A second door creaked open. Boots thudded onto the asphalt of the highway above. Daryl raised his eyes without raising his head. Through the tall grass, he could just make out a thick pair of combat boots and the camo-clad legs of a large man. He saw a rifle barrel, too, pointed downward for only a moment before it swung up. A military-style rifle, Daryl thought. Automatic.
Another pair of combat boots came into view, smaller ones this time, and there were no camo-clad legs. The legs were bare. Bare legs in combat boots? Daryl's mind wrestled with the anomaly. There were bare legs in a pair of combat boots. Bare and…shapely. A very shapely pair of bare women's legs in combat boots.
What the hell? Daryl thought.
Another door creaked open. "Stay in the vehicle, doctor!" boomed the man in camo pants, and the door shut again.
"Where'd they go?" the woman asked.
"They're hiding in the grass," the man replied.
Shit, Daryl thought. They had been spied.
"Hello there!" the male soldier boomed.
Daryl and Dixon remained deadly silent and low to the ground.
"It was hard to assess from my less than strategic position when passing," the man called out, "but it's clear to me only one of you has a rifle. Likely semiautomatic. And one of you only has a crossbow. Pray to God you don't have to use it. Not a very efficient weapon in a gunfight. I suppose it's possible you have handguns at your sides, but again, a pistol is not much match for a couple of M16s. It seems to me you have a limited number of choices here. You can try to stand and shoot at us, in which case we mow you down in self-defense. You can try to stay hidden, in which case my partner here covers me while I go down there and drag you out by the short and curlies. You got a shit storm behind door A, and a storm of shit behind door B."
"Just get to the point, Abe," the woman said.
"The point being, your best option is option C. And that's to rise very slowly from the grass with your hands behind your heads, leave your weapons behind, and come up this hill to have a civil conversation with us about our mission."
Dixon turned in the grass, brow furrowed, and looked at Daryl. "I don't recognize that voice," he whispered.
There was no questions they were outgunned, and if they appeared to pose a threat, those soldiers – if that's what they were – would open fire. All they could do was buy time and hope they found another chance to escape. "Do what they say," Daryl whispered.
Dixon's eyes widened with alarm and he slightly shook his head.
"Clock's a ticking, gentlemen," the man on the road boomed. "I don't have all day to sit around playing tiddlywinks."
"It's all we can do," Daryl whispered. "We'll figure it out. Just follow my lead." Not that he had any idea how or where to lead.
Nervously, Dixon began to push himself up from the grass by his palms, leaving his gun on the hill. Daryl did the same, abandoning his bow, as much as it pained him to do so. They rose to their feet and put their hands behind their heads.
Now they could see their captives clearly. The man was tall – easily 6'1" – and big, with broad shoulders, red hair and a red mustache. He grasped his M16 in bear-like paws and leveled it in their direction. The woman was a good four inches shorter, wearing grayish-green shorts – in November? – a black halter top underneath a button-down army green shirt that had been tied off to reveal her belly button and taut abdomen – in November? She had a solid army green patrol cap on her head, and fingerless gloves on her hands, which were also holding an M16.
"Holy shit," Dixon whispered. "She's hot."
"Think she must be cold in that getup," Daryl returned. Although he was starting to feel a little warm himself in his leather vest. With the sun beating down now, at the height of the late afternoon. It might be up to sixty-five degrees.
"Come on up," the woman called to them. "Slowly."
Dixon and Daryl made their way gradually up the hill. It wasn't easy to balance on a steep incline with their hands behind their heads. When they were on the road, Daryl glanced at the army truck, where he saw a man through the window: a thirty-something man with a black mullet. Daryl hadn't seen a mullet like that since 1986.
The woman patted them down and removed their handguns and knives, which she put in the back of the military truck before disappearing down the hill to claim their discarded weapons while the man continued to hold his gun on them.
"Don't get chiggers!" Daryl called after her, looking back slightly with his hands still behind his head. "Always a risk when you ain't wearin' no pants."
"It's not chigger season," she called back. "They're hibernating."
"Not all of 'em," Daryl called. "Not quite yet."
"I thought of telling her the same thing once," the man with the M16 said, "but I like looking at her legs too much. Those things just don't quit. And that ass." He kissed the tips of the fingers of one hand and made a gesture like an explosion.
"Who are you?" Dixon asked. "Are you with the Governor?"
"The Governor?" the man replied. "No, my mission was not assigned to me by the Governor or by the President, but I've taken it upon myself for the good of the nation."
"What mission?" Daryl asked.
"The mission to get that man," the redhead pointed in the direction of the military truck, "to Washington, D.C. safely."
"The man with the mullet?" Daryl asked doubtfully.
By now the woman had returned with their weapons. She tossed Dixon's rifle and Daryl's crossbow in the back of the military truck. Then she strolled over to their pick-up truck and let down the tailgate. She climbed up into the back and began examining the contents of the bed.
