I raise my left hand in a small wave as I drive through the gates of the prison. The man on guard, a Woodbury survivor named Spencer, reciprocates. I pull the Subaru up the gravel path, passing some kids playing and the vegetable gardens. They're growing well since they were planted three months ago, just a week before I arrived here. I slow down to dodge the people once I'm in the courtyard, pulling left into an area storing our various vehicles.
I bring the car to a stop next to the Hyundai and Michonne and I jump out. We've just returned from another run, the sixth I've been on including the weapons run. It's amazing how fast our group burns through stuff. I guess I'm not accustomed to taking care of more than just myself. Michonne retrieves an old shopping cart before meeting me at the back seat, where we pull out several bags of food, random amounts of various kinds of ammo, and some things for the kids. Michonne smiles as she holds up an abstract vase.
"Can't believe we found this," she says, teeth bright against her dark skin. "Beautifully balanced and not a scratch! It will go perfectly with my cat." I laugh and pretend to gag.
"That ugly thing?!" Michonne feigns being insulted.
"Are you kidding? If you don't know art, don't pretend to!"
"I don't pretend to, but it doesn't take an expert to know that cat was left for a reason," I counter. We trade insults as we unload the car, sounding like old friends. Which is basically what we've become in the past months. Michonne is the closest person I've come to; the other two being Daryl and Rick. Michonne and I have been on the same run team every time I've gone, and she's been my partner for the past two. The three before were small missions I led, doubling as searches for the group that shot Daryl. It didn't take long for Rick to notice I am smart enough and experienced enough to lead runs, especially with his favorite crossbow-toting redneck out of business. We've checked several nearby towns where I suspected the bastards may be, but so far there's been no sign.
"I'll take these inside. You probably going to see Daryl, right?" Michonne says, catching my attention.
"Yeah. I told him I'd take him on the range. You know, keep him busy."
"Are you teaching a class tonight, too?" I've started a fighting class under Rick's permission. I teach anyone who wants to learn how to defend themselves and turn a defense into an attack. The training covers human and walker opponents. Recently, we've progressed to using knives. I have a solid group ranging from age ten to age fifty; there's no way I'd turn down a willing student. Everyone needs to know how to defend themselves if they want to survive at this point. I ran basic sparring matches at the beginning to see what I was working with, and was shocked some of my students made it this far. Woodbury survivors had it easier than I thought.
"No. That's tomorrow," I respond, setting the last bag in the cart and shutting the car door. "You sure you can take all of these?"
"Yeah. Go see Daryl; he's probably waiting," she says, winking at me.
"What?" I ask slightly confused. She starts giggling and pushing the cart towards the buildings, wheels squeaking in protest. I back away, shaking my head, before we start another argument.
{o0o}
"Let's start at thirty," I suggest, walking up to the target alongside Daryl. He follows me complacently. We stop at a line marking thirty yards, and I stand to the left of Daryl, facing him in my shooting stance.
"Ready? Aim. Fire," I say, calling out a series of five shots at a relaxed pace. We build up pace until we're shooting rapid fire. I only half pay attention to my bow while I take in every inch of his form and expression. He's not showing any pain, and this is a good sign. For the past month I've been working with him to increase use in his upper arm. The first few weeks after he was shot were painful and difficult. A point blank ten yard shot used to cause him problems. Not to mention the exertion and gritted teeth it took for him to pull back the string and dock a bolt.
As we continue our practice, we start to talk openly. Through the past two months we've become fairly familiar. I haven't made many friends so far, but I have spent a significant amount of time helping Daryl rehab. We started off talking about hunting, but we've gotten deeper than that a few times. Like now, when he asks me about my old group.
"There were two other girls, Rachel and Mckenzie, and then there were three guys. Peter, Allen, and Dean," I say, carefully controlling my expression. "We were all together, on a hunting trip, when we saw our first walker. We were sitting in the hunting cabin when we saw it through the window. It was this ugly thing, savage and covered in fresh blood. I approached it slowly, followed by the others, and noticed the torn flesh all over the woman's arms and legs. The thing growled at me, and then I noticed the eyes - yellow, crazed, and not human. I didn't hesitate when I shot an arrow straight through its heart. But the bitch just fell, got up, and kept coming. I fired off another shot in its heart before I realized it wasn't working. I was terrified, but aimed for the head. It finally stayed still, and we knew how to kill them.
"Course at that point we had no idea what we were killing. We turned on our old, staticky radio and heard reports of some kinda disease. People were catching it and turning into cannibals. We were scared shitless so we packed up our weapons - ten bows since we each had a back up, the guys had shot guns, I had my rifle, and Rachel had her pistol - and we loaded our truck to head home. On the way back we saw more of the things in the streets, but we kept passing them. Wasn't until we ran into a group of about twenty that we decided there was nothing to go back to at home.
