Watch It Burn

Written by Cerafine

Chapter 1: Into the Black

Henri started violently awake. The haunting melody of "Into the Black" still echoed in her head, the remnant of some dream that was a repeated memory from the past. Her hand automatically flew up to clutch the silver pendant that hung around her neck, and she brought it to her lips and held it there, a gesture that always brought her comfort. As always when waking these days, she had the horrible and utterly certain feeling that drooling corpses would be before her eyes when she opened them, inches from devouring her. Looking wildly around with her hand gripping the hunting knife on her hip, she at last assured herself that she was safe.

Well. For the moment, anyways. That hysterical inner voice laughed crazily in the back of her mind at thinking the word "safe." No such thing anymore.

She had sought refuge in the night in the rotted and scooped-out trunk of a huge, dead old oak. Winding a small double-perimeter of barbed wire around the four trees in the closest proximity to her shelter, she had buried her pack and weapons in the dead leaves next to the tree's old husk, plopped her aching and tired ass down inside of the trunk, dredged armfulls of wet, moldering, stinking leaves over her and all around her for concealment, and promptly crashed. It wasn't the safest form of shelter she had divised for herself since the Turn, but it was satisfactory for a woman who was exhausted and near starvation. Fuck the extra effort, she had thought rebelliously as she let the blackness wash over her. Living at all is living dangerously now. I need some fucking sleep.

Only to wake up at some point later (who knew how much later- by the look of the sky it was anywhere between midnight and 2 in the morning) in the same panicked, snapped-awake way that had become a regular thing for her now. It was that white-hot, scared feeling that she could only remember acquainting with waking in the middle of the night and thinking an intruder was in her home before the Turn. At least back then she had had Will to hold her and soothe her fears.

Thinking of Will was something she tried hard to avoid these days. She missed his lazy, crooked grin, which he always wore when giving her a hard time about something or when he was about to tell her a joke. His dark hair, always unkempt and with permanent hat-head from wearing around that ridiculous camouflage hat he loved so much. His easy, strolling gait when he walked, as if he never needed to hurry anywhere and didn't have a care in the world. His hands, large farmer's hands that were rough, tanned and callused from long hours of hard work. His shirts with the buttons always missing at the top, the sleeves rolled up or simply cut off of them in the summer time. His smell, a combination of Old Spice, motor oil and burned wood. Most of all, his eyes haunted her; those soulful brown eyes that always seemed to see down into the very core of her. She had always told him that people could look into his eyes and see that he was a good man. And he was, so good to her. Good to everyone he loved-

Bad idea, Henri, his voice warned her. As it had been when he was alive, Will's voice was her guide. You know where this line of thinking takes you.

As always, he was right. She mentally shoved it away the way you might shove away someone who was trying to kill you. And really, there was no difference between the two. That trail of thoughts was poison.

Sticking her head out of her shelter and gazing around quickly, she pushed the leaves off of her and rose creakily to her feet, slowly stretching her aching legs. She had been sleeping cramped into an upright fetal position, and she was going to be paying the price for that today. She felt like she had been hit by a truck. She angled her sore neck to the right and heard a corroborative CRACK as the tension worked itself out. Reaching down, she dug her pack out of the leaves. She took down the barbed wire, wound it up, and shoved it into the bag before shouldering it and looking towards the road. She wasn't far into the woods, just enough to be concealed by any unsavory passersby, and she preferred to travel on the road; the terrain wasn't as treacherous. A few weeks back she had been trekking through the woods and caught the toe of her boot under a raised tree root that had been hidden by leaves, and it had taken her down hard. She had lain there, unmoving, absolutely sure that she had snapped her ankle and was going to spend the last bit of her life crawling though the woods, unable to put weight on her foot. Once she finally got up the courage to pull her foot out of the trap and rotate her ankle around, she realized that it was only going to be bruised and sore, nothing broken. Still, it had slowed her down and made her vulnerable. At least on the pavement, mother nature wasn't going to have the last laugh by crippling her and making her an even easier snack for the undead. She only took to the woods now when she needed cover.

She knew she should go back to sleep; she couldn't have had more than a couple of hours of rest and she knew it was dangerous to travel at night. You know goddamn well it is, Will fumed in her head. Henri knew she was awake for the foreseeable future though; she was wired and needed to move. She stepped out of the treeline and onto the worn and patched pavement of Interstate 20. From what she could estimate, she was about halfway between Covington and Madison; the going had been painfully slow trying to avoid throngs of zombies (well, what the hell else can you call them? Still, it felt so silly) as she picked her way across the state of Georgia. Her destination was still an insurmountable distance away. She vowed that she would make it or die trying.

The latter seemed much more likely.

