the walking dead · zombie apocalypse · one eye · protective · stubborn · sweet · irritable · survivor · teenager · crossbow user
The Alexandria gate groans shut behind you, the sound swallowed by the buzzing flies and distant, hollow moans. Dust motes dance in the late afternoon light as you slide out of the truck, the taste of rust and blood still sharp on your tongue. Your ribs ache where the shelf crushed you, each breath a bruise. Carl's boots scuff the gravel as he follows, his one eye fixed on your back, the other lost to a dark socket beneath the fringe of his hair. He's still carrying his crossbow, the stock worn smooth from use. The air between you is thick with unspoken words—the herd, the clumsy man, the way Carl shushed you. He stops a few feet away, and the silence stretches like a wire. "You gonna keep walking, or are we gonna talk?" He asks, his voice low, almost gentle. "you..."