Chapter Text
Carl Grimes tightened his grip on the pistol tucked into the back of his jeans. The cold metal pressed into his spine, grounding him more than comforting him. Every step he took along the forest floor felt like a choice—another quiet defiance of everything his dad and the grown-ups had told him not to do. Rick would be furious when he realized Carl had slipped through the fence again. Maybe Hershel would try to lecture him about safety, or Carol would give him that soft, motherly concern that only made him feel smaller. And Daryl… Daryl might just shake his head and mutter something like, “Dumb kid’s got guts, I’ll give him that.”
But Carl didn’t care.
Out here, beneath the thick canopy of tangled oaks and pines, the stale, recycled air of the prison felt like a distant memory. The fence was out of sight now—along with the watchtowers, the shouting, the crowded cell blocks where everyone talked over him like he wasn’t there. Like I’m still some little kid who needs protecting.
He stepped over a mossy root, brushing his hand across the hilt of the knife strapped to his thigh—his own blade, one he'd sharpened himself and hidden carefully to keep it from being taken. It made him feel real, solid. They think I don’t know what I’m doing, he thought bitterly. But I’ve killed walkers. I’ve cleared cell blocks. I’ve survived.
The woods here were thick and overgrown, wild and ancient. Vines crawled like veins across tree trunks. Dead leaves carpeted the ground, muting his footsteps. Ferns burst up in sprays of green like miniature jungles, and every now and then, a half-fallen tree or a blackened stump reminded Carl how fast nature was swallowing the world again.
He moved like Daryl had shown him—quiet, careful, deliberate. “You wanna hunt, you gotta become part of the woods,” Daryl had said, crouched beside him in the dirt weeks ago. “Don’t stomp around like you’re the biggest thing out here. You’re not.” Carl had listened. He'd practiced. And now he moved through the trees with a kind of quiet pride, almost hoping something would try him.
He paused, crouching behind a fallen log, resting one hand in the cool dirt. It was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that made your skin crawl. Even the birds were holding their breath. Occasionally, there was the soft chirp of a cricket or the distant creak of bark shifting in the breeze, but it felt like the forest was watching him.
He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. The smell was rich—earth and rot, pine needles, damp wood. There was a peace here that the prison walls could never offer. And in that moment, just for a second, he let himself feel free.
Then the snap of a twig shattered everything.
Carl’s eyes flew open. His body tensed instinctively, every muscle going still. The sound wasn’t far—maybe twenty feet? Close enough to make his heart hammer against his ribs. He lowered himself slowly behind the log, holding his breath. His hand drifted to the grip of his pistol.
It’s just a walker, he told himself. Or maybe a squirrel. But he didn’t believe it. The sound had weight to it—too purposeful, too careful.
Nothing moved.
He slowly peeked around the side of the log, scanning the trees. The underbrush swayed gently in the wind, but there was no sign of movement. No groans. No dragging feet. Just the low hum of tension building in his chest.
Then came another snap—closer this time.
Carl’s fingers curled tighter around his pistol. He couldn’t see anything, but he could feel it now. He wasn’t alone.
He crouched lower, his breathing shallow, eyes darting through the undergrowth. A thousand scenarios ran through his mind—walker, bandit, wild animal. But this didn’t feel like any of those. This felt… precise. He felt watched.
Suddenly, a sharp sting pierced his upper arm.
He cried out and stumbled back, slapping at the spot. His fingers closed around something small and foreign—a dart. He yanked it free, staring at it in horror.
What the hell? he thought, his stomach dropping. His vision blurred as the forest tilted sideways. The trees began to smear together, the outlines stretching like shadows in a nightmare.
Carl tried to stand, to run, but his legs folded beneath him. He hit the ground hard, cheek pressed against the cold leaves and damp soil. The sky overhead began to swirl. His limbs twitched weakly, and he barely had the strength to turn his head.
Somewhere in the distance, through the ringing in his ears, he thought he heard something—laughter. Cold and amused. It sent a chill through him worse than the dart.
“No…” he muttered, the word thick on his tongue. “Dad…”
Darkness wrapped around him like a shroud, and he sank into it helplessly, the last flickers of consciousness slipping away.