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C A R L

I slept in the car the night that Megan left, in hopes that she'd return.

After endless hours of waiting, the sun rose and with the sun came the heat of the mid-day. My time in that same spot didn't last very long before the heat started to get to me.

Soon after the heat, a herd of walkers from the aftermath of what happened at the prison swept through the area. I had to get away from there, hoping that the girl wouldn't return to the dangerous place just to end up not finding me.

Who am I kidding? She probably wants nothing to do with me after everything I put her through. She probably would be glad that I was gone, if she even went back to that car. Which the girl wouldn't dare go back to if she thought I was still there.

Through a few nights of trial and error, I learned that staying on the move is my best bet. I'm not going to find anyone—let alone a girl who doesn't want to be found—while staying in the same place.

My father wouldn't want anyone in the group to aimlessly wander anywhere after the eight months we spent out on our asses before we found the prison. He'd make sure we were traveling toward something, no matter how small the hunch. Any gut decision was a good one, to him.

Though it's far-fetched, I need to travel toward something. And the one sliver of any hope I have of reuniting with the girl leads me on the road followed by my intuition. She'd wind up wherever the walkers push her.

My faith lies on a vague location the unlikely change of heart of a girl who I've let down time and time again.

For the past few days, I've been traveling with the burden of living with myself. The anger I feel piles on when my mind repeatedly travels through the cyclical turn of events.

It all started with the girl's anger. She was mad about everything I'd done to us. And I keep reminding myself that she had every right to be.

Everything was all my fault. I'm the reason we left the prison in the first place. I'm the reason we spent several weeks rotting away in that house. I'm the reason we lost all of our supplies. And I would've been the reason those men would've hurt Megan.

If Daryl wouldn't have been there to stop them, my actions would now be past the point of forgiveness. I'd be too far gone.

Aside from everything I've come to know, my mind also stumbles across every single possibility of what happened back at the prison.

It has people written all over it. Someone selfish did that to the people I love. Someone selfish took away a place that could've lasted.

Now—if they aren't already dead—my group is scrambling to find something—each other or another secure place. They're probably worse off than Megan and I were.

A part of myself is thankful that we weren't there to witness what went down. A larger part of myself is riddled with guilt, knowing I left when they needed me most. Ultimately, every part of me feels hollow for what my selfishness led me to put that poor girl through.

While I'm supposed to wish that she is safe with Daryl, I understand that the possibility is simply unrealistic. With Daryl comes those men. Megan willingly ran after men who could and would hurt her. Maybe she's getting hurt at this very moment. She could've found those men the night she left and she's probably already hurt—maybe even dead.

I should be wishing that the girl got what she wanted after taking matters into her own hands. Maybe it's selfish, but in the back of my mind, the last thing I've wanted since the night she left was for her to find Daryl. Those men aren't safe, I stand by what I told her, although I don't stand by my decision to let her wander off on her own.

How stupid of me. She's never been out there by herself. Yeah, she's handy with her knife. That seems the be the border of her practiced trades, though. Besides breaking locks with keys and hammers.

The girl thought I wouldn't notice how touchy she is about having to use her gun. She has managed to avoid using it since Daryl and my dad first taught her how.

All I can do is have the naive hope that she hasn't found the dangerous men and that her dull knife with the wooden handle is enough to defend her in her stubborn endeavors.

Speaking of knives, I take mine out of the holster around my waist, using it to whack away thin branches hanging from the trees. I enter a clearing, nothing but a large boulder, with a flat surface on the top.

Looking from side to side at the clearing, I holster my knife, and begin to climb up the large rock. It takes a few jumps before my hands catch the top and my boot grips the side, so I can hoist myself up.

Sitting with my feet dangling off the edge, I remove my map from my back pocket, unfolding it.

Since this morning, I've been searching for anything indicative of my location. All I've found was miles and miles of forest.

After closing the map that no longer holds the information I need, I swing my legs and hop off of the rock. My feet walk behind the rock, resuming their journey in the same direction I've been going in. The same straight line, leading directly through any obstacle in between myself and Virginia.