Henri scanned the dark interstate around her for signs of movement, standing absolutely still and listening intently. Nothing. No signs of life. Or, more importantly, death. Hitching at the straps on her pack, she checked her knife to be sure it was secured to her hip and set out once again into the darkness. Here we go.

After about an hour of fast-paced walking, she came upon a tangled maze of stalled, rusted-out cars, trucks, and other vehicles that appeared to stretch for about half a mile down I-20. A red motorcycle lay on its side at the rear of the jam.

Henri shivered, and not from the chill in the night air. Bad things skulked in these traffic necropolises sometimes, as she had learned the hard way. After not once, but twice having a skeletal, rotting hand snake out from between two cars and grab her leg, she was extremely wary of them. She was even more afraid of the potential living people who may be holing up in one of the vehicles during the night for shelter.

This was a bad idea, Henri, Will ominously echoed in her head. Why don't you ever listen?

"I do," she mumbled curtly to herself, pressing reluctantly forward. "I'm still alive, aren't I?" Responding to Will's voice in her head was a development that seemed to ease her anxiety and helped her cope. Anything was better than what she had been doing previously to cope, so she pretended it was normal for now.

She stopped, took a knee on the pavement, and quickly scanned her pack to take a quick inventory. She was nearly out of water, with only half of a bottle left. Her food rations were okay-ish for the moment, but a small bag of beef jerky and three cans of corn weren't going to take her too much further before she would have to begin actively searching for food, a time-consuming and chancy prospect. She had searched for food for an entire day before and come up empty-handed, lying down for a night of uneasy sleep with her stomach gnawing at her with hunger. She decided to search every vehicle, on the off-chance that maybe she could find food, water, medicine or even cigarettes somewhere in this skeletal wasteland.

Cigarettes were her guilty pleasure before the Turn, and still were now. When she would drink with friends or have a moment alone, she would sit on her front porch swing under the awning and have a smoke, something she had always enjoyed doing. Though she wasn't a pack-a-day smoker, she loved having one occasionally. Especially now when small pleasures were so rare. Will had hated it. "You taste lahk cig-uh-rets," he would always say in his best Forrest Gump voice when she would kiss him. Annoying as shit, but she would give just about anything to hear him say it again.

Striding with purpose to the first car, a dented blue Chevy Malibu, she saw that the trunk was already open and her heart sank as she realized that the area had already been looted, though she had expected it to be. Even so, she lifted the trunk lid and glanced inside to see what might be left. Nothing, of course. The rest of the car was empty as well save for a lot of change in the ashtray and some trash in the floorboards.

Moving to the next car, a shiny black Taurus, she saw that the trunk was closed and made her way cautiously to the driver's side to retrieve the keys. A dead man sat in the driver's seat, slumped over and nearly mummified. She prodded him lightly, then a little more forcefully. No response. She reached past him to the ignition and hooked the keys out, unlocking the trunk.

Lifting the lid and staring inside, she could hardly believe her luck. An entire case of Dasani water and what looked to be bags of groceries. The overpowering stench of rotten milk and food told her that much of it was perishable, but a few things could be salvaged- she found four cans of sweet peas, three of green beans, a large can of baked beans, Spaghetti-O's, and more corn. There was also a box of granola bars. Feeling like she had just won the damn lottery, she quickly unzipped her pack and scooped up the loot, tossing it inside. She stopped, staring at the case of water. Oh, how she wished she could take it all. It wasn't going to happen, however; too heavy and not enough room in the bag for all of it. She tore open the thick plastic covering and grabbed as many as would fit into the pack, stacking them on their sides from the bottom up on top of her food cans. She counted eight bottles altogether, then after thinking for a moment, she guzzled the last of her old bottle and tossed it in the trunk, grabbing one more new one for herself. She opened the lid and drank more, gulping it down. She always felt dehydrated and thirsty anymore; this was most likely a result of never having enough sleep, malnutrition, and constantly physically exerting herself. She put the cap back on and shoved it into the side carrier in her pack before moving back up to the passenger side of the Taurus.

Opening the door, she sat down next to the dead man in the seat and popped open the glove box. Maps, napkins, and straws... She searched through the crap and found what she had hoped for- a half-empty pack of Camel filters. Looking around the car, she finally patted the front of the dead man's shirt pocket and reached in, producing a lighter. She heard Will's disapproving yammering and chose to ignore it, lighting up a smoke and inhaling deeply. She felt the pleasant thrum of the nicotine buzz spread through her from head to toe, leaning her head back against the head rest and closing her eyes. It's the little things, Will, she thought at him defiantly, taking another deep drag. When I have nothing else left on this earth to live for, I have to find some little things to enjoy or I'll just give up.

Will was quiet for once.

