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

Chapter 36: Stupid Kills

A week passes. A week of spending time down at the stable with Brownie. A week of ignoring others. A week of molding back into my old and guarded self. A week of grieving and crying until nothing. The days appear to get colder with each new one and people have gone out on runs to get warmer clothes. Funny how it seems to come down to clothes these days . . . it always used to be food before we came to this place.

This whole week was nothing. Until something happened – something different happened yesterday.

Shane and Rick took Randall out yesterday morning – just after dawn – and there was still fresh dew on the grass when they left. The kid had healed up nicely from his injury and Rick claimed that they were going to take him eighteen miles out, drop him off somewhere he would have a chance, and leave him there. I agreed with this plan not just because I had to, but because I actually really liked it. It was reasonable, had thought put into it, and the last thing I wanted Rick to have to do is put a bullet in Randall's head because he saved him, for Christ's sake.

But when the green car came speeding back into the yard as the sun was sinking down to rest yesterday, Randall was still there – duck taped and blindfolded in the trunk like he was just kidnapped. Shane grabbed the kid and threw him back into the shed we're keeping him holed up in. Not one word was said about it and nobody asked.

Until today, until this morning – until . . . now.

My people all stand around camp – except Daryl, but he never comes down from his setup anymore – and I stare down at my new boots someone brought back from a run a few days ago. They're black, one size too big, but I really like the way the laced-up leather looks on my feet – and they keep my toes warm. I tossed my old sneakers out as soon as I was presented the new shoes. I don't want anything of my past and the sneakers were falling apart at the seams.

The fire is burning bright and Lori bends down to fill a cup with hot chocolate the flames have been heating, she asks her husband, "So whatcha gonna do? We'd all feel better if we knew the plan." She hands the blue cup off to Carl and her eyes move to me because she has a second cup, but I just shake my head. I don't eat or drink much these days . . .

"Is there a plan?" cuts in Andrea.

Glenn presents the possibility of Randall becoming one of us.

"We'll know soon enough." replies Rick from his spot beside Shane. His lip is busted and Shane has a black eye. Something happened out there between those two yesterday and I don't like it. Rick nods at something behind everyone and my eyes slip from him and go all the way over to the new approaching figure.

Daryl. His crossbow is perched on his back and as he gets closer, I notice the fresh blood running down each knuckle on his hands. I pull up short.

"Boy there's got a gang, thirty men," he says, slowing to a halt, but all I can pay attention to is the bloody fists. I really hope he didn't – "They've got heavy artillery and they ain't lookin' to make friends. They roll through here, our boys are dead. And our woman, they're gonna . . . they're gonna wish they were." I feel his stare on me and I release my hold on the ripped skin – I know what he did. Our eyes meet.

"What did you do?" Carol asks and the gaze is dropped. His eyes slide to her, down to the knuckles, and then he answers,

"Had a little chat."

A chat. "Yeah, sure . . ." I say under my breath as he walks past because I can see right through him. But then my eyes catch the way Carl is looking at Daryl like he is some damn hero and I get taken back all over again. Torturing people is bad and Randall is just a kid that probably didn't take one shot at my people – Glenn froze up and hid, he told me that two nights ago – and Daryl said he wouldn't, he couldn't –

But he did.

Rick orders, "No one goes near this guy!" Lori asks him what he is going to do. There is a sigh, stiffness settles in the air, and then, "We have no choice, he's a threat. We have to eliminate the threat."

I stare hard at the man, swallow. I feel numb.

"You're just gonna kill him?" questions Dale, and yeah, that is what Rick is going to do, I suppose.

Can't say I agree with that.

But his tone is certain, there is no room for arguing – protests. "It's settled. I'll do it tonight."

Rick walks away, then, and Dale is right on his heels. My arms hang limply down at my sides and just like that we're going to kill Randall, end his life. I could easily be Randall, tortured and locked up in that shed. These people found me, I came from a hostile group, and they didn't even know who I was. But Rick was different then, I was, too; this whole group was. Something has shifted. We're more than just misfits or hotheads.

And I'm having a hard time deciding if we shifted towards the better side instead of the worse.

I run into Carl and Shane later on while walking around the farm. Walking is something I've been doing a lot lately and I know it's stupid and stupid kills, but I have limits to where I go. I always stay in sight, don't go into the woods or near the property line, and I never set foot near the barn or the graves.

Shane and Carl are talking about Randall because I hear "kid" fall from their mouths more than once. I'm under a heavily shaded tree so they don't see me yet, I stay hidden.

