I love OQ and Zombies - here's what happens with that combo! I'd love to hear what you think! I own nothing.

Time stopped the moment the outbreak infiltrated the world. It's light and then it's dark. The sun goes about its business as usual. The very concept of time has been demoted to a state of irrelevance by a virus that nobody could have predicted, something that no amount of strategy or anticipation could have prepared anyone for the chaos that ensued.

A four-week course in Zombie Apocalypse Survival might have helped at least; learning how to fire a weapon, how to salvage supplies, how to make spam taste like something other than spam. At least that's what Daniel says to lighten the mood some days.

Used to say.

It's what Daniel used to say.

It's right out of the movies, yeah, those ones. Rotting flesh, a stench that makes eyes water, and an infection that passes far too easily - one bite, one scratch, and you're a goner.

Within hours, the virus takes over a host, stripping away at the things that make them human. Sight diminishes, breathing slows, grip loosens, and then for a few silent moments, there's peace. It really doesn't last long before being rudely interrupted by whatever causes the reanimation. The body suddenly moves again, though it's not who was there before. There's a lack of morals and understanding. It's nothing more than a thing that was once a body left to become a shuffling sack of bones that doesn't care who or what it infects.

She's seen it far too many times - strangers, friends, lovers - they all die and come back before the swollen, tear-stricken eyes of a loved one. At that point, the only solution is to be mercifully executed to stop any spreading of the infection. It's tragic - a horror that no one should ever have to endure - and nobody understands it any more than Regina Mills.

She's has been travelling alone for months now; an unknown, unimportant number of days.

Isolation is the only thing she depends on. It's her best friend, her lifeline. To be isolated is to be independent. She's only reliant on herself, that way she can't be disappointed when others let her down. And, perhaps the most important aspect of all, isolation means she will never again have to feel the dreaded ache that comes with lose the love of her life.

Survival is the bottom line, the most important thing to her. And the only way to survive is to blend into the surroundings, no matter how dismal they may be. The first rule of survival is to have as little baggage as possible, physical and emotional. Keep to the essentials, the bare necessities - food and water, a weapon. Most importantly, closing off is vital. Travelling in groups means a greater risk of being spotted, a higher potential for error.

She knew early on that she had to build an armour so that no one can get close. She had to grow thorns to scare the rest of the world away.

If she doesn't care about anything or anyone else, she's nothing to lose...

...right?

The clock on the bedside table has stopped at 8.15 (morning or evening a mystery that will never be solved) and Regina has been staring at it for a good while before inhaling heavily and sitting up, fully clothed and preparing to extract herself from someone else's bed.

Every so often she wonders what the date is. Is it a cool spring day or a warm day in the fall? She kept up with it for a few months, but after a while, it becomes pointless, much like the mirror she finds herself staring into. It's above the dresser on the wall across from the bed. It's disheartening, her reflection.

Regina could go days without catching a glimpse of herself in one, and then when she does finally, her eyes meet that of a stranger.

This stranger has her physical features; hazel eyes, a scar concaving upon her lip, dark hair, but she doesn't see the woman she used to be. The old Regina would never have fired a weapon; the closest she would get would be the lash of her wit. The old Regina wouldn't know how to start a vehicle without the keys or how to syphon gasoline. It's a bitter and cruel reality, but she has to face the facts - the old Regina would be dead.

So instead of moping or letting her murky appearance bother her, when she catches herself in a mirror she takes a good hard look and gets to know this new woman. She recalls the killing she's witnessed, the execution she has had to perform, and the nights spent sleeping in the rain. Not to mention the hours spent hungry or thirsty.

She shakes away from her reflection and stands, and as soon as her boots hit the floor, she swings her arms high above her head in a stretch that soothes her muscles perfectly. She rolls her neck from side to side, her long braid swinging with her movements, and she's pressing on the balls of her feet to lean up onto her tiptoes.

The braid is new and growing longer and longer. Her mother would hate it, so naturally, Regina adores it. It's a practical hairstyle - neat, tidy, out of the way. Not that it matters, her days of sensible pantsuits and a decorated face have been substituted for neutral coloured (browns, greys, greens, you name it) shirts and trousers, always branded with a unique stain here and there. And, of course, her apocalypse chic could never be complete without a few marks of dirt swiped across her soft skin.

