The Walking Dead Imagines

Rick|| Are you okay?

(Any season)

They were everywhere. In every direction and around every tree. Their rotting stench filled the air around, making you want to vomit but since you haven't eaten in days so there was nothing to come up. You spun around with your small gun in one hand and a large knife in the other, making sure no Rotters were close to you.

Stabbing and shooting, you felt as if you were about to pass out from both the smell and low nutrition which caused you to react slower and your hits to be weaker. The Rotters kept coming without no hesitation and they were getting closer and closer. Bullets from your gun killed some but soon ran out, you couldn't keep up with them.

"Help!" You screamed as loud as your lungs could let you. "Help! Please someone! Help!" Tears began to roll down your dirty cheeks.

Just as the Rotters got dangerously close to you, a gun went off and the undead monsters fell to the ground dead. You didn't know where the shots were being fired from until you spotted the tall man who saved your life.

He had stubble and hair the was dark brown, thick and wavy. His piercing blue eyes focused on the Rotters and sweat dripped down his forehead. His lips parted slighty, just showing through his beard and then, as the lost one of those things fell, he looked straight into your eyes and you felt your breath hitch in your throat. To you, he was the most amazing man you have seen in a long time.

"Are you okay? Are you bit? What's your name?" His deep, scratchy voice spoke. His thick Californian accent lingered in your ears, sending chills up and down your spine. But you couldn't love this man, you didn't even know his name. Yet, you couldn't help yourself.

"I'm (Y/N), I didn't get bit. Thank you for saving me." You said, your voice coming out small and precious. This wasn't you talking, it couldn't be. You were tougher than this and you would never sound vulnerable to a stranger, but after what you had just been through, you couldn't help but feel emotional.

"Rick. Yeah, it's okay. You got a camp? Anyone with you?" He asked, dragging out the, 'yeah' a little. He started to walk closer to you, taking cautious steps and keeping his gun close.

You wipe your sweaty palms on your dirty jeans to try and stay calm. "No, no camp." You began with a sad feeling washing over you. "I've got no one, nothing."

His expression stayed neutral but his head tilted to the side a little as he looked to his right. "I have a group. You can join if you answer three questions."

"What are they?" You reply with an enthusiastic tone.

"How many walkers have you killed?"

This may be your ticket to safety.