"Look, man," says Shane, he's carrying a stick. "this is – this is grownup stuff, alright?" He stops walking, his boots scuffle on the dirt, and then he pats Carl's shoulder. "You just – you just let us handle this." Shane leaves the boy in the Sheriff's hat and goes over to Andrea, who is sitting in front of the shed. Stepping out from the trees, I move up next to Carl.

"It's not really grownup stuff, we know what killing is," I comment, eyeing Andrea and Shane. I think my voice startled Carl because I see him flinch, even though he tries to hide it.

Carl stares at the adults and the shed with me. "I want to see him." he says.

"The kid?"

"Shane said that 'kid' was just a figure of speech but yeah, I want to see him."

I turn my head in his direction. "You already saw him; we all got a good look."

Carl looks at me, fixes the hat. "I want to see what he looks like now, though." I scrunch up my face because I'm confused and then he's asking, "You gonna come?"

Come where? The shed? I can't –

I warm him, "Shane and Andrea are right there,"

"I know a different way." He starts to walk off and I call after him, teeth clenched.

"Carl! We're going to . . . we're going to get in trouble!"

Carl is a few feet away now and he looks over his shoulder. "You scared?" It's the same question he asked me back on the highway with that arsenal.

"No – "

"Then come on!"

My green eyes do a quick sweep of the area before I groan and chase after the boy. I follow him to the back of the shed and he's crazy, this is stupid, and we're bound to get in trouble.

But yet I willing climb onto an old, rusty tractor to reach the open window in the rear of the building.

And I don't even hesitate in jumping down from the windowsill and walking across the creaky floorboards to sit down at the edge of the shed's loft.

Randall is on the ground level of the shed, chained to the wall. Handcuffs are clipped tightly around his wrists and I'm sure by now they have cut into the skin, rubbing it raw. It takes a minute, but then he notices us – Carl and me – sitting just above him.

A grin spreads across his face; I can hear murmurs of Andrea and Shane's conversation outside. "Hey!" Randall whispers. He looks to the door before he opens his mouth again, looking directly at Carl. "That's a sweet hat. I'm Randall. What's your guys' names?"

Neither of us reply, best we not say a word.

"The Sherriff guy – that your dad?" he asks Carl, smiling. "I like him." Randall looks to me. "And – and the crossbow dude . . . that one's your dad, huh?"

I don't have a dad.

"They're good guys, I can tell."

That's hard for me to believe after seeing those bloody fists and hearing how quickly the decision was made to kill the person currently standing right before my eyes.

"Your moms' out here, too?" My head drops down and I guess Randall realizes because he starts to talk to Carl again. "You're – you're lucky you still got a mom. I lost mine along with the rest of my family."

Carl hasn't lost anything. I've lost everything – like Randall.

I could easily be him.

"Hey, I – I don't know what people been sayin' 'bout me, but – "

Carl gets up, then, and starts to move. He goes over to the ladder, starts climbing down. I stop myself from calling out his name, but rather follow him. Why I do this? I don't know. I don't even know why I'm in here. To prove I am not scared, I guess.

Even though I'm terrified.

Just not of Randall.

" – didn't do nothin'! I swear!" I catch Randall saying, "The Sheriff guy was gonna let me go, till his friend started fightin' with him."

Shane?

My foot touches the first ladder rung; Carl is already at the bottom.

"It got pretty bad,"

I move quickly, I'm halfway down.

"I – I was kinda worried."

I'm not sure what he means by that – the whole world got "pretty bad". I jump off of the ladder, leaving the last two rungs, because I am starting to hate it. Now that I'm closer, I can see Randall better and it looks like he's been to hell and back. His face is a wreck. One eye is swollen halfway shut, some of his teeth are crooked while others are missing altogether, and he walks with a limp.

And way deep down – in the pit of my stomach and all feeling – I feel kind of sorry for him.

"My camp, we got lotsa supplies." Carl starts to creep forward and I have no choice but to follow. We're just two idiots getting closer to the threat. "You two help me . . . I'll take you and your folks back to my people." He nods frantically, leaning forward. "We'll take good care of you. Keep you safe."

Carl keeps getting closer and I eye him. His face is serious, he's not stopping. He can't –

"Just gotta – just gotta help me get outta here, okay? Just . . . just help me pick these locks or find the key, okay?"

Randall's voice is frantic, desperate, and strangled from all he has been through, but we can't help him. We have to leave, Carl, it's time to go.