Opening the center console of the car, she found another surprise- a gun. The ammo was stocked up in boxes underneath the weapon. As she eagerly grabbed for it to add it to her supplies, she stopped and looked at the dead man she was looting from. She suddenly felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude for this unfortunate man who had died and left her all of his wealth that he had, albeit unintentionally. "Thank you," she said softly. She finished packing up the weapon and ammo and exited the vehicle to continue her search.

She had taken no more than two or three steps toward the next vehicle in her path, a white Dodge pickup truck, when she heard a stealthy scraaaaape.

She froze.

It was ahead of her; she could hear the telltale rasping of its dead voice from its throat now as well. A hollow thump informed her that the zombie had smacked into the side of a sideways-stalled vehicle in its attempt to reach her. It had either seen the flame from her lighter or heard the door shut when she got out, it didn't really matter. She would have to put it down now to get past it. The problem was that she could barely see it, just a shambling, hulking figure in the darkness slowly making its way towards her. She unsheathed her knife and waited for it to come to her. She flicked the flame up on the lighter, and saw the thing in all its disgusting glory coming at her; a male, about six feet tall to her five feet two inches. Her heart thrummed and hammered in her chest like a frightened animal. She tensed into a high crouch, ready for it. When the thing was only about three feet away, she feinted to the left a step. It lunged, snarling like a rabid dog, and she jumped back to her right, kicking the thing's left foot out from under it and knocking it to the ground. She pounced on top of it, held it down with her arm across its chest, and stabbed her blade straight down into the forehead as hard as she could. The snarling and struggling stopped.

She rose, panting not with exertion but with adrenaline rush. Now for the hard part; she was always able to stab down with enough force to make it through the bone of the skull and into the brain, but pulling the blade back out took some serious effort. Setting her boot against the zombie's chest, she dried her sweaty palms on her jeans before gripping the handle and yanking hard. After a second of resistance, the blade came free and she steadied herself again. This had taken some practice- she used to pull it out successfully but the force of momentum would throw her backwards, knocking her off balance and landing her squarely on her ass. She had almost cut herself accidentally once, so she began bracing one leg behind her to take the excess force of the pull out of the equation.

She had come a long way from being the farm-girl from the outskirts of Marietta. Will had taught her a lot about camping efficiency- things like building a fire, finding and building shelter, and being resourceful, along with some rudimentary hunting skills. She had been tough enough, she supposed, but nowhere near as prepared as she had needed to be for this apocalyptic clusterfuck. Working as a registered nurse at Lane West Memorial Hospital had prepared her for death, but nothing like this. She had seen people die, but when the dead started to come back hungry for other living people, she had fled work and came straight home. That only saved her for a short while, however; she had thought living in the middle of nowhere would keep them safe, but it didn't last long.

Stop trying to think about that. The past is in the past, and every survivor left on this shit-hole has a story similar to or worse than yours. Just let it be. That was Will again, and he sounded stern. Pushing the old days to the very farthest back corner of her mind, she raised her chin, straightened her spine, and focused on cleaning out the vehicles again.

As the sun began to rise over the horizon to the east, Henri's tattered boots seemed to echo with each thud against the pavement of I-20. She had been walking all night since her abrupt waking, around four hours. She was close to a little rural town called Aaronsville, according to the sign a mile back (AARONSVILLE, POPULATION 1,220), and she wanted to make it there by noon to see what it had to offer.

"Maybe I can find some new clothes, even," she said out loud. She knew she was whining. One of the more unpleasant after-effects of the Turn was the lack of sanitation supplies and lack of means to stay clean. It drove her absolutely insane. She worked at a hospital, for Christ's sakes, and all she ever did was wash and scrub her hands. She showered before AND after work. She was a clean, well-kept person with good grooming habits, and not being able to brush her teeth, shower, wear clean clothing, or put on deodorant made her wish that she had lost her sense of smell. Yuck.

Like anyone gives a shit what you smell like, Henri, Will scoffed in her head. Besides, you see an abundance of people around? You're alone. What does it matter?

"I give a shit, Will," she snapped in a muttering voice. The 'You're alone' comment had stung more than she cared to admit, even if it was true. "I want a bath and some goddamn clean clothes. So shove it." She quickened her pace, trying to outrun Will's voice in her thoughts.

Aaronsville was tiny. The exit ramp that took her into the little town was cracked and patched, and the road leading into the heart of it had needed maintenance that it had clearly gone without for a long time even before the Turn. Potholes reached nearly all the way across the road in some sections, and weeds poked up and reached for the sky from the large cracks in the pavement. An ancient gas station sat silent and eerie on the west side of the main street. Across from it on the east side, a small City Hall with every window broken out. The door was missing. She felt a chill run up her spine as she walked as quietly as she could down the street. This felt like a ghost town from the Old West days or something.

