GENRE: Fanfiction - The Walking Dead
The following is a work of fiction taken from and centered around the television series rather than the comic book collection. It does not represent the narrative or intent of the creators, producers or authors of the show, nor does it reflect the actual sexual identity of the actors involved. The Walking Dead® is under trademark by Valhalla Entertainment.
Content Warning: This is a fictional story which includes (but is not limited to) GRAPHIC SEXUAL CONTENT BETWEEN MINORS, DESCRIPTIVE MALE NUDITY and HOMOSEXUAL RELATIONSHIPS. You should be at least 18 years of age to read this and/or if reading, downloading or possession of this material is illegal where you live, exit this page now.
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This story follows CARL GRIMES, a fourteen year-old boy in an alternate storyline from The Walking Dead. If you are familiar with the series, it picks up immediately after the battle for the prison in SEASON 4, EPISODE 8, GONE TOO FAR. The story can be read as a stand alone work without having prior knowledge of the show, the associated canon, or the character of Carl.
I didn't include it here, but you can, Click This Link for something of a PREFACE as to WHY I WRITE WHAT I WRITE AND HOW I WRITE IT. Someone once Tweeted me that "fanfic is crap." . My reply: "Thank you, I shall endeavor then to at least write good crap!"
If you have any thoughts or would like to reach out to me, please do so at: charliemuskrat@protonmail.com or you can follow me on My Twitter Account.
Charlie Muskrat
EXTERIOR: THE WOODS JUST OUTSIDE THE PRISON - DAY
Away. Run. Don't stop. Those were the only thoughts he would allow himself. Nothing else, just run away and don't stop. Though, with each fall of his footsteps there was considerable competition to break his concentration. The smell of smoke. That was the prison burning. The sounds of screams and the intermittent pop of gunfire. That meant people were fighting to stay alive and ultimately failing. The sight, the memory of his father, beaten and bleeding, barely able to walk. Rick Grimes yelling for him to run. Run and don't stop. Escape the prison, he would find him. Carl would not let anything distract him or slow him down. His father had taught him well, how to survive. To be strong, to be disciplined and to always act first and act fast.
The boy stayed off the paths they had, over time, worn into the woods. The Governor's men might be out here as well, waiting in ambush for any who tried to escape, though he really didn't think it likely. There were a lot of them, but not enough to surround the entire prison and still have enough bodies to fight. At least that's how it looked when it all started. But things went south quick. They killed Hershal, drove a tank through the gate and then all hell broke loose. But none of that mattered now. The mantra repeated again, over and over in his head. Away. Run. Don't stop.
Using both hands, he pushed his way through the underbrush with a none-to-graceful desperation. Several times he tripped or lost his footing and fell, face-first into the unforgiving red earth of the central Georgia woodlands. Each time he would pick himself up and continue on. He didn't care that he was making enough noise to rival a charging moose, stealth was not the goal. Distance and speed, those were the only things of any importance, and so he pressed on.
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EXT. THE WOODS, SEVERAL HOURS LATER - NIGHT
Carl, exhausted and emotionally drained, had curled up in a ball at the base of a large sycamore tree. He had run for hours and was now miles away from where he started his day, waking up in the cell he had called home for nearly a year. Twenty-four hours later his whole world had changed. At first he was unable to sleep the boy simply lay in the dark, hungry and alone. Finally, after more hours pass, he fell into a fitful sleep.
He dreamed of Hershal. The man who had saved his life after taking a friendly fire bullet to the gut. The same man who took his family in and offered them sanctuary on his farm. Hershal who would often read to him from the bible or teach him things his father could not. And then that terrible moment when the Governor cut off his...
Morning breaks which brings Carl out of his semi-sleep with a start. Sitting bolt upright he instinctually reaches for the silenced pistol in its holster. It's not there. The memories of the battle the day before come flooding back. He remembers he lost his pistol, that special friend just after the tank fired its first round into the raised walkway spanning between two of the cell blocks. The blast had knocked him off his feet and, in the process his gun, "Andy" went clattering. Already armed with a Winchester 30-30, he didn't have the time to retrieve the semi-automatic handgun. But, when the rifle was out of ammunition he had had to abandon that as well. Now the only weapon he had was his hunting knife with a seven inch blade.
