CHAPTER 10
The engine of Daryl's Triumph Bonneville chopper motorcycle roared as he flew down the empty, secondary road. The light rain hit his face and hair, his poncho with the Southwestern American Indian artwork pattern flew behind him like a comet's tail, and his Stryker Strykezone 380 crossbow was slung over his back. He rode past the occasional walker that staggered along the road, but when he spotted an abandoned vehicle or a crash that involved more than two cars he slowed down and swerved to avoid them.
Daryl was scouting for a dangerous but crucial mission: to resupply the prison with food, gasoline, and medicine from the El Dorado, a hotel and casino that opened outside Atlanta a few weeks before the world had gone to shit.
Rick was a mile behind Daryl, leading a convoy of three trucks, one of them was the bread truck that the Governor used as a "walker bomb" when he launched a surprise attack on the prison. The convoy stuck to the secondary roads to avoid the abandoned vehicles, wrecks, and the herds of walkers that plagued the highway; the secondary roads had the same dangers, but they were minor.
Daryl thought about the Latino gang he and Carol fought at the feed mill when they retrieved Merle's body. He knew there were more gangs—scavengers—out there. Would the group run into them on the way to—or from—El Dorado?
There was the possibility that there were survivors holed up at El Dorado; would they fight to keep what they have, or would they beg Rick to accompany the group back to the prison?
Like Hershel had warned Rick at the meeting, "A lot can happen in forty-eight hours."
In spite of all the risks, Daryl felt oddly happy. He was on his motorcycle (it was actually Merle's, but he'd basically inherited it), and speeding down a mostly empty road. Hell, if Rick had asked how he felt before leaving the prison, he'd have said he felt pretty goddamned optimistic.
Aside from riding the motorcycle again, the other reason for Daryl's cheerful attitude was Carol. He cared about that woman, and while his previous relationships with women were few and brief, he cared about her more than all of those other women put together.
Daryl thought back to yesterday, when he and Carol were atop the ruined guard tower. He tried to start a conversation, so despite a pounding, nervous headache he said the first thing that came to mind: "Thanks for joinin' me up here."
Carol lowered her binoculars and looked at Daryl, who must've looked redder than a tomato. "You're welcome," she said.
The memory ended, and Daryl slowed down his motorcycle and lowered his head in embarrassment. That was probably the shittiest line to start a conversation with a woman! He remembered his joke that it was so much easier for him to talk to women when he bought them a drink, and showed them his Triumph motorcycle (which was left at home when the world went to shit).
No! Daryl thought angrily. After the life Carol had with that worthless piece of shit Ed, she deserves better than some white trash tryin' to impress her with booze and a chopper!
Daryl raised his head and closed his eyes for a moment as the light rain sprinkled on his face. Hell, what I need is a new approach. Maybe I should get a haircut, trim my goatee, and get myself a three piece suit! That ought to make a good impression!
Daryl opened his eyes and laughed at the thought of getting cleaned up and wearing a three piece suit. He wasn't a movie star, and with the shit he was dealing with, there wasn't time to start trying.
First, I'll find that one-eyed bastard that killed Merle, and carve him up like a Christmas ham. Then I can start buildin' a life with Carol.
Daryl smiled at the thought of his plan, then he worked the throttle; the motorcycle's engine roared and it sped down the road.
•••
Rick drove the Dodge Ram 1500 at a modest speed, the windshield wipers were on the intermittent setting, and there'd be a squeak after a full minute when the wipers would run across the windshield and wipe the light rain away. Rick had both hands on the wheel, and was looking straight ahead. The Glock 19 pistol with the Maglite suppressor was inside the open console, and The M4A1 rifle was slung behind the driver's seat. Beside Rick was Michonne, cradling her sheathed katana in her arms, and her Glock 19 pistol was atop the dashboard. Carl sat in the back seat, his battered Stetson hat, and his Beretta 92FS pistol lay by his side. Carl was looking out the rear passenger window, and when they drove past an abandoned car, a wreck, or a walker, he's rest his hand on the handle of his pistol in preparation for a sudden attack.
"Dad?" Carl asked.
Rick looked up at the rearview mirror. "Yes, Carl?"
"Is the CD case still in the truck?"
Rick nodded. "Yeah, I put it in the glove compartment after we secured the prison."
