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A Horse is a Horse—of Course?
A Walking Dead / Mister Ed Crossover
By JBean210
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Published 4/15/2015
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Daryl Dixon brought his motorcycle to a halt at a crossroads about 30 miles out from the Safe Zone, deciding to take a break and smoke a cigarette. Well, maybe half a cigarette, he only had a few left and he wanted to savor them.
He'd gone out alone this time. Not because Aaron wasn't capable when he was on the outside, but sometimes Daryl just felt like he wanted to do some things on his own. When someone like Aaron was around, he felt like he had to play things extra cautious. Especially since that time when were caught in a booby trap of walkers and almost ended up on their menu—until Morgan came along and pulled their asses out of that sling.
He took a slow drag on the cigarette, savoring the feel of the smoke in his lungs. Not the greatest habit in the world, but it wasn't like he was a three-pack-a-day smoker. At least not anymore. Now every smoke was a treasure.
He'd come down State Road 611, a road that ran through several communities, most of which had probably been picked clean by now. Further out, though, the houses thinned out into a more rural setting, with homes more like farm houses and such. There might be some stuff left in houses like that. You never knew.
Down the road from the intersection he was sitting in the middle of, Daryl could just make out a mail box, nearly overgrown by weeds and grass. Putting out his cigarette, he drove the back down to have a look. Nestled back among a row of trees that nearly hid it was a farm house, and behind that he could just make out a barn. Daryl took a look up and down the road. No sign of anything moving, living or dead. And with the noise his bike made, either one would be heading this way. He looked around the drive. It might be a bit tight if he had to drive through walkers to get out of here in a hurry. But there might be another way out.
Yeah, right.
Well, he'd take the chance. Daryl rode up the drive to the house, a large two-story with a big porch and lots of windows in it. If anyone was in there watching him they'd sure to have seen him by now. But he bypassed the house for now, heading to the barn. There might be food in the house, maybe other stuff they could use, but Rick said to always be on the lookout for anything else they could use back at the Zone. If there was anything he could carry back, he would. But most likely if the barn had something useful in it he probably couldn't get it on his bike.
The barn door was locked. Weirdly, it was locked from the inside. Through the space between the doors Daryl could see that a two-by-four was holding them closed. Did that mean there was someone inside? Daryl looked around, finding a thin metal bar he could use to slip through the doors and push the two-by-four out of the slots holding it in place.
The doors opened out. Well, that was handy if there were walkers trying to get in. Holding his knife, Daryl walked carefully inside, watching for any movements from the shadows.
The place didn't look half bad, considering how long it had been, but there wasn't much of use in the place. There were no farm implements, no tools, nothing of any use except a desk, a chair, a filing cabinet and a phone—and what Daryl guessed was an artist's drawing board. Nothing they could use in the Safe Zone. There was a door in the back corner. Probably a back door to the barn. Didn't see something like that very often, but there was no reason why you couldn't have a back door on a barn.
He heard a soft squeak. Daryl's sharp ears located the source—it was a rat nibbling on something in a corner of the barn. He gave it a calculating look—even if he didn't find any food in the house, he'd have something to eat. He slowly pulled out his knife, then threw it at the rat, skewering it as the knife pinned it to the wall. Not much, but it would do for a snack. He'd tend to that in a minute. There was something else he wanted to check out first.
Next to the desk was a large Dutch door—the top and the bottom could be opened separately. Probably had been a stall for a horse, Daryl thought, going over to it. He tried to open it but the both the top and the bottom were locked—from the inside again. Daryl shrugged and shook his head, deciding not to worry about it for now. Instead, he'd take a moment, smoke the other half of his butt, and check out the house. He went over and pulled his knife out of the wall, then hung the rat on his belt from a clip he kept there. First a smoke, then he'd dress the rat and whip up a campfire if there was nothing in the house to eat.
He sat down in the chair, wincing a bit as it creaked noisily, then fished out his pack and lit up. He leaned back a bit and blew a cloud of smoke into the air, the chair making squeaking noises and he swiveled it back and forth a bit. Nothing to do for a minute or two except sit back and enjoy his solitude.