The sun is bright outside, though not completely risen yet. It's early. It's most likely just coincidence, but she loves days when she wakes at this time and she wonders if her body does it deliberately.

The room is engulfed in peachy oranges and soft tones of pink, colours she links with happiness and warmth, all the things she is lacking. But she makes up for that loss in tact and skill - the skills needed to survive this hellhole. Sure, at first she was utterly useless. She hadn't a clue how to handle herself and made reckless decisions, but now she is meticulous and careful. She's never caught off guard anymore. The element of surprise is something that these things used to have on her but she vowed after many close calls to never give it back to them.

The morning all Hell broke loose was the scariest one of her entire life, even now after everything she's been through. At least she knows that Daniel would be proud of her now, no matter what she's had to do in order to survive. He taught her everything he could, and his tactics were just as drastic as hers are now: Kill first, ask questions later.

She had to stop wondering if the zombies are conscious or aware and learn quickly that any creature left to feast, even if not directly impacting anyone, are simply potential creatures that will kill you. Everyone is dangerous. Everything is an enemy.

Always.

Suddenly, she's startled by a noise from downstairs. It's a faint shuffling, the careful opening and closing of a door (the back door to the kitchen, she knows by the way she hears a soft thud against a counter). Regina abandons her stretch and quickly pulls the knife that had been kept under her pillow as she slept. Abandoning her belongings, she creeps towards the bedroom door. Carefully tiptoeing her way out of the bedroom, she skims down the stairs slowly and sneakily, expertly skipping over the parts that she knows will creak and give her away.

The knife is in one hand, the other is readied for the gun in the back of her pants that she will only fire if she absolutely needs to. When she can no longer hear the crunching steps or closing of cupboards, she stands dead in her tracks and concentrates. Chewing on the inside of her cheeks, she listens for the slightest giveaway of the intruder, not moving a muscle or daring to breathe.

She knows she's not dealing with the undead, there's no way it would have silenced that quickly, although, they have been becoming more and more tactful. But she keeps listening and she manoeuvres around the corners of the hallway towards the kitchen and that's when whoever this is makes their first mistake.

First, there's a soft scratch, and then a stretching sounds. It's not a gun or a knife, so she hasn't a clue what kind of weapon is about to be in her face. The doorway to the kitchen is in sight and she opts for the gun in a moment of panic, she won't shoot, but she sure as hell needs the upper hand incase this mystery guest isn't as considerate.

Against her better judgement, she waits for a second longer than she should to commit, and the decision bites her in the ass. Luckily her reflexes are intact and fast. She doesn't notice his face, just the sudden emergence of his frame and something moving fast towards her face. It's not a bullet but it's something that makes her move just as violently.

Stepping to the side quickly and with a gasp, she just dodges its impact, letting the guilty stick pierce firmly into the far wall of the hallway.

"Apologies, milady," he speaks from behind her, quietly but sincere, the accent drawing her attention mostly, but not enough to rip her eyes from the victimised wall. She's breathing heavily. That was a close call and that stick could have easily been her undoing.

It takes a second and an episode of eye squinting before she realises, "Did... did you just fire an arrow at me?" Adrenaline is making her heart pump fast, and she tries to steady her breathing, licking her lips and noticing all too well how the shock instantly dried them.

"I did, I thought you were one of those things. I'm sorry. But you're lucky, I usually never miss."

He offers her his arm, a sorry attempt at kindness after almost murdering her. There's no way she's taking it, so she pushes herself off the wall, straightening herself upright, and steps back from him. She's still reeling a bit, but she understands, pulling the arrow from the wall, She offers it back, "Don't apologise for protecting yourself, I wouldn't."

He takes the arrow tentatively, gripping it tightly with his fingertips as close to the point as possible. Clearly, her state of mind has thrown him, it's not every day someone all but congratulates you for taking a shot at their face.

And then the inevitable staring starts. It's necessary and luckily only lasts a few seconds, but they attempt to study each other's faces, eyeing up and down to check for any visible wounds or signs of infection. Only, Regina can't help but notice how ruggedly handsome he is. It's clear he has a story, a painful one, and it draws her in like a magnet, like the universe doesn't want to deprive her of the painful understanding. She does what she does best: she shakes it away, ending the interest and telling the universe to shove it.

