And Whatever Days May Come -IC- "What'cha think? Zombie kill of the week?"

A motionless highway was a rare spectacle. The only difference from the norm is that this highway had several parked cars, some crashed, some flipped, some just simply parked. All were rusty and never to move again. The motionlessness was disrupted as something just outside the road's boundary passed. Upon closer inspection, it could be seen that it was simply a boy with a respirator and a pair of googles with a backpack on his bike.

The boy had never seen a silent highway, out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but fields for miles. It was eerie, in a way. Usually, there were cars zooming by at seventy miles per hour that didn't stop for anything. Normally, there weren't piles of crashed cars, which were little more than rusted shrapnel with flies around them now. Not even the zombies could beat the insects that inhabited the planet.


He was shaken from his thoughts, as he swerved around a ditch.

Who's he, you ask? Well, he, is Nick, and sometimes Tar. Sometimes known as food to zombies.

Nick was currently riding a bicycle just outside the highway's road. He preferred this form of transportation over cars and feet. Cars were faster, but they required fuel an were loud. Feet didn't require any fuel, but were much slower. A bicycle is faster than any zombie, could carry a few bags of items, and didn't require any fuel.

He clenched the brakes of the bike, and slowed to a stop. Planting a foot on the ground to keep his balance, Nick swung his arm around, and pulled a small red backpack around. He reached in, and pulled out a half empty plastic water bottle. He clenched his hand around the lid, and twisted the lid off. Keeping a hold of the lid, and lifted the bottle to his face, and pulled the respirator down. This allowed the clear liquid to flow past his lips. He took a few gulps of the substance, before resting his arm down on his leg. Clean water was critical for survival. He was glad he had learned that lesson before taking this highway. He would've died of dehydration much earlier if he hadn't prepared. He had grabbed the first respirator he could find and had kept it since. He didn't want to take the chance of the virus being airborne, and with all the corpses around, it had saved his noes much heart ache. The goggles were nothing if not useful for keeping debris out of his eyes. Plus, it eliminated the chance of catching any virus in his eyes, like pink eye, and more importantly, zombI. Every once in a while a walker would get to close for comfort and having infected spit get in your eyes pretty much just infected you, so he kept the ones he had. He had no regrets. He screwed the lid back on the bottle, and placed it back in his backpack.

He checked the rest of the contents within his backpack out of habit. Another three magazines for his G22, a M60 ammo box he stored at the bottom of his backpack that his dad had given to him when he came back from a trip one day. The box was filled with spare G22 rounds. It had once held airsoft BB's when life was easier, an usually held enough to last him the entire game. He had no idea how exactly he got it, as his dad was a pilot, and not THAT kind.

He momentarily congratulated himself for being able to raid what was left of that gun store without setting off the alarm. Well, the owner was angry with him. Made him go out to get him three two liter bottles of coke. Making him go through several trips to get the coke, only to put it in a small shoot so that the owner wouldn't have to get off his butt and come down from his little fortress on the roof. He wondered why he even bothered. It wasn't like the guy could do anything to him. Right?

After his ammo and magazine, came some more water bottles, a few cans of soup, some flint, a roll of toilet paper, some rope, his hunting binoculars, some duck-tape, and... a bag of Ruffels chips? Where did he get the chips? All he remembered grabbing was the soup cans and the water. Why the- when did he grab chips?

He raised an eyebrow, before zipping the backpack back up and slinging it back around his shoulder, and put his arm through the other loop. It might have been a mystery, but it was still food. He wouldn't complain. He would eat it when he was hungry, and he wasn't that hungry right now. He momentarily fiddled with holster that held his gun, which was below his backpack on his his, attached to his person. Checking to make sure it was secure, he didn't want his G22 to fall while riding and break, or break the flashlight he duck taped on, or break the magazine. It would be noisy and could result in the inability to defend himself. His knife wasn't the best for fighting zombies. He might toss it for the crowbar if he could. Even then, it wasn't his first choice.

And with that, he continued to move, perhaps he could join a group of survivors. There were safety in numbers, after all. He was good, but two sets of eyes watching would always be better than one. He pulled a small journal out of his pocket, and flipped through some of the pages. He had been traveling with a girl that went by the name of Jackie recently, before she found some of her family who were heading down to Savana, Georgia. She had told him something he would never forget. He flipped to the very last page, eyes the blank paper for a moment before taking out a small pen from his other pocket. He began to write in it.

He had read in some survival books that writing was a way to keep ones mind from falling off the deep end in the absence of another being. He had taken it to heart, and grabbed a good pen and a small pocket journal the first chance he got in case he would ever be traveling alone. He thanked himself for his foresight. Removing the pen from the finished note, he clicked it, and put it back into his pocket.

'April, 17, 2013:

I still remember what my dad told me, before he passed.

Watching the world burn and crumble beneath me, I wonder what was to become with all of this. What was there to look forward to? Death? Contempt that we had survived while so many others died? Whichever the answer, I wish not to know. I only know that it is a cruel joke that an young one like me survived while so many women and children have perished. But that's all passed us now.

If by chance you happen upon this journal, I'm afraid my story has come to its end, and it is my hope that the others who had journeyed with me are still safe and have found a small measure of peace they fought so hard to attain. At first, we all had our differences, our likes, our dislikes, and everything in-between. But we became much more than acquaintances during our travels. We became family. We trust each other. We look after our own. Jackie was right... We do live for today and tomorrow.'


The writing wasn't exactly neat, but it was readable. Thats what he was aiming for. He wanted the journal so others could recount his journey and experiences in the apocalypse. His mistakes, his triumphs, his falls, his rising, and everything in between, in hope that others would learn from him. His 'family' was any of the traveling partners he had been with on his journey. Some were short, others long, but every one he felt he could trust, and trusted him back. Every person had their differences, but getting over them to work as one?

That was trust.

He put the journal and pen back in his pocket, and got back on his bike, pedaling off at a slow place as to save energy.

