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❝ for every dark day, there is a brighter morning . . . ❞ – Harriet Morgan

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Elizabeth Hardaway was not a runner. She had never found an interest in track when she was forced to do it in high school (not that she ever found an interest in school at all), nor did she partake in her mother's morning jogs. She liked staying still; she liked stability. It was simple, really. And it wasn't as though anyone could judge her for it. Hardly anyone liked running, she reasoned, huffing and puffing as she struggled to complete laps around the track of her old high school.

She really wished she had taken a greater interest now, with a small pack of Rotters after her. The world had pretty much ended two weeks ago; it had ended in all the ways that had mattered. And Elizabeth, who really hated being called that, really wished she'd taken her mother up on those morning jogs. It was a wonder she'd survived so long as it was, with her burning legs and screaming lungs. She feared she would collapse soon, her body unable to take in any more oxygen.

"Birdie, come on!"

It was alright because Gen was there. Genevieve Vasquez, who was good at pretty much anything that had to do with surviving apocalypses. She could handle a firearm just as well as Birdie's Marine father could. She could hunt, find water, and, most importantly, run.

Birdie gasped for breath, tripping over her feet as she ran after Gen. The older woman paused for just a moment, pulling out her pistol and firing off several rounds. The gunshot echoed through the Georgia pines, amplified by the growing night. They'd learned pretty quickly that the Rotters (those were the reanimated, rotting corpses that used to be regular folks) only went down with a shot to the head. Gen and Birdie had been forced to become good marks-women as fast as possible.

Gen grabbed her arm once she was within range, shooting another Rotter to the dirt before turning to run, dragging along the smaller blonde. It hurt her arm, but that wasn't the most important thing at the moment.

"We — we can't keep goin'," Birdie choked out between ragged breaths, stumbling to keep up with the other woman.

"We don't have a choice," Gen replied, not giving her a second glance as they ran. Between her own gasps, Birdie heard her praying.

The thing about Rotters was that they weren't very fast, but they didn't run out of breath, or get tired, ever. And Birdie didn't think that was very fair.

Gen tripped over a tree root not a minute later, sending both of them to the ground and down a hill. Their bodies tumbled through the brush, fragile skin tearing and bruising as they went. There was a splash and Birdie landed on top of Gen in a gurgling stream, dazed. She heard Gen scream and she jumped back.

"Gen!" She grabbed the other woman's shoulders, rolling her over. She was clutching her right eye, blood seeping through her fingers.

"I'm...fine," she gritted out, stumbling to her feet. "Are you — are you okay?"

Birdie stared, winded and aching all over. "Gen, your eye."

"We'll deal with it later," she spat. "Come on." Gen glanced up at the hill with her good eye, still clutching the other. The Rotters were stumbling and falling down the hill after them. She reached for her gun, only to realize that it wasn't on her person. She'd lost it tumbling down the hill.

"Jeez, these things never get tired," Birdie grumbled, climbing out of the stream. The water had been freezing, but it served to cool off their overheating, overworked bodies.

Gen lead the way, glancing back every so often to keep track of Birdie. In the growing darkness, Birdie caught glimpses of her ruptured eye.

But she'd be alright. She always was.

Birdie would never forget the day everything went "to the dogs" (as her little brother was fond of saying). It was a Sunday, and they were getting out of church. It hadn't mattered what the pastor had been talking about, because three hours later no one really cared.

Apparently, the Rotters had come from the hospital and the graveyard, like some sort of bad movie. No one knew what was going on, but Gen, she had acted fast, gathering supplies and getting a car. She'd dragged Birdie from her house, where she lived alone, and they left Longview, Texas before the roads were clogged by panicked people and Rotters.

But Birdie didn't think about what would have happened were it not for Gen's quick thinking and compassion. Thinking about what-ifs and such would only serve as a distraction. Gen was amazing, and Birdie was alive because of it. Simple as that.

"Gen — Gen, wait," Birdie gasped, grabbing a tree trunk to halt herself. She doubled over, wheezing and coughing, almost unable to breathe. "I — I can't. I can't."

Gen skidded to a halt, chest heaving as she scanned their surroundings. Rotters were just in the distance, tripping over themselves to get to them. "Birdie, you can rest once we get back to the road. We're close to the road, I know it."

Birdie shook her head. "I can't breathe."

"I know," she sighed, wrapping a hand around the nape of her neck and pressing her forehead to hers for a brief moment. Blood dripped onto her cheek. "But we can't stop."

"Okay...okay," the blonde breathed, heart pounding but finally getting her breath under control. She clutched her chest and the little silver necklace with a tree pendant hanging from it. She swallowed, meeting Gen's dark brown eyes — no, eye. "I'm good."

Gen nodded, eyes flicking up to the trees behind them. They could both hear the Rotters getting closer. Before they could move again, Birdie grabbed her arm; she had spotted movement ahead. "Gen," she gasped, pointing.

Several figures made their way through the trees, the gathering darkness acting as cloaks to disguise their features. More Rotters, of course. Birdie scanned the tree line, finding ambling corpses emerging on all sides. Closer, closer, closer...no way to escape. She sucked in a breath, pulling out her handgun. They would be okay. They would find a way out of this. They always did.

An arrow stuck itself into the head of the Rotter that had lunged at Birdie, dropping like dead weight. Birdie jumped back as the four figures moved forward various weapons in hand. A man with a towering stature and an axe swung and lodged it in another's neck, while another man with a hammer kicked a Rotter to the ground and pounded its head into a mess of blood and brains.

The blonde froze, but Gen jumped into action, pulling out a large knife from her belt and swinging at the nearest Rotter. It was a sluggish swing, but it took it down just fine.

"Hey, look out!" One of the strange men shouted, striking a Rotter that had come up behind her with a nasty-looking hooked hatchet. Birdie spun around, staring at her savior. He was younger than she had expected, pale in the dim light and with disheveled dark hair.

"Thanks," she said, breathless.

"No problem," he replied, with a small smile. "I'm Glenn."

"Birdie."

"Time to go!" The man with the axe ordered, his voice like gravel as he took out another Rotter. The man who had fired the arrow from his crossbow had slung an arm around Gen's shoulders, hoisting her up. Gen was cussing him out in Spanish, but she didn't try to get free. Birdie wondered if she couldn't.

"C'mon," Glenn prompted, extending his hand. "We'll keep you safe."

Birdie grabbed his hand and he tugged her forward into the forest. She was trusting strangers with her life and Gen's life, but they'd rescued them when they didn't have to.

She had no idea what grabbing his hand would mean for her.

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