thirty two. vultures loom above

thirty two˚༺⋆♱⋆༻˚↳ vultures loom above ↲

THE STORM WAS COMING DOWN HARD, hammering against the roof with an unnerving fury. The wind rattled the shutters like a dead one begging to be let in, rain slamming straight against the many windows in my room. The streaks of water trailed down the panes, their patterns eerily resembling tears.

The sky seemed to be crying straight into Alexandria.

Even in fresh, warm clothes, my body shook. My hair had already been wrung out since arriving home, but it didn't seem to help much. I swore there was a draft whistling through the bones of our home, creeping up the staircase, breathing into the gap beneath my door.

A creak sounded from behind the barrier, and I flinched at the knock on my door, my heart slowing once hearing the boy's voice.

"Do they fit?" He asked.

I finished tying the front of the flannel pants, slowly shuffling to the mirror to look at them. They were long at the ends, but they would do. Carl had offered his pajamas to me, stating that oversized clothes were much easier to put on. He was right. I'd changed, for once, all on my own. I might have looked like a boy, but it was a fair trade, in my opinion.

"Yeah." I said, softly. "You can come in."

The doorknob twisted, and he walked in, slowly. His hand was over his face, and my brows knit together in question before realizing he probably wasn't sure if I was decent, or not.

His arm was out, reaching for the wall when I clarified, "I'm dressed, Carl."

"Oh." He removed his hand.

Our eyes met before he took a long look at the outfit, grinning as he helped me sit on the bed.

"Do you have something to say?" I asked jokingly, keeping an eye on him as he bent down to put socks on my feet.

His head tilted up at me. "No, absolutely not. You look great."

I refrained from the laugh that I knew would hurt too much, letting it settle into a smile instead. He stood now, easing down on the mattress, his body behind mine. He was careful in gathering my hair, bringing it over my shoulders, and letting it fall against my back before he began running a brush through it.

The bristles hissed through my damp hair, the sound melting away into the angry storm. He took each movement slow, handling the tangles with a gentleness I'd never experienced from him.

Thunder groaned in the distance, quickly followed by a sudden flash that only brightened the midnight sky for a breath. When he was done, he stood up to place my brush on the dresser. I was halfway tucked into my sheets when the bulb above my head flickered, then fizzled out, leaving a quiet darkness in its place.

"I wasn't ready for you to turn the light out," I stated, careful not to exert myself too much when reaching for the switch on my lamp.

"I didn't." His voice came from somewhere I couldn't quite see.

My finger twisted the knob on my lamp. It clicked, but failed to illuminate the room.

"The power grid must have been struck. Or the wind threw something against it." He explained, and I felt my mattress shift as he lowered himself onto it.

I stiffened. "Will the lock mechanisms fail on the gates?"

What an awful thought. The entrance rolling open, letting forth the thousands of dead that'd been accumulating outside, banging against our walls. Had the storm just rolled out a welcome mat for them?

I found myself reaching out into the gloom surrounding us, hands fumbling to find Carl. Once they did, he grabbed hold of them. He could sense my desperation. No light was needed for that.

"No," He reassured me, "If anything, they won't be able to open at all."

If they made their way in. . .that would be it for me. I was in no condition to outrun that kind of horror.

I nodded, taking a deep breath. It resulted in an awful ache, but it was necessary. "You're right."

He delicately let go of my hands, then fished in his pocket, pulling out an object I couldn't decipher. It flicked a few times before a flame softly lit the space around us, his hand cupped near the light. He then stood, steadying the lighter before helping me up.

"Why do you have that on you?" I questioned, taking a step forward. It was more like a limp.

"You know," He linked his arm around mine to provide little support. "Just in case."

We made our way to the door, then slowly began taking the staircase, one step at a time. The flame only went so far as to illuminate a foot below us, keeping the lower level a vast expansion of darkness.

"You're bullshitting." I claimed, my other hand gripping the railing. "You never carried one on the road."

The next wooden step made contact with Carl's boot, letting off a croak. The way it carried throughout the house had me remembering there was nobody else here. It'd been many hours since seeing Rick at the memorial wall. Michonne was nowhere to be seen. Daryl hadn't returned from beyond the walls, yet, and Judith was spending the night over at Base B with Carol.

