Daryl drove around the private lake on which the housing complex was situated to the front entrance. The complex had a brick wall on all sides, with an iron entrance gate for cars and an iron exit gate to get to the dock of the lake on the other side. The front gate was stuck half open, and there was an SUV stopped halfway through it, with all four doors flung wide open, as if the passengers and driver had suddenly stopped and fled on foot.
Daryl investigated the vehicle. "They were all loaded up to leave," he murmured. "Wonder what made 'em stop stead of drivin' on."
"At least getting in will be easy now," Carol said. "The gate's open."
"Let's check things out from the wall first."
They pulled the truck alongside the front brick wall and climbed up onto the roof in order to be able to get on the wall. Daryl had to heft himself up by his arms and then help Carol up. Carol could tell he was wincing a little from the effort. He wasn't one hundred percent back to his old self since the gunshot.
Once on the wall, Daryl surveyed the complex with binoculars. "Rich ass motherfuckers," he muttered as he lowered the binoculars and handed them to Carol. "How could there be so damn many people who can afford houses like this?"
There were thirty-six houses in the complex. They were made of gray stone and dark brown wood and were of varying shapes and sizes and styles, but the smallest one could not have been less than 3,500 square feet. Some had castle-like spires, some more of an English renaissance feel. Some had circular driveways and others long driveways leading through a courtyard with an additional wooden gate.
"They're beautiful," Carol said as she surveyed the scene. "Some of them anyway. Some are a little cookie cutter looking for my tastes."
A few had pools in the back. The water was dark brown now and coated with thick blankets of fallen leaves. They must be quite the breeding ground for mosquitoes. They wouldn't stay in one with a pool tonight, she thought. Maybe they'd pick one with a first-floor back deck with an outdoor propane kitchen. She could see a couple in her scouting.
There were walkers ambling about outside between houses and in the streets. "I count twelve," Carol said as she slung the binoculars around her neck and let them dangle there. "That I can see."
"Let's draw 'em to us," Daryl said. "Clean 'em all out 'fore we stroll in. Take that suppressor off your rifle and take out the two closest ones." He pointed to a pair lurching their way, noses in the air, as if following their scent. "Sound'll draw the rest here. Pick 'em off."
"You're going to let me shoot them all?" Carol asked as she unscrewed the suppressor and slipped it in her back pocket.
"Less they get too close."
Carol raised her rifle and brought the first walker into the crosshairs of her site. She flipped off her safety, feeling a little excited at the prospect of the real-life target practice. She squeezed the trigger back smoothly, but she'd gotten so used to the sound of suppressed fire while practicing on the B.B. gun range, that she jerked on the blast and recoil. Daryl put a steadying hand on her back as she stumbled back slightly on the wall. One step more, and she would have toppled over it.
She sighed when she saw her bullet had missed the walker's head and only put a hole in a nearby stop sign, sending up bits of metal.
"Steady," Daryl murmured. Now more walkers were streaming their way from within the complex at the sound of the blast. "Again." He left his hand on her back while she raised her rifle and took out the walker she had missed the first time. The clean shot gave her confidence, and she took the next closest one out neatly.
Daryl now dropped his hand from her back and swiveled his bow off his shoulder. There were so many of them now, more than the twelve she'd seen, she was sure, lurching toward the wall.
"I got four o'clock," Daryl said. He fired, and his arrow thunked into the head of a growling walker. "You get eight and nine o'clock. I got ten." He lowered his bow to the wall and began using a booted foot to steady it for reloading.
By the time Daryl had reloaded, Carol had taken out the two walkers in question. "I get twelve o'clock!" Carol fired just as Daryl did. Two walkers fell at once.
"Three o'clock," Daryl said.
"Six and seven."
Daryl took out the walker he'd claimed, shouldered his bow, and turned on the wall. Carol craned back her neck to see why. Two growling walkers had stumbled out of a grove of trees on the other side of the street from the gate and were stumbling toward the truck.
"Keep shootin'!" Daryl told her as he jumped down onto the roof of his truck and drew his hunting knife.
She turned back just as he was leaping into the bed and noticed the walkers inside the complex had grown much closer to the wall. One was headed for the half-open gate, and possibly after Daryl, so she picked it off first. Then she scrambled to screw her suppressor back on. They'd certainly drawn all the walkers in the vicinity by now. She didn't want to draw still more from afar.
Carol returned to her now muted firing, taking out the walkers one by one, pretending she was back at the B.B. gun range the way she had at the diner. She tried not to notice the gory way their heads sent bits of rotten brain spewing to the asphalt of the streets or onto signs and stone-encased mailboxes.
