The roof, and the three of us, stay relatively quiet except for T-Dog continuously speaking into the radio in his hand. There's nothing but static on the other end and his brow stays furrowed. I hug my knees to my chest and try not to think about my aching head. What I wouldn't do for a Tylenol.

"Anybody out there?" T-Dog asks. "Hello? Anybody read? I'm hoping to hear somebody's voice 'cause I'm getting sick and tired of hearing mine."

He slumps back, sighing, and Merle laughs a bit. "Yeah, well, that makes two of us," he says. "Why don't you knock that crap off? You're giving me a headache, boy." He spits into the dirt.

"Why don't you pull your head outta your ass," T-Dog says, "and maybe your headache will go away." Merle chuckles some more. "Try some positivity for a change. Damn."

"I'll tell you what. You get me out of these cuffs and I'll be all 'Sammy Sunshine' positive for you," Merle says. "Hey, see that hacksaw over there in that toolbag? Get it for me, hm? I'll make it worth your while. What do you say, man? Come on." He shakes the cuffs, metal ringing off metal. "Get me out of these things."

"So you can beat my ass again? Or call me nigger some more?"

I gasp a little, lifting my head, and both men seem to remember that I'm there. Merle grins at me and once again, he laughs.

"What, girl? Ya never heard someone say nigger before?" he asks.

I shake my head, skin crawling a little. "No, just...he can say it. Not you, and you can't call him that."

"I can't?" he repeats. He scoffs and his smile really starts to bug me. "I can say whatever the hell I want, princess. It's a free country."

"It's a slur! A...bad word, you can't—"

"I can teach you a whole lotta bad words if you'd let me." His eyes slide over me, tongue wetting his lips, and I clench my legs together as I cross my ankles.

T-Dog bumps his shoulder to mine and shakes his head. "Don't waste your breath. He ain't nothing but an asshole."

"Hey, hey, woah, it isn't personal," Merle insists. He raises one hand as if surrendering, but he's still smirking a little too much. At this point, I wonder if that's just the way his face is. "It's just that your kind and my kind ain't meant to mix. That's all. It don't mean we can't...work together, parley, as long as there's some kind of mutual gain involved."

I gawk a bit, stomach turning, but when I look at T-Dog, he just seems tired. Used to it, even.

"So...about that hacksaw—" Merle starts.

"I guess you want me to get that rifle over there too, so you can shoot that cop when he comes back up," T-Dog says, leveling him with a stare.

Merle hums, eyes narrowing, and I decide that whatever is going on here, I don't want to be a part of it. Thankfully, I have a good excuse. I get to my feet, wobbling once as I grip the nearest wall and steady myself. I have ibuprofen in my bag—I used to carry it around to help me handle period cramps, but now, it'll help my head.

"Where're you going, sweet cheeks?" Merle asks.

"To pack up my things. I have to be ready to go, don't I?" I glance back at T-Dog and, after a second, add, "You have a group, right? And you'll take me back with you?"

"It's a free country," T-Dog says, giving Merle another look. He nods at me. "If we can actually get out of here with all those walkers outside."

"I'll take my chances."

I head to the door leading into the stairwell and make my way down. I'm hoping that these people have a plan or something, because at this point I'm just going along for the ride. I never planned to leave here, after all.

I only have a few pills left when I check the bottle. I was due for a refill before everything fell apart. I down a pill with a swallow of water, then shove whatever supplies I have left into my backpack—mostly snack foods, extra water bottles, a book or two, and a few changes of clothes. The one perk of being in a place like this is that, even if I couldn't fully shower, I had access to bathrooms and plenty of clean clothes. I even had running water for a bit before the pipes shut down.

I have to rearrange some things in the bag, trying to maximize space. It used to be the one I took to work every day, so it has my wallet, my credit cards, and the keys to my apartment. I can't bring myself to leave them behind, like there's a part of me that still believes I'll need them again.

