I do not own the Walking Dead.

Heeey, so as usual my updating really sucks, so I apologize for that. Recently I got my Driver's Permit, and I've been trying to work on my studies more lately, so again, sorry.

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Enjoy!


He was lost.

Patrick pushed himself forward, winding around trees and low hanging branches.

Through the dull haze of panic he was experiencing he managed to keep his voice down as he called out for Carl, Michonne, or Rick.

A few Walker stragglers had gotten the jump on them in the forest and they scattered, the undead seemingly dividing them, Patrick on one side, Michonne, Rick, and Carl on the other. Pushing them, further and further away from each other, until Patrick could no longer see them, and he had to turn around- to make sure he didn't trip and fall on a tree root, the Walker in heavy pursuit- which he was glad, the less following the others the better.

At one point he did fall, and heard an unpleasant crunching noise from his bag but at the time had paid it no mind, scrambling to get to his feet before he met his end.

He had just driven his small blade into the Walker's skull, watched it fall to the ground like the others, before he realized he didn't recognize that part of the woods. It had seemed like a perfectly rational decision to try and retrace his steps back to the temporary camp they had set up.

Only by picking the direction he thought he had come from had probably done nothing more than get him even further away from them.

Panic had a firm grip on his heart as he panted and wheezed, twisting around and trying to get some semblance of the area he was in. He shrugged his backpack off his shoulders and let it fall to the soil with a dull thump. It was no good, the trees were too dense; everything looked the same.

He was really lost.

He was alone.

His knees wobbled pathetically, unable to find sturdy purchase on the ground once more, and he sank to the ground, the bark of the tree he was leaning against poking and scratching at his back as he went.

It was too much. The tangy cooper taste in his mouth remained, after he had bitten his lip a bit from the fall. He felt beads of sweat roll down his face, stinging his eyes. The earthy smell and the damp feeling of the sweat and the mossy wet ground below his hands.

He let out a few more shaky breaths and closed his eyes, attempting to calm down. Panic only made things so much worse, and he knew so.

The compass. He suddenly thought, as his eyes snapped back open.

They had worked out a rendezvous spot in case something like this happened. They needed one, after the disaster at the prison. He reached forward and tugged his backpack closer to him, unzipping it. He rooted around in it for a few minutes, the small beams of light casted between the canopy of leaves and branches serving little to no help to him, before his hand closed on it.

A sharp pain flared in his palm and he yanked his arm back, inspecting his hand. There was a small cut in the center, neither big nor deep enough to be worried about or anything though, so he reached back in and delicately this time, extracted his compass.

Which had apparently been smashed. That had explained the noise. The glass had completely been cracked, only a few small piece remaining in the frame, and the back was dented. The needle points seemed to be stuck between North and East. He shook it several times and attempted to move the needles himself, hoping it would somehow fix itself, to no avail.

He heaved a shaky sigh and tossed the broken gadget back into his bag as he let his head fall back against the tree with a thunk.

What was the rest of his group doing right now? Fighting still, or looking for him? Perhaps they were at the rendezvous spot, waiting for him to arrive. Sooner or later they would have to give up if they wanted to make it to Terminus before dark; with or without him there. Would they search for him for a while before giving up? Would Carl let them?

No. He was almost one positive that the three wouldn't leave him behind, and that was what worried him. Searching around in the woods at night with little to no resources that would help seemed like a very, very bad idea.

Lately Carl had grown eerily silent, which was unusual, because he could talk nearly as much as Patrick did once he got going. He was different, more distant. That was understandable, after the prison.

Losing Judith had hit Carl and Rick hard, it was obvious to tell. Hell, it had hit them all hard. He vaguely remembered near the beginning when he wasn't quite ready to deal with the Walkers, still shaken from the loss of his last group. Between helping Carol with kitchen duty he had sometimes helped with feeding and changing Judith. (There was a time at one point where she had seemed to almost imprint on him like a baby duckling and wouldn't stop crying until he was the one holding her, even if that meant having to wake him up in the middle of the night.)