Beginning to hyperventilate as he tries to fight off the horrors that have come screaming back into his brain, Carl jumps up and once again begins to run. After several hundred yards he rapidly tires and has to slow down. He body is demanding food, and more importantly, water. He slows to a jog, the trees begin to thin. Things begin to get a little brighter around him. He can see a clearing of sorts up ahead. The trees are giving way to what looks like a field of tall grass appearing to grow brown for lack of moisture.
Slowing even more, the boy comes to a stop behind one of the last remaining trees large enough for him to hide behind. Breathing hard he drops to his knees and grabs the trunk of the tree for support. He surveys the area ahead.
It looks like a farm. Or at least farm land. The boy thinks back to Hershal's place and then to the Governor slicing off his head with Machone's katana, the dull thud it must have made as it landed in the dirt. He shakes his head to clear the recurring vision that keeps haunting him. There are no structures in sight, no barns, no sheds or farm houses. Just a field of what was probably once hay that seems to stretch from miles. Suddenly something catches his eye. A glint of light off metal. Squinting, he can make out a slight shadow streaking across the field and the fast movement of light. It's a road, most likely a highway and either a car or truck is driving slowly along it's path.
Carl takes a deep breath and drops the rest of the way so that he is now sitting next to the tree. He has to take stock. He needs to have a plan. He can't get too far from the prison, otherwise there will be no way for his dad or any of the others to find him. Not even Daryl would be able to track him this far out. Maybe, if he could make his way out to that road he would be able to find signs that would take him back towards either the state prison or the town of Woodbury. However things turned out back there, at least he would know where he was and have a much better chance of finding someone from his side of the war.
Standing, he takes a look back into the trees and tries to puzzle out if he is making the right decision. What would his dad do? What would Michone think? When no answer comes to him he lets out a sigh and steps forward, out into the brilliant sunshine.
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Carl, stripped of his shirt in the morning heat, walks along the road constantly scanning for signs of walkers who might be hanging about or, the more dangerous threat, a car driving up from behind and catching him unaware. Every thirty seconds or so he looks back while keeping an ear out for any sounds that shouldn't be out here in the middle of nowhere. The morning passes without incident. Surprisingly he didn't even come across any emaciated walkers or signs of dead and rotting ones.
Around lunch time (so his stomach said) he spots a road sign up ahead and, printed out in bold red and black letters, it proclaims: Cavinaugh Concrete Plant Next Right. Stopping at the sign and ever the scavenger, Carl thinks this place might have any number of things he needs. Water, perhaps some food and maybe even a vehicle of some sort he can get running. Daryl taught him how to hotwire a car if you could find one where the gasoline hadn't turned and the battery still held enough of a charge. Reaching the turn off the boy discovers a gravel road leading down a winding course and then around the other side of a ridge of small hills. From this vantage point he can't see the plant.
He reaches back and pulls at the tail of his t-shirt which had been tucked into his right back pants pocket. Taking off his trademark hat, he snaps his head sharply left causing his long brown hair to clear his equally brown eyes. He then uses the shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. The way down to the concrete works appears as clear as the roadway so he decides to chance the detour. His luck had to change sometime.
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Coming around the hills, it took him nearly an hour to walk there, Carl finds that the cement "plant" is not at all what he had expected. Instead of a large building that makes somehow makes concrete, he discovers that the plant is actually a gravel pit with several long conveyor belts that feed into a modest-sized red brick building. The building has a dock, six platforms where, presumably the mixing trucks receive the various ingredients and then drive off to their destination. All hope not gone, he does see what looks to be a small office trailer just inside the fenced in area that butts up against the surrounding hills that form the water-filled pit of the quarry.
He looks for dangers, both the obvious and the possible.. There are no vehicles in sight, no cars and no cement mixing trucks. Someone must have come and taken them away. The fence is intact and the gate is closed, no walkers are moving about inside the compound and none are at the fences. If people were staying here, there would be walkers outside. Everything seems quiet and peaceful.