After traveling through several yards of trees, I see another clearing, this time containing a small building.

I roll my eyes, expecting yet another disappointment as I approach the white building. A dangling sign sticking out of the ground creaks as the slight gust of wind sways it back and forth.

St. Sarah's Episcopal Church

The white, wooden stairs lead up to dark, wooden double-doors that remain wide open. Through the open double doors, my eyes land on several rows of pews.

I stare down the aisle, straight ahead at the two stained glass windows. Two office doors, one on each side of the room remain wide open. Behind the formal railing in front of the windows, lies a table with a small, standing cross sandwiched between two candles.

My feet create gentle thuds against the wooden floor of the church as I continue to scan my eyes through it. Though I disregard having any attachment to religion, memories of my mother scolding me—telling me to be quiet and respectful in church—race through my head.

Carefully placing respectful steps toward the right side of the church, I peak my head in the office door. A feeling of déjà vu washes over me when I feel a sense of familiar relief.

The tempting sight of stacks of several canned goods nearly makes my mouth water, before I remember what happened the last time I found supplies.

I knew we shouldn't have taken those supplies.

Megan's spiteful—yet honest—words ring in my ears, repeating themselves over and over again, intensifying as I stare at the colorful cans that have the ability to resolve my painful hunger.

Sucking in a quick breath, my feet gently march forward and grab the doorknob to the office door. I close the white door, removing the cans of food from my sight.

Though rejecting the supplies in front of me might not be the smartest decision to make in light of my severe hunger, it's the choice I must make. Not only for myself, but for the girl and my mom. Maybe it's also simply for the fact that I'm standing in a church.

I turn away from the closed-off room containing the canned goods. I've let the my selfishness guide me through the world before, letting it spoil me, which I was told not to do. Taking that stuff back at the mini-mart spiraled into several events that were out of my control.

My feet carry me before the small cross and I stand for a simple moment.

Though I have no resignation to the man upstairs, I can't help but wonder what his purpose for all of this would be if he was real—if he was actually watching over the humans on earth.

Not only is it about what has fallen, it's about what's left. It's about everything—everyone that scurries around, trying to survive throughout the end of the world.

The good people, they die. The bad people, they do too. But the weak people—the people like me—we've inherited the earth.

My mother was an example of that. My existence is yet another example. I've lasted this long and come this far because the earth can't ever get rid of me.

People like Megan—like the rest of the group, they're all ticking time bombs. It's only a matter of a time before the rest of the pure, good souls on this earth meet their insufferable end.

The bad people—they get to have their fun. They get to live without law, without morals for whatever pitiful, short time they're left on this earth to suffer. Bad people—like the men that attacked me and Megan, the people she went chasing after—they act on selfishness, not survival.

The description not being too far off from my own vices sends goosebumps down my spine. I may lie somewhere between weak and bad—only time will tell—but I'm certain that I fall nowhere near the good end of that spectrum.

The cross nearly burns my eyes as it sits tall, staring back at me.

You win.

I didn't take the supplies. I've admitted to whatever sins led me to this point. The sins that led my people wherever they're headed.

If you're really there, just let them go.

Let them make it out alive.

Let her be okay.

☆

The faint smell of manure lingers throughout every inch of this wooden barn. Itchy hay pokes at my skin through the fabric of my pants. I can't complain too much, though. The hay radiates my warmth back onto me.

Empty packets of oat meal lie scattered around me. The wrappers of the last of my food crumpled and lazily tossed within the hay. Harsh gusts of air slam the shudders of the barn back and forth. The cold wind slips through the cracks of the aged wood.

I sit with my knees to my chest, curled up against the back wall of the smelly barn. A single plank of wood that is jammed in between the handles of the barn doors is the only thing that separates me from the dangers of the outside.

Drops of rain water slip through the roof and drip down all four walls of the barn.

What does four walls and a roof mean if it's not adequate shelter? If there's no one there to make it a home? Nothing.