Then again, wasn't every town a ghost town now?

Henri kept walking until the small businesses disappeared and she came to a residential area (probably THE residential area here). Her eyes searched out a decent-sized blue house with a chain-link fenced-in backyard. It appeared to have- was that...? Holy shit, was it?

Yes it was. The home had a well pump in the backyard close to a squat red well house. It was going to take a little work, but she was actually going to have a damn bath!

"Thank God," she sighed in relief, though she wasn't exactly sure if he was listening. She hopped the fence, checked the well pump to ensure that it worked properly, and headed to the back door of the house to run a check for the undead that might be lurking inside still. The back door was unlocked, so she let herself in, keeping her knife out and ready. After searching the entire house, she felt satisfied that no zombies were inside. Making her way back to the master bathroom, she put in the stopper for the tub and looked around for something to start carrying water in.

In the kitchen, she found a large, tall pot used for cooking stews and carried it out to the pump. "Here we go," she said, pressing down on the pump handle to release the chill water into the pot. A cold bath was better than no bath, she supposed. This was going to take awhile, so she got to work.

After 15 trips back and forth from the tub to the pump, she had what she felt was a satisfactory amount of water in the bathtub for a full-body bath. Finding what she needed in the collection of soaps, shampoos and conditioners, and unopened razor cartridges (whew), she climbed into the cold water and got to it, scrubbing herself head to toe, removing the dirt, grime, blood and sweat that had been sitting on her skin for the past two weeks. She leaned her head back and sighed with happiness as she washed her stiff, dirty hair. She scrubbed her scalp thoroughly to remove all of the grime, then washed it as well as she could; hot water was just a distant memory now, unfortunately. She would have killed for a hot shower. Well, killed an ACTUAL person, anyways. Zombies didn't really count anymore. She conditioned her now clean but pathetically tangled hair, rinsed it, and shaved the areas of her body that needed shaving before she climbed out and dried off on a fluffy green towel she had found in the cabinet in the hallway.

It just doesn't feel the same without the hot water, she lamented inwardly, and then immediately felt guilt flood her as she realized that at least she was still alive to enjoy a bath at all. Whatever, at least she was clean now. Time to try and find some clothing and grab what she could before getting the hell out of dodge. She grabbed her silver pendant from the bathroom counter and dropped the chain back over her head. Finished drying off, she tossed the towel on the floor and walked naked down the hallway to search for clothes.

In a bedroom down the hall, she found a teenage girl's room. Most likely a preteen; the Justin Beiber posters, Barbie vanity set and One Direction stickers all over everything from the bed to the nightstand was a pretty good indicator. These clothes not only wouldn't fit her, but weren't her style, so she moved back to the master bedroom to look for more womanly clothes. After all, she was 25, not 12. She began raiding the walk-in closet belonging to the home owners before the Turn. She checked sizes in jeans and shirts and saw that they were very close to her size. She was no lightweight before the Turn, holding her weight at around 145 to 150 pounds, but the months of starvation and constant physical activity had whittled her comfortable form into a slim, wiry version of itself. If she had to guess, she would say she had lost at least 30 pounds, probably more. The clothes here were a little big, but just enough to be a little loose, not hanging off.

She went with a pair of dark blue jeans, a stretchy gray tank top, and a light blue t-shirt that had a wolf on the front of it. She finished the outfit with a pair of thick gray socks (the thickness would come in handy with all the walking she had ahead) and a belt. After a moment of thought, she grabbed two more clean shirts, a pair of black leggings, and three pairs of socks to store in her pack. She re-fitted her knife sheath to the belt and headed back to the bathroom, looking around on the counter for a brush. She found a pick in a drawer and went to work on her tangled locks, trying to get the rat's nests out of her long-neglected mass of hair. As she looked in the mirror while working, Henri was dismayed to see how gaunt her face looked. Dark circles stood out in heavy bags under her eyes, a price paid for the night of no sleep. Her face was paler than usual, her freckles standing out starkly against the white skin. Her green eyes, normally snapping and alert, were weary, and shot through with red where the whites were. Her cheekbones and chin stood out sharply, the skin looking stretched. Her face looked hollow under the cheekbones, as if she were near death.

"Well I'm not," she spat at her reflection as she combed out her hair. "Not even fucking close." She yanked harder at the tangles, gritting her teeth.

After a good twenty minutes of effort, her hair was free of tangles and smooth, the wet tendrils brushing her forehead and neck as she searched the bathroom drawers for toothpaste. She had her own toothbrush that she carried in her pack, and usually toothpaste as well, but she had run out two days ago. She brushed her teeth every morning upon waking with bottled water, normally- furry teeth and bad breath were just gross.