I hear footsteps in the stairwell again and hurry to it, hoisting my bag onto my shoulder as I go. This time, I wait until they're gone before I emerge. I don't want to spook them again, after all, and I do my best to catch up. I've done more stair-climbing today than I have in a very long time.

When I emerge onto the roof, everyone is back but, judging by the looks on their faces, they didn't have any luck with the sewers. The sheriff stares down at the streets through a pair of binoculars.

Jacqui turns to the door when it opens and her shoulders relax. "There you are."

"Just grabbing my things," I say. Thunder rumbles in the distance and I squint a little at the sky as I come closer, dropping my bag among theirs. "So...the sewers?"

"No luck," an Asian boy in a red cap says. I've heard his voice before, when I first woke up, and I know the blonde said his name, but I can't recall it.

The sheriff hands off the binoculars to another man, a tall Hispanic with dark slicked-back hair and a beard to match. "That construction site, those trucks—they always keep keys on hand."

"You'll never make it past the walkers."

Sheriff turns to Red Cap. "You got me out of that tank."

"Yeah, but they were feeding. They were distracted."

"Can we distract them again?"

I try to keep my distance, awkward. It feels like everyone here is just talking circles around me and I'm just trying to keep things straight. I still haven't heard proper introductions but I guess when survival's on the line, those can wait.

"Right. Listen to him. He's on to somethin'," Merle says. "A diversion, like on 'Hogan's Heroes.'"

"God, give it a rest," Jacqui says with an eye-roll.

"They're drawn by sound, right?" Sheriff says, undeterred.

"Right, like dogs. They hear a sound, they come," Red Cap agrees.

"What else?"

"Aside from they hear you? They see you, smell you, and if they catch you, they eat you," the Hispanic man says.

"They can tell us by smell?" Sheriff repeats, nose wrinkling.

"Can't you?"

My brow furrows. I didn't know that, and it's weirdly comforting that Sheriff doesn't seem to know any of this either. I'm pretty clueless about everything when it comes to the dead, only able to piece together the bits of information I've been unlucky enough to witness. They eat people. People can turn into them. That's about it. I don't even know if there's any way to kill them, because I've seen far too many corpses with injuries that would be fatal to anyone else; guts hanging out and holes in their chests I could fit my fist through.

Blondie pipes up. "They smell dead, we don't. It's pretty distinct."

"So..." I say, and eyes land on me. I balk a little at the sudden attention as I swallow hard. "Is there any way to mask our scent? Would that work?"

Sheriff stares at me for a second, then nods as he glances around the group. "I may have an idea. Hope, you said you worked here, right?"

I nod, slowly. "Yes...?"

"We're gonna need you to show us some merchandise."

----------

It's an idea, alright, and I almost wish I hadn't partially suggested it. I want to gag at the mere thought. Sheriff (or Rick, as I have now learned) has me take everyone to the rubber gloves, coats, and face shields. We don't have lab coats, but longer autumn coats should do for Rick's plan.

"If bad ideas were an Olympic event, this would take the gold," Glenn, the Asian boy who can't be that much younger than me, says as Jacqui shoves boxes of gloves into his arms.

"He's right," Morales, the Hispanic man, says. He moves to Rick's side. "Just stop, okay? Take some time to think this through."

"How much time?" Rick retorts. "They already got through one set of doors. That glass won't hold forever."

I spare a glance at the front doors and suddenly, I understand everyone's urgency. The double set of doors that have kept the dead out for weeks have started to crack. I squint as I look closer and I swear, one of the dead is holding a brick, another a metal pipe. Are they intelligent enough to use tools or is it just those few?

"Is there a fire axe around here somewhere?"

I look back at Rick and, sure enough, he's staring at me expectantly. Focus, Hope. I nod. "In the stockroom. I can take you there."

The stockroom is a concrete box with frosted glass windows, shelves full of dusty boxes of various merchandise, old sale signs, and plenty of naked mannequins. T-Dog uses a crowbar to free the axe from its glass prison while Rick and Morales hurry into the nearby alleyway, Glenn guarding the door. I wait with Jacqui and Andrea (the blonde ponytailed woman), trying not to fidget.