"Eugene!" the redheaded man called. "Get out here and explain your mission to these potential new recruits."
Daryl and Dixon exchanged puzzled glances.
"You can put your hands down now," the redheaded army man told them, and they did as the mullet-headed man got out of the military truck and walked over. "This is Dr. Eugene Porter. Tell them what you know, Eugene."
"I was part of a ten-person team at the Human Genome Project to weaponize diseases to fight weaponized diseases," Dr. Porter stated in a near monotone. "Pathogenic microorganisms with pathogenic microorganisms. Fire with fire."
Dixon blinked.
"Interdepartmental drinks were had," Dr. Porter continued, "relationships made, information shared. I am keenly aware of all the details behind fail-safe delivery systems to kill every living person on this planet. I believe with a little tweaking on the terminals in D.C., we can flip the script. Take out every last dead one of them. Fire with fire."
Dixon looked at Dr. Eugene Porter suspiciously the whole time he spoke.
"Back in the truck, doctor," the redheaded man said, and Dr. Eugene Porter returned to the military truck. He sat inside and looked dully out the window in their direction. Dixon stared back at him.
"You can see it's imperative that we get this scientist to the powers that be in Washington, D.C.," the redheaded man told them. "I'm Sergeant Abraham Ford, U.S. Army. And that's my partner in the mission –" He pointed back to the woman who was now out of the bed of their pick-up but examining the contents of the backseat of the extended cab – "Former military mechanic Rosita Espinosa. We could use all the help we can get in securing the safety of this national asset. We lost the rest of our group fighting our way north from Houston, Texas, and it's just been the three of us since Montgomery. We could use a pair of armed men like you, and it appears you gentlemen have a pick-up truck full of useful – "
"- It's mostly books!" Rosita shouted back. "Just boxes and boxes of books!" She slammed the back door of the extended cab shut and strolled over, sipping on one of the juice boxes Dixon had looted from the school bus. She lowered the straw from her mouth. "The only thing useful they have is two large ice chests with the four quarters of a dead deer in them. And gas. They have about thirty gallons of gas." She looked Daryl over suspiciously. "Do you two have a permanent camp somewhere?"
"No," Daryl and Dixon answered simultaneously, and Daryl was glad to see his nephew had the sense to keep Fun Kingdom a secret. They certainly didn't know if they could trust this strange trio with that information.
Rosita jutted out a hip. "That deer's enough to feed ten people for a week."
"Or the two of us for five weeks," Daryl replied.
"You can't keep a deer fresh in a cooler for five weeks." She coolly sipped the juice box.
Daryl shrugged. "Eat what we can 'fore it spoils."
Rosita crushed the now empty juice box in one hand. "Why are you traveling with so many books?"
"I like to read," Dixon piped up.
"In an apocalyptic wasteland?" Rosita tossed the crumpled box to the road. "While you're on the road looting and surviving, moving from place to place, night to night? You like to read?"
Dixon opened his mouth, but Daryl cut him off – "Use the pages of the books for kindlin' at night. For the campfire."
"Mhmhm," Rosita said doubtfully. She jutted her chin down the hill. "And is that your armored vehicle crashed down there?"
"Nah. Just checkin' it out," Daryl said. "See if there was any loot."
"And was there?" she asked.
"'S where we got the rifle," he lied. "And our handguns. Otherwise, just dead bodies."
"And spare tires?" Rosita asked. "We saw you rolling up a couple of spare tires when we drove past."
"Yeah," Daryl said.
"What did you take them for?" Rosita asked. "They aren't big enough for that motorcycle you have in the bed of your truck, so why did you take them?"
Daryl reeled for a believable answer.
"To make mosquito traps," Dixon said. "For when we're camping in the woods. The smell of warm rubber draws them. We hang the tires a distance from the campground, put water in there and paper pages from the books as a landing strip. The mosquitos settle to lay their eggs there, and it keeps them away from the camp. Keeps us from getting all bit up."
"Huh," Rosita said. "That works?"
"Like a charm," Dixon told her.
Rosita looked at Abraham. "You ever try that?"
"I'll file it away." Abraham looked Daryl up and down. "If it's true you're alone out here, that's all the more reason to join our mission. Can we count on you? Are you with us? You want to saddle up in that pick-up and join the caravan to victory?"
"Think we're gonna pass," Daryl said.
Abraham took a step forward toward Dixon and tilted his head. "That's your father speaking, son. But what about you? Let me ask you this - is that all you want to be?"
"Is what all we want to be?" Dixon asked.
"Wake up in the morning, ride out in your pick-up truck, fight the undead pricks, forage for food? Read your little books? Go to sleep with two eyes open, rinse and repeat?"
"Uh…we've been surviving just fine."
"If we get Dr. Porter to Washington," Abraham told him, "then he makes the dead die and the living will have this world again. And that is not a bad takeaway for a little road trip. So I'm just going to ask you this one time and one time alone, and then if you say no, we'll walk away and leave you to your purposeless existence. Do you want to join our mission and change the world?"
