Carl continued to come over in the forest to communicate to me with his paper and crayons. It may not have been as quick and informative as talking was but it was the closest thing where we could talk.
I asked Carl questions, wondering how he felt during the attack. Carl said that he and his mom woke up one day and saw one of their neighbors acting strange. It wasn't until the neighbor bit on someone that something indeed was wrong. From then on, they packed their bags and left. They had no choice. His mom had insisted on Shane, the leader of the group, to turn around and look for his dad but Shane had predicted that his father was already possibly dead since he was in the hospital. That or it be too late for him.
Rick emerged from the graves though, dirty but alive. He brought back a couple of friends with him but now the group only had little weapons left to use for attacks. He had recalled also seeing a brother of group member here alon
I walked on...no sorry. I droned on, each step as a turtle step as I "attempted" to walk like a normal human being. I was doomed now. There was no need for help. How was I going to get any now?
I was "dead". There's no way people are going to help me if I appeared "dead" to them. How would I even tell them that I'm not dead?
Talking wouldn't help as much since it's just grumbles and growls of how hungry you are. Running/walking to them makes it worse since people are going to freak out over you running after them.
Writing? If only I had a pen and a paper, maybe, but how was I even going to communicate with that? I could hear all of the, what if it's stalling us already voices. Like a zombie really was smart enough to stall someone with the use of its writing. Could it be?
I shook my head. I was doing nothing but battling thoughts all day in my head. It was driving me crazy as much as the hunger growing in my stom