Daryl leaves his breakfast plate on the table, takes his crossbow from the hook on the back of the door, and swings it on his shoulder as Carol lets a squirming Sweetheart down from her highchair. "So what are you and Mitch scavenging for?" Carol asks.
"Thought I'd get Hershel that baseball card he wanted. Ya know, mentioned it, in that classified."
"A guy with a red hat?"
"Mhm."
"Why does he want a guy with a red hat so much?" Carol asks.
"Told 'em Glenn used have a red baseball cap."
"Ah." Carol sets a breakfast plate in the washing tub. "I thought it was more burgundy."
"Might be back late tonight. After sunset. 'S a'right?"
"You might have mentioned it sooner," Carol replies. "I have a council meeting tonight. I thought you'd be home to watch Sweetheart."
"Can't Shannon watch 'er?"
"Shannon's on the council now.
"Oh. So who's watchin' the boys?"
"Dante. He's coming over to the Barron cabin with Yona. But I doubt he wants a fourth kid there." She sighs. "I'll see if Gunther and Dianne can watch her. They need the practice anyway. Just give me at least a 24-hour heads up next time."
"Mhmhm. Well, ya could of given me a 24 hour heads up on the council meetin'."
"It's on the calendar." Carol points to the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall, next to the hutch. July was illustrated by one of the upper-school kids and contains a picture of a beach and a sailboat. It pays to be a council member – you get a hand drawn calendar every year. The sheriff also gets one, as does the tavern manager, and one hangs in the library and the schoolhouse. "You might check it before you make plans. You might even put your plans on there."
Daryl glowers. "Things were better when we didn't have calendars."
"No, things were not better when we didn't have calendars. When we didn't have calendars, people got killed more regularly, and sometimes we ran out of food."
Sweetheart runs off to look at Stinky in the aquarium.
"Wasn't 'cause of the lack of calendars," Daryl insists. "Want anythin'? While 'm out?"
It's a conciliatory gesture, Carol knows, and she accepts it. "Yes, actually, can you find a booster seat for Sweetheart? She's getting much too big for this highchair, and too old for it, too."
"Hell can't we just use a couple phone books? 'S what m'folks did."
"You asked me if I wanted something."
"A'ight. Yeah. Get ya a booster seat." He walks forward, puts a hand on the small of Carol's back, pulls her forward, kisses her lips, and murmurs. "Sorry."
When he pulls away, she says, "Just check the calendar next time."
"Wanted to get Mitch out. Man needs to let off some steam. Kill some walkers."
"Is he upset about Witherspoon's engagement?"
Daryl shrugs. "Dunno why. 'S got Aaron now."
"They dated a long while. Witherspoon was his first boyfriend since the collapse. And he left Mitch for Devon." She pats his cheek. "You're a good friend." She kisses his nose. "And a good uncle. Don't risk your life over a baseball card, though, okay?"
"Mhmhm." Daryl heads over to Sweetheart and ruffles her hair. "See ya later, baby girl. Be good for mama and Uncle Gunther and Aunt Dianne."
"Gun-Gun?" she asks.
"Yeah, 's gonna watch ya tonight for a bit." He heads over to the door and picks up his mostly empty pack in the corner. It has a machete attached to one side and a canteen to the other, and maybe some deer jerky inside for lunch, Carol guesses, but he's no doubt hoping to fill it o the trip.
"Are you bringing Dog?" she asks.
Dog barks in reaction to his name and stands from his throne on the rug.
"Nah. 'S herdin' today. Gunther'll stop by 'n get 'em soon. Sit." Dog whimpers and sits. "'Sides, no room for 'em. We're takin' m' bike."
"Then how are you going to bring back a booster seat?"
"Got that luggage rack on the back now. Booster seat ain't that big. Be fine."
"If you happen to find Denim Dreams numbers 9, 16, or 23," Carol tells him as he puts his hand on the handle of the front door, "I haven't read those ones yet."
Daryl half turns. "9, 16, 23," he repeats. "23, 16, 9."
"Yep."
"Don't know what ya see in that guy." He opens the door.
"It's a different guy in every book," she tells him.
"Yeah, you keep tellin' yerself that." Daryl slips out the door, shutting it behind himself.
[*]
"WOW!" one of the orphans yells on the path to the docks as Daryl, leaning into the curve on his motorcycle, roars past the line of kids walking to school together. Daryl can hear the boy whooping behind him.