Passing him, she enters the kitchen, unable to hold back the scoff when she sees that her supplies are stuffed into bags that aren't hers. "I spent hours looking for these," she growls, showing him the cans and water bottles he's stolen, lifting them from his bags and dropping them back to the granite countertop. "So, other than a thief, who are you?"

"Robin Locksley, at your service," he says confidently, just about to offer a hand to shake and no doubt another apology for the misunderstanding, but a startling groan and crash echoes from the front of the house - he's attracted company it appears.

There's the sound of glass breaking under shuffling footsteps, and the groans and moans are most definitely conjured from the lungs of the undead, she can identify it from a mile away at this point. He jumps into action, impressing her slightly at first, but she rolls her eyes heavily when he pulls the huge gun from the back of his jeans. It's a fancy weapon, something that a collector would keep in a glass case, so it's probably fully loaded due to lack of use. He doesn't come off as the type of guy who would look for trouble or fire a loud and dramatic weapon quite like that.

And while he is primed and ready to attack whatever body comes around the corner, Regina creeps up behind him and whispers, "Put that thing away before you hurt yourself. Or me."

"You had your gun," he whispers harshly back while Regina pushes his forearm down, angling the gun toward the floor.

"You are going to want to use your..." she tosses a look to the quiver on his back, the arrows, and fights against the second rolling of her eyes. "...Sticks. It's quieter. Unless you want to alert everything in two-mile radius that we're here?"

He steps to the side, pursing his lips in amusement, letting Regina step ahead of him. Ignoring the obvious teasing, she walks ahead slowly, one step at a time until she has to quickly pull weight off the ground because of a loud creak in the floor and she hisses inwardly. He bumps into her back accidentally, not expecting her sudden stop, and he apologises with a squeeze to her shoulder. She almost groans at his gesture, shrugging him away and continuing forward. They tiptoe into the living area, carefully and prepared, ready for anything, but when Regina pops her head around the corner quickly to view the monster that has interrupted their introduction, she is puzzled to see nothing.

The window is smashed, pieces scattered all over the floor, but no zombie.

"That's odd," Robin mutters after noticing the lack of visible danger himself. He walks passed Regina without a care, without a sense of risk about him and she scowls harshly.

"What the hell are you doing?" She hisses from still around the corner, concealing herself from any danger that could potentially be lurking.

"There's nothing in here, it's sa-"

He goes down like a sack of potatoes, and there is a tiny moment, the tiniest, where she is slightly happy that this thing pounces on him from the corner of the room. For learning purposes, of course; punishment for his recklessness. But when the rotted fleshy arms pushing against him make him slip to the floor, the dead weight kneeling on him and bearing teeth towards Robin's exposed skin, as well as his groaned plead for a little help here, she jumps into action.

Sighing a strained and ridiculing sigh, she mutters mockingly, "More like Robin Locksley, in need of my service…"

Regina grips the back of the stained shirt it's wearing, blood and whatever other gunk it has rolled in, and she pulls back hard to release Robin from its weight, gritting her teeth tightly during her efforts. Robin rolls from underneath the chomping teeth, muttering a string of curses along the way.

Regina releases her grasp, letting it drop to the floor and backs away quickly. Unfortunately, she falls over her own feet, allowing gravity to become her worst enemy, and she crashes into the glass coffee table in the centre of the room. She releases a loud yelped sound as soon as she hits the floor, glass slicing her anywhere it touches her skin.

Robin appears to come to his senses and tackles the beast away, a small knife in his hand as he penetrates its skull violently; it pops loudly throughout the room, the skull is crushed and the now truly lifeless body ceases to move, dropping to the floor next to the couch, collapsing atop the broken glass from the window, as well as the now destroyed coffee table.

"They are getting smarter," Robin complains, his breath hitching and choking as she's sprawled on the floor, visibly in pain. "Milady, you're injured."

Robin offers his arm to lift her off the floor. She wants to take it, even lifts her own arm to take it with a delicious quip on her tongue about his use of milady, but it's forced back down into the depths of her sass when a sharp pain rips through her side. She twists as much as she can and catches the glimmer of the shard of glass sticking out from her hip.

"Fuck," she groans, her teeth gritting firmly for a moment before she puffs out a shuddered, pained breath. It's taking all she can to keep the threatening tears from falling.

