Holy shit, he's tall. Michael looked up at the walker pressing its face up against the fence. He lifted the spear awkwardly and tried to level it with the giant's head. Michael was 5'10', well he was the last time he checked anyways, and he struggled to get the spear to find its mark on the front of the walker's head. Pausing for a second, he lowered the weapon to under the tall man's chin and thrust it upward, piercing his brain and causing the monster to collapse under its own weight, nearly taking Michael to the ground with him.

He looked down at the man with a chortle. "Gotcha you big bastard."

It was a Tuesday. Or Wednesday. It didn't really matter anymore. Michael shoved the spear through a separation in the chain link fence, puncturing the skull of a walker and sending it toppling to the ground, knocking over a couple more around it. Clearing the fences was a part of his daily routine now, and Michael had only just started getting used to the feeling of killing these things in such large packs. When he was on the road, he had tried his best to avoid these monsters at all costs. If he was being honest with himself, he probably lied about how many he had killed to the people in the Council. It was probably around ten. Maybe fifteen if he was being generous.

However, now that he found himself behind sturdy walls with a spear, those numbers were rising dramatically. Michael wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with a gloved hand and readied the weapon for another strike. That was another thing he never got used to. The freaking heat, man. It was sweltering almost everyday down here, and the time that he spent outside of the prison had done more than enough to welcome him to the wonderful state of Georgia. Michael could've sworn his sunburn was getting sunburn at some point. He'd raided a store for some type of sunblock during his first few months alone, and when he did find some of the stuff, it was like Christmas morning. That got him thinking. When is Christmas? It's gotta be close right? Maybe I could draw something for Carl. Probably something about Invincible.

He shrugged the thought off as he locked eyes with a walker. It was Nick. The name tag was clear as day on his shirt, and his drawing was pretty much accurate. The man had seen better days. His eyes were sunken deep into their sockets, rings of mucus and pus surrounded the small yellow orbs. They stared at Michael with a vacant longing. It wasn't hunger, none of them ever looked necessarily hungry. They just… looked, for the lack of a better term. He leveled the spear, a sharpened stick with a cloth grip wrapped around the base, up to Nick's skull, then lowered it and shook his head. Michael moved to the walker beside him and shoved the spear deep into the rotting woman's eye socket, dropping her like a sack of potatoes.

Michael took off the button up over shirt he was wearing and wrapped the sleeves around his waist, tying them off and letting the fabric hang loosely off his midsection. It had to be around noon by now, and the day wasn't getting any cooler. Michael patted around through the grass and picked up his small canteen of water, took a long drink, and dropped it back down into the field, ready to continue clearing out the horde at the fence. That was until Rick said something to Carl and they both started opening the gate.

Michonne came galloping through on horseback, greeting Carl and Rick. She had left the day prior at noon and said that she would be back no later than midnight. Guess late is better than never.

"Your face is losing the war." She said, dropping a beard trimmer into Rick's hand.

"Welcome back." Michael said, rolling his shoulder in its socket. "How is it out there?"

"Hey, Mikey. I-"

An engine revved and Daryl appeared seemingly out of thin air on his motorcycle, multiple cars behind him.

"Well, look who's back."

Michonne smiled at Daryl and looked back to Michael. "Didn't find him."

"You really think he's still out there? After all this time?"

"I'm thinking of looking over near Macon." Silence fell over the group. "It's worth the shot."

Daryl cocked his head to the side, squinting at Michonne. "Over 70 miles of walkers. Might run into a few unneighborly types?" He nodded in Michael's direction. The boy instinctively scratched the scab on his cheek. "Is it?"

Michael looked at Michonne, then back to Daryl and Rick. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. The Governor may have been missing for over five months, but his presence still loomed over the prison like an anvil waiting to be dropped onto their heads at any moment.

"I'm gonna check out the Big Spot. The one I was talking about, just seeing."

Rick looked back to Daryl, clenching his jaw, "Yeah, I gotta go out and check the snares, I don't wanna lose whatever we catch to the walkers."

"I'll go." Michonne piped in.

"But you just got here!" Carl and Michael said in unison.

"And I'll be back." She grinned as she opened the door to one of the cars and stepped in, waving to the two boys as Rick opened the gate and the convoy left the prison.

"Well that sucked."

"Yeah, she always does that." Carl nudged Michael. "Got these though." He flashed the small pile of comics that Michonne had gotten him. More Invincible. Of course. It was like those things grew on trees down here.

