Dakota Matthews was never a quiet girl. She was the type of girl who was hissed at every five minutes to lower her voice! Noise attracted walkers, after all, and walkers were all Dakota ever knew. There wasn't a world where they didn't exist. To her, it seemed impossible. With wide, curious eyes, she would listen to the stories her father would tell about the world before. The world when it was owned by the living.

There were apparently these things called sodas that were sweet and bubbly. You would have liked them, Dakota's dad would always tell her. He'd talk about Twinkies and how they never went bad. He'd talk about movie stars in Hollywood and musicians in New York. He'd talk about it all. He talked about his favorite old western; Shane. You would've loved it, he would always say.

All the kids were fascinated by it. Of course, there were the kids who had just started pre-school when the world came crashing down, and they had their distant memories of what life was like. But none of them had any clue what life was like in America. They were all born and raised in France. The only idea of American culture they had was what they learned from their tapes of Mork & Mindy, which wasn't much.

"Your mom loves this show, Koty," Mark Matthews told his daughter when they first watched the show.

The kids welcomed Mark and Dakota reluctantly, seeing as they didn't speak any French, but they welcomed them nevertheless. It took some adjusting, but soon Mark and Dakota were one of them. Mark took care of them as their teacher grew sicker and sicker over the years while Dakota made friends with the other children.

But today, Mark decided, Dakota and a few other children had to learn to hunt, too. He wasn't going to be there forever. They needed to learn. They could protect themselves- they'd all already been taught self-defense- and they could scavenge all they wanted, but they would run out of food to find eventually. He couldn't hunt for them forever.

Mark wasn't planning on staying with the kids in the first place. He was planning to get back on his feet and stay with them until he found a boat, a map, and all the other things he would need to get himself and Dakota across the ocean. But he got stuck. He couldn't leave those kids there with a dying teacher and no one else to help them. He needed to at least teach them to survive before he could just leave them all alone. He needed to be sure that they could keep living without him before he could abandon them.

So, he stayed for a month. And then two months. And then six, and then a year. And then two years. He was growing attached. He already had grown attached. He wanted to take care of the kids, but he wanted to get back home to his wife and sons. He needed to get both himself and Dakota back to their family.

"One week. We're staying for one more week, Dakota, then we have to leave," Mark decided on a particularly cloudy day. And so he had one week to teach all the children to hunt.

Day one went well. The older children learned quickly. They knew their weapons well and it didn't take them long to learn to use them to find food.

Day two was a test. Mark took the older children out once more and he let them go off on their owns. They all returned with something to cook and eat. They really were quick learners. That was what happened when you grew up fighting for your life. You learn to adjust quickly and easily.

Day three was harder. Mark took out the younger kids. They weren't so bad with their weapons, but they could help getting distracted.

I found a praying mantis.

Look, a squirrel.

Why is the sky blue?

So day three was a bust. The kids would have to go out once more.

This morning, Mark woke up bright and early to get the younger children up. "Se lever. Sois prêt. Nous partons à la chasse," he said to them as he walked through the bedrooms, ruffling the hair on their heads and pulling the blankets away. Get up. Be ready. We're going hunting.

"Non, trop fatigué," Dmitri groaned, pulling his pillow over his head and squeezing his eyes shut. No. Too tired.

"Levez-vous et faites ce qu'on vous dit," Moof grumbled from his own bed. Get up and do as you're told.

"Dakota, come on, kid. Get up," Mark said, pulling his daughter up and away from her warm, cozy blankets. She groaned in complaint, but she didn't crawl back into bed when Mark placed her down on the cold, hard floor. She only huffed and dragged herself to the bathroom to go pee and get dressed.

It took about an hour and a half, but eventually, with the help of Lou, Mark was able to get all the younger children up and ready to go. Their bellies were full and their clothes were warm enough, so it was time to go.

"Fais attention," Hérisson called out to them as the drowsy children all trailed behind Mark out the door like little ducklings in a row. Keep safe.

Through the streets, the children followed just as they were told to. They didn't hold back their questions and comments about the world around them, but they didn't need to just yet, so Mark replied to as many of them as he could. He didn't know why clouds were white, but he did know why squirrels buried their nuts. The children quizzed him for a long time until he finally decided that they were at an adequate spot to hunt.

"À partir de maintenant, nous devons nous taire. Nous ne voulons pas effrayer les animaux," Mark explained to the children, pressing his pointer finger to his lips. From now on we must keep quiet. We don't want to scare the animals. The children nodded, listening intensely. They had gotten a lecture from Lou about not listening well yesterday, so now they were listening as best as they possibly could.

Their chatter came to a sudden stop as they followed Mark. They tiptoed as best they could, but their steps still made more noise than Mark hoped. They weren't the best tiptoers. He turned back to them, making them all stop.

"Marchez comme ça. Lumière, douce. C'est tranquille," he said in a hushed voice. Walk like this. Soft, light. It's quiet. He took soft, quiet steps, demonstrating the walking to the children. They all nodded adamantly before mimicking his actions. "Très bon," he commended them, giving a small, proud smile. Very good.