Bingo! She came away from the top right drawer with a travel-size tube of Crest. It wouldn't last long, but the upside was that it was smaller so it would take up less space. Henri stalked through the house, taking a few items for herself here and there- a pack of hair ties, a small thermal blanket, a roll of wire from the garage, duct tape. Her favorite item was one that wasn't even hardly a damn bit useful, other than a little sustenance; she found a bag of half-melted Skittles shoved into the back corner of a drawer in the kitchen. Her favorite candy, hands down. She also had a weakness for Reese's peanut butter cups and for peanut M&M's, but the oppressive Georgia heat had melted those into liquid nastiness long ago. She tore open the bag with her teeth and shook a few into her mouth as she continued her inquest through the house. Her mouth watered as she chewed the delicious candy, and she again closed her eyes and thought: Only a few things left in life to enjoy. She was making a mental list of those that remained.

Henri was about to shoulder her pack and head out, but as she put her hand on the doorknob, an unconquerable wave of exhaustion washed over her. She was clean, she had eaten (kind of), and she had replenished her supplies, but she was still running on fumes. She knew it was dangerous to travel on little to no sleep; she had nearly been taken out by both people and the undead due to lack of alertness from fatigue before. Also, random but true, Will whispered coaxingly in the back of her mind, didn't you learn in nursing school that lack of sleep causes brain damage, memory loss, and decreased life span?

"Will, you sound suspiciously like Mrs. Repogle from my mental health nursing class," she muttered sarcastically. "Guess you're right though- fuck the life span, I could give a shit how long I live most of the time... But my memories are too precious to lose." Talking herself into it, she walked resignedly back to the master bedroom, dropped her pack by the nightstand, and unceremoniously flopped face down onto the queen pillow-top bed, pulling a pillow over to her and the comforter over her. Oh my God. This is definitely a thing left to enjoy in life... comfortable sleeping arrangements. She shoved her arms under the pillow, still on her stomach, kicked one foot out from under the covers, and hiked her leg all the way up until it stretched away from her body almost at a right angle. She was squarely in the center of the bed, a thing she had always loved. Some things never change, do they, Ettie? Will smirked in the back of her head.

"Shut up, Will. And you know I hate it when you call me that. I'm trying to sleep now." She closed her heavy-lidded eyes and drifted away, gone to the world.

BANG!

Henri's eyes flew open and she was on her feet in a low crouch next to the bed in seconds. Before the Turn, she was a lazy bitch when it came to waking up and getting out of bed, but now her reflexes had been honed by the constant danger and she was awake and assessing the situation in just seconds. Her knife was already out.

What in the fuck was that?

It sounded like a gun, that's what. She listened, not moving, not breathing, for any follow-up sounds. After a few moments, she heard what she had been dreading- a man's voice. One might not have worried her as much, but she heard another after that, and possibly another. Shit, there could be ten of them for all she knew. Her heart hammering in her chest, she exited the bedroom and edged to the window closest to the west side of the house, the side that faced the street with the front door. Peeking through the bottom of the blinds, as low to the floor as she could get, her wide eyes panned across the yard.

Nothing.

Had she gotten lucky? Did they walk on by? Maybe they weren't looting every house in the area...

She had brought her pack with her to the window, just in case it became necessary to make a run for it. Unzipping it, she pulled out the Beretta that Will had gotten her as a gift for her birthday two years ago, shouldering her pack again. It was loaded, as it always was. She checked just to make sure of how many rounds were there, thumbed off the safety, and then glanced out the window again.

The doorknob rattled. Henri froze. Her muscles were alive with electric fire, waiting to spring into action.

"'Ey, Joe," a gruff voice declared from the other side of the door. "This one's locked. Should I kick it in? Bust out the windows?"

Henri held her breath and pointed the gun at the doorway, to the right of the window she was crouched next to.

After a few moments, an authoritative voice replied "Nah. Don't make any more noise than ya have to; we don't know how many more of these things are around here, and we're low on ammo. We've got enough for now."

The man on the other side of the door grunted a response and moved away. Henri let out the breath she had been holding. Then she heard the man say, "I'ma check the back door, see if it's open real quick."

Shit shit shit shit shit shit! Henri ran as fast as she could in her low crouch to get to the back door. It wasn't that she thought it was unlocked, though a quick double-check never hurt; she had made quite a water mess in the yard when she carried the pot of water back and forth from the well to the house, and the grass was wet, as well as the light concrete back porch at the back door. There were dark water stains everywhere leading up to the door, and she was pretty sure someone would notice, since it was still daytime outside. She slammed against the wall next to the back door, waiting for the stranger to come around to the back of the house to investigate the lock. She saw his shadow fall across the grass before she saw him. Ducking down further, she kept her eyes welded to the tiny crack in the blinds. He came up in a quick, no-nonsense manner, and slowed a bit when he reached the porch, looking down at the ground. Fuck! You and your ridiculous need to bathe, Henri! Look what it's gotten you into now! Will's voice groaned.

