“It's not about surviving. It should be about love. When you know love...that's what makes this life worth it. When you live with it everyday. Wake up with it, hold on to it during the thunder and after a nightmare. When love is your refuge from the death that surrounds us all and when it fills you so tight that you can't express it.”
― Carrie Ryan



"Hey Anthony, found a few rounds. You want 'em?"

"I'm going to regret it, those damn things are more trouble than they're worth, but sure. Might be able to take out one or two more. If not I'll trade 'em to Brick. That stupid kid collects them." The larger man said, taking the bullets from the girl's open hand. He pulled out his Glock-17, and began the process of reloading. His hands slightly shortening the time of loading due to practice. They were currently in the wooded area of a park. The older man was on the ground, his large black fire axe in hand. The blade of the axe was freshly bloodied, and at his feet was a mutilated corpse, it's head split open. A little ways to the left there was a smaller girl, probably no more than 120lbs if not less. She was crouched over a zombie, who had an arrow through it's head. In one of her hands was a hunting bow. She seemed to be studying the corpse, her big and attentive blue eyes moving along the slightly decayed facial features. The old man couldn't help but be happy that he had someone to spend the last few years of his life with. Her and the boy and his dog. In another time and situation, they would've been a little happy family financing their first house with maybe a kid on the way. But no, they were hardened and survivors. They were smart, both of them. Hell of a lot smarter than he was when he was their age.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." He said gruffly, stepping over the corpse at his own feet and remaining attentive of the surroundings in case something snuck up on them. He turned back to look at the young woman again, who was still studying the creature.

"I'd help if I had a camera. My phone ran out of battery six years ago." she sniped.

And clever. He couldn't forget they were clever asshats. The both of them. Only one bearable enough to be around for a few hours straight was the dog.

"He wasn't a walker too long ago." she said, moving over and stepping on the corpse's neck with her shoe, holding it down, and then pulling the arrowhead that was imbedded in it's forehead out. The corpse twitched, they always did that, but otherwise remained dead and still. The way it should be. "He had ammo on him. Not too much. He still had his gun in his hand." The older man looked down. It was true. There it was, dented and beaten and probably no longer functional as a weapon, but still tightly clenched in the man's hand. He looked over the one he had killed. An asian woman, probably in her mid thirties. She was probably attractive in life. Half her cheek had been torn off and her eye was gone, but the other half of her face was nearly intact. She was relatively fresh too. If she was infected any more than a week ago she probably would've decayed more than this by now. "I see what you mean," he said, looking over to the young woman a few feet away from him, who had dug out a small toy car from one of the man's pockets. The way her face crinkled up while looking it over caused him to guess that she was confused. He laughed, "Give it here." he said, moving a bit closer and moving her hand to take a look at the toy.

He chuckled again. "That my girl, is a Matchbox 1984 Mercury Classic. I fixed one of them up back in the day." he said, releasing the girl's hand and letting her look over the toy once again. "My first car was a Mercury Marquis," he said. "1984 model, same year as that." he smiled as she did. She had told him around a campfire once that she was, at one time, working to become an engineer. Someone who designed and built things like cars and buildings. She said she didn't know what field she'd work in in that respect, but she knew she wanted to be an engineer. A strange choice for a lady like her, but he couldn't knock her for it. His face returned to it's normal, almost angry look when her look of wonder transformed to a look of worry. "You think Brick's alright? He's been gone for a while." she said, unconsciously feeling at the handle to the shotgun she had tied to her backpack, which had replaced her hunting rifle. She had lent it to Brick and in replacement was given his sawn off M37 shotgun for the time being. "He's fine. It'll take more than a zombie or a bullet to take that fucker out." He said. "If I thought it could, I would've tried by now."

She sighed. "I wish he wouldn't go off on his own though. It's not safe." He sighed after her. "You know him, he'll be fine. He always is." The girl nodded. "I'm holding you to that." The older man gave a small smile. "I am too."

Their conversation was cut short by a dog, large, black and brown. "Diesel!" the girl said. "Oooh I missed you!, where've you been?" She said, shouldering the bow and kneeling down to hug the Rottweiler. "Where's Brick?" she said, looking at the dog, who panted, it's tongue lolling out. The dog licked her face causing her to sputter and fall back on her butt. "No kisses!" She said, chuckling. The old man smiled at this. It had been a long time since he had been content and actually happy. A damn long time. "Where's Brick?" Anthony said, causing the dog to move it's attention to him, then back to Allie. It growled into a low woof, and then ran off a little ways away. It stopped and looked back at them, woofing lowly again, knowing to try and be quiet. "He's telling us to follow." Allie said, standing up, and moving after the large dog. The old man shook his head and followed after them.