"Bum-fuck Egypt," Carl whispers to himself. Suddenly he bursts out laughing. He's trying to understand the epithet. Are you proclaiming to fuck the bum of Egypt or is it a place in Egypt where anal sex is widely practiced... so much so that they gave it a name. He wished his friend Patrick was still alive. They would have had a good time pondering its meaning in great and graphic detail.
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Carl puts his shirt back on, just in case, and manages to scale the high chain-link fence without getting stabbed by the pointy top-cuts or falling and breaking his neck. He makes a quick tour of the grounds and, without a gun, goes about the tricky process of clearing the office trailer. It's clear of walkers and even better, he has hit pay dirt. Not only did he find a candy and salty snack vending machine, but a soda machine as well. Both are full and, using the legs of a metal folding chair no longer in possession of their treasures. He sits in the middle of the room surrounded by candy and corn-nuts wrappers while working on his second warm but delicious Mountain Dew.
The office is tidy (save for the broken chair and several chunks of recently murdered vending machines) and looks as if the employees are only out for lunch, their work waiting for them to return. Apparently no one was interested in coming back here and after locking the outside gate for the last time..
After thirty minutes of eating and drinking and no longer able to stand the stifling heat inside the office, Carl struggles to find his feet, belching loudly for the effort. He then goes about the room opening windows to let in some air. He didn't get much sleep last night and now with a full stomach his body is making demands. The exhausted boy goes to a respectable looking couch in a small back office and lays down. He falls asleep almost immediately.
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EXT. THE GRAVEL PIT - LATER THAT AFTERNOON
Carl feels a sense of peace and safety as he walks towards the large, irregular shaped pit of the cement works. Fenced in and fairly certain no walkers are about, he begins to think about what he needs to do next. His stomach is full, perhaps a bit too full, but the sugar high has worn off and after his nap, he's no longer running on reserves and adrenaline. He figures he should give himself a night here before heading out to find the prison in the morning. Maybe he can find some tools to fashion into weapons. He's going to need something more than his hunting knife.
He arrives at the edge of the man-made pit, much larger than a pond, yet not quite able to fulfill the qualifications of a lake. The company must have been in business a long time for them to have dug this much into the Georgia bedrock. He looks at the water for a few moments and then reaches down dipping in his hands. It feels cool and refreshing. At least cooler than the ninety four degree afternoon sun that's still hours from setting. He is amazed at how clear the water is. He can see the bottom as it slowly drops off into the dark of depth. It must be deep he thinks to himself.
Looking to his left he sees three massive boulders, easily the size of a bulldozer huddling together where water meets land. They were probably too large to crush with the machinery when they were excavated. He walks over to the one closest to the water begins to climb. Once at the top he takes yet another look around.
Towering high above him, about thirty feet from the pit is the framework for the largest of the conveyor belts. Higher still is a small shack, the control station for the network of suspended conveyor belts. He makes a mental note. That shack would be the safest place to sleep tonight. From there he could see the entire compound and wouldn't have to worry about walkers if they did break through the chain link or come up over the hills.
Carl turns and looks out over the placid water. He smiles. It takes only a few moments of unbuckling his gun belt, the one holding not only his empty holster, but his knife and sheath, to become free of the burden. It falls with a clunk to the hard stone underfoot. He then walks backwards to the furthest most part of rectangular and flat boulder and readies himself. With a wide grin he counts himself down. "Three, Two... ONE!"
The boy sprints forward taking five long strides before launching himself as far out as possible before falling with a splash into the cool water below. He stays under as long as possible, feeling the warmer water soak through his clothes and then deeper, the cooler temperature where the sun had not penetrated. It felt... wonderful. He hadn't actually gone swimming since they had camped outside Atlanta and Sean had taught him how to catch a fish with his bare hands.
Carl begins to swim about, not straying too far from the boulders, yet far enough out to accomplish his second goal. To wash as much dirt and grime out of his clothes and hair as possible. All the thrashing about and diving underwater gave both boy and cloth a good rinsing. Suddenly he stops splashing; an idea is forming.