Carl looked at his father with pleading eyes. "Can you play one please?"
Rick glanced over his shoulder at Carl and looked at the road. "We've got to stay quiet, son. Sorry."
"Why?" Carl asked with a tinge of anger.
"It's so we can hear Daryl on the walkie-talkie," Rick explained.
Carl huffed in frustration and folded his arms across his chest. "At the level Daryl shouts, that won't be a problem."
Rick chuckled in amusement; Michonne chuckled too.
It stayed quiet in the Dodge Ram, and Carl started to think about Beth and her lovely singing voice. I promised Beth I'd get her a guitar, he thought.
Carl looked away from the window and down at his boots. An electric guitar would be cool, but Beth loves those stupid ballads, Carl thought. I guess I'll have to get her an acoustic guitar.
Carl unfastened his seatbelt, turned around, and looked out the truck's rear window at the vast, empty truck bed. There's plenty of room in the truck bed for a guitar, or I could put it in the backseat with me.
Carl looked over his shoulder at his father, who didn't notice he had unbuckled his seatbelt.
"Hey, Dad," Carl said as he sat forward in his seat.
"Yes, Carl?" Rick asked.
"Can I bring a guitar back with us?"
Rick looked up at the review mirror and did a double take when he saw that Carl had unfastened his seatbelt. "Carl! What are you doing?!" he shouted as he looked over his shoulder at his son.
"Dad I was just—"
"Sit down and put that seatbelt on!" Rick ordered.
Carl slid back into his seat and buckled his seatbelt. Michonne glared at Rick disapprovingly, but stayed quiet.
"Damnit, Carl, you always keep your seatbelt on!" Rick shouted as he returned to watching the road. "Do you know how many times I rolled up on a car accident and saw one of the fatalities was a child?!"
"Drunk drivers aren't on the road anymore, Dad," Carl argued.
"No. But there're wrecks on the road, walkers, we could be ambushed…" Rick said as he gripped the wheel tightly. "If you get hurt, or shot, Hershel's not here to help you…"
Rick sighed wearily, and rubbed his eyes with his left hand. Carl and Michonne watched him with concern.
"I'm sorry, Dad," Carl said, regretting his disrespectful tone earlier.
"It's all right, Carl. Just…just be more careful," Rick answered as he continued to watch the road.
Carl lowered his head, Michonne looked over her shoulder at the upset boy, and then she looked at Rick, a moment later she looked straight ahead at the road. There was a vandalized car on the side of the road with its front windshield smashed and its doors and trunk wide open.
After a few minutes of silence Carl muttered, "Dad?"
"Yes?" Rick answered; his voice calm again.
"When we get to the casino, can…can I take a guitar?"
Rick blinked and looked over his shoulder at Carl in disbelief.
"You want to take a guitar back to the prison?" Rick asked with a twinge of amusement in his voice.
Carl looked up at his father and nodded. "Yeah. Is that all right?"
Rick chuckled and looked at Michonne; she looked at him and smiled.
"Are you getting bored of reading those comic books?" Rick asked as he returned to watching the road.
Carl mumbled in agreement. Honestly, he always enjoyed comic books, and the guitar was really for Beth.
"Well…learning how to play the guitar might not be a bad idea," Rick grinned. "I used to play the guitar when you were little, remember?"
"Yeah," Carl answered with fake enthusiasm. His father played—or at least tried to play—an acoustic guitar on the weekends. He was so bad at it even mom asked him to give up the hobby.
"Okay. Casinos usually had concerts for their guests. I'm sure we'll find a few guitars there."
"Cool!" Carl grinned, imagining himself handing a guitar to a joyful Beth.
"Maybe we should pick up some other musical instruments too, and form a prison band like they did at the end of the Blues Brothers," Michonne quipped.
Rick laughed at Michonne's joke, and Michonne smiled. "Who're the Blues Brothers?" Carl asked.
•••
The bread truck was in the middle of the convoy, its windshield wipers were on the high setting Tyreese sat behind the wheel and his Mossberg 500 shotgun was laying down in the cargo hold. Karen sat in the passenger seat, with her M4A1 rifle in her hands, and listened uncomfortably as the wipers ran back and forth.
