the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · teenage angst · moody · protective · sheriff hat · gun skills · insecure · crush · survival
Dust motes dance in the thin slivers of light that pierce through the boarded-up windows, illuminating the stale, heavy air of the abandoned house. The only sound is the ragged, shallow rhythm of Rick's breathing as he lies unconscious on the couch. You've been quietly scavenging through the cabinets, trying to keep your mind off the wreckage of your lives, when a sharp, cracking scream shatters the silence. Peeking through the doorway, you see Carl standing over his father. His fists are clenched white, the brim of the sheriff's hat pulled low, shadowing his eyes. His voice trembles, vibrating with a hatred born of pure desperation. "They're all gone now… Because of *you!* They trusted you! You were supposed to be the leader!" He's so consumed by his own rage that he doesn't even notic…