Strange

Strange is my middle name. But that's okay. Maybe it's for the best. Because as far as I'm aware, being strange has helped me survive. Welcome to the world of the dead, who roam the blood painted streets. Those freaks have taken from me. Taken everything. And they have tried to take me. I don't think so.

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7. Just Great

Carl's POV

We have probably been walking for about 45 minutes. We have crossed four roads and a stream. My shoes are a bit wet. My feet are sore. I haven't had to walk this far since before we found the prison. I guess I need to exercise more and stop reading so many comic books, huh? I keep my eyes infront of me, on Patrick. I have slowly fallen behind the group. 

I swing my head around when I hear something. Within seconds the whole group has stopped. I see Corey at the front, her hand up, and her body pivoting around slowly on her heel. I recognize the sound. I'm not sure what it is but I want to find out...

 The noise stops a minute or so later and we use more caution as we keep traveling. I feel hunger creeping into my stomach. I probably haven't ate in almost a day. That's when I see a decent sized building about twenty yards ahead. I hear a few whispers and then we begin jogging to reach the old, brick, vine covered, plain house. 

The inside has an old reclining chair, a rickety table, a couple of droors in a cabinet that held tools, a T.V. that seemed pretty out of date, a slightly leaky roof, and dust covered oak floors. The bedroom held a Queen size matress and bed spring on a cracking frame. The bathroom wasn't much to look at but it seemed to be full of meds. And the kitchen was a gas lit stove, a counter, a peeling sink, and a fridge with a broken door. 

I helped clean out the place and Corey gave them some orders for the time she would be gone. Then we left, with little supplies. Corey says she doesn't want to carry more than she needs and if she doesn't return that the group will have a greater advantage with more food. I think she's strange. The way she acts is too weird. I just can't be sure if I can trust her. I feel like I can but she always makes me second guess myself with that feeling. 

Corey's POV

Patrick is finally walking on his own, but I can tell Carl is ready to help. He seems anxious. I'm unsure of the reason, but he keeps me guessing. He seems so distant from the rest of the world, like he's not all there but he's so coherent of important things. Patrick seems inexperienced with anything except for some nerdy facts and some books that lecture you on biology and mathematics. He doesn't really talk. I'm begining to wonder if the two have known each other since before the shit hit the fan. I mean, they seem like they have a pretty strong brotherly relationship, but who knows. Maybe they are just close enough without any words ever spoken between them because they know exactly what it's been like for each other. 

"So.. uh," I begin, unsure of where I'm going with my sentence. "which way is the prison, I forget." I quickly spit out. Carl looks at me. 

"Why are you taking us there if you don't even know where you are leading us?" he questions. I sigh and give a slight smile, beginning to walk towards their camp.

"Ya know, I know where I'm going, I'm just trying to make conversation."

His eyes narrow a bit. "Well that's not exactly the smartest thing since Walkers are attracted to noise." I turn to him, shoving him back a bit. He makes a sound almost like a growl, brushing his shoulders where my hands pushed him. We all continue walking. 

"Okay so you guys should get to the prison no later than dusk if we keep traveling quickly. Do you think your dad would mind if I could hang inside the gates until-"

"Sh!" Patrick speaks up.

"Wha-"

"SHHH!" he repeats. I realize he must have heard something. I look around and soon I see it. A car. I grab him and try to pull him into the trees but his foot trips over the other and we fall. I try to lay still and maybe act like a person that freshly died but I know that the people saw something because their car is already slowing down. 

Before I can come up with an effective plan, the people are out of the car. It's an older man and I assume his son who is probably in his early twenties. "Well look here, Jake." The old man chuckles, his voice is deep and really raspy. It sounds like he use to be a smoker. He wears and old, what use to be white shirt, and overals with work boots. He holds a screwdriver and a pistol. His son has a faded grey shirt and jeans. In his strong hands is a machine gun of some sort. 

The guy, Jake, looks at me and Patrick who are kneeling, and tgen at Carl who is half standing half kneeling just behind us. The older man grabs Patrick and yanks him to his feet. Carl scoots closer to me. His hand reaches into my holster at my hip. He is moving slow, trying not to alarm the men. Patrick's life was on the line. Carl pulls the gun out of my holster, and is positioned so the men can't see what he's holding. Carl quickly pulls me back by the arm and shoots at the men. He hits the older one in the leg. Before we know it, Walkers begin to emerge from the trees. The younger man, Jake, kicked the gun from Carl. It slid across the grass. I felt like moments were minutes. I haven't come across any foe other than the living dead...

Then I feel pain and the grass surrounding my body with a thud.

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