A/N: Hello everyone! So glad you clicked on this story; it's definitely going to be a WILD ride! It's like nothing I've ever written before, so I'm excited to try out this new territory of AU. Just so you all know, this is NOT just my story. It's a collaboration with kornerbrandon. In fact, most of the story is his idea! He and I will be writing it together, so he deserved a lot of credit here.

Dislcaimer: We do not own any of the Walking Dead universe or any of its characters. We only own our storyline and the original characters we have created.

He stumbled through the woods, limping forward as fast as his legs could carry him. Behind him, he could see them closing. The roamers. They were getting closer, and the knife wound in his leg wasn't making things easier. Painfully, he turned around and fired the Sig-Sauer pistol he'd been carrying since the day he'd lost his cousin. Two rounds, well aimed. Aim small, miss small, he reminded himself. The bullets smacked into the skulls of two roamers, but there were still dozens coming. He turned around and resumed his limping through the forest, trying to gain speed over his newfound obstacles.

A half hour later, they were still on his tail, and he was low on ammunition. He had maybe one magazine left; not nearly enough to deal with the dozens of undead barreling towards him. Panting, he slowed a moment. Need to remember to save the last one, he thought morbidly. Never, he thought, I'll never be one of them.

His wounded left leg finally gave way, unable to hold under pressure any longer. He let out a cry of pain as his leg hit the ground; it was quickly becoming unbearable. He was out of bandages too; the blood was already seeping through his last one. Obviously the fall had reopened the wound and it was now bleeding badly.

He propped himself up against a tree and raised his gun, counting each bullet he fired. "18 . . . 17 . . . 16 . . . 15 . . . 14 . . . 13 . . . 12 . . ." This went on for a while, but couldn't last. He was already low on ammunition, and soon enough, he was down to his last two bullets. He fired once more, seeing another roamer fall.

Save the last one, he thought again. This was it; he was finished. He wasn't going to let himself turn; he didn't want to hurt anyone else more than he already had. At least he'd be with his parents and cousin.

He put the gun to his head, and started to pull the trigger.

Suddenly, he heard the rattling fire of what unmistakably was an assault rifle. Then another, and another. The bullets were smashing into the roamers' heads, taking them down faster than he could count. He turned his head slightly to see four men clad in military uniforms firing high-tech assault rifles at the roamers, with what was obviously a practiced technique. They were steadily moving forward, killing as they went, expertly placing bullets into the undeads' heads.

Soon, the soldiers slung their rifles and drew really, really long knives from their belts. They're long enough to be swords, he thought, as the soldiers drew their pistols as well and closed in to fight the roamers hand-to-hand. They plowed through the undead with unerring discipline, even as the roamers bit into their sleeves (there was obviously kevlar sewn into the sleeves and legs of their uniforms), using their blades and guns in tandem, alternating between gunshots and knife thrusts to kill them.

Soon, more soldiers began to arrive, using the same technique of closing with precise bursts of fire from their assault rifles, before drawing their knives and pistols to fight up close. These men were trained, obviously. Either that, or they'd had a lot of experience.

Soon enough, the pack of roamers was cleared; no more in his view. One of the soldiers, a man who looked about 40, approached him. He seemed to be the leader in this army group "Son, what's your name?" The soldier asked.

"Um . . . it's Mike, sir. Michael." Mike said from the ground. He was still shaken in awe at the team's power. He hadn't seen anything like that before.

"Well Michael, looks like we got here just in time. I'm Major Wells." The soldier introduced himself. "We're from a town just north of here. It's safe, secure, and with enough food and water for a lot of people. Unless you want to stay out here, you'd better come with us."

Mike weighed his options. While he didn't feel comfortable trusting a man he'd only just met, what did he have to lose? Not much; his food was all gone, his water was contaminated and he had a single bullet left. And with the precision Mike had just seen in action, if they wanted him dead he would already be dead. Mike nodded to the soldier above him, agreeing. At this moment, Wells noticed the bleeding wound on Mike's leg.

"Medic!" He called. Almost instantly, a soldier with a red cross emblazoned on his left arm approached them. He began treating Mike's leg, squeezing antiseptic powder onto it and replacing the bandage. Mike let out a hiss of protest at the sting of antiseptic, but tried to stay still as best as he could. He's been dying for medical treatment for who knows how long; he could withstand a little sting.

"It'll hold for now, but we need to get him back to the hospital." The medic noted. Wait, hospital? These guys must've had a pretty good setup to have a hospital.

Wells nodded and signaled for his men to start moving out, but not before two burly soldiers set Mike on a stretcher. After a decent trek through the woods and into barren streets, they were within sight of some tall stone walls that guarded the buildings within. Wells led the soldiers through the gate, into what seemed to be a thriving town. Mike could hear people, actual people, chatting about. Some practicing with guns, others running and training. Others walked through the streets holding the hands of children. Mike pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. Nope, he thought. Not dreaming. Not dreaming.

"Well Mike," began Wells, a grin set proudly on his face. "Welcome to Haven."