Chapter Text
The silence of the aftermath is like a funeral shroud, black and thick and smothering him. It’s as though he has a second layer of skin, one that clings tightly to his bones and keeps him warm, pulsing, like the heartbeat in your ears when you get embarrassed.
Rick hasn’t said anything yet, and doesn’t seem like he’s planning to anytime soon. Last night he sat outside the car, keeping watch, while Carl slept fitfully on Michonne’s lap. He would close his eyes, drift off to her gentle stroking of the hair on his brow, then a visceral flash of memory, skin-on-skin contact and the sharp, spidering pain shooting up his spine, and he would wake again, cool sweat between his shoulder blades.
The worry in Michonne’s eyes is painful, so Carl avoids eye-contact entirely, vision focused on the ground.
He feels so many emotions at once that he doesn’t know what to do. On the one hand, raw humiliation throbs within him, self-hatred a viscous liquid in his heart. Disgust consumes him like some kind of man-eating monster, with a gaping mouth that swallows him whole and he fantasises about killing Dan for a second time, then killing himself. Taking a blade like he had once seen a woman do, pressing the tip into his flesh and dragging it wrist to elbow. Watching the blood pool and spill, a crimson painting that would showcase just how much of a coward he truly is.
The exhaustion of his body both bewilders and infuriates him. Daryl took the beating of a lifetime and still managed to take down a claimer and stay up to guard with his dad. He hadn’t even been able to push Dan off him at full strength.
Deep down, Carl knows it is unreasonable to expect himself to have been able to fight a sturdily-built, fully-grown man at fourteen years old. That’s what the rational parts of his brain tell him.
But the louder areas, the ones that clamour to be heard over the bargaining for his own psyche, tell him what he wants to hear.
He wants to be told that it was his fault. That he should have been able to escape, that he shouldn’t have let that man go as far as he did. At least then he can rationalise this burning loathing within. At least then he won’t feel this pathetic self-pity. Only motivation to become stronger. To push himself.
A barrier forms around his heart, stone and heavy and protective. This will never happen again. He will not allow it.
Because what scares him most is the confusion. That secluded, hidden part of his head that asks, ‘why?’
‘Why did he do this? What did he do?’
Carl has a vague understanding. He saw his mom and dad kiss, saw the way their fingers would interlock and their eyes would pass secrets of something only they knew about.
He knows how babies are made.
He knows babies don’t make babies.
He also knows that boys can’t get pregnant, and to him that seems like the only reason someone would experience that torture.
So why? Why did that man take from him something he wasn’t willing or supposed to give? The question sends his mind reeling.
What did he do to make that man think he wanted it? He said no, he knows he did. He told him to stop; he’s sure of it.
Michonne notices his contemplation and stops brushing the long locks that hang into his eyes.
“What are you thinking about?” She asks gently, voice soft in the way a mother speaks to her child. She’s never spoken to Carl like this before. Usually, she treats him like the rest of the adults. The comfort he finds in her kindness startles him.
He shrugs against her legs. “Nothin’. Dunno. Just . . . Stuff.”
She nods a little sadly at him, doesn’t make him elaborate, but the anger in her forced smile could change the tide, could send waves crashing against rocks. In her eyes, he can tell she wants to scream, ‘Tell me! Let me help you. Let me save you from what has already been done! Let me take time in my hands and twist it into another shape, change your story!’
But she can’t say any of this. So she is silent.
Carl sits up suddenly, “We should start to move.”
Michonne looks at him, startled, but nods and opens the car door. Carl is glad she doesn’t argue.
His dad and Daryl turn to face them as they clamber out of the vehicle. Daryl’s usual squint is dramatically emphasised by the huge puffiness of his eyes and cheeks, skin marred blue and green instead of redneck tanned. Rick still has blood in his beard, a thin break in his skin where Joe’s ring collided with his cheekbone.
They don’t speak, but Daryl does incline his head to acknowledge him.
“The others are still out there. We’ve waited long enough. I think we should start looking again.” He’s aware how childish his words sound. How innocently hopeful, how unplanned and not thought through. Imagine his shock when the two men stand, agreeing, mouths twisted with determination.
Daryl slings his crossbow over his shoulder, Michonne resheathes her katana. His dad pockets a knife, retrieves his gun and picks the remaining weapons from the Claimers’ bodies. Packing them into a duffel bag, he begins a brisk pace, the breaking dawn shining over the horizon.
Carl thinks he will never see the sun the same way again. The sun that had set on him only hours ago, stained by blood but otherwise clean. The sun that rises on him now, muted yellows and oranges lighting up his tainted skin. He feels exposed and wants to hide. Instead, he holsters his gun, pulls his flannel down over his scraped fingers, and follows his dad into the forested area.