And just as he said the words, they heard the sound of a squirrel skittering up a tree to their left. Their heads all snapped in the direction of the sound. Then, they looked at Mark. He nodded, letting his eyes scan over the weapon each child held, trying to decide which one would get this squirrel.

"Monsieur Mark, je ne veux pas tuer les animaux," little Carine squeaked from the back of the line. Mister Mark, I don't want to kill animals.

Mark frowned, letting out a little sigh. He felt bad for the girl. He had a feeling that one of the children would feel this way, but they needed food and animals were food. They didn't really have much of a choice. He sighed and walked down the line until he could kneel in front of Carine. He placed his hands on her biceps, looking her in the eye.

"Je sais que c'est dur, Carine. Mais nous devons chasser pour manger," Mark explained to the girl. She frowned, looking down at her feet and fiddling with the slingshot in her hand. Mark looked at the ground for a moment before looking back up into Caline's sad, little eyes. "Vous n'êtes pas obligé de faire ça aujourd'hui. Je ne te forcerai pas. Mais il faudra apprendre un jour. Est-ce que tu comprends?" he said to her. You don't have to do it today. I won't force you. But you will have to learn one day. Do you understand?

"Oui, Monsieur," Carine replied, nodding her head. Yes, sir.

Standing back up, Mark looked around to the rest of the group. "Qui veut cet écureuil?" he quietly asked the children. Who wants this squirrel?

The kids were all silent, avoiding eye contact and fiddling with the weapons in their hands. The silence lasted only a few moments before Dakota stood herself up straighter. She would be brave. She would do it. So, she stepped forward, raising her hand a little.

"I'll do it," she said. Mark raised his eyebrows at her, just to make sure. Dakota gave a firm nod. She could do it.

So, Mark knelt down by her side. "Go ahead. Raise your bow," he told her. Despite the bad feeling turning in her gut, eight-year-old Dakota raised her bow and pulled the arrow back. She took deep, steady breaths as she aimed the weapons. She glanced at her father once more. "Go ahead," he said.

Dakota released the arrow, sending it flying toward the squirrel in the tree. The arrow found a home in the squirrel's gut, pinning it to the tree trunk. Slowly, Dakota lowered her arrow, glancing at her dad once more.

"Very good," Mark said, giving her a reassuring nod. He stood up and walked over to the tree, pulling the arrow out of the bark and taking the squirrel with it. He returned the arrow to the quiver on Dakota's back and showed the children the squirrel. "Cet écureuil ne nourrira que quelques personnes. Il nous en faudra davantage," he explained to them. This squirrel will only feed a few people. We will need more.

"Je ne veux pas manger d'écureuil," Dmitri spoke, his face twisted up with disgust. I don't want to eat squirrel.

"Tu manges des écureuils tout le temps. Aline les cuisine, idiote," Hibou told him, rolling her eyes. You eat squirrels all the time. Aline cooks them, stupid.

"Sois gentil, Hibou," Mark scolded, giving the girl a stern look. Be nice, Hibou.

Hibou sighed, looking down at her shoes regretfully. "Je suis désolé," she murmured. I'm sorry.

"It's ok. Tu as raison. Nous mangeons souvent des écureuils," Mark said, patting her back. You're right. We eat squirrels often. He and a few of the oldest kids would hunt and Aline and Criquet would cook for them. The kids just didn't always know exactly what they were eating. All they knew was that it was food. "Continuons. Rappelez-vous, tranquillement," Mark told them before continuing on walking. Let's go on. Remember, quietly.

And just as they took one step, the sound of a gun cocking around them infiltrated their senses, making them freeze in their spots. Mark's head swiveled around, searching for the source of the sound. He reached back, holding the children close behind him.

"Come out!" Mark shouted. There was no answer. "Paraître!" he yelled, this time in French.

"Hands in the air!" a loud, angry voice shouted. A man- a dirty, crazed man- revealed himself from behind a bush. He had a large shotgun in his hands and was pointing it at the children. "Gimme your weapons!" the man demanded. He had a thick Southern accent. He was American. "And that dam squirrel, too!"

"Listen, man, I'm not giving you anything. You can go ahead and fuck off," Mark growled, his heart beating hard in his chest. The man was pointing his gun at Dakota. His Dakota. His daughter, his baby. Mark grabbed her by the shirt, pulling her as close to him as he could, shielding her with his body.

The children shrieked and squealed with fear. "La Tarasque," they whispered to each other, hands shaking with terror. The man who lived in the castle.

"You're American," the man said. He lowered his weapon, just a little bit, and stepped forward. "Man, we gotta stick together, us Americans. Can't let these little shits take from us. Give me the weapons. We can work together," the man offered, stepping closer.

"Not a chance in hell," Mark grumbled, standing tall and firm.

The man chuckled, stepping even closer. "Look, man, I don't wanna hurt you. I just don't want these kids taking from me again," he said. Sure the kids had scavenged the surrounding area, but they didn't steal from him. What they took, no one owned. What the hell was up with this guy? He stuck his hand out. "What d'you say, brother?" La Tarasque- the man- asked.