Seeing the horse stall made him think of Buttons, the horse he and Aaron had tried to catch not long ago. The damned thing kept running away from them, until finally it got cornered by walkers and taken down. He and Aaron killed the walkers that killed it, but he sure wished that hadn't happened.
He took a deep drag, blew out the smoke. "I guess I always wanted a pony when I was a kid," he said to himself. "But hell, it's been a long time since I was a kid."
"It's been a long time since I was a pony," a voice said.
Daryl spun around, startled. "What the f—?" The top part of the Dutch door had swung open and there was horse standing there, a palomino with a mane of tousled white hair. He jumped up, went over to the door and looked inside past the horse. "Is somebody there?" he called out.
Nobody answered. Cautiously Daryl looked at the horse. "Did you hear somebody say something?" he asked as he leaned in, trying to look around the horse.
"Did you?" the voice said again, right behind him. Daryl spun around, but no one was there. He took a few steps toward the barn doors, but nobody could have run out that fast.
"What the hell?" Daryl muttered, trying to make sense of what was going on. He looked back at the horse. "I know it wasn't you, at least," he said, then started for the barn doors again.
"You'd be surprised what you don't know," the voice said behind him. Daryl froze. Okay, this was getting damned weird.
"Whoever you are," he called out, hefting his knife. "Come on out. I'm getting pretty tired of this game." There was no answer.
"That's a pretty nice horse," Daryl said, speaking loud enough that anyone in the barn could hear him. "He'll sure make a hell of a barbeque." He looked around the room, waiting for an answer.
"You don't want to eat the horse," the voice said. "He's too tough and stringy." The voice was coming from the horse stall!
Daryl strode over to the stall door, unlocked it, and walked inside with the horse. He could see the entire stall now. It was pretty spacious, more like a room than a stall, and was pretty clean considering that, well, a horse was in there.
"Okay, I give up," Daryl said, throwing up his hands in frustration. "Where are you?!"
"Right in front of you, dumbass," the horse said.
Daryl blinked. The horse had talked. The horse had talked! Holy shit!
"What—what're you—you—" he stuttered, trying to make sense of what he'd heard. "Are y-you really talking to me?"
"No," the horse retorted. "I'm talking to the dead rat on your belt."
"Are you really talking?" Daryl demanded.
"Maybe not," the horse shook his head. "Maybe you're a ventriloquist with amnesia." The horse took a step forward, looking closely at Daryl. "Ohhhh," he moaned. "You killed Wilbur!"
"What?" Daryl looked around. Who had he killed? "I ain't shot nobody."
"That rat on your belt." The horse pointed his nose at it. "He and I were just getting to be friends."
"Sorry," Daryl said, then winced at himself. Why was he apologizing to a damn horse? Even if it could talk! "Listen, I'm Daryl. Daryl Dixon. What's your name?"
The horse raised his head and looked down his nose at Daryl. "I'm Ed."
"What kind of name is Ed for a horse?" Daryl snorted.
"What kind of name is Daryl for a human?" the horse shot back.
Darryl couldn't think of a comeback for that. He looked around the stall. "How'd you survive this long, cooped up in this barn?"
"Oh, I get out every once in a while," Ed said. He walked over to where one of the two-by-fours that had barred the door had fallen to the ground and picked it up with his teeth. Nudging the bottom part of the Dutch door closed, he dropped the piece of lumber into metal braces on the door and walls. "Wilbur set this up for me after the manure hit the floor."
Daryl looked confused. "The rat built that?"
Ed snorted disdainfully. "Don't be a doofus. Wilbur was my owner. He worked in here as an architect for some government agency. He never told me what he did for them, exactly. But he said he wanted to make sure I could barricade myself inside here if he was gone and the deadites—that's what he called 'em—tried to get in."
"What happened to him?" Daryl asked.