Feeling a few cold drops make their way down my back, I suck in a breath. I roll my eyes and move over to the wall of the stall that divides the barn in half. Because the short wall is in the middle of the barn, no rain drops cascade down it.

I place myself against it, careful not to crunch the hay too loudly. Although, no threat could hear the hay over the noise of the storm.

My hat falls off of my head as I sit back. I immediately reach for it, my eyes looking toward it. A clap of thunder followed by the cracking flash of lightning illuminates the barn—only for a second.

The hat sits atop the hay, facing me perfectly. The golden tassels lie evenly sprawled out against the rough, chipped soft leather material of the hat's rim. It's almost like the hat is looking at me. Judging me, even.

I take my hand back, leaving my hat sitting there. It's almost like it has a personality. Like someone is here with me.

The hat has always been my way of keeping my dad with me, even when he was out risking his life.

Towards the latter end of my time at the prison, though, it was mostly to keep him around when he was spending all of his time with the others. He was always too busy for his own son and daughter.

I pull my eyes from the second inanimate object to stare me down today, looking straight at the drops of rain that race down the back wall of the barn.

Another flash of lightning makes its way into the barn.

For a second, it illuminates what seems to be the figure of my father sitting right next to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I can almost see his large arms folded around his knees, sitting in a similar position to the one I'm in.

I quickly turn my head to my side, seeing nothing but the dark. My eyes once again drop to the hat.

Great.

First, I had a conversation with someone who wasn't there. Now, I'm seeing things—people, that aren't there.

A loud bang on the front doors startles me from my moment of paranoia. The banging repeats in the sloppy rhythm that only a walker is capable of making.

My jaw clenches, my hands balling into fists before I stand up, storming toward the doors.

I pull the wooden plank out from the door handles, aggressively throwing it into the hay. Dense rain drops spray into the barn as I fling open both doors, leaving me face to face with a walker.

Keeping my feet firmly planted in the—now wet—
hay, I reach in my holster for my gun. Although I'm angry, I still manage to somewhat keep my wits about me as I hold the gun backwards hitting the walker with it, instead of firing it.

After the first blow, the walker keeps coming. Striking it again, the wet walker trails more bloody rainwater deeper into the barn.

I back up, enticing it even more. It travels further into the barn. The rain water pours in through the open doors behind it.

Hitting the walker with all of the force I can muster, it finally falls down to the ground. Blow after blow land themselves on its skull.

Tuning back in from an obvious, momentary blackout, my eyes stare down at my bloodied, wet hands. The walker with the flattened, mushed skull lies limp in the middle of the barn. Red, sticky hay surrounds the area before me.

Pushing my hand to my knee, I stand up, grabbing the walker's shirt and dragging it out of the barn doors, drenching myself in the process. I turn around and stick my hands out further into the rain, letting the wind and water whip away all of the blood.

Closing the door to the barn, I pick up the wooden plank, jamming it back in between the door's handles. I wipe my wet hands on my pants as my feet carry me back toward the lonely sheriff's hat.

I plop back down.

When my eyes meet the familiar hat, it nearly mocks me.

For a second, I was glad no one was there to experience what I just did to that lone walker. But someone was here. The hat watched my every move. Every word my father told me that night in Hershel's house replays through my head as I stare at the piece of leather wrapped in gold tassels.

If he's alive, he's somewhere protecting the group, or what's left of it. That's what being a sheriff means: protecting people. He gave me the hat because I was like him. I'd been shot. Although he was shot while fulfilling his duty of protecting and serving, and I was shot while trying to enjoy one of life's simple pleasures. An animal in its natural habitat.

I was given chance after chance to protect the people around me, now I'm alone. Just another animal inhabiting the fallen earth.

Megan was my chance and I blew it. If she's alive, she's out there right now, somewhere in the storm. Maybe she's protected. Maybe she's out there, shivering, huddling up for warmth.

It was my job ever since that night before the war with the governor. He put us in the same cell so I could keep an eye on her as opposed to just keeping the both of us safe, which he told me was the case. It wasn't.

