My Blood Bucket is half-way full. I sit on my bed, with the metal bucket in my lap as I bend over it, spitting out any extra red liquid that is already starting to gather in my mouth.

I stare at the blood that is so dark and tainted it looks almost black. For a second, I feel better—as if my stomach is starting to even out and my gradually fading headache seems like a distant war in a far away land.

KA-BOOM!

The blood in the bucket ripples violently and spills over the edge as my surroundings rumble and dust rains down on me from the ceiling. I let go of the bucket in surprise and the crimson substance spills all over the floor. Scattered yelps and screams echo

"Crap," I hiss under my breath. As the bucket clatters to the ground. I push off my bed and lace up my hiking boots.

I try to stand up straight and lean against the wall for balance. What happened now? Did the group make another enemy that just so happens to have explosives? I was only slightly sick for a few days but okay—sure.

—————

The prison yard is crawling with walkers and all the while fighting ensues. It's absolute chaos, reminding me of the night Hershel's farm was invaded by a herd of walkers. Speaking of Hershel, where is he? I can make out some people fleeing, though I can't spot my brother or where Liz and her sister went.

A deafening explosion goes off to my left as I run. Daryl runs away from a fiery tank.

Well, found Daryl. I think as I cover my ears way too late (how could I anticipate that?)

I have no gun. Even my bow is absent. What am I to do?! Where will everyone go now?

I grab a handgun from a nearby dead body of a person I don't recognize and decide only to shoot if I have too. There's too much walkers and guns firing everywhere. Distractions left and right—I hardly know where to look or shoot in time to save my own life in the sprint to getting the hell out of here.

I lose track of Daryl when I plunge a pocket knife into an undead one's skull. I look around frantically, spinning around for someone familiar. I instantly become stressed with myself for not making progress; lack of productivity is a large pet-peeve of mine. I give up on searching for a group member to tag along with and just focus on the first step to my main goal of survival: leaving.

I spot a possible open path in the sea of the dead to one of the fences that must've been torn down by the large heavily armed attack vehicles.

I make for the wooded area near the road that leads away from the prison. I holster my gun as I break into a full-on sprint. My arms swing forwards and backwards, my sweat leaving glistening wet salt trails down my forehead, my legs grow sore and stiff from the recent lack of exercise, plus my half-recovery from an illness certainly hinders my running so much so I debate wether or not I'm actually running.

I grab my knife and stab straggling walkers that get in my way. I don't even care if I'm running with a sharp object, because literally no one told me not to run with scissors except my kindergarten teacher. I just hope I don't fall, that'd be a stupid way to go.

The forest is just in reach. I'm almost there!

I'm running up the last meadow-like hill when my stomach curls into itself. I hold my abdomen as warm blood erupts from the edges of my grimacing mouth.

I wipe all of it on my sleeve. All of the blood blends together. All of it is the same. And that one phrase about family being blood and such comes to surface in my mind. You can't differentiate blood from another crimson drop...

I shut down my idle thoughts. What I should be doing is distancing myself from this mess. I can't wait for anyone. I'm out of the prominent risk and if anyone gets out too—even if I don't know if they did and even if I never see them ever again—the possibility of their survival is the only comfort needed.

NOTE UPDATE: omg read comics Carl and Lydia forever OMG

-

Zaremareth