"C'mon, please? Please?"

Randall yanks on the chains just as the door is harshly opened, letting light into the shed. Shane barges in, I freeze up, my stomach drops – I feel like throwing up. Swiping an arm out, he pushes Carl and me back into a corner. This is exactly what I didn't want to happen; this is why we had to go. "What the hell're you doin' in here?"

But then Shane's attention isn't on us anymore – Carl and I – it's on Randall. Oh poor kid, just leave him alone . . . please.

"What did you say to them? Man, what did you say to them?!" Randall doesn't even get to form a word much less an explanation before Shane has him by the throat and up against the wall.

"I didn't say nothin' – "

Shane's gun is out now and he shoves it in the kid's face. " – I will shoot you where you sit – " He's going to kill him, I know Shane will, and now thinking back, he probably killed Otis, too; made up some sob story and I believed it – ate it right out of the palm of his hand. That was blood on Shane's hands, though, not mine, but this one – this boy – will be on me. Carl may be here, too, but this is mostly me.

Because I had the power to stop him from coming in here.

Now look at me . . . all bunched up in the corner and about to see someone's brain's blown out when they don't even deserve it.

"Okay, Shane," Andrea's voice comes through and I forgot about her, but I am glad she's here. "Not now!"

Shane has the gun at Randall's lips, he is yelling at him to open his mouth – Randall won't. Andrea keeps shouting Shane's name over and over and over again, but he won't stop, he'll never stop until the kid is dead on the ground.

I don't want to see that.

Shane is screaming now. "You like talking, man? You like talking?"

Andrea yells, "Back off!" And then the gun is away, Shane is away from Randall, and I'm being dragged outside by my shirt; the fear firing up all over again.

"Get your asses out this door, let's go!"

Shane tosses us out into the grass and I stumble across the new terrain, almost falling into the dirt. The man asks what the hell we were doing and I don't know – I really don't. My heart is racing in fear, I feel hot all over.

"Please don't tell my parents!" Carl cries as he struggles to regain balance. Me? Well, that sentence doesn't matter to me; I have no parents to tell.

I manage to find my footing and stand up straight again just as Shane walks over to the two of us. He looks pissed. "Carl, River – that ain't cool, man. You two could've gotten hurt in there."

I stay quiet because it's the best thing to do, I would know. Carl, though, he talks; talks for both of us, "We can handle ourselves!"

Shane inches closer, my fists curl – I can't help it. "Let me tell you something – " He points directly in our faces, I lean back – can't help that either. "You do not go near him again. Do you hear me?" His pointed look goes from Carl to me, Carl to me. "Damn it – "

Carl plays the parent card again. Shane sighs, paces, and then says that this ain't about getting into trouble. He points to the barn, "A guy like that, he will say anything to you. He will – he'll try to make you feel sorry for him, he'll try to make you get your guard down."

My fists uncoil themselves; I take a step back because I have to.

"You let your guard down out here, people die."

Yeah, I know, I know, I know. I was stupid and stupid kills but – but I still feel bad for him; can't change how I feel about that.

"Now just – do me a favor, both of you, go find the others. Go on."

He waves us off and I move, move as fast as I can.

"Carl!"

We stop, turn.

"Quit trying to get yourself killed, man." His voice wobbles.

And then we go.

I get the usual nicker as I enter the stable. My feet lead me right to the stall and then I'm stroking Brownie's face as he nuzzles me.

"Hey . . ." I breathe, taking in the familiar horse scent. My voice sounds tired and scratchy like Rick's, but I don't feel tired. Stepping back, I rummage through my brown jacket's pockets until I find the apple. I pull it out. "I only managed to smuggle you an apple. Here," Brownie blows into my palm before he snatches the fruit. As the animal chews, I let a little smile slip from my lips.

"River?" My head whips in the direction of the voice to see no other than Carl standing in the doorway, the sunshine reflecting off of him. I don't reply so he walks closer, stops a few feet away from me.

He sighs, "I made Carol mad."

"How?" I start to pet Brownie again.

"Told her Heaven wasn't real,"

I still. "Carl – "

He moves closer, his voice rising. "Well, it isn't."

I shrug; maybe it is maybe it isn't.

"Do you believe in one?" he questions me.

"My mom's dead, Carl . . . And if there is a so-called Heaven out there, I'd like to believe she's there."