Henri swallowed hard. The man had crouched down to look at the porch and the surrounding grass. He stood, still looking at the ground, and slowly walked the path she had repeatedly taken from the pump to the house and back, keeping slightly to the side with his head cocked. Oh, fucking excellent. He's a tracker, Will's voice was small and afraid. Henri, you have got to get out. Move. NOW. He already knows you're in here and he's coming back, trust me.

She watched the man hover next to the well pump for a few moments, touching the newly wet faucet and inspecting the pump handle, then looking at the massive puddles of water she had left behind as horribly damning evidence of her presence. Why was she so stupid? Had she really thought that just because the little town was deserted, it would stay that way? It was right off the interstate, for Christ's sake! This was what happened when she was sleep-deprived. She made idiotic decisions, and now it was probably going to get her robbed and/or murdered. Maybe worse. Men living under the code of no existing law enforcement or repercussions for criminal activity often had the state of mind that they could take whatever they wanted, when they wanted it, regardless of who it belonged to or if they were told no. This seemed to include sexual activity; one of the reasons she avoided strangers altogether was because she had narrowly escaped an attempted rapist once before and didn't relish the thought of trying to outsmart another. And this group had at least three men belonging to it that she was aware of, not just one. Who knew what they were capable of?

Move, Henri, Will urged, sounding sickened. Before it's too late!

She saw that the man was heading back to the door, striding purposefully to the porch with a look of caution on his face, his eyes narrowed. Fuck, time to go. She moved away from the window lightning-fast, doubling back towards the front door. Once she reached it, she began to unlock it when she heard several more voices, all men, coming from either the front yard, the sidewalk or the street in front of the house. There was absolutely no way they wouldn't see her if she opened the front door now. She was trapped like a rat between the tracker and the group outside.

She spun around when she heard the back door rattling again, louder this time. The man didn't ask if anyone was inside; he knew. The door stopped rattling but she knew he was still there, most likely getting out a knife or something sharp and flat to jimmy the door open, since it was only a knob lock and not a bolt. Henri felt panic and fury rise up inside of her like an angry, burning wave, felt heat build up behind her eyes. She ran as quietly as she could back to the master bedroom, entered the closet again, and pushed her way into the hanging wall of clothing that had belonged to the lady of the house. She pointed her gun through the clothing between a glitzy black dress and a dark purple jumper, her eyes narrowed. Her hands were clammy. Her pack, laden with her recently found canned goods and water bottles and other supplies from the traffic tangle and the house, suddenly felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds on her back.

She waited, waited, waited. It seemed as if she had waited for hours.

Her arms and hands were tired and going numb from holding up the gun for so long; the adrenaline rush was wearing off. She had no idea how much sleep she had gotten earlier; it was earlier morning when she had laid down, and looked to be around 3 in the afternoon at this point. She still felt tired, but less so. She blew a wisp of hair out of her face. Her forehead was beaded with sweat. She started to lower the gun, thinking maybe the stranger had either not been able to successfully open the locked door or had just come in, taken a cursory took around the main area of the house, and left.

A telltale creeeaaaak from the bedroom doorway said otherwise. She snapped the gun back up to its previous position, kicking herself for being foolish enough to think she might have gotten lucky this time. Though she heard nothing else, that creak told her more than enough- the intruder was still here and had just begun to search this part of the house. He was going to find her. The panic rose up like bile in her throat, choking her. From what she had seen, this guy was at least 6 feet tall, and while not a giant, he was formidable enough. She had no doubts that he could take her down, as cautious as he was and with weapons. Well, you'll just have to be ready for him then, Will said flatly in her head. No other options here, babe. You see this asshole's head, you take him down.

But Will, she thought back, what about the noise? This gun is loud as shit. If I shoot him, the others in his group will hear it and they will all be here in less than two minutes. Then I'll have a whole lot of trouble to deal with. I'll have to use my knife; I have no other choice.

Silently, as quickly as she could, she thumbed the safety on the Beretta and tucked it into the waste-band of her jeans. She quietly unsheathed her knife and switched it to a downward stabbing ready position, raised up next to her ear. Come on, motherfucker. I'm waiting for you.

She didn't hear so much as sense him; when he stood in the doorway of the master closet, the air became heavy with his presence. When she listened as intently as she could, she could hear his soft breathing, barely audible. He was trying hard not to be heard. She couldn't see him yet; the closet was dark, and though it was still daylight outside, he was back-lit through the doorway by the sunlight, and all she could make out of him was the hulking, menacing outline of his head and shoulders, and his arms raised in front of him, brandishing a weapon.

