Warning: This chapter is pretty graphic.

Chapter Five: White Wedding

xxx

I had no idea why I believed it would all go away once I reached Atlanta.

I had no idea why I took Jeff's words of salvation and ran with them, thinking I'd be protected and provided for. I had no idea why there was any faith left in me when everything I had known, from society to the people that had structured it, were gone. I had no idea why I couldn't just accept that I was utterly alone.

Time didn't matter to me anymore.

I was just as dead as everything else.

xxx

4 Months Later

"… What the hell is he doing!"

Glenn looked on incredulously as a testament to the past made his way down Peachtree Street—a damn Sheriff atop a reigned horse. For a minute he wanted to laugh, thinking maybe his sanity must have finally slapped him in the face and walked away, that the sheriff was an illusion. Then he entertained the idea of a one-man rescue team… a thin, pale cop on a horse? Psh, some rescue team.

But the scene below never dissipated from an illusion, and he was clearly by himself, his expression reading that of a timid and truly lost man. Wait… he's not going…

"No. No no, oh no…" he whispered under his breath.

The sheriff was headed straight for the corner of Peachtree and Spring Street, where a grisly death awaited him should he turn and capture the attention of the hordes of Walkers that loomed in the middle of the city.

"Leave 'im. Copper wants t'be a fuckin' moron, then let 'im die a fuckin' moron. That kinda mind ain't fit to live."

Glenn never took anything Merle had to say too seriously. Most of it was just racist and degrading junk, but in this case, it was hard to argue with his 'logic', per say. Maybe the sheriff had given up hope? Maybe he wanted to die. Still, Glenn couldn't shake his urge to reach out to the man who was one of many that once upheld the old-world laws. "We're just… we're just going to let him die?"

"We can't go down there without risking ourselves," the blonde Andrea shook her head, casting a pitiful look to the man below. "Whatever he's here for, helping him is not an option. We have our priorities, and we have to get back to the others." With that, she descended back into the floors of the department store to continue the search for resources with Morales and Jacqui.

Merle's eyes followed her like a hawk's piercing gaze upon prey, his tongue slithering out and licking his bottom lip. Glenn wrinkled his nose in disgust, but turned away quickly when Merle's eyes darted in his direction. "Th' fuck you lookin' at, Chinaman?" Glenn swallowed audibly, and thought it best not respond. "Hey, Kim Duck Dong! I'm talkin' to ya—"

"Man, just leave him alone" T-Dog spoke up, and the younger man desperately wished he hadn't. "He ain't doin' nothing."

Something sinister danced in those hateful eyes now, and Merle gave a snicker before spitting on the floor, his grip on his rifle tightening. "Minority uprisin', or what? Who'da thought the antique plantation equipment and the Buddhahead would team up."

Glenn had to hand it to the overbearing redneck: the racial slurs got pretty creative sometimes. Too bad he was neither Chinese nor Buddhist… there'd be no point in telling him that, though.

"The fuck did you say, cracker?" T-Dog bit back.

Glenn slapped a hand over his eyes. Apparently, T-Dog didn't follow the whole "two wrongs don't make a right" belief. This was only—

The panicked neigh of the horse pierced the tense air, and despite the sheriff's nightmarish new situation, Glenn couldn't help but feel relief that the attention had turned back to the scene below. Disturbingly enough, Merle seemed to take some kind of humor out of it. "Heeee, look'it that pig run! Run, ya dumb bastard!"

Glenn chewed his lip nervously as the sheriff dropped to the pavement, quickly surrounded by Walkers. Somehow in the frenzy, he managed to kick off a few and scurried under the unmoving military tank—a narrow escape only made possible in thanks to his horse that became the long-awaited, unfortunate feast. He also spied the police department duffel bag that now lay in the street, and his heart sped up with the hope that the sheriff might be in possession of multiple weapons. If he had come here to die, then he wouldn't have run; if he had come here to die, he wouldn't have brought that bag with him. As soon as he saw the sheriff pop up from the top of the tank and close the hatch before any Walkers could join him inside, Glenn made his choice. "I'm helping him" he looked to T-Dog, who stared back at him in bewilderment. "I don't know about you, but I want to go to bed with a clear conscious tonight, and I'm not going to get that sleep if I leave a breathing guy in trapped in that tank to die when we're right here." Before either man could say anything to ridicule the idea, Glenn doubled back, scooped up a wireless walkie-talkie, and sped off.