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Carl is out of the water and running full steam and dripping back up the towards the office building.
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INT. THE OFFICE BATHROOM - MOMENTS LATER
He rushes in, his sneakers still squishing out water, and grabs a bar of soap from atop the sink basin. He then drops to one knee and yanks open the cabinet underneath. Another gold strike. Bars of hand soap and several pump-bottles of Orange degreaser. He grabs two bars and one of the orange bottles with a white hand-pump.
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Having kicked off his shoes and at the water's edge, Carl begins to peel out of his shirt. Then, grabbing a bar of soap, he wades in waist deep and commences to scrub. Once finished he slings the shirt over his shoulders and goes about the none-too-graceful process of fighting his way out of his faded blue jeans. Soon he stands wearing only a pair of once white socks and the maroon boxer-briefs that, truth be told were a bit small on him. They looked and felt more like one of those European Spandex swimsuits gay guys and underwear models wore in the travel magazines. The advantage he reasoned; they made his "bulge" look more... substantial, an important consideration for any fourteen-year-old kid regardless of what kind of world he's growing up in.
Washing his pants was not nearly as quick or easy. Waterlogged they became heavy and cumbersome to deal with. But, after about ten minutes, he did manage to get them full of soap and then reasonably rinsed free. Next came the socks, all the more difficult due to the fact that he now had to keep track of his pants so they didn't float away. Finished and draped with laundry, Carl makes his way back ashore and takes his time laying everything out on the sunward side of the flat-topped boulder so they could begin to dry.
Turning, Carl pulls down at the waistband of his boxer-briefs thereby stripping himself completely naked. He looks down at his lean torso and legs as if seeing himself for the first time. In the prison where the light is only fair at best, he has not seen himself with this sort of... clarity. In the past he has bathed outdoors many times, mostly in streams or lakes, but for the past year it's been confined to the open bay prison showers. In the interest of modesty they had jury-rigged the bay with sheets and curtains which afforded some degree of privacy.
This outdoors view was much more revealing than that of the dark prison showers or even the poor lighting in his cell. In the past year, finally, thankfully puberty has shown him mercy. His greatest achievement - a dark brown-practically black thatch of curls, the all-important manifestation of pubic hair. Not a lot mind you, not the developed triangle he is striving for, just a sort of diminutive Hitler mustache above the base of his penis. But it's enough to be quite pleased about. Here in the bright afternoon sun it looks positively... manly. Pride turns to disappointment when, lifting his right arm, he inspects for the telltale wisps of underarm hair and finds nothing.
Walking back towards the water he steps in only a few feet and squats down as he begins to thoroughly soap up and then rinse out his underwear. Returning, that too finds a open space to dry in the hot sun. With his laundry done he once again find the waist deep water and with soap in hand washes his long brown hair which is soon followed by a leisurely bath.
Back on dry land, atop the flat of the largest of the three boulders, Carl lays himself out to dry. He could use some sun anyway, his tan lines are nothing more than his face and arms. Getting a good tan in the Walker-Apocalypse is a difficult thing considering such does not lend itself much in the way of beach fashion, let alone flip-flops, shorts, and, if you're going to wear a shirt, tank-tops.
Eyes closed and completely relaxed, Carl lets his mind wander as he soaks up the rays. After ten minutes or so the boy realizes that, like an arm and hand with a mind of it's own, he has been running his fingertips down the length of his body, smooth chest to left nipple, nipple down to the opposite side finding the flat abs of his equally smooth stomach, stomach around and down the outside of his tightly muscled leg and then back up again. Feeling himself up, he begins to enjoy the sensation of the slow autonomous reflex that has reached his reveals, his boyhood beginning to swell in both length and girth.
