The same morning Daryl leaves for his bear hunt, Carol is scheduled for pike cleaning. This time, only Garrison awaits her at the warehouse. He's wearing that green John Deere cap again. It's worn and sweaty, and she wonders if he ever takes it off. "I'm your cleaning partner today," he says.
"Just the two of us?" she asks.
"I do the work of ten men," Garrison replies. "Planting, harvesting, supply running, pike cleaning, digging irrigation. At least I finally get paid my dues now. Almost."
What a ray of sunshine, Carol thinks. But Garrison isn't lying. He does the work of ten men out there, striding down those pike lines and bayonetting heads faster than she can keep up. "Hey!" she calls, "let me kill some!"
He stops, mid-bayonet thrust, metal in the air, and then pulls his rifle back without burying it between the thrashing creature's eyes. He shoulders his rifle and looks at her quizzically before he whips his cap off his head and runs a hand through his sweaty red hair. "Well, go on then."
She does. Then she also bayonets the last caught-up creature as well as a walker that is wandering between the forest and the pike line. That makes her heart thud a little, because its coming right at her, but she's glad for the practice.
When they're driving the pickup to the next pike line, Garrison at the wheel, he says, "I guess I should have known."
"Known what?"
"That you can kill them just fine. I mean…the way you almost got the drop on me with that handgun back at that country house. And then the way you were waving that gun in the butler's face."
Carol sighs. She's never going to live that butler incident down.
"I wish I'd agreed to sponsor you." He glances at her and then back at the field he's driving through. "Daryl says you're quite the cook. Says you keep that cottage so clean and organized it feels like a mansion."
Carol knew Daryl appreciated her cooking, but she didn't know he appreciated the cleaning and organizing.
"I was just a lowly hundred percenter back then, though," Garrison continues. "And I still only have that tiny trailer." Garrison parks the truck a few yard from the next pike line and slings his arm over the top of the steering wheel. "We haven't really gotten to know each other, have we?"
"No, I don't believe we have."
"Maybe we could," he suggests. "I hear Daryl's out on a long hunt. Maybe I could come by your cottage tonight for a celebratory shot of whiskey. You may have heard I was promoted to outer circle."
"I did hear that."
"That makes me a hundred and fifty percenter."
"Congratulations," she tells him.
"I'll bring the whiskey, of course," he insists. "I got some for my finder's fee raiding that camp. Daryl says your girl plays chess at Ivan's in the evenings." He smiles. "Maybe I can come by when she's not home?"
Oh shit. He's coming onto her, isn't he? She's annoyed and flattered at the same time. It's an ego boost to already have three Copper Creek men (Ryan, Cody, and Garrison) interested in her after so many years of being told no other man would ever want her. But she's not interested, especially given the way Garrison looked her over back at that country house, as if she were on the menu. "I'd be happy to have a celebratory toast with you and Daryl when he gets back from this hunting trip."
Garrison's smile fades. "Oh, is that how it is? I can never tell with Daryl."
"Tell what?"
"Who he's fucking." Garrison throws open the truck door, picks up his rifle, and begins strutting toward the pike line.
Carol joins him in the work. There's silence between them as they slay and peel and loot. She recovers a pair of hiking boots that are in surprisingly good shape. She also gathers matches, some foil condom packages from wallets, jewelry, and even an almost full, 12-round, 9 mm handgun magazine. She pockets two of the rounds for herself when Garrison's not looking, and then tosses the magazine with the rest of the rounds in the bag.
Later, when Garrison is throwing the sack of gleaned goodies in the bed of the pick-up, she says, "Let me drive to the next pike line."
"Why?"
"I don't want to forget how to drive."
He chuffs, but he tosses her the keys. As she drives, she realizes she doesn't know the way as well as she thinks. She has to ask for direction at one point, which is a little embarrassing. When they get to the next pike line, and she turns off the engine, she says, "I am not having sex with Daryl. Not that it's any of your business." She wants him to know, however, because she's irritated with herself for using Daryl as her shield back there. She's a big girl. She can say no to a man's advances without the excuse of a boyfriend.
"Good. Because that is far too much luck for one man. I mean, you and Jefe both?"
"So…he and Jefe are - "
"-Like I said, I can never tell with Daryl. He's not exactly the kiss and tell type. But my trailer's up that way, and I see him walking toward the big house a lot of nights, avoiding the front door, and then slipping in through the east entrance. There's another staircase to the penthouse floor back there. Not that it's any of your business." He hops from the truck.
Carol, feeling a twinge of inexplicable disappointment at this confirmation of her suspicions, slips out and grabs her rifle. Garrison waits for her halfway to the pike line, and when she reaches him, he says, "Just to show you I'm not the kind of guy who mopes when a girl shrugs him off…do you want me to give you some pointers while we're out here? Noah said you've been wanting to learn to shoot better. But to be frank, Noah's not as good a shot as he thinks he is. And I'm better than most people give me credit for."
"And humble, too," she quips.
"I'm probably one of the top five shooters in the whole camp."
"That's what Noah said."
"Really?"
"Why so surprised?" Carol asks.
"Just seems I never get my propers around here."
