Author's Note –

This is not my first attempt at a multi-chapter story, but I intend to make it my first successful attempt at a multi-chapter story. Now, the continuity for this story will follow the series up until the finale of Season 7, and then follow the comics up until the end of the latest arc, "The Whisperer War". I'll be creating some new story lines and altering things, but other than that, I'll stay mostly faithful to the source material. Any ways, I hope you enjoy, and please review! I love reading reviews.

It was the rain drops that got the Old Man to open his eye. But that's not what got him to wake up. He'd up for hours, already, listening to the moans and snarls all around him. He had taken refuge in an abandoned auto repair shop, sleeping in the bed of a truck that had been lifted about seven feet into the air. The shop must not have been as secure as he originally thought, because he heard the walkers after what felt like only two or three hours of sleep. The first time he got any sleep he got in a long time.

He had opened his eye to see a rotted-out hole in the roof above him, which was letting the rain in. Getting up, he moved his long hair out of his face and peered down to the source of the disgusting noises. He only counted three walkers he could see, so he needn't use his gun. That would only be a waste of bullets. He pulled out his hunting knife and put down the walkers with ease. He banged on the side of the truck to see if there were any more he couldn't see or hear. After a minute, he decided the coast was clear and climbed down. He scavenged the bodies to see if there was anything worth taking.

He found a few useful things. A little switch blade that could come in handy, a few .50 Cals he didn't know or care how a civilian came by them, a granola bar that he decided to call breakfast. What excited him most, however was the new lighter and half-full pack of cigarettes he found. It was a habit he had picked up a while ago, soon after his father passed. His siblings didn't approve, but he figured that with everything trying to kill him out here, lung cancer was the least of his worries.

After he got what was needed from the dead, he gathered his things and took off, leaving his temporary bed behind him. He opened the door he had come in through, looking at the rain as it started to pick up. It wasn't exactly a heavy rain, but it was somewhere between a typical shower and a complete downpour. The Old Man looked down at his worn-out jeans and grey t-shirt that was draped by an open blue flannel shirt. He realized that he might not have the proper protection from this rain, but he didn't mind. He's dealt with worse than rain. With a stroke of his beard, his bag slung around his shoulder, and his Colt Python in its holster, the Old Man headed for an unknown destination. He had no exact place to be, nowhere urgent he had to go. He just wandered, like he always did nowadays. He had no home, no group, no actual family. At least not really, anyways…

And so, he walked. Just walked. He walked on the road when the woods were too dense. He walked through the woods when the road ended. He took out a walker or two when they crossed his path. He stopped every now and again to rest his feet or take a piss. And then he walked again. He just walked until it got too dark to walk safely. Then he found a place to sleep or, more commonly, to wait out the night. And he did it alone. That was every day for the Old Man. And that's how he liked it. No one to mess with him. No one to get in his way. No one to get too attached to.

The Old Man had been alone for what was probably ten years now. Maybe more. Maybe less. The Old Man stopped keeping track of the years' a while ago. His sister was much better at keeping track of time than he was. She always knew what year it was and what month it was, picking it up where their stepmother left off. The Old Man didn't care about years, though. He never did. He only cared about the days. That's how he kept track of time. He didn't care about having food enough for a month, or how many weeks before the medicine ran out, or how old he was. He only cared about living day to day, now. That's all. It was his choice.

After everyone he lost, it didn't make sense to the Old Man to grow too attached to anyone. No one lived forever, especially in this world. People were lucky to live long enough to see everyone else around them die before them. And that was something the Old Man didn't want to live through, again. It was easier to just be alone. So he was. That's why he was surprised when he heard someone else's voice behind him.

"Hands up, buddy," the voice said, "Slowly." The Old Man put his hands up, not wanting any trouble. He was surprised that whoever this was got the drop on him. He must be getting sloppy.

"What do you want, son?" The Old Man asked.

"I want you to turn around. Also slowly." The Old Man turned around to face his new friend. A young man, probably in his early to mid-twenties. He was wearing jeans and a black sweatshirt with the hood up, so the Old Man couldn't get a clear look at his face. He had a machete with a blue handle in its sheath attached to his hip. He had an AR-15 aimed at the Old Man, to ensure he wasn't going to attempt anything rash. The Old Man noticed a large amount of dried mud caked around his roughed-up boots. The Old Man assumed this meant he's been out in the wild for some time, maybe not intentionally. He had a duffle bag around his shoulder, indicating he was a supply runner for one of the many communities that've sprung up since he and his family arrived in Virginia.

"Alright. I turned around. Now what do you want?" The Old Man asked again.

"I just want whatever food you have. And your gun. And your knife. And whatever ammo and medicine you have. Now!" The runner demanded, while pulling the rifle's charging handle. The Old Man had no choice. He gave the young man his bag, his pistol, and his hunting knife. Once the he was without all his visible supplies, the young man picked it all up and prepared to leave.

"I'm sorry for this, buddy, it's not personal, just survival," The young man tried to explain, "You understand, don't you?"

"Oh, I understand. Don't you worry about that, son," The Old Man said. The young man turned to leave, and suddenly the Old Man had a switchblade up against his throat.

"And you understand that I can't just let you take my sh*t, right son?" The Old Man's other hand held the young man's rifle arm at bay, while the cold steel of the blade pressed against his neck. The Old Man couldn't tell if the young man was sweating or if it was just the rain dripping from his chin.

"W-what do you want, buddy?" The young man asked, stuttering and slightly shaking.

"Well, first, I want my sh*t. And once I have it all back, I want your sh*t. Got it?"

"G-got it." The young man gave the Old Man all his supplies and weapons, as well as his own bag and his AR-15. The Old Man was smart enough to pat down the young man to make sure they weren't going to do this all again. Once he was sure he was defenseless, The Old Man aimed the AR-15 at the young man.

"Alright, son. One more thing," The Old Man started to say, "I want you to take me to where ever it is you come from."

"Are you crazy? They see you coming in with a gun pointed at my back, they'll shoot you down on the spot!" The young man exclaimed.

"I'll take my chances. Now get moving,"

"Alright, alright, I'm going. But don't say I didn't warn you, buddy,"

"Then I won't,"

They began walking east. The Old Man had a slight idea where they were going, but he wasn't certain. After a few minutes, the young man turned around abruptly, and tried to grab the rifle. The Old Man shut that sh*t down, quickly. He tore the barrel from the young man's hands and introduced the butt of the gun to his nose. The young man fell to the ground quickly. His hood fell off when the gun hit his nose, revealing his caramel colored skin and black hair. As the young man tried to stop the blood from gushing out of his broken nose, The Old Man regained his composure, aimed the gun at the young man, and pulled the charging handle on the rifle, loading a bullet into the chamber.

"You try anything like that again, son, and I'll blow your godd*mn head off. Understand?" The Old Man threatened. The young man looked up at the Old Man, blood all over his hands and face.

"Yeah… I got it," The young man complied. He got up and started walking again. The Old Man followed, more vigilant and ready to fire this time.

"Hey, what's your name, by the way?" The young man inquired.

"What does it matter?" The Old Man demanded.

"I think I have a right to know the name of the guy who threatened to kill me twice now," The young man explained, "So, what is it?" The Old Man chuckled a bit before answering.

"Carl. My name's Carl"