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M E G A N
Siddiq.
The occasional grenade detonates, rattling the underground and everything in the tunnel along with it. Dust and dirt rain down on us, falling from the ceiling, following every rattling explosion.
There have been many times where I'd accepted death. Several, of which, have been the possibility of facing my own. It's difficult to decipher between the good and the bad, when I often think about how my death—above anyone else's—would be the easiest for me to handle. And, right now, I'm immersed in the news that I'll have to soon go through the hardest demise of all.
The death of Carl Grimes.
A father grieves over the inevitable loss of his son. The woman, who'd grown to be the boy's best friend, also sits at his side. A blank, worrisome stare on her face.
As I also continue kneeling down, next to the dusty cot, with every intention to somehow help the boy—to somehow reverse this—I can bring myself to do nothing, except hold his hand in mine, as I try to come to terms with the unchangeable reality. My fingers spread out across the back of his warm, sweaty hand, that lies atop his chest.
The three of them exchange words of explanation. More-so just Carl, as the adults can not yet process the thoughts of their own.
The dying boy makes use of his limited time, by letting the other two people closest to him in on whatever'd happened in the woods yesterday, when he left to bring back the man from the gas station. He was bitten, trying to help someone who—it turned out—is not a Savior. Not that Carl's outcome would've been much different, if the boy did go blindly chasing after someone from that group.
In the process of accepting his fate, the boy'd written the two adults their very own personal letters, as a means to make sure he got the chance to say his goodbyes.
His every, echoing word counts. Now, more than ever. Now that he's been given an expiration date to his own life. My mind guiltily allows Carl's feeble voice to play in the background, while my avoidant thoughts run wild.
I try to listen.
I try to concentrate.
I hear his words.
I do.
But—despite the fact that I am knelt at the sight of such a pure, emotional rehashing—my focus stays glued to one thing. One man, that I stare at through my bitterly narrowed eyes.
Siddiq.
It's simple, really, after having connected the dots.
Whatever happened to Carl, and whatever is going to have to happen to him, are both this doe-eyed man's fault. And my sour expression only tightens itself, the longer the two of us hold our oppositely-intended stares at each other.
Carl's weak hand overturns underneath my own, and he tightens his grip, slipping his fingers between mine.
My sorrowful gaze tears itself away from the unfamiliar man under its aim, as I force myself to take in the sight of Carl. The sight of an oncoming weakness, that further proves the boy's certain death.
His sweaty bangs hang just over the surface of his yellowing bandage. The boy's untouched eye stares me down, just above the bright red bags underneath it.
My eyes drop down to our intertwined fingers.
The warmth that used to come from the boy's grip is no longer radiating a comforting heat onto my own skin. Instead, his pale fingers are of a sharp contrast to the slightly tanned skin of my hand. Carl's body almost absorbs the heat from my own, his sweat leaving him cold and shivering, his fever nearly burning him alive.
I allow my hand to rearrange his, overturning his palm to hold in between both of my own. The back of my other hand lies on the surface of his chest, still clutching onto his, feeling every faint heartbeat thump underneath the sweaty fabric of his shirt.
"You weren't supposed to be here." Just within my line of vision, the boy takes a second to sigh, as he closes his eye and shakes his head. And within all of the chaos occurring in the tunnel behind us, Carl somehow manages to meet my aimless gaze. "You weren't supposed to see me like this."
I say nothing. My silence is out of speechlessness, as well as there being nothing left to say about the death waiting to occur just beneath my fingertips. I continue to look at the boy, unknowingly wasting valuable seconds of whatever little time we have left together on this earth.
This morning, I didn't know that our sleepy, odd encounter is what the boy thought should've been our last.
My mind tries to replay the last thing I'd said to him before I hopped into Aaron's sedan, ready to leave through the front gates of Alexandria. But I can't seem to make out the groggy scene in my head. And even worse, I can't remember what would've been the last words I would have heard from Carl's own mouth. Had I not returned home, and made it back inside the torn-down walls, I'd have to live the rest of my life not being able to hold onto the last taste I'd gotten of Carl Grimes.
As a means of distraction, I pull one hand away from Carl, and use it to drag my duffel next to the cot he lies on. It takes a few seconds, but I manage to get the bag unzipped, with just one hand, before I begin to fumble around with its contents. My eyes and free hand both frantically search for something—anything to help, having nothing particular in mind.
"I, um—" From behind me, a plastic bag suddenly crinkles. "I got these."
Sucking in a breath, I turn around, aiming to meet the strange man's gaze. His voice somehow sounds exactly like I'd expected, considering that I immediately know who'd spoken the few, nervous words, without having to look. The strange man, Siddiq, anticipates my hesitant glance. He holds a small, plastic bag that contains a bottle of pills, which gently rattles as he extends it out towards me.
"They're over-the-counter and non-steroidal anti-inflammatories." He starts, leaving his arm hanging in my direction, as my eyes squint at the man's gesture. "They'll, um—help a little with the fever. They did with my mom and dad." He shakes his head.
After receiving nothing but my angrily confused stare, the man switches his gaze from me, to Rick, in order to find someone easier to appeal to. "Please take them. Your son—he should have them."
