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M E G A N

My slow eyes twitch, finally being able to recognize the shapes of the trees around me as the light from sunrise splashes through their leaves. After a sleepless night, my search for Daryl has fallen nothing but short.

As I make my way farther from the prison, the amount of walkers has thinned out drastically. There hasn't been much to do out here besides killing the dead, and even that is starting to dwindle.

Being completely alone with my thoughts has brought along many new sensations. It was different when the boy was alongside me, making some backhanded comment or causing some commotion. Now I have no distraction, no buffer.

It wasn't until the blade of my knife got more blunt and dull that I realize that being on my own might be a lot harder than I thought. That's why I'm really banking on finding Daryl.

Normally, walking through the forest, I'd have the simple pleasure of getting lost in thought. But this time I have to be on full alert in case of wandering walkers. I don't have anyone to count on besides myself.

I try not to let my thoughts drift too close to the boy I left behind, though. Once or twice I've felt a ping of regret, having left the guilty boy all on his own. Constantly having to stop myself from wondering how he was doing, if he was okay or if he was even looking for me.

Not only was I feeling regret that I caused the fight that lead to the both of us being alone, I was regretting the words I said. I was regretting the feelings I felt toward Carl, who was really only trying to keep us safe.

Everything he did, he did so he could keep us safe—me safe. And you can't blame a boy for trying. But I did. I heavily blamed the boy for trying.

He couldn't have predicted what would happen to prison after we left. He couldn't have known someone was going to find our supplies. He didn't know why Daryl was with those men, and he was fine not knowing if it meant he got to keep us safe.

I stop walking in the direction I've been going. Maybe I should turn back. He's probably waiting at the beat-up SUV, reliving what almost happened to us, in hopes that I might come to my senses and return.

Shaking my head, I step over a hollow log and decide to continue my on my voyage away from the boy.

I don't need him.

Feeling remorseful is one thing, even missing him is. But needing him to survive is something completely different. And I don't.

The crunching, dead leaves rustle as my feet shuffle their way through them. Because the sun has yet to fully rise, the blaring heat hasn't come, maybe giving me a few more hours of the cool morning breeze.

My eyes dart around the forest before they land on a walker. For a second, I thought it was just another tree until it started to move.

I make my way toward it. During the night, I told myself it'd be smart to kill every walker I see to eliminate the possibility of it coming back to bite me. Literally.

Sucking in a breath, I bend my knees a little more as I duck behind a tree that lies in between the walker and myself. After waiting for a few moments, the walker passes me up.

I take this as an opportunity and creep up behind him, jabbing my knife upward and into his head. After its faint groans cease, the weight of whats left of its entire body falls downward, taking my knife along with it.

A growing concern is the energy I repeatedly have to waste while using this dull knife.

After struggling with the knife for a few moments, I finally pull it out of the walker's head. I stand up from the scene and look around, wondering where the walker came from.

My eyes land on a building. The large, metal warehouse has its garage doors open, pulled all the way up.

Dusty cars fill the interior of what I assume to be an auto body shop. Before considering the danger, my feet race toward the metal stairs on the side of the building.

Alongside the stairs lies the fresh dead body of a man. This man was clearly killed before he was a walker. Although severely beaten, his skin wasn't decayed, his open eye wasn't crusted over with the yellow, milky film of the dead.

The other eye, however, has an arrow in it. The familiar green and orange feathers on the arrow raise the hopes inside me, despite the circumstances.

Holstering the knife, I instead grab my gun before swinging open the door to the shop. I step inside and my eyes dart across the room.

Scuffs of dried, red blood mark up the floor in the center of the building. Old pick-up trucks and motorcycles that never got repaired remain parked evenly throughout the warehouse.

Once I see no threat in sight, my eyes find a thousand places that walkers or people could be hiding. Deciding to use a few tricks from Carl's book, I step back into the doorway, and bang on the loud metal with the back of my gun.

A few breathless groans start to sound out from several spots in the warehouse. Soon after, a few walkers peel themselves off of the ground, rising to their feet.

Before they can see me, I quickly duck and run down the stairs behind the first car. Keeping myself concealed, I wait for the moment to strike as the walkers make their way toward the metal door. I bend down and look under the car, seeing a few pairs of feet dragging along the concrete floor.

Licking my lower lip, I suck in a quick breath before walking out and approaching one of the walkers. Almost silently, I slip my knife into the back of its head. I catch its body before it can drop all the way to the floor to stop it from causing noise. Lowering it gently, I tug on the wooden handle of my knife.