By the time she was done, she had counted eighteen shots. Two of those rounds had been wasted, but sixteen had sunk into the brains of walkers.
She swiveled on the wall to check on Daryl. He was leaned back calmly against the worn, light blue hood of his truck and cleaning his hunting knife with a red bandana. Three walkers lay dead in the street not far from him. Seeing him safe, she shouldered her rifle and raised the binoculars to survey the trees opposite him to make sure nothing more was coming their way. Then she turned and surveyed the housing complex again. Nothing more crept toward the wall. "All clear!" she called.
He waved her down off the wall. She jumped onto the roof of Daryl's truck, landing a bit unsteadily and bracing herself with one hand in a crouch. Then she made her way more cautiously into the bed. Daryl gave her his hand to help her down.
"I think I dented your roof when I jumped down," she told him.
"Nah, that was there." He wandered over to the SUV, climbed inside, and tried to start it with the keys that were still in the ignition, but nothing happened. "Some idiot was drivin' on fumes," he told her when he stepped out. "Must of brought it home empty one day. When it was time to flee, it died right at the gate. Battery's probably dead now too."
"So we push it," Carol said.
"You steer."
Carol got in the SUV, popped it into neutral, and steered while Daryl began pushing from behind. She was concerned about the grunting she heard. It probably wasn't a great idea for him to be using so much of his muscle so soon after his stitches were out. She jumped out and joined him at back. "We don't really need to steer it," she said, and threw her weight – such as it was – into the work beside him.
The SUV began to move. Fortunately, there was a bit of a dip coming out of the gate, the slightest of a downswing, and it got rolling. Unfortunately, with no one steering it, it ended up drifting toward Daryl's truck. It grazed the grill and a bit of the front side before drifting beyond it and rolling toward a tree across the street, into which it crashed and stopped.
"Ooops," Carol said. "Maybe I should have steered. Is your truck okay?"
Daryl ran his fingers over the new dent in the grill and the scratch just above the headlights. "'S a'ight. Gives it some more character."
"We killed twenty-two between the two of us," Carol said. "There can't be many in the houses. Say an average of three people per house…that leaves…"
"Still leaves over 80," Daryl said. "But some of 'em who lived probably fled at the start. And some of the walkers likely wandered off through this open gate. Doubt all them houses have uglies bumblin' 'round. But you'll get to practice your clearing skills."
They investigate the contents of the SUV and claimed some bottled water and canned food, which they threw into the bed of the pick-up truck. They drove in the truck with attached U-Haul. Daryl manually rolled the gate closed. There was no way to lock it in place without the electrical system - a human could just roll it open again - but it would at least deter any fresh walkers from ambling inside while they did their looting and took their overnight vacation. Then Daryl walked to recover his arrows.
They parked the truck in the wide, long pebble-stone driveway of the first house on the narrow neighborhood street to the left, behind a huge pick-up truck that was parked in front of a closed, two-and-a-half-car garage. The truck was covered in a layer of dust and dirt and pollen, though it looked relatively new. They found the vertical window by the front door smashed in, the door ajar, and on the front brick stoop, a mangled, gnawed-over skeleton.
"I think someone did try to loot this neighborhood," Carol observed.
"Alarm probably went off when he smashed the window and reached 'round to unlock it. That drew the walkers from inside. Idiot just opened the door without checkin' what was behind it. Got himself ate up by the family."
"Well, that's not going to be us." Carol shut the front door with a click. Then she seized the golden door knocker and knocked loudly several times. "We'll see if there's any still in there before we venture in."
They waited three minutes, knocked again, and waited three more minutes. Nothing came near the door. The walkers in this house must have wandered off after eating their looting neighbor and joined the rest milling about outside. They were likely now laying dead in the street somewhere, brought down by Carol's bullets or Daryl's arrows.
The couple cautiously stepped inside and swept all of the rooms downstairs. They didn't split up – Daryl didn't want her clearing alone just yet – but went together in a circle from the foyer through the study to the dining room to the kitchen to the living room, veering off to clear a hall bathroom, a master bedroom, and a master bathroom before circling back to the high-ceiling foyer.
Sunlight glinted off the enormous glass chandelier that dangled above Daryl as he stood near the winding staircase and shouted: "Hey, any ugly skanks up there? Come on down!"
They waited a minute, but no walkers emerged.
Carol smiled. "Shopping time! Let's start with the library. I need a new book."
