Chapter Text
The claim that the sound of the explosion made Carl just was a gross understatement.
He doesn't quite know where it came from, but he knew it was pretty damn far away. It was too quiet, too muffled to be anywhere close enough to put him into any immediate danger. Despite living underground, sounds traveled through the ground and into his hollowed room a lot better than he had originally expected when he first built it.
The noise was loud, though. Loud enough to shake him from the weird state he was in. It was that weird moment when he wasn't quite awake, but wasn't quite asleep; Carl could hear the world around him distantly as if they were super muffled, but he wasn't able to distinguish what they were and where they were coming from. The explosion changed that, though, as it forced him awake and made him jump off of the mattress.
"What the fuck..." Carl muttered, dragging and hand over his face. He waited another moment just to see if anything would follow, whether that be footsteps, gunshots, or another explosion, but there was no other noise that followed it. Just a single explosion and it was over.
Carl sat up and threw the old blanket off of his legs, standing up and walking over to the door, pushing his manmade lock out of the way and letting light into the room. It didn't take too long for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, he saw a Walker around 15 feet away on its way to him. He reached back to his side table and grabbed his gun, readying it into the perfect shot and shooting it in the head from a distance. The Walker fell to the ground immediately, and Carl sighed in the realization that he'd have to move the body later in the day, maybe once he actually has shoes on.
"God damn," he said. His boots were right by the end of the mattress, so he sat down and pulled them on his feet, tying them to secure them in place. He quickly grabbed his flannel button up off the ground and shrugged it over his shirt, then headed out the door, blocking it before leaving his ground. He knew by now that actively searching for things going south isn't the smartest thing in the world, but to hell with it; there's not much adventure when you're alone, and bad attention is still attention.
With both his gun and knife on him, Carl whistled as he walked. The best plan of action was to follow the river. That way, he knows his way back, and won't get lost in the middle of the woods without a trail or any signs back. Trees all look the same anyway.
The smell of blood and corpses was pretty heavy in the air, but it wasn't anything strictly of a hoard. There was more life in the air, but simultaneously, more death. Something had happened to the hoard. There was a bend in the river up ahead, but he could see semi-opaque streaks of red flowing through the water from where he was. Maybe the hoard had killed a human and they ended up in the water? Or maybe the hoard set an explosion off, like a defense mechanism of the land. There could've been land mines used as protection for one's home.
Though, he was proven quite wrong when he turned the corner.
It was honestly a sight he wasn't prepared for; sure, in his many years of growing up in an apocalyptic world, especially since the world in this way has been the core of his childhood, but the Walkers had never looked like this. Their bodies had never been torn apart by every possible seam, any and all possible body parts, and organs flowing down the river in trails of blood. The water was a murky red, another indicator that it happened so far away that the blood source was no longer heavy.
He got his food from these woods, from this water. This is where he hunts, where he fishes, and it's now infested with the blood of Walkers. He doubts it's safe to source his food here anymore; he'll definitely have to leave and move his camp from here if he wants to survive and not risk ingesting any virus. Carl's never seen it happen himself, but he's heard of people turning after eating tainted meat, and that wasn't exactly on his mental 'to-do' list.
Carl decides that he'll finish scouting the area before cleaning up and heading out. It's getting quite late in the day, anyway, so he should probably leave tomorrow when he has a longer period of daylight. It's never a good idea to travel alone through the woods when it's pitch black outside. Plus, if any Walkers did survive whatever the blast was, he should probably take them out before they can wreak havoc on anyone else who may come around the area soon.
The bloodbath that is the water isn't even as bad as it could be, but it's still a bit shocking. he hasn't experienced something like this in a while, but it was bound to happen eventually.
His gun is loaded, as always, as he approaches the river bank. The sound of the water rushing down the rocks is disrupted by gorey images of mangled bodies, but the sound seems to echo in his mind. Something feels so wrong, so off, like he's about to get the shock of a lifetime. Maybe a hoard will suddenly come out of nowhere, maybe he'll be tricked, maybe he'll injure himself. Carl doesn't really know what will happen, but it feels like something will.
A Walker lying on its twisted and eroding chest is trying desperately to crawl towards a bloody mass nearby it. Its arms are reaching out as it cries out for whatever it's looking for, but Carl knows it won't put up much of a fight. The rest of its body, from the waist down, is missing, only small pieces of flesh and blood-soaked clothing hanging off of where its hips should start.