The dog led them through back roads and took a stealthier route, as to avoid the streets and anyone or thing that would be in them. "Good boy Diesel." Allie said, petting the dog, who licked her hand in response. Diesel had led them to the fire escape of a building. Brick was probably up there. "I'll stay here, knees wont like me climbing that much on them." Anthony said, resting his axe on his shoulder. "I'll stick with Diesel. You go check it out." he said, whistling to the dog, causing it to lay down and keep alert, listening, smelling, and keeping watch for anyone who wasn't Anthony, Allison, or Roark.

The trip up the fire escape was uneventful, but she got a good view of the roads. Backed up cars that had been degraded with a few aimless walkers meandering around here and there. Nothing super special, but the sight in the early morning light was... brisk and beautiful in it's own fucked up way. As she came up to the top, she noticed a few tents had been set up on the roof of the building with what looked like a fire pit laid out. It was long out, and most of the stuff looked like it wasn't going to hold up much longer. She drew her pistol out of habit, and kept a close eye on the tents just in case one of those weird boney motherfuckers was around. Some other survivor called them Hoarders or Collectors or something. She took a few cautious steps forward, and was about to open up one of the tents when...

"Three cans of food on the right, six bottles of water. 'Some ammo in the other tent, but the weapons are rusted and the guns are pretty malformed by now." A voice said. She spun around on her heel, pointing the gun in the direction of a man who was sitting in a lawn chair with a beer right next to him and a jar of a yellow liquid on the other side. He wasn't facing her, but it was obvious he was focused on the road below. He was looking through the scope on her hunting rifle, using them as a pair of binoculars. It was obvious he hadn't shot it based on the fact that there were no shells around on the ground and no hoard of zombies pilling around each other on the building. "Jesus Brick, you scared the shit out of me." Allison said, lowering her gun with an exasperated sigh. "I nearly shot you!"

"But ya didn't, thank ya fer asking first and shooting later." Brick said, turning around and looking at her with what she could tell would be a shit eating grin based upon how his eyebrows were. She couldn't see his mouth through his bandana. Hers was pulled down right now, lying around her neck. "Find anything?" she asked, walking over and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Ye," he said in his heavy Australian accent. "First two floors below me are clear, nothin' worth shootin' at in 'em based on what I saw. Haven't checked for supplies yet. Thought I'd 'ave Diesel fetch you two in case I was wrong. We'll search through on a little supply run, but we should grab the food I've found from here before heading down." he said, standing up. Allison for a moment wondered if this little camp belonged to the zombie she had killed earlier when it was a man. "Didn't see much besides a few walkers on the street." he said, passing her rifle back to her, Allison grabbed his shotgun and gave it back to him in trade. "Thanks." he said simply. He stood up and grabbed his gun, holstered it, then can of beer, and finally the jar of the yellow liquid with his other hand. He looked at her for a moment, before he looked over the edge of the building. "Ey, see that one over there?" Brick said, pointing with the hand that held the jar at a zombie across the road that could be easily seen from the building's vantage point. "Watch this." he said, before winding his arm back and chucking the jar into the air. As it fell back to earth, the combination of gravity and the power of Brick's throw caused the jar to fall and shatter on the walker's head, causing it to fall to the ground from the force and not get up. A few others in the general area turned toward the noise and began to walk towards it, but most otherwise remained where they were. Allison crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow at Roark, who had walked in and out of a tent carrying about size bottles of water in one of his arms. He simply shrugged at her look and gave what she guessed to be another shit eating grin.

"So whatcha think? Zombie kill of the week?"

"I can't do this anymore, Leo," she said. "Honestly, this has been coming for a long time. I should've done it sooner."

There was a car waiting outside with Jenna's belongings haphazardly packed into it, as if done in a rush. She stood in the doorway, clutching one arm with her other hand and looked at Leo's feet. Leo was distraught, running his fingers through his hair in disbelief. The night before, they argued and fought; Leo, to keep their life together -- and Jenna, to finally break free of all the sadness. It all culminated into this one moment, a moment that seemed to stretch on infinitely.

