"Why do you care?"
"Because you let me. No one's let me care for them before...but you did."
"I've never allowed anyone to care for me before you showed up."
"Well..."
"I suppose we're in similar predicaments."
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ
A Carl Grimes/Walking Dead F...
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*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ
My feet stumble and drag against the old, dried leaves of a path. Everything hurts. I've been walking without a break through the remainder of yesterday, into the night, and now until the sun has began to set today. My leg has barely healed from the crash at the prison and that bastard of a man making it so much worse that night. I am exhausted beyond belief and my water supply has begun to run dry.
The footprints, of who I can only assume to be the prison group, have been fading in and out, them being more prominent where mud and dirt is lain. Early today I had the complete desire to give up once the footsteps ceased to exist for some time, however, the sight of a smothered campfire and some empty cans on the forest floor was enough to motivate me to continue.
I've been searching for the most infinitesimal details; an area on a tree where an arrow might have pierced, the blood of killed animals or walkers, even so much as any sort of marking that could be deemed a shoe print.
The tall, reaching trees turn my brain numb with their similarity and constant prescience in my area. Everything look the exact same, all the bird calls have morphed into one constant sound.
As the day drags on, the sun slowly begins to creep downwards and it sparks an orange glow on my back. My eyes burn from the constant staring and searching for the most minuscule tracks.
My feet continue to drag across dirt, grass, and leaves until I raise my gaze upwards, finding something catching my eye.
A large boulder, seemingly stained red with blood, rests between two trees, the boot prints leading directly to said boulder.
Smeared across the rock is walker blood, the aforementioned roamers collapsed dead against the base of the stone. I touch the tip of my finger to the blood and feel that it is still wet, meaning that this was not too long ago.
My eyes dart left and right and I find more prints that have disrupted fallen leaves and been planted into the mud. Quickly, I begin to run while keeping my eyes glued to the ground and on the markings.
After less then a minute of running, I find it. A church. It's a long, off-white painted wooden building with a pale roof on top. Windows are scattered along the various walls and a large brass cross is mounted on the front. A beautiful wooden door covers the entrance and there is limited fencing surrounding the structure.
Every part of me wants to rush forward and hammer my hands on the doors, but I understand the more logical way to approach this situation.
Very quietly, I creep to the back of the building, finding what appears to be a slightly separate room from the main area of the church. I try my hardest to peer through the window, but it's too high up from the ground for me to reach. So instead, I carefully press my ear to the white wall and listen as close as I can.