He scoffs and pulls the knife out from his holster on his thigh and kneels down, stabbing the thing straight through the back of the head and into the brain. The sounds fade almost instantly, and he presses his foot to the back of the creature's head and pulls the blade out. Carl only shakes his head before letting some water wash the blood of the metal and sheaths it back into its place on his leg.
Its eerily quiet, and he almost wants to leave, but he looks over as the object that was supposed to be Walker-dinner and nearly gasps as it notices it was moving. A rather quiet noise escaped from whatever it was. It sounded like a pained groan rather than a plea or a growl. It was probably a turning person; Carl should put this person out of their misery.
He places the gun in between his left elbow and his torso, holding it as tight as he can. If he's being honest, multitasking is a lot more difficult when you only have one hand, but Carl has managed to make it work for the past year, so he can do it again. Holding his breath, he reached down and grabbed what seemed to be a right shoulder and pulled, rolling the... body onto its back. Carl wasn't really sure what he was looking at as his eyes raked the person's front, from their toes up. They didn't look bitten, it didn't look like anything was too off, aside from the blood.
But, he saw it, then.
As his eyes moved from the person's shoulders to his face, it took everything in Carl's power not to turn and be sick right then and there. Because this person was dying right in front of him. They're lying there, they're bleeding, and they're dying almost too fast for Carl to handle. And, despite all of this, they're also his father. It's none other than Rick Grimes who lies on the riverbank, covered in blood, burns, and cuts. He looks so incredibly damaged; he looks weak, and Carl can't believe that this is his father who he hasn't seen in a year.
He breaks out of his shock when the growl of a Walker sounds from across the water and the reality of the situation sets in. Rick won't last long like this, Walkers could be everywhere, and Carl only has one hand to fight, carry his father to safety, and save his life. The task seems next to impossible, but he'd be damned if he gave up now, when his dad is finally back in his grasp.
Carl grabs his gun and shoots the Walker as quickly as he could before shoving it into the holder. It seems better if he holds the injured man's head in his hand, so he walks to the other side of his body before preparing to gather him into his grasp. His feet and knees make contact with the cold river water, and he's quite glad that there's not really any Walkers near him. The only blood is human, but it's bad enough that it's that of his father. His right arm slides under his back and the left under his legs as Carl remembers to lift with his legs and not his back. It takes a few seconds of configuration, but soon enough, he maneuvers Rick's head to rest on his chest and begins running.
It doesn't take long for him to spot the place he calls home, a natural hole, almost a cavern in the ground that he's converted into a more sturdy shelter over the past few weeks. He hasn't been here for long; no one ever stays in one fixed place during an apocalypse, but Carl's tried his best. His home underground has been one that he's stayed in for a long time- one of the longest yet. It's quite easy to hide where no one expects: human or not.
He runs inside and slams the door closed and lays Rick down on his makeshift and patched-up mattress. The way the door is locked is nothing but a heavy object, so he quickly pushes it into place and lights a small piece of wood in a contained place as a light source before turning his full attention to his father. Carl first removes his shoes, pants, and shirt before doing anything else. He needs to check and ensure that there are no bites- as that would be a much bigger issue than Carl could handle by himself. But, it looks like there's nothing besides cuts and burns, so he gets to work.
The first course of action is to disinfect the wounds. Carl's not stupid, though; he's learned to stock up on medical supplies ever since he's had to unexpectedly had to amputate his own hand, and he's oddly prepared for this moment. Pulling out the bundle of supplies he keeps wrapped up in an extra jacket, he pulls out a bottle of alcohol. It would be much better if he could use proper medical-grade alcohol, but when times are as desperate as they have been for the past decade, he'll take anything he can get. An old handkerchief he keeps in his pocket is doused in the liquid and pressed against any single cut that Carl finds, no matter how big or small.
When he finishes that, he gently rinses off the burns with water; it's nearly all he can do, especially since the larger wound on Rick's side should be tended to as soon as possible.
He wasn't extremely experienced with stitches, but Carl's witnessed multiple people apply them to wounds, so he thinks he can figure it out. The needle isn't a proper stitching needle, obviously, so the handmade bend in the metal is a bit uneven and wonky. He attaches his string to the end of it and pulls it through the skin at the beginning of the wound and pulls it through both sides. It's a bit difficult to hold down the skin with nothing but a stump for a second hand, but he does his best. He makes sure to tie many tight knots at the beginning; god forbid he fucked it up and made weak, maneuverable stitches.
