Don’t Sink In Me With Your Dog Teeth

by cristinacupid07

Summary:

Carl’s body shakes, thrumming with fear. His eyes are a million miles away, vacant and dark in the hollow of his expressionless face.

Rick hadn’t thought he had any more innocence that this world could strip from him.

God, had he been wrong.

OR

Rick doesn’t manage to fend off the Claimers before they get what they wanted from Carl.

Notes:

…hey guys.

Uh. Starting another series and not updating my other ones? Me? No….

OKAY i have a mini announcement if ur checking hehe! I have practically the entire first chapter of the hijacking of peeta mellark rewritten and will probably post it by the end of this week!

I also have around half of a second chapter for my hughie post written and will get back on that soon.

ANYWAY, this is the start of my series on Carl!! It’s basically a ‘what-if’ where Carl gets badly scarred by what the Claimers do to him and goes down a darker path.

Okay so yes, it’s an excuse for me to vent and make Carl super badass.

If that’s not your thing, pls don’t force urself to read.

ALSO, there will be some mildly graphic descriptions of the rape in this chapter. If that is too triggering for u but u want to read the story, I’ll give a short summary at the end and you can come back for the recovery and badassery!!

If you read these works for any form of sexual gratification, please leave. That is not their intended use. If you do still read them, do not comment.

Anyway, hopefully you enjoy this! Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah!!

(Title from ‘God’s Country’ by Ethel Cain!!)

Chapter 1

Carl wakes to the car rocking heavily to the side. For a moment he is brought back to the herds swarming the roads, Dale’s RV, his mom, Shane. He’s disoriented, his mind spinning fanciful stories that they all were still here. Sophia, Herschel, his family from the prison. 

Everything that he had before the world turned upside down. Everything that he gained afterwards, lost to one man’s anger. 

As quickly as it begins, the memories fade away and he remembers where he is. Out in the Georgian countryside, sleeping in an abandoned car after walking for miles. Suddenly, he realises just how dark it is outside; the fire has gone out.

He hears hushed but agitated voices outside and when he turns to look he finds a pudgy face pressed tight to the window of the car. 

The man has a look in his eyes so eerie that Carl feels his skin ripple in distaste. He watches him, a terrifying grin stretching his face, breath steaming up the glass in short puffs.

The smouldering embers of fear begin to flicker within him again. He has long become accustomed to the familiar pang in his stomach when he comes across the dead. It has taken him longer to get used to his newfound apprehension of the living.

A glance out of the windshield has him scrambling for his small Beretta on the dashboard. His dad has a pistol at his temple — Michonne too — and somewhere between the time he went to sleep and the mere seconds ago when he woke up, Daryl has made an appearance. The jolting of the car was prompted by him being thrown against it and Carl watches in horror as two men kick and punch the redneck, him curling up in on himself and trying to avoid the blows.

Including the man at his window there are five of them in total. A tall figure with a dirty grey beard is talking animatedly to his dad, keeping a tight grip on the gun aimed beside his dad’s ear. Carl feels his heart begin to pound. His fingers are just about to close around his own gun when the car door flings open and there are wrenching, grasping hands pulling him by the waist and material of his flannel out into the cold night air.

He gasps in surprise, flailing, arms and legs entangling around themselves. The hefty man just chuckles lowly in his ear, thick arm tight around his chest, holding him against him. There is a quiet swoosh, muted by the layers of clothing, then cool, glinting metal on his throat.

The man with the beard — Joe, he heard one of the men call him — stops in his tirade, a crooked grin sliding onto his face.

“See, now, tha’s right,” Joe says, thick southern drawl making his words almost indecipherable. “This ain’t some damn lie. We ain’t foolin’ ya, Rick.”

Carl watches the stirring anger in his dad’s eyes dim as they widen in terror at the sight of his son held captive. Sweat beads on the back of his neck and he’s too scared to swallow in case the bob of his throat causes the knife to nick him. And then it’s over. All this surviving, all the pain that he has endured, for nothing.

Maybe his mom was wrong. Maybe he won’t beat this crazy world. Maybe this is it for him.

“Please,” Dad breathes, voice shaky like it had been that night. When Carl and Maggie had returned from the basement, without Lori and a bloody baby in their arms. “Please, he’s just a kid.”

“Look,” the words are lazy, lax, like he doesn’t have their life in his hands. Joe huffs out a wheezing laugh. “We can settle this. We’re reason’ble men.”