"Yeah," The boy admitted, watching me take the last step. "It's Tara's. I took this, and her stash."

Another strike of thunder sounded from beyond the home. My mouth fell open as I watched him move to the island, pull open a cupboard, and grab a stack of candlesticks. Once blackening their wicks with heat, he placed them on the stands around the kitchen.

"You?" I furrowed my brows. "God—she's been fussing about her missing weed to Denise every-time I go to the infirmary."

The brief flash of lightning turned midnight into a false afternoon. Just as quickly, it drained back into a dull nighttime. I eased myself onto one of the chairs against the bar. Carl came around the counter, sitting beside me. He fidgeted with the lighter, his thumb harshly dragging down against the spark wheel. After watching it burn for a few moments, he removed the finger, then repeated the action.

"I swear, I have full intention on putting it back. . .I just, haven't worked up to it." He said, the shadow flickering against him in the most enthralling way.

I placed my arms on the quartz countertop, leaning into the solid surface. "Why did you take it?"

He put the lighter down. "I sleep better. I don't have nightmares."

I suddenly remembered our many-day-old conversation. I was laying on the couch behind us, half swept in delirium from the pills I'd recently stopped relying on. The W's were still slaughtering in the streets. Carl was kneeling beside me, confessing that he often dreamt about me.

Bad ones, I guessed, because nobody was ever graced with the encouraging kind. I wondered how many nights he'd smoked himself into oblivion just to escape the suffering that waited for him at rest. It made me so terribly sorry for the boy, and even more regretful that I'd ever agreed to be part of the scavenging team. Every time I left, I tore myself from him. Each time I returned, I came with new bruising, something further from the person I'd been before.

"You put it back where it belongs, alright?" The sentence sounded harsh on paper, but it came out tender and careful.

He readjusted his hat, and, despite the dim light, I could see the flush on his face. "Yes, ma'am."

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I turned my head before he could take note of it, then scooted to the edge of my seat, placing my feet sturdy on the hardwood. Once upright, I took a few steps to relieve the resulting throb of pain beneath my stitching.

Carl was already up and behind me by my fourth. He didn't reach out for me, but he watched with intent. It was how he looked at Judith when taking her first step; refusing to interfere without reason, but entirely bothered by the thought of her falling.

"Should we see if we can get the power back?" He suggested, coming near my side. "I'm not sure how the grid works, but, we might be able to get the lights on with the generator."

"Good idea," I said, facing the empty hallway I knew would inevitably lead to the basement. 

I'd never set foot in it, but I remembered what I heard at Deanna's party. The facts the longtime dwellers shared between us new folk when the drinks began pouring. I'd heard Deanna's newly departed husband tell Rick that our street was once a display of rotting husks. When they built the rest of the neighborhood up, they had no choice but to gut the insides and skin the exterior, but they didn't risk touching the foundations.

A whisper of the past, one that said 'you can change me, but you will not destroy me'.

Most of them had long-since been closed off by drywall, but ours had curiously been cracked open and hollowed out before the disease struck America. I pictured children in this home—ones racing toward the garage, pushing against each other, trying to reach the car first. I imagined the moment where one might have tripped against their own shoe, sent themselves straight into the weak barrier, and created the void that led to the time capsule below.

I could only assume the family's shock, realizing they were living above history that entire time. They must have chosen to deconstruct the wall, thus removing the barrier between past and present.

Carl grabbed one of the candlestick holders, then walked forward, using it as a beacon to guide us through the unlit residence. I trailed close behind him, watching the flickering shadows dance along the narrow walls. Even as we moved further from the windows, the rain was still notable, slapping down on the roof. The angry wind caused the wooden framing to groan under its pressure.

After finally reaching the entryway, we stopped at the top of the staircase, both exchanging a glance before looking down into the pool of unknown.

"Well," Carl said, moving the light source around to try and get a better look at the steps. "Should we rock, paper, scissors or—"

"Funny." I responded.