The rest of the cut is closed rather quickly, Carl making sure to continue the stitching in the same direction and pattern as he continues. When he reaches the other end, he wraps the string around his finger a few times and pulls it through the end, creating a knot and a loop. Reusing the loop a few times, a secure knot is formed, and the only thing left to do is cut the ends of the string and disinfect the wound one last time.
When the medical procedure is completed, Carl finally takes a second to sit down and breathe. He has no clue how long it's been, how many minutes he's spent hunched over his father's bloodied body, but it feels like a lifetime as he collapses to the floor. He should probably- no, definitely sleep soon, but finishing with Rick is still, and will always be his top priority.
He drags his exhausted limbs off of the floor and forces himself to stand up. There's an old rag on the wooden slab he calls a table, so he grabs it and soaks it in the small bucket of water he has in the corner. Carl wrings the excess out of the fabric and keeps it close by as he drags it over the dried blood staining Rick's skin. It's a relief that the red blotches come off rather easy, only leaving a small pink tint from the rough dragging, so he tries to be more gentle. When that is said and done, he tosses it with the rest of his father's clothes and grabs one of the extra pairs of boxers he's found while scavenging houses. It's not in great condition, but he shouldn't keep his father in wet, bloodied clothing, so he switches them out. Additionally, he puts the medical supplies on their own for the sweatshirt and uses his extra t-shirt and shorts for his father. He planned on changing soon, but Rick's more desperate than he at the moment.
Carl puts 'washing the clothes' for a morning job, along with when he cooks breakfast the next day. Instead of doing anything now in possible darkness, he puts out the controlled fire in the corner of the room and places his head on his arm as he drifts to sleep on the uncomfortable, hard ground.
The first Rick noticed when he woke up was, well, that he woke up. He couldn't have survived a hoard of the sheer size that it was, couldn't handle an explosion of the sorts, but he managed to somehow. He didn't recognize the room he was in at all; it was mostly dark since the only light source was a small, dim fire in the corner of the room. It was the shape and size of a normal candle, but it was just a small piece of wood that looked like it was only lit around twenty minutes ago. The walls had supports, but there was a lot of dirt around, making Rick think he was underground.
He slowly rubbed his eyes before moving to sit up. His body was sore in almost every place possible, but he fought the urge to lay back down and pass out. His body was covered in a thin blanket with random holes in the piece, but he could tell that he was wearing clothes other than the ones he wore when he had initiated the explosion. There were medical supplies on the floor in one corner, a small water container, and a bag with some things inside. A wooden table was right against the side of the mattress, which was holding a written note on top. The piece of paper was torn out of a notebook, writing scratched on with a pen that was definitely running out of ink.
hello, he read.
this might be a shock, that you're alive. you were in really rough shape when i found you in the river. i know you might be scared when you wake, but you're safe, i promise. although, i will warn you not to try to leave. the door is blocked from the outside to prevent someone from getting in; you have stitches on your side and i don't want you to tear them. you shouldn't get up yet; there's some water for you here, get some rest.
- c
To be completely honest, Rick had absolutely no clue who 'C' was. It's not that surprising, though; they said that he had washed up in a river, so it's not impossible that his body had been carried by the water extremely far from where he was. There was no one named C that he knew, but this was a new location, a new person, a new start.
Rick's shaky hands replace the note with the water; it was nothing but a small, hollowed end of a log, but the cool liquid that was inside soothed his aching throat. Relieved, he collapsed back on the mattress and was out in minutes.
He had no idea how long it had been when he woke next, but the light source that was the fire was nearly out, reduced to nothing but ash and a gentle glow with the remaining coals. Yet, the room was almost pitch black without it, so Rick gently felt around for the wooden table, grabbed the paper on top, and tried to make his way off of the mattress. He put his socked feet square on the floor and pushed up, nearly falling over if he didn't grab out and catch the wall with his left hand. There was a sharp pain in his right hip, and soreness in his lower back and left shoulder, but he continued to the corner anyway.
Rick knelt down on the ground, bare knees meeting the pebbles, and uncrinkled the paper in between his fingers. It was the same one as before, yet the other side had new writing on it.
hello again
if you wake up and read this, it's free to leave the room now. i'm just outside, so there's nothing blocking the door. come out whenever you want
- c
He could barely make out the open path to the door from where he was and, knowing that the coals were pretty much done, Rick decided that the best course of action would be going and finally meeting this 'C' person. He slowly stood up and limped to the door, trying to alter the weight on his injured hip on his way out. The makeshift door opened with no sound, but the light that filtered in was bright immediately. He squinted, covering his eyes with his hands in hopes to slowly let light in on his own. It probably took a minute and way too many blinks to adjust to the stream of sun, but when he did, he understood that the room was, in fact, underground.