They wandered from the tiled foyer through the open set of French doors into the large, wood-floored study. The furniture was all a glistening dark oak, and the bookcases were clearly custom built into the back and left side wall with a cutaway for the two windows there. Another set of French doors led to the dining room. The library had eighteen-foot-high ceilings like the foyer (but unlike the rest of the rooms), and the bookcases reached to within six inches of the ceiling. A golden ladder with wheels on the bottom was latched to a metal bar that ran across the tops of the bookcases.
"Looks like Richie Rich had himself a gun collection," Daryl said, walking up to the large, black metal safe in the corner near the French doors, along the half-wall uncovered by bookcases. The safe was as tall as he was, and about the width of two refrigerators. It had a golden, three-pronged handle, a combination entry pad, and the etching of a gold cannon on it.
"Can we bust into it?" Carol asked.
"Not a chance in hell. Not this kind. No shootin' through it. No pryin' it open. Can't drop it from somewhere to bust it open, neither. Weighs at least 800 pounds. Couldn't move it up anywhere."
"That's a shame. Maybe we can get lucky and guess the combination?"
"Got three tries 'fore the combination pad locks itself for eight hours. And that's if the battery's still workin' and it ain't already locked. But it probably is. Battery lasts three years."
"Why do you know all this?" Carol asked. "Did you use to own one?"
"Pfft. Costs well over a grand. And I ain't never had more than two guns to my name. Just seen it before. Spent a lot of time lustin' after the photos in gun catalogues of shit I couldn't have."
Carol chuckled. "I used to do that, too. But with kitchen appliances." She strolled over to one of the bookcases behind the large desk, rolled the ladder over, climbed up four rungs, and took down a photo album with a white, frilly cover. When her feet were back on the floor, she began paging through it.
"Hell you doin'?" Daryl asked.
"Looking at their wedding album. They had a fairytale wedding. My God, that dress. And the cake! Six layers!"
Daryl looked at her warily.
"Don't worry, Pookie, I'm not planning our wedding already. I'm looking for their anniversary." She lay the album down, open, on the desk on the page that contained their wedding invitation. She walked over to the safe. "How many numbers is the combination?"
"Six usually."
"Worth a try," she said. "They were married on October" – she punched in 1-0- and the keypad lit up "15th" - she punched in 1-5 – "in 2005" she punched in 0-5. The safe made a clicking sound.
Daryl laughed, ran forward, and bumped her lightly out of the way with his shoulder. He seized the handles and turned, and there was a click and then a hiss as the safe's door opened.
"Way to muscle me out of the way there," Carol muttered.
"Sorry. You only got a couple seconds to open it once it works. Didn't want you turnin' it the wrong way." He swung the heavy door wide and his eyes grew wide at the sight inside. "You're a fuckin' genius!" He turned and wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her off her feet while planting a kiss on her lips.
Carol laughed when he set her on her feet again, happy to see how bright his eyes were and how huge his smile. She'd never seen him smile quite so openly as that – like a kid at Christmas.
They turned together and beheld the contents of the safe. On the back of the door hung something that Carol at first associated with a closet shoe organizer. It didn't hold shoes, of course. It held handguns and extra magazines – twelve handguns to be exact, each in its own separate pocket, with a fully loaded magazine already in the gun. Two fully loaded spare magazines were slid into the holding straps below each of the pockets that held handguns.
Inside the safe, standing up, butts on the ground and barrel resting between holds, were one shotgun and eight different rifles in a row. The shelf above the longarms and the shelves to the right of them held spare magazines, six handgun holsters, and a cache of ammunition – boxes upon boxes, layered from bottom to top, with boxes wedged on their edge in the sparest sliver of space left.
Daryl's eyes moved back and forth like a calculator. "Eight thousand rounds at least! Holy shit!"
"We're going to be the toast of the town, Pookie, when we go back to Fun Kingdom."
"Pick one. A handgun. Pick your favorite," he insisted. "'Fore the Ricktator gets his hands on 'em and decides who oughtta have what."
Carol chuckled. "Shane's not much better. They both think they're in charge."
"Reckon they are," Daryl muttered. "Mean, who else?"
"Well, we're in charge of this mission," she insisted. Carol tried each of the handguns. She dropped the magazines, cleared the chambers, felt the grip, looked down the sites, and dry fired each of the twelve before picking up the third again. "I don't know anything about them," she admitted. "But I like the way this one feels in my hands. It's so slim."
"That's a Smith and Wesson MP Shield," Daryl told her. "Nine millimeter."
"Well, I could tell that form the bullets. Rounds I mean."
"Only got capacity for eight in the magazine and one in the chamber, though."