"Definitely taking those from your cell."

"No way."

"Uh… yeah way."

Carl scoffed. "You think Patrick's finally gonna give in if I give him the first few issues?"

"Probably not. Seems pretty adamant in just… blowing 'em off." Michael pulled off his work gloves, balling them up and shoving them into his jean pockets. "Hey, I've been meaning to ask you, what if we made a comic. Just for shits and giggles, y'know. Like what else is there to do out here other than kill those things," He pointed to the walkers at the fence. "And farm."

"That sounds so stupid. Who would we even show it to?"

"No one? I don't know, man, it was just a suggestion." Michael looked into the distance. "It's for the art, Mr. Grimes. It's for the art." He said stoically.

Carl laughed. "Yeah, I'll let you know, man. Do you even have any ideas?"

"I thought you'd handle the writing and I'd do the artwork. We'd be like Stan Lee and Steve Ditko. Or Something." Michael licked his dry lips and looked into the pig pen. "You definitely have something cooking up there." He tapped his temple. "Sitting in your cell reading all those comics and shit. Come up with something, man. It'll be fun."

Rick walked back to the pair as they chatted and looked at the pigs. Carl leaned back and looked at his father.

"Checking the snares?"

"I am, you're not. Do your chores. Read comics. Maybe some books, too. Hang out with Mikey and Patrick. Maybe even go to story time."

Michael went to story time once. It was creepy and weird and Carol taught the kids everything that he already knew. But she was nice, though. He hoped that the little kids would never need to use anything that they learned there, but as more walkers continued to pile on the fences each day, that probability became less and less likely.

Rick pointed to the horse. "Brush her down."

Carl complied, moving over to the horse while Michael walked back to the fence, sighing and picking up the spear. He brought it to the large wooden barrel that was set up in the yard and dropped it in, dark black blood oozing down the shaft.

"Nick, look over here."

"This one's Wayne."

"Nick. Nick, over here."

"Hi, Nick!"

"Hi, Nick."

Carl, Michael, and Patrick approached the group of kids talking to the walkers, led by Lizzie and Mika of course.

"You're naming them?" Carl spat.

"Well, one of them has a name tag, so we thought all of them should. They had names when they were alive. They're dead now."

"No, they're not. They're just different."

"What the hell are you talking about? Okay look-"

"Calm down, man." Michael put a hand on Carl's chest.

"No, I'm not gonna calm down! They aren't 'different.' They don't talk. They don't think. They eat people. They kill people."

"Well, people kill people, and they still have names." Lizzie retorted.

"Have you seen what happens? Have you seen someone die like that?" Carl scowled.

"Yeah. I have."

It was silent for a few seconds, then Lizzie spoke up again.

"C'mon, we have to read."

Mika looked up to Patrick as the group of kids left. "You coming to story time tonight?"

"Uh, yeah."

"I'll see you then." She smiled. "Hey, what about you Mikey? You stopped coming after like, the first time."

"Yeah, I uh, got busy, y'know. Have to help around the prison and stuff." Michael sputtered. It was a miracle that Carl was too stubborn to check out what 'story time' was all about until now, but with Mika talking to Patrick and Michael about it, it was only a matter of time until he went investigating.

The three boys stood in the yard and looked at the walkers slamming into the fence.

"I go sometimes. I'm immature. You wouldn't dig it. It's for kids. I'm gonna head up there, too." He squinted at Michael and Carl through thick-rimmed glasses. "I'll catch you later, young sirs."

After Patrick was out of earshot, Carl turned to look at Michael. "What's story time?" He asked quickly.

"I mean, it's what the name implies, Carl." Michael scratched the back of his neck. "Carol reads books, they talk about it, then they leave. Nothing special really."

Carl looked into Michael's eyes. "You're sure?"

"Yeah, Carl, I'm sure." He replied, annoyance in his voice.

"Hey, Hershel, I can, uh, trust you with a secret, right?"

"Depends, son. What does it entail?"

"I mean, it's nothing bad, but the person it's about thinks that Rick might get mad at them if they found out what they were doing."

"Well, I can't help you none if you don't tell me what the secret is."

