Chapter Text
Carl leaves the police station, quietly closing the door behind him. He looks around, making sure the coast is clear, before starting the walk home.
The streets are eerily quiet. The last rays of sunshine make him sweat, and the occasional shuffle in the distance sends a chill down his spine, but he presses on.
The knive in his hand seems to weigh a ton.
Going home seems like the most logical option.
He's terrified of what he might find there. The thought of his mother—dead in their house won’t leave his mind.
Yet, a surge of childish hope persists. The hope that he'll find his mother is safe at home.
Slowly but steadily, he makes his way toward home, passing several buildings along the way.
In the distance, he hears a loud noise—a sound like a crowd of people. He guesses these people are no longer alive.
So he makes sure to stay as far away as possible.
The walk home seems to stretch on endlessly, each step weighed down by fear and anticipation.
After what felt like an eternity, Carl finally sees his house in the distance. As he approaches, he immediately notices that the door is wide open. The sight sends a chill down his spine. That is definitely not a good sign.
He tightens his grip on the large knife, the cold metal barely registering against his numb hands. Taking a deep breath, he steps onto the porch and enters the house, closing the door behind him.
Carl's eyes widen as he steps into the chaos of his home. Items are scattered just about everywhere, as though someone had been packing in a frantic rush. The sight is disheartening—and deeply worrying.
He realizes he most likely won't find his mother here. The realization brings tears to his eyes.
He wills the tears not to fall and quietly moves through the rest of the house, the knife still in his hand, his eyes darting around, trying to make sense of what happened.
His feet stop in front of his bedroom door. As he glances around his room, Carl notices little disarray in his room.
A clear sign that he wasn't packed for.
That simple observation sends a sharp pang of rejection through him. He shakes the feeling away. His mother would never have left him. He’s sure of that. Something must've happened. Maybe she didn't have time to pack his things.
He quickly locks the bedroom door behind him and makes his way straight to the bed. Lying down, for a moment he consideres falling asleep, but that thought quickly fades when his gaze lands on the object resting on his bedside table.
His father's hat.
He's had it ever since he learned that his father had been shot, three weeks ago. The hat had become a small source of comfort during the sleepless nights, when he cried and wondered if his father would ever wake up from his coma. It was all he had left of him, and somehow, just touching it made the ache of uncertainty a little more bearable.
But that comfort is gone now.
The hat, once a symbol of safety and connection, now only brings tears to his eyes, just a reminder of his father—of everything he’s lost.
He reaches for the hat, his fingers trembling as he tries not to cry.
In that moment, he understands something deeper—he’s not just lonely and sad; he’s terrified. These past few days have been the worst of his life. He’s witnessed things no one his age—hell, no one at all—should ever have to see. The world has become a foreign, brutal place, and he feels completely unprepared for it.
Everything he’s known is gone. His family, his home, his sense of security—each piece of his life has been stripped away. And the fear that settles in his chest is a weight he can't escape.
He would give anything for his parents to be here, for their arms around him, for their reassuring voices.
Even Shane’s presence would be a comfort right now—someone, anyone, who could remind him that he’s not alone in this.
But he’s alone. So alone.
His hands tremble as they grip the hat tighter, but it offers no comfort now. The weight of loss hangs over him, suffocating in its quiet, overwhelming presence. It feels like he's been standing at the edge of a cliff for days, knowing he's about to fall but not sure when or how. His heart aches for the safety, for the warmth of someone who cared for him. Every corner of the world feels unfamiliar, cold, and hostile. He longs for the smallest piece of reassurance, the smallest trace of love or stability—but it's all gone.
The tears come slowly at first, as if his body is unsure whether to let go, but soon they're rushing down his face in a torrent. He feels so small, so insignificant in a world that feels too big, too brutal.
And so he cries—no he sobs. For his parents, for a reason to live on.
Exhaustion finally takes over, and Carl drifts into a restless sleep. His body and emotions are both spent, his eyes shutting as the emotional exhaustion catches up to him.
He sleeps on top of the covers, the tears still damp on his cheeks, the Sheriff's hat clutched tightly in his hands.
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Carl jolts awake, the remnants of sleep quickly fading as reality crashes down upon him once again. It takes a moment for the events of the previous days to come rushing back.
Suddenly, he's not in the safety of his home, but in a world plagued by the undead. He sits up, rubbing the sleep from his puffy eyes, and tries to make sense of it all.
He has no idea what to do next—or where to go. The first thought that flashes through his mind is going to the hospital, hoping to find his dad alive. It’s a fleeting hope, one that feels almost silly the moment it surfaces.
But realistically, the chances of his dad still being alive are too slim to risk his own life. He feels guilty for thinking it, but deep down, he knows he can’t afford to hold onto childish naivety anymore.
The next plausible plan that comes to mind is to head to the city. If he ever wants to find his mom, that’s probably where she’ll be. The odds of finding her there are better, though not by much. Maybe he’ll even find Shane or some of the other survivors who made it out. It’s a slim hope, but it’s the only one he has.
Atlanta isn’t too far from King County—just an hour by car. But of course, he doesn’t have a car, and he can’t drive. He’s too young and too short, a child with no real skills for this kind of world.
He’s never walked that far before. He has no idea how long it will take him to get there on foot, but he knows it won’t be easy. The journey will be long, and he’s certain it will be dangerous. He’ll have to be careful—watch every step and keep an eye out for anyone, or anything, that might pose a threat.
But there’s no other option. If he wants to keep going, if he wants to survive and find some trace of his family, this is the only way. With his mind finally made up, he shakes off the thoughts that have been weighing him down.
The sun has already risen, casting long shadows on the ground as morning light breaks through the trees.
He decides to leave before nightfall.