Somewhere along the dusty paths, the rocky floor of the woods and over what must be just under twenty roads, they again find the train tracks and the map to Terminus. The little red dot has relocated itself to a point much closer than he expected, indicating that their destination is only a few miles north of where they stand.
Exhaustion pounds at his temples. His body wants to flop down on the ground and sleep, but if they make it to Terminus, if it’s really real, then he may even get a bed with shelter. He knows which he would prefer.
He trails behind the group, feet dragging like the paws of a lazy bear over the branches and dirt floor. Michonne’s eye seems prone to wandering, Carl consistently catching her watching him in her peripheral vision. Finally, to put her out of her misery, he increases his pace, matching her step.
“I’m fine,” he says tersely, trying to put enough emphasis in his words to convince her.
She looks at him with a sad smile. “I know you are,” the words are soft and yet somehow feel like a punch to the gut. “You’re a strong boy, Carl.”
“Yeah,” he replies, hardening his voice. “I am. So stop looking at me like a kicked puppy and leave me alone.”
He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but he can’t take them back now. Michonne seems hurt, eyes widening slightly, before her gaze becomes guarded. Then understanding blankets her face, gentle and kind, and God, Carl wishes she would hate him. Instead, she just nods, quickens her footsteps, and leaves him to walk behind.
He’s grateful. And he’s better off by himself.
His leaden legs carry him the short paces almost on auto-pilot. Sticks crack underfoot. The sun, which peaked at midday and stuck his flannel to his back with sweat, now hangs lazily in the sky, slowly sinking back beneath the horizon.
The endless stretch of blue above them morphs into a brush of lilac and navy, painting the worn, rust-coloured gates in front of them the bloody hue of crimson.
Cold blows in from the east on a floating breeze and Carl shivers involuntarily. Everyone is already treating him like a daisy — he doesn’t need to give them another reason to.
His dad reappears from the forest, moisture on his forehead. He has buried his red machete and the bag of guns in the soil lining the chain fence surrounding the buildings, which seem to be old factories.
They stand for a while, just staring at the security of it all. Thick iron bars, tall fences, puffs of black smoke curling from the chimneys.
Daryl is about to reach for the lock when Michonne puts a hand on his arm. “We should go around the back,” she says softly. “We don’t know who these people are or what their intentions could be. Just to be safe.”
Glancing at the rest of the group, Carl can see that they’re all in agreement. Moving from the entrance, they carefully pick their way through the foliage to the backs of the factories. There are tens of trucks just sitting around and very few people milling through the square. For a place that has ‘refuge for all’, it doesn’t look like there are too many recipients.
The others clamber up the bars and swing their legs over the fence. Carl grimaces at the thought, knowing it will be painful in more places than one. He quickly follows suit, however, not wanting to give anyone a reason to doubt him. His lower back and further burn with the effort, and for some reason his stomach feels as though it is being licked by flames. Now that he’s noticed it, the pain doesn’t fade. He has to hide his hitches of breath and winces.
The four of them creep towards the main building, taking in the sights. Derelict factories surround them and car parts lie abandoned on the ground. Carl can’t shake the sense that he is being watched, but he chooses to ignore it, chalking it up to paranoia.
Entering the building, the strong metallic scent of guns and blood hits him like a wall and he fights a gag. Voices are heard in the distance, and Daryl raises his crossbow, putting a finger to his lips.
They tiptoe towards the sound, breathing quietly, not daring to make a noise. Michonne unsheathes her katana along the way, and Carl keeps his hand on his gun.
Stopping down the hallway, his father peeks around the door, watching. They can see a woman and a few others, a table and chair. The woman holds a radio, speaking loudly and clearly into it, inviting survivors into their sanctuary. Unease settles in Carl’s bones.
Suddenly, his father steps forward, gun raised, and the others follow his cue. Carl stumbles in behind, dread like a stone in his chest. Rick questions them, asking if they have available space and if they can intrude upon their hospitality. His attempt at politeness is somewhat minimised by the pistol aimed at their potential hosts.
A man, ‘Gareth’, he says, at first berates the guy who was supposed to be guarding the fence. Then, he softens his tone and welcomes them to Terminus, explaining their rules and encouraging them to go out and get a plate of food. It’s so familiar to the start, when they all gathered into a camp just outside Georgia, when Dale fried up some meat on the fire outside his RV, that Carl feels a twinge of nostalgia. But the pale blue-grey of Gareth’s eyes, the blank slate, void of emotion, tells him a different story. He wonders if it’s because of survival. Maybe something darker.
As they wander through the courtyard, following the lead of the man they got in trouble, Carl’s hair stands up, prickling along the back of his neck, that same sensation of being watched hitting him full force. Something isn’t right.
Meat, glistening and sweet, is dished out onto plates, but his appetite is gone. Foreboding has drilled a hole within him. He isn’t sure what is wrong yet, but he knows that he has to warn his dad.
