I struggled with this immensely.

*I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.*

Chapter 4: Pinky Promise

Inside the gas station is quiet.

Outside is a different story, though.

The sky is grey and cloudy as snow tumbles down from it. Wind blows, making branches on trees bounce and the overgrown shrubs hanging off a rotting fence across the street shake. It's cold and both Carl and I's breath are visible in this forgotten place. Pulling the beanie closer to my skin, I know we're going to have to be quick. In and out, grab the necessities – it is doable. It's gotta be.

Something – a can, perhaps – falls to the floor and the echoing clank catches our attention. Whirling around from the store's front window, the two of us examine the area. Cracked tile, scattered trash, damp floor – that is the bottom. My eyes then pan upwards and I take in the rest: mostly bare shelves, crooked signs, hanging ceiling tiles, and darkness – always darkness. Darkness is lurking in the back . . . where the noise came from.

It is a silent agreement between partners. Actions of meeting eyes and flicking heads are what get us going. I take the right, he takes the left; we'll meet in the middle. My right hand holds the ready gun, left hand grips my knife handle. I am poised and my heart is in my ears as I weave through what's left of aisles and step over numerous flattened boxes and papers and glass and objects – reminders of what was. They forever stick around like the darkness.

My arms shake and my breath is shallow. It doesn't matter if a walker or an animal or a person or even nothing at all is back here – I have to be ready. We have had our fair share of close calls so far this winter. Group members falling down an icy hill while hungry walkers welcomed them at the bottom, getting ambushed by a small band of survivors, Lori almost being bitten during the passing of a herd – we've been through it all, I've seen most of what this world has left to give. Those monsters aren't alive anymore.

Rushing around a corner, I come across a lost walker. It seems human-like for a moment, so I pause, but then it groans, and I know. I hate when they play games and I swallow as the gun is shoved back into my waistband. The biter is unaware of my presence, turned the other way with its matted, dirty blonde hair and hunched back facing my way. This one used to be a girl; gas station worker, too, judging by the Exxon vest hanging down from its shoulders, the left one has a bite.

I have the upper hand here and the decision to creep forward is made. Slowly, quietly, listening, watching . . . Another geek emerges from the depths of darkness, the brim of Carl's sheriff's hat does, too, but my mind is made up. Grabbing the walker by the hair, I yank. It barely has time to hiss before a blade is tucked beneath layers of skin and strands of hair, and I'm twisting. Movement stills. I release the limp body and it hits the ground with a thud. My nostrils pick up on blood and yeah, it's there. It's there in a long string from the skull to me. The crimson liquid drips, drops, and then nothing – nothing but a smothering buzz that fills my eardrums because it can never be truly quiet.

In the back of my head, located much where I stabbed the walker, I feel like I should care that another body just hit the floor and I can't hear Carl anymore and killing is still fairly new and the fact that snow is piling up outside by each breath we take, but I don't.

I had a mindset. I had a job, a promise . . .

And I intend to keep my promises. I'm not like Anna – never again –

A hand – a hand on my arm. I pull away.

Carl. It's okay now, the job is done. We can nod, we can be us. Who are we? Survivors at best.

There's a bang from outside.

"Wind's picking up," I sigh, moving to look at the remains of supplies. "we're gonna have to be quick. Medicine, food, anything that looks useful – grab it. But we need medicine the most."

There. The game plan, it's laid out across the table. I have watched the adults before, observed how they prepare for runs. We – Carl and I – we can do it, too.

Carl takes in my plan, agrees, "Okay. I kind of forgot bags, though."

Backpacks – our backpacks. We left them in the cabin. "Really . . ."

"Sorry, I couldn't stand to be in there anymore – hear another cough, see my mom puke,"

"Yeah, yeah – " I rush out the words, thoughts going back to the sick. We are the only ones untouched, but that isn't how it is supposed to go, is it? Oh no . . . just another wicked game played by the one who is controlling this hellhole.

"Besides, I went past the registers. They have bags here."

Our eyes connect and the next step goes without saying. Carl being my partner may be something still fairly new, but we are not dumb. It's what Rick or Daryl or T-dog or Glenn would do.

So it happens, happens as the wind becomes the background noise, howling like the world is burning down to a crisp. I have to wake up more. Time is running out so I browse through the nearest aisle while Carl gets the pathetic plastic bags marked with the word Exxon. Something light within the darkest depths of the floor catches my eye. Kneeling down to get a better look, I pick up the source. The leather of the right fingerless glove cradles the object and my fingers curl slightly inwards.

It is a cigarette.

The lightness is the white paper the tobacco product is wrapped in. Dad smoked. He'd do it out in the backyard, or on the porch, a lot in Old Blue – God, I miss that truck . . . He never smoked in the house, though, at least until after Mom – she never had smoky breath. Except that one night after the yelling died down and the screen door slammed I came out of my room to find Mom sitting at the kitchen table. Her cheeks were tear-stained and a smoking cigar rested between her fingers. She broke her own rules.

