrow we could just rest here." She stood facing Ben, a blatantly pleading expression on her face. "My...my sister and her husband's house is just a few blocks away."

Peggy huffed. "I thought you just said we need to stick together."

"We are," she snapped. "I'm not asking anybody to do anything but rest tomorrow and give me a chance to look for my family."

Jerome, who had spent the entire exchange half dozing off at the opposite end of the couch, shot to his feet. His eyes were wide, and his face was twisted by bewilderment. "What the hell?" he asked, sidling up to Rachel. "Were you not going to mention this to me?"

She shrank under his scrutiny, eyeing the floor. "It's no big deal. I just want to check on them."

"You're not going alone," he said. "No way. We have no idea what kind of bullshit has gone on in this city, if it's anything like Fairbanks."

Marvin said, "It's family, I get it. But can't you wait a few days?"

"I have waited long enough." Rachel raised her head, her eyes cold. "I don't want to put this off on anyone else."

Ben shook his head. "No one should be on their own anymore. I'll go with you to check on them in the morning."

"No," Marvin said firmly. "You need to be here with everyone else. I'll go. And I know damn well Jerome is coming along. The three of us can handle it."

Some of the tension faded then, as no one had any objections. Jerome relaxed a little bit. "I guess that settles it," he said lightly, turning to Marvin. "But are you sure you want to do this?"

Marvin shrugged. "I was already your chauffeur once, it wasn't bad."

The next morning, after a quick breakfast of cold, canned fruit, Rachel talked Jerome into finally letting her look him over. If he had any cuts or scrapes, the last thing anyone needed was someone else at risk for an infection, and besides, Rachel was just tired of watching him wince every time he moved.

She unpacked a handful of things she thought might be necessary - antibiotic ointment, bandaids, butterfly bandages - and led him over to the ottoman before the window, where the sunlight flooded in bright and warm.

"Alright, strip," she said.

Jerome stiffly removed his top layers, tossing aside the grubby jacket and shirt to reveal various bruises across his lean torso. Rachel gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth.

"My God," she breathed, gently tracing a finger over his battered ribs, where dark purple splotches marred his pale skin.

"I got most of those just trying to outrun biters," he said, then jutted his jaw meaningfully. "This is what hurts."

At least the swelling had gone down, but Rachel still cringed at the angry red mark that crept out of his beard and up his cheek. "Well, unfortunately, I don't think I can do anything for you," she said, planting her hands on her hips. "You look terrible, though. I think maybe you should hang back today and rest."

He chuckled and swept past her to retrieve his clothes, pecking her on the cheek as he went. "You aren't getting rid of me that easy. I'm just a little banged up."

Keisha emerged from the hallway wrapped in a thick red robe. Her black hair was pulled up into a wispy bun that she patted at as she walked. "Oh, Jerome," she scolded, hurrying over to take his shirt out of his hands. "Don't put that filthy thing back on, I'm going to wash some clothes today."

"You don't have to," Jerome said. "I'm sure you've got better things to do than my laundry."

Her solemn gaze fell to the floor. "Not really. I'm glad to do anything that'll keep my mind busy."

Rachel frowned. She was sure it had been months since anywhere in Anchorage had running water, just like Fairbanks. She asked, "How are you going to do that?"

Keisha opened her mouth to reply, then her shoulders slumped. A look of knowing came to her face. "What am I thinking?" She asked no one in particular, shaking her head. "For goodness sakes, we're three hundred miles from the creek." She was still clutching Jerome's shirt and grimaced once she realized.

"It still won't hurt me to put on something clean," he said, gently taking it back and tossing it over by the ottoman. He smiled at her before starting down the hall.

Keisha swallowed thickly, and her tired eyes were still cemented to Jerome's clothes. Rachel was at a loss as to why they bothered her so much, and then the answer struck her like a bolt of lightning.

Those were the very clothes Jerome was wearing when he came tearing into the board-room-turned-holding cell at the City Hall and told Keisha her husband was dead. Where the blood on them came from was still a mystery, and Rachel didn't see any way to bring up the possibility it wasn't Clarence's without making things worse.

