𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐡 | 𝐂. 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬

𝟣𝟩

"It's for your own, good," Rick informed, watching as his son angrily packed his belongings in his backpack, peeking over the door frame. "Look, I'm sorry that we had to separate you and Blake—" The boy tossed his bag aside on the bed, expressing his anger which caused the man to cut himself off. Carl immediately took the silence as his opportunity to fire, "I should be with him, dad, don't you think I'm infected also? That I might infect other people in the building?" He glared at his father in outrage, angered that he has to be separated from Blake even though the two were almost always together. "Alright, that's enough. Finish packing, and leave the cell block," the man ordered, clenching his jaw a little, expressing the visible frustration and stress of everything going on through his tone. The boy's glare faded a little upon hearing his tone, retreating as he turned back to his bag and resumed the process of packing. "I know, you're upset and miss him, but Blake's a strong kid, he's going to be fine."

He grabbed the picture frame he had gotten thanks to Michonne back at the cafe in King County. He glanced at the photo of everybody smiling, including himself on his birthday. He fought the urge to cry, knowing he shouldn't give up hope, not now. Not ever. Carl stared intently at his mother and Blake, hoping the boy wasn't going to succumb to the virus and leave him. As Carl got up, he stopped and stared at the man, not saying anything. "I know you don't want to be with the kids, but I need you to watch over them, but keep your distance, especially from Judy."

"What if they've already turned when I find them?" The man looked away for a moment, exhaling before looking back at Carl, whispering, "you don't fire, unless you absolutely need to."

"But you know I might need to, right?" The man slowly nodded, not meeting the boy's eyes while Carl left, leaving the cell block and into another part of the prison.

Blake lay in one of the cells, the territory unfamiliar and lifeless despite the frequent sounds of coughing echoing in the cell block. All he saw was gray as he lay there in the confined box of concrete, unable to move as his body lay on the bed weak. He was sweating but shivered, throat hoarse from coughing up his insides. Thankfully no blood. Yet. He only moaned and groaned with every twist of his body, trying to find a comfortable position on the bed, but the bed felt like nothing more than a piece of cardboard, despite the cushioning of the old mattress. He wanted to sleep, but his body struggled to let him. Everything ached and Blake had little hope he was going to make it out alive. But he tried staying optimistic for Carl. He just hoped the boy didn't end up in the cell block with him, not wanting him to experience the excruciating misery everybody here was facing with this new virus.

Hanging his mouth open to breathe as his nose remained clogged, he opened the drawer beside him, his arm aching in pain but he tried fighting the urge to give up. He needed something to do while he was laying here dying. Rumagging through, hoping to feel something inside with his hand, he felt the edge of what felt to be a book. Gripping it, he slowly pulled it out, bringing it closer to him. Frowning a little, he read the title, The NKJV Bible. This must've been one of the former inmates' who resided here long ago. Having nothing better to do, Blake coughed a little aggressively and then proceeded to open the book. Blake was never religious. His family came from a mix of Jews and Catholics, but Blake never stuck to a label. He never really understood religion, but he still believed in the existence of a God. However, nowadays, he had been questioning the existence of one. Surely this wasn't the promised judgment day. He didn't recall the dead coming back to life like this.