Carl's learning curve with the age-old and widely practiced self-expression of masturbation had, in a word, been thus far lackluster. Sure he and his friends at school, grade school to be clear, was theoretical at best. So, when he got old enough to actually put things to the test, it was widely an issue of trial and error. Without really being sure what method to employ or what the expected result should look and feel like, he had had to work things out on his own. Such as circumstances were, his father was certainly not the kind of dad who had open and frank discussions with his son about, well, most anything and certainly not sex. His mother had taken on that duty when his baby sister Judith was on her way. They both realized that Rick was, understandably, too preoccupied with keeping everyone alive. Mom gave him the whitewashed version of the birds and the bees and when it came to things boys did when alone... a very clinical description of not the act itself (or how it could best be accomplished) but rather subsequent issues of wet dreams and why that was happening to him.
At the prison he and Patrick had, on occasion, discussed the subject, but neither boy was willing to admit to the other that they actually engaged in the thoroughly disgusting and most probably perverted practice. The usual jokes about going blind or growing hair on the palm of your hand played their part, but by and large it was a non-topic.
Unable or unwilling to control himself any longer Car's left hand dropped down and found the wonderfully soft curls of man-hair between his legs. It felt as it always felt, intoxicating. How the sensation of his own body could make him so horny, so desperate for the incredible jet of orgasm was beyond his comprehension. And, at this particular moment in time, it didn't matter. Suddenly the boy's eyes pop open and he hiccuped a laugh. The thought of him jerking off butt-ass naked and atop a boulder in the middle of a rock quarry in broad daylight was... ridiculous. And, in an odd sort of way, dangerously exciting. He pictures himself grunting and straining as he willed himself into shooting off, his jizz splattering on his stomach, in his pubes, and those portions that missed, dropping on the reddish stone underneath him.
As if it were necessary Carl lifts his head and peers about in all directions to make sure he is still alone. Barely a whisper: "Yes!"
The decision made, Carl slowly lays his head back while at the same time opening his legs wide, bending them slightly at the knee so his feet can press flat against the rock. He's not exactly sure why he likes doing it in this spread eagle position, he just knows it's better than with his legs close. Using both hands, he starts to play with everything he has to offer. His right first finds his completely smooth scrotum, the heat of the day causing it to be loose and hanging. His testicles, dropped for almost two years now were bigger than the jellybeans of his pre-pubertal youth, but not yet the cat's eye marbles he's hoping for.
Fully erect to it's five inches in length, the boy's left hand grabs the shaft of his neatly circumcised penis, the head of which only slightly larger in size. His glans, usually a soft pink mushroom is now more a deep rose as he begins to alternately caress and squeeze up and down its entirety.
Carl's breathing becomes harder and irregular as he starts to stroke his dick which, when hard did not point up towards his stomach, but rather stuck straight out from between his legs at a 90 degree angle. Using only thumb and two fingers his short strokes are slow and regular; along the slight banana curve of his boyhood. While this goes on, his right hand is now cupping his balls up tight against his body. Every once in a white he will gently pull the droopy sack downward, extending it as far as it can go toward his feet, just to the point of pain. It feels so good, so fucking hot, so...
He opens his eyes and lifts his head to take a quick peek at himself, certain he will find what he is looking for. On the head of his joint, just at the slit is a thick dribble of viscous pre-cum, something that had only just recently started happening when he jacked himself or, when he got horny, would leak and make a small wet spot on his underwear. He had yet to dare himself to taste it, that was too gross, but he couldn't quite dismiss the thought from his mind every time he got himself wet with excitement.
Not wanting to miss the show, he actually found it very arousing to, at the point of achieving his orgasm, watch the semen explode from his dick and squirt onto his body. Carl begins to pump faster and squeeze harder while the manipulation of his balls with his right hand becomes a bit more aggressive. He's getting close. Soft grunts and sporadic groans break the afternoon silence when he pulls on his sack a little to hard, this happening in fits as he tightens the muscles in his abdomen, legs and buttocks. He knows that very soon he will begin lifting his hips up off the hard stone and bucking uncontrollably in a physical effort to expel his cum. He bites the inside of his lip in an effort not to cry out. This feels so good, so open... so public and exposed. This too feeds the monster of his arousal. So close now...
Suddenly, a deep male voice rudely breaks through young Carl's attempt at self-satisfaction, "What in the hellifed fuck do you think you're up to boy?"