Love, Lust and Zombie Guts.

8

This is dedicated to PATringuinie for creating the cover for me. :D (The one with Rick in the hospital and the door with the 'Don't open dead inside' on it. Just incase I have the swing one up...) :D Thank you! :D <3

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Okay, so this is the next chapter, it's just a filler so please don't hate me for the maybe dullness of this. (: <3

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“We need to move camp, it’s too dangerous to be this close to the city.” I overheard Rick saying.

“We can’t move camp Rick! We haven’t had any walkers here yet. When the military come they’ll go to the cities first! Dammit, being close to the city means we get rescued first.” That sounded like Shane. They were both sat on top of the RV keeping watch. I couldn’t sleep so I was sat by the campfire’s remains; it’d been put out last night before everyone went to bed.

Bed, what a nice thought. I don’t think I’ve slept in about three nights, but I couldn’t. Every time I close my eyes it reminds me of that walker, the one that freaked me out so.

“What happens when the walkers do find us, Shane? When they come up here, attack camp? We’re just sitting ducks here. We’re practically waiting for the walkers to come and get us.”

“We’re not moving.”

“Do you want to keep it down up there? Some of us are trying to sleep.” Dale said coming out of his camper.

I ran my hands through my hair and ignored their arguing. They didn’t know I was awake, no one did. I so wanted to get involved, to tell them that moving is the best idea, because it is. We are too close to the city. Shane is kidding himself; no help is coming for us. The military is dead, the government is dead. Everyone is dead.

Resting my face in my hands I begged myself to stop thinking like that, stop thinking about how the world used to be and comparing it to how the world is now. I know it just makes me upset, but I keep thinking about it anyway. All the time.

I unzipped my jacket pocket and got out a cigarette. I’d quit, but I had decided to keep a packet on me, just in case. Lighting the cigarette, I inhaled the smoke. Somehow it helped to clear my mind, even if it was slowly killing me. I sighed, running my free hand through my hair.

I’d once met a man. A man I fell deeply in love with. We were engaged to be married, and I was pregnant. I was only sixteen. Some may say that it’s too young to get married, to have children, but he had an enlarged heart, he was born with it. And with only a limited life span, he would die soon. He wanted to live his life before he died, and I felt I could give him at least that.

My parents disapproved, of course. But they stuck by me, they knew I would need them when he inevitably passed away.

His child was born, but he’d died three months prior. I’d named him Thomas, after his father. I loved him. But I was grieving, of course. That was when I started this God awful habit, not only that, but it’s also when I tried to take my own life, the first time. I couldn’t cope.

The hospital said it was post-natal depression, but it felt like so much more. My mum talked some sense into me, said that Thomas needed me, which was true, he was only six months old. Not old enough to be without a mother.

I got my act together, I took care of him properly. I even went to college and finished my studies. Ended up with grades that did my family proud.

Then my mum died. And everything spiralled out of control.