Rick and Morales return with a dead walker (or a dead-er walker) and I have to stop myself from recoiling as they drag it over and drop it. I stare at his mangled face, grey and bloodied, and try to imagine what he looked like when he was alive. A second later, T-Dog hands Rick the fire axe and my stomach lurches all over again.

Rick doesn't even complete a full swing before he throws the axe down and pulls off his gloves and face shield. He kneels next to the body and starts rifling through his pockets, eventually pulling out a wallet. He flips it open and stares at it for a second.

"Wayne Dunlap," he says, looking up at us. "Georgia license. Born in 1979. He had twenty-eight dollars in his pocket when he died, and a picture of a pretty girl." He pulls out a picture from the wallet and turns it over, smiling a little. "With love, from Rachel. He used to be like us, worrying about bills or rent or the Super Bowl. If I ever find my family, I'm gonna tell them about Wayne."

He tucks the wallet away and my heart breaks a little bit, both for Wayne and Rick. Wayne is only a little older than me, and Rick...Rick has a family somewhere. A wife? Maybe a kid or two? He must miss them terribly.

He goes to grab the axe, and I can't stop myself. "I want to go with you." All eyes fall on me in an instant, all shocked. I try to focus on Rick, whose expression is carefully neutral. "Please, I...I didn't do anything to help my old group. I sat around and cried and I don't want to start us out on the wrong foot. Please, let me help."

Silence for a few seconds.

"Glenn, I think you hit her way too hard," Andrea says.

Glenn makes an exasperated noise in his throat as he gapes. "I said it was an accident!"

Rick doesn't break eye contact. "You sure?" he asks me. "How many walkers have you come across?"

I swallow hard, pressing my hands to my legs in an attempt to stop them from shaking. My eyes dart to Wayne. "Well, honestly, this is the closest I've ever been to one."

"Jesus..." T-Dog mutters.

I exhale. "I know, I know, just...I can't hide from this forever, okay? And I've been hiding. I need to do this. I need to see if I can do this."

What do they have to lose? I'm just a stranger. If I die, then...maybe it was my time to go.

Rick stares for a few more seconds before he nods. "Alright," he says.

He grabs his face shield and puts it back on, then grips the axe. Without further fanfare, he swings, and Wayne's decaying body makes the most disgusting sound I've heard in a long, long time. The axe carves into his limbs, his stomach, spilling blood and viscera onto the floor. I like to think I have a strong stomach, but the smell...God, the smell; pungent is too kind of a word. The others groan with me and look away, plugging their noses, covering their mouths, closing their eyes, anything to deal with it. Even Rick gags as he keeps chopping.

He hands the axe and his face shield to Morales after a few more swings, wiping sweat from his lip. "Keep chopping."

Morales does so, still groaning, and Glenn backs away as the axe hits Wayne's stomach again, churning up his organs with a wet, squishy, squelching noise, mixing with the crack of bone as his spine and ribs split.

"Oh, I'm so gonna hurl," Glenn says.

"Later," Rick says.

A few more swings and Morales backs off.

"Everyone got gloves?" Rick asks. Affirming nods. "Don't get any on your skin or in your eyes."

Now comes the really bad part. I squat with the others, taking in a deep breath and digging my hands into the mess. I try to tell myself that this can't be any worse than putting my entire arm up a cow's butt, but I'd take the cow right now. At least then I was looking for signs of life.

I start smearing the blood and gore all over my coat, covering myself in the stench of death. Rick and Glenn get the same treatment, with the others doing their best to cover the three of us in as much Wayne as possible.

"Oh, jeez. Oh, this is bad," Glenn keeps moaning, eyes closed, shoulders hunched.

"Think about something else. Puppies and kittens," Rick says.

"Dead puppies and kittens," T-Dog grumbles.

Glenn gulps once more before turning and emptying to contents of his stomach onto the floor. Stomach acid and bile mix into the aroma of the room.