Instead, she went over and pulled the shirt from the floor, then pushed the window open and flung it out. "There," she said, quickly pulling the window back down before any more cold air got in. "There was no getting the filth out of that, anyway."

Keisha closed her eyes gratefully, then headed back to the bedroom.

Marvin sat sandwiched between Rachel and Jerome in Peggy's truck. Every bump and pothole it passed over jarred his bones, sending electric strikes of pain up and down his back.

With each pang and jolt, he had to fight a little harder to remain blank. He refused to wince or cringe or give any sign that he wasn't just as able-bodied as he was when he was thirty.

Things were bad, maybe worse than they'd ever been. They didn't have the seclusion of the woods to hide in anymore, surrounded by food courtesy of mother nature. They had given up isolation in a gamble to find something better, and they had lost. Everyone was gonna have to pull their weight, even the old birds, and Marvin didn't want anyone thinking he couldn't. He wouldn't allow it again. Not for one second.

Ben had been breathing down his neck enough, acting like he was ninety rather than in his mid-sixties. He was still strong, still capable. Peggy was the old one. Truthfully, Marvin was a few years older, but the difference was he could still take care of himself. He was as steady with a gun as he ever was, and the cold didn't bother him.

The entire truck shook as the tires clipped something fairly large beneath the snow - a tree limb, or perhaps a corpse for all they knew.

"Shit," Marvin snapped, his lower back throbbing sharply.

Rachel glanced at him apologetically, then returned her eyes to the road. With all of the debris and forgotten vehicles, she couldn't afford to avert her attention any more than that.

Jerome reluctantly cleared his throat. "Um...you wanna switch seats, Marvin? Might not be so bad if you aren't crammed in the middle."

He shook his head. "I'm fine," he said.

He could take care of himself, at least when it came to walkers, when it mattered. It was these damn Anchorage roads that were gonna take him out, but nobody needed to know that.

The combination of abandoned cars and wind had created a strange phenomenon with the snow. Drifts were in a sort of U-shape throughout, high on the sides and lower in the middle of the road.

Marvin had been keeping an eye on it all along, and wasn't surprised when the truck jerked to a stop. The engine revved as the tires skidded and spun against the icy, cruny snow beneath the fluffy surface layer.

"Whoa, careful." Marvin put a hand on Rachel's denim-clad arm. "You don't want to get this thing stuck, believe me."

"We're not far now, just another mile or two." Rachel alternated between the break and the gas, spinning the steering wheel back and forth in an effort to get the tires to find purchase. They abruptly caught and then the truck surged forward a few feet before Rachel slammed the brakes.

The three passengers lurched forward, their chests almost hitting the dashboard, then slammed back against the seat. Marvin and Jerome cut their driver dirty looks.

Rachel shrugged sheepishly. "I'm not used to this truck."

Marvin eyed the road ahead, his chest tightening with anxiousness. In some places, the snow was two or three feet high. That was going to strain the engine, plus they had no idea if there was anything beneath that could puncture the tires.

He ran a hand over his scratchy, stubbly jaw. "How close are we Rachel?"

"About two miles out now."

"Then I think we'd be better off walking." When she looked at him quizzically, he motioned towards the road with a sweep of his hand. "We're gonna get stuck, or blow out a tire on all this damn trash."

Rachel slammed her fists against the steering wheel. "Dammit!"

Jerome's eyes widened. "What? You said it's not far."

"Are you forgetting my brother-in-law's in a wheelchair? I don't think it'll do well in four feet of snow."

Marvin's attempts at stoicism lost against the shock of learning Rachel had a disabled relative. His brows nearly hit his hairline. Unless there were people helping him at all times, there was no way he could have survived. Escaping walkers and bad people was hard and taxing.

How were they supposed to accommodate a disabled man when their own situation was such a mess?

Jerome leaned forward, peering through the icy windshield with narrowed eyes. "This isn't a gated community, is it?"

Confusion spread across Rachel's face, lessening the lines of irritation around her eyes. "No."

"Then what the hell is that?"

Marvin blinked, trying to fight the natural fuzziness that came with sight at his age. Some sort of barrier stood in the distance. There was a tall chain-link fence topped with twisted barbed wire. Part of it had collapsed in two places, one spot beneath a large, broken tree limb, and the other just mysteriously caved inward. Concrete barriers and neon orange traffic drums peeked out of the snow in some places.

