With a ferocious snarl that ripped forth from its throat, it lunged at him; blood-stained teeth bared and its soulless eyes indicating nothing but ravenous frenzy. Mark snarled back, equally as ferocious, and without hesitation thrust his jade handle dagger into its eye. Blood smattered across Mark's face and dribbled along the dagger's edge down his hand. He drove it further, tearing through rotten flesh, until the creature's growls died away and its arms were no longer clawing at Mark's chest but fell limply at its sides. He pulled the dagger back out with a sickening squelch and the creature toppled to the ground motionless. Mark gasped for air as he leant back against a tree and closed his eyes for brief respite. That was way too close. He'd let his guard slip and it had almost cost him his life.

From somewhere there came a snap. Clear and sharp. Mark's eyes flew open, instantly on edge, and his hand automatically tightened around the dagger. Every part of his body was tensed, poised for action, as he stared at the bush where the noise had come from. But everything was still. Mark cautiously approached the bush, taking care not to make a single sound that could alert the potential threat. He wasn't yet able to gauge the amount of danger but he had suffered enough experiences, many of which he wished to forget, to be sure that whatever was behind the bush was no walker. A walker doesn't hide.

There. Something blue. Someone was definitely hiding. For a moment, Mark didn't move. Then, he propelled himself around the bush, arm raised, and grabbed the blue in one swift movement. He tugged the conspicuously coloured T-shirt towards him and there came a frantic yelp in response. The man struggled against Mark's iron grip, desperately trying to pull away. Without hesitation, Mark drew the dagger to the man's throat, applying enough pressure so that its blade just began to slice into the soft flesh. The man let out a whimper.

Mark held the man to him, facing away, and growled in his ear.

"If you want to live, don't move."

The man let out another whimper in response. With his other hand, Mark checked the other's pockets and belt for any concealed weapons. He found nothing. It was then he noticed the man's side was dripping in blood. In fact, it still seemed to be gushing out collecting as a small pool of blood at his feet. Mark pushed him away in alarm. "Were you bitten?" he demanded. The other stumbled and tripped. He fell to the ground evidently too weak from substantial blood loss. "Were you bitten?!" Mark yelled. The man turned his head. His eyes were huge from fear and pain. Mark kicked him, his foot connecting with frail ribs.

"No!" the dying man gasped out, "It was a knife!"

Mark cursed. He didn't want this man to become his responsibility but then again could he really leave him to die? He rammed his dagger into a tree in frustration, hating this predicament. Hating this life. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself and then turned around to see the leaf-strewn ground was already soaked crimson underneath the unconscious man. Mark swore again, sincerely hoping his final resolve wasn't a mistake.

Mark pushed the man on to his side as gently as he could, so that the wound was elevated. He grabbed a towel (my last clean one, he thought grudgingly) from his bag and pressed it against the gaping laceration. Still, the flow was incessant. Mark pressed a pressure point close to the heart to slow the current. He was beginning to feel increasingly panicked. All this fresh blood, it was like a dinner bell for walkers. He didn't have much time.

Eventually, it seemed the flow had ebbed. The towel was soaked through but, knowing it was important not to remove it, he tied it around the injury and then knotted his sweater around as an extra layer. Mark hefted the man on to his back. He calculated that, if he moved fast, he could make it back before nightfall. That is, if his body could endure carrying such a heavy weight for a long time.

Fixing the long, winding road laid ahead of him with a look of steely determination, he set off at a run, praying there were no herds passing through and that the winter night would hold off for just a little longer.