Carl Faces One Alone

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"But... but..."

Carl's mind spun, hunting for an escape.

Then his eyes lit up, and he looked up at Evan with the most pitiful expression he could manage.

"But Evan, Sophia and the others are starting with guns, aren't they?"

"You're a boy," Evan said. "Their training is different."

He saw through Carl's little trick at once and brushed it aside with one sentence.

Carl froze.

'Was that really how that worked? Evan better not be lying to me.'

"Enough." Evan clapped twice to bring his attention back. "You're not getting out of this, Carl. Your parents put you in my hands, which means I decide what you do today."

"If you refuse now, we'll try again tomorrow. Or the day after. Or when we reach the Prison. Sooner or later, you're facing this."

He paused.

Scaring a child this hard did feel a little wrong. Carl was still one of the youngest people in camp.

So Evan changed the angle.

"Think about your mother. Don't you want to grow strong enough to protect her?"

"Think about your father. Don't you want him to look at you one day and know you can stand on your own?"

"Their blood runs through you, Carl. You have more in you than you've had a chance to show."

"Trust me. If you follow my training, this is the fastest way for you to grow right now."

Evan had played the emotional card.

Carl lowered his head. His breathing quickened.

"You were disappointed a minute ago," Evan added. "Scared already?"

That did it.

Carl's pride flared.

"Fine," he said, taking a deep breath. His young face hardened with determination. "I'll go."

The whole combination had worked almost too well.

"Then your first fight starts now."

Evan pointed toward the passenger door, where a walker had begun to drift closer.

The fire truck sat high enough that the walker's head barely reached the outside of the door.

It bumped against the metal with dull, hungry thuds.

Carl clenched his teeth, unlocked the door, and kicked it open with all his strength.

Thud.

The walker stumbled back two steps, lost its balance, and toppled onto the road.

Carl used the opening at once. He shoved the door wider, jumped down, and sprinted east under Evan's watchful eye.

As Carl ran farther away, the walker tried to rise.

A boot pinned it down before it could.

Its head hit the pavement hard enough to cave in.

[Experience +300]

Evan held the Stone Sledgehammer in one hand and shut the truck door with the other.

Walkers were already gathering from nearby yards and alleys. He dragged the hammer after him and followed.

He had promised Rick. He was not going to throw Carl into danger and walk away.

But he could let Carl believe he was alone.

That mattered.

'I cleared a lot of this town the last time I came through. With the full wooden armor on him, he should be able to handle this.'

Evan moved after him, quiet and careful.

Before long, he spotted Carl ahead. Evan ducked behind an abandoned car and watched.

The boy no longer had the same fire he had started with. He was breathing hard, head lowered, walking now instead of running.

Maybe regret had started to creep in.

Carl kept his distance from cars, windows, and anything low enough for a walker to hide beneath. His eyes searched constantly.

By this point, he had probably learned one of the first truths of the dead.

The scariest walker was not always the one standing in the sun, right in front of you.

Sometimes it was the one that should have been there, but wasn't.

The one waiting where you could not see it until you stepped too close.

Sophia's walker in the woods had been exactly that kind of danger.

Watching Carl slow down, Evan did not worry that the boy would cheat by circling nearby.

In the apocalypse, no place outside camp was truly safe. The whole town had become a playground for the dead.

If Carl simply survived out here until dark, that alone would prove something.

The town was less than two miles wide from west to east. Out and back, the route came to a little under four miles, but the broken streets made it feel much longer.

At Carl's stride, if he kept moving this slowly, he might not return before sunset.

Evan was not rigid about the exact distance. The route was a goal, not a punishment.

Even if Carl failed to complete it, Evan would not scold him.

Having the courage to face this much already proved the boy had survival in him.

And if Carl lied about reaching the end?

Evan might even praise him for having a little cunning.

That was part of surviving too.

This was one more way Evan differed from Rick and Shane.

He was training Carl like a future fighter, not sheltering him like a child.

Evan followed at a distance as Carl made it another half mile.

By noon, the sun had turned cruel. Sweat poured down Carl's face and soaked into the edges of the wooden armor. From every side came the distant groans of walkers and the sour stink of rot.

Carl finally ducked beneath the shade of a roadside tree and wiped his forehead.

"No," he muttered to himself. "Mom and Dad are training back at camp. I can't just go back."

He kicked a small stone near the curb.

It rolled into a narrow storm drain.

Carl frowned.

No sound came back.

He leaned closer, staring into the darkness between the metal slats.

There seemed to be nothing there.

Just before he got too close, he stopped.

Some instinct told him how stupid that was.

He started to step back.

A pale, rotten arm shot out of the drain and clamped around the wooden guard on his calf.

Then it yanked.

"No... no!"

Carl's face went white. His whole body lurched forward, and he kicked frantically at the hand gripping his leg.

Evan's fingers tightened around the Stone Sledgehammer.

He was ready to move.

But in the next second, Carl braced his free foot against the edge of the drain, every muscle in his small body going tight.

With the boot trapped in the walker's grip, he used a raised ridge in the asphalt for leverage and stomped again and again on the rotting hand.

The fingers pulped under his boot.

The grip finally loosened.

Carl fell backward and hit the ground hard.

The wooden armor protected him from the worst of it, but his elbow scraped across the pavement. Blood welled through the torn skin and ran down his forearm, dripping onto the road.

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