It's a pain like no other. Although in a way, she welcomes it. After months of limited interaction with anyone and the horrifically repetitive routine, pain reminds her that she is alive. It gives her a sliver of something to latch onto, to motivate her to fight harder, but that state of mind lasts all of five seconds until she listing off a string of rather decorative expletives, adjusting her weight on the floor to the position of least pain.

"What can I do?" Robin asks, dropping his weapon to the floor - a huge mistake in this life; weapons in hand at all times, but she can let it slide this once.

Gritting her teeth again, she clenches her face and stutters, "You have to pull it out."

Any reality medical show or emergency room documentary she remembers watching always explicitly said to never remove the blade from a stab wound if possible, but that logic is abandoned - Robin Locksley was just promoted to Dr Locksley and he is going to do this for her. Luckily, he agrees and doesn't fight her on the suggestion, dropping his knees to the floor to get a better look at the situation. The glass doesn't look like it'll snap when extracted, a sparkle of good news for a change.

"We certainly need to remove this," he explains softly, "But I'm not qualified. I could do it all wrong and kill you, or I could miss a piece of glass and you could die of infection."

"I don't exactly have a plethora of options now, do I?"

Shit, it hurts.

"A man I'm travelling with, David," Robin tells her as he stands to his feet, his weapon and arrows in hand again, "He's a vet. He is better and this kind of thing."

"No. It's fine, just grab the glass and pull."

"Look, it's not the best-"

"Don't chicken out on me, Locksley. I'm the one who's impaled." Her eyes scrunch closed when her weight shifts again, and she opens them to a more softened gaze.

"Alright," he looks at the intruding glass once more, but instead of removing it, he stands suddenly, muttering, "Wait here."

She is at the point in her life where eye rolls are uncontrollable, "As if I'm going to go for a run."

He returns with towels, a blessing that he found ones that look even close to clean, a bottle of vodka and some bandaging - he's prepared, she'll give him that. Settling back down on the floor, Robin eyes the glass a final time. He tells her that it's going to hurt... of course it will.

"So, where are you from?" Robin asks as he grips tightly around the shard, clearly an attempt to distract her.

She ignores his offer of conversation, bracing herself, making tight fists and breathes, "No distracting, just do it."

He rips the shard from her side and it's hell. Unadulterated, raw, debilitating pain shooting everywhere and anywhere. She feels like she is being torn in half, her yelp and hissing expressing just that. She doesn't notice right away, but Robin is hushing her delicately while dousing the open wound with alcohol, catching all the free-falling blood he can with the towels.

She calms after twenty seconds or so, her frantic intakes of breath slowing down into laboured, shallow breaths while Robin wraps the bandage around her middle.

"You never told me your name," Robin attempts to distract her again, but this time she appeases him.

"I didn't," she groans, rolling her head back and hissing sharply in through her nose. "I don't do names."

"Why not?" Robin is securing the bandage tightly, but politely meeting her eyes, letting her know he's paying attention.

"Names mean you get attached."

"That's extremely isolating," he says. It's a sympathetic statement, easily detected by the higher pitch of his voice and how his movements falter so he can stare her dead in the face.

"It makes it easier when I have to kill you," Regina shrugs, avoiding his eye contact, but she senses his reaction loud and clear. He thinks it's a joke and is a jump away from laughing, but her eyes dart up to latch onto his again and relay just how serious she is. "I also don't share my life story, nor do I want to hear yours."

After abandoning his effort to get to know her, she relaxes, only wincing every so often when she twists the wrong way or Robin places pressure on a sore spot. "Please let David look at that."

Once again, she declines his offer, muttering a harsh I'm fine, full of frustration at the nagging that she has very little tolerance for.

"Alright," Robin stands, slapping his hands on his thigh and walks to the doorway. He doesn't leave though, instead, he turns with a smug smirk on his face and watches as she struggles to stand up. She attempts a number of times to find a position that will ease the pain on the way to her feet.

"You're an ass," her whine is responded to with an alarmingly bright chuckle.

"A simple thank you would suffice," he smirks, walking back over to her, and he carefully cradles her body into a standing position. His hands hover a little until she is firmly standing without his aid. "I refuse to leave you alone. You're hurt."

"You don't know me, why do you even care?" Regina asks, still gathered safely with his arms around her, even without being touched.

"Look, one night," he begins to bargain, stepping back to give the space she is silently asking for. "Spend one night with us, if for nothing other than my own conscience. And if tomorrow you want to go back to your isolated lifestyle, I won't say a word."