Daryl is no longer letting out cries of pain when the men beat him. Blows rain down on his limp body. Hot tears sit on Carl’s waterline, about to spill.

“First we’re gonna beat Daryl to death. Then we’re gonna have the boy, then the girl, then we’re gonna shoot you and then we’ll be square.”

Michonne, expressive as ever, has her emotions plastered all over her face. Raw, tangible panic and fury twist her features. Her hands tremble with the restraint of the urge to reach for her katana and kill them all. She knows in her heart that she could never make it before the men would fire bullets into each of their brains.

Rick shouts out, pure horror in his eyes. Joe tightens his grip, wraps an arm around his neck in a chokehold.

“Go at it, Dan, but be quick. He’ll start to scream, an’ then the dead ‘uns will start showin’ up.”

The fat man holding him smirks. He must be Dan, Carl realises.

A slimy, slick feeling pervades his ear, shocking him enough to startle in the grasp. It’s gradual clarity that tells him that Dan has his tongue on his face, licking him like a dog.

Disgust enters his system with the sinking of his gut and alarm bells sounding in his mind.

Quickly, faster than Carl could have expected, he is pushed to the ground, face scraping against the gravel. He squafers, fights, tries to loosen Dan’s grip. It’s all futile. 

There is an inhumane strength that all of them have uncovered, deep within, as a result of the apocalypse. Desperation. Yet Carl is no match for the man on top of him. Not in this malnourished state. Not in this body, with thin, stick-like wrists and ribs poking through his shirt. 

Blood wells in crimson droplets where his cheek has split in a cut. He cries out, yells, remembers the talk that Lori had with him when he was younger.

‘If someone ever touches you and you don’t want them to,’ she said, ‘you yell and scream as loud as you can! And make sure that you always tell me, okay?’

Well, she isn’t here to tell. His voice feels hoarse as he screeches, tears of anxious frustration rolling down his face.

“Stop your squirming,” Dan mutters angrily, dirty palm covering Carl’s mouth. His other hand slides up his shirt, caressing the skin of his stomach that is still soft with youth. “Damn, you’re skinny. Gotta take what we got, though.”

Carl stretches his fingers out as much as he can, desperately attempting to reach the discarded knife. It’s just an inch too far, buried in the leaves.

His breath comes in short gasps as Dan moves his hand further down, teasing him cruelly. He fingers the waistband of Carl’s too-large jeans for a while before reaching underneath him and unbuckling his belt. 

The sound of clinking metal seems to snap his dad out of the horrified stupor he was in. Eyes flashing with fury, he throws his head back, startling Joe into firing the gun. It misses by a hair’s breadth. 

Joe sends a right hook flying into his dad’s face, cracking his head to the side. Combined with the ringing in his ear from the gunshot, Rick is distracted enough for Joe to grab his arms and pin them tightly behind him. Joe’s other arm snakes around his neck and strengthens the chokehold. Michonne watches helplessly. The man behind her binds her hands with a piece of string. A new precaution.

Amidst the chaos, Dan has pulled Carl’s jeans down to his knees and is working on his own. 

Primal fear stings every nerve in Carl’s body as the whispering winter breeze tickles the exposed backs of his legs. Foreboding fills his bones alongside a child-like confusion that he hates the familiarity of. Something is wrong. This is wrong.

The revulsion on his dad and Michonne’s faces makes him shudder. He has no idea what’s happening. What does this man want from him?

Dan’s belt buckle clicks. On reflection, Carl thinks that the sound will haunt him forever.

That hulking weight crushes him again as Dan removes the last layer between them. Tears glisten on Carl’s cheeks in the moonlight.

His dad is crying. Michonne is weeping. The men are leering. Daryl is still.

Carl is shuddering, shaking and hiding deep inside his own mind.

 

---

 

It has been at least half an hour since then, though the seconds have stretched by infinitesimally slowly. Carl is hoarse from screaming, his body raw and aching.

Every movement elicits a sharp yelp of pain as he is rolled this way and that like a ragdoll. Like a toy.

Dan has had his fun three times. If Carl had his gun, he would shoot himself instead of the man grinding against him.

The darkness has receded into pale twilight, the sky purpling like the bruises forming on Carl’s wrists and ankles. Slowly, one of the men who gave Daryl the thrashing steps towards them. He crouches, getting a tight grip on Carl’s hair and pulling his tear-stained face up to look him in the eyes.