He would live through today, and tomorrow.

And if he was lucky,

Whatever days would come after that.

He really didn't mind being alone. Or he use to not mind it. Sometimes he even prefered it. But now he just craved to find someone who has willing to stick with him for awhile. He'd met other people while he roamed about, but the most any of them ever stayed with him was a few days. Then they'd go and split off the go elsewhere. Normally they were chasing some vague rumor of some sort, or trying to get to family located elsewhere. He never saw them agian after that.

Perhaps it's because most folks had already grouped up by time he headed out. When the Zombies first showed up He'd stayed at in his home town for awhile at first. He simply tried to go on as if nothing had happened, basically he was in deniel. And looking back he now sees that. But things kept getting worse. First folks kept going missing and then he started seeing the Zombies themselves. That's when started using his 9mm the shoot them anytime they got near his Resturaunt. Pretty soon he relized it was hopeless to stay, mostly because most folks in town either left or were dead.

Now he was rolling down some local road headed towards the nearest Interstate. He normally traveled those,but a small group of folks he'd met were headed this way from up north and they siad that there was supplies out here. It made sense to him because most of the larger cities were probably out of food at this piont; whereas most smaller towns and such out in the rural areas likely had more because there were less people and tended to be more self sufficent.

So now he was headed south. He had no real reason to, it was just the way he'd wound up going. Sometimes he'd go more east or west the south, but mostly south. He's geep going that way once he hit the interstate agian as well. He probably wont stop for awhile either. Turns out there was quite a bit of food in town. But the locals weren't exacly friendly. They only gave it to them for a bit of his ammo. so now he's down to two clips, plus the on in the gun.

After stopping for a moment to refuel his Bike he restarted to engine and took off.

Rachel, sometimes going by the name Clipclop, was a bit of a loner, and she didn't deny that statement. Before the zombies, or Shamblers, as she preferred to call them, she had a tendency to read or draw, instead of speak to other people. In her opinion, talking was a waste of energy, unless what was learned though communication was meaningful. Words made her feel tired, so why use them on something ridiculous like gossip or makeup? She supposed that it was this general dislike for other people's conversation that made it so easy for her to think rationally after a year of complete isolation from other humans. She couldn't say she was alone, however. She still had Corbin, her nine-year-old standard poodle that still acted with the energy and spirit of a puppy. Even though it didn't matter anymore, he was still among the best of his breed. Being a blue, he was born black, but age had caused his fur to turn a beautiful silver color. His snout, longer than other poodles, and his leaner, more graceful build, indicated his pedigree, although there weren't any papers, not that legal proof mattered anymore. Corbin was the grandson of a grand champion dog show winner, but he had been raised to be a pet, and a lifelong companion. Even now, however, with his fur grown out so that he resembled a schnauzer, he was a handsome dog. He was still wearing a collar the same color as the dull orange on Rachel's backpack, although only the plate with his name remained on it. After figuring out that the Shamblers were attracted to noise, which didn't take very long, Rachel removed the tags mentioning his shots, because they made too much. Once, the dog would have barked at strangers, but Corbin was a poodle, and he was very smart. He knew noise meant danger, so he did not make a sound.

Rachel was not really sure where she and her dog were right now, except that it was probably somewhere along the coast of Georgia or Alabama. She didn't exactly have a compass with her, but she was by the ocean, and she was positive the body of water she was next to was the Gulf. Although she would have thought the Shamblers would have come here, the beach was surprisingly pristine, not even a whiff of sulfur or gasoline reached her nostrils, and she prided herself on having an extra-sensitive nose compared to others. All she smelled was the salt of the seawater, and the time of year, although making the water cold, was perfect for fish. While she knew she had to keep moving, she took the time to stop and rest. Corbin stayed close by, and chased sand crabs as they emerged from their burrows on the beach, while Rachel herself had thrown out her casting net and hauled in several pinfish, tiny creatures with sharp spines and rough scales. Back when life was normal, they were known for stealing bait from hooks. She took these, along with several other sleek green schooling bait fish she had no clue what the name was for, and placed them on a bed of embers, the result of a fire that she had allowed to burn down. It took very little time to cook them, and while picking them out of the fire was crude, she did not care if she had sand on them and had to wash them in seawater. It was food, and food was horribly scarce. Corbin himself did not care if the fish was raw, and disease from eating raw fish was rare, especially when it was fresh. Neither of them cared about the bones or fins, as the fish were so small you could have swallowed them whole.

Rachel and her dog ate the tiny fish, bones, scales, and all, not caring if it was messy, or lacking in manners. Who was there in society left to protest scarfing it down as quickly as possible? Would someone even care if they ate in such a manner? Rachel didn't think so, because it was obvious she and Corbin did not find obtaining enough food easy. Even if the meal satisfied, it did not provide enough energy or nutrition to suit their lifestyle. All the calories they obtained were burned off just as quickly as they ate them. Rachel was just thankful that they were not walking skeletons, wasting away. They still had muscle, and had their strength, although they always felt mildly hungry. Although during a hasty meal, they felt more at ease, they would start moving as soon as they finished. They could not risk holding still, should the Shamblers find them. And so it was that someone smart like Rachel, along with her loyal dog, Corbin, was reduced to living like a nomad, acting upon the primal need to survive.

"Calm it, Tar face... You DARKY this up and you'll have twenty walkers on your ass with no back up. Jackie has been gone since you dropped her off." Nick said to himself, looking down the iron sights of his G22. There were a few walkers shambling about in the part of the road he was approaching. Probably due to noise cause by another, perhaps someone with a motor vehicle. Regardless, there were now zombies he had to either get around or kill. Alerting them wouldn't be that good of an idea, as his gun had no supressor, and therefor made a lot of noise. Nick made a mental note to raid the next gun store he could find.

Perhaps the person who attracted these zombies had a flatbed truck. That could put a good plan of his into work. Assuming he had a respectable gun and there was a man with a flatbed that attracted all these walkers.