The man soaks in Siddiq's words, taking a moment to rest his sorrowful gaze on his own, disintegrating son. "You—you're a doctor?"
"I was a resident, before." The nervous man musters up a nod. "Yeah."
My gaze switches back to Carl, and Rick continues on, speaking to man. His father's words don't come together in my mind, though, as they echo out into the tunnel.
The dying boy offers me a sheepish smile, at my noticeable realization.
My realization that this morning, when Carl said that there'd be another doctor, he was sure of himself for a reason. He was certain that another one would come along, for me to learn from. He was certain, because he already knew. And he'd already known that he was going to die, at the cost.
Whether purposefully or unintentionally, Carl brought back a real doctor. And while he may view that as just another thing to add to his list of things to die for, I pile it onto the rest of the reasons that I already have to hate myself for it—his death. The boy is somewhat at ease, figuring that I—as well as the future of Alexandria—can somehow benefit from this man, who indirectly caused his demise.
In other words, Carl thinks that his death will become a good thing, when it is anything but.
This morning, he was willing to look past something as simple as a fever-reducer, in order to accept his own death, with nothing but a heroic grace. He let me rest my head on his feverish leg as he hand-wrote his goodbyes to the loved ones he did not yet know if he'd get the chance to speak to again.
"He was a medical intern." Carl pitifully folds in his lips, looking up towards me. A teardrop falls from my eye, trailing down towards the tip of my nose, before the boy lifts his shaky hand, and wipes it off with his thumb. "Kind of like you."
I remove my hand from my duffel, and grab onto his hand, selfishly allowing my cheek to move farther into his palm.
We only have half of a moment to look at each other, our eyes begging for more. For answers we'll never get—closure we'll never have. Time together, that we won't ever get to see.
And as I begin to open my mouth—trying to form words for the first time since I'd laid my eyes on that bandage—an explosion happens, just above us, on the surface. The dirt crumbles from the ceiling, littering onto us. Rick and I immediately hover over Carl, and let the rubble hit our backs. Whatever attempt we'd made to shield the boy, was of no avail, as he breathes in the dust that rains down on him.
Michonne stands from the corner of the sewer, storming out of my vision, as nothing can pull my focus away from the coughing boy. Rick and I settle back down, when the dirt stops falling.
The woman yells at a silent Dwight, taking out the anger that we all feel, while having to look at Carl, in such circumstances.
One of the most condemning aspects of this whole situation is that the boy we love is facing his demise in a sewer, while the Saviors continue to tear their way through our homes. While the man that Carl saved—and is essentially dying for—Siddiq, is staring at the scene Michonne causes, cluelessly, with his large, innocent, brown eyes that are concealed by his long, black eyelashes.
We are angry at the same things, me and Michonne. And we both have different ways of expressing it.
My anger showcases itself through harsh glances thrown in Siddiq's direction, out of his liability for what is currently happening to the boy in my desperate grasp. Michonne screams at Dwight, pinning him against the wall, and pleading for him to call the Saviors off, just for tonight. The woman wants nothing more than to bargain for a peaceful death for Carl Grimes.
But the most that she and I can do, while the Saviors destroy our home, is continue playing our different versions of the blame game.
Michonne's burst of anger soon turns into a fit of tears, made evident by the soft tone in her voice. Dwight continues to object, shutting down the unlikely possibility of calling anything off.
My eyes stay glued to Carl, as I desperately clutch onto his hands, with both of my own.
"Please," The woman quietly breathes out, several feet away from me. Over and over again. "Please,"
A few moments of tense silence occur between the group standing behind me. Someone's hand scrapes against the rough wall as they use it to steady themselves, standing to their feet. I don't dare to turn around and find out who.
"You said that Hilltop's safe, right?" Rosita asks, joining the conversation.
My eyebrows furrow at the woman's question, more-so the idea that it implies. I shift my grip around on the boy's hand, turning my body to look at the cluster of panicked adults standing in the middle of the tunnel.
Dwight looks towards the ground, letting out a sigh. "Yeah."
"We need to get everybody there." Rosita says, shaking her head. The woman sincerely tilts her head into Michonne's vision, although the grieving woman may not see much through the blurring of her own tears. "We can get Carl there."
"And the Saviors think that all of you got away in the woods." Dwight immediately shakes his head at the two women. "They're out there, looking."
Tara joins in the conversation, just as I turn back around to face Carl. The adults continue to go back and forth on whether or not the idea is plausible.
My wandering, stinging eyes, once again, drop down to the dying boy. The boy that I'd discovered was bitten upon my arrival to Alexandria. My arrival that Dwight insists wouldn't be possible, as there are dozens of Saviors prowling about, in the woods.
And the man is right about that.
But what he doesn't know, is that I found a way around them. I found a way to get back home, to slip my way around his people. And I could, most definitely, do it again, if it meant that Carl would get more than this. More than withering away in a dark, humid sewer system, underneath his own home.
My mouth suddenly opens, and for a few moments, I struggle to get anything to come out of it. That is, until someone cuts into my vision, as he leans his head towards me, out of concern.
Rick Grimes.