“Man, is he cute. Almos’ like a gell with those big blue eyes an’ that long hair.” He whispers, eyes roaming the child in front of him. The other men watch the exchange, captivated. Distracted.

Dan moves backwards, behind the car, satisfied. He leans heavily on the boot, fiddling with his trousers.

Daryl slinks up behind him and before he can blink there’s a rock slamming into his temple. He falls, unconscious, and Daryl catches him noiselessly, laying him down in the dirt. 

Round the front of the car, unaware that one of their members is down, the other man is tracing the cut on Carl’s face, tutting at how it will scar. Carl whimpers when the man begins to unbutton his trousers. A branch breaks, far off in the forest. The group goes silent for a moment but, assuming it’s nothing, continues.

The man’s trousers are at his knees and he pushes himself up from a crouch to stand tall. Carl’s energy drains and he flops onto the gravel. Looming above him, the man snarls.

Carl barely manages to raise his head, and when he does, no one is looking at him. His dad’s eyes are fixed on something round the side of the car. Michonne is fighting to conceal a smirk. 

Before he can even begin to question these things, a gunshot rings out. The man with his trousers down sways, like some sort of grotesque waltz, blood pouring from the bullet wound that punctures his forehead. He falls heavily on the ground.

Adrenaline flushes through Carl’s body. Now is his chance. His lower body aches with a pain that spiders up his spine and blood leaks from places he would rather not think about. Even so, he has to escape.

Pushing himself up on unsteady, twig-like arms, Carl gets shakily to his feet. He pulls up his boxers and trousers in a swift motion and sprints to the car, throwing open the door.

His heart jackrabbits in his chest, a painful throb, like a fist squeezing and releasing the organ. His Beretta is familiar in his hand. Comforting, almost.

Behind him, his dad is wrestling Joe’s gun out of his hands. It’s pointed up at the sky, intermittently firing throughout the struggle.

Dan is nowhere to be seen, and the second guy is growing cold on the gravel. The man with Michonne has dropped his gun and kicked it out of her reach. They battle furiously, him with a machete, her with her katanas. It is clear who has the upper hand.

Carl searches for something to do, some way to help. He catches a glimpse of himself in the cracked rear-view mirror of the car and has to hold back a retch. 

There are finger-shaped bruises around his neck, brushing his jaw bone, a sick kind of painting in blood adorning his cheeks. His hair is mussed, sticking up in places where it had been pulled. The shirt he wears is practically shredded from the friction against the ground.

Looking away, Carl buttons up his flannel. He feels ill.

To his left, someone with shaggy brown hair and a face more pulp than man is furiously punching the last ‘claimer’ into the dirt. It takes Carl a while to realise that it’s Daryl. A sigh escapes him, tension replaced with relief. For a moment he had wondered if Daryl would even make it.

Michonne has now overpowered her captor. In one striking, clean movement, his head is off his shoulders. Blood splatters onto her cheek. She doesn’t wipe it off.

Rick, having taken Joe’s gun, tosses it into the greenery around them. They engage in a brawl, each caught in a headlock with the other.

Joe’s lips pull back in a sickening grin. “And what are you planning on doing with no weapon?” Although winded, he doesn’t seem to have lost any confidence in himself.

Rick doesn’t reply, as though contemplating his answer. Then, unexpectedly, he lunges, head darting forward like a shark snatching its prey. Carl watches in appalled disbelief as his father’s teeth lock around the thin flesh of Joe’s neck, sinking in and drawing blood. Joe screams; Rick pulls away, tearing out Joe’s throat as he does so. The salt-and-pepper haired man gurgles and chokes on his own blood before slowly sinking to his knees and keeling over. His eyes are wide and white and terrified. 

The aftermath of this brutal attack has Rick panting for breath, crimson liquid wet in his beard. An eerie silence follows in its wake, Michonne and Carl locking eyes. He looks away in shame, unable to hold her gaze.

Breaking the noiseless atmosphere is a crack. Daryl finishes off the final ‘claimer’ with a sickeningly loud punch, fist smashing the man’s head into the rocks. His face is unrecognisable.

Each of them looks around in an almost dissociative state — they can neither of them believe what has just occurred. If it weren’t for the immobile bodies littering the ground and the gore coating each of them, it would be easy to pretend that nothing had happened. At least, for those who didn’t have to feel the phantoms of pudgy hands caressing their bodies and the hot slick of sweat sliding against them, cold air on a tiny body and —

Something is behind Carl. No, someone. He barely has any time to react before a thick arm tightens around his neck and pulls him close again. The familiar and nauseating scent of cigarettes and sweat fills his nostrils.