One walker keeled over, not dead again yet, but it's legs seemed to have given out. As it fell, it released a disgusting gurgling noise, causing the other zombies to shamble over to it due to their low intelligence.

"Stupid and slow... while I'm smart and fast." Nick muttered to himself, lowering his weapon. He surveyed his surroundings, seeing a gas station that had been seemingly abandoned. The person must've stopped to refuel in this area. He could grab a map in there, and dot down the locations he'd been in and knew had some... 'hidden' resources to them.

But first he needed to get it.

Pushing his foot from the ground and back to his bike pedal, he pedaled off, and around the zombies, which were to busy looking at each other and groaning to notice him. As he got to the doors of the station, he hopped off his bike and rested it against the wall, and then slipped into the gas station.

As he entered, a small jingle went off.

DARKY.

While it hadn't attracted the attention of any of the zombies outside, he heard a gurgle. He walked parallel the isles, trying to find the source. But the source came to him. It had been a large, fat man. Easily three hundred pounds. It's jaw had been ripped off and parts of it's throat hung loosely. Dried blood caked the shirt's colar bone area. It gurgled at him once again, and began to shuffle over to him, as if to grab him. His knife would do little, and the crow bar wasn't the best choice. His gun, being unsuppressed, would only attract more zombies and was a last resort. He looked to his left which held a few candy bars, but nothing of which he could use. He looked to his right, and saw a contained with some baseball bats.

Peeeerfect.

Taking a step to the side, and not taking his eyes off of the approaching zombies, he grabbed the but of one of the baseball bats, and got into swinging position. While he had not been a big sportsman, he had played baseball in his fourth and fifth grades. He hoped he remembered how to swing the bat right.

The zombie was close now. He probably could taste the air around it, if he didn't have his respirator on. "You have a pretty face." He said, and swung the bat, nailing the zombie in the face with a satisfying crack, and sending it to the ground. It's momentum caused it to slide on the tile past him, leaving a train of dark red blood. But it wasn't dead yet. Just paralyzed... or something. Having... the rest... of your face smashed it was a pretty good excuse to lay down for a while, even for a zombie. But the brain was still intact. Taking a few steps closer, Nick positioned the bat over the zombie's head and swung again, crushing it's cranium and ending it's second life.

"Requiescant in pace." He said. It was a latin saying, which meant rip, but it sounded cool, and he was alone. So why not? He knelt down by the now forever still zombie, careful to keep away from it's head area. Searching it's pockets for anything useful. He found nothing but a key card. It had an ID picture of the man. He was alright looking, and the little glasses and haircut he had made him look similar to Gabe Newell. On the back it had the code for the cash register. While he was the kind of person who would want items and medicine, some still wanted money. For motor vehicles, buying gas from the stations that hadn't been drained was a must. And it was extremely hard to just 'steal'.

Taking the key card, and nodding to the zombie as thanks, he went vaulted over the cash register counter, and entered the code into it. With a light 'Ching!' the register opened and the loot was shown. He grabbed all of the paper money he could, stuffing it into his backpack with little care, and left the change. It was to heavy for it's worth and would weight him down. Walking back around, He scavenged the store, grabbing a map of Georgia, a pack of gum, an icy, a lighter in case his flint broke, and unknowingly an bag of ruffles chips. He stuffed the items in his bag, and took out his pen and notebook from his pocket, and began to mark down the few sights he knew of on the Georgia map using the notes he had made in his note book. When he was done, he placed the map in his back pocket, and walked back around to the counter, and sat the the cashier chair. He had noticed a CV radio in there the first time he vaulted to the side.

He lifted his icy to his mouth and sipped the cold substance, before tuning the radio to scout for any other survivors smart enough to use one. His dad taught him how to use the radio in their time together, and as pilot, had used it regularly himself in order to communicate with 'base' while flying. Hence, why he had taught Nick.

In the end, he began messing with the radio, pulling the CV up to his face, and tuned into a channel to began broadcasting. If there was anyone out there, they could hear this. Although they might not be able to talk back without a CV radio of their own.

"Hooooooooows it going Georgia!" He spoke into the radio, smiling to himself. "Today we have sunny weather with a high of bath salts and low of zombies." He spoke, smirking at the reference to the Miami 'zombie attack' where the 'zombie' had gotten high off of bath salts. "If anyone's out there, come on down to Exit 99A on Interstate 16! We have free icys!"

Rachel jumped when the sound of a voice came from a CV radio that was somehow still working inside a semi truck. She couldn't be sure why one would be abandoned by the side of the road at the beach, but she still didn't smell any Shamblers, so she didn't think that the driver, or what used to be the driver, was anywhere close by. With the door hung ajar, it was obvious nobody was in the vehicle, so she cautiously slipped in and picked up the radio. In reality, she had no clue how to use one, but she was sure it would be easy to figure out. While Corbin stood guard outside, his ears pricked, she pressed a button that she thought might be for transmission. There was a small bit of static, before she tried to speak. She had gone so long without actually talking, her voice came out raspy and broken, from lack of use, and it was made worse by the fact that she was trying to whisper, "Responding, I ain't got no way to reach you. I have no idea what my location is. I am by the beach, somewhere on the border between Alabama and Georgia, to the best of my knowledge. You can come find me, I'll wait, but if I get one whiff of Shambler scent anywhere near here, I'm leaving." She said. With this, she turned off the radio and got out of the semi, walking back over so that she was standing on the sand near the water. She would wait with Corbin, but if they would leave if there was a threat.

"Mate, you're in the Sunshine state." Nick said, chuckling to himself at his little, unintended rhyme. "I am well over a hundred miles away on the Atlantic rim of Georgia." He said, shrugging slightly. "I'll make a trip there..." he began, taking a sip of his icy in between. "On a cold day in a hell. Now, hell might be full, but I'm pretty sure there's plenty of fire down there still."

