Sometimes, I stand on the roof and look down at the silent city below me, and wonder if I should jump.

I'm holed up in the department store where I once worked: Bradbury's, the most mediocre place for middle-aged folks to get mediocre clothes. There used to be more survivors with me—some my coworkers, others just people searching for safety—but they've all left already. They wanted to try and survive out there even though they saw exactly what I did; they all heard the screams, the explosions, the honking and shouting as thousands of people tried to drive away from something that could not be outrun. The broadcasts said the city would be safe, that people would be protected, but I saw it all fail.

The only thing that rang true were the warnings to stay inside. I'm glad I listened to that part of the broadcast. That's probably the only reason I'm still here.

My fellow survivors chose to leave, to take their chances. Some stayed a bit longer. A few of them tried to do supply runs to gather food and never returned. I swear I've seen their faces in the corpses that wander past the windows. Their voices have started to echo in my head, repeating all the things they said as they left, one by one, until I was suddenly very much alone.

"You may have nothing to live for, but I do. My daughter...my little girl...she's out there."

"You're either the smartest bitch here or the craziest, but I ain't sticking around to find out."

"I can't take it. I...I-I I can't take it anymore! I have to leave! I can't stay here!"

I try not to dwell on it for too long. It's easier to act like I'm numb to it.

I've kept the doors locked, barricaded them with whatever I could move by myself, and tried to lay low on the upper floors. I have supplies, mostly gathered from the staff room fridge and vending machine, some left behind from the few people who were brave enough to do supply runs. I never thought I'd be using our emergency fire extinguisher to get my hands on a bag of chips, but here we are. It won't last me long and, after that, I'll be a goner.

Probably still a better fate than being eaten, but it still brings me back to the roof. Is there a life worth living anymore? I never want to see a dead person again but now the dead outnumber the living. Should I take my fate into my own hands and go out on my own terms? If I wasn't such a coward, I would have made the decision already, but I can't deny it. Deep in my bones, I want to live. There is still so much life I want to live.

I leave the roof. I tell myself I went up there because I keep hearing gunshots and the undead noises keep getting louder. I tell myself I wanted to see the commotion, but I couldn't bring myself close enough to the edge to get a peek. Whatever's going on, I'll handle it the same way I've been handling this whole ordeal—with barely concealed foolish hope that it'll all be over soon anyway, with a prayer to a God who may not be listening anymore, and with curling up and clamping my hands over my ears, singing all the parts of the songs I can remember.

I emerge from the stairwell onto a lower floor and start wandering. I used to lie around and cry, grieving the life I've lost, grieving my parents, but eventually I was too exhausted to cry anymore. I forced myself to get up and do something, to carry my grief instead of letting it pin me to the floor.

I think I must have walked the entire building by now, top to bottom, meandering because there's nothing else for me to do. I keep waiting for something to pop out at me. I hear footsteps sometimes, but I file them away with the rest of the noises. At this point, I'm sure my brain is just trying to trick me into thinking things are normal because it can't process anything else.

I emerge onto the fourth floor, where I've made my hideout. There, behind one of the payment counters, I've made a stash: sleeping bag, supplies, extra clothes, whatever I need to try and feel normal. There's a pad of paper by the register and each day at sundown, I make a little tally mark. Another day gone. I only started after I realized that I was well and truly alone, as a way to keep myself accountable, sane.

There's a desk calendar next to the paper pad that reads August 25th, 2010. I didn't notice or care to change it until too many days had passed and now, it stands as a grim reminder, frozen in time. That was the day the outbreak started, the day things started looking bleak. It was just over a month away from my birthday. I was going to buy myself a cake and eat it in front of the TV.

The pad has five groups of five and a few extras. Twenty-eight days. I laugh aloud at the absurdity of it all. I've got nothing to show for my captivity except pen lines on paper. Happy birthday to me. Here's to another year.

I slump against the countertop and stare down at the shiny, pretty things that used to mean something. I reach for the dainty gold cross hanging from my throat and I clutch it in my palm, warming it against my skin as I close my eyes. At least this shiny, pretty thing still means something, in a way. I don't know what exactly that something is; whether it's the God it represents or that it's the last gift I have from my parents.

Please, I think, with whatever faith I have left, if you're still there, please...save us. Save me.

"Please," I breathe, because maybe saying it out loud will make it easier for Him to hear me.

I hear something pop far above me and startle, eyes shooting open. A gunshot, so close? There were some in the streets earlier, but this is closer, like it came from this building.

It's amazing how fast my heart lifts with hope, but also recoils with fear. Something, or someone, is here, and I'm not equipped to fight. I've avoided weapons, not that there are any to be found in this place aside from a fire axe in the back stockroom. I lay down on my makeshift bed, listening as more and more shots go off, until silence falls again. I press my fist to my lips and take a long, shaky breath. Maybe I'm hallucinating. Maybe I'm not. Nowadays, I really don't know how to tell.

I hum to myself in an attempt to ground myself, but the only song that comes to my mind is by Rick Astley and I'd rather not have my final moments serenaded by "Never Gonna Give You Up."

