FOUR

Daryl sat outside on the small porch smoking another one of the stale cigarettes she'd given him, watching the watery sun come up through the mist. It was his third, maybe, or fourth. They hadn't talked much last night, after he'd offered her Alexandria and she'd given him smokes and no answers in return. She'd handed off the pack, dismissed his thanks and gone up to bed, after telling him she slept light enough and set loud enough traps to not have to keep watch. He'd only nodded and watched her climb the ladder built in the kitchen wall, listened to her climb into bed and sigh, listened to her breathing slow and steady. He'd slept too, hard. He'd woken up with the sun, face down on her couch and covered with an old crocheted blanket, confused about where he was and who else was breathing in the house with him.

Today, he'd go back to Alexandria. With or without her. Probably without. She seemed damned determined to stay in the little cabin, stupid as that was. He'd spent the last couple cigarettes thinking of ways to convince her to go. He told himself it was because she seemed smart and able to handle herself, because they needed a nurse with Denise gone and because it would make his solitary, dangerous runs seem purposeful. In reality, he knew it was all of those things and more. He didn't like her, exactly, not being the type to really like other humans, but he could see something in her. She was clearly tough and smart, clearly able to handle what the world had become. He thought of her showing up at his camp out of nowhere, brandishing a crowbar and taking down walkers like it was nothing. Without meaning to, he found himself thinking about the way she rolled her eyes and laughed at him, the way she looked running through the woods in front of him, hell even the way she held a damn spoon. He shook his head, willing the image of her hands out from behind his eyes. Who was this girl, and why was he thinking about her like this?

"Hey." She'd come out the open door behind him, yawning and bleary eyed.

"Hey." He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. Wordlessly she held her hand out and he looked at her, confused, before she pointed to the pack in his vest pocket. He handed her a cigarette and his old zippo, raising his eyebrows at her. "You smoke?"

"I quit." She exhaled, the stream of blue smoke curling up around her. "Before the change, actually. I picked those up because I thought I'd want them now that life expectancy isn't a real thing anymore."

He chuckled. "I wouldn't have smoked so many if I knew..." She waved her hand at him, cutting him off.

"I haven't had one until this morning. Woke up and smelled it and just wanted one." She took another drag and leaned on the railing and he got a good look at her in the pale sunlight. She wasn't quite pretty, but almost. Her hair was loose and wild, frizzy waves and curls bouncing down to her elbows, almost. Her eyes were confusing, almost brown and almost green, and spaced widely apart above a large, crooked nose. Freckles dotted her tanned skin and he saw a scar, white and thin, neatly cutting across her throat. He wondered how she came by it when she spoke again, derailing his thoughts. "Question for you." She yawned again and he waited. "Feel like a little adventure today?"

"What?" He was genuinely caught off balance by the question.

"Gonna assume your dream town still needs supplies." She stubbed out her spent cigarette and held her hand out for another. He nodded, gave her one. Watched her cheeks hollow, stretching freckles across her cheekbones as she lit up. "With just me, I don't go on many big runs anymore. You seem like a good fighter, though, and you have transport." He nodded again.

She turned to face him, eyes narrowed as she studied his face. "There's an old nursing home 15 miles north. It's packed full of roamers, and I don't think it's been picked over even once because the only thing worse than regular geeks is formerly old people geeks. They're truly, honestly disgusting. But that place is gonna be full of medical supplies and probably non-perishable food, blankets, emergency equipment, vehicles, all kinds of shit." She waited, so he cleared his throat.

"And?" He asked, starting to feel like maybe she was even better than he thought, and she smiled.

"I'll split it with you if you help me clear it?" She blew smoke out and smiled at him. He felt something, deep in the pit of his stomach and gave her half a smile in return.

He held out his hand. "Deal." They shook, her hand rough and strong in his.

She had eggs. He stared in wonder at his bowl of leftover bean soup with three perfectly over easy eggs on top, steaming and smelling like heaven.

"Eggs?" He looked up at her in wonder. She was an angel, he thought, a tattooed shit-talking farming angel and he couldn't believe it.

"Eggs." She beamed at him. "My most valuable resource. I'd be willing to trade you some chicks come springtime, Daryl. If you have anything worthwhile?"

He was too busy stuffing his face to answer her. Remembering halfway through a bite what she'd said about his table manners the night before he slowed down, trying consciously to chew and swallow at a reasonable pace. "Tell me 'bout the old folks home." he asked, around a mouthful of eggs and beans.

She sat down across from him with her own bowl and sighed. "Well firstly it ain't an old folks home, it's a rehab place for people who've had strokes and joint replacements and so on."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, old folks. Go on."

She laughed and took a bite, then began to lay out her plan. She didn't talk long, and Daryl got the feeling she'd thought about this place more than once. The way she described it, it could be a major win for Alexandria. They packed up, Dylan locking the chickens in their little house with extra water and grain and forcing a promise out of Daryl to care for them if she didn't come back. He promised, gruffly, and turned away from her. She was coming back.