Something's always more-or-less terrified me about the man. It might be his first impression given to me, being that he's a cop who, ironically, found me trapped in a prison. Or it could be the fact that I'm the one who got his son shot, and couldn't work up the courage to face him, that next day, in the infirmary. It may even be the simple fear that neither he nor Lori, will have ever liked me, or wanted me to be so close to their only son.
But the man stares at me, his teary, red eyes, locked on me, as nothing continues to come out of my mouth. Something about the words that I'm about to speak, the certainty that I'm about to promise, and the man's own son slowly dying within the palm of my hand, give me the courage to look the intimidating, grown man in the eye, before I raise my voice.
"I—I can get him there," I hesitantly nod my head, my voice cracking out, echoing into the tunnel.
The adults that were bickering about Rosita's plan soon quiet down, as my shaky words to Rick slowly settle in. He furrows his eyebrows, looking from me, back down towards his son. "What?"
My inner eyebrows raise, a sympathetic gesture that comes out as more of a twitch of emotion. "I found a way, th—through the woods."
The silence that follows my voice only intensifies the stares that I can feel from everyone in our group. Rick looks over at me, the man being both in shock and in deep thought. My knee digs into the grimy tunnel floor, as I turn to face the adults standing behind me.
Michonne is the one who my eyes find first. And, coincidentally, she's the one who needs to hear my words the most.
"I can get him to Hilltop."
☆
By the time Carl was done exchanging his goodbyes with Rick and Michonne, I was far beyond the point of just standing around and waiting. The helplessness is what consumed me, while I tapped my nervous foot, while standing on the ash-covered church steps.
He'd already said goodbye to Judith while we were still down in the tunnel, where the rest of the group decided to stay, until this is all over. But, Carl obviously didn't have that same luxury of a few more, guaranteed hours on this earth.
The three of us carried the ticking time-bomb of a boy out from the underground and into the church. It was decided that Carl needed a few minutes to speak to his father and best friend, before the adults were to toss me the keys to the hidden backup car, and let me take him to Hilltop, knowing that they'd never see their son again. It took a bit of convincing—letting me take him there, on my own—before Rick and Michonne agreed, with me, that two people are a lot harder to spot in the darkness of the woods than four.
But, what I didn't quite think about, is how dragging along the weight of an entire person is a lot harder for one than it would be for three.
So far—through some sort of inhuman drive, powered by my bargaining hopefulness of our unlikely plan—I've managed to hobble the both of us a decent ways through the woods, without slowing down or being caught.
Our sloppily-patterned footsteps sound out, as leaves crunch beneath our feet. The boy's arm is draped over my shoulders as my duffel dangles against my other side, bumping into my hip with every labored step we take. Rick's car keys jingle because their ring hangs clasped to my belt loop, ready to be used the mere second I manage to get behind the wheel.
Nothing but a dumb, naive hope and Rick's directions to Alexandria's hidden car fuzzily playing in the back of my mind are what guide me and the boy through the Savior-filled woods. Those men seem to be our only, real threat, considering that every walker, for miles, is heading towards the burning fire that was our home.
"Megan," From my side, I'm suddenly weighed down harder than I have been, as Carl's knees voluntarily buckle. "St—Stop!"
My knees carelessly scrape against twigs as I lower both myself and the weak boy to the ground, absorbing the intensity of his fall. I unstrap my duffel from my shoulder, throwing it to the ground. "What, Carl? What is it?"
His eye momentarily looks up towards the dark, starry sky, a sort of melancholic look about him, as he shakes his head. Through Carl's own breathlessness and my concerned stare, he brings his eye to meet my own. "Leave me behind."
"What?" My eyebrows furrow just above my squinting eyes. The boy's cold, dying skin is illuminated by the moonlight, as my hands continue to desperately clutch onto him. After a second or two of a shocked hesitation, I begin to shake my head. "No, Carl. N—"
"I'm only slowing you down." Carl's empty voice cracks out. No depth is to be heard from the sound that leaves his dry throat. He continues to shake his head, his body only becoming weaker in my grasp. "You know I can't make it all the way to the car. Not like this."
As the boy continues to slump over, my body and hands frantically do whatever necessary to ease him into his new position. Carl slowly rolls himself over onto his back, my shaking hand holds his head just above the ground, because the boy can no longer lift it on his own.
I'd further argue with him, but there'd be no point to it. And we clearly have no time for the back and forth, not even about something so detrimental.
The boy is right. He's dying and he's right about it.
Breaking through my everlasting sense of bargaining about the boy's death, more hot tears make their way to the surface. My vision blurs, before I frantically blink and place my vision elsewhere from Carl as I try to avoid the fact that he becomes noticeably weaker, by the second.
A few, rogue tears run down my cheeks, heating up the already burning skin. My throat emits a hoarse, high-pitched groan, that cracks with a certain weakness.
"Megan, you need to be quiet." A saddening voice pulls me back down from the spiraling depth of my mind. Carl cries as well, silently, the tears cascading down the side of his face, trailing down into his hairline. He reaches up one of his arms, placing a hand on my shoulder. The boy offers me a small smile, trying hard to fight the quiver that tugs on his bottom lip. "They'll hear us."