Wasting a few crucial moments, I pull and pull on the knife, using whatever force I can. It doesn't budge.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath.

That small, breathy word was enough to attract the attention of the other two walkers. Now, without a silent weapon, I'm forced to pull out my gun once again.

I slowly back up, trying to stall as long as I can until I have no other choice. My startled body jolts as my back hits something. Instead of it being another walker, it's a large, red toolbox. Sitting on the top of the box is a flathead screwdriver with a black handle.

Switching my gaze a few times between the approaching walkers and the toolbox, my mind makes its simple connections.

I quickly grab the screwdriver and jam it into the eye of the first one. The thin metal seamlessly slips out of its head as the walker drops to the ground.

A huff of breath leaves from between my lips, a smile tugging on the left corner of my mouth.

The other walker soon approaches, lunging for me. I quickly duck to the side, sending it to aim for nothing. Running up behind it, I jab the screwdriver upward into its neck, hitting its brain stem.

Exhausted, I let the walker along with the screwdriver slump to the ground. I place my boot on the walker's back, tugging on the screwdriver which comes out with ease.

As I stand tall from my bent over position, white flashes cross my vision. My body continues to show more and more symptoms of the hunger I've been ignoring.

A mechanic's got to eat.

In a hurry to find food, I shove the screwdriver into the holster where I used to keep my knife. My fingers quickly fumble around, tugging every drawer of the toolbox open a slight bit. Upon peeking inside the first few drawers and seeing nothing but different kinds of tools, bolts, etc., my hopes of finding food in this building soon decline.

Taking a step back from the large toolbox, I notice that the bottom drawer is a lot bigger than the ones on the top. Fully bending my knees, I sigh and quickly shut my eyes before opening the last drawer.

Sitting neatly organized in the drawer are a variety of small bags of chips. To the right of the chips lies a six-pack lemon-lime flavored soda.

I chuckle to myself, almost turning over my shoulder and shouting for Carl. A sad feeling washes over the brief happiness I once felt.

Although I have food, there's no one to share it with. Having food all to myself should be a good thing. Having food at all is a good thing. I can't help but think about how the boy and I would've enjoyed these snacks together.

Then, the smile completely leaves my face as I stare at the food, wondering if the boy is having the same luck as me out there. Knowing that he is probably just as hungry, if not hungrier makes me feel almost guilty that I have this food.

Carl's strong. He's surely found food out there. The boy probably has a plethora of options. He's resourcefully talented. I bet he's doing much better out there without me than he was with me. No more of my dead weight.

Sighing, I pull a green bag of stale chips out of the drawer and slump down next to the toolbox. I hesitantly pull open the crinkling bag, staring at the floor ahead and popping a chip in my mouth.

☆

A drop of sweat rolls down whatever smooth skin is left on my back. My lower back stings when the drop finally seeps into one of my several open cuts.

A few hours ago, I was forced to peel my bandages off as my sweat kept unsticking them from my skin. I try to push away the thought of all of the possible infections I could be getting right now.

Visual heat waves bounce off of the black road. The shade of the woods is no better than the blaring heat from the road, so I chose to stay out in the open and away from any possible walkers lurking within the trees.

The bags of chips crinkle from being tussled around in my pack, which slightly bounces with every step I take.

My slow pace has been consistent for the few hours I've been aimlessly walking. Following the only landmark I see is my only hope of finding Daryl.

Actually, my only hope would be if he were to be the one tracking me. Not the other way around.

It has been evident to me that this whole thing has been a waste. I'm wandering further into the middle of nowhere, alone. I'm never going to see anyone from the prison again. Not even Carl.

Now, I'm left with no choice but to follow my pointless path. There are no potential meeting points that the boy and I had discussed, besides the house. The house is maybe a two-day's walk away from me right now, deeming the plan to be useless.

I doubt the boy would've gone back there anyway, there were far too many walkers and too little supplies to stay in that area.

For a moment, my mind races through every insignificant thing the boy has told me, trying to make it into a clue.

First thing's first, I need to find out where I am.

I pull my eyes from the reflection of the sun against the road and stop what I'm doing. Looking around for any sign of something useful, my hand makes its way to my hip, and the other shades my eyes from the sun.

