Dez knew that those few years of cheer practice would someday come in handy.

At least for dodging purposes, anyway.

"The head, Dez, aim for the head!" The girl coaxes him. "What are you doing? Strike already!" She aggressively gestures a hammer-strike in the air with her fist, the situation making her tense up. "You're tall enough, just bring that hatchet-knife thingy down on top of its head."

The creature emits some low growls, seeming what could best be described as exhausted after each attempt to get the boy within its clutches. Every time, without fail, as Dez would approach, intending to strike the small beast with the meat cleaver, his cowardice would take over, pulling him back. He proves to be an expert dodger, however – the corpse missing him with every ventured lunge and swing of the arms.

"This isn't getting anywhere…" Trish groans, massaging her temples with her fingers.

"I'm trying. It just keeps on swinging at me!" He moves further away from the beast, which Trish had chained up by the ankle to the base of a cypress. "Why are we doing this, anyway?" The corpse continues grasping at air, straining to reach for the freckled boy – held back by the chains pulled to their maximum length.

"I told you. Training. You could really use it." Trish crosses her arms. "And once you've killed this one, I'll find you another. And you'll fight it, without out chains this time."

"Are you trying to get me killed? I thought we were friends." He pouts, collapsing onto his knees, tossing the cleaver aside. "I'm tired. Can we stop?" He scratches his jawline, the light, barely-visible stubble dotted along it had started making him itch.

"Dez, I'm only trying to help you. I can't always watch over you. How many times do I have to tell you that before I get through to you?" She kneels down beside him. "It's been way too long, and we haven't gotten anywhere 'cause you're too much of a pansy to get out there and slice into those zombies' skulls."

"You say that like it's such an easy thing to do," he grumbles.

Taking a proper seat on the ground, she pulls her knees in towards her body and rests her chin on them. "We need to fight. We can't just outrun them all the time. They keep chasing us in circles, and we always end up back in the same places. I can't fight the hordes alone, either, Dez. You need to help me out here. I can't fight for the both of us."

The two had been consistently making attempts to escape the city throughout the duration of the past two weeks – since the beginning of this entire crisis. Trapped. At almost every corner, a large horde waits on any signs of life to emerge from the alleyways. All of the main roads – infested with the walking corpses. And the parts they weren't covering? Guarded by mercenaries like the two they had seen weeks ago. They managed to find a few temporary safehouses, though any available sources of food and water had been scarce – and seeing as all local markets and convenience stores were armed with blaring sirens, they couldn't take the risk of breaking into those. The time to move on had to be now.

"Maybe you don't have to fight for the both of us. Maybe you should just…" he bites down on his lip, stopping himself.

"Maybe I should what, Dez?" She scrunches her brows together, releasing her knees from her hold on them, and crawls towards him. As she closes in on him, she grabs the back of his head and pulls it to hers. With her forehead pushing against his, her glare hardens. "If you think for one second that I'm just going to leave you behind…" His eyes, full of something she had rarely ever seen on the boy, causes her voice to falter. Despair. Her face and tone softens, abruptly drained of the searing rage that had manifested from her own fears. "Dez, you're my friend. I'm not leaving you behind."

"Look, Trish, that's noble and all – and I appreciate it – but it's also pretty stupid. I know what happens to people like me in the movies and stuff. I'm just…Deadweight." He pulls back, away from her.

"Did you just call me stup–?"

"–You could probably make it out of here on your own. You don't need me. I'd just mess things up, like I always do." He clasps his hands together. "Every single attempt we made to get out of this city screwed up because of me. Because I was too afraid to fight. Because I set off car alarms. Because I shot that flare at the wrong time…"

"The last two were just accidents. Shit happens," she comforts him, softly, restraining herself from reacting to his calling her "stupid".

"My life is an accident waiting to happen. I'll screw up. Every time – without fail. I don't want to drag you down with me," he contends, pulling his clenched fists up to his chest, begging her with his glazed-over eyes to try and understand his case.

"You've killed 'em before, Dez. You can do it again. You got this." As much as her unfaltering belief in him warms up the chill of apprehension within him, he resolutely continues to refuse.

"That was just…Adrenaline or something. You can't just depend on me to fight last-minute all the time – it may or may not kick in, and if it doesn't – one or both of us is going to die." He isn't sure how long he will be able to keep up his argument. The girl's persistent – a quality he often admired in her, as she almost always manages to resolve issues that way. Of course, when used against him it became more of a nuisance, but no less admirable.

"Fine." She stands up, authoritatively towering above him from his sitting position, and crosses her arms. "Then I'm staying here with you."

"Also stupid." Dez asserts, giving her his best condescending smirk. His grins never seemed to last all that long recently. Even scarcer than food was the opportunity to just enjoy a moment and smile. This time is no different. The smirk drops, as does his jaw – his eyes complying with his terror, as well.

How did it get free from the chains?