Michael took a deep breath. "Carol's teaching the kids how to use knives and other weapons to help them defend themselves and she thinks that Rick is gonna get mad at her for doing this, which I don't really get, but now Carl is suspicious of something going on with story time and -"

"Woah, woah, slow down." Hershel pinched the bridge of his nose. "So Carol is using story time to teach the kids how to use weapons."

"Mhmm."

"You know what kind?"

"Uh, I went a few weeks ago, but I think she was teaching them how to use knives and stuff. But, Hershel, she also teaches them how to survive and-"

"And she thinks Rick won't appreciate her teaching them to use weapons?"

"Well, uh yeah."

"And now Carl thinks that Carol is teaching kids to use weapons?"

"Yeah."

"And you know for sure that she's teaching the children to use weapons?"

"Yeah, I just said I was there, Hershel." Michael glanced behind him, lowering his voice. "I think it's a good thing for them to learn how to protect themselves. I don't know why Carol would hide something like this, though, it only makes it look worse for her."

"Tell him."

"What?"

"Tell Carl the truth. You're close enough friends with him to tell him the truth, right?" Hershel sighed. "I think Carol's doing a good thing, but like you said, hiding it like this won't help anyone."

"Yeah, I know. I just think that she should-"

"Maybe during the next Council meeting I'll bring it up."

"What? No, Hershel-"

"Bring up the idea that we might have to start teaching these kids to protect themselves. Maybe she'll say something about it then. If not, then I guess she can keep doing it in the library. She's not hurting anyone, is she?"

Michael blew a few curls of hair out of his eyes, taking a breath of relief. "Thanks, Hershel. I mean it." He got up from his chair and started to walk out. "How's Beth with the whole Zach thing."

"You don't even want to know." The old man replied, smiling through his white beard.

Michael kicked a pebble down the pathway to the prison yard as he walked to the makeshift pig pen. Carl was leaning over the fence and looking at the pigs, just like he was this morning.

"What's wrong, kiddo?" He clapped his shoulder.

"Violet's acting kinda weird."

"You think she's sick?"

"I dunno. Gotta ask my dad about that when he gets back."

Michael looked down at his shoes. The white tips of his sneakers were turning a sickly brown from a mix of dirt, blood, and God knows what else. The laces were frayed as well, and the canvas on the body of the shoes were starting to tear.

"Hey, uh, I was lying earlier. I know what story time is." He cringed.

"Yeah? What is it?" Carl's eyes widened in excitement.

"Alright, don't get mad… uh, Carol is teaching the kids how to use weapons and stuff. Just in case, y'know?"

"Why didn't she ask my dad about doing that? We could bring them to target practice with us instead of just keeping them in the library."

Michael shrugged. Speaking of target practice, they'd been going a few miles from the prison once every week to shoot cans off of a fence post, but shooting cans off of a fence post weren't really comparable to walkers. Michael was definitely getting better, but something about the weight of the gun and the iron sight and the recoil mixing together always made him fuck up his shot. He used to be good at video games, though.

"Why is Patrick still going? He's like, older than me."

"Not sayin' much."

"Shut up." Carl punched Michael in the shoulder. "I wanna go and see what she's teaching them, maybe stay for a lesson, I guess. If dad comes back and asks where I am, tell him I'm uh…"

"Reading comics?"

"Yeah." Carl turned around and jogged back to the library.

Michael helped Tyrese fix the hose to the shower after Carl ran off. He had been walking towards the pavilion when the large man stopped him, reaching a hand out.

"Hey, Mikey, can you lend a hand for a second?"

"Yeah, what's up?"

"Damn shower hose got messed up again. The water pressure's super weak."

"Again?"

"Yeah, it happens from time to time. Something, or someone," he scowled. "Messes up the hose we got connected to the bucket in the shower room. Last time it happened we found a little hole on the hose, so it's probably that again."

Michael blinked at the man, who was perfectly content with wearing a beanie in eighty degree weather for some reason. To be honest, this was the first time that he had talked to the man in his whole time here, but it was good to meet new people before they got their faces torn off. No, he had to stop thinking like that. That life was over, he was safe behind concrete walls fixing a shower. It was like life had returned to normal. Okay, maybe that was a stretch, but it was getting there.

The pair set out towards the hose, Michael holding a roll of duct tape tightly.

"So I heard about how you got here. How you holdin' up?"

That was the basic small talk topic whenever he met someone new. They mention the brutal beating that he had taken before he got to the prison and he always gave the same cookie-cutter response.

