[ i. slowly they go ]

october 9th, 2010

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FOR THE LONGEST TIME, no one could truly agree on when the world ended.

Sure, for some the world seemed to end with the age of technology. And—God—with the way things were looking, robots surely were about to turn on the people any day now. For others who were not so convinced by the rise mini terminators, well, for them, the world seemed to end because of the overuse of fossil fuels.

Know what that means? Global warming. Yeah, it got a little hot. Too hot for a lot of people, supposedly. But so what? Regardless of what anyone actually thought, they were not allowed to make the final decision. Their voices meant nothing.

So, who has the power to decide when the world ends? Does anyone?

Because as far as Greyson Hunt was concerned, no one could say when the world got to end. And if there was going to be any shot caller at all, it was the goddamn world itself. Granted, Greyson always thought the world would have succumbed under the far-reaching grasp of disease. His father did, too. In fact, a lot of people—the smart people—thought the same. So, when people started to cough and fevers began to rise, and the death toll steadily grew into the thousands, Greyson did not really think anything of it. Disease was what society had started to topple down into and he had predicted that. He had accepted that.

On the other hand, he did begin to give a damn when—after an unnamed disease had ravaged most of society—the dead began to rise up to feast on the living. Because no matter what kind of crazy conspiracy theory Greyson heard on the dark side of the web, he would have never, in a million years, suspected that the rising of the dead would result in the end of the world.

The fall of civilization happened slowly, strangely enough. Funny how the world works like that, right? When anyone thought of the end, they likely expected it to happen quickly. Well, not this time. Not for Greyson. While going about his daily schedule, attending his ordinary and boring college classes, it took a while before he began to notice the disappearances of his classmates and neighbors. From out of the corner of Greyson's eye, dorms around him emptied, familiar faces vanished, and his once lively campus slowly crafted itself into a ghost town.

And if it had not been for his roommate, Greyson probably would have disappeared, too.

Greyson could remember vividly that in the fallout of the pandemic that the street riots had been the worst part of it all. From outside his window, it was the slums of the suburbs versus the local police departments, and eventually both sides were destroyed. One day the riots were going, violent and endless, and then the next day they were no more. The streets became deathly quiet; eventually the only sign of distress came from the gruesome sights of burned belongings and shattered windows.

And as expected with any doomsday, the power went out, too. Like a wave, all of Atlanta went dark within minutes. If Greyson thought back far enough to that dreadful time, he could still remember looking out his dorm window and watching as Atlanta's skyscrapers went dark. Cell phone service died out as well, so any attempt to contact anyone was futile. Not that Greyson had anyone to contact, really. He had left his family back in Virginia; he had left his parents and sister for something better. He never made it where he was going, though.

Sometimes, in the quiet of his tent, Greyson liked to wish that he had.

In truth, the final sign that the world had decided to end was with the abrupt lack of a formal military. Long ago, a man in a uniform had meant safety. A man in a uniform had meant survival. Long ago, a man in a uniform was not supposed to shoot an innocent boy in the streets. A man in a uniform was not supposed to shoot Greyson's at best friend, who only ended up being saved from death when Greyson had worked up the courage to strike back and knock the man in a uniform down to the asphalt.

Greyson still did not know how he and his roommate had missed the stream of bullets that had chased them out of that burning department store.

And then—he could almost laugh about it, recounting one disaster after another—the dead began to walk. For a while, people only assumed that it was a bad drug making them tweak out. But then it hit everyone. And it was no longer just a dangerous high. Within weeks, houses had emptied and dead bodies littered the streets. Still, there were those who walked. Dead people who walked, their sole purpose being to kill the living.

Greyson called them walkers.

Alive enough to walk and eat, but dead enough to do nothing else. They were the reason that Greyson had to sleep with one eye open. They were the reason Greyson found himself constantly looking over his shoulder. They were the reason there was no going back to a life before their terrifying arrival. With the only chance of a kill coming from a traumatic blow to the head, it seemed like this fight would last forever. Greyson had seen more than enough walkers up close, but he was thankful enough that he had not been forced to kill one from close range. He preferred to kill them from far away, preferably with a bullet or an arrow.

Growing up, Greyson's father had raised him in the Virginian wilderness, taking him on hunting trips since he was only six years old. Without his father's lessons, Greyson would not have survived. Because of his father, Greyson trusted himself with a gun and a bow. Because of his father, Greyson had a chance to live, even if Marcus Hunt's own chance was already likely gone.

If there was anyone Greyson missed from his family back home, it would have to be Marcus. Greyson had always been closest with him while his mother had been closer with his sisters. Greyson had never even been that close with his sisters, but that did not keep him from thinking about them. He had been the middle child with an older sister and younger sister. And while Greyson tragically already knew the fate of his youngest, he still had hope that his oldest was out there somewhere, waiting for him to come home.