Squinting my eyes, the borders of a small, two-story building a decent way through the trees catches my attention. There's hardly any questions running through my mind before my feet start dragging their way toward it.

Once I enter the woods, I draw out the screwdriver, keeping it at my side.

Approaching the large building, I notice large blocks of concrete spread out within the overgrown grass. Upon further inspection of the shapes of the concrete, I realize that I'm standing in a graveyard.

As if I'm not already living in one.

Ignoring my guilt of stepping on real, authentic graves, I quickly pull my legs through the weeds and approach the white building.

My eyes move fluently throughout the graveyard until something abstract catches my attention.

A stalk of yellow flowers, the kind that grow as weeds. Instead of being in the dirt, next to the other, similar stalks, this one is uprooted, lying atop a tombstone reading Beloved Father in the etched writing.

Someone was here. And whoever it was, still has the fraction of humanity that urges you to pay your respects to the dead. It could easily be Daryl, or someone from the prison. At least I know those men were never here. They don't seem like the type to show this noble of respect.

I walk toward the lone building with a feeling of hope instilled in my chest knowing that one of them could be here.

Somewhat resembling a normal house, I walk up the porch and through the creaky grand entrance of an already-opened front door. A  normal staircase waits on the other side, along with a hall.

The sight would be completely ordinary, if not for several of the dead piled up at the end of the hall. Fortunately, they were all put down. Just in case, I adjust my grip on the handle of my screwdriver before descending down the hall.

An assortment of caskets lay in the room that opens into the hall. My lonely footsteps echo against the wooden floor as I step over a few of the dead. Something catches my foot nearly causing me to trip over one of them. I'm able to catch myself before turning around to see what my boot got caught on.

Another arrow with the green and orange feathers on it sticks straight up, the arrowhead firmly implanted in the skull of a walker.

The dried blood and quiet scene makes it evident that whatever happened here took place a while ago. Frustrated, I follow a trail of bloody steps down the hall and out of the back door.

Disturbed leaves and flecks of gravel create a trail down the gravel road. The path around it remains covered in the natural scattering pattern of dead leaves.

I follow the footprints toward the main road that I just came from. The prints seem to stop when they approach the road, leaving me with nothing to go off of anymore. That is until my eyes trace to two lines of deep tire marks imprinted in the dried mud.

When Daryl was here, he was able to get away. He's safe, for the time-being.

With a cold trail and an outdated sequence of events fresh on my mind, I huff, turning around and heading back toward the overrun funeral home.

☆

Dainty raindrops patter against the second-story window of the funeral home. Although the moonlight is shielded by dark, grey clouds, I can still study the ink of the crinkled map in my hands.

When I first arrived here a few days ago, I managed to find a small map of the town I'm in. Unknowingly, I have been making my way toward Virginia. The map of the small town is hardly useful, because all I've discovered I've just crossed the border into South Carolina.

Staring at the map in my hand, I can only hope that the group has made similar progress. Maybe the group, or even Carl is coincidentally being pushed in the same direction that I am.

I wouldn't fault him if he never wants to see me again, or thinks that I never want to see him again. My words toward him that night are something I could never take back.

Surely he knows that we'd just escaped certain torture. He has to understand that tensions were high and we were both just frightened. Right?

Maybe he hates me and he's out there right now, thankful that I'm not holding him back anymore. I doubt he'd even think to try to reunite with me. He's probably relieved that I'm gone.

Maybe he's feeling none of those things and he's just dead. There's a chance he's been dead ever since a few moments after I left him. In these past several days, he's probably come in close contact with death itself. The boy might be another walking body right now, and I'll never know what happened to him.

Who am I kidding? Carl is a resilient person. He's probably thinking about how I'm most likely the dead one of us two. He might even think that would be a good thing, considering my nasty, spiteful attitude.

Ignoring every creeping thought, I try to focus on what I know.

I know that with every passing day, my chances of finding anyone from the prison alive diminish more and more.

My eyes begin to sting with warm tears that I refuse to let fall. The heat of the house seems to find me all at once as I struggle to breathe.

A loud crack of thunder is followed by the intensifying downpour of rain. Lightning strikes nearby, sending a white flash through the cold window I'm leaning against.

My mind jumps to a place I don't want it to go to. Rather a person than a place.

First, I hope that I've traveled far enough from the boy that he isn't experiencing the same, harsh weather. Then, I hope that if he is facing the wrath from these dark clouds, that he has some sort of shelter. I don't even let myself ponder the possibility that he's out in the open, exposed, wet and cold during this storm.