And that's exactly what I did. I kept us safe. I kept her safe. I watched her, studied her, trying to understand what threat my dad saw her as.

I did what he told me to, and I received much more from it than he thought I would. In a way, he was right to trust me with her.

But now, the girl is either dead or out there alone in a monster of a storm.

In another way, I failed the only true demand my father thought I was capable of upholding.

☆

After a cold, wet, sleepless night, I resent my feet for every step I'm forcing myself to take. My damp clothes manage to keep me cool under the heat of the blaring sun.

Sticking to my previous path, I continue along the straight line I've been traveling in.

Over the span of the few hours I've been walking, my pace has slowed down significantly. My tired feet carry me, nearly dragging through the leaves as I'm barely able to pick them up off the ground.

There's no possibility of anything but my sore feet carrying me along my journey. The harsh reality of my thoughts burns deeper when my eyes land on a car.

I could never drive there. Even if I found the keys to a car that had enough gas, I was never taught.

Why don't I just teach myself?

My feet slowly make their way toward the car. A Pennsylvania license plate rearing the dusty vehicle. I approach the driver's side of the car, feeling around underneath it with my finger tips. They land on the small box I was hoping for.

I grab at the small box, pulling it from the underside of the car. The small piece of metal bounces around as I slide the box open, revealing it. The spare key I'll need to start the car.

Tugging on the door handle, I realize the car is already unlocked. As a precaution, I check inside the abandoned car. The tan, neat leather seats remain empty. While it's unfortunate to not find any supplies, it doesn't hurt to drive a car with a nice interior.

I smirk to myself, quietly chuckling at the delirious, sarcastic thought. The untouched car remains walker-free, that's what important.

The door gently closes as I slip myself in the driver's seat. Not being able to remember the last time I sat in a proper seat with cushioning and all, I allow myself to have a moment to sink into the rubbery leather.

My hat tumbles off of my head, landing on the vacant passenger seat. The leather acting as my partner in crime.

I'll take watch.

It seems to speak to me as my eyes grow heavier through the new sense of comfort. My hand finds the lever on the side of the seat, pulling it gently. The seat reclines with a few creaks, and my eyes close. And then open again. And then close again.

Seemingly resting my eyes for a few moments grants me some much-needed peace. Which doesn't last long before I'm jolted awake.

The interior of the car is filled with much hotter air than when I fell asleep. I grab the gun in my holster, gripping it before looking around, searching for the noise that woke me.

Muffled, scraping metal gently sounds out from towards the back of the car. My mind shuffles through any possible scenario where a walker—or even a wild animal—could be capable of making such a rhythmic noise.

Reaching over and placing my hat back on my head, I sit up, searching around for the continuous noise.

I slowly pull the handle of the door, clicking it open. My boot silently sets itself against the pavement as I pull my body out of the small sedan. I grip my gun with both hands as I approach the rear end of the car.

"Darn it." A quiet voice says in the midst of the sounds of chipping metal. My feet take a few quick steps back as I raise my gun level with my eyes.

The sudden sound of my boots against the pavement is enough to attract the attention of whoever is behind the car.

A man with a plaid shirt and a dark blue jacket stands to his feet, revealing himself and a screwdriver in his hand. He raises them in surrender, dropping the weapon to the ground.

"Don't be alarmed." The man tells me with a scared smile, staring directly at the barrel of my gun. "I just wanted a Pennsylvania plate for my collection. I've got the rest on a wall in my house."

Nothing but nonsense is what I hear. This world has made the man lose it. He doesn't have a house. There's no possible way he could live a life of such luxury that collecting license plates is a hobby. He's gone mad.

I keep my scowling eyes on the basket case in front of me, trying to assess if he's a danger. The harmless guy loses his sanity and he goes straight for rusty old license plates. Maybe he won't try anything.

"I'm Aaron." The man speaks. "I've come here from a community. My boyfriend and I are scouting for new people—new leaders."

For a second, I assume every detail of what he's saying to be part of the make-believe world where his license plate collecting also takes place.

That is until I see his clean shaven face and recently trimmed waves of hair.