"No, thank you," replied Dixon, glancing again at Eugene.
Rosita laughed. "No, thank you. Well, at least he's polite."
"However this plays out," Abraham said, "however long it takes for the reset button to kick in, you can be safe. Safer than you've been since this whole thing started. Come with us! Save the world with us! Save it for the people out there," he pointed down the road, "who got nothing left to do except survive."
"Thought you said you was only gonna ask us once," Daryl said. "Answer's still no."
Abraham sighed and lowered his M-16 so it was dangling against his leg. "Fine. The last thing I need is reluctant recruits. If you want to piss your days away, that's your choice. But we'll be taking one of those coolers of deer meat and one of your ten-gallon gas jugs."
"Just robbin' us then?" Daryl asked. "And then lettin' us go?"
"We're not robbing you," Abraham said. "As a Sergeant of the U.S. Army in a time of national need, I'm appropriating supplies necessary to fulfill a mission that is of crucial national interest. Rosita, get the deer and the gas. You, help her."
"Me?" Dixon asked.
"Yeah. You."
Dixon and Rosita went to the pick-up while Abraham continued to keep his eye on Daryl. Daryl watched as Dixon said something to Rosita, rummaged through one of the boxes, closed it, and then rummaged through another before handing her a paperback book. Then Rosita walked to the military truck, a cooler in one hand and the book in the other, her gun on her shoulder. She tossed the book into the back of the truck and then swung the cooler in. Dixon followed with the gas, which he put in the back of the truck.
At least they weren't taking all three jugs, Daryl thought. They'd still have 20 gallons, not to mention the fourteen or so he'd put in the pick-up and motorcycle.
The soldiers made Daryl and Dixon wait on the hill. They left their weapons on the road and then quickly roared off in the military truck. Uncle and nephew raced to reclaim their weapons. They watched the truck barrel off down the highway.
Dixon laughed. "Whoo! I thought we were dead for a minute there!"
The military truck swung a hard left at the fork in the road. Daryl sighed in relief. That was not the direction of Fun Kingdom, at least. He patted his nephew on the back. "Good job keeping your cool, kid. That sergeant was one crazy motherfucker. 'S get the tires and get the hell outta here."
This time, Daryl kept watch on the road while Dixon rolled up the tires one by one and tossed them in the bed of the pick-up. Once Daryl was back in the driver's seat and on the road he said, "Nice save with the mosquito traps. That actually work?"
"Hell if I know," Dixon said. "But it sounded plausible, didn't it?"
Daryl chuckled. "What was with the book you gave her?"
"It's Project-629X. I just thought she should know. So I told her to read it, that it would give her some insights into their mission."
Daryl swung right at the fork in the road and looked in his rearview mirrior. The military truck was long gone now, a mere speck in the the distance. "Know what?"
"Doctor Eugene Porter – if that's who he really is – got that story of his from Project-629X. It's by a little-known science fiction author. It wasn't exactly a best-seller. But I had it. In the book, there's this outbreak of a cold-like virus that kills off two thirds of the world's population and turns the rest into werewolves."
"Werewolves?"
"Yeah. It didn't make a lot of sense. Anyway, the virus was manufactured in a lab by a mad scientist who was part of an international Human Genome Project. While they were all mapping the human genome, he went renegade to work on his own project because he was upset his girlfriend had dumped him or something. And he unleashed this virus. And the only way to save the world in the book is for this other scientist to fight fire with fire - those were the exact words. He had to battle his way through the werewolves all the way to a top-secret laboratory in Washington, D.C. to flip the script – again, the exact words used in the book - to re-sequence the DNA of the virus and release the re-sequenced one into the world, thus infecting and killing all the werewolves but not infecting humans."
"You mean to tell me," Daryl replied, "that sergeant and his Barbie doll are riskin' their damn lives to go all the way to D.C. because of some bullshit a man in a mullet fed them?"
"Maybe they'll find something there."
"Doubt it." Daryl told him about Dr. Jenner and the explosion of the Atlanta CDC and how he appeared to be the last scientist standing.
"I just thought she deserved to know. I feel bad for them. They're burning up gas and risking their lives for him. They could be settled somewhere."
"Think thing's are settled?" Daryl asked. "At Fun Kingdom?"
"As settled as they're ever going to be," Dixon replied.
"So you're gonna be a'right there?"
"Yeah," Dixon replied. "Yeah, I am." He smiled. "I mean, I'll need to get out sometimes. Hunting. Hiking…"
"Hiking to the farm?" Daryl asked warily.
"I want Beth to meet Daisy."
Daryl sighed. He supposed there was no fighting the hormones of a seventeen-year-old boy. He pushed the accelerator a little harder, until the truck rattled slightly, rattling on home - to Fun Kingdom and to Carol.