The mystery of his whereabouts is once again followed by my prolonged guilt.

I crumple the paper map in my palms and toss it to the floor in front of me.

A long night of pure, haunting thought awaits.

☆

The stuffy, hot, humid mid-day air has its constant hold on my lungs. After the storm, traveling throughout these woods became twice as hard. The damp air isn't the only difficulty as a result of the weather.

Drying mud makes for perfect footprints, I've discovered.

I've been following an on-and-off path of distinct prints recently made in the tacky mud. While this is a good lead, I've been careful to either step directly on the prints, or on spaces covered in thick enough layers of leaves.

My goal is to track, not to be tracked.

Upon following the lone prints for several minutes, I've noticed the details in the shoe patterns.

The intricate grip as well as overall size of the prints leads me to believe that these are sturdy boots belonging to someone with large feet. Maybe those of a man. Maybe a boy. The boy.

My mind—of course—considered the other possibilities. I could be following a complete stranger. I could be leading myself into another blue SUV situation. How much danger could this lone person bring me? I'd be able to defend myself against one person. Let alone, a person ignorant enough to leave tracks.

I try not to get my hopes up, realizing that this probably isn't Daryl or Carl. Daryl had a group of men with him, where would they have gone? Why would he now be alone? Also, both he and the boy would never be careless enough to leave such distinct, obvious tracks.

I'm following someone who clearly hasn't encountered the danger that we have. This person doesn't understand the consequences of the wrong person tracking their footprints.

My feet come to a dead stop, landing in front of the confusing scene the tracks lead me to. Several other dragging footprints mark the small, muddy area. This person attracted walkers, quite a few of them too.

I stand back, sighing. This path may have just lead me to even more of the dead.

Thudding gunshots crack through the air. The sound startling me, sounding like they're coming from just ahead.

My feet take off, my body powered purely by the thought of someone from the prison potentially being alive. Straight in front of me, several walkers clump together, all advancing toward the struggling person.

I quicken my speed, anxious to see who's firing the shots.

Though I can't see their face, someone is facing several of the dead on their own. The person's gunshots are nearly drowned out by the groans and moans of the dead. A smell herd accumulates around the person as I approach the chaos.

My feet stop, I try to look through the walkers to see who it is, but the person continues to scramble, firing off more desperate shots.

Shaking my head, my feet quietly carry me toward the outside of the herd. Deciding to help whoever it is, I stab a straggling walker in the head. It falls and I catch it, dragging it backwards before I gently place it on the ground.

It is now that I hear the clinking sound of an empty gun being fired. Whoever it is ran out of bullets. They're also running out of time.

Going against everything I've upheld, I remove one of my pistols from its holster, making my way closer to the group of the dead.

Without thinking, I fire my first shot. A walker drops to the ground and my pistol revolves, loading the next bullet into the chamber.

Nearly all of the dead now turn to me. I clench my jaw and fire more rounds, successfully taking down a handful of them after missing a few times.

While managing the small kick of the gun, I back up, carelessly stepping in the mud, leaving my distinct footprints.

With one final shot, my gun begins to click with the pull of the trigger. My first six bullets, gone. I suck in a breath and pull out my second handgun, not hesitating before bringing it up, leveling it with my eyes.

More of my careless rounds pop off and into the heads of the few walkers that are left. My feet shuffle backwards as the dwindling herd makes its way toward me.

With each of a few ringing shots, a walker drops to the ground. The pattern is broken when I fire at a walker, and nothing comes out of the gun. The dead one within my aim lives to see another few seconds as it stumbles toward me.

"Shit," I groan out, the anger scratching at my dry throat.

I holster the empty handgun and take out my screwdriver. This item being the only leverage I have against these last few walkers.

One taller, slender walker makes its way toward me and I stand still, waiting for my moment to strike. I go to swing my screwdriver into the side of its head, but miss. The metal drives into its neck, instead.

The lanky walker grabs my shoulder, I step back as a last defense, my foot slipping in the sticky mud.

A thud sounds out, along with the vibration of my upper body as my back slams into the ground. The walker soon following, dropping on top of me.

My screwdriver sticks out of its neck, out of my feeble reach. The loose cartilage around it's rotted ribcage caves in around my forearms, which are the only things stopping the walker from chomping on my neck.