"I don't understand," Rachel said. "This wasn't here before."

"I didn't think so," Jerome said. "Something is wrong. Maybe this is something the National Guard set up, but it's ruined now."

Rachel paused, then decisively unbuckled her seatbelt. "I have to make sure."

Jerome sighed, shared a long-suffering look with Marvin, then threw the door open and bustled out.

"Just slow down," Marvin said, hot on their heels. Rachel was already trudging through the snowdrifts, high stepping like she was in a marching band. "You don't know what - " As Marvin raised his voice, the cold seared his lungs and clutched his chest, making him break off into a coughing fit.

Jerome was just a few feet ahead and turned around. "Whoa, you alright there?"

"Yeah," Marvin said, coughing one final time as he caught his breath.

The blindingly white ground between them began to move, and before Marvin even had time to think, something was gripping his calf. He yelled out and lurched backwards, and yet whatever was attached to him didn't budge. Marvin slammed into the snow, so deep it blocked his peripheral vision.

The snow rippled further and the icy head of a walker emerged. Its eyes were all but frozen, mouth stuck agape. It sluggishly moved towards Marvin's calf, weak grunts coming from deep in its throat.

Jerome's boots skidded against the ice as he charged over, blindly shoving his hands into the snow. He grabbed the walker by its torso and heaved it aside. It crashed against the truck and haltingly raised its arm, but Jerome already had driven his knife into its head before it had time to do much else.

Leaving the knife behind, Jerome rushed back to Marvin, who was still laying on his back, stunned. "You alright?" He demanded, eyes round.

Rachel hurried towards them as fast as she could with the drifts almost reaching her knees. "What happened? I thought you guys were right behind me."

"Biter under the snow," Jerome said. He took Marvin's hand and helped him to his feet.

"Shit," Rachel said, eyeing the ground around them.

Jerome shook his head and started to brush the snow from Marvin, but Marvin gently swatted his hand away. "Stop mother-henning me," he said, without any harshness. "I'm fine. But I'm not so sure we should keep going."

Rachel's jaw dropped. "I am not turning back when we're this close. They could be right there," she said, pointing towards the road behind them. "After all this time, I have to know. Alive or dead or…" she glanced at the walker, knife still jammed in its head, skin all taut and grayed. "Somewhere in between. I need to know."

"Honey, we can't even see," Jerome pleaded. "We'll figure something out and come back."

Rachel shook her head. "I can use the cars, climb on them, leap from one to the other if I have to."

Jerome huffed. "And what about once you're inside that fence?"

"I'll figure it out," Rachel said firmly.

Jerome crossed his arms. "Rachel, please. Whatever happened wasn't good. If Natalie and Chris are here, you don't want to see them."

Rachel's face hardened. The rosy tint to her cheeks grew, blossoming at the edges. Marvin half expected to see smoke coming from her ears. Then finally, she threw her hands up and stomped back towards the truck.

"I guess that's it then," she said.

Jerome was right behind her in an instant. "I'm sorry, but we can't do this. We have to think about Emma. If she loses us both - "

"I can go," Rachel snapped, whirling around so quickly Jerome almost barreled her over before he had time to stop. "I never asked you to come to begin with. I can take care of myself." She shook her head, then started around the front of the truck, her steps heavy. She wasn't quite out of earshot when she muttered, "Knew you couldn't handle it."

Jerome's shoulders fell and he made no further move to follow. He just stood there, staring after her.

Marvin briefly closed his eyes out of exasperation. They didn't need this. More fighting, more bullshit. He sighed, something in chest twinging deeply, and lumbered over to Jerome. "She's just emotional because it's her family," he told him quietly.

For a long moment, Jerome gave no response. Then, he shook his head. "No," he said. "That's not it."

Rachel had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel block after block. Her hands trembled and trembled, a side effect of the anger brewing up inside of her.

How dare he? They got so close. She had been minutes away from possibly finding out the fate of her closest family members, whether they had died in their house within that strange barricaded street, or escaped. Her sister Natalie was smart and would know Rachel would try to reach her eventually, she may have even left a note somewhere.