Now, at the end of all times, the only family that Greyson could call his own was not even blood-related and that was his roommate, Glenn Rhee. Years ago, they had not started off on the best of terms; him being a clean freak and Greyson—well, not so much. The two young men were complete and total opposites but they also managed to balance one another out perfectly, and that was why Greyson believed them to be such good friends. Glenn was the calm to Greyson's crazy, and Greyson was the crazy to Glenn's calm.

If Greyson were being completely honest, he did not know what he would have done if he had not met Glenn when he did. It was a bold enough move leaving the state and his family behind, and if Greyson would have had any other roommate, he probably would have moved back. Glenn was what kept him in Atlanta. Three years as roommates and now they were tent mates.

Considering the city was no longer safe, they had both fled for the woods. The actual idea had been to originally move to the suburbs, but the roads had been so bad that they could not get more than four miles in the length of an hour. Thankfully, the two boys had been scooped up by a group on the side of the road after their beater car had broke down and Greyson's life had not been the same since.

In the weeks that followed, all signs of life slowly decreased. Greyson and Glenn's ragtag group of strangers in the woods slowly grew into an even bigger ragtag group of strangers as people from all over the county began to band together in the hope of staying alive. Their small community was strong for nearly two months, and then, all at once, it was not. Like a ghost out of the trees, the camp was destroyed by the dead, and dozens and dozens of innocent people lost more than they could have ever imagined. In the aftermath, Greyson was lucky enough to walk away with his life, but as a group, they had all lost their stability, their food, their friends and families. In a matter of minutes, it was all gone.

With no other choice and knowing that the woods were no longer safe, the group moved on. Stepping out on a limb with hopes that maybe the city's outskirts were not as bad as to be believed, Greyson and the others had wound up in the Center for Disease Control and Prevention. For a single day the CDC had been Greyson's new home. For a full 24 hours, the group had been safe. And then they lost that, too. Of course.

Maybe there truly was no place safe to go.

Unable to be blindsided again, Greyson had already accepted that unfortunate reality. Now, one could never find him without his backpack or rifle. He always kept one eye open, regardless of whether he was meant to be sleeping or not. He wished he did not have to live such a painful and exhausting way of life, but Greyson simply no longer felt safe. After all, how could anyone feel safe in a world that belonged to the walking dead? No home, no food, no friend, and no life could be promised to him. In the blink of an eye, it could all be taken from him again. Greyson could no longer risk that; if he lost anything else, he was not sure he would be able to handle it.

A person could only take so much before they broke.

"You ready to go, man?"

At the newfound voice, Greyson jumped in alarm and stumbled. Shaking his head to clear the daze, Greyson looked down from his place atop a rusty RV to see none other than who he was just thinking about. Peering up through his baseball cap, Glenn motioned for his blonde friend to come down. "We're packin' up," He informed.

Glancing past Glenn's figure, Greyson noticed how several members of the disgruntled, apocalyptic group were moving around remaining vehicles, putting their belongings inside whilst checking up on their families. There were only two children amongst the scattered group of adults; one boy and a girl, both who were much too young to be forced to live a life like this.

Greyson looked away as the familiar pang of loss filled his chest. From the bottom of his heart, Greyson did not want any of the people surrounding him to die. They were all good people, all just trying to survive day-by-day. But survival did not come easy. There were twelve of them altogether, and Greyson feared the day that number inevitably got smaller. In fact, all Greyson really wanted was for that number to get bigger. Human beings survived a crisis like this by pulling together and standing together—not by pulling apart and fighting each other until there was only one man left standing.

Greyson's eyes slowly drifted, to the de facto group leader, Rick Grimes. The former police sheriff had showed up at camp nearly two months after the world had ended and was responsible for saving, at least, a quarter of the group in the city, including Glenn. Upon his arrival, he was then reunited with three fellow camp members: his wife, Lori, his 12-year-old son, Carl, and his close friend and former deputy, Shane Walsh. He had been searching for them all along and had finally found them. How lucky was he?

"Greyson?"

Again, Glenn's voice ripped the boy from his thoughts and Greyson sighed discontentedly as he grabbed his rifle. "I'm coming, I'm coming," He announced.

As Greyson quickly climbed down the rungs on the side of the RV, he overheard Rick's orders. "Fort Benning is the plan," He informed the gathering group. "Daryl'll lead the way and we'll follow. Glenn's got the map. If anything goes wrong, if you need to stop, one honk of the horn will do the job. Stay close, and stay safe."

And just like that, the twelve practical strangers all split off towards their separate vehicles. The Grimes family—along with another mother and daughter duo, Carol and Sophia Peletier, would take one vehicle—while the lone wolf of the group, Daryl Dixon, would take his motorcycle, which left the rest of the group to the RV.