Dan. Carl can feel his breath on the back of his neck, shaky with fear as he surveys the bodies of his group. The large man tightens his grip on Carl’s shoulders in front of him. He needs some sort of leverage to get away from here.

“D-don’t move!” He says furiously. “You move and I’ll — I’ll snap his neck! I swear I’ll do it!”

There is a collective intake of breath from the three adults and Dan relishes the power he has over them. The kid is stiff against him, body taut like a stringed violin. The thought is almost enough to get him going again.

Slowly, he begins to walk backwards, trailing Carl along with him, too scared to turn around in case the father or the girl raise their guns and shoot him.

He makes it to the back of the car and heaves a sigh of relief. Carl still hasn’t moved. Dan smirks, patting his shoulder.

“You’re a good kid. An’ you gave me a good time. This’ almos’ making me want a round four —”

A gunshot rings out, startling him. It sounded close. Without warning, blinding agony lashes at his body like a whip and he folds in half, mouth agape and lost for oxygen. His hands search blindly for the source of the pain and come back wet. Red fluid douses his fingertips.

Fuck.

The kid has shot his dick off.

Distantly, he can hear himself and the pathetic choking sound he’s making, but he can’t bring himself to care. The sting and burn of his torture is all consuming, white noise filling his ears as he falls to the ground. His vision is turning black at the edges, like the rolling credits at the end of a movie. And this is the end for him.

His head flops backwards and he loses all strength in his bones, body going limp on the road.

His eyesight is failing him, the moonlight receding into little white specks amidst the darkness of his eyelids. The last thing he thinks he sees is the kid's smile.

Chapter 2

Summary:

In the aftermath of tragedy, Carl struggles to pick up the pieces. He follows the group to Terminus, hoping to find some kind of safety and shelter. Things turn bad fast — they always do.

Notes:

Hey guys….

OKAY i haven’t updated in a while but this is pretty long so eat up.

I have my gcses this week and i’m shitting bricks send help…

This starts off lowkey bad but i feel like it improves as it goes along so trust the process.

Hopefully you enjoy! Trigger warnings still apply.

The silence of the aftermath is like a funeral shroud, black and thick and smothering him. It’s as though he has a second layer of skin, one that clings tightly to his bones and keeps him warm, pulsing, like the heartbeat in your ears when you get embarrassed.

Rick hasn’t said anything yet, and doesn’t seem like he’s planning to anytime soon. Last night he sat outside the car, keeping watch, while Carl slept fitfully on Michonne’s lap. He would close his eyes, drift off to her gentle stroking of the hair on his brow, then a visceral flash of memory, skin-on-skin contact and the sharp, spidering pain shooting up his spine, and he would wake again, cool sweat between his shoulder blades.

The worry in Michonne’s eyes is painful, so Carl avoids eye-contact entirely, vision focused on the ground. 

He feels so many emotions at once that he doesn’t know what to do. On the one hand, raw humiliation throbs within him, self-hatred a viscous liquid in his heart. Disgust consumes him like some kind of man-eating monster, with a gaping mouth that swallows him whole and he fantasises about killing Dan for a second time, then killing himself. Taking a blade like he had once seen a woman do, pressing the tip into his flesh and dragging it wrist to elbow. Watching the blood pool and spill, a crimson painting that would showcase just how much of a coward he truly is.

The exhaustion of his body both bewilders and infuriates him. Daryl took the beating of a lifetime and still managed to take down a claimer and stay up to guard with his dad. He hadn’t even been able to push Dan off him at full strength.

Deep down, Carl knows it is unreasonable to expect himself to have been able to fight a sturdily-built, fully-grown man at fourteen years old. That’s what the rational parts of his brain tell him.

But the louder areas, the ones that clamour to be heard over the bargaining for his own psyche, tell him what he wants to hear.

He wants to be told that it was his fault. That he should have been able to escape, that he shouldn’t have let that man go as far as he did. At least then he can rationalise this burning loathing within. At least then he won’t feel this pathetic self-pity. Only motivation to become stronger. To push himself.

A barrier forms around his heart, stone and heavy and protective. This will never happen again. He will not allow it. 

Because what scares him most is the confusion. That secluded, hidden part of his head that asks, ‘why?’ 