So close.

To be forced to turn around and spend more nights wondering, mulling over every possible outcome for the millionth time, was torture.

Rachel knew it was just because he cared, and it was a valid point that they couldn't take any chances. Emma did need them both, she'd never argue that.

But sometimes, it felt like Jerome was always getting in the way. It took him too long to accept that walkers weren't people and had to die. He still refused to take the world for what it was and wouldn't allow their daughter to learn to protect herself. One shooting lesson, that was all he had allowed. They hadn't had time to do more. Had he loosened up earlier, Emma could've already known how to handle a weapon of her own.

And of course they couldn't go right to her sister's house after Fort McAdams fell apart, he decided Red Fox Creek was better. And what did they get out of it? Nothing. A smelly old trailer that a bunch of other people were constantly treating like their own, hardly any food, no running water. In the end, it wasn't even safe from walkers.

Look at this place, the voice in her head said. You wouldn't have been any better off had you got your way.

Rachel looked at Jerome out of the corner of her eye. There he sat, the love of her life. Handsome as ever with those big brown eyes. His hair, dark with just a hint of gray now, got shaggier by the day.

He had the biggest heart she'd ever seen. That was the true reason she loved him. He loved her, wholly and truly, and it shone through everything he ever did. He loved the world, until the world chewed him up and spit him out. She and Emma were everything to him.

She knew he was struggling. He wouldn't survive if he lost his family, and neither would she. But the cost of keeping themselves and those they loved alive only seemed to grow.

There was nothing to say. All three of them in that truck knew that there was no winning.

Rachel drove on towards the apartment building, heading into one of Anchorage's many business districts. Old-timey storefronts lined the streets, mostly brick or siding. Several of them had busted windows or boarded up doors - or both. Some had strange symbols spray painted on them that looked vaguely familiar, x's with circles and numbers.

As Rachel turned a corner, she hardly had time to register the scene beyond the truck before she instinctively slammed on the breaks.

"Shit," Marvin said.

Ahead of them, a newer pickup truck had skidded through the snow and was now half inside of a building. Some boutique, judging by the mannequins and loose clothes spilling out the destroyed storefront. Bricks and support beams covered the hood and roof of the truck, deeply denting it.

Two men stood outside, fending off the many slow-moving walkers approaching them.

One of the men, a slim guy with dishwater blonde hair and a youthful face, spotted them first. His eyes met Rachel's and his face lit up. "Help!" He hollered. "Help, please! Ray's trapped and hurt!"

Rachel's gaze moved back to the truck and she could just make out a slumped form in the passenger seat, laying half against the dashboard, blood drenching his shoulder and running down his side.

"Shit," Marvin repeated. "What now?"

Jerome cursed under his breath and unbuckled his seatbelt. "We have to help. There are only about eight biters, six people can handle that better than two."

"That's not the worst math." Marvin nodded. "Let's go."

Rachel could've left right then. She wanted to. It would have been all too easy to pull a U-turn and let these people sort out their own mess.

And for that very reason, she got out of the truck.

She didn't bother closing the door behind her, instead taking the precious seconds to raise her gun. She took down a walker approaching the young man with two shots.

The other man was a bit older and bulkier. He wore dark sunglasses and had an auburn beard nearly half a foot long, the two of which concealed any emotion or expression that might have been on his face. He gripped a long knife and stood his ground at the tailgate. As each walker approached, he wrapped his gloved hand around its neck, stabbed it swiftly in the temple, then tossed it aside.

"Ah! No!" The younger man shrieked as two walkers nearly pinned him against the side of the truck. Jerome pulled one off and shoved it to the ground, allowing Marvin to put a rifle round through its head.

Rachel took down the last one with a single headshot, her bullet taking half its skull. More walkers were approaching from down the street, but they were so slow, it bought them some time.

"Please, hurry," the young man said. "Help us get him out."

The other man finally spoke, his voice low and monotone. "The passenger door is jammed."

As everyone started towards the truck, Rachel said, "We can't just yank him out. His injuries need to be assessed first. Depending on his wounds, if we remove him before he's stabilized, he'll bleed out before we can even cross the street."

"What do you know about it?" The older man asked snidely.

