AN: Thank you everyone who's subscribed already, I'm glad you guys have all been so accepting of my crazy world-blending.

And I forgot to mention it last time, although I'm sure you've figured it out by now, that the story is written in rotating first-person perspective. You can always tell who it is by the bolded name at the top of the section.

Chapter Two

N

Call me sentimental, but I like watching the sunrise. Well, that's a lie, or maybe an exaggeration. Sometimes, if I'm out all night - which I don't do often because the Boneys creep me out - I'll stop and watch the sun creeping up over the ruined skyline. What I really love though is watching morning come inside of my house. I've filled the windows that face the sunrise with trinkets, anything transparent but colourful that I can find. Coloured glass, broken bottles, bits of thin fabric, even a stripe of blue and yellow I drew on the glass with markers. The windowsills are cluttered with them and some of them hang off the broken frame of the window, the ones I managed to tie up or pin in place with my clumsy fingers.

So I lay on my back and watch the haphazard jumble of colours blossom into life on the ceiling as the first rays of sunlight creep over the horizon. It's an explosion, a cacophony, a symphony of light and colour. Where did I learn those words anyway? Weird. Maybe I was a poet Before? I stare in fascination at the ever-shifting mass of colours as it crawls gradually toward the top corner of the wall and then I finally get myself up and moving.

I switch off my record player before letting myself out of the house. I'm hungry and need to eat, but there's one more stop to make first. I shuffle across town, several streets down to a building that used to be some sort of office, I reckon. It's the place where I can always find him. I stumble up the steps and into the cramped space, weaving through upturned tables and filing cabinets until I get to the room in the very back, where my best friend is sitting.

And I used the term 'best friend' very loosely. Mostly it means we hang around the same areas, and we occasionally groan and stare a lot in a pathetic attempt at conversation.

He's a strange guy, really, a bit taciturn in mood. A lot older than me if his gray hair and wrinkled face are anything to go by. I think he must've been some sort of official Before, because his blue shirt has yellow shields and stripes sewn onto the shoulders, and his belt has a lot of unnecessary clips attached to it. When he's not out hunting, he spends most of his time lingering around the office or just sitting behind the desk and staring, like he's doing now.

I drop into the chair in front of his desk and he looks at me, cocking his head. "Gr-rr," I greet, my weak voice box stumbling over the single syllable. A while back I managed to ask him his name - by saying the word 'name' and tilting my head questioningly - and the most response he made was Gr. I'm assuming it's the start to his name, like mine. Either that or he was growling at me comedically, but I doubt that. He doesn't seem like the sort of guy to have a sense of humour. It's not much of a name, but it makes it easier to address each other.

"Nnn," he slurs back.

I stare in fascination at a cracked photo frame on his desk, the glass and photo missing but the tarnished silver frame still standing erect in a place of honour. I wonder what picture used to sit there. For some reason seeing it makes me sad. Trying to coax my atrophied vocal cords into movement again, I manage two whole syllables this time. "Hun-greee."

Gr nods, standing up and planting his hands on the desktop in an almost intimidating stance. "Sih-tee," he responds. I grunt in agreement and stand up as well, walking in front of him out of the office.

I don't know why I always go to Gr first before going on a hunt. Might be that I like his company, although since we're Corpses that doesn't really entail much. I don't even know what it is about him that drew us together. I just vaguely remember him being there in the early days right After. Maybe he's the one who turned me, or maybe he's just the poor soul who didn't get the chance to finish me off before I came back. Either way, we always seem to end up travelling together when we venture out into the human world.

We accumulate a bit of a crowd as we make our way out of town and onto the main highway. It doesn't bother me. It's always safer to hunt in a pack anyway, since the humans are all so trigger-happy. When there's a lot of us, it lowers the chances one of us will take a bullet to the brain, which is perfectly fine with me. I may not love being a Corpse, but I'd still rather not die. You know, again.

The cities all looked trashed and dismal, but out here on the open highway between the cities it's almost pleasant. There aren't any crumbling buildings and fewer moving things. Just trees and grass and the wind. And rusted out cars and the occasional bit of person that hasn't been carried off by a Corpse or animal yet. But still, it's calmer and quieter than in the city, apart from our shuffles and moans as we creep along at a pace like mud in winter.

Jesus Christ we are slow.

AUDREY

I have never had to sit through a more painfully uncomfortable trip than this one. The air is thick and humid, and the half-open windows in the front of the van do nothing for easing that. It only gets hotter as it gets further into the day. The van has no discernible shocks or suspension and after the first two hours we all stop apologising for jostling into each other. Instead an awkward, irritable quiet settles between us.