To whatever degree he can, the boy tightens his grip on my shoulder, and guides my head down to his chest. I easily sink into the motion, as to not make the boy waste more energy than he already has, and press my forehead into his collarbone.
For a few moments, I allow my desperate sobs to be muffled by the fabric of Carl's flannel, as I let out my every grievance. My hand still holds the boy's head above the ground, as he gently rubs my heaving back. The two of us haphazardly try to keep my desperate cries out of earshot of any wandering Saviors.
My frantic wails quickly turn into sniffles, as my body begins to lack the breath necessary to produce such a horrid noise.
Anything.
Anything, is what I'd do to make this stop.
Despite my acceptance of Carl's death, that slowly closes its way in, across the surface of my thoughts, my mind still scrambles for a way out.
I'm not stupid. I know that there isn't a way to reverse this. I've been trained to know that, just by simply existing in this new world. The inevitable is what repeats itself in my mind, but it is fought against by the simple fact that I don't want it to happen. That I might not be able to take it.
While my torso is still lowered towards the boy, I peel my face from its hiding spot in the nape of his neck, and allow my teary eyes to look at our surroundings. My faint whimpers continue on, as I squeeze my eyes shut, for a few moments.
Out of nothing but pure turmoil, I lean away from the boy, sitting back on my knees, still holding his head in my hand. I allow my head to throw itself back, causing my tears to begin rippling down my neck.
After taking a few selfish moments to sulk in my own helplessness, I take a breath and pry open my sticky, wet eyes. My focus comes back to me all at once, when I see something freshly familiar, not too far away, in the darkness.
My tears, my heavy breathing—everything sort of just, stops, when my eyes land on the hiding place that'd unknowingly allowed me a few more hours with my dying love.
The hollow oak tree.
It's almost as if I can't even feel my own hands begin to pat around, in the leaves, feeling for the strap to my medical duffel. My unexpectedly determined eyes stay locked on the one thing granting me an ounce of hope.
Carl takes in my frantic movements, when he notices me suddenly slip the strap over my shoulder, and begin to peel him off of the ground. "Wh—"
"You were the one who said to leave you here, right?" My weak voice pleads with the boy, as I muster up whatever strength I can to hoist him from the ground, wrapping his limp arm around my shoulders. "That's exactly what we're about to do."
He hesitantly complies with my hopeful demand, still releasing a few sniffles as I begin to inch our bodies towards the tree.
Both Carl's energy and strength have decreased in the few moments we'd stopped ourselves. And, although it feels as if gravity might win the war against me and the dying boy, I refuse to let it. My buckling legs continue to drag his cold, aching body through the trees. The loud sound of the crunching, dry leaves doesn't come into play, as my focus stays locked on our destination.
After what feels like a battle against time and space, Carl and I finally stumble our way up to the hollow tree.
I shrug his arm off from around my shoulders, being careful to catch him, just before he falls completely to the ground. With only a little more struggle, I lower the boy to sit himself against the tree.
"You can hide here," My weak voice cracks, as I remove my duffel from my shoulder, and toss it into the tree. I try to nod along to the boy, who sluggishly looks up at me. "I'll go and get the car—drive it closer."
Carl shakes his head, his eye taking more than a few moments to gather the strength to even blink. "You can't even drive, Meg—"
"I can figure it out." My lip begins to quiver, at the feeling brought upon me by the boy's immediate acceptance at his own terrible fate. The acceptance I haven't been able to find in myself, all night. My voice softens to a faint whisper. "I have to at least try, Carl."
The boy says nothing for a few moments. He doesn't need to. His pale face remains smoothed over with a patient look about him, as if my antics are something he feels he needs to entertain, in his last moments, for my own sake. His tears still silently fall, from the eye the gleams up at me, with a look of sorrow.
Carl folds his bottom lip inward. He makes an effort to reach his hand over, and around to the other side of his waist. His struggles are of no avail, as he can no longer lift his body to grab at whatever it is that he reaches for. "M—My back pocket,"
With no hesitation, I shuffle my knees along the forest floor, and help the boy to tilt his body to the side. No time is wasted when I gain access to the back pocket of his jeans, and am able to pull the folded paper from it.
My eyebrows furrow as I study the familiar paper. I'd seen the folded sheets that the boy handed to Michonne and Rick before we left, and the piece of paper in my hand is no different. Neither is its meaning; a purposeful goodbye.
"There's things in there—things I want," Carl sucks in a breath, as his body begins to gently heave with a soft cry. "Things I wanted to make sure I got to say to you."
The sticky, stinging feeling left by my tears continues to pull on the skin around my eyes, as they narrow at the letter in my hand. Although handwritten by the boy, I still get an icky, distasteful feeling about the piece of paper, considering how he talks about it in the past tense.
About how he talks about himself in the past tense.
As if he's already gone—wasted away. Just another wasted opportunity that has yet to be forgotten.
"No," I begin to furiously shake my head, my vision once again becoming cloudy, with tears. My voice doesn't come out, as I say the lone word. A crack in the sound being the result of a painful lump in my throat.
"No." I continue to frantically shake my head back and forth. The paper slips from my hands, floating and landing on the ground, right next to Carl. My angry eyes, however, stay locked on it. "I d—I don't want it."