His clothes even remained clean. The fabric—a perfect fit to his body. Every item of clothing I've had to wear since the start of it all was either too big or small, squeezing me or drowning me.

Even if this man was delusional enough to wear neat, Sunday-casual clothes while fighting the dead, it'd take a lot more than his imagination to get him this spiffied up.

"Where's the community?" I ask, the man sighs one of relief when he finally hears my stubborn voice.

"It's back in Virginia, we're a ways away." He nods, his hands involuntarily follow the motion of his head. "I've been killing time out here," he pauses before opening his bag, revealing a stack of license plates within it.

"You're looking for new people." I state.

"Yeah, I am." He starts. "We're expanding our horizons. My boyfriend and I have been out here since yesterday trying to find people."

"If that's true," I huff out. "You're lucky you came across me, and not someone else." I say, tilting my head to the side, studying his friendly demeanor even more. "People can be worse than the dead."

"How so?" His face drips with serious concern at my statement.

I don't answer. My eyes flick to the ground. A few moments of silence linger before the naive man realizes that he won't be receiving a response from me.

"Here," He says, his hand reaching for something in his jacket. I immediately raise my gun higher, aiming it as my feet shuffle backwards. The man senses my alertness and raises his hand higher in surrender, opening his jacket to reveal what's inside. "There's no way I could convince you to come with me, just by talking about our community. That's why I brought these."

A folder sticks out of the large, mesh, inside pocket of his jacket. He then grabs the folder with two fingers, careful with his motions, and holds it out toward me.

"What's that?" I bark at him.

"Photographs of my community." He says, still holding out the folder toward me. His sentence hangs silent for a moment. "I apologize in advance for the picture quality, we just found an old camera store last week."

First license plates, then the neat clothes, then he worries about picture quality.

I reluctantly step forward, taking the envelope from the man's hand, then stepping back again.

The aim of my gun only moves from the man for a mere second as I peel open the package of photographs. I raise my gun again once the stack of pictures lies in my left hand.

My eyes land on the black and white photo of a large metal wall supported by beams of wood.

"That's the first picture you should see. Nothing I could say about our community will matter unless you know you'll be safe." He sighs, a shaky smile forcing its way into his lips. "If you would like to come with me, you will be."

Safety. A promise only so many people can keep in a world like this. My mind subconsciously adds this to the list of reasons why the man may be a threat.

Staring at the photo, my mind adds the large wall to the list of reasons this place could potentially give people a real chance at survival. Along with the clean man and his foolish, outdated values.

"Each panel in that wall is fifteen foot high, twelve foot wide of solid steel." He adds on, noticing my curious eyes studying the picture before me. "Nothing—alive or dead—gets through that wall without our say-so. Security is important. In fact, there's only one thing more critical to our community's survival. The people."

"You want me to join your community, yet I'm standing here aiming my gun at you." I state to the man, testing him with every word.

"You crept up on me and I had no idea. You could've killed me." His shoulders shrug. "Your gun has been aimed directly at my head nearly every second you've been standing here. Tell-all signs of a survivor." He smiles at me, slightly tilting his head along with his confident words.

I drop the first picture to the ground, uncovering the ones under it. A row of neatly composed houses looks to be from before the world went down. A guilty feeling consumes me as I look at the offer before me. If it's real, there's definitely people more deserving of this than I am.

"Besides the obvious risk, name one thing stopping you from giving my community a chance." Aaron continues to press.

I look up from the pictures, to the man, staring at him down the short barrel of my pistol.

☆

After making the questionable decision to tell the man that I'm looking for someone, he assures me that if I prove myself—whatever that means—I'd be able to bring anyone I want behind those walls.

I was careful not to tell him that I was searching for a teenage girl, just in case he's like the men from before. I didn't want any potential evil in this man to get any ideas.

Aaron agreed to let me walk a ways behind him, while we make our way back to his car. He walks in front of me, Pennsylvania license plate in-hand. Trailing far behind, I mutter responses to the small talk he tries to make as I study the black and white images he gave me.