I lightly pushed against his back to let him know he would be going first, no matter what. He grinned back at me before starting down. There was no rail to provide any assurance. This meant my descent was much slower. My hand remained on the wall the entire time, quiet whispers sounding beneath my palm until I reached the bottom.

Carl's next steps echoed in the cellar. The candle illuminated much of the four stone walls, their surfaces crumbling with age. Vertical beams, warped by many years of tension and water damaged, fasted them in place. There were two doors on either side of the basement, separating us from their hidden chambers.

I watched as he set the source of light on a worn desk. The area was scattered with possessions—ones that appeared too vintage to belong to the owners before us. They'd likely been here since the original home was brand new, the paint still drying down on the walls. 

I ran my finger through the thick dust on the surface of the peeling wood. It told me secrets of the people before us. Made me briefly imagine what their lives were like, and see the fears they once had were the same ones plaguing what was left of this generation. Dying of common ailments, afraid to step outside. Raising children who had scarce chances at going on to live fruitful lives.

Carl curiously brought Tara's lighter against an old oil lamp. To much surprise, the wick lit, and he adjusted the knob until the positioning was right. After this, he carefully fit its glass chimney back on, and the thing burned bright enough to make it seem like there was electricity buzzing through it.

As he began in the furthest room to search for a possible fuse box, I softly sat in the spindle back rocking chair facing the desk. I had a feeling that I probably shouldn't bear all my weight down on such an antique piece of furniture, but I couldn't depend on my lower limbs to keep me up much longer. Today had been my most active yet, which really showed how little I'd been able to move my body. All I'd done was walk to the infirmary, take a slight pause to look at the names being painted on the walls, and walk home.

I placed my arms on the rests, allowing myself to lean into the seat. As it rocked back, my eyes flicked forward, landing on a leather chest tucked under the desk. Just as I was retrieving it and placing it at my feet, Carl returned from his sweep of both rooms to sit at the desk.

"Find a power switch?" I asked, bracing myself as I leaned forward in my seat to lift the lid.

He sighed. "No. There's nothing modern down here at all. What's that?"

"A trunk of some sort." I told him, squinting to try and assess the items within.

He shifted forward, placing his arms against his knees. His hands clasped together before he moved his gaze onto me. How funny. His eyes were brown in the light. Soft, and pardoned of death. This Carl looked like he knew not of any evil.

I reached into the box, careful not to strain myself too hard. The first things I brought out were what seemed to be newspaper clippings—ones that felt like hardened linen in my grasp, rather than pulped wood. I set them on my lap, focusing on the first one. The ink had blurred and spread against the page like it wanted to be forgotten, but the writing was legible, if I squinted hard enough.

DEATHS

My gaze broke from the page, locking onto Carl. "This is an obituary."

He rubbed his nose. This simple action reminded me how stuffy and dusty it was down here. His eyes watered like he'd been holding onto a cough for too long. I blinked away the itchiness at the corners of my eyes.

"Will you read it?" He asked.

I nodded, looking back down. "July 3rd, 1882–Miss Della Lou, in the thirteenth year of her age, slipped into eternal rest—"

"—Plagued with a mysterious affliction no physician could remedy, she quietly parted in hushed hours, leaving her family behind with only her memory to mourn."

My finger brushed against the photo attached to the death announcement with a metal loop. Captured in a moment forever, sat a girl. Her hair was long and light, fixed into unnatural curls. Her bonnet was lifted enough to properly unveil her beautiful but pale skin. She looked past the camera with a pleased expression like someone she loved stood behind it.

"Hm," Carl hummed, scooting his chair closer to examine the picture. "That's dark."

I shrugged my shoulders. "I think it's beautiful."

"Why's that?" He questioned me.

"Nobody gets honored like this, anymore." I told him. "So many people have died and won't ever be remembered. . .but, this piece of paper makes her eternal."

Here we were, more than a hundred years after this girl's death—getting to see her face, and know her story. At some point in time, she had meant something to the world. To family and friends. And even though she had departed too soon, she would be remembered until this page turned to ash, possibly outliving both the boy and I.

