Carl didn't hate the island. He actually kind of liked it. Life was quiet, without the constant threat of zombies. Old habits died hard, and he still checked every shadow, and he slept with one eye open. But he felt calmer, less on edge. He even had moments he forgot about that other life, the one before this place.
And then it all rushed back, and overwhelmed him, and he found himself pulling the curtains, turning off the lights, and rationing his food. Tonight wasn't his best night, but it wasn't a bad one either. He'd pulled himself together enough to go out.
Sometimes the promise of a drink was enough to over come his fears. He sauntered into the club, dark eyes darting side to side as if expecting something to jump out and try to take a bite out of him. When that didn't happen, he relaxed slightly and headed for the bar proper.
"Beer," he said to the bartender, and he slithered into a seat next to Connor. He offered a nod of greeting to the other man.