To the lovely little crowd that reads this underdog story of mine, sorry for the long wait. Originally, this chapter was going to be a bit longer. So chapter 5 is already started.

This chapter is dedicated to sinfulesoteric and a guest.

I do not own The Walking Dead

Patrick was unable to hear himself think over the sound of his rapid-fire heartbeats. His trembling hands lost their grip on the Parry blade, and it crashed to the ground. Though this caused some of the blood to smear, it was still coated from tip to the other end.

He knew that if he could remember how to count, he could calm himself down. He knew that if he could feel his legs, he could run. Far to where the monster on the ground could not follow. Not that it was able to follow in the state Patrick left it in.

His eyes found its bare feet. Where a toe tag would hang if the world hadn't ended. Patrick tried to visualize that. He tried to pretend the yard he was standing in was a morgue. Anything to get it through his head that this thing was dead.

A thought, not exactly comforting, crossed his clouded mind. Toe tags were an outdated practice. An ankleband was what he should've pictured. Like the wristbands used for hospital patients. No need to put the band where a pulse was more easily found. No chance of finding that pulse now.

"No…" That one soft word was all Patrick got out before he realized where he was. In his bed at the prison. His eyes had just opened, and moved to the doorway. He didn't know what he expected to end up in his line of impaired vision.

Carl was there. Which told him that either his cries were louder than he thought, or the younger boy couldn't sleep. There was a third option, though. Considering Patrick had not yet told a story that day. He didn't plan on recounting the one that had just haunted his dreams.

What a way to mark his first week at the prison that would've been.

He wanted to tell his stories in order. Somehow, Carl knew that. "We're not there yet, are we?" He asked, once he got the cue to come in.

Patrick shook his head. Then he put on his glasses while Carl thought of another question.

"Can I at least know what it was?" He was asking for a vague answer.

At that point, that was all Patrick could give. "The worst thing I've ever done." The words were weighed down by shame.

Even so, the other seemed skeptical. "The worst thing you've ever done, or the worst thing you ever had to do?"

"...I didn't know there was a difference." Patrick admitted. By then, both of them were sitting on the floor again. Flashlight on.

Carl said nothing, but the look in his eyes defied silence. There was definitely a difference.

"I guess… it was both." Patrick revised. He hadn't wanted to to do it, but he had no choice. "If I'm around, you'll hear about it." He hadn't figured out how many stories were in between his last one and the one he's just relived as a nightmare he could wake up from. He knew it would take time to get through them all. And, like Viri told him, there wasn't time left to waste.

"Where are you gonna go?" The question was almost a joke, and Carl asked a second before he realized the answer.

Even though Patrick didn't have a definitive answer. "It's okay." He knew why Carl had missed the meaning. It was the first time one of his stories about the past had acknowledged their future. And it was a future Carl didn't want to see. "It was always gonna be that way." Walkers or no walkers.

"I could go first." Carl countered.

He knew that wasn't an offer, but Patrick didn't even see it as a possibility. He wondered how Carl could. "No," He said simply. "you won't." It didn't bother him. It was almost like he prefered it that way. "You're younger." Carl's eyes shifted. He wondered why that made a difference for the older boy. Especially since it had made no difference for him. "You're stronger. You're a better fighter." Carl felt like fighting Patrick on this, but forgot about that when he finished his thought. He was smiling then. "Plus, you have the best job in the world."

"What's that?" Everyone worked because they had to, but the job in question was one Carl had wanted.

Patrick didn't tell him then, but he promised he would. "If you can't guess from a few of the stories in between, by the time I get to this one... you'll know for sure." Therein also lied the promise to fight.

A light chuckle alerted Carol to her new sous-chef's presence. He was hanging around the kitchen area, making sure everyone got their fill. Despite the fact that most fended for themselves when it came to breakfast.

"What?" So early in the day, when there was barely a dent in the work everyone had to do, she usually wouldn't make her curiosity known. Conversation did make the work a little less demanding, but the fact that they all knew to listen intently at each pause for the sounds of grumbling walkers approaching did nothing to take them away from what was now reality.

Carol supposed she only asked because in the week she'd known Patrick, she hadn't heard him laugh once.