The boy took a deep breath before descending the steel fire escape down the side of the building, thankful that there was a fence separating the alley from the madness on Peachtree Street. Taking brief refuge behind a dumpster, Glenn fidgeted with the knob of the walkie-talkie until it tuned into the tank's radio frequency, stopping when he hit the clear signal. "Hey you… dumbass." He resisted the urge to laugh in spite of his nervousness, pressing further when he didn't get an immediate response. "Yeah, you in the tank. Cozy in there?" For a few minutes, all Glenn could hear was tearing of the meat being stripped from the horse's bones. He hadn't seen it, but… what if the sheriff had gotten hurt? "Hey, you alive in there?" he tried again.

"H-hello! Hello!" A crackle of life in the form of a Southern accent finally responded, and Glenn let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"There you are. You had me wondering…"

"Where are you? Outside? Can you see me right now?" The voice barreled him with multiple questions at once, increasing Glenn's anxiety.

"Yeah, I can see you. You're surrounded by Walkers… that's the bad news."

"There's good news?" There was almost humor in the reply.

"… No." Glenn could hardly hesitate his honesty.

"Listen, whoever you are, I don't mind telling you I'm a little concerned in here."

The boy momentarily spaced out as he edged toward the street, fascinated at being so close to the atrocious scene and remain undetected. "Oh man… you should see them over here. You'd be having a major freak out."

His observation did little to amuse the sheriff. "Got any advice for me?"

That was a no-brainer. "Yeah—I'd say make a run for it."

A pause. "… That's it? Make a run for it?"

"It's not as dumb as it sounds!" Glenn insisted. "You got eyes on the outside here. There's one geek still up on the tank, but the others have climbed down to join… the feeding frenzy where the horse went down. You with me so far?"

"So far."

"Okay," he continued, "the street on the other side of the tank is less crowded. If you move now while they're distracted, you stand a chance. Got it?"

"Hey man, the duffel bag I dropped out there had guns. Can I get to it?" Glenn was glad to have affirmation about his hunch, but knew there was no chance of getting it at this moment.

"Forget the bag, it's not an option! What do you have on you?"

A much longer pause entailed the question, and a sheen of sweat began to form under the boy's already sticky hat as he waited. Then "I got a Biretta, with one clip- 15 rounds."

At least he had something. "Make 'em count. Jump off the right side of the tank, keep going that direction. There's an alley up the street maybe…" Glenn paused to make a quick estimate of the street, "50 yards. Be there."

"Hey… what's your name?"

He really wants to do this now? "Have you been listening? You're running out of time!"

Click.

Glenn froze. It was a sound not made from within the tank—the radio line had gone silent. It was the familiar click of the safety on a weapon.

"Put your hands up" a female voice demanded. Glenn did as commanded and raised his hands, but did not let go of the walkie-talkie. He didn't want to show fear, but his body betrayed him as it begun to shake. "Turn around," she instructed next. Glenn winced as he turned to face his threat, his panic rising when he heard the sound of shots as the sheriff headed in the alley's direction. He locked eyes with a girl no older than himself wielding a silver handgun that gleamed sinisterly in the sunlight. She couldn't have been taller than 5 foot 3, yet her dark brown eyes bore the resilience and strength of a person twice her size. Underneath the zip up sweater and leggings she wore was a thicker and sturdy build, very unlike the delicate, thin frames of Andrea and the women back at camp. Chestnut hair lighter than her eyes tumbled over her shoulders, frizzed by the Atlanta heat. Thick bangs were matted to her round, cinnamon brown face.