I roll the cigarette between my thumb and forefinger, and the pounding gusts of wind hitting the store seem to fade off. My thoughts wander, go to a place.

But then they come running back because a scream has filled the empty space.

The cigarette falls.

Carl.

A gun replaces it – I move, go, go, go!

Carl, Carl, Carl, Carl . . .

My legs end their journey about the time I round the counter where the register is located. I stop thinking as well about the time my green eyes land on a walker without legs – a crawler – holding on to a familiar boy.

The gun jumps in my hands before I even know I pulled the trigger. A ringing buzz travels to my ears and I can't remember switching the safety off. But I must of had somewhere along the line because the crawler has gone still, its body rolled into itself. My hands are shaking. The gun falls, but I don't stop shaking or move my arms; not until the ringing goes away.

Carl's eyes are wide as they lock onto my form with this look. All of the feeling comes back, crashing over me like a tidal wave.

"Shit," I curse, arms falling limply down to my sides. They're less shaky now. I move closer, his hat is on the tile beside him, upside down now, and I want to reach out to him, to help, but I can't. Just can't.

"I'm fine." he says quick and hurriedly. His eyes are still wide.

I snap to the body – dead body – and scan over its legs that are all guts and blood from the knee down. Then I go to the thing's fingernails, mouth – "It didn't get you – "

"No." interrupts Carl. "I – I'm fine, okay, really . . . No bites. No scratches. I promise," He holds out a shaky pinky. "Pinky promise."

Sighing, I step forward to take his pinky in mine. Squeeze, "You scared the hell out of me."

"Do you think they heard . . ." The walkers, the gunshot, the ringing, the noise –

But the wind.

"I – I don't know."

We wait until it is unbearable. I'd guess it to be a good minute or two, but in that time we could have been gathering supplies, searching for medicine – God, we're desperate. So when nothing happens in those one or two minutes, Carl and I get right to it. The two of us have worked together before, keeping watch here and there, but nothing quite like this. But this is okay because we can read each other, a look or a nod will do. Carl is someone I have allowed to hold the title of my friend, which is something I do not take lightly. He gets it, though, knows we aren't just partners. I see it flicker in his eyes every late night talk we have as his father walks the perimeter and the others sleep. It's there every time I call him Sheriff or we have those rare kid moments. Yep; that's us.

We're kids who can't be kids.

The gas station has a very small stash of cans that we wipe out. There are bits and pieces of candy here and there, it's obvious that this place has been broken into and looted already. No weapons, no ammunition, no medicine . . . yet. Carl manages to snag a tissue box with the really cheap tissues inside and when I come across what's left of a bag of Halls cough drops, my heart speeds up. We're close.

Every nook and cranny of this gas station is to be searched and I find myself back behind the counter with the dead crawler because Carl won't. The cash register has been busted open, money and coins litter the damp tile. Funny how people thought money would actually still mean something when everything went down, money can't buy you another breath these days. The drawers I search through are practically empty. A ball of lint, a pencil . . . useless. The bottom drawer, however, is locked. It is bigger than the rest, too.

Carl gains my attention by tapping on the counter. He holds up a pack of something. "Found matches."

I nod, eyes going back to the task at hand. "This drawer is locked, could have medicine."

The boy chews on his lip for a second, thinks, and then points to the discarded body. "Maybe he has the key."

Oh. So we are calling it a him now.

Carl isn't wrong, though. The walker is not an outsider, but rather a gas station worker just like the woman I took down earlier. They must of locked themselves up in here, considering the fact we had to pretty much rip the door's hinges off to enter. And I try not too much about what else happened to these lifeless souls as I roll the legless body over and begin rummaging through pockets. Vest and shirt pockets – nothing. But then my fingers hit something in the left pants pocket. I pull it out; it feels light and metal, sharp around the edges.

A key.

The key.

My eyes widen for a good reason for once and I exchange a happy glance with my friend. Rushing back over to the drawer, it unlocks with a click, and I pull it out. There is no gun or ammo or any weapons at all.

But there is a box.

I pick it up, hold it to my forehead. I could cry.

A first aid kit.

It's hard to leave hell when you can't see what's in front of you.

Or the sign itself.

The snowstorm seemed to come out of nowhere even though we witnessed the creation. Snowstorms take time to develop and this is Georgia – South where there is suffocating heat and hungry mosquitoes. We aren't up in the mountains or Virginia where Carl went snow tubing.

Georgia. Freaking Georgia.

Georgia is what I know.

Can't recognize it now, though.

Snow is pouring down like rain and wind stings your skin. We can't leave if we tried.

"Do you think they'll come looking?" Carl asks as we stare out the front of the store, the windowed part. We both have Exxon bags digging into our fingers. I don't even want to think about how Rick or Daryl is feeling right now; Lori, too. They could kill us.

"No tracks to look for." I reply and it's the truth.

What is also the truth is that we are stuck in a dark gas station with the medicine our people so desperately need.

The two of us sit with our backs to a still-standing shelf, facing the window because as soon as the time is right, we're gone. It gets dark quicker than I have time to process. We dump dollar bills into a trashcan and Carl throws in a lit match from his pack. Things seem still. I watch the snow fall, wind blow, and flames eat away at the paper. The heat feels nice.