He owns the only motorcycle in Jamestown, though the Jamestown head mechanic has an electric moped with batteries that are re-charged by solar power. She's started working on converting a farm tractor to ethanol now that she's heard about Alexandria's plan to build an ethanol distillery and trade CandyPower. When she's done with that, she says she'll convert a flat-bed pick-up truck for scavenging and farm work, but that's about all the vehicles Jamestown can hope to get enough ethanol to power regularly. Daryl's glad to hear about the distillery, too, because it takes him forever to make his own ethanol from the dregs of the corn he gets, and then half of it goes to the council in payment for the corn and to use for the museum's back-up generator. CandyPower will use "economies of scale" Eugene said, and so it will be a lot cheaper than what Daryl makes.
When he gets to the museum, Daryl purrs his motorcycle to a stop and rolls it through the front door. A redheaded orphan boy, who is well behind the others and no doubt late for school holds it open for him. "Thanks, kid," Daryl murmurs, and gets a "Yes, sir. Cool bike!" in return.
As Daryl's pushing the bike across the faux marble floors past the hallway office, he hears Garland's stern voice, "Because if you don't pull your head out of your ass, you're going to lose your family, that's why!" Daryl glances down the hallway, sees Garland standing in front of the open door of his office and talking to former deputy Andrew Davies in the hallway. "You already got demoted," Garland continues. "Lost your job."
"I got another job," Andrew replies as Daryl looks away. "And you have no idea how much extra I make on the side drawing family por - "
"- And then you're out carousing in the Tavern," Garland interrupts, "leaving Trisha home alone with Little John every single night she's not working?"
"Not every night. Carousing? Who told you that? Gunther?"
"How long do you think Trisha's going to keep tolerating…"
Garland's voice fades as Daryl approaches the welcome desk in the foyer, where Mitch has a road map spread out and is circling a spot in red pen. Daryl bends over the map.
"Here and here," Mitch says. "Jamestown hasn't scavenged either neighborhood."
"Why not?"
"There were migrating herds near both places the last time they thought to check. They never got back around to them."
"Got 120 miles max on this ethanol. Leave 20 miles 'case we gotta detour to 'scape a herd or somethin'. So no more 'n 50 miles out."
Mitch looks between his two circles and puts his finger down on one of them. He measures using his thumb and forefinger and looks at the scale. "This one's forty miles."
"'N let's ride."
[*]
Daryl takes the bike about as fast as it can go before Mitch yells over the roar of the motor for him to slow down. He does, but not too much. There's a lot of leaning and weaving around debris in the road, abandoned cars, and the occasional straggling walker. Daryl has to stop once to get the bike over a fallen tree in the highway, and while he does, Mitch gets some walker killing in. Four bodies, stabbed in the head, lay strewn on the highway before they move on.
When they get to the neighborhood, it's closed up tight by one of those tall iron gates that rolls open when you enter a pass code from your car. On either side of the gates is an eight-foot-tall brick wall. "Rich hood," Daryl mutters. "Gonna be some nice shit."
"I bet Witherspoon grew up in a neighborhood like this."
"Fuck that guy," Daryl mutters.
"That's harsh," Mitch says. "Witherspoon's a good guy."
"Ain't half the man Aaron is," Daryl tells him as he buries his bike behind the overgrown bushes. He doesn't really expect any humans to come by to steal it, but he still remembers running into Dwight and losing both his bow and his bike in the woods near Alexandria.
"Aaron will be happy about it, I bet," Mitch says when Daryl is back out of the bushes. "Witherspoon and Devon's wedding. He asked me if I ever think about getting back together with him. You know he was jealous of Jesus and Tara of all people. He doesn't seem like the jealous type, does he? He's so calm all the time."
"Mhmm."
"I think Aaron just doesn't realize how great he is," Mitch continues. "His family rejected him, you know, when he came out. Old insecurities. We hashed it out, though. I told him I couldn't do this long-distance thing if he doesn't trust me, and we talked it out."
"Mhm." Daryl wants to get over that wall, but he figures Mitch needs to get a few things off his chest first.
"You know he wouldn't even come out publicly for the longest time about us."
"Aaron?" Daryl grunts.
"No. Witherspoon. You remember how it was. It took him forever even to call me his boyfriend, and then he's with Devon for about one hot minute and they're getting married?"
"Mhmhm."
"Married. He didn't want to come out at all, and now he's marrying Devon in front of God and Jamestown!"
"Mhm."
Mitch sighs. "Maybe I'm just not serious relationship material. I mean, it's not like Aaron's asked me to move to Alexandria either."
"Ya asked him to move to Jamestown?"
Mitch scoffs. "There's no way in hell he's moving Gracie from her home. And he's on the council."
