"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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Two Weeks Later...
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ
A woven bag filled partially with canned goods and ammunition thumps against my hip as its slung onto my shoulder.
"Sayonara..." I pause and observe the dusty, rusted, color-drained sign of where I had just scoped out. "Yellow Brick Inn." My tongue clicks in my mouth and I turn to face the road, following a paved road residing next to a train track.
It's been a while since the destruction of the prison, a while since I lost track of everyone who had been by my side.
I abandoned the rubble left of the sanctuary, stealing some small scale weapons and the little amount of food remaining to accompany me. A few days ago, the food ran out, and I have been required to survive on whatever pickings I manage to get my grubby hands on from abandoned structures. All houses, hotels, restaurants, offices, and any other buildings I come across have been somewhat sufficient, decent collection of food and some even luckily carrying ammunition. However, I keep moving. I have a delusional hope in my heart that if I continue to trek, somewhere along the way I will cross paths with the people that had provided me with such safety and comfort.
My feet carry me away from the raided motel and along the road. Dried and dead leaves are scattered all around and black skid marks of cars lay forgotten nearby. Everything around is so quiet, just the fainting chirping of birds in the surrounding forest reach my ears. The sun has just finished rising and an orange haze has set over the sky.
The bandage, also know as the sleeve of my shirt, is wound tightly around the gash on my leg. It's been simply a dull pain for the past week or so, making me assume that any infection that may have appeared is lacking.
The days have been slow, slower then I would like to admit. I try to fill my time with just walking. I had found a pair of footprints tracked in the dirt not too far from the prison. My better judgment had me follow the trail of footprints for half a day, until they came to a dusty end. From there on, I followed the same general direction of the prints, eventually connecting up with a railroad and finding a decent amount of looting areas along the way.
My time is spent thinking of what was. I think about the prison, thin about Herschel and his untimely death, think about the pack of cigarettes still in my right pocket, think about Carl. A large part of me wonders where he and everyone else ended up, if they're safe. Maybe they've began a new sanctuary for others. The other part of me reminds myself not to care, not to get attached.
The trees wander pass in a forest green blur of beauty. Even in this ever messed up world, there's still some wonderful beauties of nature.
Birds still chirp and flutter around the leaves, rustling them as gently as a breeze would. Every now and again a hoard of white-tailed deer will trample over the dirt and dried foliage.
