"They're from a band." Clancy explained, licking his finger and rubbing out a dirt stain on the plastic tip of the shoe.
Daryl scoffed from the driver's seat, glancing down towards the shoes. "Ain't look like no rockstars I've ever seen."
"Yeah, that's the point— They're cartoons, the band members, and like they have a whole ongoing storyline with each of the characters and—" Daryl definitely wasn't listening anymore. "The actual guy who, like, sings for the band, Damon Albarn, he also has another band in the UK called Blur, so he's like doing double the work than a normal musician would."
Clancy thumbed the canvas body of the shoes, a grimy finger running over the green paint that made up the skin of one of the characters on his sneakers. "This is Murdoc, he's the uh— the bassist, but like not really y'know, like—"
"Yeah, I got it." Daryl grumbled, eyes narrowing on the road.
Clancy looked out the window, transfixed on the rolling green plains that lay on each side of the road that they were careening down. "Never got over how similar it was to Virginia."
"What?" The dirty man asked.
"I lived in Virginia before all of this." Clancy rolled his wrist, gesturing towards the car window. "My dad and I moved down here a few months before the Groaners started coming out."
Daryl looked at his passenger. He was young. Had to be a few years older than Carl at most. Hell, maybe he was even the same age. The boy's hair fell from his head in unruly curls, strands tangled to all hell falling past his forehead, over his ears, and down his neck like a pack of encroaching snakes. A sun-kissed, freckled face stared back at him with a short nose and wide, brown, doe eyes.
He was talking about Virginia still, something about how even though the state held the capital in it, it was surprisingly empty, mostly consisting of countryside and suburbs. Then he started talking about riding his bike around the neighborhood for hours and not seeing anyone, which led into a conversation about how little people were around nowadays. This gave Daryl the perfect setup for "the question."
"Look, I was gonna ask you something before you got in the car but them walkers back there cut me off.." The archer said gruffly, one hand on the steering wheel. "How many walkers you kill?" He questioned, eyes staying trained on the road.
"Uh— uh—" Clancy found himself stumbling over his own words. Does he lie? Tell the truth? Which one would look better. Shit, shit, shit, shit— "Ten." He lied. It was one. The one that almost got him in the store. That was nearly three months ago at this point.
Daryl's coin-slot eyes opened wider than Clancy had seen before. The man was clearly shocked at the kid's answer. Should he have killed more at this point? Less? He readjusted himself in the driver's seat and coughed . "How many people you kill?"
"None." It was a swift answer, something that didn't even take a second to register in the boy's mind. Why would he kill someone? He hadn't even seen anyone for the past half a year, maybe longer at this point, and even if he did, killing them would probably be the last thing on his to-do list.
That got him thinking. If Daryl asked a question like that so nonchalantly, what were most people like out there? Killing for sport? Collecting scalps like in the old west? Maybe people are just desperate now. Desperate for food, water, and human contact like he was.
The only time he ever killed something was when the Eater came into the store he was picking through. And even then, he sat balled up in the corner of the small bodega sobbing to himself for an hour after he shoved the knife into its eyeball. Jesus, he could only imagine what would happen if he had to— He shuddered in the seat just thinking about it.
"Why?" Daryl followed up his previous question.
He looked at the redneck sitting next to him. Maybe he'd tell the truth this time. Couldn't hurt, right?. "Haven't seen anyone for over half a year." Clancy began. "I was living in an information booth since like…" What month was it? "For a long time." Clancy stated.
"Information booth?"
"Yeah, on a hiking trail. Probably explains why I didn't see anyone. I mean, who's gonna go on a hike during the end of the world right?" The boy said with a smile in his voice. Daryl didn't laugh.
"I spent most of the time fixing that place up. I guess it was a campground too because I was able to find some cabins, tore them apart, and used some of the wood to cover up the windows. I was gonna board up one of the doors, but if those things got in through one of them and the other was boarded up, then I'd be screwed, y'know."
"Spent a lot of time painting too. The whole wall was, like, covered in crazy shit by the time I had to pack up and leave." He looked down at his shoes. "Wish I could've taken some pictures or something, I spent a long time making that place a uh— a home, as cheesy as that sounds." Clancy wrinkled his nose at his own sentence.
"How'd you go about making that thing?" The man motioned to the backseat of the car with his head.
Sitting in the back was a piece of armor, at least, that's what Clancy described it as. It was a rudimentary amalgamation of pieces of scrap metal, license plates, and fifty other things he didn't know the names of slapped together on top of a piece of football equipment. The boy never tested it out, and he only wore it a few times, but he couldn't deny that it looked a little cool on him. Okay, he thought it looked badass and was wearing it when Daryl found him on the side of the road.