"Don't know." Ed tossed his head from side to side—maybe the horse equivalent of a shrug? "One day he was cleaning out my stall, the next—well, I never saw him again. Or his wife."
"Huh," Daryl muttered. "That's rough, man." The horse turned and looked at him.
"You don't have to be insulting," he said.
"What?"
"Calling me a man. It's not very polite."
"Hey, I don't mean nothing," Daryl shrugged. "It's just an expression, you know?:
"Yeah," Ed said. "Straight from the horse's mouth," he added , sarcastically.
"Yeah, like that," Daryl agreed, then realized what Ed meant, and shut his mouth.
"So where do you live?" Ed asked him. "I don't remember seeing you before this crap with the deadites happened, whatever it is. Do you know what happened?"
Daryl was silent a moment. "There's a place called the Safe Zone," he finally said, avoiding the last question. "It's about 25 or 30 miles northeast of here, up 611."
"Hmm," Ed grunted, his tail flicking nervously. "Safe Zone, huh? Got room for a horse there?"
"Maybe," Daryl shrugged. "Actually, I came across a horse not long ago. A black stallion. Some kid in the Safe Zone named it Buttons."
"Oh," Ed's nose went up and down. "I knew that horse."
"You're shittin' me," Daryl said, surprised. "You knew Buttons?"
"Yeah," Ed muttered, with a toss of his head. "He lived a few miles north of here. Thought he was a king stud pretty boy—all the mares wanted to go riding with him, the big phony."
Daryl just stared. "Were you jealous of Buttons?"
"Of course not," Ed retorted flatly. Daryl managed a grin—that sounded like a fib to him.
"Out of idle curiosity," Ed went on. "What happened to him?"
"He was killed by walkers," Daryl answered. Really it had been Aaron who'd shot the horse –after they killed the walkers who'd attacked it there was nothing they could do to save it. At least animals didn't turn after they were dead.
"Too bad," Ed said, shaking his head slowly. "We might've had some good times together if he was back where you live. Um," the horse's voice became almost timid. "So…are there any lady horses back at the place?"
"Nope," Daryl shook his head. "It'd be just you. Got a lot of kids, though."
"Oh, great," Ed snorted. "I don't know about that, Daryl. I'm not into giving pony rides to kids."
"Everybody's supposed to have a job in the Safe Zone," Daryl said.
Ed looked at him. "News flash, genius—I'm a horse. Horses don't have jobs."
"Horses don't talk, either," Daryl pointed out. "But if you can do one, you can do the other."
"You're the first person I've talked to since Wilbur," Ed said.
"So why'd you talk to me?"
"Same reason I talked to Wilbur, I suppose—I like you," Ed tossed his head again. Another shrug. "And I'm running out of grass to eat around here. I've got to go further and further out to find hay to eat, and dodging those deadites isn't easy. A couple times I've had to lead 'em away from here, then double back so I could get inside and bar the doors. I'm getting' kind of tired of that."
"You got any problem with me ridin' you, or some other adult?" Daryl wanted to know. He didn't want to leave the horse here, but he didn't want to bring back an animal that might refuse to pull its weight around the Free Zone.
And the talking thing could be a problem, too.
"Before the walkers, who else did you talk to besides Wilber?" Daryl asked.
"Nobody," Ed said. "It was just simpler to keep my mouth shut."
"Yeah, I can see that," Daryl agreed. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, I guess you can come back with me—if you're okay with going out on some supply runs every once in a while. You might be handy for getting through some terrain it would be too hard for cars or bikes to do."
"As long as you don't make me break a leg," Ed warned. "I want to be old and gray before someone puts me out of my misery."
"Well, let's get going, then." Daryl turned and started for the door.
"Hold on a minute," the horse called out.
Daryl stopped and looked back at Ed. "What?"
"Before we go you ought to check my shoes," Ed said, lifting a hoof off the floor.
Daryl went over and checked out the shoe on his lifted leg. "They look a little worn," he said, as he checked the other shoes in turn. "Shit! I don't know if we got any blacksmithing equipment back in Alexandria."
