-Riley-

I had rarely experienced anger. Even the walkers, that had consumed an uncountable number of innocent people - both extremely young and very old - seldom provoked anger from me; I only felt pity toward these former people. 

I had been angry at the death of my parents, but that anger was directed toward myself rather than anyone or anything else, and I had spent the next year practically forcing myself to hate anything and everything to do with me. 

In an apocalypse, I had always expected it would be easy to survive. After all, we were only fighting mindless lumbering creatures - they weren't intelligent, coordinated, or tactical. I had never imagined that we would encounter other humans in addition to the dead attacking us, and this discovery induced my first true period of hatred toward someone else - Simon.

All these times, my hatred had been truly justified. After all, Simon had shot Rick, forced us out of Rochester, and tried to kill my boyfriend. I had slammed his head against the corner of a cupboard until he was no longer breathing, and although it was an unspeakable act, it was still understandable.

But today, I had felt a murderous rage twice, directed at the most unexpected source - Carl. 

It sounded absurd when I contemplated it rationally. I had shot his father, and I expected forgiveness, and I was even angry when he utterly rejected the possibility! It was laughably ludicrous, that was for sure, but for some reason his emotional digs at me - the constant personal remarks - they squeezed the anger out of me, and no matter how stupid my response was, I couldn't avoid it.

In spite of this anger, however, I was not prepared to let Carl kill himself in a stupid, stubborn hike back to a camp which could already be in ruins by now.

---

-Carl-

I trudged away from Riley at a moderately rapid pace, trying to put some distance between the two of us before my emotions would inevitably conflict. My walk was gradually accompanied by a downpour from the foreboding clouds which hung above us, the rain droplets impacting rhythmically against the crisp leaves of the trees.

The rain masked the sound of Riley approaching me, and I didn't notice that he was following me before I glanced him out of the corner of my eye, noticing that he was walking right alongside me.

"Riley, what the hell are you doing?" I inquired, my voice cracking embarrassingly during my angry inquiry.

"We might not be friends," Riley began solemnly, and I rolled my eyes in preparation of some form of sob-story to try and claim my attention. Riley noticed this reaction, but ignored it completely.

"But I'm not about to let you get yourself killed," he finalized bluntly, in a response which both confused and angered me.

I was angry that he was so confident that I would die without him, since he seemed to be ignoring the fact that without him, Rick would still be alive.

My primary emotion now, however, was confusion.

I had essentially cast Riley into the wilderness in the hopes that he joined Simon in hell someday, and upon discovering that he hadn't shared Simon's fate, I had constantly harassed him with emotional and personal insults, even punching him unprovoked.

He had certainly deserved to be sent away after killing my father, but perhaps the attack back in the boiler room was unnecessary, especially considering he didn't kill me back at Alexandria when he had the chance.

And in spite of all of this, he was still concerned for my safety.

It was hard to judge how I felt toward him, since my mood swings were becoming unbelievably sporadic and it was impossible to determine my true emotion toward him - whilst it certainly was not positive, perhaps I didn't hate him quite as much as I was constantly telling myself.

---

Two hours had passed without either of us speaking a word - we were seemingly enveloped in personal thoughts, which was probably for the best since any attempt at conversation managed to create tension and anger, regardless of its intention.

The rainfall had not relented, and the woodland path had become boggy and marsh-like as a result. Weather was the least of our concerns today, however, and we did not allow our personal thoughts to completely distract us from being alert for Negan's ruthless soldiers.

We were both unarmed, so any attempt at direct confrontation would prove utterly futile. Riley had survived alone in the woods twice now, once for three years and then again for another three months, but he had never encountered survivors armed with riot gear and militarized weapons and neither of us would be prepared for survival in the wild with these odds.

"Hey, Carl," Riley called for my attention, and I was unsure of what to expect as I turned to face him. 

He pointed to a small wooden shack placed seemingly randomly in the woods, somewhat dilapidated after several years of negligence. The door hung off its hinges, giving us a clear view of what was inside, eliminating the possibility that a potential threat was hiding within. 

A body lay inside, hideously slim and having presumably starved to death. Even from this distance away, the chorus of buzzing flies surrounding the body could be heard, but what really attracted our attention was the ever-satisfying glint of a firearm resting on the corpse's lap.

The two of us traipsed cautiously toward the hut, examining our surroundings after each step to ensure that there were no signs of an ambush. 

As we approached the door-less entrance, the disgusting colony of flies evacuated the building and we both spluttered at the stench as we entered the shack. 

The cause of death I had assumed outside was not correct, it seemed, as multiple packets of pills were surrounding the body, implying a grim suicide. The elongated firearm laying on his lap was revealed to be a rather old, albeit usable, hunting rifle, which Riley picked up eagerly. A diary also lay beside him, which I picked up and brushed clean with my hand. Neither of us wished to read through a typically tragic life-story, so we skipped to the final entry.

"Sarah isn't coming back. I'm not going to waste a good bullet on myself - whoever's reading this, you'll make better use of it. If you happen to find a little girl, about 7 years old, let her be at peace."

I dropped the diary solemnly - no matter how many people had endured this suffering, or perhaps even worse, it did not lessen the emotional impact of discovering some else's traumatic experience.

We were both grateful that this man has granted us a bullet, however, and we opted to leave the shack with our newfound weapon before we could dwell on this scene.

As we left the shack however, an ice-cold knife was forced against my neck, just a twitch away from slicing into my jugular vien...

---

Cliff-hanger! Not my best one, but it should suffice while I think of what the hell happens next! 

It's true, I don't really plan what happens in these stories - I literally just make things up as I go along, which would get my literature teacher angry as hell...

Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter, and I'll make another one a.s.a.p :)