Hi and thank you for reading. I hope you like my original characters, Dylan and Ben Murray. They aren't your average kids, but I guess there's no such thing as "average" in a world full of walkers, is there? They will first meet up with Merle, who has been out on his own for awhile (so we'll get to hear about some of his adventures—or misadventures depending on how you look at it!) Then the three will come across Rick and the crew. Anyway I hope you like this. Please read and review if the mood strikes. Again, thanks so much for reading.

A Bushel And A Peck

Waffle house just off of Georgia State route 74:

Dylan Murray used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the grit and aged grease on the mirror in front of him. He peered at himself in the dawn light, thankful for the windows in the restaurant's men's room. They offered meager illumination, but it was lighting nonetheless. He turned the spigot on the sink and said a silent prayer. He rejoiced as the cool water tricked on to his fingers. "Got running water, little man," he said, smiling and peeling off his shirt.

"Natural light AND running water?" asked Ben from the urinal. "Man we got lucky today."

"Sure did," said Dylan, nodding to the sink next to his. "Come on and wash up. Just 'cause it's the end of the world doesn't mean I need to endure your stinky ass."

Ben chuckled and rolled his eyes. As he turned he zipped up and approached the sink next to Dylan. "Listen, you're the teenager here. You smell way worse than me. Trust me on this, big brother," he said, patting Dylan on the shoulder.

"If we ever get a chance to meet some cute girls, you'll thank me for encouraging personal hygiene. Now get to washing," said Dylan, patting his hand on the soap dispenser.

Ben crinkled his nose at the bright pink liquid soap. Most of it had spilled on to the ceramic of the sink and dried there, leaving a hard, flaky residue. He pulled off his shirt and used his palm to extract some of the soap. "If I closed my eyes I'd swear we were at the Ritz Carlton."

"Hey I didn't hear you complaining when we found that peanut butter and those jelly packets in the pantry last night," said Dylan.

"No sir," said Ben. "Ever think we'd see the day when peanut butter and jelly would be the best meal we'd eat in weeks?"

Dylan chuckled despite the depressing truth of the situation. "Yeah. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Man."

"Correction," said Ben. "Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches—minus the sandwich part. The only bread I saw last night was covered in fungus."

"Speaking of fungal growth," said Dylan, nodding in Ben's direction. "Remember what Mom used to say. Get all the important parts."

"Yeah, yeah," said Ben, washing his face before lathering up his underarms. He was thoughtful for a moment. "So, I was thinking last night when we got here."

"Uh oh," said Dylan, grinning. "I thought I told you to quit doing that thinking thing."

"No really, listen, I was thinking that we've been to this place before. With Mom and Dad and them," said Ben.

Dylan looked into the air as if trying to capture a thought there. "I don't remember. When was it?"

"On our way back from Disney," said Ben. "Back in May. Don't you remember? You said the one thing you'd miss about the South was the waffle houses."

Dylan laughed. "Oh yeah, I do remember saying that. But dude, how many waffle houses are there in Georgia, you know? How can you be sure this was the one?"

"I was keeper of the map," said Ben. "I remember all the routes we took and I, oh, hang on," he said, reaching down into his black backpack. He extracted a dog-eared road atlas and turned to the appropriate page.

Dylan had to chuckle to himself. When he and his family decided to drive from New Hampshire to Florida to go to Disney, Ben had insisted that their father not use his GPS. 'Reading maps is a lost art.' Ben had complained. 'Besides, with GPS, we'll probably end up in Michigan anyway.' Dylan stowed away his fathers Garmin just in case, but he was quite impressed and surprised that his baby brother successfully navigated the near fourteen hundred mile trek to Orlando on his own. Dylan smiled, thinking of how his father, Liam, simply got behind the wheel of his Chevy Tahoe and told Ben to lead the way. It was Liam Murray's unerring trust and confidence in his four children that Dylan would miss the most.

"See?" Ben asked, pointing Dylan to the page displaying the Georgia state map. Ben had used a red pen to mark every place they stopped on the trip for posterity's sake. He used his index finger to direct Dylan to the very spot off of route 74. "See? I wrote, "Hands down best Belgian waffles so far. Real maple syrup, extra powdered sugar and real strawberries." He looked up proudly at his older brother, grey eyes gleaming.

Dylan smiled. "I'm sorry mister map keeper. I doubted you there for a second but you schooled me. Dad would've been proud."

Ben looked down. "Yeah," he said softly, before placing his atlas back in his backpack.

Dylan knew that talking about their family was uncomfortable for Ben, but he made a vow to talk about them at least once a day. He was determined to make their memory live on, no matter how Ben felt about it. Dylan felt that his baby brother would certainly appreciate it someday. After all, he felt that his family was something to be proud of.

They were a tight knit group, led by Liam Murray, a retired navy seal, and proud to be one hundred percent Irish. Their mother, Tara, an urban planner, was of Puerto Rican descent. Her heritage was most clearly present in Dylan, the second of Liam and Tara's four children. He had large, amber colored eyes framed by long, thick lashes. Unlike his other three siblings, he had a tanned, golden complexion all year round, despite the often frigid New Hampshire winters.

Ben, the third child born into the family, took after his father with flawless, fair skin, peppered with freckles near his nose. However, he shared his mother's thick, dark hair. The family always joked that Ben got the best of both worlds where looks were concerned.