"Wilbur's got some horseshoeing equipment in a shed behind the barn," Ed said. "He was going to learn how to shoe me before the deadites came."
"Come on, then," Daryl said, walking to the door. "Let's go see if I can still shoe a horse."
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The shoeing setup behind the barn wasn't bad, Daryl found, except that Wilbur, whoever he was, had bought a lot more stuff than he really needed. The door to the shed was locked, but opened out, and Daryl only needed a few seconds to pull the hinge pins out and take the door down. Inside the shed was a bunch of tools: a couple of different clipping tools, a knife with a curled end, and some other stuff he didn't even bother to guess at. There was an anvil, of course, and a hoof stand, things Daryl knew about but never got to use because they were too expensive to buy. He'd had to make do with a piece of railroad track for an anvil and a length of pipe with a couple of bars welded to it for a hoof stand. He dragged the anvil out of the shed. It and a forge would be the only big pieces he'd need to re-shoe Ed.
The forge was electric and useless. Fortunately, there was an old grill in the shed, along with some bags of charcoal, so Daryl hauled it out and set it next to the anvil. He found some charcoal lighter fluid and poured some on the charcoal, then used one of his matches to light the fire.
Daryl watched the charcoal burn. "Wish I had some steaks," he muttered wistfully. "Or even some hot dogs." He turned and smiled crookedly at Ed.
"Don't get any bright ideas, Rambo," Ed said. "How long has it been since you shoed a horse?"
"It's been a while," Daryl admitted, going back into the shed to look for the last item he needed: horseshoes. He came back out carrying a set and hung them on a nail on the anvil's stand. "Back when I was a kid we had some cousins living nearby who had a couple of horses. I'd go over and watch as they shoed them. Finally my uncle put me to work helping him. I shoed both them horses a couple of times. I think I remember how it's done, still."
"I hope so," Ed said. "Just remember: I've been shoed more times than you have."
Daryl got to work. Shoeing a horse wasn't that difficult, if you knew what to do. Take off the old shoe, if there was one. Trim the hoof some to make the bottom as even as possible. Fit the horse shoe to the hoof as closely as possible, which might take some heating, hammering and quenching, then nail it in place. Repeat three more times.
Fortunately, Ed's hooves were all mostly the same size, and the horseshoes had already been hammered to match them. The first three shoes went on in quick order, until he got to Ed's left hind hoof, which was a little wider than the others. "I gotta widen this one a bit," Daryl said, putting the shoe on the charcoal to heat it up.
"You know," Ed said. "I forgot how boring it was to put on a new set of shoes."
"Tell me about it," Daryl muttered, wiping sweat off his brow. "Glad this is the last one."
"You got any oats in that Safe Zone of yours?" Ed asked. "I miss oats."
"I think they got Cheerios," Daryl said.
"Kids' cereal is not what I had in mind for my first mouthful of oats in two years," Ed groused.
"If we got time we can check a few barns on the way back," Daryl suggested.
"Never mind," Ed told him. "I've been to every barn in a ten-mile radius. They were all picked clean. I guess even people will eat horse food if they get hungry enough."
"We'll eat worse than that, if we gotta." Daryl pointed to the rat hanging from his belt.
The shoe was ready for hammering. Daryl got a tongs and hammer, positioned the shoe and hit it several times, widening it at the end to match the curve of Ed's hoof. He took Ed's hoof and checked the fit—it was perfect. "Hey!" Ed snorted. "You know that shoe's still hot, don't you?!"
"Yeah," Daryl said, going over to a bucket of water. "I wanted to make sure it would fit before I quenched it," he added, the water bubbling and steaming as the shoe cooled. "Come on, let's get this last one on and go." He went over and Ed lifted his leg so the last shoe could go on.
"I hope we got enough daylight," Daryl muttered as he began nailing the shoe in place. "Thirty miles is a long way to go in only a half-day. We might have to stay here tonight and take off in the morning."
