6th Life

Carol groaned, slamming back against the side of the building as she held her shoulder, the ache and burn tearing through her, taking her back to those nights Ed came home drunk and in the mood to beat on her and force himself on her. She bit her lip, dodging out of the way as the walker advanced on her.

With a frustrated growl, she backed herself up against an old, rusted door, thinking that if she got just the right tool, she could probably pry it open on its hinges. But she didn't have time for that. She ducked away just as the walker turned on it, hands outstretched, starving, much like she was.

She looked up, seeing an old window a few feet up. If only she could just climb up, she'd be able to jimmy it open so she could squeeze inside. She pulled herself up onto the dumpster, her shoulder aching and searing with pain. She pressed into the wall, hoping that would pop it back into place, but no luck. She'd have to do it all herself later, something she'd learned to do in her years of marriage to Ed.

Her foot slipped on a collection of rain water that had gathered on top of the dumpster lid, and she slipped, her head slamming back against the wall as her legs flailed out from under her. She cried out as she tumbled off the dumpster and onto the ground, where the walker was waiting, looming over her, arms coming at her through, teeth gnashing.

Carol held her breath as the stench of rotting flesh filled her nostrils and made her stomach turn. She'd gotten used to it, but somehow, this one was different. As she'd fallen and looked back up into the dead eyes of that corpse, she realized how little hope there really was, and for a brief, faltering moment, she wondered why she even tried. Why bother? She was alone. She was banished. She had nothing left to life for, no one to live for, but that was the rub of it, wasn't it? She could be surrounded by a hundred people and still be alone. They didn't carry what she did. They couldn't. She was the one.

The white, hot pain from her shoulder snapped her back just in time for her to reach for her knife and press it through the eye of the walker. A stream of cold, green puss flowed over her hand, and she rolled out from under it, clutching her stomach with her free hand as she vomited onto the alley pavement.

After she composed herself and pulled the knife out of the walker's skull, she rushed down the alley to an old paint can that sat rusting and filled with rain water. She dipped her knife inside, washing off the walker muck before rinsing off her hands, feeling the cold water jolt her into complete awareness.

She bit her lip and stood, grabbing onto her upper arm, leveraging herself between the building and the fire escape ladder that squeaked and threatened to break off with much more force.

With a little more effort, she popped her shoulder back into place and sunk to the ground, panting hard as she realize how close she came—how close she let herself get—to ending it all. Her stomach was unsettled, and all she could do was feel what she felt when Rick had dragged her out to gather her own supplies for her own car for her own journey into exile. Alone. Sick. She felt sick. She felt useless and like the world was out of control. She'd had control when she'd killed Karen and David. They were dying. They might have infected the others. Her family. She couldn't just stand by and do nothing. She'd made a choice, and instead of giving her her family, it had taken them away.

She resisted the urge to cry as she had when she'd pulled the car over and sobbed at the idea of never seeing baby Judith or hearing her giggle again. Never seeing Daryl and feeling the way he made her feel when he looked at her when he didn't think she was paying attention. These were the moments she craved, and they were gone. Taken from her. And she could have taken them back, but at what cost? Rick didn't respect her, and the others would follow his lead. It was over, and she had to move on. She had to keep living, because if she stopped for one second, she gave her life to the walkers, and she couldn't settle for that.

A snarl from nearby alerted her to the presence of more walkers. Sheathing her knife in her belt, she pulled herself together and took off running. She'd find something. Somewhere. Someplace safe. And as the ache continued to throb in her arm, she realized the safest place she'd ever known—the place she'd taken Sophia to escape Ed occasionally—was a women's shelter. Yes. She knew right where it was. She was close. And as she weaved through alley after alley before she found her car again, she sped off toward that place of solace, praying that it would be a place of comfort for one night at least, praying that the memories of Ed's fists and Sophia's cries would stay locked up somewhere in the back of her mind. All she wanted to do was sleep. Rest. Survive. She had to keep moving. She had to keep breathing. Whatever journey awaited her, she had to go through it alone, and she had to be ready.