A sense of defeat takes over me, the longer I'm faced with the reality that the boy's already put his affairs in order. And that he only has so little time to make sure that he makes the rest of his presence on this earth count for something.
I sharply sniffle, my body jolting and my lip quivering.
Carl, however, emits a melancholic laugh, allowing his body to move along with the shallow breaths. "I love you."
Every ounce of breath leaves my body as my eyes lift from the folded piece of paper on the ground, up to the boy's face. Even through the puddles accumulating on my waterlines, I can make out his reminiscent, fading smile that already awaits my gaze. "God, I love you, Megan."
My gaping mouth says nothing, as I stare straight ahead. My gazes seems to travel through the boy sitting against the hollow tree. Before I know it, my hands begin to ready themselves against the forest floor.
"Why aren't you saying anything?" Carl's weakening lower lip quivers, as his voice cracks. "Why won't you say it back?"
My lack of reciprocating words is not because I don't feel the same way, nor would I not mean them. But saying it back, in this moment, would be a guarantee. It would be accepting defeat. A defeat that I've not quite fully come to terms with, if I ever even will.
It'd be throwing in the towel, when there's still a glimmer of naive hope shining down over the boy, even in the darkness of the forest. My naive hope. A bargain I've continued on settling, as I make every effort to provide the boy with a peaceful death. That being the least I could do, considering he's the one who's made my life worth living.
I begin to slowly shake my head. "I can't."
Carl lets out a faint cry, one of desperation. The boy knows that there's more to my hesitation than just the obvious reciprocation of such undeniable feelings. He knows that I'm the one selfishly holding onto every second, despite what it does to him, just for a cushion to land on, for after he's really, truly gone.
"Not until I get back." I shake my head, as does Carl, but the boy disapproves for a different reason. "I—I'll say it when I come back. And then you can tell me everything you wrote in—in that stupid letter."
I then change my demeanor, trying to get the boy to nod along with me, urging some kind of compliance out of him. "Okay?"
Carl's tears glisten along his dirt-covered cheek, as he looks at me, with his empty stare. His eye doesn't need to study me, nor my expression. His gaze is one of knowing, one of certainty. And no matter how hard I try, my mind still explores the very thing that he's so certain about. That he's come to settle with. That he's giving up, just to appease me in his final moments.
"Yeah," Carl's voice cracks out. The boy's eye glistens with a thick layer of tears. A doubt-filled word is spoken from his lips. Although he truly means to comply, he doesn't. I know he doesn't believe in his own agreement, but I pretend not to notice. I pretend for my own sake—that I can actually, somehow believe in this one, last effort enough for the both of us. "Okay, Megan."
The boy and I share a look, one of pure despair, as I continue to kneel at his side. My wet eyelashes fail to keep me from noticing every, fading detail about Carl Grimes. He stares up at me, a quivering chin and a doubtful eye as a reaction to my frantic appearance.
My head dips down, allowing the both of us an attempt at much-needed comforting. The two of us seem to use our shaky lips to take our chances at freezing time, similar to how our other executions of this kind of affection seemed to have worked, for us, in the past.
A consuming feeling that leaves not much else to the imagination, as our only focus is melting into the other's touch. The feeling that I could ever only wish would slow down our time together, making it last forever, when, deep down, I know it'll be over in the blink of an eye.
The kiss only works so much of its historic magic, before we release, as the boy can not contain his shortness of breath. His approaching death, once again, ripping its way through everything good about this world.
Our foreheads rest upon one another, in a desperate attempt to ground ourselves. The contact of his skin on mine allowing my eyes to flutter to a close, trying to, somehow, stretch out the dying moment.
"I'll be back." My quiet voice cracks out, only having to travel a few inches to make their way to the boy.
Carl sniffles, the muscles of his face involuntarily tensing against my own. "Yeah," He whispers.
He pulls his forehead apart from mine, our thoughtful eyes connecting almost immediately, instinctively. "You'll be back."
I offer the boy whatever I can of a saddened smile, tucking in my lower lip and trying to conceal the sorrowful emotions that have been evident on my face. He matches my efforts, at granting me one last endearing look, before I pull myself apart from the situation, and stand to my feet.
My arms slide underneath Carl's, and I lift him upward, the boy being able to offer me almost no assistance against his own dead weight that I have to shuffle—by myself—into the tree. Once the boy is concealed within the wood, I tuck his knees inward, against the wood, as a means to better keep his legs from sticking out.
No matter how hard it seems, I back away from the tree, before my eyes land on Carl's letter, that lies on the ground, in front of him. I take the dirt-covered letter in my hand, and use my other elbow to lean against the entry into the tree.
I carefully place the piece of paper onto the boy's lap, and he manages to huff out one last breath of a laugh, at my moment of stubbornness. A genuine twitch of a smile makes its way to the surface, allowing me to release one, saddened chuckle, despite the lump in my throat.
The sound of distant footsteps and voices sounds out, coming from the direction of home.
In the few minutes that I'd taken to relocate Carl, I'd somehow forgotten about the Saviors. About the point of all of this. The point of having to hide the dying boy, in order to allow him a death away from all of this.