Glenn could not fathom having to fear both flesh-eating geeks and a girl with a gun in his face in one instance. Even after all he'd been through, this was just too damn much.

"You're gonna have to run—"

"What are you doing here—"

They both spoke at the same time, but the girl quieted to let him speak. "In 5 seconds, you're gonna have to run!" Glenn pleaded.

Her eyes narrowed, "What did you do, fuck face?"

The sheriff's footsteps rounded the corner of the alley, his Biretta ablaze as Glenn turned to face him. "DOOOON'T, NOT DEAD!" He cried out before the man could gun him down, "C'MON, C'MON!"

The girl's guarded expression fell, and all three took off down the alley with the dead hot on their heels. The girl sprinted ahead and pulled herself on top of a dumpster, pulled down the fire escape ladder to the building across from the department store, and began to climb. Glenn didn't take any cue to follow her, and called back to the sheriff. "Faster!"

Glenn latched on to the first steel bar in his reach and ambled up the ladder, his fellow escapee breath behind him. Neither stopped until the first break between the ladders was reached, allowing them to stand and rest as they looked down below. Rotted hands and hungry moans reached up towards them, clawing at the air, but the sheriff turned his attention across the alley way to the fire escape on the opposite building; the girl was pulling up the ladder, taking precaution that none of the Walkers suddenly get smart and try to climb up after her. She was panting heavily with her back against the brick of the building, and Glenn noticed another gleaming object that she picked up from the break of that building's fire escape ladder. She now wielded it in her left hand. It's a… a scythe? Glenn wasn't sure, since he'd only seen such a weapon in the video games he played obsessively in his free time several months ago. But lo and behold, it was a curved blade attached to a crafted steel rod, gripped in her small hand.

Trying to regain control of her breath, she now looked back to them across the alley. "Hey!" The sheriff called out, "You alright? If you wait a bit, we'll find'a way to get ya back over here!"

The other male looked to him with a raised brow. "I just saved you, isn't that enough for one day!"

The older man looked back to him in disbelief, "You're just gonna leave your friend there?"

"I don't even know who she is!" Glenn protested. "She came up behind me and put a gun to my head, she didn't come here with me!"

The sheriff turned his gaze back to the female, still panting, and tried calling out to her one more time. "What's your name? You got others with you? We can—" his questions went unanswered as she ducked into the open window on the upper floor of the building complex, casting them one more wary gaze before she was out of sight.

"So much for that mission, huh?" Glenn wheezed, almost relieved at not having to go after someone else. A part of him felt bad, but she didn't seem to want the extended helping hand anyway… "I'm Glenn" he shakily introduced himself, his mentality turning back to the task of returning to the group within the department store.

The sheriff still had his sights on the open window where the girl had fled through, but turned back to his rescuer and held out his calloused and sweaty hand. "Rick Grimes."

xxx

It's not like I was actually going to shoot him.

Let's be honest: if I'd learned anything from being on my own thus far, I could give myself credit for understanding basic knowledge such as the bang of a gunshot being the same as ringing a dinner bell.

Instead, it was a conjured bluff, giving this stranger the impression that I was psychotic enough to blow his brains out right there on the street if he didn't answer my questions. I liked to think of it as an intimidation tactic of sorts- the more radical kind, obviously. As skinny and harmless as he looked, who's to say he wasn't one of the scavengers of Atlanta that was part of the free-rape-for-all movement that swept surviving men by storm when they realized the remaining living women "just weren't in the mood" as of recent? So they took it the only way they knew how. A shudder ran down my spine as I recalled hearing many a female scream at night, and I knew it was not solely from those that were caught by Walkers; these were women who'd foolishly trusted that a man would keep them safe- I even saw an assault on a rooftop once. Unfortunately, being two buildings away had left me essentially useless to the poor woman, and I turned away from the scene before I talked myself into a rescue mission that I knew would only result in my own rape and possible death. It was a terrifying thing not just to be a survivor in the apocalypse, but to be a woman in the apocalypse? Forget about it. My paranoia convinced me that I was gender-handicapped and had twice more to fear than a man did.

