Carl rubs his face. He knows he gone a little far in killing that . . . thing, even for him, but in honestly? He panicked. That, and he doesn't have his guns with him to go for the usual neat headshots Carl is better at.

"Sorry," he apologizes in an embarrassed tone. "I didn't bring a gun with me." Maybe he should go find one. Cops have to been here, right? He found the tire iron because some poor man was unloading his car when he was killed, and the contents of his car (and his stomach) spilled out onto the pavement.

Carl looks at the man's wound. "You gotta get out of here. Or hide." No way he's gonna survive out here with that wound. He's lucky he's not bleeding out and dying right now.