"That is just evil. What is wrong with you?" Andrea scolds, draping an intestine around my shoulders like the world's worst scarf.

"Next time, let the cracker beat his ass," Jacqui says to Rick, giving T-Dog a short look.

T-Dog doesn't meet her eyes. "I'm sorry, yo."

"You suck," Glenn pants, hands on his knees, still hunched over.

I close my eyes and imagine a quaint Saskatchewan farm and plenty of mooing cattle, because right now, I miss the smell of a barn. I'll never complain about manure again.

"Do we smell like them?" Rick asks.

Andrea nods, mouth pulled in a disgusted grimace. "Oh, yeah." She turns to Glenn, saying his name as she pulls a gun from her waistband. "Just in case." She helps put it in his belt, then pats his chest.

"If we make it back, be ready," Rick says.

"What about Merle Dixon?" T-Dog asks.

Rick purses his lips for a second as he pulls one of his gloves off, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a tiny silver key, lifting it for a second before tossing it to T-Dog. He nods.

"Give me the axe," Rick says. As Morales hands it to him, he sighs and adds, "We need more guts."

Here we go again.

----------

I emerge into the alleyway, out on the main streets for the first time since the outbreak. For a second, I'm eager, then my own stink hits me and I swallow hard.

For all the noise I've heard, especially in the last few hours, it hits me how quiet the city is. It's eerie, in a word. No cars, no engines of any kind, no signs of life, just moaning and shuffling feet. I try to recall what the bustle of a city sounded like, but it's all a distant memory.

We walk. The dead stumble by us, but none pay us any mind. Some heads turn, but they get one whiff and continue on. I try to relax and just shuffle along like I too only serve the purpose of wandering and eating mindlessly.

We reach the end of the alley, where a giant truck blocks the way. Rick motions for us to duck and, ever so slowly, we inch on our stomachs underneath its belly. The asphalt feels gritty beneath my palms, scrapes at my knees and chin as I crawl, and I hold my breath as we emerge onto the main street.

So many walkers. Every way I look is another grey-skinned, dead-eyed corpse with blood-stained clothes, mouths, and fingers. Rick is the first to move. Glenn and I follow. The crowds grow the further we go and, above us, the sky rumbles again, far more insistent than before. The air is muggy, dark clouds loom over us, and everything points to rain: rain that could easily wash away the disguises keeping us alive.

"It's gonna work," Glenn whispers through gritted teeth. "I can't believe it."

"Don't...draw...attention," Rick retorts.

Behind us, a woman growls and stares Glenn in the face, bumping shoulders with me as she passes. Glenn makes groaning sounds and rolls his eyes back. The walker moves on.

It hits me, like a punch to the gut, that I don't know what I'm doing here. Okay, I know I wanted to help, but how am I going to help? I know nothing about walkers—I don't know how (or if) we can kill them, I don't know how the infection gets passed on—and I don't know these people I've mindlessly followed into the heart of danger.

My mom always told me that I trusted people too easily. I never wanted to believe she was right.

As if to mock me, the sky opens. With a clap of thunder, rain starts to fall, going from a trickle to a downpour in seconds. We keep moving, but my gaze wanders. A walker near us groans, then looks around, sniffing the air. More eyes turn to us, their noises pitching, growing louder. They take longer when they look at us.

"The smell's washing off, isn't it? Is it washing off?" Glenn demands, voice trembling, volume low.

"It's not," Rick insists. His jaw clenches as a walker looms closer to him, snarling, but moves along. "Well, maybe."

A walker moves from the crowd behind us, letting out a loud growl as it lunges at Rick, and I can't help the short scream that leaves me as Rick springs into action. He wedges his axe into the walker's brain and it drops with a spray of blood.

"RUN!"