"Is that really necessary?" Karen asked as she pointed at the windshield wipers.
"It's raining. I need to see the road clearly," Tyreese answered.
"Raining? This is drizzle! We could walk in this!"
"Not all the way to Atlanta," Tyreese said with a smile.
Karen huffed, moved the barrel of her rifle from her left shoulder to her right, and looked out the passenger window.
Tyreese noticed that Karen was seriously irritated by the noise of the windshield wipers and his smile faded away. "Uh, sorry," he muttered as he reached for the wiper lever and put it on the intermediate setting.
"Are we cool?" Tyreese asked.
Karen relaxed and smiled at Tyreese. "We're cool," she answered.
Tyreese blushed and looked straight ahead; an abandoned sedan was parked sideways in the center of the road, so he slowed down the bread truck, and went around it.
"Listen, I'm sorry if was a bitch earlier," Karen apologized, "but I don't understand why you always act like you're going to make things worse."
Tyreese shrugged. "Remember when I told you about my coach?"
Karen nodded.
"Another thing coach told me was: 'You can't afford to make a mistake on the job'."
"That's crazy," Karen said in disbelief. "Mistakes are a part of life."
"Yeah, but in football, when you make a mistake, it costs you. Make enough mistakes, and they'll cost the game." Tyreese shook his head. "I've got one job now: keep people alive, and I can't afford a single mistake."
"You're putting too much pressure on yourself," Karen said comfortingly. "You put up the new gate. Now, our people can go outside the cell block without having to keep an eye on that stupid car Rick used as a fill-in."
Tyreese smiled a little, but he kept watching the road. "Thanks, but I didn't do it alone."
"You might as well have. John and Henry are in their seventies; Greg, Alonso, and Eddie are in their fifties. If you weren't there to help them, they'd all would've had heart attacks!"
This time, Tyreeese laughed and looked at Karen. "Those guys deserve some credit, but thanks again."
Karen smiled. "Are all ex-football players as humble as you?"
"Eh, I used to have an ego, back in the day," Tyreese shrugged. "Best player on the high school football team, got a scholarship to a division II school, signed by the Falcons, but played just two years; man, that was a humbling experience. It'd be hard for anybody to have an ego after going through all of that."
"Maybe. But I'm glad you're with us," Karen said.
Tyreese looked at Karen again and smiled.
•••
The Dodge Silverado brought up the rear of the convoy, its windshield wipers were on the low setting. John sat behind the wheel. Juan sat in the passenger seat, holding his Remington 870 shotgun. Floyd and Sam sat in the back seats.
"That fucking Sheriff Andy Griffith almost beat me half to death yesterday," Sam grumbled as he touched the bruises on his face gingerly.
"I sympathize, Sam," Floyd said as he scratched his temple. "I spent thirty years with the United States Postal Service, and I survived dog attacks, heavy rains, blizzards, and union strikes, but I never had a cop put a gun to my head."
"I saved Rick's and his pals' lives from the walkers and he threatened to kick me out of the prison," John said before shaking his head in disgust. "You boys know what they say about good deeds."
Sam and Floyd grumbled in agreement, while Juan sat in the passenger seat uncomfortably. Floyd noticed the handyman's discomfort and patted him on the shoulder. "You okay, Juan?"
Juan looked over his shoulder at Floyd. "SÍ," he answered with a friendly nod.
Sam huffed contemptuously. "Of course you're okay, Juan. You haven't done anything to piss off Grimes."
"Not yet," Floyd quipped.
A chuckle rose out of John and Sam; Juan smiled nervously and looked out the passenger window, and his mind drifted back to that night in the woods a year ago.
•••
The Grand Caravan's headlights illuminated the dark, empty road ahead, as Juan sat nervously in the back seat with the Remington 870 shotgun across his lap, as Philip drove through the cold, night air. Philip had his AR-15 rifle slung over the driver's seat. Nick sat in the passenger seat with his own AR-15 rifle in his hands. Juan sat nervously in the back seat, with his Remington 870 shotgun lying across his lap.
Philip had returned to camp with the surprising news that he spotted a camp of survivors four or five miles away from their own; they were a small group, but they had plenty of supplies, so he gathered up Juan and Nick, and the three men climbed into the truck and reassured their loved ones that everything would be all right before they drove away and into the night.