"I guess another day won't make much difference," Ed sighed. "But it'll give me a chance to say goodbye to the place. I lived here a long time."
Daryl hammered the last nail in place. "Anything you want to take with you?" he asked. "If it's not too big, that is—"
He stopped as he felt Ed tense. Daryl looked around; Ed's head was raised, his ears were flicking around. "We've got company," the horse said, keeping his voice low.
"Walkers?" Daryl asked, dropping Ed's leg to the ground. He wasn't done with the shoe yet but that would have to wait until afterwards.
If there was an afterwards, that is.
"Think so," Ed said. "Sounds like a lot. Coming down the front drive."
He looked back at Daryl, who was quietly cussing himself for leaving his crossbow in the barn. "We better go now."
"Hang on," Daryl said. He found a couple of pieces of rebar in the shed, each about six feet long. Not much, but it would have to do. He hefted the rebars, then glanced at the back of the shed. There was a door there. That was where the door at the back of the barn led to—this shed! Maybe he could recover his crossbow before they hightailed it out of here.
"I'll be right back," he whispered to Ed. He crept through the shed to the door, turning the knob. Fortunately this door wasn't locked. Daryl eased it open, just enough to see his crossbow sitting on top of the drawing board.
He couldn't see far enough into the room to see if the barn door was closed, but he was pretty sure he hadn't shut it all the way. He could hear the guttural breathing of walkers—they were probably trying to get in the barn. He would have to race in, grab his crossbow, and get back through this door. Daryl took a couple of deep breaths, preparing himself, and—
A gray, rotten hand grabbed at the door! The one fucking walker that was silent, and it had to be right behind the door! Daryl slammed into the door, pushing it open, then jumped through, facing the walker that had been knocked back by the door. It reached for him and he slammed the rebar down on its heading, splitting it in half. The walker keeled over and Daryl yanked his makeshift club free, then spun toward the door.
Three—no, four!—walkers were shambling toward him, they were already halfway to him! Daryl sprinted toward the desk and the walkers changed course, tracking him. One was well in the lead of the others and he waited for it, the rebar ready to swing. When it got close enough he swung for its neck, snapping it but not taking the head off. Foul ball, Daryl thought, then swung again, knocking it down. He threw the rebar like a spear at an oncoming walker, impaling it. It staggered back, its body swaying, sending the rebar into other walkers next to it and knocking them off balance so they fell over. But the impaled one managed to keep coming toward him.
Daryl grabbed his crossbow, then hesitated a bare moment. The impaled walker was the only one close enough to be a threat; should he put a bolt through its head? Instead, he kicked at the rebar, a roundhouse kick that twisted the rebar through the walker's guts like a Japanese samurai committing hara-kiri. The walker finally keeled over.
"DARYL!" Ed's voice came through the door to the shed. "TIME TO GO!"
Daryl raced back to the shed door, pulling it closed behind him. There was a walker coming toward him from the outside door. Running forward, Daryl aimed his crossbow and put a bolt through the walker's forehead. It fell back, hitting the ground, and Daryl pulled the bolt from its head as he ran by and out the shed door.
A half dozen walkers were shambling towards Ed, who had retreated 30 or 40 yards away from the back of the barn. Too long to reload—Daryl jammed the bolt back into the front quiver and pulled his knife. As he ran past a walker he jammed it into the back of its head, yanked it out and kept on running. Ed was trotting away from the walkers, fast enough to keep ahead of them, but Daryl wanted to catch up to the horse. "ED!" he shouted. "Hold up, I'm coming!"
Ed slowed down, looking back to see Daryl running full speed toward him. "Hurry up, slowpoke!" he called out. Daryl came running up and jumped onto his back. "Now what?" Ed asked.
"Well, we're not staying here tonight, that's for sure," Daryl said. "God damn it! I don't want to lose another bike!"
"Want me to drop you off next to it?" Ed asked, sarcastically.
