All We Have Left- Carl Grimes

Chapter 3

Do you know how it feels to be so lonely that the world seems to be caving in on you?

The trees were stripped of color, and the grass was as dead as dead can get.

All that's left is me, my knife, and my empty heartless soul.

For the next few days I sleep in a book store. I don't even feel like getting up and trying to find a safe haven. The few granola bars I find in the back keep me stable for a while. Day after day it becomes a routine. I feel like I should read a book. I mean, I am stuck in a book store with nothing better to do than count the ceiling tiles.

Instead of reading, I find a notebook. Its the color of frozen peas, thick with 100 pages. I find a pen, which isn't too hard to find in a book store.

For weeks all I do is nibble on granola bars and write in my notebook. I write about my days, but it isn't much other than sitting around. So instead of the two lines of my day, I write about my past. Emma and the summers we had, about my dad and mom. Where I was when this shit broke out.

But the kiss.

Oh hell how I wrote about the kiss.

I reach into my granola bar box, and pull out a whole bunch of empty air. I mouth curse words under my breathe and hurl the cardboard box across the room. No part of me wants to get out there and fight through the walkers.

Over the weeks that I have been in the bookstore, I've collected a small bunch of items I have labeled as useful.

In the items are:
•my notebook
•a handful of pens
•a backpack
•6 books

The backpack isn't exactly the most fashion forward, but it does the trick. I slip on the black backpack, and pack my essentials.

If I'm going to go somewhere that has food, I decide its best to just stay there. I solemnly say goodbye to my bookstore.

"Thanks for making sure my stomach doesn't get ripped open and my guts and blood spew out while those things enjoy my intestines" I say, almost laughing at myself.

I adjust my backpack, and set out. I stride through the woods, the leaves crunching under me.

Luckily, a small index of houses aren't too far away. I climb in the window of one.

It's a tall white house, with vines weaving in and out of the windows. I raid the cabinet, pulling out everything that doesn't already contain a thick layer of mold.

Outside I hear a small group of people clicking their boots on the pavement. I can tell they are people by the way they stride, and not limp. I slip my backpack on, and look out the window.

In the road is three people. A tall, bulky man leads the way. They are distant enough so I can't make out their faces too well. Next is a shorter man, or a kid, a sheriff's hat on his head. Behind the sheriff's hat guy, is a toned black women with slender, muscular legs. She carries a long blade in her hand. I scoot away from the window, and wait until they pass.

It's good to know the world isn't completely empty. Just a black, dark hole with a speck of light.

What are those people doing here?

Hell... what am I doing here?

With my backpack heavy of new food, a new knife, and an extra shirt, I set out. I go the opposite way the mysterious group of people went, just got safe measures.

I find that I need new shoes. The black boots I own now are worn at the soles, and squish my toes together so tight I feel like they might pop out.