As the sun sinks closer to the horizon, I reach out for Chris' hand. Night is always the worst in the Dead Zone. It's so difficult to see in the darkness, but that change doesn't bother the Corpses. They lurch at you out of the shadows and they'll have their teeth in you before you can do anything to stop them. Chris threads his fingers with mine but he doesn't acknowledge the gesture any more than that. I don't comment on it, because at least he didn't shake me off like he normally does when we're with others.

"Nearly there, folks," the driver announces over his shoulder. "Get yourselves ready."

Chris immediately drops my hand, turning his attention to making sure that his gun is armed and his pack is prepared. I bite back a sigh and catch the sympathetic look Duke gives me as he adjusts the straps on his forearm that hold a throwing knife in place. I follow suit with everyone else and start double-checking my equipment. No time for being sentimental in the Dead Zone.

The driver pulls the van up behind a large, rectangular building with a broken red cross on the top floor, backing up so the rear doors face the the hospital. Once the van is shut off, Chris nods to the man closest to the doors. The man - a sweet little wall guard with a receding hairline and gentle eyes - nods back and carefully open the doors, checking around in both directions. After a tense moment he motions for us with a quiet, "All clear."

Duke offers me a hand as I jump down out of the back of the cargo hold, and he squeezes it fondly before taking up his rifle again. I give him a small smile in return, understanding the message: be safe. I adjust the strap of my pack, draw my 9mm from the hip holster, and follow the others into the derelict hospital.

The whole place has an eerie, horror movie vibe. Doors are broken off frames, furniture broken and upturned, cupboards ransacked. Medical machines lay on their sides, screens cracked and wires hanging loose. There are distinct signs of squatters having been there at some point, but there are no signs of life. At least none that's survived. Some of the rooms, pale and open, have beds stained with deep maroon blood and small remnants of bodies that were devoured by Corpses a long time ago.

"God this place is creepy," Duke murmurs as we walk through a ward where the beds are separated by blood-speckled, torn curtains that stir gently as our motion pushes air passed them. I can see on the other's faces that they agree wholeheartedly, whether they want to admit it or not.

Chris and Soft-Eyes, following the placards still tacked on the dirty walls, lead us to a medical storage room. The first one is gutted, most everything of use taken or contaminated by blood and decay. We have to try three more of the storerooms before we find one on the second floor that is still fairly well stocked and apparently untouched.

"Alright, everyone, you know how this works," Chris says and nods into the room. "We load up anything of necessity and leave the rest." Everyone spreads out to different corners of the room, examining the products on the shelves before tossing them aside or shoving them into our backpacks.

I walk over to a row of boxes and a look inside shows they contain plasters and wraps and ointments, all items in high demand back home. Infected injuries can kill you quick as anything, and the last thing we need are undead inside the Compound as well as outside. It happened once before, a man lost a finger and it got infected, and he eventually died. He reanimated that night and killed three people before someone killed him for good. They became a lot more meticulous about checking for injuries when coming back to the Compound after that.

I pick through the box, pulling out all of the wraps and plasters that are still fresh and tucking them into the bottom of my bag. "Mm, look guys, Vicodin," Duke says enthusiastically. "Anybody want to split some with me?" Chris gives him a stern look and opens his mouth, and Duke cuts across him quickly, "Oh relax, Mr. Congeniality, I'm only kidding." He tucks the bottles into his backpack, although out of the corner of my eye I see him slip one into his pocket. He smirks in my direction, knowing I saw, and then goes back to work. I try not to smile as I start stowing away a layer of antiseptics.

I've just picked up a suture kit when a distant thunk reaches my ears and I tense. "Did anyone else hear that?"

Everyone freezes for a tense minute, straining our ears for any hint of noise, but there's nothing apart from laboured breathing. "It's nothing, Audrey," Chris says, walking over to stand behind me.

I frown, turning to face him. "We should get out of here," I say decisively. These scavenging missions don't do any good if we don't survive to bring the supplies home.

"We can't just leave," Chris says and he fixes me with a patronising look. "You know how important these missions are. Haven needs this medicine and it's our job to gather-"

I wave him off, stepping out from between him and the shelf to cross the room. I need to put some distance between us before I slap that look off his face. "Yeah, okay Vince," I say sarcastically.

Chris snorts, following close behind me. "Flattery doesn't win arguments."

"I didn't mean it as a compliment," I reply shortly, picking up a box of syringes to avoid looking at him. God he can be so argumentative sometimes, I just want to -

Another crashing sound, louder this time, makes us all look up. "Okay, I definitely heard it that time," Duke chimes in. "Seriously, Brody, I think it's time to split."

"It's nothing," Chris says but he doesn't sound truly convinced, walking toward the door and squinting through the dingy glass panel. "Probably just the wind knocking something over, it's fine." He turns around and starts walking back into the room, giving me a slightly annoyed look. As he does, my gaze slips passed him and I feel my heart drop into my stomach at full speed.

"Chris!"