"I had a lot of free time. I painted these things," he pointed to the shoes. "And like, three other pairs I left behind, got one extra in the duffel bag over there too. And uh… Oh! I found some football gear in the back of a truck a while ago. Found a set that fit and took it with me. Then I just ripped cars apart, took anything that looked like it could work for what I was trying to do." He stared at the piece of scrap metal in the backseat. "I think I did a pretty bang-up job. I mean, it probably doesn't actually work as like, y'know, a piece of armor, but—"
"Bet you're lucky I took the car with me, huh?" Daryl interrupted, only to receive a sound of confusion from the boy beside him. "Piece'a junk would've never fit on my bike."
"You people and your motorcycles." Clancy scoffed.
"S'that supposed to mean?"
Clancy laughed. "It's just— I used to know a guy who had a motorcycle. Treated it like it was the eighth wonder of the world or something." Daryl didn't laugh.
"He's a smart man."
"Yeah… yeah, he was." Clancy bit his fingernail while staring into the rearview mirror idly. "Hey, why'd you ask me about how many people I killed earlier?"
Daryl looked at the boy morosely. "People ain't like they used to be. Just keep it at that." He rubbed his nose with a dirty hand and squinted at the tree line. "Should be there in fifteen minutes," Daryl paused, "give or take."
People ain't like they used to be? What the hell does that mean? Clancy chewed his lip while he looked through the windshield. If Daryl was telling the truth, did everyone just go all Mad Max and shit in the past year and a half. Riding around in souped-up cars, murdering people, and stuff? I mean, it couldn't have been that bad, right?
Daryl seemed like a nice enough guy though. A little on the quiet side, or maybe Clancy was just talking too much and annoying the guy. Probably the latter. But even then, he seemed like he was doing things for the right reason, and if this group that Daryl had were anything like him, he'd be fine. Clancy crossed his fingers for them to talk some more at least.
"I lied about how many Groaners I killed earlier." Clancy thumbed a hole in the knee of his jeans. He hated ripped jeans, but beggars can't be choosers regarding attire in the end of the world. "I only killed one." He sighed.
Daryl seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, holding back whatever words he had in his mind. "S'fine. We'll teach ya." He shot him a thin smile. "We got some good people back at the prison."
"Prison?"
"Yeah, s'where we live. Get used to it."
"Hey, I'm not complaining." The boy nodded his head, looking into space and smiling. "Does sound kind of badass thinking about it now."
The car fell silent save for Daryl letting out an occasional cough or the sound of metal on metal in the backseat as the chest plate scraped up against the carabiner attached to Clancy's duffel bag.
"Hey, I'm sorry for talking your head off, probably like— super annoying." Clancy laughed nervously. "I just haven't talked to anyone other than myself in, like, literally months and—"
"Don't worry about it." Daryl growled.
"Yeah… yeah, okay, cool."
"You been alone out here the whole time?"
"Nah, I uh— I was with my dad and his family when this started, but…" A defeated look spread across his face and he slapped his knees with both hands. "You know how those things go nowadays, I guess." Clancy said, sucking in air through his teeth sharply.
"Yeah." Daryl looked down.
Clancy shifted in the seat, lifting himself up and leaning towards Daryl as he dug through his pockets. "Hey, do you mind if I smoke in here? I'll lower the window."
"Whatever."
"You want one? Marlboro Golds." The boy held out a slightly wrinkled cigarette in a grimy hand. Daryl took it and motioned for the lighter after Clancy pulled out the small orange Bic.
"When you start smokin'?" He asked through lips spread around the cigarette.
"About six months ago. Found a shit ton of Golds in the information booth. Haven't been smoking a lot of them but—" Clancy brought the lighter up to the cigarette and covered it with his left hand, flicking the spark wheel and inhaling sharply as the tobacco began to burn. "One every now and then helps settle me down, especially with all this shit going on. Jesus, I sound like an old man." He laughed, only for Daryl to once again remain silent.
Clancy leaned over and lit Daryl's cigarette before swiftly moving to the passenger's side window and blowing the smoke out the window. "Sorry for getting smoke in the car, should've lit your's first."
The archer held the wheel with one hand, limply pulling the cigarette from his mouth and blowing the smoke out of his window. "Don't worry about it." He said gruffly. "These things'll kill ya, y'know."