These days, I was in the "better them than me" kind of mindset. Well, not these days… more like these past months. I firmly believe that's the only reason why I'm still alive in a city overrun by the dead.

I sat perched on the windowsill in a room on the 12th floor of what was once an upscale apartment complex, shadowed behind the curtains of the window as I observed the Walkers below. I chewed on my bottom lip nervously (a habit not even the apocalypse could deter), unable to rid my mind of the fearful expression on the Asian boy's face.

It had been the first time in a very, very long time that I'd been in that close of a proximity to another living human being. Sure, I had seen the other survivors of Atlanta that had banded together—but I had only seen them from a distance. They darted through the city, wielding bats and knives, scavenging for the same resources I did. My point being though, as I'd overheard bits of his conversation through the wireless communicator… this boy had actually gone out of his way to save the strange one-man police force that stupidly marched down Peachtree Street.

And I went and put a gun in his face.

I sighed in frustration, pinching the bridge of my nose. I reeeally could've handled it better… but I guess my social skills weren't exactly intact anymore, even more so than they had been before the shit hit the fan.

Diminished social skills aside, I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss having someone around… especially since I had forced myself to forget about everything that happened before I came to Atlanta. What was the point in wallowing over all that I had lost? Tommy, David, and Darcy were dead, Jeff was dead, I'd even come to terms with Hank being dead. I snuffed out the flame of hope that burned in my heart for him long ago; he had to be dead. Most of those who joined the military (be it before or after the fucked up events of the world) had perished trying to save others and combatting the outbreak. I refused to believe he was alive.

Why?

Because if there was ever a chance that I'd find out some way that he really had died, and I hadn't come to think of it as a possibility, it'd kill me. I'd hate myself for not accepting it earlier on. So… Hank is dead, and that was that. I mourned for him the same weeks I mourned Jeff, then swallowed my grief and put it all behind me.

Only two things kept me going these days, the first and foremost reason being my family. I was convinced that my finicky mother would have stayed put and locked up herself, my stepdad, and my sister in the house in the Atlanta suburbs the moment things got really bad. If they left, then my sister would have written me or left a clue there to let me know where they retreated to. Call it gut-feeling, call it intuition, call it foolishness, but I was absolutely compelled to stay in Atlanta until I found some way to get to the house. I told myself… whether or not they were alive… I had to know. It'd been 4 months, but no matter what plan I crafted and mapped out, I could never seem to pin down a solid way in and out. Mind you that I am a self-taught combatant that has no back up whatsoever… and I want to live, dammit. That's where my second reason came in—to live the long life that Jeff and the others couldn't anymore. Out of everything else that I cast aside of him, all the happy memories and the painful ones, Jeff's last words were burned into my memory and built me into who I've become.

If I weren't alone and didn't constantly stand the risk of being killed any minute without others to ride it out with me, there was no getting to my family. So I waited.

What for? Hell if I know.

I keep trying to convince myself that I'm waiting to get stronger, to become braver. I trained myself every day with the scythe I now called my own, courtesy of a decked-out apartment I'd come across by chance, the second building I took shelter in.

I'd rummaged cautiously through a few of the rooms on each floor, dodging two floors I saw a handful of Walkers trudging through. I pricked my ears for any sign of life—er, noise, from the stairway I hid within. I took a bullet from the casing box and let it roll down the hallway to draw any lone Walkers out, and still nothing. I waited a few more minutes, only hearing the Walkers from the first two floors. Finally, I stepped out into the hall way, a glint of silver immediately caught my eye in one of the rooms on the 8th floor.

I had hit the jackpot.