Climbing inside the RV last, Greyson sat down on one of the remaining benches facing opposite of Shane. The older man had already set to work cleaning his pistol in silence and Greyson watched him closely, trying not to judge him too much. Clearly he knew exactly what he was doing, just like Greyson did. If he trusted anyone with live weapons in their group it was Shane, Rick, Daryl and himself.

Anyone else? Hell, no.

A moment later, Greyson felt a soft tap on his shoulder and instinctively scooted over to allow Andrea Harrison a seat beside him. As she settled in, she was more than quiet, her skin pale and her eyes grotesquely bloodshot as she likely thought about her deceased younger sister, Amy. Amy Harrison had died only four days ago in the catastrophe that was the sacking of their camp. She had been the first to die, and while Greyson had not seen the initial attack, he had seen the end result. Swallowing tightly, Greyson could not imagine what was going through Andrea's head and he chose not to dare risk opening that door. All he knew now was that she had planned on committing suicide in the CDC, but plans had gone awry with the help of another group member, Dale Horvath. Regardless of what had actually happened in those final moments before the explosion, Greyson was more than thankful that Andrea was still here beside him.

Turning his head, Greyson looked into the back room of the RV where one of the newer group members, T-Dog, rested. He had his head in his hands, still reeling over the loss of a close friend; a woman named Jacqui. She had chosen to leave this world her own way, not bothering to consider those she would hurt by doing so. Again, Greyson had no words of comfort he could think to say to the big, broken man in the back room, either.

And horrifically so, Greyson could not even remember the woman's last name. He had hardly known Jacqui, hardly talked to her; all he truly knew was her face. And soon, whether he liked it or not, that would be forgotten, too.

Greyson looked away again. Now, staring out the window at the dying trees that flew past him, Greyson could only hope that Fort Benning was still standing. He had to hope that these members of the military would not turn on them. That they would instead would welcome them with open arms. That they could make them safe again.

"Oh, jeez," A voice suddenly exclaimed from the driver's seat. It was Dale Horvath. He was the oldest member of the group by far, and also happened to be the owner of the RV. "Oh, no . . ."

Peering around Andrea, Greyson's light eyes widened on the sight of the road in front before the RV. Dozens and dozens of cars littered the highway; many of them flipped and turned over in the wake of chaos. Broken doors hung open, windows were shattered and belongings of all kinds were spread all over the road.

Greyson clenched his jaw. "We're going through that?" He asked hesitantly.

By the way that Dale opted not to respond to him and Daryl Dixon merely continued to press into the giant snarl of traffic, Greyson could assume that was a yes. So, slowly but surely, Dale put the large vehicle back in motion and the RV carefully began weaving between the scattered cars, trying to get out of the man-made maze in one piece. While Dale focused on the road, Greyson let his eyes wander to the cars and trees beyond. As he looked around, he could not help but feel that they were being watched. Whether that was by the dead or the living, the line blurred.

"Maybe we should just go back," Glenn suggested, staring down at the map in his lap. "I see there's an interstate bypass—"

"We can't spare the fuel," Dale dismissed with a shake of his head.

Reverting back to a tense silence, all Greyson could continue to do was stare out the window and hold his rifle tight. Dozens of bodies littered the many abandoned cars and Greyson did not want to be the one to find out if they were actually dead or not.

Suddenly, there was a loud clanking from inside the RV's engine and a moment later, the entire windshield was filled with smoke. Screeching metal filled Greyson's ears and he winced in fear as Dale harshly let out a curse before slamming down on the brake. As the engine slowly sputtered out, Dale hurriedly climbed from the RV to examine the mess.

Without a word, the many RV riders all quickly followed after Dale to avoid being left behind. Daryl quickly returned and Rick's group was last to arrive, looking very afraid of being so exposed in the open like they were. Both Lori and Carol now held their children tight against their chests, as if their bare arms might be enough to protect them from the weight and viciousness of the world.

"What's the problem, Dale?" Shane asked.

Dale scoffed. "Oh, just a small matter of being stuck in the middle of nowhere with no hope of—" The old man suddenly cut his rant short as he lifted his head up and began to examine his vast surroundings. "Okay, that was dumb. We need to find a radiator hose."

Without further insistence, Daryl began digging through the trunk of a nearby abandoned car. "There's a whole bunch'a stuff we can find here," He muttered, dropping two cans of food by his feet.

Meanwhile, T-Dog grabbed a can of gasoline from inside the RV. "I can siphon more fuel from these cars for a start," He offered.

"And maybe find some water or food?" Carol piped in softly.

Lori frowned, staring out into the horizon of scrap metal uncertainly. "This is a graveyard," She murmured. "I don't know how I feel about this."

Greyson bit his bottom lip and stuffed a single hand into his zip-up jacket pocket. "The dead don't need this stuff," He pointed out, unaware of how careless he actually sounded. "We do."