Unless with family, it was tough for him to laugh about the way things were now. She knew that was typical for most of the group. The majority of people found it hard to laugh with what the world had come to. Finding humor in it all was relatively easy for Patrick, at times. It just seemed out of place, so he kept the laughs at bay. Especially around adults.

Patrick pointed in his polite way, at the pots and pans hanging overhead. "At every stage of my life," He began, moving his hand back and forth slowly. "one of these has been there." Maybe it was better to write that random fact off as coincidence, but he had a tendency to analyze every little thing whether he wanted to or not. He spoke this thought because it seemed harmless. The next one, not so much. But he'd gotten into the rhythm of talking and didn't want to stop even though he knew full well that he could. "It should've been a clue to what I'd end up doing."

He hadn't said when the world ended, but she figured that was what he meant. Even though his relaxed tone told her that he saw the job he held now as the one he'd be doing when he grew up. Since the world had forced him to grow up prematurely.

"But you've done this sort of thing before, right?" Viri had mentioned it to her, when helping him in his job search. Even though he hadn't asked for help.

He nodded. "Not for a salary." He said that in case Zach happened to be listening. Something to cross off the metaphorical list. "I just… like lending a hand anywhere I can." He really did enjoy the work, and maybe that fed into why he couldn't function properly without it. "As it stands now, this is better help than I could offer anywhere else." He said. He wasn't disappointed in himself for admitting, he just wished it wasn't true.

What he felt was a long-winded explanation to Carol was summed up simply in her next statement. "It's easy for you." Her tone was flat, but that didn't faze him.

"It's just something I'm used to." He confirmed.

"It can't be about that anymore." Patrick knew this was a warning. He didn't voice his agreement, but she could see it in his eyes. Better than she could see the Parry blade he now had tucked between his shirt and belt. That wasn't something he was used to. He knew it was only in his head, but the metal felt unbearably cold. That cold feeling was spreading straight through fabric like frostbite.

Carol's voice was now lower, but sharper. "You have to push yourself to do things you never thought you could. That's the only way you survive." The words of wisdom were harsh to his ears. Ears that were as sensitive as Patrick was emotionally. He knew they had to be, or else he wouldn't listen as well.

She knew he was fragile. She had yet to hear much of his experiences, but that fact was obvious to her before he was even close enough for her to see the whites of his eyes.

It was in the way he moved.

"I know you can," She went on, sensing that he needed to hear that just as much. "or else you wouldn't be here now."

Patrick saw that as debateable. "What if that had nothing to do with me?"

"You mean luck?" He counted himself lucky, but that wasn't what he was talking about. Just in case it was, she told him. "You can't always rely on luck. Eventually it runs out."

"I meant… people." He clarified. "Viri, the Bermans, all of you." His expression spoke for how thankful he was that they had helped him, but it also showcased the trouble he had in accepting that help.

"You can't always rely on us either." Carol dismissed. "We'll be here," that was something of a promise, but it also proved how determined the group was to survive. "but we can't look after you all the time." Especially at his age. "You understand?"

More than he could say.

Another story he had yet to tell stayed tucked under his still tongue. He gave a nod in reply, silently promising to keep Carol's advice in mind.

The adults were working on breaking a horse, or at least reining it in. Its makeshift stable was all ready. Before heading inside again, Patrick made a stop there. He hadn't meant to. His mind was in one place, but his feet were focused on another.

Since there wasn't a day he didn't think about his father, and just about everything was a reminder.

He didn't remember seeing the camera roll that day, but he'd had the home movie for proof.

"Hey, Patrick, where are we going today?"

"The farm." He replied in a whisper, with his eyes aimed at the hardwood.

His father let out a laugh. "Why're you tellin' the floor, too? Is the floor invited? Nobody told me that."

Patrick's whisper turned into a groan. "Dad." He liked being teased about as much as he liked being filmed.

"Is it me that's intimidating, or this hunky metal box that I'm carting around?" That question sparked the faintest of smiles, and convinced Patrick to look up. He didn't say so, but the answer was 'neither'. He wasn't comfortable the idea of strangers seeing these tapes. Not to mention he wasn't comfortable with the idea of fun. "It's your day off, I'm not gonna ask any tough questions."

