Bad feelings are one part of what sucks about this world. Good feelings are the other. Because the good stuff is what can get taken from you, the rug that gets pulled out from under you. A warming feeling that, once it's gone, leaves you out in the...
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C A R L
After my mom and the others tended to Hershel's bloody stump, I decide to take it upon myself to find the infirmary they were talking about. God knows they could use the supplies. If he's even listening to their desperate pleas.
My boots click against the cement floor of our new home as I quickly creep past the rest of the group and into the tombs.
I shine my flashlight over the top of my gun down the hall of the tombs, listening for anything. For a few moments, all I catch is pulsating, lingering silence.
"Hey!" A hushed yell is sent echoing from the walls behind my back.
As a reflex—of which I quickly picked up while living out in the open for so long—I aim both my flashlight and my gun at the first sign of noise, not even recognizing it as a lone word.
My finger twitches against the trigger before my eyes land on the cleanliness of the walker in front of me.
Soon, I realize that this is no walker.
"What the hell are you doing in here?" The voice says, as I'm able to match it with the person it comes from.
A girl. Her pale skin glowing under the harsh illumination of my flashlight. Her forehead wrinkling a bit, along with the crinkles of her eyes as she squints at the light.
Her wavy, ashy hair tussled about, a few strands sticking outward from her pale face. My eyes trace down her neck, to the rest of her body. Her glistening arms roam free as her jumpsuit remains tied at her waist. The girl's upper half left concealed in an aged, sleeveless top.
In the belt loop of her jumper, sits a knife, one that I don't recognize to be one of our own.
Once I take a moment to establish that she's one of the few prisoners my dad was arguing with earlier, I lower my flashlight, keeping a tight grip on my gun.
"Where's the infirmary?"
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The girl I've grown accustomed to finally begins to sleep after tossing and turning for a long while. After the frequent rustling of her sleeping bag, silence consumes the cabin of the guard tower that we've made our own over the past few weeks.
