Hey guys! Here is chapter three! Sorry for the delay (Ordinaryryder and I have been busy), chapter four is being worked on as we speak so hopefully that one won't take as long! (PS we promise Katniss is coming in two more chapters, so just hold on!)


He had been on the road for a few hours before he tried the radio. He hadn't seen any signs of anyone alive; no other cars on the road besides the occasional abandoned one off to the side. He wondered if Atlanta was locked down, if no one was allowed to leave to keep all the refugees safe. It made him feel better to have the police squad car and the uniform on, he was more likely to be admitted inside the city if they saw he was a cop than if he was just a regular civilian.

Picking up the radio he turned to dial to the emergency channel that people were instructed to use during natural disasters. Nothing about this disaster was natural, but he figured the same protocols still applied.

"Is anyone out there? If you are please respond. I am heading down Highway 85 towards Atlanta. I repeat, I am heading down 85 towards the refugee center in the city of Atlanta. If you can hear me, please respond." He spoke into the radio, repeating himself several times over the course of the next hour. When he received nothing but feedback he felt a knot start to work itself over in his stomach, but he tried to stay hopeful.

Maybe the radio in the car is busted and I'm just not getting out. Maybe they can't hear me at all. He thought, reassuring himself.

Setting the radio back on the dash he continued driving for another hour, getting closer and closer to Atlanta before having to stop. The gas meter in the car was almost on empty, so he pulled over to where he knew a gas station to be. Popping the trunk of the car he grabbed the gas can that was there and made his way down the hill towards the station.

The sight in front of him was eerie. Dozens of parked cars surrounded the gas station, but there wasn't a person in sight. As he drew closer and began to weave his way through the maze he saw the reason: most of the cars were filled with dead people.

It must have been a mass suicide. He thought to himself as he pulled his sleeve over his nose to block the smell the best he could. Making his way quietly to the station he tried all the pumps before noticing a sign taped to the front that declared there was no gas to be had.

"Well shit." He said out loud, picking up the can and turning to make his way back to his car. He could go a little further down the road, see if there was another station nearby before he was in any real trouble. His watch told him it was only one in the afternoon, so he had time before it got dark. He really didn't want to be out in the open when the sun set, he knew that much.

Stopping at the car he got his backpack and bag of guns, making sure to lock the car down before setting off down the road. He walked on until he saw what looked like a farm house on the side of the road.

They probably have some gas to spare to run their machines. He thought, walking up towards the door, knocking.

"Anybody home? Police! I just need some gas!" He called, but no one answered. After a few more minutes of knocking he decided to look into the windows, making his way around the house until he saw something he should have expected. A man and a woman lay on the floor, heads partially blown off from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, blood splattered on the walls all around them.

Death by suicide seemed to be a common theme today, he thought. He knew that whatever had happened while he was unconscious had been bad, Morgan had told him as much, but seeing the aftermath shook him. All the people he had seen today had been dead by their own hand. How many people in the state of Georgia had lost all hope when everything had started?

How many people were still left alive?

Making his way around the house to find a shed with some hope for gasoline, he stumbled upon a pen containing a horse.

"Well I guess it'll do." He said, watching as the horse walked slowly around the edges of its cage. He was close enough to Atlanta that the horse would get him there, and it didn't look like he would be finding any gas anytime soon. The horse provided a solution to his problem.

He found a rope sitting on the ground near the fence and picked it up, hoping he could use it to steer the horse as he rode. Setting down his bags and taking off his jacket, he opened the pen up slowly, making his way to the horse who started.

"It's ok, I'm not going to hurt you. I just need you to take me somewhere is that alright?" He asked in a calm voice, the same one he used for talking to scared kids. It seemed to work, as the horse let him near, allowing him to secure the rope. He found a saddle and bit near the fence, forgotten about by the horse's now dead owners, and went about getting it ready to ride.

With the bags secure, one on his back and one slung across his shoulder, he mounted the horse, nudging its sides. The horse took off at a gallop, and Peeta felt a surge of relief. He would make it to the refugee center before nightfall after all.