The crowd whips into a frenzy, roaring and groaning as they take off after us, and I sprint. I run like I'm six years old and I've got energy to spare and I don't once look back. I hear Glenn and Rick behind me, grunting as they slice down walkers, but I don't even have a weapon. I never asked for one. Walkers lunge at me but I dodge out of the way, ducking and kicking them in the ankles as I go past.

There's a chain link fence ahead and, beyond it, the truck Rick pointed out on the roof. I jump, climbing with everything I have as I scramble up and over. I throw myself over the top, landing hard on my side before pushing myself back to my feet.

The rain has already stopped and when I finally look over my shoulder, I see that Rick and Glenn have also cleared the fence. Rick shucks his walker disguise and I'm quick to follow, ditching the soaking coat behind me. I hesitate, trying to figure out where to go, and Glenn blows past me. I follow him.

Rick stays near the fence, gun out as he pops off walker after walker. Glenn gets the box open, searching the keys briefly before grabbing a set.

"Rick!"

He tosses the keys and Rick catches them, holstering his pistol, and we run for the nearest truck. I hear the chain link fence rattling and the heavy thud of a body as one of the walkers manages to get over it. Glenn shoves me into the passenger seat, nearly climbing on top of me as he hurries to get in. Rick takes the driver's seat, revving the engine, and Glenn slams the door just as a walker rams against it, making me nearly jump out of my skin.

"GO, GO, GO, GO!" Glenn cries.

Rick slams the truck into reverse and I briefly see the chain link fence collapse under the weight of the walkers, setting them free, then turn back as I try to situate myself somewhere that isn't over the centre console. Thankfully, the truck has an open back with easy access to the front seats, so I hop into the cargo area and sit down, holding on for dear life as the truck squeals.

"Rick, you're going the wrong way!" I say.

"I know. We need to draw them away," Rick says. "Those roll-up doors at the front of the store—that area?—that's what I need cleared. Glenn, raise your friends. Tell them to get down there and be ready."

Glenn's friends? Isn't Rick their leader? I wonder. The truck jolts and I remember that that isn't important right now.

"And I'm drawing the geeks away how? I-I missed that part," Glenn retorts as he readies the radio.

"Noise."

Rick pulls to a stop in a lot full of abandoned cars, parking and throwing open his door in one movement.

"Stay here," he tells me before he and Glenn leave.

I climb into the passenger seat and watch them run up to easily the nicest, most eye-catching car in the lot— a red Dodge Challenger—and smash the window with Glenn's crowbar. The car alarm goes off, loud and sharp and persistent. Rick hotwires it in seconds, Glenn hops in, and with a screech of overpriced tires, he's off racing back into the heart of Atlanta.

Rick returns to the truck and we take off after Glenn.

The Challenger does its job, luring the walkers away from the doors of the department store, and it gives us our opening.

"Hope, get to the back and open that door," Rick says. "This'll have to be quick."

I climb into the back, wobbling a bit as the truck starts to back up. I find the latch, click it, and slide the doors open as Rick backs up to the giant roll-up receiving door. I knock, clanging metal ringing in my ears, and I can hear the others behind the door, talking to one another in harried, frantic tones.

It slides open and I wait with my arms outstretched as everyone rushes forward, already throwing their bags into the back. Andrea tosses me my backpack (thank the Lord that they were thoughtful enough to bring it along) and I offer her a hand, helping haul her into the back as the others clamber up after her. The echoing roar of walkers follows us down and my eyes go wide as they appear behind us.

Rick hits the gas and we lurch forward. Morales pulls the door shut just as a few walkers lunge for us, blocking us from them, and we're left with nothing but the sound of our breaths and the truck's engine. Jacqui and Andrea huddle together, arms locked, panting and shaking. Morales and T-Dog look at each other, then at everyone else, and I notice a glaring absence: Merle.

T-Dog takes a breath, lips parting, then exhales. "I dropped the damn key," he says.

No one says anything. There's nothing to say. I climb back into the passenger seat, flopping down as I stare into the rearview and watch Atlanta disappear behind me. In my mind, and heart, I thank it for being my home, even if it was only for a short time.