The previous tenant had clearly been an exotic weapons fanatic or an action movie buff of some sort; his walls were covered with ninja stars, a katana, swords of all styles, shapes and sizes, other weaponry I couldn't even name… You'd think I was in a haven, and really, I did consider staying there. But I hadn't counted on finding the owner with his brains blown out on the floor of the master bedroom, a long rifle hanging from his ice-white hand. Even after I shut the door and slept on his couch that night, I didn't feel… right… staying there. I took what I needed from his cabinets, then turned to looking over his rather impressive collection. I wasn't very knife-handy, but kept one on me at all times anyway: I grabbed a shearing knife and a double-edged knife. I didn't bother with any of the crafted steel swords, which were too heavy me to lift easily and I knew would only slow me down if cornered by the dead or the competitive living. I picked up the bow and arrow he had on display, but put it back down when it didn't feel good to my grip. The ninja stars or small throwing knives? Pfft, forget it. I was a nervous aim as it was with a gun.

Then I saw it. A menacing weapon that looked so familiar… My eyes widened as the memory came to me. Before high school, right when I entered the 7th grade, books were a source of distraction for me to avoid trouble. Of the many stories I had read, The Tale of The Grim Reaper was just one of them. A skeleton dressed in a long black robe and carrying a large scythe, the Reaper has been the figure of death since the beginning of time in various cultures. The purpose of the Reaper was to help people face their near and imminent death, and to guide them into the next life. Many believe he could even take the unwilling with his own weapon, or that he could be bribed or tricked to spare the life of the one he comes for. A chill swept down my spine as I stared at this piece from beyond Biblical times.

As awesome as it would have been, this scythe was definitely not old or ancient. The shining steel held my awed reflection within the long, curved blade; the staff it was cast into was made with detail and purpose, with a grip contouring the gorgeous iron for the best hold in a hand confident enough to use it… a hand such as The Grim Reaper.

Was I confident enough?

I opened the glass casing, reaching inside and pulling it out to hold in front of me. It was almost my height, but not quite... standing erect, it stretched from my feet to my chest. It wasn't as heavy as I'd feared, but I definitely needed to build up my strength to use it. I chewed my bottom lip, wondering if I should take it… I'd preserved the guns in the bag, swearing to myself that I'd never use them unless it was an emergency. I carried only two guns at my waist, only finding the need to use them a handful of times… but I'd already gone through a box of their bullets.

I ran my fingers over the entire weapon, and seeing my reflection once more in the blade, decided to claim it as my own. Not like the owner would miss it, anyway.

Since that day, I trained myself, and I mean I trained hard. For all I knew, I taught myself the completely wrong way to use a scythe, but I was living in a world where you had to make due with what you had for yourself. Clearly, it's worked out for me… I've survived near-starvation, being chased down by Walkers, and the draining pain of loneliness. I'm alive, I think almost 4 months after my ordeal.

It felt like years.

That could've changed today if I hadn't hauled ass back up the building across from that department store. Again, I counted my blessings- if there really was a God, he wanted me alive for some reason, because there had been plenty of chances I could've gotten killed.

I came back from my thoughts into reality, seeing the sun begin to set. Walkers became even more active at night, a crippling threat to anyone stupid enough to go out scavenging at this time. I pinned the curtains shut, sat down for a quick dinner of two full servings of canned of cocktail fruit, then did a re-check of the locks on the front door and the loose bolts on my escape window if I needed to make a quick dash from my current roost. Gun under the pillow, check. Scythe in reaching range, check. Water bottles and canned food in the messenger bag, check. Gun bag under the kitchen sink, check.

Checks, re-checks, constantly checking… is this what my life would be like until I died?

I had arranged the couch cushions into a makeshift bed on the floor of the living room with a blanket from the bedroom: I didn't sleep in rooms anymore, not wanting to risk a surprise attack through the front door should someone or something find a way in. I lowered myself onto the cushions, staring up at the ceiling because sleep never came easily. Sometimes it took hours… I was constantly aware, never able to afford a moment's weakness. The good thing was this place was much more low-key than my previous nests had been… but I could still hear the thousands of moans and groans on the streets below. There was nothing I could do to drown that out, ever.