"Dez, I swear, if you call me stupid one more time, I'm gonna–" Trish starts, groaning as Dez shoves her aside. Landing with a painful skid, she curses, quickly inspecting her scraped up arm. "Dez! What the hell?!" She turns to see her friend pinning down her assailant, the very zombie she thought she had secured to the cypress. "Dez!" she screams out as she rushes towards him, her anger diluting into worry, as it seemed to be doing a lot of recently.

"Hand me the cleaver!" he directs her, struggling with all four of his limbs to hold the creature down.

"The what?"

"You know, the meat cleav-." He stops. How did she so eloquently put it before? Ah, yes. "The hatchet-knife thingy. Bring it here." She obliges, rushing it over to him.

"You want me to–?" As she offers, Dez wastes no time and releases one of the creature's struggling limbs and snatches the cutlery by the base, out of Trish's grasp. The small beast swings at his head with its free hand, just barely landing its broken nails upon his cheek, if it weren't for Trish's rapid reflexes. She catches the decaying extremity just in time, giving Dez the opportunity to go in for the kill.

Wielding the knife, he raises his arm up into the air and takes aim at the wriggling monster's head.

Please, please don't do this…I'll give you anything!, the cries of the victim, who had fallen prey to the two mercenaries they had encountered on their first day, echo through his mind. He brings down his arm, slowly, holding it just above the zombie's head. Images of the man pleading on his knees flash through, as well. The memory of the axe falling. He looks at the cleaver in his hand, his mind deceiving his eyes. With vivid images of the axe and the trembling victim fresh in the forefront of his brain, his hand trembles.

"Dez?" Trish asks him, witnessing the change of expression on his face, close-up. Her voice – as powerful and threatening as it can be sometimes – also somehow manages to achieve a soothing, almost motherly, tempo. It proves enough to help bring him back. She struggles to keep the beast pinned down, putting in some extra effort as Dez's episode had him lightening up on the pressure he had been exerting on the creature.

His grip tightens on the base of the cleaver. He brings it up with great momentum, and down with vehemence. Trish closes her eyes and turns her head away to avoid the blood splatter, something Dez doesn't bother doing. Shifting the knife side to side as he plunges it deeper into the rotting skull, he waits until the impish being completely stops all movement before moving himself off the body. Trish releases the creature right after and moves beside Dez, wrapping her arms around his waist without hesitance.

Exhausted, both physically and mentally, he sinks into the hug, resting his head atop hers. He exhales heavily, calming his nerves.

"See, you doof? I knew you could do it," she says with her face pressed up against his neck. He pulls away abruptly, laughing out a bit.

"Stop, I'm ticklish," he says as his giggling ensues. Rolling her eyes, Trish procures a couple napkins from the small front pocket of her backpack and hands them over to him.

"You got a little blood on your face."

His smile fades as he takes them from her. The brief moment of happiness over – replaced again by the dread this reality has created within him. "Thanks."

"Here, take my hand," the blonde offers, extending his hand out to his girlfriend.

"You sure you can drive this thing, Austin?" the brunette asks, looking up and down the eighteen-wheeled semi with uncertainty.

"I'm gonna have to. It's the only vehicle we've come across that has a key – and actually starts up. And I don't know anything about hotwiring." He shrugs, his hand still waiting for hers. "My arm's getting tired, Ally." She lets out a breath, and takes his hand reluctantly. He pulls her into the passenger seat of the large vehicle and takes a seat on the driver's side. Ally checks the rearview mirror on her side, shuddering at the sight of the large horde – quite a distance away, but still foreboding, all the same.

"Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear," Austin teases her, nudging her with his elbow. She gives him a bitter look, crossing her arms as she makes herself comfortable in her seat.

"You…You think they're okay?" Ally asks him, thickness rising in her voice. She had kept it all in so far, refusing to let the situation break her. She's no Trish, though. Her eyes start to glaze over.

Trish…, Ally recalls their last conversation – or rather, argument. Trish had been upset about Ally not making enough time for her. Sure, her career and making time for Austin had taken up most of her schedule, but she now realizes that Trish may have had a point. A point Ally couldn't really understand until now. She wishes with all she has that she could take those words back. Take back the fact that her last words to Trish were ones of anger.

"I'm sure they even made it home by now. Dez is the greatest zombie-expert I know, and Trish is…Well, she's Trish. I'm positive they're doing just fine," he reassures her. If he's honest, he isn't all that sure of his own words of comfort. Saying them aloud seemed to help him relieve himself of some stress, at least. Austin, too, had been having some difficulties with his own best friend. It wasn't an argument or anything of the like, rather, Dez had been having a hard time as of late. Looking back on it, Austin wonders if he had comforted his friend as much as he feels he should have. He needed me. I should have been there for him more, he mentally reprimands himself.

The guilt creeping up on the two would likely eat them alive before the zombies could get to them. They cannot afford to dwell.

Austin leans forward and starts up the truck. He straps on his seat belt and checks the mirrors – of course, not without checking himself out, as well. Greasy hair, light bits of stubble, patches of dirt here and there. "Heh. Even after a couple weeks without a shower, I still got it." He smiles smugly at his girlfriend.