"Yeah, but uh…Ain't no relationship guru, but if ya asked 'em, then he'd know you was serious."
"He knows."
"Does he?"
Mitch laughs and shakes his head. "I never thought I'd be talking to Daryl Dixon about my relationship problems. You know, when I first met you, you scared the shit out of me."
"Ya didn't show it."
"No?"
"Well…" Daryl holds his thumb and forefinger apart an inch. Mitch laughs. There's a rustling in the bushes on the right side of the gate, where Daryl's bike isn't buried. "I got it," Mitch says. He draws his knife, saunters over, and waits for the walker to emerge before sliding the blade into its skull and yanking it out. He peers behind the bushes. "Think that's all."
They find a good spot to the right of the gate, where the bushes aren't too overgrown, and Daryl boosts Mitch up by a foot until he can grab hold of the ledge. He pulls himself up on the brick wall, stands, and surveys the entire scene with binoculars. "Not too bad," he reports. "Might want to pick off some before we jump down."
Daryl's less graceful getting up the wall. He ends up climbing on top of some bushes, trying to avoid sinking in, and then heaving himself up pull-up style. When he stands atop the wall and looks down, there are eight walkers already pressed against the brick, gnashing their jaws and reaching their desiccated arms upward toward the human meal above, their fingertips coming within about a foot of Daryl's boots. Behind them, several more walkers are spilling out from between the houses. "Thought ya said it wasn't too bad."
"A dozen and a half isn't too bad," Mitch replies. "Certainly not for the hero of the mutiny of 7 NE."
Daryl sighs. "You stab the ones already at the wall, 'n I shoot the ones comin' this way."
"Fair enough." Mitch snaps on a thick, brown, half-sleeve leather glove to protect his hand and lower arm from scratches, draws his hunting knife, and kneels to bend down and stab as Daryl lets fly his first arrow.
[*]
Daryl cleans the last of his bloody arrows with his handkerchief and then tosses the handkerchief on the street. He'll get a new one in one of these houses. This one's bloodstained beyond hope now. He reloads his bow, adjusts his pack on his shoulder, and follows Mitch down the dead-walker-strewn street.
They stroll toward the first and largest house on the corner. It's made of tan and yellow stone and has a castle-like tower on one end, with a conical roof. The house next to it looks more like something Shakespeare might have lived in, only bigger, and the one next to that is Victorian style. "Fuckin' pretentious," Daryl mutters.
"I don't know," Mitch says. "I kind of like it. They're all different at least. It's not one of those cookie-cutter neighborhoods."
Daryl spies a toddler swing in the front yard of the second, Shakesperian-style house and marches toward it. Mitch jogs to catch up. "Why so intent on this one? Why not the first house?"
"'Cause this one's got a swing out front. Might have a booster seat." Daryl bangs on the front door with the side of his fist. They wait for about five minutes, and when there's no sign of walkers, he tries the front door. Daryl steps back from the welcome mat, lifts it up, and sure enough – there's a key beneath. "Dumbass."
Daryl works the key in the door and throws it open. Mitch presses in with his rifle pointed and then Daryl follows. The two peel off in opposite directions, checking rooms and calling Clear as they circle the open floor plan before meeting again in the foyer. Daryl glances upstairs, but doesn't see or hear anything.
"They must have been out of town when the shit hit the fan," Mitch says.
"Could mean good loot." They head to the kitchen first, where Daryl finds just what he's looking for – a plastic, white and blue booster seat with a green tray and straps that can be buckled to a chair. He runs a finger over the tray and it comes off coated with dust. "Least it ain't got food caked on it." The family must have scrubbed down after their last meal. He unclips it from the chair but leaves it on top of the table for now.
Mitch opens the pantry, and steps back with such disgust that Daryl expects a walker inside, but when he levels his bow, he realizes it's only a teething swarm of ants that has Mitch scrunching his face.
"Guess we aren't taking the sugar," Mitch says. The ants are swarming the surface of the partially open bag and have likely filled the inside.
"Grab that 5-pound bag of rice. Aint' been opened."
Mitch winces at the horde black insets crawling over its surface. "You grab it."
"Ya still got that glove 'n sleeve on."
"Oh. Yeah." Mitch grabs the ant-swarmed bag, pulls it down, and beats the ants off on the kitchen counter. He throws the cleaned off bag on top of the booster seat, and then grabs a towel to swat the few ants off his sleeve that have crawled on from the bag. When he turns around, Daryl is holding an unopened bottle of vodka.
"Oh, that ya were willing to touch?"
"No ants on it. Looks like we had a pantry nipper. Get the rest on the top shelf."