Before he can get the chance, however, Rick slaps the food out of Daryl’s hands, turning to the cook angrily.
“Who’s watch is that?” He demands, a cold venom in his voice. A deathly stillness washes over the yard, the few Terminus citizens out stopping in their tracks.
The man stammers out a futile excuse, but now the four of them have their weapons raised. They look around in horror; Daryl’s poncho, left with Maggie, Glenn’s watch and armour — belongings of their family from the prison. Sick nausea pervades Carl’s gut as he thinks of all the possibilities of what could have happened to them.
“Put the guns down,” a breezy but tense voice carries across from the buildings as Gareth sidles out, flanked by a squadron of armed men and women. Michonne swears beside him, and Carl has to agree with her colourful choice of language. They’re surrounded.
“If you want a gun fight, I’m pretty sure we could take out plenty of your people before you get us,” his father begins, but Gareth cuts him off with an airy wave of his hand.
“I mean, you probably could,” Gareth muses, “if we didn’t have guns trained on you from above. Snipers, to be more exact.”
This time, Daryl curses, a long string of words that would put a fishwife to shame. Sweat begins to bead on Rick’s brow, and Daryl’s finger twitches over the trigger on his crossbow. Gareth notices their hesitance, sees it as a refusal to comply. He waves his hand again, a controlled, militaristic motion. Before he can process this, Carl is shoved to the ground, Michonne leaping on top of him and shielding his body with hers. Their weapons drop out of their hands and skitter along the floor, quickly retrieved by a couple of Terminus citizens nearby.
Bullets ricochet around them, shell casings bouncing off the ground. The shots are low, and miss, but the sound strikes fear in each of their hearts.
Standing shakily, Carl puts his hands in the air, following his dad. The four feel a flash of humiliation. How many times will they be beaten by a stronger party?
“Good,” Gareth says with satisfaction. “Very good. Now, you see that shipping container over there? I want you to walk over, one at a time, and go inside. Okay?”
Gritting his teeth, Rick stares at the man. “And if we refuse?” The words are empty. They have already lost.
Gareth laughs as though someone made a joke. “We’ll shoot your boy here. And I don’t think you’d like that.”
Carl is surprised by the lack of fear welling up within him at the threat. In comparison, his dad struggles to not reach for the gun that is no longer holstered at his side, the previous night’s events filling him with a protective nature not unlike that of a maternal bear. His thoughts are primal and instinctive, fundamentally survivalist at their core. His main objective is to keep his son, his cub safe. Carl watches, numb of any kind of emotion, as his father bites back a snarl.
“You first, Rick,” Gareth mocks. His father turns slowly, a defiant glint in his eyes, and walks over to the now unlocked shipping container.
Daryl follows, then Michonne, and finally Carl is alone, waiting for instruction. It’s awkward under the scrutinising gaze of the people in the courtyard. Can they see the bruises? The love bites? The handprints around his wrists and throat? Suddenly, he feels exposed. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to gain some semblance of comfort.
Finally, Gareth relents. “Your turn, kid.” Carl walks at a faster pace than the others, relieved and in no mood to make a show.
As he walks up the rickety steps to the container, he can hear hushed whispers coming from inside. His father and the other two are likely already formulating a plan. He pushes the door back, and dusty shafts of sunlight illuminate the space for a moment, before the door is slammed shut behind him.
In the brief glimmer of light, Carl’s mouth drops in shock, tension ebbing out of his shoulders. There were three strangers; a slight Latina woman in camo, a hulking man with fiery orange hair and a short, stout man with a rather eclectic haircut. That isn’t what surprised him.
What surprised him was the sight of Maggie and Glenn, safe and unharmed, enveloped in each other’s arms. Carl desperately wishes they hadn’t been engulfed in darkness, if only to see them again, whole and alive, to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
The adrenaline that has flooded his body for the past two days vanishes in the face of relief. And suddenly, the burning pain in his stomach from before becomes all the more apparent. The tentative smile drops from his face like an egg sliding off a plate.
He takes a shuddering step towards where he thinks he last saw Michonne and Maggie, choking out a gasped sound. He clutches at the thin material of his t-shirt — since when was it wet? — and his fingers come back soaked. He doesn’t have to have light to know that it’s blood.
Michonne’s soft hands find him first, worry evident in her voice as she questions him. His vision is spotting, his hearing fading. Maggie finds him next, hands running along his body to try and find the source of his hurt. He doesn’t have the energy to fight back, even as sickness fills his throat at the sensation.
When her skilled, calloused hands reach his stomach, the agony is overwhelming, white hot, like an iron. Distantly, he can hear voices crowded above him, anxiety, confusion and fear in their words.
Then his eyes close, and the sweet relief of slipping gives him solace.