"I was an ER nurse," Rachel said, then began maneuvering her way around the debris. Where the snow had melted or been scattered by the tires, thick ice glistened against the sun. She picked her way through bricks and beams, placing a hand against the dented truck before resting just on the edge of the driver's seat.

The injured man, Ray, was leaned towards the dashboard, half buried by the deployed airbags. His knit cap was half off his head and the reddish hair beneath was completely caked in thick blood. It ran down his neck, had flooded his coat, and was splattered across his jeans.

Rachel began to wonder why he was so battered while the other two men barely had a scratch, and then she saw it - the seatbelt. The one that Ray should've been wearing. It still hung beside him, and definitely hadn't been buckled.

What little of his face that was visible had already begun to swell, thanks to a nasty gash at the corner of his eye.

The laundry list of possible - and likely - injuries he had raced through Rachel's mind. Blunt force trauma, obviously. Head trauma. Concussion, epidural hematoma, traumatic brain injury. Depending on when and how he hit the dashboard, he could have broken ribs, maybe even a punctured lung.

Rachel wouldn't have been surprised to learn he was already dead. But she felt along his clammy wrist and found a weak, slow pulse.

He wasn't a walker...yet. But he was going to need intensive care, medicine, and maybe even surgery for even a chance of survival. It was hard for Rachel to fully assess him in his current state, anyway. What she saw could've only been the tip of the iceberg.

Sighing, she backed out of the truck. The two strangers, Jerome, and Marvin stood waiting, staring at her expectantly.

"It's hard to say how severe his injuries are, but he's not looking good," she said. "We need to get him out of there and stabilized, fast."

The older man said, "Well, let's do it then." He stormed towards the truck, but Rachel threw an arm out to block him.

"Wait," she said. "You can't just yank him out. Jostle his head or neck wrong and it's all over. We've got to keep him steady. And then you're gonna need a shit load of medical supplies for him to even have a shot."

The strangers shared a look, then the younger one frowned. "Dusty," he said, his tone a strange mix of surprise and warning.

Dusty shook his head. "Don't even think about it, boy."

"It's your brother, what is wrong with you?"

"Connor," Dusty warned, but it was too late.

Connor zeroed in on Rachel, his blue eyes intense and worried. "We have tons of stuff," he blurted. "All kinds of medicine and doctor-y crap we never know what to do with."

"Oh," Rachel said, her eyebrows hitching upwards. She glanced from Dusty to Connor, and back. "Is it with you, or…"

Connor opened his mouth to reply, but Dusty shoved him, sending him toppling a few steps. "You keep your mouth shut, you hear me?"

Connor glowered at him. "We're not letting him die," he said, then turned his attention back to Rachel. "We have a place, way out in the woods. We're set up good. It's totally safe."

Dusty exhaled heavily and shook his head. "Jesus Christ," he snapped, slamming his fist against the side of the truck.

Rachel shared an apprehensive look with Marvin and Jerome. What was this turning into? Did Connor want her to go to this place "way out in the woods" with them? What was so special about it that Dusty seemed willing to let his brother die to keep it secret?

Marvin turned to Dusty, his eyes compassionate behind his glasses. "We're wasting time here," he said. "What is it you want?"

Connor demanded, "Let them help, Dusty." When Dusty just stood there, fists clenched, Connor grabbed him by the arm and hurled him towards the open driver's side door. He screamed, "Look at him! He's dying!"

Once Dusty's gaze landed on his brother, he couldn't look away. His face fell. He stared at Ray for a long moment, then whispered, "Okay."

"Okay what?" Jerome questioned.

"I'll take you to our safe house."

Rachel held her hands up. "Whoa, you are not driving our truck."

"Fine, I'll tell you where it is," Dusty said, swatting his hand dismissively. "I'll guide you. Whatever. Just help him, come on."

"Wait a minute," Marvin said, motioning wildly with his hands. "We never agreed to go anywhere. This is crazy, we don't know you people. We can't trust you."

"You won't regret it," Connor said. "We've got everything you could ever want now, and more."

It was hard to tell what Dusty was thinking, or even who he was looking at, with his sunglasses. But the firm rippling of his jaw and the presumed daggers he was shooting Connor's way said enough.

