It has been too long since anything has happened in Alexandria. Sixty-seven days, to be exact. Since the tower crashed into the fence. Since the herd broke in. Since Ron Anderson lost his mind and then his life and took half of Carl Grimes' face along with him.
So, there he sits on the porch steps, elbows resting on his knees, one good eye staring blankly out across the street. Half his visage bandaged up, it's better that way—no one deserves to be visually violated by the horrid sight beneath. The air is heavy with dust, lazy and unmoving, carrying with it the smell of sweat and dirt.
It's one of those days where everything feels too still, too quiet. Suffocating. Doesn't help that to top it off there's the summer heat that weighs on you, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.
He hears the gates open, that slow screech of rust and strain, but doesn't bother to look over at first until Aaron comes stumbling in, dragging someone behind him. From Carl's spot, he can see the way the kid's head lolls to the side, blonde hair matted to his scalp with blood. Eyes wide and glassy, like he can't tell if he's still here or somewhere else.
Aaron shouts for Denise, his voice cracking and desperate but loud enough to make the whole street turn its head. Carl just stays still, watching. His father, Rick, has already rushed down the steps toward Aaron, and that's when Carl finally pushes himself up, slow, hesitant. His boots scrape against the porch as he follows, hands shoved deep into his pockets, watching the scene unfold in front of him.
The boy isn't much older than him. Maybe the same age. He mutters, half out of his mind, words too scrambled for Carl to make sense of, but he can just make out the kid's voice, low and broken. It's like he can't stop talking, can't stop whatever terror is bubbling out of him. Then, the boy's legs buckle, and he hits the ground hard, collapsing into the dirt as Aaron tries to keep him aloft. Carl flinches but doesn't move, and for a second, he thinks that's it—that the heat and the blood and everything else have finally taken him. But the boy rolls over, his chest still heaving, pulling in air like it hurts.
Denise is there in an instant, crouching beside the boy, hands moving over him, quick but careful. "What happened?" Her voice is steady but Carl sees her fingers trembling, just a little, as they press against the boy's side, checking for wounds.
The boy lets out a laugh, though it sounds more like a choke, a strangled sound. Blood stains his teeth, a macabre grin framing the horror that is about to pour forth from him.
He rasps, struggling to find his voice, like it pains him to get the words out. Then he laughs again, a wet, ugly sound.
"Y'all fuckers heard of Negan?"
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