Pursing my lips, I reluctantly stand back from the tree, keeping my eyes glued to the boy. There are little words left to say between the two of us, but my mouth stays sealed shut, as the voices grow closer. And with one swipe of my sleeved hand across the surface of my cheek, I rid my under-eyes of the puddles that cloud them, and ready myself to run.
To take one last look at the boy, and, just run.
☆
In the time that I've known Carl Grimes, I've always found it easy to run from my problems. From the prison, and even from him. Twice.
But this time, it wasn't a problem that I was running from. It soon became a problem that I was making my way towards. The fact that I had almost no idea how to start the car. To even put it in drive.
It took a lot of deep breathing—and some frustrated banging of my hands against the steering wheel—before I finally figured out how to get the car moving. The distance that I covered while driving towards Cars hiding spot may have not even made a difference in the attempt at a time-save, considering the few, dire minutes that it took me to even teach myself to drive.
Not even bothering to slam the door to the car I'd just haphazardly parked alongside the road, my feet begin to thud against the ground, as they make their way towards the hollow oak tree.
I now run, faster than I ever have—faster than I'll probably ever need to, again—towards the spot in the woods. The sunrise begins to cover the horizon, sending a soft, white glow through the trees.
My heart races, almost as fast as my speed as I pick up my pace. The boy's unknown safety being my only source of energy, as my lungs continue to burn. Although I try and keep my eyes peeled for Saviors, my last concern is running into one of them, as long as I know that they weren't all somehow drawn to Carl's location.
A blurry movement, occurring out of order with the sway of the trees, catches my eye, just before my ears hear the familiar groans.
A walker.
I quickly come to a stop, and before staring long enough to get a good look at the creature, I place my back against the nearest tree. The thing continues to hobble along, just on the other side of the tree. A few shaky, gasping breaths leave from between my lips, my dry throat burning as I try to stay as silent as I can.
Once the dead one drags itself far enough away, I waste no time before continuing my sprint towards Carl's hiding spot. The thudding of my feet against the forest floor doesn't concern me, as there's no way the lone walker could keep up with such a frantic pace.
Something of a half-minute of running ensues, just before my feet nearly skid to a stop, right in front of the oak tree.
Amidst my heaving breathing, I stumble forward and lean into the entry of the tree, ready to alert Carl of my presence. A small, melancholic victory of sorts. "Told you I'd figure out how to dr—"
My voice echoes into the empty tree.
The empty tree.
Well, not entirely empty.
One thing sits inside of it, lazily fallen over, right in the spot where Carl should be resting.
My medical duffel. The one I'd cramped in there, along with the boy, in order to keep it hidden. Along with something else, sitting right on top, almost as if it was delicately placed there. Something very out of place from the way I purposefully left it.
The letter.
A slip of paper that I wished to have no business reading. The involuntary signing away of Carl's life, that I was not yet ready to face.
At the sight of such simple items, lacking the presence of the boy, my heart seems to almost stop. I'd find it easy drop to the ground and die, if it weren't for the sinking feeling in my chest that ponders the boy's whereabouts, keeping me on full alert.
My fingers brush against the handgun strapped to my thigh, just before I take it out of the holster. The anger inside of me bubbles, ready to take down whichever Savior got their hands on the boy, considering nothing else could give him the strength to move.
My feet shuffle backwards from the tree, my eyes traveling over every inch of our surroundings, looking for footprints, bullet casings, anything.
Nothing new comes into my vision. Nothing except the dragging footprints from the walker who'd just stumbled its way towards our home. The same old trees remain illuminated, but by the light of a new sun, that hadn't started to rise until after I left Carl here, all alone.
Whipping my head around in every direction imaginable, my thoughts begin to swirl together. The sweat that covers my body is not only from the running, but from the panic. From the unknown.
My eyes continue to study everything that is the same as when I left it. The trees, the leaves, the spot where Carl and I'd first rested on the forest floor. Everything is the same as when I'd left it, just a few stupid minutes ago.
With the gun still clutched tightly in my palm, I begin to grab at the roots of my hair, pushing myself to just think.
I surely would've heard the callout of sadistic whistling the second one of the Saviors found something. The car was far, but not far enough that I wouldn't hear the commotion of an entire forest full with a bunch of men who are excited to find their next victim. If they'd taken Carl, there'd at least be drag marks, or something of a struggle indicator, strewn across the soggy dirt inside of the oak tree, where I'd left him.
My eyelids flick upwards, overwhelmed with the tears that start to flood them. Frustration that can not begin to describe the perplexities that I feel in this moment of confusion.
There's no reason those men would've taken the boy and decided to leave a perfectly good bag of medical resources in the tree. As if a dying boy isn't the only kind of ammunition they'd want against Alexandria. Surely they'd take that letter, and use it as some sort of ransom. Maybe even light it on fire, like they did with our mattresses. But nothing else, no other reasonable explanation could've been what moved Carl from that spot.
It's not like he could've just gotten up and started walking.
Although there is one circumstance, in which someone in such a state of weakness, could've, just, gotten up and left.
The one thought comes together, making everything around me stop. Every thought in my mind that ponder Carl's whereabouts start to make some sort of saddening sense.
