This is my first time writing a fanfic, but I thought it might be a bit of fun (well in a pretty morbid way). After the whole Rick waking up and breathing all loud and creepy and Carl thinking he had turned, I thought it would be interesting to think about what would have happened if Rick really did die. I'm planning on Daryl finding Carl in the next chapter because I really just want this to be about how Daryl would deal with it if this happened and he found Carl alone after they had all been separated. Anyway let's get on with it. It's pretty rough because I wrote it quickly, but I might improve it later. (I do not own 'the walking dead' or any of the characters in this fanfic)
Carl shot him. His dad had woken up, that was his first, stupidly naive thought. But he hadn't woken up. He had turned.
'People are going to die. I'm going to die...mom...there's no way you could ever be ready for it.'
His dad was right. He would never be ready. He had seen his dad stretching towards him, his eyes hollow and yellowed, and with his father's own gun in his hand, he had thought that he couldn't do it.
But then his dad was grabbing his leg, his teeth inching closer, only he wasn't Rick anymore and Carl could either kill him or be killed by him.
He told himself one last time that he wasn't a kid anymore as he shot his dad straight through the head.
Of course although the whole scene took only a minute, from Rick's resurrection to his second death, Carl would play it over in his mind thousands of times. Remembering the sick feeling in his stomach, in his whole body. Remembering how his blood had felt ten times thicker as it had pounded against his head and against his skin, how in that moment he had felt so small, and he would remember how sick it was that in that moment when he finally realised that his father was gone, he also realised that he needed him. He really needed him.
Recently Carl had changed so much. He was bigger and stronger and he wasn't scared anymore. He hadn't been scared of anything, not really scared, like he used to be. He had really thought that he could have survived on his own if he had to. But he felt so helpless, as his dad's lifeless body lay in from of him, in that silent suburban living room.
That feeling was even more amplified as he walked along the dirt track now out of that seemingly haunted town. He felt like he was ten years old again, as his whole body trembled. Physically he was unhurt, but he had never felt to weak. He practically stumbled along, trying to keep his steps as light as possible, so as not to attract walkers.
Luckily this road was empty. If he had been capable of thinking about anything other than his dad at this moment, he would have been relieved. He could probably barely fight off one walker in the state that he was in.
He had to kill only a couple as he walked on for what felt like hours. His body was screaming for rest, but he couldn't stop. He was afraid of stopping. He had no plan. Not yet. He could only keep moving.