And try as I might to push my past behind me, I could never fight the dreams that came to me… and tonight, I dreamed of Hank's warm mouth on mine.

xxx

The next morning, I made the decision to pilfer through the department store that I'd skipped out on when I ran into the Asian boy. I didn't go near it before since Walkers swarmed the front and sides of the building, but yesterday's horse feast had moved most of the masses scavenging further north of Peachtree Street. There was still some around obviously, but it should be clear enough to get through without the trouble it would've been yesterday.

I made my way from building to building by alleys and fire escape ladders, avoiding the monsters below by sticking to the rooftops, typically not taking chances in the actual buildings themselves unless I saw a completely clear floor. It was physically strenuous for me at first, and there were times where I thought I should just off myself because I was sure I'd never meet the stamina demands of the new world. I was close once, very close. I picked up Jeff's pistol, the very gun I'd blown his head off with, and stared hard at the sleek thing. I never turned it to myself; I merely sat there with it in my hand for hours.

But Jeff's face flashed before my eyes, bloody and crying and pleading.

I tossed the gun to the side and never contemplated suicide again. It was cowardly, and Jeffery hated cowards.

After that, through sheer determination, will power, and plenty of crying, I broke through my own self-restraints and doubts. In a matter of weeks, I had adjusted my body to handling the amounts of exercise it was enduring. I found myself losing weight faster than I thought possible, not just from the shortage of burgers to stuff my face with, but with the constant climbing and running, I became toned. I was sure no stick figure, though, as I'd kinda hoped to be. My pear shape was still evident on my body, just waaaaay less cushioning. I couldn't tell you exactly how much I lost, though. I don't know and never bothered looking around for a scale. That's just narcissistic… I think.

As I jumped and sprinted from ladder to ladder, I stopped to catch my breath on the open-windowed floor I had escaped through yesterday, and poked my head out carefully to survey the area.

Whoa. Only two Walkers in the alley in contrast to the spine-chilling flood yesterday? This really was my lucky day to come. I jumped down into the alley, quickly severing the head of the Walker closest to me, then swinging the blade upwards and landing the second Walker's brain through his jaw. I strapped the scythe to my back once more and ambled up the ladder before I could be seen be the others trudging the front of the building. Climbing, climbing… almost… I swung my leg over the ledge on the rooftop, surveying the seemingly empty expanse before bringing my other leg over. I walked over to the door that was supposed to lead into the lower floors of the department store, but found entrance chained. I frowned, figuring this must have been done when the chaos first started. "Well, off to find another way…" I muttered to myself.

I turned to cross the rooftop to the other side and see if I could scale through another entrance, stopped abruptly. My mouth suddenly went dry, and I felt my stomach lurch my measly breakfast of cold canned beans this morning—

There, lying underneath a large pipe, was a severed hand. A white human hand, one that has seen little decay and lied near a pool of freshly spilled blood. Maybe not too fresh… there was some slight, dark discoloration to it, a sign of drying. A few feet away from the hand was a bloodied hacksaw, and as my eyes raked for handless owner, I detected the glint of silver on the pipe. Handcuffs dangled there, blood staining the rimmed edge. I put things together, and could only imagine the horrible truth of what happened here.

The second stomach lurch was so strong, I couldn't keep the beans down; I chucked on the side of the pipe.

After breathing exercises and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I felt the need to get away as fast as possible. I didn't want to stay here a minute longer. I raced to the other side of the ledge of the rooftop, seeing a choice of various windows to break into. No need to make all kinds of noise though, to my relief. The window third to last window pane on the right hand side was left ajar. I scurried down the ladder and boosted myself into the window, taking a quick look around before I set foot inside. When I saw the coast was clear, I jumped in, landing with a quiet thump.

Not quiet enough, I guess. A Walker, once a lean, tall woman, that lingered behind the large cabinet of a desk area charged at me, and I barely had enough time to tear the strap of my scythe off. It was too close, so much so that I threw myself onto my back to avoid her bite and swung the scythe, the force strong enough to severe through both of her calves. She fell to the floor on her stomach, and before she could figure out the mechanics to crawl after me, I stood and brought my blade down on her rotted head. The Walker gave one final snarl and ceased moving.

