Bit of angst in this one. I'm not a huge fan of angst but it IS the apocalypse. Best to rip the scab off clean and get it over with, eh?

CHAPTER 2

In Which: Daryl attempts to pass on his ancient knowledge of the crossbow and Glenn has an existential crisis.

Guest Appearance: Token!Evil Squirrel

"Damn, you really couldn't hit the broadside of a barn," Daryl muttered, looking exactly the wrong kind of impressed as he went to retrieve the bolt. "From the inside." He stooped to pick it up, studied it in his hand as he walked back. "With the doors closed."

Glenn grinned, lowering the crossbow. "Let me try again! But I'm going to load it this time."

"Kid, I don' think—"

But Glenn was ignoring him, bent over with the nose of the crossbow in the dirt as he struggled to cock it delicately, without slicing an arm off. He had been astounded earlier to learn that the Horton Scout HD 125 was a large youth crossbow, a kid's crossbow. Daryl had explained that before the outbreak he used a rifle to hunt large game, never bothering to get a larger crossbow because the size and weight of the Scout was an advantage at short range. Also, disconcertingly enough, the only reason it worked on walkers was because of their abysmal bone density. Even point blank, the bolts would seriously struggle to pierce a non-infected skull.

It made sense he supposed, and explained why the man never brought back anything larger than a woodchuck.

It also made him desperately need to be able to cock it without help.

"Geez," he huffed, "this is like a hundred pounds."

"Draw weight's 125," came an amused sound by his ear.

He tilted his head to see Daryl sitting on his haunches, monitoring his technique with blatant amusement, and sniffed airily.

"Shoo fly," he said, straining with the cord, unwilling to invest full strength or grip in case it went snapping back down.

"You jus' lemme know."

The bastard was downright smug. Glenn petulantly glowered at his hands for a moment before accepting the fact that without calluses or experience, he would continue being excessively cautious and this was going to take him all day.

He nodded wordlessly without looking up. Daryl reached around him and two seconds later the bow was back in his hands, fully primed. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw in determination, facing the squirrel he was attempting to bring down. His last shot had been so wildly inaccurate the dirty little rat hadn't even flinched. Before today he would never have imagined it was possible to be taunted by a squirrel.

Hefting the bow and squinting down the sight, he clicked off the safety and lined up the red dot over that little stinking furry body. This should be easy, it wasn't even moving. Pausing for a moment to steady his aim, he waited until the dot was dead center, held his breath and pulled the trigger as hard and fast as he could.

There was a pop followed by a loud crack. Instead of toppling to the forest floor as he had hoped, the squirrel chattered angrily and scampered up the tree. There was a creaking sound. He cursed under his breath before slowly lifting his eyes in time to see a precariously hanging dead limb breaking completely off with a groan, his bolt innocently jutting from the side.

He had only enough time to think figures before he was on the ground with a rotten wood blanket.

Two hands from above freed him from the debris and blue eyes gazed down, squinting with reticent good humor.

He avoided them and made no move to get up. It was like Atlanta all over again. Hot anger and embarrassment burrowed into him. An oozing magma, viscid and adhesive, twin rivers like black tar. This whole world was wrong and there was no single person or thing to blame.

He settled for glaring his outrage into the apathetic blue sky.

"Stop lazin about, Chinaman. Up you git, now. But this time—"

"I'm KOREAN, inbreed," Glenn bit out, harsher than intended. "And this is a waste of time."

Daryl took a step back, crows feet smoothing out, eyes turned wary. Glenn immediately nipped the rapidly blooming bud of guilt.

"I know what y'are, man. Ain't no slow leak. What's got your panties 'n a twist?"

"I don't wear panties."

The other man just watched him, expression unreadable.

"It's really not important. Doesn't matter."

Daryl waited.

Glenn could have sworn that goddamn-rabid-mangy squirrel snickered in the background.

He exhaled harshly through his nose. "It's just... You're sort of in your element now. All this survivalist, backwoods bullshit. Don't misunderstand, it's awesome. I'm glad it's your forte because it's saved my scrawny butt. You've saved my butt, which, thanks by the way. Very much. But..." he pursed his lips, "I was going to go back to school for computer science, or maybe electrical engineering. Brainwork, puzzles, those are my forte. Not throwing stuff really far and picking up heavy shit and stabbing things in faces. The old world was where I excelled, it was my world. And it's dead... I don't know what I'm doing here, who I am."