Her gut is screaming no. Then again, the still excruciating pain throbbing in her side is saying that it might be worth being looked at by someone with something closely related to a medical degree. She groans heavily, loathes to give into his dimpled cheeks and accent that she can't decide is soothing or annoying: "My bag is upstairs."

"I'll get it for you," he offers, "Uh...You know you'll have to give me a name to call you. Think of something while I'm upstairs."

Robin smacks his hands together, rubbing them slightly before holding onto her elbow gently, helping her walk slowly towards the front door. Then he sprints around the place, upstairs for her things, then back into the kitchen for his stolen items.

"Aren't you going to help me?" She complains as he sneaks passed her and out the front door.

She's still hurting terribly and needs an arm to keep her upright, whether she's willing to admit it or not.

"Your majesty it is then" Robin chuckles, bracing some of her weight across his arm, hoisting her down the desolate street gently.

Their camp is minimal but practical, and the us Robin referred to was actually a small group of people, not just his vet friend.

Just off the highway, tents are spread out, and Robin has to help her climb over a contraption of wire and cans; nothing would get passed that genius idea (not that she'll never admit it to his face). There are children, she can hear them in the distance, and there's a sense of innocence that could only be provided by the presence of a young one.

She meets David first, and she can appreciate the way he swoops in to tend to her wound without a question asked. It turns out that Robin did a top notch job caring for it the way he did, but not without a single scolding from David about how Robin shouldn't have even thought about removing the glass without consulting him first.

Regina has to bury a chuckle at the bickering, at the constant back and forth between these two men who clearly get along and trust each other wholeheartedly - a careless move in her opinion. By caring so much, they give the outbreak more power than it deserves.

"Where did you come from?" David asks, taping the bandage to her torso after a thorough inspection.

"California," Regina tells him, information that can't be used against her, "Boston, originally."

"And now you're in Tennessee?" David questions, and for whatever reason, Regina doesn't mind indulging.

"I am moving slowly. It's not as if we have anything to rush for."

"Fair enough."

David finishes up tending to her, and she thanks him politely. She can tell by the way she can sit up that David did a better job than she could have ever done by herself.

In these times, any loud noise will startle you; when all you know is silence and even more silent silence, you will jump out of your skin at the smallest sound. That's why she groans in pain when a cheerful shriek tears through camp, followed by a screeched and excited Papa just ahead of her.

"Who is Robin with?" Regina asks. He's a good twenty feet away, a younger boy in his arms. They are smiling, giggling, Robin's face dripping with pride.

"His son, Roland," David helps her up with a delicate yank on her arm. "You're going to want to rest up over the next few days. I'm sure Robin will find you somewhere to sleep."

"I don't need any of you to do any more for me." She's already straightening out her trousers and adjusting the way her jacket is sitting at the front. "Robin didn't mention he had a son."

"Well, you didn't even tell him your name," a younger male voice sasses from behind her. She turns slowly, with care, aware of her wound, and he's barely a teenager. There's a menacing smirk on his face that she wants to challenge, but it's far too amusing. "Henry," he introduces himself, arm stretched out. She grips his hand, shaking lightly along with a curt nod, but she won't disclose her identity and Henry seems to be okay accepting that.

"Anyway, I should be heading back. I don't want to be travelling as it turns dark."

Regina struggles to pick up her backpack from the ground, and Robin slides into view, lifting it for her and pulling it away.

"Not a chance, milady. You are staying here," Robin butts in, his young son balanced on his hip. "Isn't that right, men?" Henry agrees, as does David and little Roland; he can't be more than five or six, but he nods excitedly. "Just until you can actually move," Robin amends within reason.

She knows that they can't keep her here, that she could grab her bag and run like the wind... though not without tearing open David's handy work on his side. She'd sprint for four seconds, be bleeding again and Robin's infuriating accent will be scolding her with an I told you so. To be honest, she doesn't know what worse, letting Robin have his three seconds of smugness or let them think that she needs them and accept their offer.

Ugh. She groans into a tight fist and swallows back nausea she's been experiencing since her injury. Four sets of eyes are trained on her and she can just sense how persisting this lot are going to be, so she abandons every single rule she has and gives in.

"Fine," she groans.

Henry slaps his hands together with a tight-lipped smile, "Welcome to Operation Wild Heart."