‘Why did he do this? What did he do?’

Carl has a vague understanding. He saw his mom and dad kiss, saw the way their fingers would interlock and their eyes would pass secrets of something only they knew about. 

He knows how babies are made.

He knows babies don’t make babies.

He also knows that boys can’t get pregnant, and to him that seems like the only reason someone would experience that torture.

So why? Why did that man take from him something he wasn’t willing or supposed to give? The question sends his mind reeling.

What did he do to make that man think he wanted it? He said no, he knows he did. He told him to stop; he’s sure of it.

Michonne notices his contemplation and stops brushing the long locks that hang into his eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” She asks gently, voice soft in the way a mother speaks to her child. She’s never spoken to Carl like this before. Usually, she treats him like the rest of the adults. The comfort he finds in her kindness startles him.

He shrugs against her legs. “Nothin’. Dunno. Just . . . Stuff.”

She nods a little sadly at him, doesn’t make him elaborate, but the anger in her forced smile could change the tide, could send waves crashing against rocks. In her eyes, he can tell she wants to scream, ‘Tell me! Let me help you. Let me save you from what has already been done! Let me take time in my hands and twist it into another shape, change your story!’

But she can’t say any of this. So she is silent.

Carl sits up suddenly, “We should start to move.”

Michonne looks at him, startled, but nods and opens the car door. Carl is glad she doesn’t argue.

His dad and Daryl turn to face them as they clamber out of the vehicle. Daryl’s usual squint is dramatically emphasised by the huge puffiness of his eyes and cheeks, skin marred blue and green instead of redneck tanned. Rick still has blood in his beard, a thin break in his skin where Joe’s ring collided with his cheekbone.

They don’t speak, but Daryl does incline his head to acknowledge him.

“The others are still out there. We’ve waited long enough. I think we should start looking again.” He’s aware how childish his words sound. How innocently hopeful, how unplanned and not thought through. Imagine his shock when the two men stand, agreeing, mouths twisted with determination.

Daryl slings his crossbow over his shoulder, Michonne resheathes her katana. His dad pockets a knife, retrieves his gun and picks the remaining weapons from the Claimers’ bodies. Packing them into a duffel bag, he begins a brisk pace, the breaking dawn shining over the horizon.

Carl thinks he will never see the sun the same way again. The sun that had set on him only hours ago, stained by blood but otherwise clean. The sun that rises on him now, muted yellows and oranges lighting up his tainted skin. He feels exposed and wants to hide. Instead, he holsters his gun, pulls his flannel down over his scraped fingers, and follows his dad into the forested area.

 

---

 

Somewhere along the dusty paths, the rocky floor of the woods and over what must be just under twenty roads, they again find the train tracks and the map to Terminus. The little red dot has relocated itself to a point much closer than he expected, indicating that their destination is only a few miles north of where they stand.

Exhaustion pounds at his temples. His body wants to flop down on the ground and sleep, but if they make it to Terminus, if it’s really real, then he may even get a bed with shelter. He knows which he would prefer.

He trails behind the group, feet dragging like the paws of a lazy bear over the branches and dirt floor. Michonne’s eye seems prone to wandering, Carl consistently catching her watching him in her peripheral vision. Finally, to put her out of her misery, he increases his pace, matching her step. 

“I’m fine,” he says tersely, trying to put enough emphasis in his words to convince her.

She looks at him with a sad smile. “I know you are,” the words are soft and yet somehow feel like a punch to the gut. “You’re a strong boy, Carl.”

“Yeah,” he replies, hardening his voice. “I am. So stop looking at me like a kicked puppy and leave me alone.”

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but he can’t take them back now. Michonne seems hurt, eyes widening slightly, before her gaze becomes guarded. Then understanding blankets her face, gentle and kind, and God, Carl wishes she would hate him. Instead, she just nods, quickens her footsteps, and leaves him to walk behind.

He’s grateful. And he’s better off by himself.

 

---

 

His leaden legs carry him the short paces almost on auto-pilot. Sticks crack underfoot. The sun, which peaked at midday and stuck his flannel to his back with sweat, now hangs lazily in the sky, slowly sinking back beneath the horizon.

The endless stretch of blue above them morphs into a brush of lilac and navy, painting the worn, rust-coloured gates in front of them the bloody hue of crimson. 

Cold blows in from the east on a floating breeze and Carl shivers involuntarily. Everyone is already treating him like a daisy — he doesn’t need to give them another reason to.