I decide to take the risk, quickly moving my arm and snatching my screwdriver out of its neck. This causes its teeth to drop a lot closer to the skin of my neck, with only one of my arms stopping it from biting down.

The blood from its neck sprays on me a little before dwindling to a speedy drip. I fumble with the handle of the screwdriver in my grip, not quite being able to angle it while struggling with the bony walker.

I let out one last pained groan before I use whatever's left of my strength to push it away from me. The walker—however—continues to use its weight to make progress toward my neck.

After hearing the leaves crunch under the footsteps of the other walkers that are approaching me, I begin to accept how screwed I actually am.

My last moments on this earth are about to be filled with the utter agony of having a bite taken out of my neck. At least I'll die from blood-loss and not the slow, treacherous fever that comes with the bite.

The final moments of my life never come as I feel the—formerly tense—muscles of the struggling walker suddenly relax. Blood drips onto my neck from its punctured head.

Once it's rotted teeth stop chomping and its angry eyes fall motionless, I'm finally able to let it slump to the side and roll it off of my body.

I waste no time before standing to my feet to take on the remaining walkers. Easily, I jab the screwdriver into the soft skull of the first one.

Turning to the second walker, I see it already falling to the ground after being killed by someone who isn't Carl or Daryl.

The pale man stands tall, his khaki pants fall over the ankles of his muddy brown boots. Just above his left boot, blood seeps through the otherwise clean pants. A plaid, muted green and white dress shirt covers his skinny upper body, clean aside from a few drops of blood from the dead. The straps of a light grey backpack stand vertically across the sides of his shirt as they hang from his shoulders.

My eyes trail up to the man's defined, sculpted face. His forehead lies exposed underneath his clean-cut hair, which isn't near long enough to fall over his face. The neatness of the man catches me off guard.

His eyes search my appearance as well, the two of us stand several feet apart from each other, staring the other down.

He quickly drops his bloody knife to the ground and raises his hands.

"I'm not here to hurt you." He says, stepping forward toward me. I immediately step backwards, noticing that he drags his left foot, limping.

"Then what are you here for?" I ask in a stern manner, stepping backward and raising my screwdriver.

"I was with my boyfriend—" He starts, his adam's apple bobs as he swallows a lump in his throat, intimidated by my demeanor. "We separated, looking for others."

"Others?" I ask, the both of us keep our stance as my feet remain firmly planted on the ground.

"New-comers." He says, matter-of-factly. "Strong people—survivors to bring back to our community."

I stay silent, not being able to understand how other communities could be functioning. The only thing I've ever been a part of was the prison. If this man isn't lying, there could be an entire community of people that I never knew could exist.

"Thank you for saving me." He smiles, his white, freshly-brushed teeth make an appearance from behind his hydrated lips. "I hurt my ankle fighting one of them, then they just kept coming." He lets out a shy laugh.

"You need to be more careful out here." I harshly say. "You could've gotten killed."

"But I didn't. You took them all on by yourself. You risked your life for a stranger." He says, clearly trying to tell me what I want to hear.

"I thought you might've been someone else." I mutter, just above the volume of a whisper.

"Who?" He stands firm, his hands still slightly raised in surrender.

"I separated from someone, too." I admit to the man, not knowing quite why I'm being so honest. It must be the relief of finding someone living. "I was looking for someone else."

"You should come back with me—to the community back in Virginia." The man offers, a shy smile on his friendly face.

Virginia.

"We can help search for your people—whoever you're separated from and whoever you were trying to find. If they're as tough as you are, I think you'd be just the type of people we're out here looking for." The curious expression on his face never falters as his eyebrows move along with his words.

"How do I know this isn't a trick?" I question the man, wanting so badly to believe that there are others out there willing to help increase the chance that I'll get to find the people I know. "The last men I came across weren't interested in anything having to do with my survival skills."

The man's eyes widen at the thought. What I believe to be a genuine expression of disdain crosses his face. He seems to be remorseful toward the possibility.

"I'm going to reach for my pack so I can show you, okay?" The man warns me. I nod.

He slips the grey straps of his backpack off of his scrawny shoulders, grabbing one of the straps and gently tossing the bag into the leaves next to my feet.

"In the bag you'll find pictures of the community. I even also have some food that you're more than welcome to." He motions with his hand to the bag and steps back, letting me approach it.

I bend down and unzip the bag, switching my gaze between the man and the grey backpack over and over again. My screwdriver remains squeezed in my grip, ready in case he tries to pull a fast one on me.