Shane nodded in agreement. "Grey's right," He reaffirmed. "The dead don't take from the livin', but the livin' need to take from the dead. Just spread out and look around, gather what you can. Don't wander far."

Without another word, silently pleased that someone had come to his aid, Greyson stepped back and watched as everyone else began spreading out. One-by-one, group members slowly began their individual searches through abandoned trunks and bags for supplies. Well, all except for Andrea. She looked like she was about to be sick and when she finally began to dry heave, she hastily spun on her heel and disappeared back into the RV, vanishing from sight.

At the hood of the RV, Dale continued to grumble to himself as he tried to clear the smoke. Meanwhile, Greyson pulled his rifle into his arms and looked outward, down the road from which they had come. A mere moment later, a hand clasped onto Greyson's shoulder and he immediately turned to see Rick. "You our lookout?" He questioned.

Greyson nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Rick smiled gently. "I'll join you."

Greyson attempted smiled back, but it felt more like a grimace. Nonetheless, he hoped Rick did not look too much into the horrid expression, and hastily stepped aside to allow the older man a spot to stand beside him. For a long while, the two men stared down the opposing sides of the highway in silence. So far, there was nothing to see as of right now, but that could always change in the blink of an eye, such as when it did with the Atlanta camp. Greyson did not want to risk the same fate all over again by letting his guard down, even if only for a mere moment.

A moment was all that it took.

Finally, the silence was broken. "How are you doing?" Rick wondered, trying to make small talk.

Greyson did not hesitate in his answer. "Hungry," He admitted.

Rick chuckled. "Me, too."

Now, Greyson was normally very good at making friends, but with his whole body on edge he could no longer find the nerve to speak. Standing there, bracing for the world to end, if felt as if his timid body was constantly trembling, his gaze wide as saucers to try and keep an eye on everything. Greyson despised small talk now. There was no room to relax or talk when the only concern should be to stay alive.

Suddenly, Rick frowned and after a moment, he pulled a pair of black and heavy binoculars up to his eyes. The leader did not speak, all the while his face grew darker the longer he looked and, finally, Greyson could no longer take the silent suspense. Wrapping the strap of the rifle around his arm for support, Greyson lifted the scope up to his eye to get a better look for himself.

At first he saw nothing. The vision too blurry to actually see anything, but as soon as it cleared, Greyson began to frown as well. Several yards away, drifting in and around the abandoned highway cars was a lone walker. Half of its face had been torn off by a jagged piece of metal, and the sight nearly made Greyson look away. And he would have looked away—if not for the newfound arrival of a second walker that followed close behind, only a few feet away from its own undead leader.

Greyson's finger shifted. "Should I take them?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Greyson had no doubt in his mind that he could nail both of the targets from the distance he currently stood. Hell, even if they were moving at a faster pace Greyson would not be afraid of missing. He liked a moving target better than a still one. It gave him a chance to get some shooting practice in.

Rick remained silent for a moment longer, considering his options. "Wait," He finally ordered.

Holding his breath, trapping it tight in his lungs, Greyson let his finger drift away from the trigger. And then, just as he was about to lower his rifle altogether, he suddenly noticed more movement from beyond the edge of the scope. Frowning, Greyson adjusted the aim of his rifle and then nearly dropped the gun once more, abruptly horrified at the sudden, rampantly growing sight before him.

"Oh, Christ," Rick gasped.

Just then, Dale—having heard the prior commotion—peered around the side of the RV to look at the two frozen men. "What is it?" He questioned absentmindedly, not able to detect the fear in their faces with their backs turned to him.

For a moment, neither man responded, each caught in their own universe of terror.

Only thirty yards away from where the trio currently stood, nearly four dozen walkers had begun to make their way towards the unsuspecting group. Shifting their deadened bodies between abandoned cars, each and every one of the walkers snarling and growling, hastily shuffling their ways towards their next meal.

And finally, in the midst of a growing chaos, Greyson Hunt turned to face Dale Horvath and his dying, youthful expression of absolute horror spoke for him.

"They're coming."

~~~~~~~~~~

wow, i'm finally getting around to reediting this book. forgive me if you find any tense mistakes. i'm trying to revert this book to third person and it's a lot harder than it looks. there's so many details that i'm so afraid i've missed, but it's okay. just help me out if you can, if you see something, let me know, but don't be crazy grammar police about it. i'm trying to make this masterpiece better for y'all!!

and even if it's still a disaster, it's my disaster. anyways, i still think this was a good way to kick of greyson's story, so we're going to stick with that!! i love my baby boy so much, i missed him. so, for all you new readers and rereaders, what do you think of greyson hunt so far?! do you think he's he going to be good or bad, a fighter or a runner?

i appreciate all feedback comments and votes! thank you!

edited.