"Okay." He didn't like the attention, but he felt his father did. And as young as he was, he didn't want to deprive him of that.

"What are you most excited to see at the farm today, Patrick?"

The answer took no hesitation. "Stablehands." The boy said, smiling brighter.

"Stablehands?" His father repeated, stammering a bit. "I didn't think that was a choice."

Brown eyes disappeared in a blink behind black frames. When they opened again, Patrick said: "People are animals, too, Dad. They're mammals. Like horses and stuff."

"Okay, I see your point,." The man spoke casually, but his eyes reflected the fact that his son never ceased to amaze. "but what's so exciting about stablehands?"

Patrick shrugged. "I've never met one."

"Ah. I guess that's the exciting part."

The camera had stopped rolling soon after. The memory of the rest of that day was gone, but inspiration had struck all the same. It wasn't much of one, but Patrick knew what story to tell next.

"He must've snuck past you." Zach told Patrick when asked about Carl's whereabouts. "He was just here, but he went to check the snares."

"By himself?" Patrick's concern outweighed the cross feeling that came with knowing someone younger than him had been tasked with checking the snares he made. Like he couldn't be trusted with the job.

"He can handle it." Zach assured, moving his glance to Judith, who was sitting in Beth's lap. "Your brother's a tough guy, right?" Contrary to what any of the others expected, the baby made no sound in answer. Instead, she just looked up at Zach. He took that as confirmation enough.

"I don't doubt it," Patrick replied. The scary part of the job Carl took on wasn't the threat beyond the fences, but the fact he was sent out there to face it alone. With a camp full of people, someone was bound to be free to help. The was a high likelihood that Carl hadn't asked for help. Sometimes he kept his plans all to himself. "but they're my snares. Four of them, anyway."

Beth sent Patrick a knowing look. This wasn't about the metal contraptions. It was about the fastest friend he'd made at the prison. She was about to tell him that he could go back out there. That Carl would understand having someone to look out for him didn't mean he wasn't capable of fending for himself.

Patrick didn't wait for permission. He turned and left without another word, keeping a steady pace but saving his energy for walkers looking to compromise the group's catch.

As he got closer to the world beyond the fence, he kept his eye on Carl. No doubt the walkers would see him as more of a meal than whatever poor creatures had been ensnared.

For feeding was all that they knew.

The area was clear apart from a few stragglers slowly advancing on what only a stranger would call a target. Carl knew what he was doing, but one thing was obvious. He couldn't watch his back and his front at the same time.

Back when he had his gun, this job would've been much easier. Now he really had to pace himself. After just a few kills, Patrick could see what the younger boy's strategy was. Whatever way he could, he brought them down to his level. Or lower. That way he could take them out without exerting too much energy. Sometimes it was just easier to push them over. Or get in close so he could reach up and aim right for the center of the forehead.

Carl wouldn't let them past a certain point, because the snares were still full. And some of the trapped animals were still kicking. Though he figured the walkers were only after him, anyway.

Patrick wonder what made humans extra appetizing to these things. He supposed that, since their minds had rotted before the rest of them, the reason didn't have to make sense. He shut off his thoughts. He never let them carry him away for very long anymore.

He brought his hand behind his back, so that the Parry blade was in his reach. Even as his fingers wrapped around the handle, the knife still didn't feel like his to take.

But he'd left himself with no other option on purpose.

Only a handful of walkers remained that Carl had yet to take down. He knew he had to act fast before they approached from all sides. He didn't want to drown himself in a sea of outstretched, rotting arms and chomping, decaying teeth.

He stabbed the one directly in front of him. Blood barely trickled down the downed walker's face before Carl heard that same familiar squish sound behind him. Another dead thing fell, doubling over as it came down.

Patrick was standing behind it, but his head had already turned to face another walker. Carl was stunned still for the smallest fraction of a second, watching Patrick manage another kill. It was so quick, he'd thought he'd missed. That was how Carl caught onto the fact that his friend was wielding a weapon he hadn't had much experience with.