"Yeah, I'm doing alright. Hershel took out my stitches yesterday. Face doesn't feel like it's on fire anymore so that's something to be grateful for, I guess."

He was telling the truth. For the first few days of being out of the clinic, his time walking around the prison was less than stellar. From a mix of sunburn, humid, nasty weather, and the constant throbbing pain that came from his face, it was a miracle that Michael hadn't jumped over that fence into the walker wall.

"That's good." Tyreese grunted. "Believe me, kid, I took some beatings in my day, so I feel your pain."

"Really?" Michael raised an eyebrow. Tyreese seemed like a pretty mild-mannered guy from the limited interactions he had shared with him so far. He really didn't strike him as the type of guy to start a fight.

"Yep. Linebacker for the Atlanta Falcons."

"Holy shit. That's awesome, man." Michael never really watched football, but his dad was an avid fan, and hell, he probably even knew who Tyreese was. Maybe he was a fan. "What was your craziest, uh… play? Is that what it's called? I never really watched football before this happened."

Tyreese laughed as he squeezed through the small alleyway near the building that held the shower room. "So I'm shadowing this running back. Small guy, number 28. Anyways, he's got the ball and there's someone coming to his left. I take his ass down and the running back makes it to the endzone." Tyreese grimaced. "Didn't even hear the poor guy screaming over everyone else. I broke his leg so bad that the bone was sticking out of his shin. What's it called," The large man scratched his chin. "Compound fracture, that's what it is. Doesn't seem like much nowadays, but back then, seeing something like that. Messed me up, man."

Michael shuddered. The thought of breaking anything made him feel gross and make whatever body part he was thinking about ache and feel weird. Now that he broke his nose, it wasn't all that bad. Sure it hurt like all hell, but he got over it. A compound fracture was different, probably. Alright, definitely. It was definitely different.

"That's why my mom never made me play football in school. I think some of the coaches said I'd be pretty good for it, but that was when I was like… thirty or so pounds heavier. I also had no clue what the hell I'd even do."

Tyreese eyed up the boy. "You'd make a good lineman."

Michael scoffed. "Really?"

"Yeah, hell, I could see it now. You thirty pounds heavier, getting some drill practice in here and there."

"Maybe we could make a prison football team. We could go up against the walkers. Use one of their heads as a ball."

Tyreese let out a hearty laugh and looked down towards the hose by his feet. "You're goofy as hell, boy. Now, c'mon. Let's find that leak."

The pair spent some time putting pressure on the hose until a jet of water flew from a small hole, blasting Michael in the eye.

"Agh! I think I got it." He wiped the water from his eye with a chuckle before kneeling back near the hose, reaching up for the duct tape.

Tyreese dropped the roll into his hands and Michael got to work on the hole in the hose, securing multiple layers of tape onto the laceration.

"I'm gonna go check, let me know if anything leaks out." Michael pointed to the hose, jogging towards the shower room.

He waved at Maggie and Beth as he passed them, taking a hard left and swinging the door open to the showers. In front of him lay the makeshift bucket-hose system that he had been using for the past three weeks. The water pressure was already pretty terrible, so if Tyreese was complaining about it being even worse, fixing it was something that needed to be done. Crossing his fingers, Michael twisted the knob of the shower and a healthy stream poured from the head. He let out a small sound of satisfaction and let the water run for a few seconds for Tyreese to see if the hose repair had worked.

Returning to the hose with a smile, Tyreese gave him a high five. The pair chatted about Tyreese's football career more as they slipped through the alleyway and found themselves back in the courtyard.

"Now if you'll excuse me." Tyreese began. "I have to go enjoy the spoils of war. Great job today, kid." He turned to the shower room, leaving Michael alone.

The Big Spot group came back a few hours later. Zach died. Fuck.

He didn't really know the guy but it hurt. It hurt to know that someone he had greeted almost everyday was dead and he'd never see him again. Michael swallowed a lump in his throat as he stared at Daryl unloading a box from the trunk of the car. That could've been him in the store. He could've gotten torn to shreds in front of them all and there would be nothing they could do about it. The only thing that made Michael feel a little better was the possibility that he didn't suffer as he died.

"Got stuck under some shelves." Daryl grunted as he shoved the box of electronics into Michael's arms.

"Shit." Alright, well that possibility was gone. Thrown out the window and into the huge pile of shit that just kept building up over the past year and a half.

