<span style="font-size: 10px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#dda0dd">What an immensely painful week, Rosalind thought to herself grimly as she lay flat on her stomach beneath a bush, clutching her knife as tight as she could in her trembling fist. In a way, she thought it was ironic that when the outbreak first began to spread, she told herself it couldn't possibly get any worse. Yet here she was with the feeling of slimy dirt pressed against her cheek and something cold oozing down her top and the icing on the cake, the hoarse moans growling above her.<br/>
<br/>
Rosalind couldn't swim. Not well. Her only choice had been to hide and even then, it did not guarantee her safety. The only saving grace was that the Walkers appeared to have found another way to distract themselves. The blonde only had the hope that they would leave after their most recent hunt, and it was that hope that stopped her from completely breaking down. She inhaled softly, the mulchy soil and stink of corpses burning her eyes.<br/>
<br/>
Well if worst came to worst, she could always stab herself first.</span></span>