It made me wonder if I would leave a lasting effect, or if my corpse would rot with the billions of unknown. Would my name outlast me? Would someone, someday, know me like I now knew Della Lou? Or would the only evidence of my existence be my own gravestone?

"You think of things in such an unusual way." Carl said, a smile forming on his lips. "I really like it."

I returned the expression, setting Della's memorial to the side to read the next. My eyes briefly scanned the second page before I let out a breathy laugh. Carl's face scrunched in confusion at the unexpected action of mine.

I handed him the newspaper clipping. "This guy drunkenly froze to death."

Carl carefully read the printed text, before placing it utop the first obituary. "Poor Clyde Thatch."

Beneath the shadow of his hat, I could notice the grin he was hiding.

"Gone too soon." I shook my head solemnly.

I gave him the rest to read out-loud while I rummaged through the rest of the chest. There were too many things to focus on just one. Buttons made of unusual material—I was too used to the plastic ones, nowadays. Black lace gloves turned brittle, a bottle of whiskey with something still sloshing in the bottom, a carved antler, and jewelry heavy enough to weigh someone down.

As Carl started on the details of the next death, I fumbled with a locket, trying my best to open the thing. He was just beginning to get to the details of a drowning when it finally clicked and released, resulting in my immediate hitch of breath.

Hair. There was hair in this, woven tight into a plait. Blonde in color, the strands mimicking spun gold in the soft light. And even though Della's picture had been printed in black-and-white, I had an unpleasant suspicion that it belonged to her.

My unease was proven right when I closed it, flipped it over, and set it beside the lamp to read the cursive engraving.

Sweet Lulu

I finally released the hot air building in my lungs. I attempted to blink away the memory of her remains, but I couldn't. It looked so similar to an old friend of mine. A ghost who'd once shared that same lovely shade of hair. Only, nothing had been kept of her. Nothing but her stag-handle knife, which was above us, resting beneath my pillow for safe-keeping.

But, that hadn't been cut from her.

Not like what was tucked into this locket.

Despite my discontent, I was aware this practice was somewhat normal, especially back then. It was called something like grieving jewelry, or, mourning, and it was simply another way to honor the dead.

It was still unnerving. Especially when grasping the fact that the rest of her was six-feet-under. By now, she was rotted down to the bone, specks of dust her only companion. I assumed the few obituaries we'd found to be of family or friends. If the vultures hadn't claimed them first, well-loved individuals were usually buried nearby, or, in some cases, on the property.

If this were the case, it meant the soil in the backyard, beneath the grass Judth had been learning to walk on, was polluted with death. Not that most things weren't these days—they were—but, it was different. To think that our dirt was enriched with a kind of presence that would never fully leave.

There was enough death above. We didn't need it below our feet, too. Certainly not in the plants that took root in the ground, and filled our plates. However, there was no way to be sure, and it didn't truly matter. Still, there was a great chance I would never look at our freshly picked strawberries the same, or the basil that Carol sometimes garnished meals with.

"You okay?" The boy asked quietly, lowering the paper to bring his face into view.

"Yes." I told him, grasping the locket by the chain before gently dropping it into the chest. "Should we clean our mess and head back up?"

He nodded, and a part of me knew that once we closed the lid, it would stay sealed forever. It may have been wrong to condemn the relics to a quieted past where they would remain forgotten—but I was beginning to think some things were better left that way.

▬ ▬ ▬

2:53

Carl's watch let me know it was two-fifty-three in the morning. The storm hadn't let up—It hadn't even eased. The only change was the wind's direction, which allowed us to open my window and place our arms against the sill without being soaked to the bone. Rain came off the roof in continual sheets, creating the illusion of being hidden behind a waterfall.

There was something beyond. Some kind of hum. . .a mimic of a heartbeat. Alongside the lashing downpour, it was almost impossible to notice, but I did. I thought for many seconds on what it could be, until remembering the ring of death around Alexandria. There were thousands of them. I imagined their wet fingers slipping and squeaking, palms banging against the alloy. The groans and pleas as the water washed them clean of their sins.

For a moment, I felt bad for the people they once were. I wondered if a piece of them still remained in a place where it was dormant, but aware—like the coma I'd been in. Were their souls tormented and tethered to their bodies? Were they cold out there, in the rain? Did the thunder make them restless, just like Carl and I?