Dylan and Ben were devastated to lose their family just a month earlier. After the walker virus paralyzed the country, the Murray's became trapped in Georgia while trying to get back home to New Hampshire. They had taken up with a group of survivors outside of Atlanta. The leader of the group, a man named Jack Dobbs, welcomed the Murray clan with open arms at first. Everyone seemed to get along pretty well throughout the hot, humid summer.

However, after seeing how strong both Liam and the Murray's eldest son, Josh, were, he became nervous about his standing with the other survivors. Liam and Josh were clearly natural leaders. Josh, at twenty-two years old stood just as tall and broad shouldered as his father, and shared the man's tendency to speak his mind. The two men would often clash with Jack, and much to Jack's dismay, the rest of the survivors would side with the Murray's. Most recently, tensions had begun to get out of control. Liam started to talk about the Murray's leaving the group for good.

One early morning, a month earlier, Dylan and Ben left to go on a routine scavenge, armed with a fire axe and Josh's hunting rifle. Ben was always the one to carry the rifle, as Liam did not think the boy was strong enough for a hand-to-hand altercation with either a walker or a human. However he was an excellent marksman. Dylan had shown much promise with the axe, which he used with strength and confidence. It was just edging on dusk when the two boys arrived back at camp, celebrating their acquisition of first aid supplies, socks and canned ravioli. Both approached camp with more caution than usual. It was too quiet. Something was wrong.

They found a horrific scene. Everyone in camp lay dead or dying. Some had gunshot wounds while walkers had bitten others. Dylan and Ben stood in disbelief as they found Liam and Josh with single gunshot wounds to their heads. Walkers had ravaged Tara and their seven-year-old sister Natalie. Just a few feet away lay Josh's girlfriend Amy, who'd accompanied them on their trip to Disney months before. Dylan choked back vomit when he saw that it appeared as if her head had been ripped from her body. Shreds of flesh still clung to her shoulders. Her eyes were open and her jaws snapped hungrily at Dylan. He reached for the fire axe and lifted it into the air. "I'm so sorry Amy." With all his strength, he brought the weapon down in between her eyes, finally ceasing her movements.

"I shot them," sobbed a woman's voice from the ground. It was Marie Talbot, the only surviving member of their group. "I put Tara and Natalie out of their misery. I'm so sorry, boys." Fresh tears spilled from her eyes. Dylan noted a nasty bite wound on her shoulder. Her husband lay dead next to her, as did her two small daughters.

Dylan knelt in front of her. "Marie, when did this happen?" he demanded. "Ben and I didn't hear any shots. I don't understand."

"This morning I think, but I can't quite," she said, through wracks of sobs. "Your father and Josh…there was a big fight with Jack. He…he shot them both. My husband had come to your dad's defense so Jack shot him too. Walkers heard it and set upon us all. They took my babies! We tried to fight back but it just wasn't enough. Your mom…she fought so hard for her and your sister. And I did my best, Dylan. I swear."

Dylan held Marie by the face. She was burning with fever, yet shivering at the same time. He felt sorry for her. She was just a young mother who'd lost her spouse and her two small children. And now the walker sickness was about to take her. "I know you did. I know. Marie…Marie…where is Jack Dobbs?" he asked, salty tears pouring onto his face.

"Gone," said Marie breathlessly. "A long time ago. He ran. He and those cowards Arnold Brewer and Mike Pell took off and left us women to fight. They took whatever guns they could carry, 'cept this one," she said, pointing the Beretta at her temple. Dylan instantly recognized his father's gun, once shiny and polished, now covered in dried blood. "I have nothing left," she whispered, cocking the gun.

"Marie!" Dylan choked out, reaching for her wrist. She pulled the trigger, blood spraying out of the other side of her head. Dylan caught her as she fell into his arms. The sound of the gun rang in his ears. "Oh my God," he whispered. He watched Ben, kneeling over Natalie's body. The boy looked like he was made of stone. His body was rigid and unmoving. Only his face was contorted with agony.

Dylan lay Marie down between her husband and daughters. He went to Ben's side. He wanted to curl into a ball and cry until he couldn't physically stand it anymore. The grief was utterly overwhelming, as if he was beaten until close to death, but was never actually allowed to succumb to the dark. He grabbed his father's hand, now cold and hard with rigor mortis. The man was his hero. Dylan squeezed his hand, trying to extract any possible life Liam Murray may have had left in him, perhaps transferring something to his second child such as his strength and valor.

Suddenly Dylan felt something pulling him by the shoulders. He turned, expecting to see a starving walker or possibly Jack Dobbs coming back for more revenge. However nothing was there. He peered at Ben, who had not moved from his spot next to Natalie. He felt the sensation again and looked down at his father. It was then that he knew. "Ben," he said. "We have to go. It's not safe here anymore. We have to go. I'll protect you. We'll protect each other." The words were not Dylan Murray's, but his father's.

Since then, Dylan and Ben stayed together and their only purpose was fighting for each other's survival. They used the knowledge passed down by their father and older brother to keep them fed, sheltered and safe from harm. They stayed together and shunned any survivors they happened upon. Dylan felt that his family already paid the ultimate price for trusting others. He vowed never to make that mistake again.