Silence greeted Carl on the other side of the door. The room was covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs that hung from the pictures on the walls like lace. Nothing inside was broken or out of place but Carl didn't allow himself to feel optimistic. Leaving the door ajar behind him, he cleared his throat loudly and waited. Nothing. Taking a step forward into the living room, he walked towards the wall and slammed his hand into the drywall, dust raining down on him. He listened for footsteps, groaning or voices, even, but heard nothing. Continuing forward, he raised his shotgun back up, hearing his footsteps creaking loudly on the wooden floor. The hallway straight ahead gave way to two tiny bedrooms, both sparsely furnished, the beds dusty but still made. The bathroom at the end of the hall was dark, it's small window covered over with vegetation. Returning back down the hall, Carl approached the kitchen, gun still raised but his heart no longer pounding.

The cupboards were open and empty, but Carl could see several large aluminium cans perched on top. Confident he had cleared the house entirely, Carl returned to the living room, ripping out the A/V cables from behind the TV with his left hand while his right still clutched the shotgun. He crossed the room back to the door, closing it and wrapping the cables around the door knob and tying them to the curtain tie-back in a clove hitch. He remembered Shane's large, rough hands as he had demonstrated the knot over and over. Twisting the doorknob to test its strength, Carl was relieved to find it didn't budge. Turning back into the empty room, he let go of a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. The panic of immediate survival began to fade, giving way to unbearable sadness. His back made contact with the door and he slid down, dropping his gun to one side, taking off the useless, empty holster at his thigh. His handgun had fallen in the midst of the explosions and gunfire, while he was holding the shotgun Daryl had given him at the fence. Tears sprung to Carl's eyes again and he let them fall, bringing his knees into his chest and resting his head on them in defeat. The sun was nearly down now, and although he had found shelter, he felt no comfort or safety at all.

Night fell and Carl didn't move once. He remained with his back to the door, curled up with his head on his knees but aware, vigilant. He could hear leaves blowing along the ground outside, and an occasional indistinct rustling sound. He didn't lift his head. He didn't have the energy or the will to. His tears had long since dried and his breathing had slowed. He felt his eyes growing heavy and although he tried to fight it, sleep overtook him.

When he woke, it took Carl a few moments to remember where he was and how he got there. He had a few blissful seconds of ignorance before reality came rushing back in full force. Images of everyone he lost swam through his mind, their faces frozen in fear just as they had been yesterday when everything changed, everything ended. It was especially painful to dwell on memories of his father, more painful than recalling his mother in the days after Judith's birth. He allowed the pain and grief to consume him, to rip through his veins like fire until he could no longer stand the weight of it and had to push it down. When he regained his composure he stood up on shaky legs, turning to confirm that the cables on the door knob were holding. He peered out the window for a few moments but couldn't see anything. Carl grabbed his gun, heading for the kitchen, dragging a chair from the small dining table along with him. Looking around cautiously, along the counter tops and into the kitchen sink, he pulled the chair up to the counter and stepped up. It was still quite a reach to get to the cans, requiring him to rise up on one foot and slowly nudge the cans closer until he could grab them and pull them down one by one. As he stepped down from the dining chair, he felt a head rush and paused to blink back the black spots clouding his vision. He was hungry, but remembered he had to be careful.

He turned the labels on the cans lined up on the counter to face forward. Five cans. Peaches, water chestnuts, kidney beans, pickled beets and the largest tin, chocolate pudding. Carl's eyes lit up momentarily, a brief, fleeting feeling of excitement in his stomach that disappeared as quickly as it came. Pulling out the drawers until he found a can opener. He looked at the cans before him, and yearned to open the large can, but he knew his body needed water, and the peaches were the most palatable thing canned in it. He quickly pried open the can and brought the can to his nose. He sniffed it once, smelling the unspoiled fruit inside and examined it for a moment the way his mother has taught him to. The fruit inside looked bright and fresh, making his stomach ache with hunger. Bringing it to his lips he tipped the can slightly and took a small sip of the sweet, syrupy water. It tasted as it should, better than he ever remembered. He downed the liquid in a second gulp, before tipping the fruit into his mouth as well, eating it entirely in only a few mouthfuls. Immediately feeling the rush of the sugar, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and threw the empty can into the sink, feeling satisfied. He began going through the contents of the drawers, mostly loose cutlery until he found a sturdy, sharp fileting knife with a leather sheath. He dropped it in his pocket, thankful to have an extra weapon. Grabbing his gun, he walked though the living room to the window facing out to the street. Carl could see leaves being stirred up in the wind but couldn't see any signs of movement outside. He tried to think back to the path he had taken yesterday but in the panic of it all he couldn't remember which way he had gone or how far from the prison he had come. Couldn't be more than a few miles, he reasoned. If anyone else had gotten out, surely they would try to go back and check for others. If his Dad made it out alive he would go back for him. Carl clung to that thought as he pulled the knotted cables off the door knob and stepped out into the sunlight.