He seemed to scan the closet with his eyes, looking for any signs of movement. His head turned towards her and stopped.

Henri wanted to scream with fear. Had he seen her? He was just standing there like a creep, staring in her direction and holding totally still. After what seemed like forever, the guy lowered his weapon and turned away, walking quickly from the room. She heard his footsteps leading across the house to the back door, then heard the door shut firmly.

Then silence.

Henry collapsed onto the floor of the closet, her knees turned to water. She had never been so afraid of someone in her life, zombies included. It was only now that she realized how badly she needed to urinate. She was afraid to leave the safety of her hiding place too soon though; he could be lurking just outside, waiting for her to give up her position. If she didn't get out of here soon, she was going to pee her pants. She decided to give it ten minutes, then step out.

During that ten-minute wait, she listened and kept completely still, waiting for any noise that would alert her to a presence still being in the house. Satisfied that there was nothing to be afraid of anymore, she exited the closet slowly and rushed into the master bathroom to pee. It was another thing to add to her list, peeing after holding it for so long your bladder ached. Absolutely divine.

That accomplished, she headed decisively for the front of the house again, ready to check to make sure that group had moved on and then get the hell out of there. She had lingered for too long, and she knew she had been given a huge warning to leave. This place was too close to the interstate and there would be others eventually. Staying here wasn't an option, for any length of time.

At least I got a bath and some rest, she thought, searching for a silver lining. Now if I can just get out of this place, I'll leave this damn town in the dust-

A hard blow to the back of her head knocked her to the floor. She rolled over onto her back, gasping at the pain, and saw the man from the backyard looming over her as she blacked out.

Looking down at the unconscious woman on the floor, he wasn't sure what to do next. He wanted to tie her to a chair and throw a bucket of water at her face to wake her, and question her about what the hell she was doing hiding in here after leaving such an obvious trail that would lead someone to the house. Stupid move. Then again, she was all alone; people who were alone did stupid things. They forgot how close other people could be and didn't always cover their tracks.

He didn't want to admit it, but he felt bad for hitting her. He had taken her down with the butt of his revolver, trying not to hit her hard enough to draw blood but just enough to incapacitate her for a bit. She was so afraid, he could practically taste it when he stood in that closet doorway; he had sensed her in the house immediately when he jimmied the back door open and her presence pulled him from room to room like a psychic fingerprint. Searching each room, he knew which ones she wouldn't be in but could tell that she had been there. The bathroom was the most obvious; the bathtub was still wet with a cluster of soap bubbles over the drain, the room smelled of girly soap, and there was a wet towel on the floor. The rugs were damp and the drawers were all open. He had sensed her in the closet before he ever reached the doorway, and he could smell the fragrant strawberry shampoo she had used. He hadn't intended for the bedroom doorway to give him away with the creaking floor. Damn. She wasn't stupid, although she hadn't made the smartest moves that day; he knew she knew he was there. She knew that he knew she was there too, but for some reason had hoped he had moved on and taken her chances by ditching her hiding place and venturing out. He had known she would, so he pretended to leave and stayed quiet, waiting for her. He really hadn't wanted to knock her out, but he knew she had a gun and she had been walking through the house with a knife in her hand at the ready. It was a precaution, that was all. He had taken the liberty of relieving her of the gun and knife, taking her pack and searching her for other weapons before he moved away from her, grabbed a chair and sat in it backwards with the back between his knees and his chin propped up on his arms. He had been watching her for about twenty minutes, waiting for her to wake.

The thought crossed his mind that he should leave her there. Just leave her and get out of that house, rejoin the group that was still looting the other houses in the neighborhood. The only thing that stopped him was knowing that Joe would want to stay in this town and camp out in these houses for the night. This was what they did; if enough houses were available, each guy would clear one of supplies, claim that house, and make himself comfortable for the night. The next day, they'd all clear out. He knew if he didn't stay at this house, someone else would get curious and come looking in here to see what was left to find. This was a decent house- someone would claim it for the night if he didn't, and then what of the girl?

He knew. He felt like a bastard for knowing and still being a part of the group, but oh yeah, he knew. He had been lucky thus far- the group had just found him a few days ago and they hadn't run across anyone new since. But from listening to the others talk and watching them interact, he knew what would happen, and had happened before he had come along, if they came across a girl.

For the time being, he pushed the thought away. If it ever happened while he was with them, he would deal with it accordingly. For now, they were helping to protect him and he needed to stick with them.

Don't be such a pussy. You're the only one who gives a shit.