"So will the monsters that are everywhere and eat people alive."
"Guess you're right."
Clancy breathed in deeply and let the smoke sit in his lungs as he counted to five then exhaled out the window. He closed his eyes as he felt himself float through the car temporarily, the head rush making him feel both heavy and light as a feather at the same time. It subsided as fast as it came, and it took all the willpower in the world to not go back for a second drag.
Clancy was running out, this one and another pack were the only ones he brought with him, and although he told Daryl that he didn't smoke that much during his six months alone, that was another lie. He'd found three cartons in the information booth, and he'd gone through most of them in the time he was there. He wasn't necessarily addicted, but turning down a cigarette after a long day was something that was becoming harder and harder for the boy.
"How long have you guys been at the prison?" Clancy asked, bringing the cigarette to his lips and leaving it hanging there.
"Few months." Daryl stated plainly. "Been on the road for a while before that, but once we found this place, we finally settled down. Got farms, animals, water, showers, you name it."
It had to be a lie. Farms? Showers? Showers? "How'd you— How'd you guys get showers?" Clancy asked, sounding almost a little too excited.
"Hooked up a hose to a bucket that we fill up every day. Nothing fancy, really." Daryl took a drag of the cigarette before pulling it from his lips. Clancy did the same.
"Damn." The boy fell silent. "Alright, I'm sold."
Surprisingly, Daryl cracked a smile and shook his head. He took another puff of the cigarette and threw it out the window. "By the way, when we get in there, you're carrying that shit to your cell and explaining it to everyone." Daryl motioned to the duffel bag and rudimentary chest plate in the back of the car. "No way in hell I'm cutting you any slack on whatever that thing is."
"It's cool. That's what it is."
"Not what I'd call it, but go for it, I guess."
Clancy looked at his fingernails as he smoked. All cracked and dirty, just like they had been for God knows how long. He'd been biting them off recently, probably just a nervous tick or something. He used to do it after he moved away from New York and stopped soon after, but somehow it found its way back to him. He took another drag of the cigarette and threw it out the window.
Maybe that's why he was running out so fast. He'd barely gotten halfway through that one before he chucked it. The same could be said for the three cartons he'd burned through over the past six months.
"How long did it take to set up the farms and stuff?"
"Ask Rick or Hershel about that stuff. I was never really a farmer, myself. Focussed on hunting. Half'a the reason I was out here. Until I found your sorry ass, that is." Daryl murmured.
"Really? What do you hunt? My dad took me on a hunting trip in upstate New York like…" He exhaled loudly, scratching the back of his head as he struggled to come up with a date. "I dunno, eight years ago? I was really young. Anyways, we almost got a deer, but I think one of us stepped on a twig or something and it bolted."
"Got a buck the size of a car once."
"Really? What'd you use? A shotgun or-"
"This." He pointed to the crossbow in between his legs. Clancy hadn't even noticed it when he got into the car.
"Oh. Yeah, cool." The boy said, nodding his head at the man with a wide smile. Once again, a tired smirk found its way on his lips as he swiftly turned to the left, jostling Clancy in his seat.
"We're here. Stay sharp."
Before Clancy could say anything, the car burst out of the dense forest and into a huge clearing with a prison smack in the middle of it. The structure was like a castle. It stood tall with huge fences, thick gates that were made out of some type of reinforced scrap metal, and just as Daryl said, farms and animal pens lining the yard. The archer said something to a black woman and she peered into the car, smiling and waving at Clancy. He returned an awkward greeting as the car pulled to the side and Daryl turned it off, swinging the door open and stepping out into the yard.
"Yo Jabberjaw, you comin'?"
Clancy looked at the dirty man in the prison yard, eyes wide as he scanned across the fortress that lay before him. He nodded his head, exiting the car awkwardly and stumbling towards the back seat, swinging the door open. Everyone was looking at him, he didn't even have to see them, but he could tell that they all had their eyes on him. Sighing, Clancy reached for the duffel bag, gripping onto the shoulder strap and pulling it out of the car sharply.
Clancy sucked in a breath of air as the chest plate fell onto its side and seemed as if it was about to tumble into the place between the front and back seats. He dropped the duffel bag and leaned into the car, groaning as he placed both hands under the shoulder guards and pulling it out, leaving it next to the bag. Clancy slammed the door with a tut and threw the duffel bag over his shoulder, as well as fastening the chest plate under his armpit. He turned back towards Daryl, whose face was buried deep in his hand.
"Yeah, I'm- I'm coming." Clancy stuttered with a nervous smile.