"Drive, Austin," Ally orders him, impatiently. The horde had gotten closer, though still only dots in the distance – the dots had become slightly, yet noticeably, larger. Austin nods at her seriously, not wanting to protest when she's in her no-nonsense mode. He puts the truck into drive and gently pushes his foot down on the accelerator. Ally grips the seat of her chair as the truck starts to move.

"It's going to be okay, Ally…Everything will be just fine." He leans towards her and plants a light kiss on her cheek before proceeding down the highway.

"You knew how to hotwire a car this whole time?!"

"I didn't wanna steal a car, Trish," the redhead defends himself as he fiddles with the wiring of the ignition. "But, I guess we kinda need to now."

"Oh, but breaking into buildings and stealing food and kitchen utensils was okay?"

"That's different. Besides, I don't really know how to do this. I'm mostly guessing here."

Another escape attempt gone awry – and they managed to land themselves in quite the situation. After clearing most of the path towards a highway – Dez finally pulling himself together just enough to assist Trish in the zombie slaughter – they end up biting off more than they could chew. The horde seemed to continuously increase in number, as if they had signaled to other creepers across the city to come assist them. Running and hiding eventually became the best option. Though a small car is probably not the best place to hide.

The horde mobs around the small vehicle, tilting it back and forth as the duo inside become all the more frantic.

"Hurry it up, you doof! They're gonna break through the glass soon!" she urges, her voice carrying more fear than anger. She takes hold of his forearm in her panic, looking around herself at the sickly, cadaverous faces pressed up against the windows.

"Trish! Let go!" he hisses between his teeth, trying to pull free so that he could continue his work. She pulls away immediately, daunted by his sudden aggression. The hum of the engine relaxes him. "There. Now let's get out of…" he turns to face Trish, his pride from accomplishing the task disappearing as soon as it had manifested. She faces forward, staring stiffly at the decaying hands clawing at the windshield, her lips tight. "Trish?" he bites his lip, looking down at her lightly shaking hands. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't–"

"–Drive," she commands him.

"But–"

"–I said drive," she repeats shakily, fastening her seat belt. Dez nods, complying. He puts the car into drive and pushes down hard on the accelerator. A few of the bodies are pushed off, yet others remain, clinging on. He holds his foot down on the accelerator, the massive horde preventing them from getting anywhere. He then breaks abruptly, sending a few zombies falling back off of the hood. Seeing an opportunity, he floors the accelerator once again and manages to run over the fallen, pushing others aside. Once they had pushed past the hoard, it was a straight, clear shot towards the highway. He turns the windshield wipers on, smearing the blood across, and eventually clearing it up just enough to see properly. He then floors it again, seeing as traffic isn't an issue, eager to leave the city.

"We've only got enough gas for about fifty miles, maybe less." He jerks his head up, gesturing to the dashboard. "But at least we'll actually get somewhere now." Trish remains silent, looking onward towards the approaching highway. Dez glances at her, frowning, but says nothing.

Just another addition to his ever-growing pile of guilt. He blames himself for Trish being stuck in the city so long. He blames himself for not being able to have her back all the time. Heck, he even feels at fault for each dead-eyed creeper he had been forced to kill.

And then there's Austin…

The two boys had barely spoken to each other the past few months. Austin isn't the one to blame. Fearful that his own state of dejection would bring his best friend down, Dez kept to himself. Even resorted to avoiding Austin. Little Golden Toes didn't deserve that. Dez cannot even recall the last conversation he had with his best friend, and that – that 'not remembering' – hits him the hardest.

Trish would always resort to anger. However, anger is a secondary emotion. Hurt. Fear. Guilt. These are what she truly carries, masked with the façade of rage. She unzips her backpack, rummaging through it for a quick snack. It had been too long since she last had something to eat. Feeling around, she pulls out a jar. She frowns, putting it back as the sight of pickles made her lose her appetite.

Not that she had a problem with pickles.

Ally and her had fought. About what? It didn't matter. The fact that their last words to each other were so cold…Okay, so they weren't that cold. The two never got into any serious fights, and their anger would never overpower their love for one another. It was a small argument, and all Trish wanted was to spend more time with her. She admits now that it was selfish to expect so much of her friend. How could she put that kind of pressure on Ally when she already had so much on her plate? It wasn't fair to her. Best friends don't do that to each other. Ally wouldn't have done that to her.

Trish sinks back into her seat, trying to calm her tremulous breathing. She cannot break down. Dez is driving. If she does, he definitely would. She has to keep her walls upright and sturdy. For his sake, at least.

"It's gonna be okay, Trish," he finally speaks up after a prolonged silence between them. She turns her head to face him, upset that he had noticed her dismay. With his left hand still firm on the wheel, he reaches for hers with his right. He gives her trembling hand a light squeeze to soothe her. "Everything'll be just fine."