Daryl just listened, a breathing statue. Glenn's cheeks were burning, but he'd always struggled with logorrhea. Too late to stop now.

"I've been picking up components whenever I can for a few projects. Just got the final parts for solar powered battery and USB chargers. But I need to zone in to make them, tunnel vision, you know? That's what I do. Usually end up with some cool shit afterwards. By the way, if you find me a webcam, decent laser pointer, and a C# reference book I can probably make a laser rangefinder for your crossbow. We both know your little red-dot scope sucks.

"Of course..." he visibly deflated, feeling very sorry for himself, "with my luck, I'd probably get a bite in the ass halfway through. If only I had time and space to think, if only I wasn't such a klutz that I needed to rely on these things. If only... shit, if only none of this had ever happened..."

He was stuck in a groove now, frowning miserably, eyes glazing over. "If only... if only—"

"If only a bullfrog had wings he wouldn't bump 'is ass when'e jumps."

Glenn came back to the present with a snap, gaping up at the man whose presence he'd almost forgotten.

"You said your piece, now I'm givin mine," Daryl said forcefully, running a distracted hand through his hair. "I mean Jesus kid, you're wastin daylight pickin fly shit outta pepper. Can't never could. Now I know you're stubborn enough to argue with a wall and win, so..." he held out a hand and hauled Glenn to his feet, "put it to good use for once. It's time to get the fuck up, calm the fuck down, pull your ass off your shoulders, paint it white 'n run with the antelope."

Daryl drew himself up to full height, hands on hips, staring Glenn down with an intense and daring look in his eyes.

Dramatic silence reigned.

Glenn, for his part, blinked. Several thoughts crossed his mind at once.

First and foremost was that even considering current events, this would probably remain the epitomical WTF moment of his life.

Second was the absurd mental image of Daryl—wearing only a fluffy white tail and the skin his mama gave him—bounding across a meadow with a herd of antelope. This caused the part of his brain conjuring the image to immediately overload, short circuit, and reroute him to the next thought.

No self-respecting northerner would blather on about frogs, fly poop, and antelope during a pep-talk. What the hell did that even mean? It was barely English. Then the man had struck a noble pose and was still just standing there, expectantly. Fidgeting more and looking less sure of himself with each passing moment, eyes sliding to the side...

Glenn decided to stop thinking and grinned instead.

"I don't suppose you have any paint?" he asked, feeling a nervous babble coming on. "Bird poop would probably work too but, you know, I'd rather not if it's all the same to you. Hey, have you ever seen the movie Naked Prey with Cornel Wilde?"

Daryl had the nerve to look at him as if he was the crazy one.

"Here's what you need t'know," the man drawled, completely ignoring him. "What y'did wrong was jerkin the trigger. You can't think of aimin 'n firin as two separate actions, cuz you can't focus on the target when you're suddenly yankin on the damn thing. Even if y'had it right on the dot, it'll slip off innat split second. You gotta think of it as aimin-n-firin, a single continuous, flowin thing. Called the shot sequence."

Glenn nodded, slightly awed.

"Now it takes bout five pounds a pressure to activate th' trigger," Daryl continued, growing more animated as he warmed to his subject. "So you wanna squeeze that reeaal slow 'n steady, like a cat eatin a grindstone. Nice 'n gradual. For you now, accurate shot sequence oughtn't be less'n ten seconds. I want you to pull soo slow," he dragged the words out for effect, letting them roll out over his tongue, "that you lose track o' the pressure an piss y'self in surprise when that bolt flies."

"Heck, I can do that no problem!"

"...I've no doubt."

How, how are we off on a tangent again?
Oh, we say what we say
And the poison is breaking our skin

Blame, what's to blame?
It's an argument no one can win
Cuz at best we don't know
And it's wearing us thin

And we stare at the sun
But we never see anything there
Just the glare has become
All that we'll ever see there

"Stare at the Sun" by Mute Math

If you haven't seen The Naked Prey (1966), then go watch it. Now. Seriously, it's a classic.