My eyes begin to frantically search for the distant walker's dragging footprints, that I'd noticed a few seconds ago. The walker that I'd not bothered to get a good enough look at, as my only focus was finding Carl.
The dead being that was the only thing that made a difference in these woods, since I'd left a few minutes ago. Besides Carl's obvious absence.
When I find the sloppy prints in the leaves, my eyes follow them, as they grow fainter, in the direction that I came from. And instead of tracing the prints towards the walker, I begin following them in the opposite direction, in order to find out exactly where they came from.
Tears cloud my eyes with every step I take, in order to follow the prints. A burning lump in my throat begins to labor my breathing even more, as my eyes focus on the scuffs of disturbed leaves, that curve just in front of Carl's hiding spot.
That walker came from inside the hollow oak tree.
"God damn it." A wailing sob racks through my body. My wet eyelashes clash against each other, as I squeeze my eyes shut, clamping my free hand over my mouth.
It pains me to make the realization that Carl has died. That Carl is dead. That he's turned into one of those things, left to be nothing of a crumb that makes up a world of ruins. And the most eerie part is that the boy and I still have more unfinished business, as he's not yet completely gone.
His body is the vessel for something quite the opposite of the Carl Grimes I'd allowed myself to become one with. He is no longer the boy I'd fought tooth and nail not to fall in love with. That thing out there is not Carl. Not even close.
And I'll be damned if he gets left that way.
Allowing my eyes to flutter closed, sending my building tears to streak down my face, I spin on my heel, facing the direction of the walker that continues to grow smaller in the distance. My feet take slow steps towards the far-away creature, as I hope to stall, before having to come face-to-face with my worst, reanimated nightmare.
But, a sense of urgency causes my body to ache, knowing that Carl wouldn't want to be left as one of them. Not even for a few minutes.
I know what I need to do, and I know that I need to do it now.
There are several reasons why I'm the one who needs to put him down. I'm someone he loves. Loved. Or maybe it's because I'm simply the only one close enough to do it, the only person who knows about the boy's passing. And the last reason is that it's my fault. I was the one who left a dying boy alone, knowing that he was too weak to reach for his gun and to pull the trigger, all by himself.
And because I allowed such a thing to happen, it is now my responsibility.
The walker continues to hobble away from me, being too far to hear my footsteps that approach it. I suck in a breath, in between my silent whimpers. "Hey!"
It stops in its tracks, slowly turning its head, in the same manner of how the undead normally does. Except this time, I can make out the vague details of Carl's clothing, which makes the familiar sight seem completely foreign. Something so unnatural comes of the empty shell of person, almost tainting every memory of Carl that I still have.
"Over here!" My hoarse voice solidifies my location to my undead love.
It turns around. He turns around.
One angry eye now locked on me, as we make our way towards each other, the gap becoming smaller and smaller. The circle of blue that used to melt its way into my soul, now remains crusted over with a milky, white film. Carl's eye now stares at me, consumed by the face of a hungry anger.
His upper lip twitches, rising to reveal the familiar teeth that I used to see, in the form of a warming smile. A growl emits from the same vocal cords that was always able to sooth me ten times over. The sound carries the same depth as Carl's voice, but the aggressive, inhuman noise causes my chin to quiver.
Once the reanimated boy and I are close enough, he begins to lunge towards me. My hand squeezes the grip of my handgun, before I duck out of the way, sending him stumbling behind me.
I allow the gun to slip through my fingers. It lands with a soft crunch amongst the plush layer of leaves covering the ground.
My hand slowly wipes at my under-eyes, as I can barely make out the silhouette of an undead Carl adjusting himself, so that he may, once again, hungrily approach me.
His yellowing bandage slowly slips down his face, covering his remaining eye so that it can no longer lust after my flesh. I take this as an opportunity to move from my spot, and to gawk at the scene, not yet having the courage to do what I know needs to be done.
But before I end it—before I finally lay the boy to rest, there's still something that I need to do. The thing that brought me back to Alexandria, today, in the first place.
He stumbles around, lunging himself at the spot where I once stood, before I'd discreetly moved. The bandage acting as more of a blindfold, while I stand to side and continue to silently cry a river of tears, just above my involuntarily gaping mouth.
But as he continues to stumble around, the bandage inches its way down his pale face, to once again, reveal his eye. The angry, familiar creature looks around, now having no impairments to its vision, and locks its eye on me.
I walk towards it, feeling a sense of comfort from the boy, that I know I shouldn't.
My palms come in contact with the collar of its shirt, holding it away from me. It snaps its jaw, using the energy of the undead to try and claw at my shoulders. Tears flow down my face, as I get a closer look at the creature. His fingernails drag down my arm, not quite having the yellow, aged claws that other walkers have.
Sucking in a breath, I find a gap in my tears. "God damn it, Carl."
He continues to look at me beneath angrily tensed eyebrows, his feet stumbling towards me, as I keep on inching my way backwards. The bandage that previously slipped its way down the boy's angry face, now lies atop my hands, that stay pushing at his collarbone.