He was... baffled really. He had just made a trip from southern Florida, his home state, to take his friend Jackie to family who were going out to sea. Jackie had actually been a personal friend of his. Not just someone he met. A school mate, peer, friend, and everything in between. It's the only reason why he helped her get up to this damn place alive, because she was a friend. She even offered him to come with them on the boat.

(Flashback)


"You should come with us, Tar." Jackie said, putting her hands on her hips. "There's nothing for you here. Nothing but pain and a shattered home." she said. She looked behind her, to her grandparents. Her grandfather was a military veteran, and knew his way around all kinds of weapons all the way from world war one. Her grandmother on the other hand, could grow fruits and vegetables relatively fast for someone her age. A priceless asset if going out to sea for long spans of time is your plan.

"I'm still not done here." Nick said back. To be honest, he was actually having a bit of fun during this apocalypse. "I dont know what is still here for me, but it's still out there. I can't escape." He said, looking away. "Not yet."

Jackie walked up to Nick, and hugged him. Nick, being a teenage boy with raging hormones was terrified, surprised, and liking this at once. It was... different. Regaining his composure, Nick patted Jackie on the back. "What's this for?" he questioned, bringing the slightly shorter girl away to arms reach. "For helping me so much." She said, and flicked him. They had grown to be close friends over their journey to the Atlantic Rim. Nick wasnt sure if they would become something more or not, but he wouldnt complain either way.

"We live for today and tomorrow... Nick." She said, saying his real name.

"And whatever days may come." He replied with his dad's line, and smiled.

With that, Jackie departed, but not without one last word. She always had to have it. Even when they argued. "I'm going to kill you if you die! You come out and meet me out there once you're done here!" She said.

Nick saw them off. It was quiete and fast. They were heading to the aircraft carriers that made it out, and he had to be mindful of zombies 24/7.

He didn't know if he'd ever see any of them ever again.

(End Flashback)


Nick snapped back to reality, realizing he had been out of it for almost a minute now. He took another sip of his icy, before clicking back to the CV radio to speak again. "I'll meet up with you. But we gotta meet half way. I'm not going that far for one person. I've already done that and it was a massive pain. If you meet up with me in..." he began looking to his map for a moment. Hapeville City, then I will meet you there. I dont care how you do it, steal a bike, learn to drive, or ride a horse, I dont care. But do it and I will be there.... Over." he said, clicking the radio. If she agreed to his proposition, then hopefully she'd say so. Unless she was one of 'those' people who dont say anything, show up with a horde of zombies behind them and beg you for help killing them.

He just liked to call it a train.

"I played too much Call Of Duty in ninth..." he muttered, scratching the back of his head, and sipping his icy again.

Rachel heard the response and inwardly groaned, defeated by the lack of a map once again. She clicked on the radio, "I ain't got a clue where my exact location is, but I'm guessing that this place is up north. I'll try to find a map in this truck and meet you there, but I might be delayed a bit. Just don't pick a place too close to those Shamblers, cities seem to be full of them, and I don't plan on losing a good splitting axe fighting them off. I'm gonna end the transmission now. When you get there, just look for the girl with the big silver poodle, although he looks more like a schnauzer by this point. See you there." With this, Rachel ended the transmission and opened the glove box, thinking to herself. This was a semi truck driver, he had to have a map to make deliveries across the states.

Eventually, she dug out a good map and unfolded it, taking a glance. She seemed to be directly between the ocean and Georgia. If she headed straight up north, she could reach Hapeville City. She looked around some more and with amazing luck, found a plain compass. She folded up the map and shoved it into her pocket, getting out of the truck and stroking Corbin's head. "Come on, boy, we're heading up north." She said. With this, she held the compass and slowly led her companion away from the ocean. For the time being, they would be forced to walk, but Rachel was confident she could get a good form of transportation later.

Nick smiled to himself, and finished off his icy. Now he had a plan and a goal. Get to Hapeville uninfected, and meet up with this... girl, then just go from there.

Now he had to leave... Which was the tricky part. He was tempted to grab the dented baseball bat that he had used on the employee, but it probably wouldn't do much. It was, after all, dented.

His crowbar was a technical tool. Not a weapon. It was either his gun or his knife. Neither or which were good at this moment. He was tempted to just go commando... But that was probably a bad idea.

He opted to just get out the same way he got in. Sneak through the automatic doors, grab his bike, and be off. He needed to hit a gun show and get some attachments, along with a real weapon. While he cherished the G22, as it was all he had left of his father save for his badge, it wasn't his first choice of weaponry by a long shot. And from what he'd seen, automatic weaponry wasn't the best either. Because of their spray and pray mechanics, he'd be shooting more than he killed. Which wasn't good. A good rifle would be his choice.

As he escaped and grabbed his bike, he grabbed a rock and threw it in the opposite direction of where he was going, causing some of the zombies to meander over to it.

He hopped on his bike, and then just went.

He was on the road again, and looking for weaponry that could be useful against both the zombie, and the girl if she was planning to trap him.

A few minutes or hours later, whichever came first, since she didn't own a watch, Rachel and Corbin had traveled a fair distance from the beach merely on foot. Being careful, they were weaving their way between trees in the woods, not wanting to trust the roads. Going on foot, safety was a bit of an issue, considering that you didn't exactly feel comfortable walking around in a place where you might be seen by a Shambler. Paranoia, as well as insomnia, seemed to be a small price to pay for being able to live. It was paying attention to small details that had helped Rachel and her dog survive. Smell, for instance, which a mere human like Rachel was becoming an expert at. Picking out the smell of sulfur and gasoline had saved her on multiple occasions, and she was sure by now that her sensitivity to the Shambler's odor was like a shark to blood. Even if she missed it, Corbin would warn her, as his nose was even better. Whenever he thought there was a Shambler nearby, he would droop is tail and lower his head, baring his teeth in the direction it was coming from. But he was still smart. He didn't growl; he just looked at Rachel to make sure she saw, and then they got up and ran. If she was asleep, he put his paw on her face, and woke her up. Even if he had been eight years old by the time everything started, Corbin was able to learn new tricks, and she was thankful that he could. Her dog was her only friend at the moment, and he had rescued her plenty of times. He was a good dog, and she wanted to tell him, but doing so would break her silence. So she contented herself with petting his head, and sometimes hugging him around the neck.

