[Finished] Living Among the Dead

01. Before

I remember the exact day the world fell to hell. It had been rough and already too filled up by the dead; but we'd tried. Damnit; we had to try. We had had three kids to watch over.
My youngest was two, and she was not ready to grow up in all this. Not that anyone should have to. But does anyone really have a clue how to raise a two year old during the zombie apocolypse? She was perfect, long blonde hair that already fell to her shoulders, and the prettiest brown eyes. They could get her daddy to do anything she'd wanted. She looked like me, but had a heart like my husbands'.

My second oldest was seven when this all started. He's now 8, and has made it this far; there isn't a day that I'm not grateful for it. Aaron looks like his dad, with blonde hair, and beautiful sky blue eyes. He's nearly as tall as his big brother.

Eight isn't at all older than seven in the greater scheme of things; my boys, they even went to their first day of kindergarten together. Only 10 months apart; and closer than any set of twins I've ever met. Mason is the only one of my kids to inherit my deep brown hair, but just like his brother, he got his dads blue eyes, meaning my chance of passing down my dark amber eyes died with my daughter.
Mason watched over the other two; or at least tried to, he does everything he can to keep our family safe. Not that has ever been his job.
But, he's the one who found Daryl when my husband was nearly killed; he'd fallen, his leg got caught and he broke his ankle when he fell. The Dead was gaining on him, and I was on a run for food. When I got back, Daryl had just saved Tyler, and then he brought us back to the prison after he'd asked their three questions:
How many walkers have you killed?
For my husband; the answer was simple; 3. For me; I couldn't remember any exact numbers, just that it was possibly in the 30s. And sadly; by the time we'd been saved, both of my boys had racked up a kill each. Back on the worst day of our lives.
How many people have you killed?
I closed my eyes as my now eight year old son said, "Mom's the only one who's killed anybody."
"He deserved it," added my nine year old; much to my horror.
"No one deserves death, Mason," I remember chastising him.
Why?
Even now I remember that day. A group of horrible people led by a person who's face I'll never forget. It was cleaner than anyone's we had come across since shit hit the fan, and he had a baseball bat he was swinging around with an air of cockiness I despised right off the bat. He ruined my life. And because of him my little girl was bitten. And a bite from the dead only ever means you'll join them.
So I tried and failed to kill the bastard; killing an innocent in the process; well as innocent as they come. He was a part of this man's group; but still, it wasn't his fault my baby was bit.