Leo's eyes were sunken and hollow, deep shades hanging underneath what were now glossed over irises of a greyish blue. He hadn't slept through the night; just sat on the couch in the living room, trying to figure out some way to make things alright. He knew it was too late, though. Neither of them were happy, and the piling debt didn't make things any less sufferable.

"I know," he said, his voice resonating with the tone of one who accepted defeat after a long and tiring battle. His arms hung at his sides. Jenna, a tear running down her cheek, slipped the wedding ring from her finger, slowly lifted Leo's arm, and placed it gently into his hand. It was the final nail in the coffin. Leo couldn't bare to look.

"I think Hazel would have wanted this to stay with you," Jenna choked, trying to smile as if things were ending on a good note. "But, it's best for us if we just let go. It's time to start over."

A couple of minutes later, the car was gone and Leo stood in the doorway, staring at the wedding ring. He shut the door, sealing himself inside for a time. The neighbors never bothered to ask if he was alright. After all, they watched everything play out without ever uttering a word.

---

Seven Years Later

---

Time to start over. Time to start over. Time to start over.

Leo revisited the site of his loss months before, attempting to recollect things he had to forcibly leave behind in the wake of his escape from the bandits. When the coast was clear, he walked about, scouring the road for all his possessions. He found nothing of worth, nothing of considerable value. Everything was blood-stained and ravaged, reduced to scraps and pieces that couldn't be considered salvageable. To him, this was a bad thing because there was something that was missing from his collection, something very prominent and personally valuable. He was missing Aunt Hazel's wedding ring.

He checked the bodies lying around the area. Fifteen walkers, gone. A couple of normals, too. Guess the bandits couldn't take on the horde without casualties. He checked his own gun. Six bullets in the cylinder, with another twenty-four in a holding case. He checked the tracks left behind by the survivors. They headed eastward, but Leo wasn't sure where. He deduced that if the ring wasn't here, then it had to be with them, a fact that he wasn't all too happy with.

"Well," he said, slipping the revolver into a holster he found not too far back. Stepping over the bodies, he caught sight of a shotgun and picked it up, checking for any usable shells. Finding none, he started walking with it in hand, growing angrier.

"Now, you've got a problem."

The road smelled of blood and gunpowder. Patches of grass burst from the neglected cement, cracked all about, now covered in blood and bullet casings. Tomás took in the sight. Bodies lay scattered about, still warm, and for the moment still. While he stood ahead of the road, others dressed like him strolled between the bodies. Despite their military grade body armour, rifles, and other gear, to Tomás, they were just well armed civilians. His assault rifle scanned over the street and his comrades ahead. They moved casually, yet also like marionettes. Once a body was within three yards they would raise their primary weapon. Fingers hovering over the trigger, they checked the spike attached under the barrel, and once closed in -- the strike. In one fatal move the spike plunged through the eye and out the back of the skull. A simple, but effective measure so the dead stay dead.

"That's it, LT," Tomás exclaimed, lowering his rifle.

Raising a hand, the lieutenant gestured for a meeting. At once the squad assembled without question. The eight collected around their squad leader, quietly awaiting her order. Tomás had jogged from the furthest point, but not been the last. That honour was reserved to Corporal Ramos, apparently the only one among them who'd been with the lieutenant during the initial Siege of Evergreen. For Tomás, these were no different from other war stories. Every glory in victory has an atrocity swept under the rug, and he didn't need to see much at the haven to know the siege had more than its fair share. Ramos moved slower and shot less than the rest of them. Not too different from the lieutenant, really, except she insisted on leading by example. First into battle, first to strike, and she took great pride in the first blood. Maybe that's why Tomás was Designated Marksman so often. Given the opportunity he could be a downright brute, but combat wasn't always the best way to go. His brother taught him that.

"Needless to say, these were not our targets. We have maybe five hours of daylight left. We'll be staying put until Bravo squad's messenger updates us to their progress," the sound of chuckling cut the lieutenant's explanation short. Her rifle slung over his shoulder, she glanced about as if for show, before finally settling her eye on the culprit. "Private Barkley, is something funny?"

Clearing his throat, the private looked to Tomás at his side and grinned. "Well ma'am, you said 'Bravo squad' and 'progress' in the same sentence. Might be new, but I sure-as-shit know they ain't done one we ain't yet. Practically sit on their asses and let us lead the way, if ya ask me."