An hour later, the sun had burned through the mist and clouds and the day promised heat and humidity. Dylan swore up and down there'd be a van at the home, and that she'd follow him in it to Alexandria and then home, so he reluctantly let her on the back of his motorcycle after they topped it up with some gas she'd brought out of the boathouse. He tucked the crude map she'd drawn him in his vest pocket, turned around to see if she was ready. She flashed him a smile, wrapped her hands around the grab bar behind her and winked at him. He kicked the bike into gear and took off north, for a millisecond allowing himself to wonder at her choice to use the bar rather than hold onto him like most people would.

She was right about the damn van, at least. There were two parked in front of the main entrance to the low-slung, scrubby building. It was set back a piece from the main road, overgrown hydrangeas and lilacs almost blocking it from view. There was an ambulance too, halfway down the long driveway, back doors swinging open. The building itself looked empty, a couple broken windows but there were branches down everywhere in the overgrown yard and he'd bet that was the cause of broken windows, not people breaking in.

He cut the engine next to the ambulance, rolled to a stop. Dylan hopped off, stretching her arms above her head. She moved silently around the side of the vehicle, waited for him to make eye contact with her then cut around back suddenly, crowbar drawn. "Nothing." She said, hoisting herself up into the back and rifling through the shelves.

"Anything?" He leaned against the back, shook out the pack of smokes, held one up behind him. She took it, then the lighter he offered.

"Couple bags, box of syringes." She dropped down next to him, left the bags on the edge. She blew out a column of smoke. "You remember the priority?"

"Nurses' station, med cart, med room, kitchen." He recited. "Won't it be locked?"

Dylan shrugged. "Usually a backup key somewhere, and the locks aren't high tech anyway. Mostly just keeping the residents out of the Vicodins." She stubbed out her cigarette. "Ready?"

Daryl nodded. "Let's do it."

They worked well together, he thought. Sometimes you just did. He and Merle had been like that, never having to discuss who was taking point and who was going left. Dylan was the same way. She walked, silently, just to his left. He went ahead when they got to the cloudy front door and banged on it, three times. They waited. He watched her scan the dirty windows, heard some shuffling inside after a minute. He went to open the door, to let one out, but she stopped him.

"Old folks." She mouthed, pointing at her wrist. He nodded. They waited a while longer, and the shuffling increased along with a moan or two. He guessed old folks walkers took longer to get places. He grasped the door handle, looked back over his shoulder at her and on her wink swung it open. Two pathetic old walkers stumbled toward him and he slammed the door, keeping his boot up against it to hold it. By the time he'd turned around she was swinging her crowbar down onto the second one. She nudged the bodies out of the way and nodded at him again.

Open. Shuffle. Swing. Thud. Open. Shuffle. Swing. Thud.

They repeated the dance until the pile of walkers was waist high. They were getting crawlers now, he was guessing the slower, formerly wheelchair bound ones were coming now and Dylan's forehead was shiny with sweat. "Trade." Daryl grunted at her and they switched spots. He pulled out his knife and readied himself.

Open. Thrust. Thud. Open. Thrust. Thud. Open. Thrust. Thud. Finally, Dylan opened the door to nothing. He straightened up, sheathed his knife. The pile of walkers was waist high now, bony pathetic corpses wearing hospital gowns and slippers, tufts of white hair growing from their desiccated scalps.

"No nurses." Dylan's voice was tight and hard. She kicked at the pile of corpses. "Nobody's wearing scrubs."

"Probably abandoned 'em," Daryl said quietly. "Happened to a guy I know. Woke up in the hospital, weeks after it happened. No doctors, no nurses."

"I stayed." She was quiet, too. "I stayed for a full year. Until it ended." Daryl just looked at her. She seemed on the edge of talking, teetering on the edge of something. He waited, found himself holding his breath. She didn't meet his eyes, instead wiping her own and standing up straight. "Let's empty this place out."

Dylan took point. Holding her crowbar loosely in her hands, she slipped through the dusty doors. Daryl followed her soundless footsteps down a long hallway, leaving boot prints in the inch thick dust. They ignored the patient rooms like they discussed earlier. According to Dylan, those wouldn't have anything useful and depending on the facility's evacuation plans, could have walkers pent up in them. He followed her purposeful path to the end of the far hallway, to a little counter and cabinets setup with papers strewn everywhere.

"This a nurse's station?" He'd never seen one before, being more the type to set broken bones at home. Dylan nodded.

"We're lookin' for a cart and a closet." She reminded him, rifling through the drawers under the dead, useless computers. Daryl started opening doors, found a staff bathroom, found a laundry room and two locked doors. He rattled the door handle of one, listened inside.

"Someone's in here, Dylan." He stepped back, preparing to kick the door down.

"Hold on, Rambo." She pushed past him, jingling a set of keys and trying each one until the lock clicked. "Told you they keep spares. In the charge nurse's sweater pocket, just like we did." She braced her boot against the door, listening to the scrabbling from inside. "Ready?"

At his nod, she pulled the door open and a walker stumbled out. She looked fresher than the other ones, long blonde hair still caught up in a bouncy ponytail. Daryl tripped her as she came out, and the walker went down, hitting the dusty floor. Her faded pink scrub top was stained with dark blood all down the back and torn at the shoulder. Daryl's knife darted forward. Thud.

"There's your nurse." He grunted at her, moving past the body into the little room.