AN: This is something that I wrote for USS CARYL's emotions fanfiction challenge. The emotions are pride and satisfaction. This is my first piece of fiction I have ever written, and I feel like having an anxiety attack just posting it but I have the lady balls to do so, so I'm going to. Be gentle :)
Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead. No copyright infringement intended.
She wiped her knife off, the blood staining the fabric of her paints, red and brown mixing into a dark black color. The walker lay at her feet, eye cavity gaping, oozing dark, putrid fluid onto the ground. She stared at it, hardly believing it had come to this. Sound rushed around her, her ears roaring from the adrenaline pumping through her veins. She stepped back, picked up her pack from the ground and glanced at her surroundings. It appeared this walker was a loner, no more were staggering around.
Quietly, she mounted the rickety steps to the cabin door and gently nudged it open. It was small, one room sparsely furnished. The previous occupant had apparently taken precautions. The windows were boarded over already. She saw one small cot against the wall across from her, a small end table next to it, a tiny chair that hardly looked stable and a camp stove.
Good luck with that.
She double checked behind her and shut the door. She couldn't stay here indefinitely, but it was getting dark and she was exhausted.
The past few days were catching up to her. Little to no sleep, worrying over everyone, the physical toll of caring for the sick-it was all coming to a head and suddenly she just wanted to drop to her knees. She was so tired. Tired of it all. Of living in this messed up world, never knowing which hazard would be the one to get you. She was prepared for most of them. Time with the group, with him, had seen to that.
She straightened her shoulders, mentally shrugging off the weight. There wasn't anything she could do now but take care of what was in front of her. Survive. Live. Go on. It's what he would do. No opting out. She chuckled, remembering how he always sneered at that choice.
"Ain't nothin to do but keep on livin."
She slid the cot in front of the door, a makeshift barricade, and rolled out her sleeping bag. Lying down, she listened to the night sounds: the wind blowing, the trees rustling, and the boards around the windows creaking. She could hear an owl in the distance and remembered that day long ago when they had so little. Back before the prison, he had shot the bird, giving up most of his portion to Lori and Carl. She ended up splitting her share with him to ensure he ate. Her breath hitched. Oh, how she missed him! One lone tear squeezed out of the corner of her eye and trickled its way down the side of her face, pooling by her ear. She swiped it away. Crying won't do you any good right now. She needed her rest so she could wake early and move on.
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It was a long night. She didn't sleep well, the hard floor a stark difference from what she'd become accustomed to in the prison. She finally gave up trying to sleep, well before dawn. She gathered up her bed stuff and ate a small ration of her food supply and allowed herself a quarter of a bottle of water, saving the rest, not knowing when she would come across a water supply.
She waited for dawn, mentally listing what she had to accomplish for the day. It was something she was used to, planning out her day, making lists, inventory-that was just a small part of her contribution at the prison-it helped her organize her mind. She needed to find water and make it to the shelter.
The one they'd chosen. It was predetermined that they would head to the safe house if anything happened to the prison, or if she'd ever been caught outside for any reason. He'd made sure she knew about it. The whole council knew, it was then disseminated to the rest of the prison populace. But he had made sure she, specifically, knew where it was, how to get there, and the route she should take from various different points. He quizzed her on it a few times a month. She had come a long way in the past two years, but he had helped make sure that she would be able to survive in the woods, the outside, the wild, unlike...nope. Don't think about that. You have things to do.
The sun finally started peeking through the slats at the windows. She stood, her knees popping and cracking, and slid the cot away from the door. Slinging her pack on, she gripped her knife and opened the door, slowly glancing out to check and ensure the coast was clear.
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She trudged through the woods most of the day, stopping only to put down the occasional walker, or get a quick bite and drink of water.
She could feel the sweat soaking her through her shirt, dampening her armpits and underneath her breasts. God, she hated sweaty underboobs! She stopped for a minute to pull her shirt away from her stomach, letting some air infiltrate the cotton and cool her sweat drenched skin. The air wasn't much cooler but it helped alleviate her moment of heat rage to feel the breeze on her skin. She finally dropped her shirt back and tightened the strap of her pack.
She continued on to a clearing, checking the sky. The sun was almost directly overhead. Midday. She edged back into the woods and found a tree with a low-hanging branch. She clambered up, resting her back against the trunk. She could tell by the land marks that she was getting close.
She was doing this. She was making it by herself, granted it was only a day, but if someone had told her a year ago that she would be on her own, she'd have been terrified, sure that she would perish. But she was managing, on her own, no one to have her back or relieve her for watch and she was proud of herself. She was strong. Every time she had believed Ed that she was weak, that she was a burden, she had been wrong. He had been wrong.
She'd fought her way into a cell and survived. She'd fought the governor and survived. She'd fought sickness, starvation, sadness, loneliness...she'd beaten it all. And now, she was taking on a forest full of walkers and she would survive that too.
Mentally rested, physically rested, and with a bit more food and water in her belly, she climbed down and continued on her journey.
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She made it through the clearing and about another mile when she came upon the stream he had told her about. She took her pack off and got out her supplies.
She knelt by the stream and quickly assembled a small fire pit using rocks from the creek bed to surround it. Gathering up some kindling, she built a small fire, using one of her precious matches and the techniques she had learned over the many months they had been on the road. She got the fire going and filled her enamel cup with water, setting it near the fire on a small shelf of rocks. Once it boiled for the amount of time required (she counted off the minutes in her head, she had nothing else to do) she managed to drag it out of the fire, using the corner of her jacket to avoid burning her fingers. She poured it into her canteen and repeated the process until she filled the canteen and her thermos.
She was sweating again, the drops beading on her upper lip and around the nape of her neck. She wiped it away, glancing around, listening, staying alert to her surroundings. From behind her she heard slight moaning and groaning, a sign her fire had attracted attention of the wrong kind of company. She quickly doused the fire, splashing her face and arms in the process, hating the dirt and grime accumulated there. She was definitely not him. Taking her socks and shoes off, she lifted them above her head and gradually made her way across the stream.
The cool water chilled her sweaty skin. The sharp corners of the rocks lining the creek bed assaulted the soft tender skin on the soles of her feet. She wasn't used to going without shoes, it was dangerous to have skin exposed. But she could hear him in her head, warning her of the dangers of walking around in wet socks and shoes. Not to mention, blisters were one headache she didn't need.
She made her way up the other side, dried her feet as best she could on the legs of her pants that she rolled back down, and put her socks and shoes on. The moaning sounded closer; she needed to be on her way. Gripping her knife she plunged ahead in her trek to her sanctuary.
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She could see the doors ahead. It wasn't much further. Thank God! Her body was weary, but it was a good weary. Like how she imagined someone would feel after running a marathon. She was close, her goal line was in sight. She could taste the victory, having made it this far on her own. A few walkers were all that stood in her way now, and she dispatched them handily. At last, she had arrived.
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He approached the building, examining the walkers on the ground. They were arranged strategically in front of the doors, their stench masking any remnants of the scent of live bodies in the vicinity.
He banged on the door, a musical knock of sorts, and called out for her.
"Carol!"
He could hear rustling around inside, her removing the barricade. The door opened. The blue of her eyes accosted him.
A burst of pride welled up in him exploding out of every nerve ending in his body. She had made it, she survived, she fought, she lived. There was never a doubt. She was strong. He stared at her. She wore a look of pride and satisfaction. She smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling in the way he knew so well.
"Yes, Pookie?"
AN: I had to update this because I forgot to include a disclaimer, and I fixed a few typos, as well as putting the breaks that somehow got left off in the original version. :)