Barkley scanned over the squad with a sidewise, puckered smile. He was young, southern, and rough around the edges. Admittedly, this was the sort Tomás saw the most of in the old world's Armed Forces, yet these were also the most annoying. Tomás and those also around the private inched away as the lieutenant made her approach. A less disciplined crew might collectively beam, but such behaviour belonged on reality television.

"No disrespect, ma'am," Barkley chuckled, this time forced and quick. "Maybe if they had a boss-bitch like you they'd be--"

The lieutenant walked by Barkley before spinning on her heel. In turning, she kicked out the back of the private's nearest knee. He crumbled immediately, arms flailing, only to have the lieutenant catch him with a single hand on middle of his back. That cold, absent look in her eye bore into his, replacing all but a sliver of his humour with fear. However, a sliver was still too much. Before the corner of his mouth could twitch into that asinine puckered smirk, the lieutenant brought her second hand up. She brought down a gloved fist directly onto his nose in one blow. Blood spurt onto his mouth as the punch connected and, at the same time, the lieutenant allowed him to fall. Only when the private hit the ground and coiled did she look back to the squad. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the lieutenant gave a blank expression -- then a smile.

"You will respect your comrades or you will fall. You will respect me, and all the women in this squad, or we will break you. Do you understand?" the lieutenant asked in a strong, sturdy shout.

The squad straightened their backs. "Ma'am yes ma'am!"

"As I was saying before. We will be staying put until word comes in from Bravo. This town may look like shambles, but that doesn't mean nobody's shambling about. Go in pairs and search for scavengers. Look for clues about our targets. Corporal Gellemo, you've got Barkley."

***

Just outside of the town Tomás stood watch as Barkley gingerly rubbed the blood from his nose. The two had found a small gas station, like those 'members only' outside of some supermarkets. Salvageable supplies were already gone. Necessities like water and what food you might dare to try went shortly after the world changed, fortunately, there was enough Coke to clear two decades of plumbing -- let alone one broken nose. Bent over a grimy sink, Barkley poured the dark, fizzy drink over his face and winced. The bathroom was barely big enough for one of them with all their gear, so Tomás hung back, facing out toward the station's entrance. Past the racks of long expired or otherwise unappetizing snacks, he could see clear beyond the town's edge. Besides a few stumbling dead-heads in a distance there wasn't much. Tomás eyed the land regardless, interesting or not, as he was trained.

"Ain't nothin' out there," Barkley snorted. Brown and red thick ran down his cheeks, probably into his mouth, but his expression remained a pained scowl. "This's some game, right? Does a show for the team, show'em what's cool n' what ain't, then the muscle finishes the job. Why'm I even cleanin' myself? Just gonna get bloodied up again, ain't?"

Tomás cocked a brow. Before he could reply, he observed Barkley closer than he'd care to prior. The private was thin, and from the scars on his brow and mouth, a scrapper. His pale skin was pockmarked and tattoos appeared without any obvious theme. Judging from all that, not to forget the accent, Tomás went over the statement once more. This was a man who clearly suffered before. Smart ass retorts only worsened by a clear lack of education covered up that Barkley might understand hierarchy all too well.

"I don't know where you came from, but that's not how it works here. The world might've gone to shit, but this is a military unit all the same. You listen, you observe, and you act. Our job is simple. Simpler since we're a hunting unit -- all we have to do is find our targets. There's quite a bit of latitude here, but the same rules apply. Stupid hurts. You probably got that part, huh?" Tomás explained, daring to smile a bit at the end. "The slate's clean though. Don't make a series of mistakes or they add up, but work to fix and you'll be fine. Just don't lie to us. In their eyes, there's nothing worse."

For a moment the private stared blankly at Tomás. "I need a minute, Gellemo. Thanks."

Without another word, Tomás stepped outside of the mini-convenience station. He thought over his own words and stuck at the last part. Gellemo. Years lie between the age of personal information beaming to and fro unattended to then, where your name was what you gave. All the same, Tomás had stuck to a name nearly true. Lombard was a wanted name, to him and the rest the squad. While he might embrace Simon-Pietro with open arms, the others would not. He couldn't imagine any other fate for the brother of their prey either. Tomás Gellemo was a shield just one name away from death. A thin lie, yes, but so near to the truth how could you tell?