"Oh – " It gets quiet. Carl kicks around some hay on the floor before he says, "I didn't come in here to talk about that, though. I came because I found something cool and I wanted to show you it."

I back away from Brownie, pull my jacket closer, before I meet his eye. "Lead the way."

He grins and maybe we could be friends, just maybe.

Maybe is a longshot.

We walk for a while and end up in the woods that I told myself time and time again I wouldn't go near. I have no clue where we are going and I don't know why I'm still following him. I just . . . go, I guess.

We're gonna end up getting ourselves killed, just like Shane said.

"Did you see Randall's face?" Carl asks as I step over a log and the leaves crunch underneath our boots.

I hear crows call in the distance; this whole place is like a maze. "Yeah."

"Daryl really got him good, didn't he?" There is brightness to his tone and his face has a slight gleam to it; I halt – halt right in the middle of these confusing woods.

Carl notices. He stops, too. "River – "

I just let it out; say what needs to be said here. "Stop seeing him as some damn hero that just made your life."

"What?"

"It's not good that Daryl beat him up . . . He was torturing him!"

Carl moves a step closer. He looks offended, is he offended? "Who said you knew anything about beating people up?"

That's it. I lunge at him, not that I even make a move to hit him; I just get in his face. Scream, "Like hell I don't!"

My words linger, sting. Some rabbits scamper off and then I'm shuffling away.

Carl starts, "Your scars – "

"Stop," I move back into the direction we were going. "Let's just – let's just go see what you wanted me to . . ."

"Okay."

We end up at a riverbank. At first, I don't see what is so special about it, but then Carl nudges me and points across the water to the other side where a used-to-be man stands ankle deep in the mud. It's a shirtless walker, you can see its bones, and it has strands of straggly hair on its head. Growling, it turns towards us. My hand goes to my knife. What used to be the walker's jaw is replaced with ripped-up skin and drool drips down from its grimy teeth. Just like every other walker, its eyes are clouded-over – blank.

Suddenly, the creature snarls, clamps its teeth, and lunges forward. I grab onto Carl to pull him away because I've had enough of stupid things for one day, but he yanks out of my grasp.

"It's stuck." he says simply.

The walker continues to thrash around in the mud and I clutch my sheathed knife as I watch it. "What if it gets loose?"

"It's not gonna," Carl replies, he picks something up off the ground – hands it over. "Here."

A rock.

Carl has one, too, and before I know what is happening, he chucks it at the hungry monster. It hits the walker's arm, it snarls, and then the boy looks to me. "Your turn,"

I give him a look because this is completely stupid, but I throw the rock anyways – it hits the walker's chest. Surprisingly, it felt good.

Two more rocks are thrown, one from Carl and one from me. Carl hits the leg and I hit the shoulder – nobody gets a perfect bullseye.

Carl pulls out a gun, then, and my eyes immediately go to it. "Where'd you get that?"

"Daryl's motorcycle." he replies, eyeing it.

I make a face at him. "Carl, what the hell . . ."

"It's fine. I can protect myself." He looks over at the walker. "I'll show you."

And then, he scampers across a fallen tree, using it as a bridge to get to the other side of the river.

"Carl!" I hiss after him, I'm getting tired of this. "Carl!"

That is Daryl's gun and a real live walker and we're alone in the woods and we all know what happened last time Carl took a gun without permission.

Carl aims the gun at the thrashing walker and right now, well, right now I could kill him. If stupid doesn't get him first . . . because stupid kills.

"Carl! Put the gun down! Now!" I yell, still on the other side of the fallen tree. My fists are clenched tight, my knuckles turning white.

"I can do it!" he snaps back. His aim is all messy, going every which way. Doesn't help the walker won't stop freaking out either.

I move closer, my foot kicks the tree. "The gun will make too much noise! If you're going to do it at least take my knife – "

All of the sudden, a squishy sound is heard and the walker falls forward, for one of its legs is now free. Carl falls down, loses the gun, and screams.

"Carl!" I shout and before I know it, I am across the tree and at the scene. Carl is whimpering on the ground, struggling to crawl away, and frantically looking for the gun in the leaves. The walker has a firm grip on his legs and I kick its arms as hard as I can, almost losing a boot in the process. They let up and then I have Carl and am dragging him back.

"The gun – "

"No time. Let's go!"

Running back over the makeshift bridge, Carl and I dash away.

Leaving nothing but Daryl's gun and the shirtless walker behind.

I wrote this all in one day.

*pats myself on the back*

~ Rainy