It was true, inside the bag are several black and white photos. Careful not to get my fingerprints on the surface of the pictures, I slip them out of the bag and stand to my feet. Funny how my fingerprints getting on the glossy surface of the pictures should be the least of my worries.

Lowering my weapon, I tuck it in between my elbow and my side.

I use my thumb to pull the first picture toward me. It's a picture of wooden beams, making a truss against a tall, thick metal wall. The overgrown grass cascades up the beam, making it evident that these walls have lasted a long time.

My eyes flip through the rest of the pictures, not quite believing what I'm seeing. Pictures of a wall of intricately placed solar panels proceed another picture of neat houses aligned along a clean, untouched street.

"What is this place?" I ask, my eyes looking to the man. He seemed to already be looking toward me in anticipation of my reaction. "Who are you people?"

"I'm Eric," The man starts. "And I'm from a community called Alexandria."

☆

Out of bullets as well as options, I decided to stick with the man. He seemed harmless enough. The man was more than thankful that I agreed to travel with him, although I made no promises about staying in their community.

Eric's left arm is draped over my shoulder as I help him keep pressure off of his ankle while walking.

If someone from my group had an injured ankle, they'd keep walking on it despite the pain. But because this man has a more civilized, modern community to return to, he's able to value the importance of resting the injury. Something that is now a luxury in this new world.

I agreed to help the injured, friendly man find his boyfriend. In return, he agreed to introduce me to him, then to see where this relationship goes from there, if I even choose to have any relation to these men. Eric seems awfully optimistic about being able to sway my decision.

Helping the man limp toward our destination, we finally make it out of the woods.

"It's there." The man tells me. He told me that he stayed in a building last night and that he left the rest of his supplies there.

The man seemed hurt when I hesitated to accept his offer to stay with him there for the night. I reluctantly said I'd make a decision after I scoped out the place.

A few large, metal buildings stand before us. While the man sees certain shelter, I see a lot of potential for walkers to slip in without us noticing.

He begins to pull me toward a building in the middle, my feet hesitantly follow his limping lead. Eric clearly lacks the radar for danger that I had been forced to acquire.

As we approach the entrance of the building, I take one last look behind us, making sure no one—living or dead—is behind us. All I see are the blinding golden rays from the setting sun, barely making their way over the trees.

I blink away the white spots in my vision and continue to step forward, opening the door for me and Eric.

While the room remains busy with shelves of several different useless things, what the man told me is true. His supplies lie on the concrete floor towards the back of the building, against the metal wall. Next to his stuff is a pillow and a neatly placed sleeping bag.

We manage to hobble over and I hold his arm around my neck while he lowers himself to the ground. Once I release him, he sits, leaning back against the wall, out of breath.

I shuffle to my feet and grab his pillow, placing it underneath his injured foot.

"Thank you." The man says with a smile before fumbling around with his supplies. I send one back to him.

I take his backpack off from around my shoulders and place it next to him while he continues stifling through the pile of his stuff.

"Here," He says, gripping something orange in his palm before handing it out to me. "Take this." I grab the item from his hand. A small flare gun. "Go outside and fire it straight up—my boyfriend will see it and he'll come for us."

I send him a nod, before making my way back outside. Once I approach the empty area, I look around at the large metal buildings surrounding the one I was in.

What if this is a trap? What if this man is making me signal someone else for him—someone who will hurt me? What if I'm just alerting his dangerous people that he found their next victim?

My mind races with all of the negative possibilities about what this flare could lead to.

This flare could attract anyone nearby. Even if Eric's boyfriend sees it, what if someone who's not supposed to see it does? Anyone—bad or good—could come running.

Anyone includes Carl.

Maybe I'll get lucky and Carl, Daryl, or someone from the prison sees it. What's the worst that can happen?

This is my best shot to find Carl. Even if someone I know doesn't happen to see the flare, Eric's boyfriend might. And he told me that the two of them could help me find our people.

And with that thought alone, I raise my arm directly above my head. Staring straight ahead at the woods, I pull the trigger, sending orange rays to illuminate the trees. I watch the shadows of the forest whirl around as the flare deploys in the air.

I've made my decision.

───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────
5993 words

A/N

Not me promising in the last A/N to make this chapter shorter and then only taking out like 100 words

honestly, although Carl isn't in this chap, I like it more than the ones in the beginning??

☆ vote if you want Carl back☆