"I can reload. It's got two spare magazines."
"Good for concealed carry." Daryl pulled down a holster from the top shelf. "Nice choice. Can fit snug inside the waistband as your backup. Try this holster."
She smiled coquettishly. "Want to clip it on for me? You seem to like putting your hands down my pants."
He smiled, but then his smile faltered uncertainly. "Shit," he murmured. "Ya think I was tryin' to feel you up when I helped you with that holster back at the hotel?"
"You helped with me that sheath, too."
"Swear. I wasn't tryin' - "
"- I know. I knew you were just helping. But…I can't say I didn't notice. That your hand was down my pants. I was…" She stepped toward him and hooked a finger into one of his belt loops. "Keenly aware."
"Really? Didn't think you liked me back then."
"I didn't know I did. I mean, I knew I did like you. You'd saved Sophia. I was always going to be grateful to you for that. I just didn't know how much I liked you. I just knew there was a little flutter when you were teaching me to shoot and you had your arms around me."
"Serious?"
"Why is it so hard to believe?"
He shrugged. "'S all so damn hard to believe." He chewed on his bottom lip like he was biting down on a smile. "You know when I was tryin' get you to hold that rifle right, and you jerked your ass back into my crotch, gave me a goddamn hardon."
"I did?"
"Had to pull my shirttail down over it. Hoped you didn't notice."
"I didn't. I thought you were irritated with me."
"Yeah, well…I was bothered. Somethin' awful. Had to rub one out later." He smirked. "Wished you'd walked in on me then."
"No, you don't," she assured him. "I wouldn't have reacted the same way then. We got to know each other better after that. By the time I walked in on you, you'd taught me to use a knife, clear a room, throw a knife…and we'd already had our first date."
"Pfft. What date?" he asked.
"On the paddleboats. On the lake."
"Thought I meant that as date?" he asked.
"I think it doesn't matter how you meant it. That's what it turned out to be." She let go of his beltloop and extended the holster to him. "Now are you going to help me or not?"
His lightly callused fingertips grazed the flesh of her hand as he took the holster from her. He smirked as he slid one hand into her waistband and pulled it forward. He slid the holster inside and clicked it in place onto her jeans. Then he let the fingers of the hand that was inside her waistband flutter with a feathery touch over her silky panties and down between her legs. He caught her eyes with his own simmering blues as he stroked her in an intimate place – just once – before sliding his hand out.
"You're a tease," she told him.
"Later. Got to get mine first."
"Well that's not very gentlemanlike."
"Already got yours," he said.
"Trust me. That single stroke didn't cut it," Carol assured him.
"Meant the handgun. I'm taking this one." He pulled a handgun out of the fifth pocket of the door organizer.
"Because it's so pretty?" she asked. It had what looked like an intricately carved wooden handle (thought that was mostly coloring on the metal, she thought) and a silver chamber and was relatively compact.
"'Cause it's a Springfield Armory 1911 EMP and probably would of cost over a grand in the old world." He grabbed one of the holsters, which he clipped inside his pants at the small of his back, and shoved the gun inside. They now both had on two handguns and two knives, not to mention the rifle on Carol's shoulder and the crossbow on his. They also each carried a pack on one shoulder.
"How much would the one I picked have cost?" she asked.
"$350, $400 maybe."
She frowned. "Well now I want yours."
"Nah. You like what you like. 'S a good thing you ain't got expensive tastes. Couldn't afford you if ya did."
"Oh, I don't know. I think I have pretty expensive taste in men."
"Pfft."
"Seriously. You're a diamond in the rough." Carol kissed his cheek and then began skimming the bookshelves. She sighed. "It's mostly law books. And atlases and encyclopedias and dictionaries. He didn't read anything fun."
Daryl leaned back against the desk. "So sexist. How you know the wife ain't the lawyer? Gonna make you read that book I had to read Andre fifty times."
"The law school diploma on the wall over the gun safe says Stephen Thomas Wentworth the third."
Daryl glanced back at. "'Course he's a fuckin' third."
"Sophia would have been a third if she'd been a boy. Ed Pelletier, Junior would have insisted on it."
"My daddy Will was a junior, but my mama insisted on Merle."
"Where'd she get the name?"
"Her mama was named Muriel. Merle's the man version I guess."
"Merle is French for blackbird," Carol told him. "I took French in high school. What language did you take?"
"Scottish. 'S how I learned to say fuck you."
Carol chuckled. "Shall we move on to the dining room?"
Daryl waved his hand toward the open French doors. "After you, Miss Murphy."