Finally, he agreed. "It's true. We'll...I guess we'll share a little if you can save my brother."

Rachel shifted uneasily, her boots crunching crumbly brick and shards of wood. She wasn't sure she believed them. There was no reason to. But this man needed help, and this clearly wasn't something they had planned.

She shook her head, still hesitant. "I never said I could save him, I can only try."

"You're the only person I know who could even do that much," Dusty said. "Now, let's go."

Ben sat at a round table in the kitchen. The mix of supplies that had been carelessly grabbed during their escape from the City Hall was laid out before him, nearly covering the frilly tablecloth.

There were five pistols and three long guns, but only seven magazines, and a dozen bullets that weren't the correct caliber for anything they had. They had two flashlights that needed D batteries, but someone had taken nothing but double A's.

A dumb move. They weren't good for anything but kid's toys and television remotes.

Then there was the matter of everything they'd lost. Their walkie talkies, most of their food...people.

Ben might not have known Brandon long, but his cheerful presence was missed. He left behind an innocent little boy, and a really pissed off sister.

Clarence's death had been a blow as well. Sure, Ben didn't love the guy, but he was tired of people he knew dying. They seemed to drop like flies around him. And for what? Just as he'd suspected deep down all along, there didn't seem to be anything in Anchorage that was worth leaving Fairbanks for. He felt confident Clarence wouldn't have had any better luck in Juneau, but Ben couldn't help but think none of this would've happened had he been the leader they needed.

Ben swallowed hard, willing the thoughts of self-blame away, and focused on finding enough bullets for his own gun. As he picked them out of the scattered piles and slipped them into the narrow magazine of his nine-millimeter, he occasionally glanced up to observe the others.

Adrian hopped about the living room, bouncing a green rubber ball off anything he saw. There wasn't much - whoever had lived here must have been minimalists. The couch and chair were a boring beige, the coffee table bare, the walls without a single picture or piece of decor.

Carmen limped close behind her nephew, growling and shaking a book at him. "Look," she said, her tone taut. "Doesn't this look fun? It's about trees and shit. Wouldn't you rather read this than keep running around?"

"No," Adrian replied, lightly kicking the ball against the couch. For a kid who had witnessed his father get bitten and then shot all of two days ago, Ben thought he was doing pretty well.

Keisha sat on the couch, sorting the wrinkled clothes from her and Aaliyah's duffel bag into neat stacks on the cushion beside her. A faint smile crossed her face as she watched Adrian.

"He's only five, isn't he?" She asked Carmen. "I think that book is a little beyond his level."

Carmen screwed her face up as she mocked Keisha, and tossed the book down on the table. "I don't know how Brandon did this," she said, striding into the kitchen. Adrian paid no mind to her and continued to play.

She looked at him one last time, then plopped down in the chair across from Ben. Her injured leg, poorly splinted with a crooked tree branch and duct tape, was splayed out awkwardly. "So," she began, drumming her hands in a clear space on the table. "Need any help?"

Ben snorted and cut his eye at her. There was one thing he'd never heard from her before.

Carmen pursed her lips. "Look, I'm trying here. That week and a half I wandered around Fairbanks with a sprained ankle? Those weren't fun times, Benny Boy. I know now all that safety in numbers bullshit is true, especially since I'm all that Adrian's got left."

Ben decided to ignore the nickname she'd chosen for him, and nodded. "As long as you're a team player," he said, slipping the twelfth bullet into his magazine, then popping it into the pistol.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think you know," Ben replied. He racked the slide, then set the gun down."This mess with you and Samantha can't go on, and it can never happen again."

A pair of high-pitched, chattering voices and light footsteps coming down the hall stole the attention of them both. Emma and Aaliyah rushed into the living room, and Aaliyah stood before her mother with a wide grin and hot pink lips.

Judging by the smears on their clothes and their new, colorful fingernails, Ben guessed they'd raided the teen's room.

"Look, mom," Aaliyah said proudly.

Keisha looked up from her laundry and did a double take. "Aaliyah, you did not! That's disgusting! You don't know who could've worn that." Aaliyah just laughed as her mother pulled a tissue from a nearby box and wiped the pink from her mouth.