Rick found himself in a forest, too, and he could hear the river running distantly nearby. Dead leaves crunched under his feet as he glanced around. There was a crackling fire coming from the right, so that was the way he turned. A clothesline was strung between two trees, holding up Rick's clothing that he wore during the explosion. His white t-shirt is stained with extremely noticeable splotches of red, but Rick can't find it in himself to complain when he's the only reason that they're there. Other than that, the only thing he notices aside from vast areas of nature is the person, presumably 'C,' sitting on a log behind a fire. A brown hat sits beside him, one with a familiar dent in the brim, but it has to be a mere coincidence. The fire itself is surrounded by a circle of small rocks, with meat skewered on a rod above the fire. If he had to guess what it was, Rick would claim it to be squirrel meat.
The person was rotating it with their right hand, but their head was down and staring at his own feet. Rick couldn't help but notice that they were missing a left hand, and thought of just how the hell this person has survived in this world with only one hand. They sported a gray flannel, a mix of light and dark shades forming overlapping lines across the fabric. Underneath was a brown shirt. Legs covered in dirtied jeans, there was some type of holster strapped around their right thigh. Their hair was shoulder-length, but he couldn't see any parts of their face.
He limped a few more steps forward before sighing and scrubbing his chin with his hand. This was it, this was the moment his life would probably take an extreme change if it hadn't already. A weird feeling was growing in his stomach, something he had never quite felt before, but he wrote it off as a crude mix of nerves and excitement. Nothing absolutely absurd could happen anymore, not after the miracle that was his survival.
"Hey there," Rick says, voice scratchy enough to indicate just how dry his throat was. It seems like the two short words were too informal of a greeting for someone who saved his life, but it seems to work anyway.
The man tears his gaze from the ground and looks straight at Rick with the most confusing mix of emotions in his eyes that he's ever seen. Well, only one eye, because the other is covered in a familiar wrap of gauze. The gauze looks too familiar, though, and when Rick finally allows his eyes to finally take in his entire face, he feels his stomach drop to the floor.
"Hi, Dad," Carl says, voice cracking with overwhelming emotion. "It's good to see you 'gain."
Rick finds himself in such shock that he can't even move. His legs won't listen to him when he begs them to just shuffle forwards, to gather his son into his arms and cradle him like he was just a baby again. He can only watch with a blank mind as Carl picks himself up off the log and walks over to Rick. He's taller than Rick ever expected him to be, taller than Rick himself, but it only reminds him of how incredibly strong his son is.
"Dad," Carl whispers, setting a hand on his shoulder. "It's me. You- you do know it's me, right?" he asks. His voice is desperate for recognition, so desperate, in fact, that Rick wasn't quite sure that he wouldn't completely shatter in his grasp.
Rick nodded quickly, sniffling and wetting his lips. "Mhm," he muttered. "You're- you're alive, Carl?" Rick can barely see his face anymore; it all looks like a blurry mess as tears crowd his vision. They make the splotches of color that are Carl's face dance as he tries to clear them with repetitive blinks. "Carl-" And he can't find himself with any more words. There are a million questions he could ask, but none that can breach past the tip of his tongue. The sharp burning in the back of his throat is holding them hostage, keeping him from beckoning the answers as to how?
But Carl doesn't seem to care, because he simply nods and pulls his father into a hug. "I am," he says, tears already soaking into the fabric covering his left shoulder. "I- god, I missed you so much, Dad."
And when it finally hits him that it's really Carl, that his son is not a Walker, but a living, breathing boy (or man?) in his arms, then he finally hugs back. His arms are tight around Carl's torso, so tight that he's scared he might hurt the boy, but he can't seem to loosen his grip. Now that Carl's here, really here, there's no way that Rick is just gonna let him go. His hands are flat on his back as he mutters incoherent words into the air, sobbing over his son's life. Carl simply shushes him, using his hand to guide Rick's head down onto his own shoulder, telling him that it's ok and that he needs to breathe, that Carl's not going anywhere, and that they're both safe. And Rick believes him. He nods and gasps for air, holding it for a few seconds before letting it out and repeating.
"That's it," Carl mutters, "there we are." How the rest of it plays out is but a mere blur, and somehow they ended up sitting on the log again. When he wiped his tears and looked back at his younger man, the hat was on his head and he was smiling at Rick. "Hi."
