He gripped the rim of the porcelain sink and tried to steady his hands.

"One last time," he whispered to himself.

One. Last. Time.

God, if only he would believe himself. The numbers of times he'd said those exact words were far too many.

He could've stayed inside like everyone else. He had a perfectly stocked cellar that could last at least a year.

But there was something about being out there, being chased by those mindless walkers, saving the few lives he could -- It was the only thing that made him feel alive anymore.

With a loud groan, he left the bathroom and made his way to the front door. Grabbing the rifle by the door, he swung it open and shot the first moving thing he saw.

For one. Last. Time.