Mark's eyes flickered between the man's eyes, his gun, and his hand. Then, his hand whipped out, reaching for the gun. He got the gun in his grip, but the man wouldn't let go. There was shouting- enough to attract the dead- as the men struggled with each other the gun. The children shouted and howled in a panic.

Dakota took an arrow from her quiver and used it to stab the American man in the side. She stabbed the arrow into his side and ripped it back out, falling back and landing on her butt.

"Stay back, Kota!" Mark shouted to her, his voice panicked and strained.

Soon, the other children started to join in, trying to help Mark. But they weren't much help. Mark and La Tarasque fought with each other fiercely, leaving each other with broken noses and bruised bodies. And, suddenly, thank God, Mark got a hold of the gun. He ripped it away from the American, pointing it right at his skull.

Just as he was about to pull the trigger, Mark's senses were suddenly flooded with the screaming and crying coming from the children around. They were so little. So innocent. They didn't want to kill little squirrels, for Christ's sake. They didn't need to see Mark blow this crazed man's brains out. They didn't need to be scarred like that.

So, Mark twisted the gun around, ready to use the butt of the gun to knock the man out. But as he turned it, La Tarasque got a grip on the barrel and twisted Mark's wrist so hard it snapped. He wailed in pain and the man chuckled.

"You fucker!" La Tarasque laughed mercilessly as he tore the gun from Mark's weak hands.

"Daddy!" Dakota screamed, her heart throbbing, throbbing, throbbing in her heart as La Tarasque pointed the gun at her father's head.

"No!" all the children were howling. Together, they ran to attack the scariest man they'd ever met in an attempt to save Mark. With little arrows, rocks, and pocket knives, the kids stabbed and prodded at the American man. He kept shoving them off, knocking them into the dirt, readjusting his grip on the gun.

Dakota grabbed the man's arm, pulling and pulling with all her might, trying to get the gun away from him. The barrel was no longer pressed against Mark's forehead. But La Tarasque still pulled the trigger.

The gunshot rang loudly in Dakota's ears. Her heart dropped to her stomach.

Walkers were there now. They were growling and groaning, and the other children were preoccupied with trying to keep them away. But Dakota couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe at all.

She looked at her dad's face. His eyes were wide. His nose was broken and blood splattered his face, but there was no bullet hole in his head. Her eyes trailed down to his chest. There, torn through the blue fabric of his shirt, was a gaping, red hole.

"No! No!" Dakota howled. She took another arrow from her quiver, jabbing it into the back of the American man. He screamed in pain, skittering away from her in the dirt. He dragged himself up onto his feet and began running. Through salty tears and clouded vision, Dakota loaded an arrow into her bow, aiming as best she could. She released the arrow and it landed in the man's right shoulder blade just before he turned a sharp corner, safe and free from the threat of the children. As soon as the man was gone, Dakota dropped down to her knees, pressing her hand against the hole in her father's chest. "Daddy," she breathed out, hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

Mark's hand wrapped itself around Dakota's bloody one. "It's ok, baby," he said, choking on his own blood.

"No. No!" Dakota cried. It wasn't ok. It would never be ok. He was shot through the heart and he was dying. He was her dad, her only hope of getting back home to her family, her person, her safety, her love, and he was dying. Right there in front of her, he was dying. She couldn't breathe through the tears. "Dad, please don't," she sobbed.

The other children gathered around now, too. They sobbed for him. They sobbed for the man who helped them through their difficult little lives. He was their safety and he was dying.

"You find your mom and brothers, baby. You find 'em, you tell 'em I love 'em," Mark murmured through the pain. Blood dripped from the corners of his mouth.

"No, Dad. No," Dakota wailed, squeezing his hand tight.

"You'll be ok, Koty," Mark assured her.

"I won't! I won't! You have to- you have to stay!" Dakota insisted, shaking her head

"Baby-"

"No!"

"Go home, Koty. Be safe."

"No!"

Mark couldn't look his daughter in the eyes anymore. He couldn't look into her eyes and see the devastation. He couldn't see that. And he didn't want her to see the defeat in his eyes. The sorrow, the grief, and the weakness. He was her dad. He was strong for her. He had to be strong for her.

He looked to the oldest out of the group, which happened to be Hibou. She was crying, too. God, they were all crying for him. "Hibou, tu les ramènes à la maison sains. Maintenant. Rapidement," he managed to sputter out. Hibou, you bring them home safe. Now. Quickly.

"Mark-" Hibou heaved, shaking her head as tears fell from her eyes.

"Please," Mark said, tears falling from his eyes now, too. "Please."

Despite the burning in her lungs and the aching in her chest, Hibou nodded. She wrapped her arm around Dakota's side, pulling her away from Mark's dying body. Dakota sobbed, howled, and screamed. No! Stop! Daddy! Dad! No! Hibou couldn't get her away from his body until he had already drifted off. Until his soul had already floated up to Heaven.

"Il est avec les anges, maintenant, Koty," the other children assured her through their sobs. He's with the angels, now.

Mark's body was left to lay in the dirt until the next day, when the older kids returned to bury the body and have a funeral. Dakota spoke at the service. She quoted her father's favorite old western.

There's no living with the killing. There's no going back.