Carl breaks the silence, "My dad told me it was illegal to burn money."

I forget Rick is former cop sometimes, that the hat Carl always wears was once his father's. Nonetheless, I shrug at the boy's statement. "Sue me."

He snorts but it is light and breathy. A crackle sounds from the fire. Watching money burn is like watching the world burn, the old one, at least. "Thanks, for – for earlier."

"Your dad and the others would have done the same." I like to think that.

"But it was a bullet."

"I made it count."

There is some more quiet. His stomach growls.

I reach into my bag.

Carl stops me, "No, I don't want you to – "

We can't risk using any of our gathered supplies, I know.

I pull out two Snickers' bars. "They were kind of for me," I hand one off to Carl. "but I can share."

He grins, eyes widening. "Where did you even find this?" The boy rips open the wrapper, eyes closing as he takes a bite of the chocolate, "Oh my God . . . I can't even remember the last time I had one of these."

I watch him with a smile, an actual smile. "You're welcome, Sheriff."

I ask him if he likes Big Cat's, which he does, so we nibble on chocolate, watching the storm rage on until the money is done burning.

Day one of being stuck is spent waiting. We took turns the night before watching the snow but it never stopped, not even for a second. The bathroom is the way back corner because we can't go outside. Neither Carl nor I eat anything, whatever we can find is burned in the trashcan for warmth.

Nobody comes looking. Not even a walker.

Day two we sharpen knives. Carl says he misses video games and his friends. He had this one that was lactose intolerance; Lori bought special milk when Carl would have him over. My friends got me in trouble most of the time and Payton was someone I was kind of forced to hang out with, so I do not talk about that. I didn't have video games, so can't miss something you never had. I tell Carl I miss the woods and sunshine – hunting.

It has to be something from before the turn, he replies because Carl knows I didn't know how to track before Daryl.

Okay. Fine. So I think some more and say that I miss watching Payton's pony, Sammie, run around in his pasture. I also miss ACDC. My dad had their CD, Back in Black, and it was killer.

We end up giving in and sharing a can of ravioli that night. But just one.

Day three . . . day three is the worst.

Carl wakes me up coughing. He coughs and coughs and coughs until he pukes. His throat is so sore he can barely talk. It feels like my fault that he is sick even though I did nothing to influence it. I could have said no, could have stayed at the cabin . . .

But we have medicine now.

He refuses to take any medicine and I almost chew my fingers off because I worry. Carl could die and we're all infected and if he were to – I couldn't, I wouldn't . . . Not him.

The fever almost gives me a heart attack. And I sit with my gun in my hand all night, watching him instead of the snow, because his clogged nose makes strange noises while he sleeps. I'm scared. I don't build a fire because of his fever and I am sweating from nerves in this frigid air.

Day four we can't wait anymore, there is no more time. It's like that big digital clock in the CDC with its scary, fast-moving red digits.

We have to go.

I can't feel a thing. The snow is up to our thighs. My exposed fingers from my finger-less gloves grip the bags, all eyes stay on the staggering Carl as he leads. It's hard to see but we push on anyways. Carl hits a gas pump, a car – feeling around; we eventually find the road, sliding down the small bank.

Carl points, covering his mouth as he coughs, "Straight . . . ahead . . ." he croaks out.

The two of us keep going. Our heads are bowed because of the snow. Carl holds his hat; I make sure not to lose the bags. I run into something, a solid body colliding with my own.

But it isn't Carl.

A walker, yes, a walker. It was just standing around and I ran into it. Of course. The thing registers me as food and we both fall back into the deep snow. Rolling around, I try to keep its teeth and claws away from me, but there is still some fight left in this one. It is about to close in on my neck and this is a stupid way to die, pinned down in two feet of snow.

And something must agree because the walker stills, body falling slack onto mine. A blade is sticking out of the back of its head and here is barely-holding-on Carl. He rolls it off of me and we steady each other as I stand.

"Everything is spinning." he tells me in barely a whisper. I start to panic and we only get about ten more feet down the road before he collapses. My friend is burning as I try to pull him back up, wake him up – nothing.

All I get is his pinky wrapping around mine.

Pinky promise.

Quick thinking. Quick thinking has me tying the bags to my belt lop, yanking him to his feet, making sure the hat is on steady, and then beginning to walk him down the road I can't even see.

I can't feel anything but the heat of his pinky in mine.

Nothing seems to really matter. I just go. The snow isn't cold, the wind doesn't sting, and I don't care that I lost my beanie some time ago in all of this snow. I walk until my body can't take being weighed down anymore. Everything goes down when the cabin comes into sight. My eyes can barely make it out but it is still there. I stay on the ground, count to ten.

And then my broken body continues.

I end up dragging Carl through the snow the rest of the way. He's completely out of it. The door opens and I fall through it, still linked with the other breathing body.

My feeling doesn't come back until my back hits the floor, lungs struggling to claim air.