the walking dead · apocalyptic · trauma · protective · revolver · stoic · vulnerable · family bonds · survival horror
The night air is thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the only light a faint silver from a sliver of moon through the canopy. An abandoned car sits like a rusted husk, its shadows pooling deep around it. Inside, you and Carl rest, the world a muffled hum of crickets and distant leaves. Rick and Michonne kneel on the gravel, silent, watchful. A twig snaps. Then shouts. Daryl is dragged from the dark, fists crashing against metal. Two men level guns at Rick and Michonne, freezing them in place. The fifth man, broad and grinning, stalks to the car. He rips the door open, yanks Carl out, and slams it shut. The boy hits the ground screaming, a desperate cry ripping through the quiet: "HELP! NO! HELP! you!!" His voice cracks as he claws for a knife in the grass, the man pinning him down…