His dad reappears from the forest, moisture on his forehead. He has buried his red machete and the bag of guns in the soil lining the chain fence surrounding the buildings, which seem to be old factories.

They stand for a while, just staring at the security of it all. Thick iron bars, tall fences, puffs of black smoke curling from the chimneys. 

Daryl is about to reach for the lock when Michonne puts a hand on his arm. “We should go around the back,” she says softly. “We don’t know who these people are or what their intentions could be. Just to be safe.”

Glancing at the rest of the group, Carl can see that they’re all in agreement. Moving from the entrance, they carefully pick their way through the foliage to the backs of the factories. There are tens of trucks just sitting around and very few people milling through the square. For a place that has ‘refuge for all’, it doesn’t look like there are too many recipients.

The others clamber up the bars and swing their legs over the fence. Carl grimaces at the thought, knowing it will be painful in more places than one. He quickly follows suit, however, not wanting to give anyone a reason to doubt him. His lower back and further burn with the effort, and for some reason his stomach feels as though it is being licked by flames. Now that he’s noticed it, the pain doesn’t fade. He has to hide his hitches of breath and winces.

The four of them creep towards the main building, taking in the sights. Derelict factories surround them and car parts lie abandoned on the ground. Carl can’t shake the sense that he is being watched, but he chooses to ignore it, chalking it up to paranoia.

Entering the building, the strong metallic scent of guns and blood hits him like a wall and he fights a gag. Voices are heard in the distance, and Daryl raises his crossbow, putting a finger to his lips.

They tiptoe towards the sound, breathing quietly, not daring to make a noise. Michonne unsheathes her katana along the way, and Carl keeps his hand on his gun.

Stopping down the hallway, his father peeks around the door, watching. They can see a woman and a few others, a table and chair. The woman holds a radio, speaking loudly and clearly into it, inviting survivors into their sanctuary. Unease settles in Carl’s bones.

Suddenly, his father steps forward, gun raised, and the others follow his cue. Carl stumbles in behind, dread like a stone in his chest. Rick questions them, asking if they have available space and if they can intrude upon their hospitality. His attempt at politeness is somewhat minimised by the pistol aimed at their potential hosts.

A man, ‘Gareth’, he says, at first berates the guy who was supposed to be guarding the fence. Then, he softens his tone and welcomes them to Terminus, explaining their rules and encouraging them to go out and get a plate of food. It’s so familiar to the start, when they all gathered into a camp just outside Georgia, when Dale fried up some meat on the fire outside his RV, that Carl feels a twinge of nostalgia. But the pale blue-grey of Gareth’s eyes, the blank slate, void of emotion, tells him a different story. He wonders if it’s because of survival. Maybe something darker.

As they wander through the courtyard, following the lead of the man they got in trouble, Carl’s hair stands up, prickling along the back of his neck, that same sensation of being watched hitting him full force. Something isn’t right. 

Meat, glistening and sweet, is dished out onto plates, but his appetite is gone. Foreboding has drilled a hole within him. He isn’t sure what is wrong yet, but he knows that he has to warn his dad.

Before he can get the chance, however, Rick slaps the food out of Daryl’s hands, turning to the cook angrily.

“Who’s watch is that?” He demands, a cold venom in his voice. A deathly stillness washes over the yard, the few Terminus citizens out stopping in their tracks.

The man stammers out a futile excuse, but now the four of them have their weapons raised. They look around in horror; Daryl’s poncho, left with Maggie, Glenn’s watch and armour — belongings of their family from the prison. Sick nausea pervades Carl’s gut as he thinks of all the possibilities of what could have happened to them.

“Put the guns down,” a breezy but tense voice carries across from the buildings as Gareth sidles out, flanked by a squadron of armed men and women. Michonne swears beside him, and Carl has to agree with her colourful choice of language. They’re surrounded.

“If you want a gun fight, I’m pretty sure we could take out plenty of your people before you get us,” his father begins, but Gareth cuts him off with an airy wave of his hand.

“I mean, you probably could,” Gareth muses, “if we didn’t have guns trained on you from above. Snipers, to be more exact.”

This time, Daryl curses, a long string of words that would put a fishwife to shame. Sweat begins to bead on Rick’s brow, and Daryl’s finger twitches over the trigger on his crossbow. Gareth notices their hesitance, sees it as a refusal to comply. He waves his hand again, a controlled, militaristic motion. Before he can process this, Carl is shoved to the ground, Michonne leaping on top of him and shielding his body with hers. Their weapons drop out of their hands and skitter along the floor, quickly retrieved by a couple of Terminus citizens nearby.