I used to hate the sound the sound of the impact the blade made with flesh, but time and practice had toughened my eardrums as it had the rest of my body and mind.

I saw something jutting out of the pocket of what used to be nice dress pants, and reached down to retrieve it from her body… it was her worker I.D.

She was Connie Blake, a pretty blonde who looked like she had maybe been in her mid-twenties who had been a sales associate at the designer wing of this department store. I couldn't help but notice the large engagement ring adorning her finger, but no wedding band—she never made it to her wedding day. I shook my head before feeling bad about her demise at my hand. I had to remind myself that I did not kill Connie Blake, that she died a long time ago, and I put her soulless shell out of its' miserable existence. I placed her I.D. on the desk, walking further into the store past the desks and scattered papers.

There was little to nothing for me on the first floor, it seemed. Just multiple offices and closed doors to more offices, doors I dared not open when I heard scuffling behind a few of them. I found two water bottles, a candy bar, and a moldy sandwich in a small fridge that was no longer running. I stuffed the warm water bottles into my messenger and adjusting back to the side of my body. I turned my attention to descending the still escalator, intent on searching each floor until I find something worth the trip here. Reaching the second floor below, I saw three Walkers stumbling about. One was severely handicapped by the guts spilling out of his stomach, his feet tangling on innards and tripping him as he walked. The other two seemed to be in low spirits, thin with starvation.

Easy kills, I hoped. As always, I dispatched the one closest to me, a Walker so disfigured in the face I could not tell his ethnicity. Next was the gutless wonder, whose dull eyes did not light up as I approached swiftly. He must've been this way for so long, he'd given up his instinct to pursue. I brought the blade down on his skull and he slumped to the floor. The final was a black-haired woman with her throat ripped out; she was the most eager of the trio, and disturbed me when she kept moving even after I cut her in half. I brought the blade down between her eyes, ending her pitiful shrieks of hunger.

I took in the clothes and items around me, and realized I was in what should have been Connie Blake's section—the wedding dresses, along with shoes, bridesmaid gowns, tuxes for grooms, beautiful accessories, the whole shebang. I couldn't help but become distracted by the masses of expensive fabrics and luxurious colors of white, ivory, gold, and everything in between.

I suddenly felt a lump rise in my throat without the slightest clue as to why. I passed through the isles, seeing that the dresses cost anywhere from five hundred to thousands of dollars, and stopped at one in particular that stood out to me. It was a fitted cap-sleeved white dress made with gorgeous tulle. The silver flowers embroidered into the tulle and the sheer lace back, also stitched with a floral design, made the gown whimsical and romantic. Call me a sap, but if I had ever had the blind luck to find a guy crazy enough to propose to me, this dress would have been the one I'd wear down the isle.

… There it was. That lump in my throat again, and I knew why this time. I felt sad for Connie Blake, and in a more selfish sense, myself. Maybe Connie had already picked out her dress… maybe she was getting married within a week's time. Maybe she had already dreamed of her married life, with children and a beautiful home. And just like Connie, I would never have any of that either. It's not like I gave much thought to it in my old life, but now it was haunting me. At least Connie was close… I didn't even have some semblance of a boyfriend at the time. I trailed my fingers down the beautiful bodice, my sadness that I carefully tucked away rising from my heart again.

I'll never be a bride. I'll never be someone's wife. I'll never be a mother.