Patrick stepped toward his friend, and now the creatures had circled around them both. It would feel like a trap, if it had been set by a smarter species. This was a trap the boys willingly walked into. This was their unplanned strategy. The two of them switched spots, then fell into formation. They stood back-to-back, as if they had tagged-teamed twenty times before.

Their eyes were locked on their targets. Their knives were at the ready, as they waited for the walkers to get in closer. Two were taken down at once. The twice-dead bodies landed in a heap near the others. Three were left. Without even exchanging a look, the boys went after one walker on either side of the one in the middle.

Patrick grabbed a withering wrist. He pulled it and twisted, easily dislodging it from its socket. The walker's teeth aimed down in the direction of the rough touch. With one quick swipe up, the monster was on the ground. Joining the others in their temporary graveyard.

Carl kicked at extra-bony ankles. When the walker fell, he drove the knife into its skull.

The last walker standing out of this little herd was huge on all accounts. Getting it out of the way would take a lot.

Patrick turned and ran, but he didn't have far to go. Carl inched backward, wanting to keep an eye on the thing he knew he couldn't handle alone. He trusted that Patrick wouldn't leave him to do that. He turned just slightly when he heard the snares being reset, and saw Patrick chucking each catch over the fence.

"It'll ruin 'em." Carl said as his eyes split their focus and his feet avoided the downed walkers.

"Only if it reaches this point." Patrick reasoned, hoping the walker would trip over the fallen members of its herd. Banking on that, Carl joined him back at the snares.

The walker's stagger turned into a stumble, but it didn't get any closer to the ground for more than a few seconds. There wasn't enough time for either of the boys to step in and stop it. So, they silently agreed that they would let it keep coming. They backed up even more, and let the snares do most of the work. The metal teeth snapped shut on one foot and sent the thing forward, face planting into the ground. It struggled to stand, tripping another trap.

With the creature pinned, it was an easy target. Patrick gave Carl the go ahead, but stayed close in line in case the walker figure out a way to turn its head and start snapping at ankles. When it did just that, Patrick aimed a fast foot at its head. The move was effective, but it wasn't direct enough.

This would take another stab. Carl didn't need backup for that, but it was reassuring to know he had someone else to turn to next time he was in need of help.

"I knew you had it. I just didn't wanna get rusty. Patrick told Carl on their walk back to the prison, catches in hand.

They helped each other close the gate, and then Carl asked: "You've done that before?" He wasn't sure why he phrased it like a question. After what he'd just seen, it was evident that Patrick had killed other walkers.

"Not like that." This was said after something of a huff.

"What do you mean?"

The older boy didn't mind explaining, because he always wanted people to know what he was talking about. He just didn't have much of an explanation to give. Yet. He held up the Parry blade, which he'd wiped (mostly) clean in the grass beyond the fence. "Not my weapon of choice."

Carl gave an understanding nod in reply. "So, what did you wanna tell me?" He couldn't imagine Patrick had gone out there simply because he sensed his friend needed his help.

The look Patrick gave him then was the expressional equivalent of a playful nudge. "That I can check my own damn snares." He was trying to show that he wasn't offended by the assumption that he was inexperienced at killing walkers. His image made that something to be expected, and his actions had to counter that. On very rare occasions, his words countered that image, too. Something as mild as 'damn' wouldn't be half as effective coming from someone else.

In this case, the only effect was a confused look from Carl. "Was that supposed to be a joke?"

"Supposed to be." Patrick repeated lamely. Oddly enough, that sparked the closest thing to a laugh he'd heard from Carl throughout his entire first week at the prison. "Seeing this place be shaped into a farm, reminded me of this one petty regret I have. If I'm even allowed that anymore." Patrick admitted.

Maybe there wasn't room for regret the way the world was now. If Carl thought so, that didn't show in his face. That stunned expression from before flickered in his eyes again. "What'd you do?"

"It's what I didn't do." Patrick countered, explaining: "My entire third grade class had the chance to milk a cow, and I'm the only one who passed it up."

With the stories Patrick had told before, this was easily the most trivial thing that he'd talked about. "Why does it still matter?"

He shrugged. "That's what I'm trying to figure out. Maybe it's because it wasn't the first time." He finished that sentence in his head.

Carl said the words out loud. "And there won't be a next time."

