OUTLIVE.
❝The dead were never the enemy.
It was the living. ❞
THE WALKING DEAD.
DARYL DIXON.
BOOK TWO of the LANCASTER SAGA.
[ SEASONS 4 - 6 ]
*****
*I do not own The Walking Dead or any of its characters. I simply write to write. Astrid, any addi...
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[ liii. that faraway place ]
august 15th, 2012
➸➸➸
CARL GRIMES WAS ALIVE.
Unconscious, yes. But undeniably alive.
The Alexandria Safe Zone had weathered the storm of its fall, and Astrid Dixon breathed evenly, now, knowing that the losses from the previous night had not been as staggering as she once presumed. The only casualties had been the Andersons and Deanna Monroe. Against such odds, it was a brighter promise, too, that Daryl, Abraham, Sasha, and even Glenn had all returned, safe and sound once more within the community's walls. The walkers that had once overrun now lay dead, scattered like torn ornaments across the blood-soaked streets.
And so, the time for rebuilding had arrived.
Yet despite the new barricades securing the breached walls, a pervasive paralysis had otherwise gripped the survivors. So many bodies, both wearied and drenched in the blood, stood frozen in a moment stretched thin by exhaustion. Astrid bore the unmistakable stench of decay herself, a living embodiment of the very monsters she had fought to repel.
As dawn painted the sky in hues of hope, Astrid had eventually made her way back towards the infirmary. The building, though quiet and still, housed a congregation of the living. A majority of Alexandrians were spread throughout, seeking immediate shelter, while others scattered across the porch and front yard. The comfort of mere existence had tethered them all together, sustaining those who, mere hours ago, likely believed their fall was inevitable.
Astrid now found herself in one of the infirmary's backrooms, sitting at Carl's bedside, all the while cradling Bailey in her lap. The younger child, worn out from a sleepless night, lay with closed eyes—a state which Astrid was grateful for. It had taken much to coax movement and speech from Bailey, whose reaction to both her and Daryl's return had shattered the former's heart.
The cowering, the fear . . .
Even with tears in her eyes, Astrid had to remind herself it had been a painful necessity.
As Bailey had finally calmed down enough to succumb to slumber, Astrid had scooped her up and refused to let her go. In the ensuing quiet, contemplating the small body in her arms, Astrid wondered if Bailey would ever be the same child again.
Lost in a thought, Astrid's hand gravitated toward her stomach, fingers caressing the soft fabric of her shirt. Such a seemingly mundane act to connect to her unborn child. A silent promise echoed through her touch—to protect the precious life growing within. This, she affirmed, was her and Daryl's legacy. And she would traverse any abyss, defy any threat, to ensure the safety of their children.
Soon allowing her gaze to sweep once more over Carl's prone form on the cot, Astrid's countenance darkened at the sight of his battered face. She had already acknowledged the irreparable damage inflicted by the fragments of the bullet. Despite both her and Denise's attempts, his eye could not be saved. Carl, at only fourteen years of age, would be permanently disabled for the rest of his life. And at only fourteen years of age, he had already been shot twice—a tally only one shy of Astrid's own scars, despite being half her age. In his young years, he had endured a magnitude of pain that far eclipsed her own.