Solar panels, two-story houses, manicured front lawns, secure walls. One superficial asset after another. Too good to be true.

The only shelter I'd ever believed could last was the C.D.C., then the farm, then the prison. I'd be stupid to think Alexandria would actually work out.

The persistent stranger told me he could make whatever accommodations I needed to feel that I could trust him. He agreed that walking in front of me—when I could put a bullet in the back of his head at any time I wanted—was a way for us to feel each other out.

So far—besides the meaningless small-talk—our long walk surprisingly has yet to leave any bad tastes on my tongue.

I nearly slam into the guy's back as I notice his feet come into my vision, resting at a complete stop.

"Here's my car." He motions with his one of his cautiously-raised hands. "Feel free to check it out if you'd like." Aaron says, offering a smile.

Silently, I make my way over to the sedan. The lack of dust and grime on this car is yet another neat aspect of this man and his home. Keeping my gun in my grip, I walk around to the opposite side of the car, peaking in the windows.

The glare of the yellow rays from the sunset reflects off of the windows, making it difficult to see the inside.

I notice the glare quickly moving along the shadows of the car as something illuminates the car—as well as the entire street—from above.

My eyes trace the source of light and they see a spinning ball of sparks, reaching its peak in the sky. Before it falls back down, the light leaving along with the strange ball of fire.

"What was that?" I ask Aaron, my suspicions immediately raising. Looking over to the man, a concerned, alarmed expression crinkles the space between his eyebrows as he studies the distant ball of light.

To my surprise, the man makes the first sudden move despite the presence of my aimed gun. He runs to the driver's side door of the small car, yanking it open.

"We need to go, now!" He worriedly says to me. "That's my boyfriend—he could be in danger!"

In this instant, as I stare at the pleading man and the handle to the passenger door of the car, I'm forced to make a decision. Aaron hops in the driver's seat, the car makes a strained noise before the engine begins humming.

I suck in a breath, opening the passenger door and sliding in, giving the man control of the vehicle as well as my whereabouts.

He whirls the car around, I grip onto the dashboard to stop myself from bouncing around. The squealing tires sound out against the road before the car finally jolts in the opposite direction it was originally facing when it was once parallel parked on the empty street.

My impulsive act of trust toward this man I met only moments ago—with time—will prove itself to be a right or wrong decision. For now, all I can do is wait for the worried man to drive us where he aims to be.

Hopefully that is with his boyfriend, if he even is real.

☆

The tires screech to a halt as Aaron slams the breaks in front of a series of large metal buildings. A small clump of walkers bangs on the doors of a building in the middle.

When his eyes land on the danger, he immediately puts the car in park, before even coming to a complete stop, aggressively jolting the car and everything in it.

Before I know it, the worried man pulls a machete out of his back pocket and slams the car door, running onto the scene. I shake my head, my hat slightly wiggles over the top of my hair as I step out of the car, running after him.

While he slashes walkers, drawing attention to us, I grab the first one I see and slam the back of my gun into its face. It falls to the side, probably not even dead yet. I don't have time to finish putting down the walker before the next one runs toward me, reaching out its decayed arms and yellow fingernails.

I quickly grab its arms, shoving them down, and bringing its head closer to mine. My gun bangs the side of its head and blood gushes, barely missing me as it sprays out of its mushy skull.

Turning around, I walk, aiming to place my boot in the head of the walker I hadn't gotten the chance to fully put down.

Approaching it with quick steps, I see the clean boot of the man shatter the rest of the walker's skull, instead.

My eyes trace from his—now, bloody—boot and pant leg to his face. He sends me a nod. I look around to see the rest of the walkers limp, stab-wounds from Aaron's machete sloppily placed in all of their heads.

My trust for the man slightly increases as I realize he had several opportunities to kill me. The damaged part of me tries to convince myself that this is all some elaborate plan to gain my trust so he can lead me somewhere to, then, kill me.

"Come on," He huffs to me, bouncing back on his feet after removing his boot from the bloodied bones.