Sometimes, Rachel felt she identified better with animals than with other humans. Humans were complex, but so were animals, but in a way that she could understand. Animals didn't need to speak to communicate like people did. They talked with their posture and expression, and not all of them liked it when you looked them in the eye, so sometimes you didn't do it. They didn't use too many sounds, either, and a lot of them Rachel mimicked. She would sometimes snort, not like a pig, but more like a horse, a clear, deep sound that pleased her. She also liked it when she sniffed that the sound of air intake made a faint noise that reminded her of her deceased pet rat, Song, whom she had loved greatly. It was so quiet, though, that not even a Shambler would notice. The leaves of a rustling tree would have made more noise.

Of course, she didn't do these things around Shamblers, to start with. If you were near one, you would be as quiet as though you were already dead. As dead as her friends, neighbors, and teachers.

As dead as her parents were.

Hapeville. That's where this girl and this boy were headed. He'd overheard the radio exchange between the two, but didn't bother butting in. His radio was a bit hard to use while he was in motion. In a truck it was a piece of cake, but traveling a 50 miles an hour on two wheels it wasn't a good idea the try and pick up the Mic. It was stupid and dangerous. But that radio exchange gave him an idea of where some folks were. And this Hapeville didn't sound too far off. Ed probably get there before they did.

So since he had a good idea where he was at he slowly open up on his motorcycle to about 65. he normally had no issue with going about 75 or even 80, but you never knew when you come to an area filled with abandoned cars. he'd have to slow down for those.

He looked at his spedometer for a second and then finally gassed it. He looked back for a second just to see if anything was following him.

Then he just kept going simply thinking " Let's Do This"

The smell of fresh manure and pastures hit Rachel and Corbin both relatively at the same time, and it was both pleasant and terrible at the same time. It was a familiar odor of horses and livestock, and was relatively common on the Georgia-Alabama border. Therefore, it did not surprise or upset Rachel when she and her dog came across an old strip of broken wire fence, and together the two crossed it without complaint into a large, open field. Ant mounds and piles of fresh dung were both present, and so it was that she looked about the area, wondering what kind of animal was kept here. It could either be cows or horses, but considering how she couldn't see anything at first, and the fact that the fence hadn't consisted of barbed wire, she suspected that it was horses. They would have moved deeper into the pasture, because the area Rachel and Corbin had arrived in appeared to consist mostly of sour grass, which a horse would not eat. There was another sectioned off area of field in the distance, and considering that there was another broken bit of fence, the horses had likely entered through it.

Not wanting to step into the ant mounds, Rachel and her dog carefully picked their way through the field, and went into the next section over, trying to locate the animals in it, if they had not died from lack of care. Horses trapped in a pasture would live longer than cows, because people typically chose locations with circulating water sources that weren't stagnant for equine purposes, whereas cows were often given water via a pump system, which wouldn't be reliable without a person maintaining it. She had passed plenty of fields filled with dead cattle over the past year. Eventually, she spotted an area with several large trees in the field, in which a small creek was flowing past. It appeared that several horses were cooling off in the shade beneath them. After a year without human care, their coats were a bit ragged, and their manes were long, and somewhat messy. One horse even appeared to be lame, walking as though one foot hurt very badly. The others, while a bit feral-looking, appeared to be healthy.

Seeing large brown stables nearby, Rachel recalled the guy on the radio mentioning something about getting a horse as a form of transportation. Rachel, while not an expert rider, knew a lot about horses, as well as how to ride them and give commands. She also knew standards for picking a good horse, and how to groom and care for one. The stables appeared to still be good, and most likely, while the stalls may contain dead horses, there was a tack room that she could use to collect the things she needed. However, she would first have to pick a horse so she could base the tack off of it.

Cautiously, she approached the herd of horses, and tried to be quiet, so that they would not mind her watching them. Although some people with less skill chose horses based on coloration, true skill in picking one was to place the anatomy first, and then consider the pelt, although coloration probably wouldn't matter, unless you needed camouflage. Shamblers had milky eyes, so they were pretty much blind, but other humans and animal predators were not. Observing them, she noted the features of the horses in the herd. She couldn't identify what they were, but they appeared to be hybrids. Some had the heavily-built shoulders of cart horses, and a few even had feathered fetlocks. Others seemed sleek and streamlined in shape, like racing horses. Considering she didn't need a carriage or a horse that hauled loads, she immediately ruled out half the horses present, in favor of examining the lighter cross-breeds. She ruled out one horse who seemed healthy, but upon closer inspection had a bow-legged stance, and another that had a noticeable overbite.

Eventually, she ruled out every horse there except for one that seemed to be standing apart from others, and upon inspection, it seemed to have a good form, and looked rather healthy. Unfortunately, its appearance seemed to be that of a horse who had only recently grown old enough to not be considered a yearling, about five years old, making it a young adult. It would have the physical advantages of youth, but it had missed a year of training, and might be somewhat hard to control. Even as Rachel approached the young stallion, he seemed to be wary of her, hopping between hooves, and snorting nervously, upon seeing Corbin, who was a dog with sharp teeth. Rachel just snorted back at it, and while she was not sure what a snort meant, the stallion's ears pricked towards her, and he looked at her, as though curious. She was eventually able to get close enough to examine him, the horse being less timid than most.