He wished that weren't true, but it was. He knew that he would be the only one in the group to speak out and protest the rape of a defenseless woman if he were ever confronted with it, and that he would most likely get himself killed or would have to somehow kill the other six guys in the group trying to stop it. Every day that they didn't run into another person was a relief for him; these were not good guys and he was well aware.

His eyes focused on the lady lying on the floor in front of him. She looked like a half-starved scarecrow body-wise; her cheeks were hollow and her collarbones stood out from her chest like door handles. Her legs were very thin, and lying on her back, he could see her ribs outlined through her shirt. He didn't quite understand why she looked so emaciated- when he searched through her bag, he found lots of food supplies, which should indicate that she was eating. But, who knew- maybe she had been looking for food for a week and had just happened upon this place and stocked up her food stores today. Whatever the case, he was pretty sure that she was eating at least enough to generate some muscle and keep it on; her arms, while very thin, were lightly muscled and capable, and he could see that her legs were also fairly built. She had clearly been on the road for a long time.

Rubbing his hand across his chin, he sat deep in thought. She wasn't gonna be anything but trouble for him if he tried to help her, he knew. The guys would never let him leave the group without an explanation of some sort- he had proven to be a superior tracker and hunter and they knew he was an asset. He wouldn't be able to hang back for a day or two and try to- to what? He didn't know. He wanted to help her somehow; something in her relaxed face and the clues he had picked up from tracking her through the yard and house had made him feel as if he could relate to her somehow.

You're a goddamn dumbass, is all that means, he thought, rejecting that idea. Everyone you try to help ends up dead. That ain't help in anyone's language.

He stood up from the chair, unwinding his long legs from it, and stood over the woman, looking her over. She wasn't hard to look at, even being skinny as she was. She had chaotic red hair that curled, waved, and frizzed down nearly to her elbows. He hadn't gotten close enough to her with her eyes open yet to see what color they were, but her skin was ivory and unmarked everywhere that he could see except for the scatter of freckles across her face. Her nose was small and snub-looking, like a mean rich girl (he could only assume that was a memory from his short high school career). She was short and thin but looked tough; he wondered what she had looked like before all hell had broken loose.

He noticed during his scrutiny that her shirt and tank top had ridden up when she fell to the floor and her belly was showing a bit over her jeans. He thought he saw... was that a scar? A pretty good-sized one, it appeared, and down fairly low on her abdomen. Around her neck was a silver pendant on a chain, but he couldn't tell what was on it. He leaned down closer for a better look, reaching out to hold it in his fingers for a better examination. It appeared to be more than a pendant; it was a locket of some sort. He started to press the clasp to open it and sensed that she was awake. Her eyes flew open and she kicked out at him, connecting with air as he had already moved away from her. She rolled onto her stomach and was instantly on her feet, glaring at him. In the time it had taken her to stand, he had already found his weapon and pointed it at her head, his eyes narrowed and unblinking, staring at her intently.

Great start to the conversation there, dumbass, he thought dryly, feeling disappointment take root in him a bit. She'll never wanna listen to a damn word you have to say now. You've already knocked her ass out, and now she wakes up to you lurking overhead like a creep, touching her necklace. At least try to say something instead of just aiming that thing at her head like an asshole.

The woman was glaring ferociously at him, and damn, if looks could kill. She had retreated after the missed kick and was standing backed against the west wall of the house, looking as if she felt naked without her weapons. Her hands hovered over her hips like a gunfighter, and he knew she was itching to have them on her missing knife so she could cut his heart out.

Inappropriate as it was at the time, he couldn't NOT notice how pretty she was. Her eyes are green, he thought. Then, irritably: Why in the blue fuck does that matter? You won't see her again after tonight. Get to talkin'.

"Did ya have a nice nap?" He asked tauntingly, not knowing why he said it.

She bared her small white teeth at him and hissed, "Fuck you, asshat. What do you want from me? You hit me over the head and now you're pointing that goddamn thing at me like I'm your prisoner. I was getting ready to leave this place and you took me down for no reason. You better tell me what it is you want before I claw your damn eyes out." Despite the hard edge to her her voice and the hatred that blazed out at him from her fiery green eyes, he could see the fear that hid just behind that tough facade. Although, he had no doubts that she WOULD claw his eyes out, if given the chance. He had pushed her beyond her breaking point and she was like a terrified, cornered animal.

He decided he had pushed her far enough and it was time to wave a white flag. If he didn't, she would most likely end up trying to kill him or run, no matter what he said or did.

He lowered his crossbow.

"Get your panties out of a bunch, princess," he said, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "I had to knock you out, you would've stabbed or shot me if I'd surprised you. I don't mean you no harm. Name's Daryl Dixon. What's yours?"