Push and Pull || Maggie Greene

Beside the Dying Fire

I heard this saying in high school, "A flap of a butterfly's wings could cause a massive storm somewhere else." In my case, the butterfly's wings were a helicopter, and the storm...a massive swarm of walkers. 

Obviously, there was no way to know that a helicopter caused everything to happen as it did. The point, though, is that even when it's the end of the world, other people's actions can still have major consequences on your own life. 

If someone drinks the last bit of water, you go thirsty. If someone makes too much noise, walkers corner you. If someone tries to kill you, your brother is forced to kill him in return, and your nephew has to kill him again. Then, the shot that was used to kill the man again, caused the storm to head right towards you.

Life is strange, I suppose.

We didn't even hear them at first. The three of us were dead-set on getting back to the house. All I wanted was Maggie at that moment and that feeling grew with every step I took. 

"Are you guy's bit too?" Carl questioned, looking up at his dad and then at me as he walked in between us. Silence lingered in the air for a moment before Rick broke it with a gruff, "No."

Carl looked down at his feet. "Shane was," he said, his voice carrying a note of defeat. I frowned at how much those words seemed to affect him.

"Carl, You know that wasn't Shane, right, Shane was already gone," I told the boy, hoping that he wouldn't hang on to any guilt. He gave a tiny bob of his head, "Used to be," he noted and I didn't know how to respond to that. 

"What happened?" Carl asked us, looking up at his dad again, "You guys attacked? I mean, I...I heard a gunshot, but I didn't see any walkers nearby."

Then Carl finally asked the million-dollar question. "How did Shane Die?"

Rick came to a stop, turning to look at his son as he gathered the correct words to say. I'm not sure there were any correct words out there for this situation. I stopped a few feet away, choosing to give them privacy as I stared off at the farmhouse. 

I caught the stench before I even heard them—the sickening odor of countless rotting bodies filled the air, making my nose scrunch in disgust. Then came the growling, prompting me to whip around in alarm, my grip on my shotgun tightened as Rick and Carl saw them, the two of them becoming panicked as Rick grabbed his son and ushered him forward.

"Oh my god...Go, Go, Go, Go," my brother said, and the three of us made haste toward the house. As we ran, we noticed even more walkers starting to make their way closer. We came to a stop under a tree just near the barn and ducked down.

""We... we gotta get to the house, tell the others," Carl gasped, his voice tight with fear.

I shook my head, my stomach twisting. "If we try, we'll die. There's too many."

A hand gripped my arm, and I turned to find my brother's gaze locked on the barn, his face a mask of determination. "You two stay close. Go," he ordered, and without another word, we took off in the direction of the barn, dodging walkers as we ran.

We made it to the barn, breathless, and Rick slammed the door behind us. I scanned the room quickly and spotted a wooden rake. I grabbed it and shoved it through the handles of the barn door. The walkers pushed against it, their moans growing louder. I took a step back, anxiety gnawing at me.

We were barely able to process the situation when Rick's eyes landed on a stack of gasoline canisters nearby.

"Take these. Pour it everywhere," he said, thrusting one at Carl, then another at me.