"Yeah, I know." Daryl growled as he shoved some cans of food into a bag and started carrying them towards Michael. "Gonna have a funeral for him tomorrow mornin'."

"What do you think Beth's gonna do?" Michael asked as they walked up the path to the courtyard.

"I dunno." Daryl looked at the blonde girl carrying Carl's sister. "Probably cry. Not much else to do these days."

Michael held Judith as Carl and Patrick talked from the other side of the table. He never really held a baby before, so when Carl asked if he wanted to, Michael awkwardly obliged. She was surprisingly quiet, and from the limited experience he had had with babies before the world ended, they usually tended to be loud. Loud and annoying. So far, Judith was neither of these, which made Michael happy.

His mom always talked to him about wishing he had a brother or sister so he'd never be alone in the world. And although Michael would always brush her off and say that she was being melodramatic, he would've killed for one during those months he had spent alone. Someone to hold as he cried himself to sleep or someone to talk to around a campfire that he was barely able to spark up would've severely increased his quality of life out there.

Judith made a small noise and Michael gently bounced her on his knee. She laughed and Carl looked at both of them, smiling.

"She's gonna be calling me her brother sooner rather than later, Carl." Michael smirked at the little girl sitting on his knee. "Gotta step your game up, compadre."

"Shut up man." Carl scowled as Patrick laughed. The former looked back to the boy in glasses. "So you think you got anything from what she taught you?"

"I mean, maybe yeah, but I had to leave early today. Felt like I was totally gonna yack."

"You alright?" Michael asked, sipping water through pursed lips and lowering the cup to Judith's mouth, who sipped a small bit of water from its rim.

"Oh, yeah, I'll be fine." Patrick took off his glasses and put his head into his hands. "Just feel kinda nauseous."

"I told Hershel about it."

"You told Hershel?!"

"Yeah? He was fine with it, don't worry. He said something about mentioning a more 'official' way of teaching the kids. I guess they're gonna start practicing in the yard or something."

Carl folded the collar of his shirt through his fingers passively as Michael and Patrick continued to talk about 'story time'. Especially how creepy Michael found it when he arrived at his first session.

"Yeah, and then she did the whole 'don't tell your parents thing' and it got kinda weird from there. Carol also told me about it, like, right after The Council said that I could stay here." Michael said, finishing off his cup of water with a huge sip.

"Hey, who knows." Patrick breathed onto his glasses and wiped the fog off with his sweaty shirt.

That's weird, it wasn't even that hot out. The last few hours of sunlight usually came with a drop in temperature, and today was no different.

"Maybe thanks to Ms. Peletier, us three will be the last ones standing." He looked at Carl and Michael with a smile.

He was dead the next morning.

Before Michael fell asleep that night, Carl walked him back to his cell alongside Patrick, who was breathing heavily.

"God, I miss video games."

"Dude, tell me about it." Michael opened the door to Cell Block D, holding it open for the other two boys.

"There was a Science Dog game that I'd play every weekend," Carl laughed tiredly. "Dad couldn't get me to stop sitting in front of that TV even if he wanted me to."

"Yeah… yeah definitely." Patrick slurred, rubbing his puffy eyes. "I'm gonna go and lay down. Night."

"Night, Patrick." Carl and Michael looked at each other as he hobbled into his cell.

"See you at the yard tomorrow morning? Maybe I can help you and your dad farm again."

"Yeah, sure dude, we'll be there bright and early. That is if you get up in time." Carl brushed his hair out of his face, smiling.

"Alright, man, see you then." He paused for a second before shooting back a smirk. "No promises." Michael glanced into Patrick's cell before walking down the corridor and stepping into his own.

In the darkness of the cell, he pulled off his shirt and pants, tossing them onto a chair that he had found in the office block of the prison. Digging through the small duffel bag of clothes he kept in his cell, Michael pulled out a thin white t-shirt and slid it over his head. It was hot enough, he didn't need pants making him any more uncomfortable. Once he was in his "pajamas," he swung himself around to the open cell door. Pausing for a second, Michael gripped the bars and slid it shut, just in case.

He woke up to arms greedily thrusting themselves into the gaps of the bars. Michael tore his blankets off and looked at his cell door, eyes the size of saucers.

He scrambled to the back wall of his room. "Help! Anyone?!"

There was a walker in the prison. There was a walker in the prison and who knows who it had gotten to before him. How the hell did it even get in here?

