Walkers Can't Climb (The Walking Dead/Carl)

Walkers Can't Climb

3 years.

We walked through the forest together. We seemed to be walking for ages. I decided to make small talk.

"Do you have a group?"

"It split up, now I'm just with my dad."

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen."

"I'm thirteen."

"You can't possibly be thirteen."

"What makes you think that?"

"You're too small."

"Well, your too short to be fourteen."

"Whatever."

"Someone has an attitude." mock him

He doesn't reply. We walk for a long time. The awkward silence between us wasn't helping the situation either. About an hour later we reached a tall wooden fence. Carl climbed over with ease as I stumbled after him.

"How did you survive by yourself for so long?"

"Because walkers are called walkers."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Walkers walk, they don't climb."

"Oh, so you were up in the trees this whole time."

"Mostly at night."

"How do you kill walkers?"

"I'm good with a knife."

"Are you a good shot?"

"I've never even held a gun before, so no..."

He sighs and heads toward the back door of the cabin. It looks dirty and old. The roof was crumpling and the bricks were cracked. The windows were bordered and the door was barricaded.

"Nice place you got yourself."

"Shut up."

"The doors blocked, how do you plan on getting in?"

He moves away the boards and boxes blocking the door and steps inside.

"Like that."

"Where's your dad?"

"Inside."

"He better not be a walker."

"He's not."

I cautiously step into the crummy old cabin. It looks like a old family home, slightly out of date, but cozy. It would've been nicer if it was tidied up a bit. Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust. The wallpaper was peeling off and there were spider webs hanging from the ceiling. When I step into the living room I see two sleeping bags, a couch, and a broken tv. One of the sleeping bags have someone inside.

"I'm guessing that's your dad."

"Yup."

"What's his name?"

"Rick."

"He's not in that good shape."

"Thanks, for stating the obvious."

I look at Rick, then Carl. He doesn't seem to take care of him very well. Rick is covered in dried blood, scratches, and bruises. His hair is messy and dirty. He seemed to be drenched in sweat. Gross.

"So, now what?"

"We wait for him to decide."

"I don't think he's gonna wake up in a while."

"Well, we wait."

I give him a look. He staring down at his father with a look of slight disgust. He must've done something bad to be treated this way. Carl suddenly looks up.

"Where are you from?"

"Canada, North."

"How were things before, well, shit hit the fan?"

"Pretty normal. I got ok grades, I was shy and socially awkward but I had some good friends, I had a dog named Spotty, I liked reading books, and I hated oranges. What about you?"

"More or less the same. Except I don't have a dog, I prefer comics over books, I'm don't consider myself socially awkward, and I love oranges."

"So, the opposite of me."

"I guess."

"Oh, and I like drawing."

"And I like video games."

"That's nice."

"When's your birthday?"

"In two weeks."

"What do you want?"

"A set of colored pencils and a samurai sword."

"I know a person who has one."

"A set of colored pencils?"

"No, a samurai sword."

"Impressive."

Suddenly I hear a sputtering sound coming from the ground. Rick's awake. And confused.