"That's it." Patrick realized. "The harmless things terrify me," He cocked his head in the direction of the fence before adding: "and that's just… instinct."

Killing walkers had become second nature, even for someone who forced himself to be so sheltered.

Carl could tell the older boy was wracking his brain trying to make sense of the way it was wired. He had judgement to pass, but not about his friend. "Cows aren't harmless. That's why farmers warn you not to stand behind 'em."

As a laugh left Patrick's lips, his cheeks puffed up and his head tilted back a bit. The younger boy was right about that. "Insignificant as it was to everyone else, I guess I saw it as another chance to rebel. Or not even that." Rebel was the wrong word. "I just… pushed life away. My dad tried everything to get me to stop that. It's what we fought about most of the time." He didn't notice, but saying that struck a nerve. His eyes narrowed. "What kind of kid only cares about survival?"

Patrick meant that as self-criticism, not a question. Carl answered anyway. "Kids here." That sort of behavior was expected in these circumstances.

The response made Patrick stop short. That was exactly what he tried to avoid when built that toy car and left it for Carl to find. "That can't be all we are."

Carl shook his head. He wasn't going back on his unspoken promise. "But I think all we are gets… pushed aside sometimes." They'd made the choice to survive, but this world didn't always let them live. The boys knew the difference. They knew they deserved to have both, for as long as they could.

"I guess we'll have to keep ourselves and each other in check." Patrick said, picking up the pace again.

It was easy to imagine Patrick as a caregiver, since he was helping keep everyone fed. What Carl couldn't picture was Patrick calling him out on things. He just seemed too polite for that.

Even so, the younger boy nodded in agreement. Silence fell for a few seconds, and both boys noticed it was a lot less awkward than the last time that happened. Then Carl asked something that had been weighing on his mind because it lifted a weight from his shoulders. "You fought with your dad?"

Frustration flared up in Patrick's eyes as he realized he misspoke. "We argued." He explained "It was never-"

Carl cut him off, sensing he was stressing himself out again. "I didn't think that." He said as they stepped inside. He was wondering why Patrick worried he thought 'fight' meant anything physical. Patrick wondered if the younger boy even believed the newcomer could even hold his own in a physical fight. Although-as Carl saw it-he'd just proven that he could.

"It's not unheard of, ya know." The older boy said. This was his way of offering reassurance.

Carl wasn't the only one who fought with his father.

With a swallowed sigh and another nod, Carl voiced a hope. "Will you tell me some of those stories?"

Patrick hadn't anticipated that turn their conversation took. Apparently, his previous statement wasn't reassurance enough. "Sure," He said softly, before thinking of a way to end their conversation on a lighter note. "but on one condition." The look Carl sent him then suggested he had to hear the condition before he agreed to anything. "You have to tell me more about your monumental third grade year."

"Monumental?" For an echo, it was empty of all that enthusiasm.

"Everything happened to you." That was the reasoning. The revision was: "Well, a good chunk of it. Practically the only thing I can remember from that age is… the cow."

After a playful scoff, Carl said: "Okay."

The bodies by the fence had been cleared away for burning. Half of Patrick's snares were saturated with walker blood, and the metal was mangled.

He added 'replacement snares' to his list of things to do, and looked up to find two more friends hovering over him in his cell.

Zach was there to wager more guesses as to what Patrick's pre-apocalypse occupations were. "Stablehand." He rattled off, proving that he'd been keeping an eye on him.

Patrick shook his head, and over the sound of Zach sighing, he elaborated: "That work was a chore, not a job." For Carl, that mean Patrick's past experience with farms didn't stop at visits where he passed on the opportunity to milk cows.

Beth smiled as she found herself a corner to sit and write in. Her makeshift bookmark found its way to the floor again. Carl picked it up and did something Patrick knew he personally wouldn't have the guts to.

He unfolded it. Beth glanced up, and the look in her eyes said she didn't mind.

After all, the page was Carl's to begin with...

Thanks for reading, PLEASE REVIEW! I feel like Carl had more dialogue in this chapter than he's had since season two, but maybe I'm just paranoid. Let me know of any stories you wanna hear or questions/theories/corrections you have for me. I'll update ASAP! =]