The walker threw itself at the door for a few more minutes until Rick shot it in the head. It was Aidan, a man who gave Michael his set of old fountain pens a few days ago. The guy was really pleasant to talk to, and now his brains were splattered all over the floor and he was covered in blood and guts. Michael's ears rang and his world spun as he looked at the dead man sprawled out on the floor. Bile was steadily creeping its way up his throat and his hands were getting sweaty and-

"C'mon, move!" Daryl yanked his cell door open and pulled Michael from the darkness, ushering him into the hallway and pushing him down the hall. "Outta D-Block, now!"

Michael ran through the hallway, bare feet slapping against the concrete. Ah shit, he was still in his underwear and t-shirt. He rounded the corner and came face to face with another walker. He ran past it, dodging its grasp by a hair. This was a horror movie come to life.

Michael barreled through the door into the courtyard, taking a few steps to slow down as he spun around towards the door, waiting for something to follow him, but nothing came. The day was humid, and the thick air hung over the prison and stank of death. There was a small group gathered outside, they all looked as terrified as he felt.

"What's happening in there?" Molly asked.

Michael gasped. "Walkers. They're everywhere."

"Why aren't you wearing any pants?"

Michael turned red. He was lucky to be alive, clothes should've been on the bottom of his list of priorities. But they probably would've helped a good bit. "Uh, I had to run outta there. Didn't have any time to grab them."

He was able to go back in and get his clothes around half an hour later. Michael slipped into his cell and slid on a navy t-shirt with black jeans and his Converses, which almost got stained with Aidan's blood as it seeped under the bars of his cell. He had the worst thought at that moment. The first thought that filled his head was that the crimson pool looked like the Blob from that movie from the fifties. It slowly spread throughout the floor of the prison, a viscous liquid that turned everything it touched a deep shade of red.

Rick put a hand on his shoulder as Michael stepped out of his cell, voice shaky. "Patrick died. We don't know how it happened. But he turned, and he attacked the cell block last night." Rick's voice wavered further as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, Mikey, I really am."

Michael didn't even know what to say. His head hurt and a heat rushed down his spine that made him squirm in discomfort. How many people died? What happened to Patrick? He was fine yesterday. Or was he? Should he and Carl have noticed the signs when he stumbled into his cell last night or constantly wiped away sweat from his forehead even when it was only sixty degrees outside?

"What?" Michael asked. His ears were ringing and his face was hot and he didn't even notice how small he sounded.

Michael pulled this bandana over his nose as they dragged the bed sheet-wrapped bodies into the yard and started dropping them into the holes they had dug. One of the corpses fell into the grave with a thud and kicked up a cloud of dust in its wake. That one could've been Patrick. Or Owen. Or any of the twelve people that died this morning.

Michael grimaced underneath the mask as he stared at another motionless figure being lowered into another shallow grave, a small spattering of crimson staining the sheet wrapped around it where its head was. His mouth started to taste salty and saliva filled it like a rushing waterfall. Michael pulled his bandana down and turned away from the grave site, spitting into the grass. He was about to throw up.

Michael took a deep, shaky breath and ripped off the bandana, balling it up in his palms and shoving it into his pocket as he stomped up the path to the courtyard.

"You alright?" Glenn asked him, turning away from talking with Maggie.

"No. I-" Michael's lip quivered. "I just feel like I could've stopped this from happening."

"What do you mean, sweetie?" Maggie asked, letting go of Glenn's shoulder and leaning in closer to Michael.

"Patrick was sick. He was sweating all day, and he said that felt like he had to throw up, and maybe if I told someone that he didn't feel well, they- they could've helped him." Michael looked back to the grave site in the yard. "And maybe everyone wouldn't be dead."

They had a funeral for Patrick a few hours later.

And Zach,

And Chloe,

And Greg,

And Will,

And Charlie,

And Lana,

And Amber,

And Owen,

And Rob,

And Caroline

And Clara,

And Tony,

And Andrew.

Michael walked over to Carl, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"You alright?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"I'm fine." Carl shoved his shoulder away from Michael, knocking his hand off of it.

He looked at Carl for a second and sighed, staring at the newly dug graves and that similar tingling warmth rolled uncomfortably down his back like a series of pins pricking him over and over and over again. Michael had a feeling that there would be more people being buried sooner rather than later.