Mitch smirks. "Can't reach?"
Daryl glowers, but says nothing. He actually can't reach. The pantry goes almost all the way to the ceiling, and the booze is toward the back of the top shelf. Mitch is a good five inches taller than he is.
When Mitch is done, he has an unopened bottle of Jameson's and an unopened bottle of tequila. He didn't bother with the open bottle of rum because ants somehow found their way inside. "I don't guess any of that canned food is worth taking?" Mitch asks.
"Ten years? Nah. Ain't the storage kind." Daryl takes an arrow out of his quiver and uses it to knock and unopened canister of salt off the shelf. He kicks it until most of the ants are squished and then wipes it down with another kitchen towel before adding it to the pile of loot on the table.
"The honey's not salvageable," Mitch says as he surveys the pantry. "They got deep inside it. How I do not know. Those classic oats might be okay. They're unopened." Mitch seizes the bag of oats, swats off the ants, and sets the bag on the table.
Daryl closes the pantry on the swarming ants. "'S on the wish list? Kitchen wise?"
Mitch removes the leather glove and sleeve and shoves it in his pack before pulling out a sheet of college-ruled notebook paper. A wish list is kept on the clipboard at the Welcome Desk in the museum. If people are looking for items that might be fairly easily scavenged, they write them down on the wish list, and anyone who is going scavenging takes it with them when they go. Usually the scavengers get a thank you for their trouble – a round of ammunition or a pinch of tobacco or a small apple.
Sometimes people put ridiculous items on the list – like entire bottles of hard liquor – which never go to individuals but always go ten percent to the scavengers and ninety percent to the Tavern for distribution. But some people make more reasonable requests. "Mallory McBride wants a meat thermometer," Mitch says. "Maude Weatherby wants a good metal spatula. Not plastic. Madame Linda wants another corkscrew. And Trisha wants a manual can opener."
Daryl quickly jerks open drawers until he finds every one of the items and adds them to the pile. Mitch, who is still reading over the list, laughs.
"What?" Daryl grunts.
"Someone wrote Seaman Reedus wants a vibrator. Probably Ensign Lincoln."
"Pfft."
They go through the cabinets next, where Mitch finds an unopened jar of instant coffee crystals in the cupboard above the coffee pot. He also takes a French press. "It's on the list. Madam Linda wants a second one for the tavern."
They leave the loot on the table for now and then go upstairs and clear quickly, but there's no sign of walkers. Daryl goes to the toddler's bedroom first – he can tell by the car-shaped bed – and looks for baseball cards. There's none, but he grabs a Richard Scary book for Sweetheart. He's got to bring her back something after all, and this one has a lot of pictures of people being busy. She loves pointing out things. When he comes out of the room, he meets Mitch, who tells him there's nothing worth taking in the master bedroom. "See any trashy romance novels?"
Mitch smiles. "I never would have guessed."
"For Carol."
"No. No books. Carol reads trashy romance novels?"
Daryl shrugs and thunders down the stairs.
"Carol?" Mitch calls after him doubtfully.
[*]
When Daryl comes back home that night, it's a little after eight, and Sweetheart is already in bed. Carol is sitting at the kitchen table writing a letter by oil lamp light. He sets the booster seat down on one of the wooden chairs. "Needs a good cleanin'."
"Thank you. That's perfect. Did you find Hershel's baseball card?"
"Yeah. Finally. Had to check ten attics for old stored shit. Guess kids didn't collect 'em anymore. Got Pete Rose. 1970. Cincinnati Reds. Mitch says it'd of been worth $150 in the Old World."
"Well it will be worth the moon to Hershel. Find anything else good? It looks like you've got some finder's fees in that pack."
Daryl slides the pack from his shoulder, drops it on the floor, and pulls out a chair to sit down near her. "Five-pound bag of dry rice," he says as he unzips the pack. "So we get half a cup. Four bottles of liquor. We get three shots. Bunch of boxes of ammo. We get 10 rounds of .22, 2 shotgun shells, and 6 rounds of .223. Also get 'n ounce of coffee crystals."
"Nice!"
"Ain't mad I went scavengin' anymore, huh?"
"I was never mad."
He pulls out a paperback book and drops it on the table. "Denim Dreams #47. Know it ain't one of the numbers ya told me, but wasn't sure if ya even knew they went that damn high."
"Yeah. They go up to 50." Carol takes the book and fans the pages. "I've already read this one. But thank you for trying, Pookie. This one will make good kindling for the fireplace, at least."
"Pffft. They'd all make good kindlin'."
Carol smiles at him, and Daryl smiles back.