"Have you thought about what you're going to say to these people, Philip?" Juan asked.
Philip glanced at Juan through the review mirror. "Hello," the group's leader answered as he resumed watching the road.
"That's it?" Juan asked incredulously.
"Isn't that how friendships start, Juan?" Philip retorted with a smile.
"Relax, Juan," Nick said as he looked over his shoulder at the handyman, "we're not thieves, we're not scavengers, and we're not biters; we're survivors, same as them. Hell, the second they see us they'll probably give us a big hug and a kiss."
Juan smiled at Nick nervously, and looked out the rear passenger window. Madre Dios. Let this work out, Por favor, he thought.
Philip pulled over to the side of the road, put the truck in park, killed the engine, and looked at Nick and Juan, "we'll walk from here," he said.
Nick nodded and opened the passenger door, while Philip unslung his AR-15 rifle from the driver's seat; the two men opened the door to their side of the truck and climbed out. Juan looked left to right hurriedly, slid over to the driver's side, opened the rear passenger door, and climbed out. Nick walked around the front of the truck and stood beside Juan.
Philip, with his rifle slung over his shoulder, took his flashlight out of his jacket pocket, turned it on, and pointed it at the road as he walked across; Juan and Nick followed him.
"There," Philip said as he stepped across the road.
Juan and Nick stopped walking and looked at spot in the woods illuminated by Philip's flashlight: it was a rocky path that led uphill.
"While I was scouting, I smelled the smoke from their campfire, so I climbed up the hill, and saw their camp," Philip explained, "I made my way around and found their trucks parked on this road. They're dirt bike enthusiasts, can you believe that? They come up here on the weekends and ride across these hills."
"So do you think they're going to wait out this plague up there?" Juan asked.
Philip turned around and looked at the Latino handyman. "Does it really matter?" he retorted.
Juan looked at Nick, and noticed the cheerful expression he showed on the drive to this dirt road was gone. Instead, he now had a cold expression and was watching Philip intently.
"All right, we'll go up there quietly and slowly. Keep your guns at the ready, with the safeties off and your fingers on the trigger."
"Que?" Juan asked in bewilderment.
Philip took a step forward towards Juan. "Are you prepared to kill?" he asked.
"I thought we were going to ask these people to join our group."
"We will, but no offense to Nick and his optimistic theory about being welcomed in with open arms, we have to be prepared for anything."
Juan looked at Nick; the other man was now looking at him…coldly. Juan felt like he was standing on a line, and if he stepped over it, he would never be the same again.
"Juan!" Philip whispered urgently.
A jolt ran through Juan's body and he looked at Philip. "SÍ?" he whispered fearfully.
"Are you prepared to kill?" Philip repeated.
Beads of sweat ran down Juan's forehead. The shotgun in his hands felt as heavy as an anchor.
"Are you prepared to kill to protect Marianna?"
"SÍ! I'm prepared to kill!" Juan answered reluctantly.
Philp flashed his friendly smile and patted Juan on the shoulder. "Good," he said.
Philip turned around, unslung his rifle from his shoulder, and faced the dirt road. Nick ejected the magazine from his rifle's receiver, saw that it was fully loaded by the moonlight, and returned the magazine to the receiver. Juan took a deep breath and made the sign of the cross, his heavy shotgun in his sweaty hands.
The three men started to walk up the hill, with the beam from Philip's flashlight leading the way.
•••
"Hey, Juan!" John called out.
Juan blinked and turned to his left, and saw John looking at him bewilderedly.
"Are you okay?" John asked.
Juan looked over his shoulder and saw Floyd and Sam, sitting in the back seat, looking at him with the same puzzled look on their faces as John.
Juan looked back at John and answered, "SÍ, John. I'm okay."
"Are you sure?" John asked as he squint his eyes.
"SÍ," Juan answered.
"Well, you better stop daydreaming. I'd hate for you to mistake a girl walker for Jennifer Lopez, and roll down the window and ask her for a peck on the cheek."
Floyd and Sam chuckled at John's joke; Juan smiled good-naturedly and looked straight ahead. When his three comrades' laughter died down, Juan lowered his head, tightened his grip on the handguard to his shotgun, and thought of a desperate prayer. Dios MÍo, I know I am damned to hell. I know too that I'm not worthy or your pity, but I beg you to protect Marianna and my people.
