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Carl isn’t like the other children.
He knows the way a gun recoils, likes the way that the trigger gets easier and easier to pull every time he does it.
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Carl isn’t like the other children.
And on the days when he wishes that he was, he looks at Judith, gurgling softly at him, before he immediately takes the thought back.
He knows that, at some point, everyone he loves will die. But he’ll be damned if he or his go out with a Walker’s rasp. So he stays close to Judith, lets only those trusted few who had been in the Wild with him near.
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Carl isn’t like the other children.
He may have been born with blunt teeth – but they had been easily sharpened with his father’s harshness and whetted with his mother’s blood.
His father is 'wolf and so is he. He isn’t a helpless dog puppy – waiting for the adults to get their acts together. He’s a goddamned 'wolf; and not one of those pretenders whose scent is in the air as they dare to swarm his father's territory.
No, he's his father's son - and he knows that these pretenders will pay for their intrusion, for daring to get in too close.
They'll pay and, unlike the other children, he'll smile as his father paints the town and the woods and the roads with their blood.
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End