Before Carl can leave, he still has a few things to pack—some clothes, a few personal items, and whatever else he might need. He walks over to his dresser and pulls out a couple of shirts, a pair of jeans, and a jacket. Slowly, he stuffs the clothes into his backpack, cramming them in until the bag is full. He adjusts the straps, making sure everything is in place, but he feels a sense of detachment, as though the motions are automatic.
Just as he's about to turn and walk out of the room, something catches his eye. Without thinking, his gaze shifts toward the mirror hanging on the wall.
Carl stops in his tracks. He stands there, staring at his reflection. For a long moment, he doesn't move, simply taking in the sight of himself. His eyes are heavy, weighed down by dark circles that seem to have deepened overnight. His clothes are wrinkled, clearly not having been changed for days. His hair, tangled and dirty with sweat.
He looks a mess—worse than he feels, really. But, truth be told, he doesn't feel much better either. The exhaustion, both physical and mental, seems to have taken a permanent residence on his face. It’s as if the weight of everything he’s been through has left its mark. The lack of sleep, the stress, the constant strain of the past few days—it all shows in the way his shoulders slump and the dullness of his eyes.
Carl turns away from the mirror with a sigh, pulling his backpack over his shoulder. He knows he needs to keep going, to push through, but for a brief moment, he allows himself to linger on the reflection of someone who seems utterly worn out—someone who’s had enough, but isn’t quite ready to admit it yet.
He decides he should probably change his clothes and try to get himself cleaned up a bit. A shower seems like the perfect idea, though he’s unsure if there’s still running water. He figures he’ll take a chance and see.
After searching through the scattered clothes, he finally finds something clean to wear. Just as he's about to leave for the bathroom, he stops. He can't bear to leave his dad's hat behind, so he takes it with him.
Once in the bathroom, he turns on the tap, half-expecting nothing to happen. To his surprise, the shower still works—though the water’s freezing cold. It’s not the warm, comforting shower he had hoped for, but it’s better than nothing.
After showering, he quickly pulled on a grey T-shirt and his jeans— the ones with the most pockets. He stuffed his two knives into the pockets, the metal cool against his fingers.
Without giving it much thought, he grabbed his dad’s hat and put it on, even though it was too big for him. It looked a bit awkward, but he didn’t care. It was just one of those things that felt right, like a small piece of his dad was still with him, even if it didn’t quite fit.
As he was exiting the bathroom, his stomach began to growl loudly, reminding him just how long it had been since he'd last eaten. He realized that it had been days— he couldn’t even remember when he last ate something.
He grabbed his backpack from the floor, slinging it over his shoulder, and made his way downstairs, the familiar creak of the wooden steps echoing through the quiet house. His footsteps quickened as he approached the kitchen, hoping to find something edible.
Inside the kitchen, he opened the cabinets and started rummaging through them, pushing aside old cans and half-empty boxes.
But what really caught his eye was the brightly colored box of Lucky Charms sitting on the counter. His favorite cereal, the one thing that could always bring a sense of comfort, even in the middle of chaos.
He reached for a bowl, but as he did, a thought struck him. There was no milk. He glanced over at the fridge, but he already knew. The power outage had wiped out anything fresh that had been inside. He didn't dare open the fridge. It was all spoiled by now. He sighed, but there was no point in complaining. He didn’t have time for that.
So, he poured the cereal into the bowl, ignoring the lack of milk. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. The dry cereal was still better than nothing. He ate quickly, shoveling the sugary pieces into his mouth, barely tasting them as his hunger took over.
When he was done he grabbed a water bottle from the counter and took a long sip. He didn’t look back at the kitchen as he walked toward the door, knowing there was nothing left to linger on. The house felt even emptier now. With a final glance behind him, he stepped outside into the Georgian heat, the door clicking shut behind him.
He walked through the abandoned streets of his neighborhood, his feet crunching softly on the broken glass and debris scattered across the asphalt. The sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows over the empty town. Seeing his hometown like this felt unreal, he still couldn't quite process everything that had happened . The smell of decay lingered in the air, and Carl felt nauseous.
As he moved cautiously past an old gas station, Carl’s eyes flicked from side to side, always alert. His hand gripped the cold knive in his pocket.
A low moan reached his ears, and Carl froze in place, his heart racing. The sound was soft at first, distant, but it grew louder, more pronounced. His eyes darted toward the sound, and a knot twisted in his stomach. From around the corner of an old brick building, a group of the dead shuffled into view.
There were three of them. Two of them were young—once just children like Carl, their clothes torn and stained with blood. Their eyes were wide open, glazed over, unseeing. The third was an older man, his skin sagging with age.
Carl held his breath, hoping they wouldn’t notice him. He could feel the weight of the knive in his pocket, but he didn’t make any move to use it.
He couldn't. He remembered what happened yesterday at the police station.
No way would he ever attack one of those things again— if he could avoid it.
The undead moaned again, their low, guttural sounds carrying through the empty street. Carl’s eyes widened in panic as one of the younger ones turned its head, its lifeless gaze locking onto him. It let out an ear-piercing screech, a shrill noise that sent Carl’s pulse racing.
Without thinking, he spun on his heel and ran. His legs pumped faster, and his breath quickened, his mind was filled with panic.
He darted down an alley between two houses, his footsteps echoing off the walls. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the undead following, sluggish but relentless. Carl’s heart pounded in his chest as he reached a wooden fence at the end of the alley. He scaled it in a single, desperate move, his fingers scraping against the splintered wood.
Just as he reached the top, he heard the sound of more groans, more footsteps. The undead were getting closer. Carl didn’t look back. He pushed himself over the fence and landed on the other side with a grunt, slowly getting
to his feet.
Breathing hard and sweating, he sprinted down another narrow street, as he only had one goal in mind.
To get to Atlanta.