Burn: The Walking Dead Clementine x Male Reader

Chapter 8: It's Really Him

In a desperate sprint, a young boy, his appearance marred by streaks of soot across his clothes and skin, glanced back in terror at the consuming inferno within his home. His voice, barely a whisper, conveyed disbelief and despair, "M-Mom... Dad..."

Around him, the world he knew disintegrated under the relentless assault of the flames. Picture frames that once lined the walls, the remnants of family memories, doors, and dishes succumbed to the scorching heat, warping and melting into unrecognizable forms. The tangible evidence of his parents' lives, their struggles, and achievements were mercilessly devoured by the blaze.

In a tragic irony, the young boy, who once believed in the possibility of a return to normalcy, found his hope being incinerated by the very world he trusted. As he dashed forward, a fallen wooden beam ensnared his foot, sending him sprawling across the floor, the heat intensifying around him, mimicking the ferocity of hell itself.

Struggling to rise, the boy's gaze shot upwards as the ceiling, weakened by the flames above, collapsed, obliterating any hope of escape through the front door. Panic-stricken, he turned towards the long hallway he had come from, only to see silhouettes of "monsters" materializing through the fiery haze, their approach as inevitable as the spreading fire.

Fear, raw and consuming, took hold, but he still managed to free himself from the beam as he retreated, his eyes welling with tears and his young mind grappling with a terrifying realization: he might share his parents' fate. Overwhelmed by despair, his cries for help dissolved into incoherent murmurs, drowned out by the roar of the fire.

Cornered, with the flames drawing nearer and the monstrous figures advancing, he slumped into a corner yet untouched by the fire. Drawing his knees to his chest and burying his head in his arms, the boy succumbed to his tears, whispering pleas for salvation, enveloped by the crackling symphony of the fire that seemed to sing a mournful dirge for the dying remnants of his childhood.

.

.

.

Earlier that day, Sienna was fretting. "Clifford, we've been through this. No wandering off. It's too easy to get lost!" She walked over to her husband, who was busy unpacking his duffel bag.

Clifford, kneeling, sorted through the contents of his bag. "I know, but we've picked this place clean. We need to find new grounds," he said, laying out canned food, medicine, bottled water, and some items that raised eyebrows.

Pointing to the spread, Clifford added, "See? I need to check that spot again this weekend."

Sienna shook her head. "What about the other scavengers we ran into? They were not friendly."

Clifford lifted his jacket with a half-smile to reveal a semi-automatic pistol tucked in his waistband. "I got this little guy too, Sienna. We'll make it through," he reassured, taking her hands in his, a promise in his eyes.

Suddenly, the room echoed with a cheerful shout, "HIYA! Super Hero to the rescue!"

A blur of movement followed as their son charged into the room, his voice high and excited. The nine-year-old was a sight in his Spider-Man shirt, flashing sneakers, and a tattered mask of his favorite hero, pretending to punch Clifford's leg with the intensity of a mini-crusader.

Clifford laughed, glancing at Sienna. "Well, he's got your energy like a mini tornado." Sienna rolled her eyes while their undeterred son ramped up his playful assault.

"My super security secret alarm systems are going off... You're a monster! Begone, monster!" the boy declared with mock seriousness. Unable to resist, Clifford scooped and tickled him until the boy's infectious laughter filled the room.