Bad feelings are one part of what sucks about this world. Good feelings are the other. Because the good stuff is what can get taken from you, the rug that gets pulled out from under you. A warming feeling that, once it's gone, leaves you out in the...
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M E G A N
As Carl and I trudge along the shady dirt path, I use all of my might to stop myself from coughing. The fear of attracting the dead is the only thing giving me that type of strength.
A gross feverish feeling has completely engrossed me ever since Carl woke me up. My body constantly aches as I try to stop myself from shivering.
The boy takes notice but manages to stop himself from saying something, despite his previous attempts. He knows that we're just moments away from getting to the armory that will grant us our very own weapons of protection.
"Let's stop here," He breathes out, as I hear his boots come to a stop from beside me.
"Why?" I ask as I turn my head slightly over my shoulder to face him.
"Look at you," He mutters quietly. "Let's go into that neighborhood and find a house for the rest of the morning. We need rest."
"I'm fine, Carl." My voice cracks from the dryness in my throat. "We can stay in the armory when we get there."
"At the rate we've been moving, we won't get there for another twenty minutes. We're slow." The boy says. I'm assuming he means that I'm the one slowing us down. "You won't be able to last another ten."
"Fine." I say as I barely breathe through my stuffed nose into the crisp early-morning air. The sunlight cracks through the trees as I look toward the neighborhood Carl is talking about.
The boy takes a few steps before stopping and turning his head slightly, waiting for me to follow behind. The both of us start walking toward the vacant neighborhood. Every house except a handful is covered in blood splatters or is charred from a fire.
We both scan the area for the house that looks the most untouched.
Our quiet footsteps crunch through the dewy grass of what used to be perfectly-manicured front lawns. The overgrown grass makes its way over the ankle of my boot and tickles the exposed skin on my leg.
"Hey," Carl whispers in my direction. "What about that one?" He points his finger.
The house he has in mind is painted a pure white, with dark green shudders enveloping the windows, that surprisingly remain intact. Although the wood has clearly rotted, and the door has a few scratch marks on it, the place seems like it would hold its own against a few of the undead.