•••
The light rain had stopped hours earlier and the sun was sinking slowly in the purple sky when the roar of a motorcycle echoed along the clear section of highway that led towards the abandoned city of Atlanta.
Daryl slowed down his motorcycle and pulled over beside an exit. The heel of his Red Wing boot struck the kickstand, and he turned the key in the motorcycle's ignition. The loud engine died suddenly, and Daryl dismounted his motorcycle.
Daryl unslung his Stryker Strykezone 380 crossbow from his back and held the silent weapon at his side, while he grabbed the hem of his poncho with his left hand, and tossed it over his left shoulder like Clint Eastwood did before he'd draw his Colt Peacemaker and killed a few banditos in those Spaghetti Westerns. Daryl then held his crossbow at the ready and began walking up the highway while carefully watching the uncountable number of abandoned vehicles that were lined up on the other side. After a few minutes of walking, stopping and walking again, and watching and listening, Daryl was convinced the highway was clear.
Daryl turned around and began walking back to his motorcycle. He took the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, brought it to his mouth, and pressed the talk button. "Rick, you copy?" he asked.
A moment later, Daryl released the talk button.
An electric squawk came out of the walkie-talkie, followed by Rick's voice. "I'm here, Daryl. Over."
Daryl pressed the talk button. "The highway's the same as we last saw it: one big ass parkin' lot. Over."
Daryl released the talk button again.
The electic squawk returned, followed again by Rick's voice. "How about the city? Over."
Daryl looked up the highway at the darkening, distant skyline of Atlanta: its skyscrapers blackened by the aftermaths of the napalm bombings; the window frames empty because the heat from the conflagration shattered the glasses. "It looks like shit," Daryl answered.
Daryl released the talk button, and waited for Rick's response.
"What about the El Dorado? Over."
Daryl turned around, looked beyond the exit sign, and at the vast parking lot and the modern age Aztec temple that stood on top of it. The El Dorado was bathed in the day's dying light, making its façade of white stucco and its horizontal rows of blue windows look like a beacon of hope.
I damn wish I'd met Carol before she married that abusive bastard Ed, and the world had gone to shit. Daryl thought. I would've rented a room at this casino for a weekend, and we'd spend the day's playin' craps and roulette, the evenin's watchin' a show (It would've bored Daryl to sleep), and the night's havin' sex in our room.
Daryl's heartbeat started to quicken as he imagined lying in bed with Carol after they had made love. She was curled up by his side, with her head on his shoulder, sleeping soundly, as he ran his hand up and down her arm slowly before drifting off to sleep.
"Daryl?!" An electronic voice shouted.
Daryl shook with surprise and looked left and right and realized he stood alone in the dark. He remembered he had been reporting to Rick, so he raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth and pressed the talk button.
"Yeah?" He spat.
"Goddamnit, Daryl, I've been shouting into this thing for over a minute! Michonne and I thought something happened to you!"
Daryl looked back at the El Dorado, the setting sun's rays had slid off the casino and were now on the dozens of cars remaining in the parking lot. For a few moments the images from his dream with Carol flashed through his mind: the two of them at the gambling tables, her dragging him to a show, and the two of them making love in their hotel room. Daryl tightened his grip on the walkie-talkie and pressed down hard on the talk button. "Nothin' happened," he said coldly.
"That's good. How about the El Dorado? Over."
"It's still here. Over."
"Thank God. We'll be there in a minute or two. Wait for us. Over."
Daryl didn't bother to reply to Rick. Instead, he clipped the walkie-talkie back onto his waist belt, reached for the poncho he'd thrown over his shoulder, and draped it over his chest. He then walked past his motorcycle, sat on the highway's guardrail, and placed his crossbow on his lap as he waited for Rick and the convoy to arrive. Daryl rubbed his hands together to fight off the approaching cold, and his rising anger that his dream of a wild and passionate weekend with Carol hadn't happened. The faint sounds of rumbling engines crept into his ears, and as the sounds grew louder, Daryl sat up and looked to his left to see the headlights of Dodge Ram 1500 as it led the convoy up the highway and come to a stop beside his motorcycle.
TO BE CONTINUED