A/N: Hello, all! My first TWD fanfiction. Hooray! Carl was always one of my favorite characters, and I thought it would be interesting if he had a little love interest. I really hope you like it!

Carl

They met on a Thursday. Or at least what Carl thought was a Thursday. Days didn't matter much now, so long as you lived to see another one.

He'd been on his three-hour sentry shift at the prison gates, pacing back and forth as the hot sun beat down from above. Walkers staggered about, roaming the tall grasses idly, but none seemed to be heading for him. Anyhow, he wasn't worried- his finger was at the ready on the trigger, and from behind the wire fences he glared at the walkers, as though daring them to come closer.

Movement in the forest caught his eye, and he stopped walking, peering through the wires. Daryl had told him to do this, as per the slim chance that other survivors happened to stumble into camp. Carl was pretty sure that this would never happen, but he always stopped to check anyway. His hopes were dashed once again when a trio of walkers lurched out, one of them dragging a bloody rifle. Carl dismissed them and resumed his pacing.

The minutes went by, and the trio stayed together, moving slowly, sedately, towards the prison. Carl stopped again. It was unusual to see a small number of zombies moving together to the same location- usually they were either alone or in hordes. He stepped closer to the fence, squinting to see the faces of the triplets. Two adults and one kid, he reasoned, judging by the heights. Then he saw the youngest- a girl- glance up fearfully at the adult next to her before quickly gazing back down again.

Now Carl understood. These weren't walkers- they were survivors. They had purposely covered themselves in blood and guts to roam among the undead, unnoticed.

With another quick look around to make sure no other walkers were heading that way, Carl darted into Cell Block C. His father was sitting with the others in what Carl had deemed the common room, where numerous pantries and closets lined the walls. A small circular table was placed in the center where they ate. That was where his father and the others were sitting, in a kind of dazed trance from the previous night's events.

"Dad-!"

Rick looked wearily at his son. He seemed to have aged 10 years in as many months. "What is it, Carl?"

"I-I don't know, I think some people are on their way-"

"What kind of people?"

"Survivors."

Rick nodded, threading his finger through the trigger of his gun in one fluid motion as he slung it up. "I'll go check 'em out. You stay here."

Carl frowned. "No, I wanna come." Rick raised an eyebrow. "I mean... I saw 'em, didn't I? I should be able to come."

Rick continued to stare at his son in silence.

"Well-" Carl turned to look at the speaker; it was, surprisingly, Glenn. "I mean- how bad can it be? So long as you don't catch the walkers' attention..." he shrugged, leaving the rest of the sentence hanging in the air.

Rick ran a hand through his hair, which was already on end. "Alright," he said finally, "But you stay close to me, hear?"

Carl nodded. On the way out he glanced gratefully at Glenn, who smiled back at him.

The sun was blinding once they came out; the air was still, sticky with the heat. "Here," Carl said as he led his father to the spot along the fence. "See those three, there? Survivors. All of 'em. They covered themselves in blood so they smell like walkers. Like what you and Glenn did last year."

Rick stooped down to Carl's height, resting his hands on his knees. "How do you know they're not walkers? Looks pretty convincin' to me."

"The shortest one. Just keep watchin' her."

Rick obeyed, keeping his eyes trained on the young brunette. Blood was smeared on her face, entrails draped over her thin shoulders. She lurched forward like those next to her, but her eyes were wide and scared, glancing around timidly at the dead surrounding her.

Rick nodded, standing once more. "Looks alive to me. Good job, Carl," he said, patting his son lightly on the shoulder before stalking off. Carl hung back for a second before catching up again.

Riley

The dead.

They were around her.

They were on her.

Riley did her best to stagger as well as John and Ella, to keep her face as blank and unmoving as the walkers. But she couldn't. Fear clouded her mind like a heavy fog at dusk. The anxiety felt like hard rock balls in her stomach, and she was afraid that she might vomit if she stopped long enough. A little voice in the back of her mind whispered: You aren't going to make it.

The prison loomed before her like some kind of ancient megalith. What she would give to be able to run straight across the field and barricade herself within its three fences! Mimicking the dead's slow, unsteady gait was costing them time and daylight. Not to mention, they were going uphill. At one point she thought she saw someone standing at the gate, but she blinked and whoever it was had gone.

Chalk one up to the heat for making her hallucinate as well as nauseated.

The next half hour was one of the longest of her life. Riley became acutely aware of her bodily functions in the silence. She was sweating, the perspiration mingling with the blood on her face; the back of her throat tickled with thirst. The little voice kept painting her vivid pictures of walkers jumping her and as a result, made her jumpy herself- something that was not desired for one mimicking walkers. She could feel her fingers twitching towards the revolver at her hip, but she resisted. Gunshots were only going to attract attention.

At the first fence, the world was already spinning. The sun was beating down on her with its harsh rays, causing the world to glimmer and dance before her. She heard the sound of a fence sliding open, someone whispering for them to hurry inside. Someone yanking her in. The hand that did so wasn't large and calloused, as she was used to. It was small. Soft.

Footsteps running. Another fence opening.

She didn't remember ever seeing the third fence.