"Your propers?"
"Yeah. You know that Aretha song? Respect? It's got that line - give me my propers when I get home?" He starts singing, "R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me!" He gets louder as he continues, "Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me, Owww!" He starts moving his hips and dancing to his own rhythm. "R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to – "
Carol fires, and the blast of her rifle silences him suddenly. His singing has drawn a walker from the woods. It slips through between two of the pikes, where the gap is a bit too wide, because her shot only grazed its shoulder. She fires again and hits its chin. Bits of flesh and blood go soaring off, but it keeps coming. Finally, with her third shot, she explodes its head.
"Yeah. You need my help," Garrison tells her.
[*]
The pike cleaning shift, and Carol's target practice under the tutelage of Garrison, takes five hours, so Sophia has had to fend for herself for lunch. This time, the girl did leave a note on the kitchen table saying she's gone horseback riding with Carina again. Carol is just finishing up her own quick, late lunch when there's a knock on the cottage door. A tow-headed boy, about nine or ten years old, stands on her stoop.
"Ms. Doyle?" he asks.
"Yes."
"I'm the page boy. You've been summoned."
"Summoned?"
"To the big house. To meet with Jefe."
[*]
Jefe is busy at her desk when the butler shows Carol into the library. She's not wearing her sexy librarian costume, but she does have on a nice, collared, gray blouse – buttoned to the top this time. Her reading glasses are on the tip of her nose as she finishes writing in a file.
"Ms. Garcia," Arthur announces, "Ms. Doyle here to see you."
Jefe looks up. "Come have a seat, Ms. Doyle." She gestures to the familiar chair across from her desk and closes the file she's been working on before adding it to a stack on her desk. "Arthur, please turn the closed sign on the library door."
"Yes, Madam." Arthur backs out of the library as Carol takes her seat.
"You wanted to see me?" Jefe asks. She sounds vaguely annoyed.
"Yes." Carol sits a little straighter in her chair, trying not to appear nervous, but Jefe makes her nervous. The woman is just so damn sure of herself. "I wanted to request ammunition rations for firearms practice on the range."
"Practice rations are for supply runners, hunters, and guards, and, in more limited amounts, for the school children and their firearms instructors, for designated range time only."
"But don't you want your pike cleaners to be in top shooting shape?"
"You're not supposed to be unnecessarily expending ammunition on those pike lines. You're supposed to be stabbing."
Carol shot an entire twelve round magazine out there today while practicing, but she doesn't say that. Garrison gave her four rounds from his own rifle magazine to refill a third of hers, so it wouldn't look like she had wasted so much. When they returned to the warehouse, and Handsy Andy checked back in her rifle and remarked on the excess use of ammunition, Garrison covered for her. He said they were beset upon by a small pack and had no choice but to shoot rather than stab their way out.
"I am stabbing," Carol insists. "But say a large pack of thrashers comes suddenly from the woods, or there are bandits that emerge from a nearby roadway. Wouldn't you prefer I be well trained to handle the situation?"
Jefe sits back in her chair. "I can see you're going to be a regular thorn in my side, Ms. Doyle."
"I'm not trying to be. I'm trying to be useful."
"Have you tried asking Daryl for ammunition? He has plenty from his finder's fees. And from what I can tell…" Jefe's eyes fall on the brass-knuckle knife clipped to Carol's belt, "he likes to give you things."
Was that hint, Carol, wonders? A warning that Jefe has a relationship with Daryl, a subtle accusation that Carol is somehow encroaching on her territory? "I'd rather not have to ask my sponsor for such things." Carol emphasizes the word sponsor to remind Jefe that Carol's relationship to Daryl was one necessitated by the system created by Jefe herself. "Could you just spare me thirty rounds a week? To improve my aim?"
"Ammunition is more precious than gold, Ms. Doyle."
"Call me Carol. Please." She starting to find all this Ms. Doyle stuff a bit passive aggressive. "I know you make your own bullets here. I know you do your own reloading. And I know how much Old World ammunition is still in the warehouse."
Jefe drums her fingers on the desktop. "Ten. I'll give you ten rounds a week. What caliber do you need?"
Carol was expecting to have to fight harder, and it takes her a second to respond. "Uh...The rifle I've been using takes .223." She might as well go for it – "And how about fifteen rounds a week?"
"Twenty-five rounds of .223 every fourteen days," Jefe compromises. "And that's my final decision. I'll see it's delivered with your cabinet rations."
"Thank you. And could I check out an AR-15 to practice a couple times a week?"
Jefe sighs. "If there's one that's not in use and you return it within three hours."
"I appreciate it."
"Is that all?"
"Unless there's something else you want to talk about," Carol tells her.
"What I want is to get back to my work without any further interruptions to my day."
"Then I'll leave you to it." Carol stands and begins to show herself out.
"Ms. Doyle?" Jefe calls after her, and when Carol turns, Jefe says, "When Daryl gets back from his hunt, please tell him I'd like to see him. Tell him he can come straight to the penthouse."
Carol nods and turns around again. Straight to the penthouse, she thinks. Well, that was certainly pointed enough – like a dog pissing a circle around its territory.