Rick finds himself chuckling at the simple word and greeting. "An entire year, and I get a 'hi' from you." He laughs quickly again as Carl smiles and shakes his head. Rick rests his hands on his knees and sighs as Carl gets up and collects the meat from above the fire. He places them on a rag and sits down next to his father. A piece is offered to him and he gladly takes it, biting off a piece aggressively and chewing on it. For some reason, even if it's some partly burnt piece of a squirrel that had roasted over a fire, it's the best damn meal he's had in years.
The way his son is eating has him remembering the reality of the situation, so he swallows the food that's in his mouth and hums. "Your hand- is that- is that how you survived?"
Carl hums before swallowing down the piece and sighing. "Yeah. I, uh- I faked the gunshot. Once you guys left, and when I was sure of it, I had... I chopped it off." The admission sounds defeated, but the teen wipes his mouth with his hand and continues nonetheless. "I didn't think it would work, but then- then it did and I was like- like, fuck, man. I just- I just lost everyone."
"I just- I didn't want to turn, but it was my only hope, and then it worked! It fucking worked, and I made you think I was dead." He takes another bite of the squirrel into his mouth and swallows before practically whispering until his breath. "'Sorry for cursing."
Rick shakes his head and laughs. "They've been keeping track of years, now. It's like- you're sixteen or seventeen, Carl, and have survived the end of the world. I'm pretty sure you can drop a 'fuck' if you really wanna." Carl tried and failed to stifle a laugh despite the food in his mouth. "So, you've been out here for the past- what, year?"
Carl shrugged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "'S that how long it's been? 'Couldn't really keep track much." Rick nodded, taking another bite of the squirrel, and waited for the conversation to take another turn. "How've you been?" the teen asked.
Sighing, Rick placed his hands on his knees and thought for a moment. How much did he miss? He's not sure whether to talk about the endless theme of death of both humans and Walkers, of the struggles he's faced simply because of Carl's death, but one thing sticks out to him in particular. "Saviors 'r gone," he mutters. "We got 'em good. Diminished their group, killed more of 'em than they did us."
"You let Negan live, though,” the younger stated as if he was there when it went down.
Rick's head snapped up towards the teenager. "How'd you know that?" He whispered.
"You said the Saviors were gone," Carl said. "If Negan himself was dead, you'd 've started with that." Carl wiped his mouth with the rag that was formerly holding his food and then offered it to his father. Rick took it gratefully, only having a little bit to finish on his own. "Why'd you let him go? Let 'im live peacefully?"
"I didn't," Rick snapped. "I slit his throat. But I... I couldn't do it. 'Couldn't finish it."
Scoffing, Carl decided not to start an argument about a decision that could never be undone. He stuck the hat back on his head and wiped his hands, standing up and walking around for a moment. He ended up at the clothesline, beginning to take the stained clothing off the string and fold them. But, Rick couldn't let him do everything, so he finished the last bite of his dinner and got up off the log. He took one step forward and hissed in pain; a sharp feeling shooting up through his right leg.
"Dad?" Carl asked without looking back. He didn't hear any Walkers, so it was probably just him stubbing his toe on a rock or something.
Rick stumbled forward a bit, catching himself on his left leg before trying again to take a step. Maybe his leg had simply fallen asleep and it was a weird first step. But, as he moved his right foot forward again, his hip exploded again, and Rick started to fall.
"Shit- Dad!" The younger ran from his post at the clothesline and rushed over to his father, catching him before he could fall into the small fire that was still burning in front of him. "What the hell?"
"I didn't-" Rick started, but couldn't find the words. Carl's eyes were filled with overwhelming concern, but he shook it off. "I'm fine; my foot fell asleep, it's not a big deal."
Carl huffed. "Take a step, then."
Rick looked at the area in front of him and then at the way arms were wrapped around his shoulders. A lot of his weight wasn't even being held up by himself. "Fine. I don't know-"
Carl adjusted his grip on the older man took a step. "Just let me help you limp back. I'll clean up, then we'll fix you up. We have to leave soon, and we need you in tip-top shape. How's that sound?"
Knowing he had no room for argument, Rick nodded and allowed his son to help him back to his home. He didn't even know what was coming in the future, didn't know what was wrong with his hip, and didn't really know anything that was happening anymore. The future is untelling, but Carl is here now, so he can sit back for a moment and let his son take care of things.