Carl was lost.
His breath came in short gasps as he stumbled through the foliage, leaves and twigs crunching underfoot as the arid scent of smoke hung in the air. Gunfire was still echoing in the distance as whoever remained at the prison fought for it in vain. His eyes stung with unshed tears, tears he thought had long dried up, but he refused to let them fall. What was the rest of the group doing now? Fighting still, or looking for him?
Was the group even still alive?
He pushed the thought away, stomach churning. They'd lived through worse than this, he decided. They got out of a burning building before-Hershel's farm. No reason they couldn't get out of this one.
But the Governor hadn't been at Hershel's farm.
His stomach gave another lurch. Hershel. He silently cursed himself for not shooting the Governor when he had the chance- if he had, Hershel would still be alive. The prison would still be safe.
But even so. For his father's sake, for his mother's, for Judith's. He would. Not. Cry.
His boot caught on a tree's upturned root and he fell to all fours, shaking. That morning, when he'd weighed himself at the prison, he discovered that he'd lost two pounds. There on the forest floor, he lost some more. He threw up.
He'd never been on his own before. Oh, sure, he'd gone out by himself to check the squirrel traps or something, but there was always someone on fence duty nearby, someone else who could take care of the danger. But now there was no fence, and there was no one. He steeled himself and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before shakily rising to both feet. He wasn't a kid anymore. Time to stop acting like one.
First-he couldn't stay here. Not out in the open, with no one else to keep watch. That was a death wish. But he didn't want to move away, because what if someone else was nearby looking for him, and moving only separated them further? Mom had told him that once when he was little, that if they ever got separated in public he was supposed to stay where he was, because she or Dad would find him.
He looked around at the trees surrounding him. He could climb up one of them at night so walkers or poachers couldn't get at him. Plus, he'd have a bird's-eye view of the area. Speaking of birds, he might even find a nest full of eggs somewhere. Yes. He would stay here.
But then there was the business of actually climbing a tree. Carl hadn't done that since he was nine or ten. And he wasn't as light as he used to be, no matter how food-deprived he'd been lately. He'd just have to be more careful with where he shifted his weight on the branches. Blue eyes scanned the area, looking for a sizeable tree.
A twig snapped.
Carl swiveled around so fast that he nearly lost his footing again. One hand rested on the gun at his thigh, eyes searching wildly for the perpetrator.
"So this is where the smoke came from, huh?"
A whistle. "Whoo-whee. Talk about a bonfire."
Carl's heart leapt into his throat. Voices. But he didn't recognize them. As the footsteps came nearer his brain shot into overdrive, screaming at him to hide, but the feet in his boots saluted and said, "Not a chance, sir!" What resulted was an odd little shuffle where he took a step six ways at once without really moving anywhere. Before he could make a decision, the men came into view.
Unfortunately, he also came into theirs.
"Hey!"
One glance over his shoulder and Carl was already running, slipping on the leaves as he went. HIs surroundings became a blur of green and brown, leaves and branches scratching at his face, his clothes. A fallen tree blocked the path and he tried to jump it, only to grossly underestimate the distance: the tip of his boot snagged on the bark and he tumbled face-first into the dirt. He tried to drag himself away but someone was already gripping his ankle, and no amount of squirming or kicking could get him out.
Rough hands flipped him on his back and he was face to face with a man- no, more like a boy- calmly straddling him like an indulgent brother on top of his problematic sibling. Carl flailed wildly with his arms, but his captor grabbed both of them and forced them on his chest. Eventually he ran out of steam and lay quite still, panting, looking up at the smoke-tinged sky above.
The guy on top of him leaned over. He looked like he was supposed to be in college. Twenty-something. Glenn's age. He chewed a piece of gum rather noisily. "You done?" he asked with a tilt of his head.
Carl stared stonily back.
Someone to his left sighed. "C'mon, Martin. This kid ain't got a sliver on him."
Martin held a hand up. "Ain't gonna use him for cattle call, Seth. Wasn't Gareth just complainin' yesterday about how he wanted an assistant? If we bring him in, we might get double portions at dinner tonight." WIthout waiting for a response, he turned back to Carl. "C'mon, kid. We've got a camp. We'll take good care of ya."
In one well-coordinated motion, Carl sucked up his last bit of saliva and spat in his face.
The other guy, Seth, roared with laughter. Martin himself wiped the fluid off his face with the back of his jacket sleeve.
"He's definitely got moxie," Seth admitted through his guffaws.
Carl's face remained impassive.
"Let's go, kid. You're comin' with us."
So this is an idea I've been thinking about literally since the Season 5 premiere, but I thought if I got it on paper I could only fuck it up. Aghhh...
This story is also available on AO3 under the same title, by author rnadison (me).