"Very funny," Daryl muttered. There were a dozen or more walkers coming past the barn now, heading for them. "We want to get out to the road if we can." He pointed toward the empty field beside the barn. "Go around these walkers, I want to see if we make it back to 611."
"I hope you know what you're doing," Ed moaned, not interested in getting any closer to the walkers. But he began trotting in a long looping curve around the walkers coming toward them.
When the area in front of the barn came into view, Daryl pulled sharply on Ed's mane. "Shit!"
"Hey, watch the hair!" Ed whinnied. But he saw what Daryl meant. The front was full of walkers. There must be 30 or more trying to get through the narrow opening at the top of the driveway. "Well, we're not getting out that way."
"You got another way out?" Daryl asked, reloading his crossbow—not an easy task on the back of a horse.
"Maybe," Ed said.
"I dunno what 'maybe' means, but we better try it," Daryl said. "Hey, watch it!"
A couple of walkers had managed to come over the fence nearby, had picked themselves off the ground and were walking toward them. Daryl put a bolt into the nearest one's forehead, then pulled his knife again, about to jump down and take on the second one.
"I got this one," Ed said.
"What do you mean—" Before Daryl could finish his statement, Ed turned his rear toward the walker and kicked out with both hind feet. They slammed into the walker's chest, crushing it and sending the walker flying back across the fence.
"Whoa," Daryl murmured. "Good kick."
"Yeah, but my new shoes are all dirty now," Ed complained.
Walkers were still coming toward them. "You better get to that other way out of here," Daryl said.
"Way ahead of you, Kemo Sabe," Ed retorted.
"Who?" Daryl asked.
"Never mind. Just hang on!" Daryl grabbed handfuls of mane and Ed lit out toward the field behind the barn again, running around the walkers and on toward the back fence a hundred or so yards back. He was in a full gallop now, and Daryl eyed the upcoming fence with some concern.
"Think you can jump that fence?" he yelled as Ed headed for it.
"You think your bike can?" Ed yelled back. He had a point there, Daryl had to admit. The fence was maybe five feet tall, made of chain link, with a rod along the top for strength. Ed was a palomino, a bit heavy for his size—palominos could jump, but in jumping competitions horses Ed's age jumped three-foot hurdles. Five foot hurdles were better suited to younger horses.
But it wasn't like they had a choice here.
As Ed approached the fence Daryl bent over his neck, leaning into the imminent jump. Ed leapt upward, soaring over the fence. They heard two loud clangs as Ed's hooves hit the fence's top rod. But they made it over.
Ed slowed to a halt, turning back to look at the fence. "What do you know?" he said, almost to himself. "I cleared it!"
"Good job," Daryl congratulated him. "Now all we gotta do is get back on 611 and make it 30 miles north to the Safe Zone."
"Piece of cake," Ed said, shaking his mane and cantering through the field toward the road beyond.
-o-=-o-
Ten miles further north on 611, the sun was going down on them. "Got any other bright ideas?" Ed muttered as he plodded along. Daryl was looking around for some place they could hole up for the night.
"Hey, keep it down," Daryl murmured, his voice low in case there were any stray walkers around. They had come to a modest commercial area; Daryl had ridden through it on his way out, and hadn't paid it much mind. Areas like this were usually picked dry of anything useful. "Yeah, I got one," he said. "I'm thinking I shouldn't have let you talk me in to shoeing you earlier—we could have waited out the night in your barn, those walkers probably would have passed right on by without bothering us."
"Yeah, yeah, brilliant deduction, Sherlock," Ed grumbled. "You're saying I'm a victim of circumstances."
Daryl just shrugged. "I saw that," Ed said.
"That's why I did it," Daryl retorted. "I know you can see me."
"But do you see anyplace we can hide out in?" Ed asked.
"Not really. We'll probably have to take the first place that looks reasonable."
Ed's head was turning from side to side. "I recognize this place. Wilbur sometimes came up here to a feed store off one of these side streets. We might be able to hole up there."
"I think you're still just hoping to find some oats," Daryl said, still scanning for places to stay.