I wait, laying there breathing and staring ahead, when I hear scuffling nearby. It's like hurried footsteps, and I sit bolt upright when I realize that there are voices too—faint human voices that bounce off the walls and send shivers up my spine. The dead, the walking ones, don't move that quickly and they definitely don't talk.

I get to my feet and move to the nearest door. It's the emergency exit and a long, concrete stairwell that leads down into the basement and up to the roof lays behind it. I lean onto the push bar as the voices get closer, momentarily forgetting my fear as I push the door open.

For a split second, I see humans. Real, living, breathing humans, and I start to smile.

One of them moves in the corner of my eye and I black out before the sensation of pain really sets in.

----------

It's way too bright out and the side of my face hurts a ton. I groan, curling inwards as I cradle my head in my arms, as if to squeeze away the throbbing in my brain. Too bright, a lot of pain...someone hit me but I don't remember who or what and the only thing running through my mind is ow.

"Well, well, well," a drawling, very Southern voice says to my right. "Sleepin' beauty's finally awake."

All I can do is groan in response. A strong hand clasps my forearm and I nearly leap out of my skin, letting out a terrified yelp as someone tugs me up from the floor. The first face I see is that of a man, a man with blue eyes, brown curly hair, and stubble along his jaw. The bridge of his nose is bruised and he's wearing a dirty sheriff's uniform.

"Are you alright?" he asks. When all I can do is blink at him, he shakes my shoulder and says, a little louder, more deliberate, "Hey! Can you hear me?"

I blink a few more times, really focusing on that intense stare, then nod. "You're...real?"

Someone else guffaws and that drawling voice returns. "You rattled her real good, Officer Friendly! Maybe killed her last few brain cells!"

"Shut it, Merle." A woman's voice. I turn my head away from the man before me as a blonde with a ponytail appears, squinting at me. "Where the hell did you come from?"

"Come...from?" I repeat. "I...I've been here since the start. I used to work here. Where did you come from?"

"Glenn, you've been here how many times now? You never reported a survivor," the woman says to someone I can't see.

"Because I never saw her!"

I look between her and the sheriff. "I...what...?"

"Since the start?" the man repeats. "How long have you been here?"

I shrug weakly. "A month or so? Probably longer?"

"What—" the woman starts.

"Both of you, maybe give her some space." Another person appears, a thin black woman with a pixie cut. She shoos away the other two, then smiles at me as she squats down. "I'm Jacqui, and you?"

"Hope."

"It's nice to meet you, Hope." She shifts a bit, elbows on her knees. "I'll be the first to apologize. When you came out that door, we expected a walker, not...you."

I shake my head, then wince as the movement reminds me of my headache. "It's okay. I got excited and didn't really think. I thought I was hallucinating."

"Hey, I hate to break this up," the sheriff cuts in as he steps closer. He eyes Jacqui. "We still need to check out that sub-basement. If the sewers are viable, that may be our ticket out of here, and we don't have much time." She nods and the man turns. "T-Dog, think you can watch Merle and our new friend for a bit?"

"Sure."

Sub-basement? Ticket out of here? Not much time? I'm not going to pretend I understand, so instead, I close my eyes again, my head spinning too much to keep everything in line. I tuck my face into my knees and hug myself close. Breathe in, breathe out, keep breathing...

"We'll be back soon."

Footsteps recede, a door slams, and it all gets very quiet again for about a second before Merle horks and spits a loogie (hopefully) away from me.

I dare a peek, taking in the man beside me: thinning gray hair, rough stubble, bruises, a smarmy smile on his face as he looks out at the world like it's his playground. His clothes hang off of him. He's handcuffed to the maze of pipes I'm leaning against.

He catches me looking and his smirk somehow gets larger. "So, sugar tits, first day on earth or are you just that stupid?"

I cringe as I slowly shake my head. "Pardon?"

"Don't bother."

I startle again only to immediately feel foolish. The sheriff did say something about "T-Dog" looking after the two of us. Across from me is a broad black man with a goatee and a bloody nose—the blood has dried already, but it must be new if he hasn't been able to clean it up. He wears a backward baseball cap and holds a walkie-talkie with a long antennae.

He shoots a venomous look at Merle. "Anything that comes outta his mouth is pure shit. Come sit by me and try to ignore him."

I nod and, not yet trusting my legs, scoot across the roof until I can settle comfortably beside him. Merle keeps staring at me, tongue lightly dragging across his lips, and I suddenly wish I was wearing ten more layers over my t-shirt and jeans. I cross my arms tightly over my chest and try to look small. At least, on this side of the roof, it's shady and I can get out of direct sunlight.

"What were they saying about the sewers?" I ask after a moment.

T-Dog shrugs. "Rick thinks there might be a way for us to get out before the walkers get in. Right now, that's our only shot."

I don't know which one Rick is, but there are other things to worry about. "They're trying to get in?"

T-Dog squints at me. "Didn't you hear the shots? Noise gets the freaks going and we just made a whole lotta noise. Followed us over here."

"Oh..."

For some reason, I'm almost glad they found me, even if I'm gonna be sporting a hefty bruise and a wicked headache for a while. Apparently, from what I'm seeing here, my little hideout wasn't going to last much longer.

Thank God for answered prayers, I guess.