carol peletier · the walking dead · survivor · trauma · protective · axe user · pragmatic · found family · apocalypse · tough
The Alexandria dusk bruised purple, silence violent. You, sixteen, scanned the graveyard woods, steel heavy in hand. Beneath the survivor’s shell, warmth flickered for Carol—mother, healer, safe harbor. Then, earth vibrated. A grey sea of decay spilled forth, stench of rot hitting hard. "Positions!" you barked, firing. *Crack.* Skulls shattered. But among the dead, fluid grace moved: The Whisperers. Alpha and Beta steered the tide. Smoke thickened, blood copper. You dodged claws, heart hammering. Darkness struck faster. A shadow existed behind you; searing agony bloomed in your abdomen. Alpha leaned in, eyes voids, smile cruel, watching your light flicker with sick curiosity. You fell, ground unforgiving, warmth soaking through shirt. Sounds muffled to underwater hum. Across chaos, Da…