Rick attempted to cover it up by being they're sort of group leader, pushing them forwards and doing his best to keep them safe. Carl on the other hand had seemed to be running on autopilot. He kept a look out when it was his turn, helped with the camp and yet, he had barely uttered a sentence. Michonne seemed to be keeping Rick from the brink of insanity and/or a breakdown, but when it came to Carl Patrick felt helpless.

All three of them had tried hard to get him back, to smile, or laugh or anything really to no avail. Carl had shutdown. It had apparently become his coping mechanism Patrick didn't know where they stood anymore. Any efforts of affection be it hand-holding or hugging Carl turned down. Patrick was at a loss for what to do. Part of him knew that Carl valued his space and he didn't want to smother him, while the other part wanted to pull him close and comfort him.

But comforting could only take you so far, and so Patrick kept to trying to help out the group any way possible

They had had they're safe haven ripped out from under them like a rug they're sanctuary for nearly two years, toppled like a house of cards. After just starting to recover from the illness too, it was like being kicked while they were down. So many questions were left up in the air. If he was to go back to the prison how many of the Walkers would he recognize? How many of them were left? Where were the others if they were alive?

None of them seemed to possess answers for any of the questions, so they had simply walked. And now they were nowhere to be seen. The son had started setting; soon he was going to be eclipsed by a blanket of darkness.

The panic that had been nestled in his heart expanded and threatened to take hold of him. A thin sheen of sweat had started to collect on his forehead, and he reached up and swiped it with the back of his arm. He ducked his head down then and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through the nose, exhaling slowly through the mouth. He hadn't had a fully-fledged panic attack since the outbreak had started.

He kept breathing slow, trying his best to calm down. He had learned it was best to just let the attacks happen instead of fighting them, as they seemed to die down a lot quicker when he went through them.

Minutes ticked by, yet seemed closer to hours before he looked up again, finally through the panic. The sun had descended in the sky, not yet eclipsed by the horizon. Several different shades of orange filtered in through the leaves, and had It been any other circumstance he would have marveled at the beauty.

A bush rustled and shook nearby and he snapped to attention. He leaned forward and grabbed his bag, then his knife that he had must of dropped in the midst of his panic, then climbed to his feet and quietly as possible.

He didn't want to call out, in case it was a Walker, or perhaps a bandit. Who knows how many Walkers lurked in the forest, other than the three they had encountered earlier, or people who had set up camp here. He crept towards the bushes slowly; knife at the ready in front of him, when suddenly a figure emerged from the shrubbery and a katana was pressed lightly to his chest.

Michonne and Patrick both seemed to be equally surprised of each other's presence for a second before she withdrew her weapon, sighing with relief. Patrick felt a similar feeling rush through his entire being and he sagged, sheathing his knife.

"Finally, thank God-" She paused and glanced over her shoulder.

"Guys, I found him! Or really, we found each other." She finished with a grin, reaching over to ruffle his hair playfully as Rick, and then Carl appeared from the trees, both pocketing their weapons.

"I'm glad you guys are okay." Patrick said with a smile. Rick smiled back lightly.

""And we're glad you're okay. We were getting' kinda worried there for a minute."

"I wasn't worried; I always knew Patrick was a tough kid." Michonne commented nonchalantly and sent him a wink. Patrick barely had time to even react before Carl was suddenly there; grabbing him and pulling him close for a hug. Patrick sighed and grasped at him just a tight, if not tighter. He was tired of close calls, like at the prison. Tired of nearly losing loved ones and actually losing others.

"I'm so happy you're okay." Patrick mumbled, burrowing his nose in the crook of Carl's neck.

"I should be the one saying that to you." Carl replied. He moved his arm down and connected their hands, giving it a firm squeeze.

"We should probably get going so we're not bumblin' around the forest in the dark." Rick suggested as he looked around. Michonne hummed in agreement and Carl finally released his iron hold on Patrick, instead letting their joined hands fall and swing slightly as Rick lead the way.

Carl had seemed a fraction better. Still, the Governor had ripped a hole right through their content lives, and it wasn't the easiest thing in the world to come back from, but at least there was some semblance of progress being made.


Gah my endings are always so lackluster and sucky :/ Sorry I'm subjecting you to this nightmare. Also sorry for any mistakes I didn't really proofread this chapter I really wanted to get it out and published for you guys.