It didn't take the horse long to get Peeta to the outskirts of Atlanta. They rode for less than an hour, following the highway the entire way, but as they got closer to the city, Peeta felt himself become increasingly uneasy at what he saw in front of him.

There were no cars blocking the highway on the way into the city, but the same couldn't be said for the way out. Thousands of cars were abandoned trying to leave the city, and what was worse – at a certain point, they were all burned out and blackened, as if someone had set fire to them all at once. There were no signs of life, nothing indicating where the refugee center would be, but still Peeta kept on. He tried his hardest to not let his hope diminish, but the closer he got, the harder it became to have any at all.

There were no signs of life anywhere as he finally made his way into Atlanta. The streets were empty; the lack of sound was eerie. He made his way down the streets, looking for anything to lead him in the right direction, but saw nothing helpful at all.

In fact the further into the city he got, what he did see made him think maybe there wasn't a refugee center here at all. If there had been, it was long gone now. The buildings were singed, as though they had been burned like the cars trying to get out of the city. The road was full of tanks and armored military vehicles, all empty. Bodies littered the ground and as he made his way down the street, Peeta felt a tiny bit of fear prick his neck.

Looking over his shoulder he saw a few walkers making their way towards him and the horse, but they were moving so slowly that he wasn't worried quite yet.

He had no idea what to do, and was contemplating turning around and galloping past the walkers, back the way he had come when he heard it.

It would have been a normal sound on any other day, but the sound of the whirring blades of a helicopter in this new world made his heart race. Looking up into the sky he spotted it, and kicked the sides of the horse to prod it into a gallop.

As they turned the corner to follow the helicopter, the horse came to an abrupt stop. There, on the street in front of him, Peeta saw the largest collection of Walkers he had seen up to this point. Hundreds of them stood watching the helicopter, but the ones immediately in front of him were focused on where he and the horse stood.

He felt like he had swallowed his tongue. Panic filled him entirely, there was no way through the hoard, he had to turn around, but the horse was scared and not budging. As the mass of walkers began moving towards him, he managed to shake the horse out of its stupor and make it a few feet, but by then it was too late.

They were surrounded. The horse reared back on its hind legs as the walkers grabbed for them both, tossing Peeta off its back and onto the pavement. For a brief moment he lay sprawled on the ground, watching in horror as the walkers took the horse down, tearing into it with their mouths, while the horse cried out the entire time.

He had been forgotten about momentarily, but it didn't last long. He knew he was going to have to fight his way out of this, but he wasn't sure how. The backpack had luckily cushioned his fall, but the bag of guns lay too far for him to get to. Kicking at one of the walkers who had made it ways towards him, he began to scramble to get to his feet.

He wasn't able to, he was absolutely surrounded on all sides. Crawling forward on all fours, he managed to get under a tank, making his way as quickly as he could, but to no avail.

He was not going to make it out of this alive. The walkers followed him under the tank, closing in on him from both sides. He pulled his handgun and shot at one, two of them, before realizing the hatch under the tank was open.

Pulling himself up as quickly as he could, he shut the hatch, breathing heavily as he pushed all the way into the belly of the tank.

He sat, trying to catch his breath. He could survive a day or two in here maybe, but what good would that do him? He didn't know if the walkers would move on, or lay in wait for him.

God they had torn that horse to pieces, and that's what they would have done to him if he hadn't gotten away.

He was scared. Terrified, actually, and what hope he had was long gone by now.

He laid his gun down in front of him, staring at it for a long time, wondering if all those dead he had seen earlier in the day had had the right idea, sparing themselves from this world, from the horrors that seemed to be everywhere.

Closing his eyes he leaned back against the cold tank wall, tears threatening to spill from his eyes when the sound of the radio caused him to jump.

"Hey, you in the tank. Dumbass. Cozy in there?" an unknown voice sounded over the radio, and Peeta felt his jaw drop, a spark of hope (and disbelief) filling him again.