"We drove around a lot the first few days; everyone slept while one person drove, constantly avoiding the savages. Eventually we found an old food packing warehouse that some survivors had boarded up in. They accepted us, but Dean got greedy. He gathered us at night and spoke about taking over the place. Didn't want to share resources, he said. I can't believe I listened to him. But when it was over, after we murdered them, we had a new home, a huge stock of food, and we kept it standing through several small waves of walkers. Then... Something happened," I say, scrunching up my face. At this point we are taking a break, sitting on the ground and sharing a water bottle. I play with some grass as I choose my words carefully.
"After that night I couldn't stay there anymore. I waited until late while it was my watch, took my Impact, stole another bow, took my rifle, my .45 Colt, and my two knives. Then I stole a car and left, never looking back." I look up at the trees, watching the leaves rustle with the gentle breeze.
"I still miss Rachel's laugh; it was like pure happiness. And Mckenzie was so fearless and funny. There were several times I wished I were more like her; but she never beat me in a sparring match. Peter was so smart, he always knew what to do. And Allen was so hopelessly in love with Rachel, I don't know how she never found out," I say, smiling stupidly as I watch the trees.
"Sounds like you miss 'em," Daryl says gruffly, speaking for the first time in minutes.
"I do," I confide, feeling a longing to see my old friends.
"If you miss them so much, why'd you leave?" He follows up, throwing the question like a bolt out of the blue. I turn to stare into his intense gaze, searching for some kind of accusation there, but I find none. He seems to read my silent plea in my eyes, and he drops his eyes.
"Don't mean to pry." I nod and return to watching the trees. We sit in a tense silence for a minute.
"It's okay," I finally say. "I left because... Dean and I... Well, he just wasn't someone you'd want to be around." I leave it at that, and Daryl seems content with my answer - for now.
"What about your brother?" He asks, a little more hesitantly. We've talked about our brothers at length before, enough to know that we've both had complicated families.
"I don't know. He was off in rehab when it all happened; he could be anywhere now. I mean, I made it all the way to Georgia. I just keep thinking about what I would do if he showed up here, alive. I like to think I'd slap him in the face and shut him out, but I don't know if I could. I felt abandoned by him for so long, and all I ever wanted was his protection or advice. Now I realize I never needed it; I'm strong because of him. What about you?" I ask, wanting to know more about him.
"Nothin' really to say," he responds bluntly. I turn my body and face him, forcing him to make eye contact.
"After all I've just shared? I already know Merle was a shitty brother; Rick's told me about it," I say, attempting to console him.
"You don't know what the fuck you're talkin' about," he spits back angrily, rising up and heading towards the target to get his bolts. I push myself off the ground and rush after him.
"Wait! Talk to me about it!" I plead, grabbing his shoulder when he turns to face me, bolts in hand. He tries to walk off, but I push him back, keeping him there.
"Move. I don't want to hurt you," he says menacingly.
"No," I say, just as determined, a fiery look in my eye responding to his dark, steely blue irises. "Just talk to me. I'm sorry for listening to Rick, but you don't offer anything else for me to hear! We've spent the last two months together, talking about walkers and hunting and me - always me! But never you! Why don't you trust me?" I drop my hand in defeat, genuinely hurt that he won't let his guard down. I see a conflicted look cross his face, but he regains a strong composure.
"Look, I'm not someone you want to invest your time in. The others say I've changed. They say I'm more open now. But there's some stuff I'll never talk about, so don't waste your breath on me. I'll see you at dinner," he says, pushing past my shoulder and heading back towards the prison. I stare at his back, watching him as he makes his way, hurt more emotionally than I have been in a long time.
{o0o}
I rapidly shoot arrows into the target, emptying my quiver angrily. How could he just brush me off like that? I've told him so much, and he just walks away? I stalk to the target and start ripping the arrows out, hearing a loud crack as one of them splinters. Cursing, I close my eyes and take a few breaths, calming myself. I proceed to remove the arrows, careful not to break anymore.
I look over to the prison when I hear my name called, and see Michonne waving her arms. Time for dinner I guess. I sling my bow across my back and head over, my mind flying in a million different directions.
I wasn't up front with him about Dean, but so what? He won't tell me anything. I have no idea what he did before, what his brother was like, his family, friends, interests, nothing! I'm so frustrated and confused. I thought we were really getting somewhere. I mean, he lights up every time I get him and take him to the range like it's the only thing he lives for. And I can feel his eyes following me when I saunter past or talk to others. I know he's complicated, but seriously!
I reach the tables and head to my usual; I sit next to Michonne, Rick, Carl, Daryl, Glenn, and Maggie. Carol, Hershel, and his daughter, Beth, sit at another table with Rick's baby girl Judith and some other kids. I pull back my chair and sit, staring at my plate with a pout. The others try to draw me in the conversation, and I can feel Daryl's contradicted gaze, but I just look at the table and eat my food solemnly.
As soon as I'm done, I push back my chair and dump my dish before the others can catch me in a conversation. I stride back to my cell and push through my curtains, setting my bow and arrows next to my bed. I unlace my boots quickly, arranging them so I can pull them on easily if I need to. I crawl under the covers in my jeans and gray t-shirt, leaving my hunting jacket carefully folded on my bedside chair. Finally, I lean back on my pillow and shut my eyes, finding solace in this chaotic world.