The stallion had an extremely graceful build, and as a hybrid, Rachel guessed that he was a cross between a Morgan and an Arabian, two breeds that were rather popular. His face, while shaped similar to the Arabian, was more expressive, and like both types of horse, he had large eyes. He appeared to be sturdy, with laid-back shoulders, and a muscular croup and withers, much like the Morgan. However, his bone structure was chiseled, his neck longer, with a deep rib cage and a somewhat tucked stomach. His back was level, and the crest was beautifully curved. Most of all, the tail was carried higher than usual, and all of these things were Arabian in nature. It was clear he was not a purebred, because a normal Arabian would not have such a rare pelt color, either. He was a brindle, with a very dark bay base coat, almost black, and with vertical, irregular stripes of a lighter color covering his body, although his face did not have the brindle on it, and was simply the solid shade of dark bay. However, this was not entirely true, as an irregular star marking was between his eyes, forming a perfect comma shape. He had white pastern marks on his two front legs, but did not have them on the back. As a result, his hind hooves were black, and his front hooves were a pale grey, the tiny white rings barely visible, coming to a stop at the fetlock.

Rachel considered herself lucky that this horse was here. The stallion was young, and most likely not used to people, much less a rider, but he was a hybrid of two horses that were known for both strength, refinement, endurance, speed, and bravery, which were all traits Rachel needed in a mount. Carefully, she stooped down and picked a few leaves of clover from the ground. It was a rich plant, with sweet leaves, and while not healthy for a horse to eat all the time, she needed something to gain the stallion's trust so she could measure him for tack. She held out the clover in her palm, rolling down her fingers so the horse's teeth wouldn't bite her by accident. At first, he didn't seem to trust her, but almost reluctantly, he came up and ate the clover from her palm. When he did this, she reached up with her free hand and put it over the star between his eyes, letting both hands linger where they were, to lend support and to let him take in her scent, using the hand on his head to smooth his wild mane from the stallion's eyes.

Eventually, after she was sure the stallion wouldn't panic if she did something, she gripped a lock of his main and with a gentle tug, started leading him towards the stables, looking for the tack room. At the door, he seemed to consider rearing, tossing his head in a fashion she was forced to dodge, but other than that, he was being amazingly tame, although she was sure the riding would not be easy. They passed several stalls, but Rachel did not let the horse move his head in their direction, not wanting him to see what she knew would probably be inside them. Eventually, she found the tack room, and let the horse go in the outfitting area of it, while she scanned the supplies she had at her disposal. She needed a good fit, or it would cement a bad experience in the stallion's mind.

Samantha laid down on a faded couch inside some abandoned home she'd found a mile or two outside Hapeville. The couch was sand colored with a faded rose pattern stretched across it. She was half asleep, she had a few chairs blocking all the doors so no zombies could get in without her knowledge. Likely they'd bang the doors and wake her up before actually getting in. Her brown hair was long and made a mess in her face. She swiped some to the side and it dangled down the side of the couch. A CV radio sat on the table next to the couch and the previous owner must have left it on. A transmition came and woke Sam up.

She got up and grabbed the radio. Was it safe? Hapeville... that's where she had to go. She didn't respond, although she could have. Instead she grabbed her katana and her backpack and undid her barricade, then left.

Sam began a walk down the street to Hapeville. It wasn't a far walk since this house she was staying in was just outside it and Sam was very athletic. A mile didn't bug her. She slashed a few zombies on the way, striking them in their rotted old heads. Then she began to direct herself toward where the radio said to go... Exit 99A on Interstate 16...

Eventually she found the place and crept around a corner, keeping a very quiet trek. She didn't know if she could trust whoever this was. The entire radio thing might have been a trap to lure survivors into this place so this culprit could rob them of all of their supplies, food, et cetera and be on their marry way.

She had her katana at the read and curled elegantly around the corner of a building. She saw a boy on a bike and moved to view so he could see her. "Hello?" she said, becoming aware of her surroundings more. She heard something behind her, turned. An ugly blood-stained zombie approached, she was not at all scared of them anymore. She simply slashed it in the face and looked back at the boy.

he'd rode long and hard. His bike almost broke down on him just south of the state line, but thankfully he managed to find a resent little general store with some supplies in it. He'd managed to find the proper tools in order to fix it. finding the proper parts took a bit longer, but he eventually found a Motorcycle repair shop. however when he got there he found it had been ransacked by someone else first. or so he thought.

But when he went in he found the owner still holed up in there with little food and a shotgun. And he looked eager to shoot. thankfully Keeper had enough common sense not to provoke him and instead went in the back. He only really needed a few gasket seals and some Lock-Tight for the bolt when he put them back is. a bad gasket can make a big difference in how your machine will run.
thankfully nobody took all of them.

it took him an hour and a half to fix it, but he did it. then he had a small light lunch and took off again. it was a two or three hour drive but pretty spoon he knew he was close to that town. he'd spotted the exit for it and started down it. but then he remembered that this was an area that was fiaarly populated and that meant those walking corpses were plant here probably. so he cut the engine and slowly coasted into town.

then he got off his bike and grabbed his 9mm. he got his crossbow as well, but didn't think he'd have to use it. you never knew though. he was about to set out when he relied he had no idea where to go. perhaps the kid was in town. so he picked up his CBS Mic.

" Hello? is anyone here? I overheard something about meeting up here. If y'all are here could ya let me know where your at?"

Samantha saw Keeper come out. She readied the sword, but didn't show any obvious hostilities toward him. She glanced around to see if there was anyone else. "Who are you?" she demanded. "Are you the one from the radio?"

She was ready to fight if this guy had set a trap. Traps were so common these days. Samantha had only killed a few men who were uninfected since the outbreak and such events were hard for her. It was quite hard for her to pull the trigger on a live human being, alas she did. Ever since then when she'd been attacked by a person or two she'd fight them off and let them go alive. She didn't like killing, but was willing to do it if it meant staying alive. She kept a close eye on this guy to see what he was up to.

he'd been about ready to take a look around when he heard a voice speak up. it was a girl.