Emma pulled two bottles of nail polish from her coat pocket and said, "Can we paint your nails?"

"No," Keisha said.

The girls looked to Carmen next, and before either of them could say anything, she shook her head. "Don't even think about it. Takes too long to dry."

Their attention turned to Ben next, who scoffed. "You wish," he said lightly.

The girls pouted, and as Ben looked at Aaliyah, he was reminded that her dad died two days ago. It didn't seem to have really hit her yet. She was only eight years old, and the concept of mortality just hadn't sunk in. Keisha had explained as gently as she could why Clarence wasn't coming with them, even though Aaliyah had already been told once before that he didn't make it. She would cry, but it was short lived.

It was a matter of time before her world came crashing down. For now, she was happy, and both her and Emma were distracted. That was a precious thing.

Ben exhaled heavily and cleared a small space on the table by shoving the junk out of his way. "Alright, fine," he said.

"Yay!" Aaliyah cheered and took one of the bottles from Emma. The two of them hurried over, grinning ear to ear.

"Seriously?" Carmen questioned, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

Ben said, "I'm taking it off right after, I assure you."

He laid his hands flat on the table and cringed at his dirty, uneven nails, but the girls didn't seem to mind. Emma giggled as she painted a bright pink streak down Ben's thumb, while Aaliyah attacked his other hand with Shrek-green smears that occasionally reached his knuckles.

Ben's heart warmed as he watched them. Neither of them had gotten to be kids in so long. He asked, "Does your dad let you do this to him, Emma?"

"Yes."

Ben laughed, hard enough to make his stomach clench. He'd have to remember to mention that to Jerome later - he'd certainly never seen him with painted fingernails. Or clean ones, for that matter. The results of a guy who worked as a miner and never wore gloves weren't pretty.

The front door slowly creaked open behind Ben. Emma and Aaliyah both froze, their eyes rounding in terror.

Carmen's hand shot towards the nearest gun, but the harsh voice of a stranger stopped her.

"Don't."

Ben turned in his seat and the bottom dropped out of his stomach. A man he'd never seen before stood in the doorway. The pistol in his hand was aimed at Ben's chest. He wore a gray beanie over greasy blonde hair, and his scraggly beard was matted.

"Oh my God," Keisha said, pulling Adrian toward her. "Please, don't hurt us."

The man didn't even spare her a glance. "I don't have to. And I really hate to interrupt like this, but it looks like you folks have some things I could use." Keisha shot to her feet, eyes locked onto her daughter, but the stranger whistled and briefly swung the gun towards her. "There's no need for that," he said. "Just give me what I need, and I'll be out of your hair before you know it."

Keisha slowly sank back down, one hand clutching her chest, eyes locked onto Aaliyah.

Ben's heart pounded, sweat already prickling the back of his neck. He glanced at his own gun, well within reach, but the man directed his attention back to him before he could act. Forcing his voice to remain steady, he said, "We really don't have anything to spare."

The man's dark, glassy eyes scrutinized each person in turn, lingering on Ben. "You people sure don't look like you've been starving. I've got kids who are. I don't think it'll kill you to share." He walked forward, into the kitchen, and lifted Ben's bag from where it hung off the back of his chair.

Ben's breath caught in his throat. The photo album was in there, the one that held the only pictures of Kate he had. It was the only way he could see her now. He looked at those photographs every day and cherished every moment of their life together that he got to relive for even one minute.

"Please, not that," he said, his voice growing strained. "J-just take the backpack, but - "

"Shut up." The stranger zipped up the bag and slung it over his shoulder, the movement momentarily forcing him to point the gun towards the ground. He probably didn't think anything of it. It shouldn't have been enough of a window for Ben to act, but it was.

Before he even knew what he was doing, Ben had snatched up his own gun and fired four rounds into the stranger's chest. Keisha and the girls screamed. The shots were beyond deafening in the tiny apartment kitchen, giving his ears the sensation they had been stuffed with cotton.

The man's body jerked with each shot, and by the last one, the light was already fading from his eyes. He dropped to his knees, guttural gurgling noises rising from his throat.

Aaliyah and Emma darted across the room into Keisha's waiting arms. She stared back at Ben, her eyes rounded in horror.