My feet shuffle to follow him before he swings open the heavy, metal door of the large building. His footsteps sound out against the cement of the floor.

"Eric!" The man rejoices. "Oh my god!" He runs across the empty floor of the building, toward another man.

The sneaking suspicions I had of all of this being staged slips away at the sight of the two men kissing. Something I'd never seen, but something that soothes the survival instinct creeping in my brain.

The man—his boyfriend—Eric, sits against the metal wall, his bloody foot elevated on a white pillow that's also stained with the blood from his pant leg.

"Aaron," The man mutters, a smile spreading across his clean-shaven face.

My eyes drop to his foot, his bloody pant leg remains rolled up, exposing his bare, bruised and bloody foot. His sock and his boot sit neatly placed next to the stained pillow.

"There's someone I want you to meet. A girl, she helped me."

A girl.

"I have someone for you to meet too." Aaron turns around, the attention from both of the men now aimed towards me, awkwardly standing behind the scene of the two cuddly men. "Eric, this is—"

"Carl." I finish his sentence, with a slight wave and a small, awkward smile. Aaron waves me over, I then kneel a few feet away from the reuniting men.

"I met him a few miles away. He's just the type we're looking for." Aaron smiles, both of the men sighing in relief and utter gratefulness. "Quick on his feet. He even helped me take down those walkers outside."

"Thank you, Carl." Eric says to me, the shine of his forehead illuminated by whatever's left of the light from the setting sun. "Thank you for bringing my Aaron back to me." The man takes Aaron's hand, the two inseparable in the moment.

"It was no problem." I chuckle out, relieved at the sight of two genuinely happy people. Something I haven't seen since we first found the prison.

"The girl—" Eric starts. "I would've been dead if it wasn't for her." He sighs out. "She came across me when I was in a bind—she took out nearly a dozen of them all by herself." He sits up, his eyes bouncing all around the metal building.

"Where is she?" Aaron asks him. "I'd like to introduce myself."

"She went to search the other buildings, she wanted to find something to clean my ankle." He says, his eyes dropping down as he turns his leg, revealing a bloody gash along his dark purple, swollen ankle. "She should be back soo—" His sentence gets cut off by the echoing slam of the metal door.

"What's with all the walker's outside?" A voice sounds out, accompanied by gentle footsteps pattering along the cement floor.

"Did you take them on by yourself? I thought I told you to rest your ankle." Her disgruntled, breathy voice says.

I slowly turn around, straightening my bent legs from the place where I was previously knelt down.

Approaching the men and I, she approaches us, her thin legs making their way across the wide floor of the echoing, empty building. Her eyes focused on the items in her hands, unaware of my presence. My first instinct is to worry, maybe even to flee, knowing the anger she holds against me.

The girl comes closer. Dried, red blood covers her neck and chest, the collar of her white, oversized button-up shirt, drenched. The scrunched sleeves of her shirt remain pulled up to just below her elbows.

Her long, pale, hair is matted around her neck, sticky with more of the dry blood. Sweat glistens around the skin of her thin arms, which is scuffed with dirt.

"I found this peroxide," She says, her eyebrows furrowing as she steadily places steps, flipping the bottle around in her grip and studying it.

Her head slowly tilts upward, her eyes flicking as they search for Eric, finding something—someone else. Me. "This'll burn, but it'll get the job d—"

Her feet come to a complete stop. The bottle of peroxide in her lazy hand. Her wide eyes stay locked on mine as I stand, dumbfounded—still as a scarecrow—across the building from her. Her lips remain slightly parted, not continuing her sentence, instead the corners of her mouth slightly rise.

Once I see the relief in her expression, a small smile forces its way across the former, vanishing hardness of my face. A deep breath enters my lungs, the feeling being a bit new to me in the moment.

There she is, my second chance.

Staring me in the face.

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6363 words

A/N

Aaron be like: my boyf goes to a diff school you don't know him :o

Also I actually love grungy Carl what the heck !!
i haven't read these chapters in like four months ??

☆leave a vote if Aaron's a baddie ☆