My fingers find the back of the bandage, unfastening the end and beginning to pull at it. The material tightens around the creature's neck, as I continue to yank it, being sure to keep one hand pushing against the reanimated boy's chest. The sobs come back to me, as I begin frustratedly pull at the material. A few moments of struggling against the weak, inhuman being occur, before the bandage finally falls off.
Of all the moments in which I'd seen Carl Grimes without a bandage, one, in particular, still sticks out to me.
It was that one night, on my bedroom floor. He'd come to check on me after the Saviors had taken all of our stuff. But that night, his bandage was taken off, before so much more was revealed, giving the boy and I each a glimpse of something we never knew we needed. He'd said that it bothered him, that it fucking chaffed.
And although the bandageless face snapping its teeth at me is far from the same face I'd seen that night, I'd never forgive myself for leaving the aged, itchy material on him, before I do what I need to do and lay him to rest.
A few, shaky breaths emit from my throat, as I continue to cry. My fingertips release the dirty bandage and reach around to my back pocket, as I continue to hold him back, with my other elbow. I wait for another gap in my tears, for a chance to say the words—to just get them over-with—but the gap never comes. My sobs continue to grow more violent, in between my sharp intakes of breath.
I fold in my lips and take a breath, looking the creature in the eye. "I l-" My shoulders shake with a violent sob, as my fingers fasten themselves around the screwdriver in my back pocket. "I love you."
I've always known what it feels like to grieve, as I've had to do it time and time again. But this time, the death happens in my arms, almost over and over again, with each effort I make to give the boy a comforting rest. The cycle of emotions that one goes through, during a typical stage of grief, seem to hit me all at once, as I continue to struggle back and forth with the undead boy.
"D—did you hear that?" I angrily yell, my feet continuing to shuffle along with the pattern of sloppy footsteps made by the struggling creature. "God damn it, I love you!"
And with one, grunting scream, my arm swings around, driving the blade of my screwdriver into the back of the Carl's skull. The feeling of the puncture being the same as I'd once felt, when I'd first had to kill. But this time seems as if it's vastly different, as I stare into the lifeless, milky eye of the boy who'd lived to see a second death.
The wrinkles in the angry boy's face quickly sooth themselves, as his body goes limp, in my arms. A bit of peace is granted to me, the instant that the boy's soul is freed from whatever vessel it was entrapped in, as I stare at the blissful state of his resting expression.
A loss of balance causes the two of us to drop to the ground, landing on our knees.
I allow the boy's body to slump over the top of my thighs, as my knees dig into the ground. My body leans over his, as I desperately hug onto it, resting my forehead on his back. Cracking screams emit from the very depth of my throat. "I l—"
A violent sob washes over me, leaving the boy's body as well as mine to shake, with every one of my gasping breaths, as I helplessly hold onto whatever's left of him.
"I love you."
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8682 words
A/N
edit 12/21/23: I've added an "alternate ending" type chapter that sequentially takes place after the first scene in this chapter. However, it's not really a different ending but just a different way to get to the ending... if that makes sense. ANYWAYS enjoy the bonus chapter because I've missed this SO SO MUCH!!
original A/N
so what if I were to tell you... that Carl and Megan's story is actually kind of far from over...
^^ I'll let you guys sit on that for a bit,,,,, Also NO I'm not bringing him back or anything like that
PLEASE READ BELOW
you might not understand two out of the three last chapters (they kind of serve as an extended epilogue) if you haven't seen all of s9. I'm sure most people know the big events that take place in season 9, and if you don't, then those will be spoiled!!
but, I'm going to be very careful in explaining next chapter what's happening, just in case anyone hasn't season 9 (I keep it very minimal)
there are going to be three more SHORTISH chapters and then an epilogue and (I'm almost certain) and alternate ending type thing! but the ending will still end with Carl's death, but it'll be a lot less brutal than this one YEEYEE!! And the next chapter won't take too long (maybe a week) bc I've already had it mostly written since February...
oh yeah did I mention that I'm sorry for what I just put you guys through !
:D sorry y'all!!
I've had this kind of death planned since the very beginning, but I didn't think I'd actually end up doing it. and... um... well... here I am :P
i don't know what I was expecting but this was a lot more brutal than I thought it was going to be!! but I'm really satisfied with how it turned out, bc I'm depressed after proofreading so ig I got the point across !!
I wanted it to parallel so many different deaths AND it did
*SPOILERS FOR S11*
i literally planned carl's death with the whole "you'll be back" "I'll be back" before what happened with Maggie and alden so I'm kind of mad that AMC ripped me off
also here's a list of deaths that this scene parallels
- negan and Lucille
- Daryl and Merle
- Maggie and alden
- Aaron and Eric
isn't that sad ^^
ALSO, COMMENT IF YOU WANT DT'S ON MY NEW FICS THAT WILL BE UP WHEN EXTINCTION EVENT OFFICIALLY IS FINISHED!! Bc anyone who has read this far and wants a DT definitely deserves it for putting up with my shit for 38 chapters!
DT on Stranger Things fic??
DT on Carl Grimes fic?
DT on both?? :p
JUST LMK
anyways, RIP my version of Carl Grimes ily4ever
☆vote to cheer Megan up bc she's in the woods crying on top of Carl's dead body ☆