I suddenly had a notion, a snap sense of poor decision making… a surge of selfishness. Looking around one last time, I immediately removed my messenger bag and leaned my scythe against a dress rack. I quickly stripped off my clothes, standing in just a bra, then took the dress from the rack and pulled it over my head. Even with my sized-down figure, the dress fit a bit awkwardly on me—the bust was too large, the waist a little tight, and the excessive length was clearly made for a much taller girl. Who the fuck's body did they make this for, Heidi Klum? Either way, I got it on, and it was every bit as beautiful as it had been on display. I stared at the frazzled girl in the mirror wearing a $7,000 wedding gown… and for the first time in months, smiled. No makeup, no hair style, yet I thought I'd never look better than I did now wearing this dress. I did a small twirl, pausing to check out the breathtaking detail on the sheer back. I turned to face the mirror again, Jeff's gold crucifix gleaming in the daylight cast on the mirror… and with a light rush of blood to my cheeks, I thought of my dream last night. Hank Prior... I occasionally allowed myself to think of my family, once in a while Jeffery, but never Hank. Yet I could still feel his kiss on my lips, his tongue in my mouth, his hands on my face. He had been right… it was a mix of pain and uplifting to have something nice like that for a memory. It was the last good thing I could remember. If the world hadn't gone to shit… would something have happened for Hank and I? I was suddenly reading in to every memory I had of him, from the time he declined a girl inviting him to her apartment in favor of staying with me at a coffee house next to the bar, to the time he bandaged up and playfully kissed my knee when I once fell off of Jeff's bike. Was that kiss for the sake of a good memory, or had he really cared for me the way I did for him? Would we have married, and had children? I'll never know. I'll never…

A door bust open. My first instinct was to run for my scythe and scurry behind a rack of wedding gowns. I refused to be caught by surprise, and remained focused on controlling my breathing. Walkers?

"I don't think there's any in here" I heard a male voice whisper

Definitely not Walkers.

"Well then, th' fuck we waitin' for, permission?" I heard a different voice respond.

Another voice, "Hold up, Dixon. We so ain't sure yet. Look around."

Three men?

My heart sped up and my panic threatened to take control of me. I felt sweat beginning to bead on my forehead, and dared to sneak a peek from behind the dress rack: black boots and faded blue jeans carefully made their way two isles down from where I hid. All my possible options wracked my brain at once, but everything in my body was telling me to make a run for it. If they caught me, I'd definitely put up a fight despite the predictable outcome of one girl against three men… but that's if they could catch me. I'd come back for my messenger bag later. I had to run now, before the boots in my sight got any closer. Gathering up the edge of the dress and gripping my scythe as though my very life depended on it, I bolted.

And let me tell you, it is not easy running in the damn thing. Leave it to me to make the short-minded decision to put on a wedding dress today… life seemed funny like that.

"Hey!" I heard one of them call out, shock evident in his voice. "Hey, wait a goddamn minute!"

I kept running, dashing through an isle past another figure who didn't react quickly enough to me. Oh God no, four of them! I didn't slow down and streaked up the escalator so fast, I was sure I'd have time to throw myself out the window onto the escape ladder. But when I realized it'd be all too difficult for me to get through the window in this dress, I cursed myself and ducked under one of the many desks in the I came through. I once again focused on my breathing, trying hard to slow it down into a palpable silence.

One of them came crashing through the doorway, a string of curses no doubt aimed at me. "Where are ya? I already saw ya dumbass, ain't no point in hidin'!"

I was trapped like a damn rat. He had three other guys with him, it wouldn't take them long before they found me. As I heard the footsteps of the rest of his group join him, my only chance was to run back to the lower level and keep going until I lost them or they gave up. I could think of nothing else. They squabbled with one another, but I paid no mind to their words, only thinking of myself. I wanted to avoid a confrontation at all cost, because it might very well spare my life if they had weapons too. I tightened my grasp on my lifeline once again, preparing to shoot straight out of the doorway I held in my sights—

"What'sa matter, honey? Got cold feet on yer big day?" I looked up from my hiding place under the desk and held the piercing, judging blue gaze of a man wielding a crossbow, its' arrow aimed straight between my eyes.

God had kept me alive so far. Yet as I lie here, crouched to the carpet of an abandoned office in a $7,000 wedding dress with a man pointing a lethal weapon at my head, I was sure it was because God had a strange sense of humor and wasn't through humiliating me just yet.

xxx

A/N: And there ya have it. This chapter was quite fun! As the story unfolds, you'll further see into just exactly how Rita survived when she first came into the city. I'm so excited to write about the other character's drama-llama as well. Mind you, I love reviews! Thanks for your patience, I'll be updating soon. Til' next time!