/

The first thing Michonne saw when she opened her eyes was Rick prone form lying on the floor, propped on his side with old clothing and tablecloths she had found. His breath was quiet but rattling, and she let her eyes remain on him for a few moments until she was sure his breaths were real. Yesterday she had virtually carried his bleeding, worn out body through the door and he collapsed suddenly, and hadn't shown any signs of life since then besides his wheezing breath. Michonne dragged him away from the door and turned him on his side like she knew she was supposed to do. She had cleared out the food behind the counter, and found a bag of pork rinds, sealed bottle of water and a one ounce bottle of cheap vodka which now lay on the floor beside her. Now again in the light of day she could see the blood coating Rick face and the hole in his jeans where the bullet had deeply grazed Rick leg.

"Rick," Michonne said softly, shaking him gently and receiving no response. His small, shuddering breaths continued. Taking hold of the fabric of his jeans around his leg wound, Michonne ripped it slowly, exposing the gash filled with fresh and crusted, dried blood. Reaching for the vodka, she unscrewed the small metal cap before dropping it and holding the bottle above Rick leg. She steeled herself for his reaction when she poured the clear liquid slowly into the hole in his jeans, but none came. He was as still and silent as ever, even as Michonne wrapped the cleanest looking piece of fabric she could find around it and tied it securely. She sat back and continued to search his face for signs of life, but ultimately had to look away when Rick lay unmoving. She bit her lip sadly and stood up, peering out the window and across the property. A lone walker shuffled past on the road, only a silhouette against the early morning sun but distinct in its movements. Her eyes fell on the garage wall along the side of the building, barely visible from where she was standing but she could still read the name written there. She still felt numb, like she had after the refugee camp had fallen when this all began. There had been nothing left of her little boy, no body to cling to, nothing to bury. Mike and Terry lay slumped on the floor, bleeding, pleading, but she stood and watched as their bodies grew grey and cold. She had no time to cry. As the walkers had begun closing in on her that day, she took her blade, carving out their jaws and hacking off their arms. She escaped with them but still utterly alone. They followed her like ghosts, the sight of their mutilated faces bringing a wave of unbearable pain to the pit of her stomach but she made herself feel all of it. It was what she deserved, it was all that she had.

A loud, choking breath suddenly came from Rick, breaking Michonne out of her thoughts. Coming back to his side, she placed a hand on his back, feeling it rising and falling with his shallow breathing. He was warm to the touch under her fingers and that brought her comfort, her hand remaining there. He was still alive, at least for now. For now she had better things to do than let grief consume her.

/

As soon as the door closed behind him, Carl could hear faint growling and shuffling around the side of the house. Remembering the knife in his pocket, he set the shotgun down against the front door slowly and waited. When it came into view, he paused for a moment to make sure there was only one. It saw him immediately and stretched out its arms, mouth gaping and dripping. Carl took a couple steps forward, leading it out onto the road. Feeling confident with just one walker, Carl gripped the knife in one hand and used his other to grab it at the neck, holding it there for a minute to plan his movement. He brought the knife up to the side of its head, plunging it through the temple and yanking it out as the rotten flesh and bone gave way beneath it. The walker fell over him with heavy limbs, making him stumble backwards and fall.

"Well lookit what we have here, boys." A deep voice came from behind him, making his chest tighten in panic, his hair standing on end. Scrambling to his feet, Carl whipped around and was met with six men, who appeared to have just left the overgrown house next door. Four had guns trained on him and began circling him. The one who had spoken, the oldest, simply grinned at him. He had curly, grey hair and a goatee that sat below yellow teeth. A fat, balding man beside him was rubbing his hands together excitedly. Carl was shaking, breathing hard as he tried to keep tabs on the armed men behind him while keeping distance from the two men in front of him. He was trapped, alone and defenceless. His gun lay twenty feet away, unreachable. The leader, the man who had spoken, laughed aloud in a cruel, patronizing tone that made anger rise up in Carl despite his fear. "We done found a new friend, you reckon?" His laugh echoed in Carl's head. The man gestured behind Carl, grinning still. Before he could react he was struck on the head and everything faded to black.