"So? That doesn't mean the feed store won't be a good place to stay."
"Fine," Daryl snorted. "Where's this place supposed to be?"
"Wilbur said it was down Ticonderoga Street."
Daryl squinted, then pointed ahead of him. "There it is, it's the next block up."
Five minutes later they were approaching the feed store. The name TICONDEROGA ST. FEED AND GRAIN was stenciled on the front bay window. The window was cracked but not broken out; someone had run duct tape over the cracks. Daryl jumped down from Ed and approached the front door cautiously. The door was an old style, with an opening for a window. The glass has been replaced by boards over the front of the door. The lock was busted but door didn't want to open. Daryl finally pushed it in, finding an anvil holding the door closed.
"Let me check it out first," he said to Ed, as the horse started toward the door. "Could be walkers in here."
"Could be walkers out here, too!" Ed pointed out nervously.
"You know what to do if you spot some, don't you?" Daryl reminded him.
"Yeah," Ed said. "Run like hell and I'll see you back at the Safe Zone, if you make it."
"I'll be right back," Daryl said, ignoring Ed's comment. "Be ready to run if I come tearing out of this door."
"I'll be running by the time you get to the door," Ed advised him. "I hope you can keep up."
"Yeah, great," Daryl muttered. This might call for a slight change in procedure. Since he was alone, it might be better to make any walkers in the building come to him rather than the other way around. He checked out the front area of the store proper, finding a door that led back to a warehouse area with an office off to one side. He went over to the office, checking inside to make sure it was empty, then opened and slammed the door closed several times. The noise should bring any walkers hiding in the rows of shelving come his way.
Two minutes late, nothing. Daryl went back to the front and waved Ed in, pushing the anvil away so he could open the door to let the big palomino inside. "I gotta find something to put in front of that window," he said, pointing to the bay window.
"Why don't I just go into the back area?" Ed suggested. "Then nobody can see me through the front window."
"I want to check out the back more thoroughly," Daryl replied. "Then you can go back there. But don't expect to find any bags of oats back there—the place looks pretty picked over."
"Ohhhh, Da-a-a-ryl…"
-o-=-o-
Daryl went over the warehouse with a fine tooth comb. It was clear of walkers. He didn't feel like waking up in the middle of the night with a walker his first sweep had missed chewing on him.
He did turn up a a couple of interesting items. There was a second desk at the back of the warehouse. Next to it was a file cabinet loaded with files containing inventory ledgers and delivery schedules. The paper would come in handy if he had to take a dump during the night.
The other item he'd found in one of the file drawers had been hidden in the back in a box marked "carbon paper." It had been a bottle of Jack Daniels. Nothing special, no Black Label or anything like that, but it was over half-full. Well, since he was running low on cigarettes…
The only other exit from the warehouse was a large delivery door, and it was shut and locked. Not much chance of walkers getting in that way. A regular door was near the delivery door, but it was locked as well. He'd found brown wrapping paper and tape in the primary office, and had covered the front window, so no walkers passing by could see any movement inside. As long as Ed didn't talk in his sleep.
Daryl walked back to the front of the warehouse with his bottle of treasure. "All secured," he told Ed. "Sorry, no oats."
"Just as well," Ed said, a little morosely. "I'd hate to get a taste then have to go back to eating grass again." He glanced at the bottle in Daryl's hand. "Where'd you find that?"
"In the back," Daryl said. "Why, you want some?"
"You don't have enough there to get me drunk," Ed scoffed.
Daryl held up the bottle, jiggling it. "Enough to get me drunk, if I was planning on getting' drunk." He slipped off his backpack, put the bottle in it, then put it in the corner, out of the way. "I'll bring it back to the Safe Zone," he told Ed.
"Party pooper," Ed muttered. Daryl chuckled, then laid down on the floor, the crossbow in easy reach.
"I'm gonna get some shuteye," he announced. "You'd better do the same, if we're gonna make it to the Safe Zone tomorrow."