"What are you thinking?" Carl asked, nudging his arm against mine. He didn't move it after.

I placed my head on the backs of my hands, leaning further into the draft of fresh air. I twisted my neck so that I could better look at him.

"When I was stuck against that rod—I begged Glenn and Noah to stop. To leave me there. It hurt so badly. I remember, I wanted to die. I wanted everything to be over."

He straightened like my words were causing him to flinch.

I continued, "If they'd listened, I'd be one of those things out there. I hate how close it makes me feel to them."

I feared that if they tore down the fences, I'd stand there like a deer in headlights. I might have let them tear into me, taken over by an intense empathy for their hunger. I had no desire to die, but if I faced them head on, my impulsive urges had no limits.

The call of the void.

The sky momentarily lit up, and a crack of thunder rolled through the atmosphere. It was slow, and taunting. It took its time in quieting to a murmur, then eventually falling back into silence.

"Well, you aren't one of them. You came back." He insisted.

I dryly swallowed. "What if I didn't, though? I mean, what if only a piece of me did?"

Since waking, I hadn't felt completely myself. It was one thing to be in pain and unable to complete tasks on my own, but it was entirely different to feel slightly altered, like not all of me returned when I gained consciousness. I felt closer to death than I did life, and recently, I'd been envying the fact that even if I were dead—walking around with my guts exposed—I wouldn't be in pain such as this. Walkers never seemed bothered by their own injuries. The urge to create them in others seemed to overpower their senses.

However, I didn't want to inflict pain upon people. I just wanted to stop hurting. I wasn't sure what that made me.

"Then, I'll hold onto that part." He stated, carefully placing a warm hand against the side of my face.

My body shuddered at the contact. I remained still in my place on the floor, eyes searching his. The next flicker of light reflected in the blue of his irises. I didn't fear the following echo in the sky.

"Everything changes, eventually." He was now resting his chin against his forearm. "We do, too."

I moved a hand from under my head, letting it find a place on top of the one he held to my cheek. He separated his fingers, allowing mine to effortlessly fall between the gaps, interlocking with his. I used this tether to beckon him closer, the shaggy strands of his hair brushing against my skin as his forehead touched mine.

Even this wasn't close enough. I wanted contact, a connection so deep and profound that it exceeded beyond what the limitations of our reality allowed.

"Does your offer still stand?" I questioned in a soft whisper, my gaze flicking to his mouth.

I won't stop you. That's what he'd said to me, days ago, when he'd rain-checked our kiss. I was coming to him, now. Truthfully, I found myself praying that he was a man of his word.

God must have been listening tonight, because Carl was leaning into me before even bothering to form a response. We pressed against each-other softly, the action so deliberate and longed for, that my lungs were aching like I'd taken a hit from a cigarette when our lips parted.

After we both inhaled shakily, we reconnected, the action more urgent this time around. His hands laced in my hair, and we joined together like a woven piece of artwork.

Through this, I realized that Carl was right. Everything would change. I wasn't the only one. We both would, together. Through time, the seams that made us up would rip apart only to stitch themselves back in a completely different manner. Over and over.

We would only be this version of ourselves for a little while.

That was okay with me.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • · 4,400 words • 7:13pm

thank u so much for 97k reads !! i cannot believe how close my book is to reaching 100k. it hasn't even been a year since i've published the first chapter. it genuinely feels so crazy in my head! I still remember debating writing a book about carl, because I was scared of all the strings attached. I cant thank you all enough for literally just taking the time out of your day to read these. <3

2025 edit: GUYS this chapter was originally 2,000 words and so different. cyn and carl read a couples questionnaire and then climbed on the roof and ate pudding. . . (kinda cute). . .(then made out). . .but my 15 year old self failed to realize she literally has an insane injury so I had to take a step back here and make things a little more realistic. SHE HEALED SO FAST IN THE ORIGINAL WRITE YALL LITERALLY IMPOSSIBLE LOL but I love my determination

sincerely yours,𝓜 ᥫ᭡.