"Who are you?" he paused for a moment trying to determine whet the voice was coming from.

"Are you the one from the radio?"

he knew someones was here now, but it wasn't either of the folks he'd heard on the CB. so either this was a trap of some sort or she was simply just another traveler who overheard the broadcast and came here as well. he seriously doubted the first onion,but that incident from his last stop told him that anything could happen.

so he looked around for the source of the sound. he saw a girl. probably, 15 or 16, wielding a sword of some sort. he knew that she meant business if he messed up. someone was going to die if that happened and he was fond of living. but he'll do what he can not to kill her.

" No Im not. I just overheard a radio exchange the about some folks meeting up here and decided to see what was going on."

he wisted for a moment to serif she would say anything. when she didn't he continued.

" don't worry I wont hurt ya. so just drop that sword thing ya got. My name's Keeper. alright?"

Samantha didn't drop the sword. Instead she put it back in the holster attached to a leather strap slung around her shoulder. She kept a hand on the pistol shoved into the holster on her belt. "I'm Samantha," she said, still not trusting the man entirely. A zombie stumbled out from the corner of the building behind her and tried to swipe at her, its old gnarled flesh was very rotten. She rolled her eyes and took the katana out for one more moment and violently slashed through the head of the zombies and it fell over with a huge splash of blood. She took a white hanky from her pocket and wiped the blood off the blade then stuck it back in the holster. She restored the hand on the pistol.

"So... you're name is Keeper. Interesting. Where do you come from?"

When he saw how she killed that Zombie without a second thought he knew his hunch had been correct. one of them would've died. and it may have been him judging by the way she handled that thing.

but now he had here name. progress. that was good.

" Im from up north a bit. a small town about an hour outside Cinncinatti. The Kentucky side. I've just been driving around looking for somewhere to go. like I scad earlier I heard a couple of folks were meeting out this way so I butted in. looks like we both beat 'em though."

he stared at her for a second. then looked at the sheath for her sword.

" what is that thing anyways?"

It took an extremely long time to fit the stallion with proper gear. While he was not trying to do anything that would hurt Rachel, he was unnerved by the sensation of the different saddles on his back, and a few of them were so much larger than him, that they fell right off before she could secure the girth. He was not too fond of the breastplates, either, and she hadn't even begun to test out the bridles and bits present. She was also horribly aware of the fact that her new horse was not wearing shoes, and the simple fact was that she could not give him any. There were too many risks she would hurt him if she tried it herself, and the last thing she needed was to have a horse with a lame leg on her conscience. Eventually, though, she was able to find a good English 'saddle seat' saddle that fit him perfectly, and was also quite attractive in appearance, once she used some leather polish present in the tack room to shine the black leather it was made of. She found a tiny grey quilt that was meant to go under a saddle as well, although she had no clue what it was called, one of the few kinds of horse tack she had little knowledge of. She quickly tightened and adjusted it onto the stallion's back, before he could do something to knock it off.

She then found a black leather running martingale breastplate that would match the saddle, and would also be effective in helping to ride the stallion, as it would prevent him from raising his head up enough to hit Rachel while on his back, and it would also prevent the saddle itself from sliding forward. This was also helpful in the sense that there was a jumping hackamore that seemed to be a hybrid design of some sort, so that it would actually work, despite not having a bit of any kind. Rachel doubted that the stallion would tolerate a bit, to start with, and she didn't like the idea of a piece of metal cutting into his mouth, to begin with. A lot of the gear she had chosen was good for riding green horses, anyway, and they were all black, so they matched, which Rachel found pleasing. The stallion was becoming jumpy as she carefully fitted the gear, but after she finished, she took it off, and he calmed down. He would have to put it on again, though, after she had finished grooming him.

First, Rachel had to gather all the supplies, and then came the extremely careful work of grooming, which did not actually require a bath, as horses went their entire lives without baths in the wild. It was important, though, as it would make the stallion look nice, and grooming was a good way to gain his trust. Corbin sat down nearby, wagging his tail every time either Rachel or the horse looked in his direction, as though expecting a treat for being so good. Rachel tried her best to ignore him and focus on the stallion's grooming. First, she started with the curry comb, moving in a circular motion, which would loosen up things in the stallion's pelt, as well as promote oil production from the skin. The best part was that this particular comb was soft enough for the legs and neck, as well, unlike most harder varieties. After she had loosened most of the damaged hairs, dust, and dirt, she started in with the dandy brush, which was made from plastic bristles, and also seemed to double as a water brush. Running the brush along the horses' body in the direction that his hairs grew, it removed all the debris the curry had stirred up. Then she took two brushes, the body brush and the face brush, which were made of soft bristles, and would small things like dust, as well as polish the coat. The body brush was easy to use, although the face brush was more difficult. She had to make the stallion hold very still, as she did not want to hurt his eyes, nose, or mouth while grooming his face. She then took the grooming rag and wiped it over his fur, for good measure on polishing it. There was a sweat scraper as well, but the horse had not been sweating, and so Rachel skipped to the two sponges, carefully cleaning around his eyes, nose, and mouth. When she finished, the stallion grabbed some of her hair in his mouth and gently tugged, but she grabbed the area under his jaw and squeezed lightly, making him let go without hurting him.

Rachel then had to comb out his main and tail with her fingers, which was the easiest way to avoid breaking the hairs, which turned out to be very difficult, as the stallion had a tendency to turn and look at whatever she was doing, and he regularly flicked his tail. Once she did this, she finally used a tiny pair of scissors to trim the ends of his tail and mane, so that they were even, although she liked their length, and so she left them long, only getting rid of the ragged edges, and clipping the mane so that it did not cover too much of his irregular star, or hide his deep brown eyes, which she thought were beautiful. Finally, she had to get down and lift up his hooves, which were quite heavy, and use a hoof pick to scrape dirt from them, taking great care not to hurt the sensitive part. She then took a bottle of clear hoof polish and applied it, shining the hooves while leaving them their natural color. Hoof polish was naturally considered to be purely for looks, but because it moisturized the hoof, it prevented things like cracks and other ailments, so Rachel thought it also had advantages. Plus, because he was barefoot, the stallion needed to have healthy hooves to start with.