Adrian wailed, and tears immediately began to pour down his face. He charged over to Carmen, his sobs hitching up and down with his quick steps.

Ben's vision tunneled at the edges, unable to see anything but the gun in his hand. Wet streaks of pink were smeared against the trigger guard. He couldn't even remember picking it up.

As the stranger slumped over, the pistol slipped from his fingers. He gave a few faint, sucking breaths, and then they stopped. His eyes remained wide open. Blood poured from the holes in his chest, dripping onto the teal rug beneath him and puddling.

Peggy and Courtney came rushing to the doorway, and they immediately stopped once they saw the man on the floor.

Peggy's mouth fell open. "What the hell happened? Who is this?"

"I-I don't know," Ben stammered, looking back at the gun in his shaking hands. "He just...was there. He was going to rob us."

Carmen added, "And then Ben put a stop to it." She patted Adrian on the back.

At the opposite end of the apartment, Lauren hobbled into the living room, using the wall for support. Once she took in the scene before her, her mouth settled into a hard line.

The way they all stared at him, Ben wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He should've tried to de-escalate better, should've at least gotten the kids out of the room, something. Now he'd just made things even worse. Again.

Carmen rose from the table. In one hand, she held a pistol and guided Adrian towards the couch with the other. "We need to make sure there aren't more of these schmucks here."

Ben nodded numbly, his throat tight. Of course they did. He should've already been moving. "Someone has to keep watch here," he said absently, his attention lingering on the body a moment longer.

He looked at those around him - mostly children, and women with zero self-defense experience - and then there was Lauren. Even if she was groggy and irritable, she was the only one he'd trust to protect those left in the apartment.

She noticed his gaze on her and blinked knowingly. "Give me a gun," she said lightly. As Keisha helped her over to the couch, Ben grabbed a shotgun from where it had been resting against a counter across the kitchen. Once Lauren was settled, her face pale, Ben handed the gun off along with a handful of shells.

"Just don't shoot us when we come back," Carmen said.

Ben led the way out into the hall, his pistol held low in shaky hands. Carmen was right behind him and held her rifle at the ready, peering ahead of him towards the stairwell.

It was dead silent except for their footsteps and breathing. Ben pressed his lips together tightly, the breaths coming faster and faster. With every step, the visions of another stranger jumping out from any nearby shadow and killing him became more and more vivid.

Ben's legs had practically turned to jelly as he reached the end of the passage. He outstretched his arms, swung wide around the corner, and relaxed the tiniest bit at finding nothing but another vacant hall.

"We'd probably hear them if they had gone to the floor above," Carmen said. She moved around Ben and started down the stairs, heavily favoring her uninjured leg. "Come on."

Ben hurried after her, their footsteps thudding heavily against the polished, carpeted wood. The space before the foyer was nearly pitch black due to a lack of windows. He could just barely make out Carmen beside him. He whispered, "You open the doors and I'll move in."

She nodded and moved to the set of closed, solid wood double doors before them. Ben got in position just a few feet away and silently counted to three with his fingers.

Carmen threw the doors open, sunlight blasting into the small space. Ben angled around the corner and quickly surveyed the foyer.

"All clear," he said. The space was too small for anyone to hide, and the large glass windows and doors along the front gave a clear view to the parking lot. Their vehicles were still the only ones there, and there were no other signs that anything was out of sorts.

Carmen slowly moved towards the front, her brows furrowed. "He either came alone, has guys waiting out there, or they've already snuck in on other floors and are lying in wait."

The thought of her last point made Ben's stomach flip-flop in a sickening intensity.

She had been about to say something else when it seemed something outside caught her eye. She turned to fully face the window, then her shoulders slumped. "Now look at what you did," she commented lightly.

Ben hurried over to join her, and all the air left him at once. Walkers were stumbling towards the building from all over the street. They were slow, trudging through snowdrifts and struggling to keep their bony limbs moving against the cold.

But there were a lot of them. The sheer number of lumbering, undead forms increased the shaking in Ben's hands. They were coming from alleys, behind cars, both ends of the street...all locked onto one goal.

Ben closed his eyes and thumped his forehead against the glass.