ALL THE LOVELY BAD ONES | CARL GRIMES

sixteen. pale blue eyes

I understood why he was so distrusting and it could've been so easy for me to agree with his conspiracies. But I knew that when it came to the two of us, I was supposed to be the one who saw the bright side of every side of the situation, even if there wasn't one. And even if I truly didn't see it myself. Most of my inward thoughts were pretty negative, but I remained positive for everyone else. (Especially Carl.)

"Carl, not everyone is bad."

"I know that," He replied sharply before catching himself. He shook his head before trying again, softer, "I know that but how am I supposed to tell the difference? Eleanor, none of us have a clue about Terminus besides its general location and that there is a chance that Maggie and others might be there."

I quickened my pace to keep up with his long-legged strides. "And what are you going to do about it?"

"Like there is anything I can do." Carl glanced up at the adults walking along in front of us. From the stalwart set of his jaw and his eyes, the color of a stormy sea, narrowed to pinpoints.

I shouldered him slightly, smiling at him grudgingly. "Grin and bear it, remember?"

He hardly tried to muster one back, despite our agreement. "Just stop, Eleanor." He said stiffly.

Stunned for a moment, I pursed my lips. "Give it a chance," I insisted. "At least."

He scoffed, giving me The Look and I felt a little hurt. I was just trying to help. What did he want me to do? Be all glum and annoyed and grouchy like he was? "Like I have a choice." He responded, then he picked up the pace once more and this time, I let him move ahead.

x-x-x-x-x-x

As I wiped my knife clean on the frayed edge of my shirt, the fabric soaked up the viscous, blackened walker blood. Our encounter with the small herd had been far from effortless, another relentless struggle we faced against the undead.

"That was close." Carl was at my shoulder, watching as my blade freed itself of the decayed residue. He was right. It had been close. The adrenaline pumping through my veins was evidence of that. And the fresh memory of the walker who's rotting teeth had been two inches away from taking a chunk from my shoulder. That was the closest I had ever gotten to being bitten. "If you just used your gun, you wouldn't have had a close call like that."

I bit my tongue before I could respond with something that might upset him, despite the fact he had a running tab of having no problem saying things that upset me. "I'm not going to waste bullets." Is what I ended up telling him.

"How many bullets you saved won't matter when you die from a bite that could have been avoided."

"I can take care of myself." I shoved the knife back into my belt. I had been the one who had been on my own for—what was it?—two months, three months? I don't believe I needed him breathing down my neck about how to defend myself.

I waited for him to further patronize me, but instead he said: "I know you can." Which I was not expecting him to acknowledge that the statement had truth to it. It almost felt like some kind of affirmation. Carl Grimes could ascertain that I was capable of survival. The mark of approval.

I was honestly a little flattered by it.

It was like being called pretty, or smart, or interesting. I know you can survive. I know you can make it on your own. What a post-apocalyptic compliment to receive.