Bullets ricochet around them, shell casings bouncing off the ground. The shots are low, and miss, but the sound strikes fear in each of their hearts.

Standing shakily, Carl puts his hands in the air, following his dad. The four feel a flash of humiliation. How many times will they be beaten by a stronger party?

“Good,” Gareth says with satisfaction. “Very good. Now, you see that shipping container over there? I want you to walk over, one at a time, and go inside. Okay?”

Gritting his teeth, Rick stares at the man. “And if we refuse?” The words are empty. They have already lost.

Gareth laughs as though someone made a joke. “We’ll shoot your boy here. And I don’t think you’d like that.”

Carl is surprised by the lack of fear welling up within him at the threat. In comparison, his dad struggles to not reach for the gun that is no longer holstered at his side, the previous night’s events filling him with a protective nature not unlike that of a maternal bear. His thoughts are primal and instinctive, fundamentally survivalist at their core. His main objective is to keep his son, his cub safe. Carl watches, numb of any kind of emotion, as his father bites back a snarl.

“You first, Rick,” Gareth mocks. His father turns slowly, a defiant glint in his eyes, and walks over to the now unlocked shipping container.

Daryl follows, then Michonne, and finally Carl is alone, waiting for instruction. It’s awkward under the scrutinising gaze of the people in the courtyard. Can they see the bruises? The love bites? The handprints around his wrists and throat? Suddenly, he feels exposed. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to gain some semblance of comfort.

Finally, Gareth relents. “Your turn, kid.” Carl walks at a faster pace than the others, relieved and in no mood to make a show.

As he walks up the rickety steps to the container, he can hear hushed whispers coming from inside. His father and the other two are likely already formulating a plan. He pushes the door back, and dusty shafts of sunlight illuminate the space for a moment, before the door is slammed shut behind him.

In the brief glimmer of light, Carl’s mouth drops in shock, tension ebbing out of his shoulders. There were three strangers; a slight Latina woman in camo, a hulking man with fiery orange hair and a short, stout man with a rather eclectic haircut. That isn’t what surprised him.

What surprised him was the sight of Maggie and Glenn, safe and unharmed, enveloped in each other’s arms. Carl desperately wishes they hadn’t been engulfed in darkness, if only to see them again, whole and alive, to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

The adrenaline that has flooded his body for the past two days vanishes in the face of relief. And suddenly, the burning pain in his stomach from before becomes all the more apparent. The tentative smile drops from his face like an egg sliding off a plate.

He takes a shuddering step towards where he thinks he last saw Michonne and Maggie, choking out a gasped sound. He clutches at the thin material of his t-shirt — since when was it wet? — and his fingers come back soaked. He doesn’t have to have light to know that it’s blood.

Michonne’s soft hands find him first, worry evident in her voice as she questions him. His vision is spotting, his hearing fading. Maggie finds him next, hands running along his body to try and find the source of his hurt. He doesn’t have the energy to fight back, even as sickness fills his throat at the sensation. 

When her skilled, calloused hands reach his stomach, the agony is overwhelming, white hot, like an iron. Distantly, he can hear voices crowded above him, anxiety, confusion and fear in their words.

Then his eyes close, and the sweet relief of slipping gives him solace.

Notes:

Hopefully this wasn’t too bad! Kudos and comments are appreciated, as well as feedback and constructive criticism.

Thank you for reading!!

Notes:

Hopefully you enjoyed this!! I love carl so much so ofc i’m projecting lol.

SUMMARY:

set in season 4 ep16. the claimer ‘Dan’ assaults Carl while the others are restrained. Daryl is beaten to the ground but comes to and slinks away while another claimer eyes Carl up. The fight ensues and Rick rips out Joe’s throat and Daryl and Michonne kill the remaining claimers. Dan, who was previously knocked out by Daryl, regains consciousness and grabs Carl as leverage to escape. He makes it behind the car Carl had been sleeping in before Carl shoots his balls off.

BASICALLY the canon except Carl actually gets assaulted and Carl gets to kill Dan.

If you have any questions or requests, feel free to ask! Ideas for the next chapter are also okay!

Kudos and comments appreciated!! Thank you for reading, xoxo.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Hamartia; to be Carl Grimes.