Once she had finally finished all the preparations, she placed all the supplies in a separate pocket in her backpack, and slowly placed the tack back on the stallion, thinking of what she should call him, as he was now a member of her small family of a human, a dog, and a horse. She didn't want to call him something too decorative, as he was a country horse, but she wasn't going to call him something simple, either. Finally, she had an idea of a name, "Ebon Major," She said out loud, deciding on the stallion's name. Although he was not a black horse, he reminded her of the tree, the outer part being light wood, the inner part being black. It seemed to fit, and she would call him Major, for short. With this decided, she cautiously lifted herself up on the stirrups into the saddle, and both horse and rider shifted, unused to their positions, although Major did not try to throw Rachel, which was good.

Rachel gently patted the horse on the neck, and gave a gentle tug on the reins, and Major responded by whipping his head in the opposite direction, and snorting. Rachel just snorted back at him, and tugged again, this time looking in the direction she wanted to go. Being a Morab, Major would be part Arabian, a horse that liked to please its rider, and was also known as a family companion. This time, Major responded, and cautiously walked in the direction of the tug, stopping when she pulled back slightly. When she leaned forward, he started to move again, and Corbin close by, seeming almost amused, got onto his paws and followed the pair as they exited the stables. It was a shaky start, but Major was doing very well, for a green horse.

Nick, while he heard the others, was pedaling off as fast as he possibly could, trying to put distance between himself and the man with the bike. He didn't have the tools to deal with the girl who wielded a katana, and the man with a motorcycle would do nothing but attract the other twenty zombies in the area, as well as the couple hundred or more that were in the surrounding miles.

"I have come too far to be caught up in a mess like that. I am not here to take chances." he huffed to himself as he pedaled. If they had heard, he would be heading to Hapeville. They could go there if they needed him, because here was not the correct place.

He would need to pick up a real weapon of some sort soon, and maybe a suppressor to muffle the shots.

But for now he would have to keep moving. Movement meant survival.... usually at least.

Now that Rachel and Major seemed to be in agreement with one another, although both being unsteady from strange positions, they were making good time, with Corbin walking alongside the pair, ears pricked for any sounds that might indicate Shamblers. They had left the field, and Rachel had found herself irritated by the piles of dung and sour grass that were in it, not wanting Major to accidentally step in it and develop thrush as a result. He was a very young stallion, and she was already pulling him into a bit of a mess. She was lucky he was part Morgan, as most horses would crack under the kind of things she was about to put him through. Following the compass, while getting Major to follow loose commands, she started to move more quickly, although she had to be careful, as she was still trying to get her center of balance on his back, and he was still trying to get used to her weight. She knew she would have to eventually shake off this extra caution, though, as a horse could handle a rider that probably weighed as little as her. Besides, Corbin would alert them to any trouble, ahead of time enough to escape. A horse only needed to gallop when in danger, and this would have to be applied to Major, because too much stress regarding running could hurt his hooves.

Rachel did not know where she was, but she was heading north, and that was pretty much the only sense of direction she had regarding Hapeville City's location.

"It's a katana," Samantha replied and quickly turned her attention to the boy who was pedaling on the bike. She flipped a bit of her wavy brown hair behind her and kept starring as he passed. "I should probably get moving," she told Keeper. She pointed at the rapidly multiplying hordes of zombies that were crawling out of ever little crevice, crack, and hiding place.

"You'd better move to, I'm not waiting to see how big that horde will get. Goodbye," she replied and turned to make a hasty exit, following the direction the boy was pedaling.

Keeper looked around at the zombies. She was right. They were coming out of the woodwork pretty fast. He supposed that his Motercycle could've been part of the problem, but he cut of the engine before he got to town. His motercycle was sitting a good quarter mile away. In the direction of the Zombies at that. So he made like the kids did and took off in the opposite direction of the zombies. Hoever he was glad he'd snagged most of his weapons and water. Some food would've been smart,but he didn't expect this to happen. Perhaps they'll be able to clear up the area and he could get back to his supplies

But for now he ran.

" Hey wait for me! I'm coming too!"

Sam didn't wait, she just kept running. She was done risking her skin for other people, so she just kept going and if the man caught up to them, fine. If he didn't... also fine. She had a "don't care, just do whatever" attitude toward it. Earlier she had hated leaving people behind, but she witnessed many people be ripped to shreds attempting that. She didn't want to end up like them.

Three, no, four zombies rounded a corner and approached right in front of her. Gritting her teeth and making a violent face she quickly took out the katana and slashed the first one's head open. It fell dead and she moved onto the second, third, fourth and then moved on when she was done. Rotten black and red blood spilling a lake over the road.

The girl kept going. She didn't hesitate or acknowlage she heard him. So he simply followed her. He was right on her tial when a few zombies came out and she sliced them up. He desided her methods were crude but effective. And silient. While his 9mm wasn't loud as guns go, it did produce a bit of noise, so tried not to use it when excape was an option. that and he needed to conserve ammo. Sure three ammo clips was good, but if he fired willy nilly at them he'd be out soon.

As he went by the now decapitated bodies he looked up ahead to see where the gilr had gone. She was still up there in front of him. He'd gianed a little distance on her when she stopped to kill those things back there, but she was still fast.

Samantha killed another seven that had come out at her, not all at once though as that would be tricky. She saw Keeper coming up from behind her and rolled her eyes. He wasn't too far back and she could probably wait. She stopped. Blood was already leaking onto her shoes from the zombies, she quickly stepped away. More were coming, the boy seemed to be riding up ahead. She sighed, rolling her eyes more and more.

"Well come on!" she said hastily. "Keep up if you're wanting to come with me,"