"I'm practically asleep on my feet right now," Ed told him.
"Wake me if the walkers break in," Daryl suggested, half-jokingly.
"Very funny."
A few minutes later Daryl was softly snoring. Ed cast an eye toward the backpack and the bottle the human had stashed there. Ed debated whether he'd check it again before they reached the Safe Zone. Probably not.
Walking slowly so his new shoes wouldn't make any noise on the concrete floor, Ed moved toward the back pack. Maybe just a snort or two, it would help him sleep. And he'd leave some for Daryl. The guy was, after all, getting his tail out of a twist.
-o-=-o-
Strangely, it was the silence that woke Daryl up. He was immediately awake, a holdover from the days of sleeping in the same house with his dad, mom and brother Merle. There was a soft buzzing coming from somewhere in the dark, a sound it took him several seconds to place. It was the sound of someone snoring.
Ed was laying on his side on the warehouse floor. Near his head was the bottle of Jack Daniel. It was empty. "Shit," Daryl muttered. "I knew I should'a drank that when I had the chance."
He rolled to his feet, stretching, then walked over to Ed, resisting the urge to prod him in the side with a toe. "Hey, wake up," he grunted. "Rise and shine."
Ed didn't respond. "D'ja hear me?" Daryl said, louder this time. "Come on, we're burning daylight."
Ed lifted his head weakly. "Wilbur? Is that you?"
"No, it ain't Wilbur," Daryl snapped impatiently. "Get up, we're leaving."
"I don't get up before nine o'clock," Ed moaned.
"You don't even know what the damn time is!"
"I know it's too damn early to get up!"
"We got more'n 20 miles to go today," Daryl reminded him.
"Piece of cake," Ed said, closing his eyes and laying back on the floor.
"You said that yesterday," Daryl argued.
"We got a late start yesterday."
"We're getting one today, too, if you don't get off your tail so we can get going."
"All right, all right," Ed grumbled, getting slowly to his feet. "So how are we going to—" He looked around, but Daryl had disappeared. "Where'd you go? Daryl?"
Daryl appeared carrying a bale of hay. He dropped it on the floor next to Ed. "Here's breakfast," he said. "I saw it in the back last night. If I'd known you were going drink up all my bourbon I'd a given it to you last night."
Ed bent down, giving the bale an experimental sniff. "It's a bit dusty," he said. "But otherwise it smells okay. Bless you, Daryl."
"Yeah, yeah," Daryl said. "Don't eat all of that, I'll pack some of it so you'll have something to eat along the way."
Ed took a few bites of the hay, then looked up at Daryl. "What're you having for breakfast?" he asked.
Daryl looked down at his belt, where the dead rat was still hanging. "Wilbur, I guess."
-o-=-o-
Rick was walking past the main gate when Daryl came riding up on the big palomino. The guard opened the gate, letting the horse and rider in, and Daryl rode up to Rick and slid off the horse's back. Rick gave him a lopsided grin. "I see you found a new ride," he said, rubbing the horse's nose.
"Lost my bike, though," Daryl complained. "Found Ed here on a farm about 30 miles south of here. I was puttin' new shoes on him and we got overrun by walkers. I couldn't ride both of 'em out, so…"
"Well…" Rick was looking at the horse's face. It looked like a pretty intelligent horse, he thought, rubbing its neck. "How'd you know his name was Ed?"
"He to—" Daryl stopped, an odd look in his eyes. "Uh, he had a sign on his stall that said 'Ed.'"
"Huh," Rick mused. "What kind of name is 'Ed' for a horse?"
"I wondered that, too," Daryl agreed.
"Well, Ed," Rick said, grinning, "We're mighty glad to have you join us."
The horse seemed to agree as it nodded its head up and down. "Seems pretty smart," Rick remarked. "I'm sure he'll make a welcome addition to our community."
"Yeah," Daryl said, scratching the side of his head. "It should be interesting."
Ed snorted his agreement. Oh, you have no idea, he thought to himself.
-o-=-o-
The End?