When Carol goes into the Mayor's Office in the mansion, she finds her Director of Defense sitting in the chair on the other side of her desk and sipping a glass of bourbon. Carol doesn't ever drink it, but she likes the way it looks, just sitting there on her desktop in that crystal decanter, next to two down-turned glasses. It makes her feel just a little more powerful.
Rosita turns at Carol's footsteps and raises her glass. "Sorry. I helped myself. But you're late."
"I was checking in on Hershey. And I'm one minute early."
"Abraham always used to say that ten minutes early is late."
Carol sits down at the desk across from her and drops her files in a haphazard stack. "Should you be drinking that? Aren't you still breast feeding?"
"I'm down to about six times a day now that he's eating lots of solids," Rosita replies. "And I wouldn't mind it if a little bourbon got in my milk. Maybe it would put Gene to sleep. He's only thirteen months, and he's already given up both naps."
Eugene Abraham Espinoza is known to be a handful of a toddler, a handful Rosita often leaves in the hands of Eugene. Everyone knows little Gene is not really Eugene's son, including Eugene himself, but he pretends like he doesn't. Whoever the father was has been gone for a little over two years now, lost in the War with the Whisperers.
"So what's the report?" Carol asks.
Rosita takes a small sip of the bourbon in her glass, sets it down, and unrolls the maps she's set on the desk. "With the help of the Kingdom's defense forces, my team has finished blowing that last bridge." She points to a spot on the map. "So if that crazy nomad was right about there being heavily armed war lords coming this direction," she runs her finger from just above Chesapeake, Maryland to Virginia, "they'll likely turn around when they hit that bridge and find someone else to exploit. I mean, they could find a way around, but they probably won't bother, especially not knowing what's here."
The crazy nomad, as Rosita calls him, lives in the Kingdom now, the fitting place, perhaps, because he's like a peculiar character out of Shakespeare. The Kingdom, Ezekiel tells Carol by letter, has not found a practical use for him, but he seems harmless enough and is accustomed to eating little.
"But even if he's delusional and there are no war lords," Rosita continues, "it still makes sense for us to have blown all those bridges. Now the Kingdom and the Hilltop are practically a self-sustained island." She circles her finger around an area that encompasses D.C. and parts of West Virginia, Virginia, and Maryland. "An island with oceans, lakes, streams, mountains, valleys, and farms. Everything we need. We've got a buffer against the rest of the world now that those bridges are blown. Since walkers can't swim, herds beyond those bridges won't be able to cross into our territory either, unless they go a long way around on land. And now we actually have a defined territory to scout and map."
"And how big is our island?"
"Still pretty damn big. About 400 miles wide at its greatest breadth. About 200 miles long from farthest point to farthest point."
Carol nods. "And how's the mapping and scouting going?"
"I have two teams out at the moment. I'm sending Bertie and Eduardo out next week."
"Maybe I'll come."
Rosita laughs. "It's a two-week mission. The Mayor can't leave for two weeks. Not even a Councilman can leave for two weeks."
Carol drums her fingers on the desk.
"Restless?" Rosita asks. "I'm going out with the eradicators tomorrow. You can come with us. Do a little walker slaying."
The eradicators are working on ridding their territory of walkers within a five-mile radius from the gates of the Hilltop. They go out on walker hunting and killing sprees. Of course, even if they succeed in killing hundreds or even thousands, new ones always migrate nearer, but it does minimize the number of walkers who end up eventually slamming against their town walls.
Eradicating also gives the twelve- to fifteen-year-old kids necessary practice in killing walkers. It's like driver's ed in the old world: the young teenagers have permits to kill, as long as there's an adult in the front seat. At sixteen, they can go outside the gates on their own. Of course, Henry was killing walkers when he was eleven. But it's a different, more settled world now. Henry is practically a different generation from his peers who are just five years younger than him.
"Count me in," Carol says.
They talk a little more business and then Carol asks how Gene is doing. "Did he get the bug that's going around?"
"No, fortunately, not yet anyway. Although it might quiet him down. He talks a mile a minute, mostly gibberish I can't understand, but I think he's up to ten real words."
"At least he's still talking to you. Henry hardly says a word to me. Daryl thinks he should move out."
"He and Daryl aren't getting along?" Rosita asks.
"They're getting along fine, but Daryl thinks Henry needs the distance from me, that a man needs to strike out on his own."
"And you don't?"
"It's not like he has a curfew!" Carol insists.
"Or like you do his laundry and cook his meals?" Rosita smirks.
"To be fair, I cook Daryl's meals, too. And you know we don't do our own laundry." Neither does Rosita. One of the perks of being in the Hilltop government is laundry service. They made it a perk for two reasons – one being that the people running the Hilltop are often too busy to do their own laundry, and the other being that there are three women who really don't have the skill to do much of anything else, and everyone needs the dignity of a job. "You're going to side with Daryl on this one, aren't you?"
"Well, all I know is, if Gene doesn't move out of my cabin in sixteen years, I'm going to go insane."
Carol laughs. "Gene or Eugene?"
"Maybe both." Rosita smiles. "Although Eugene's been looking pretty hot since he cut his hair and grew that beard."
Hot and Eugene are not words that make sense in combination to Carol, but Eugene's been good to Rosita, and he was there for her when she needed someone to be there for her. Carol thinks a lens of gratitude can easily transform the landscape. "The beard is an improvement," she concedes.
[*]
When he's about a mile from the gates of the Kingdom, with Henry cantering a mile behind him, Daryl spies movement in the woods at the side of the road. He putters his motorcycle to a stop and kicks down the stand. The leaves of the trees – which are a vivid tapestry of red, orange, and yellow – are shifting in only one section.
Expecting a walker or two, Daryl dismounts his bike, swings his crossbow off his shoulder, and approaches the tree line. He's about to shoot when he sees the emerging figure is not a walker, but a living man.
He eases his finger off the trigger of his crossbow but keeps it leveled at the suspicious figure – a black man of about his own height, with a shaved head and a thick gray-black stubble lining his cheeks. "Hands up!" Daryl orders. "Away from that gun on your waist, or I shoot!"
The man smiles, raises his hands, and says, "Daryl, it's just me."
Daryl peers down the sights of his crossbow with furrowed brow. "Zeke?"
Ezekiel lowers his hands. "Indeed, it is I."
Daryl lets the crossbow fall casually to his side and looks the king up and down. "Hell happened to yer hair? 'N yer beard?"
Ezekiel runs a hand over his glistening, bald, scalp. "I shaved. It's a new age. I thought it was time for a new look."
"Ya look like a man baby."
"You're looking good yourself," Ezekiel replies. "I see Carol's cooking is fattening you up." He pats his stomach. "And that new Hilltop brewery has given you a bit of a beer gut."
"I don't drink," Daryl replies coolly.
"No? Really? Carol doesn't allow it?"
"M'genes don't allow it." Daryl's been drunk three times since the world collapsed – once at the CDC, once with Beth, and once – four years ago - when Carol, who thought she was going through menopause, realized she was three months pregnant only because she had a miscarriage. In none of those cases was he on his best behavior.
Henry catches up with them now and vaults off his horse. "Your highness," he says with a smirk and a half bow of his head.
"Henry!" the king replies joyfully. "It's excellent to see you again so soon." Ezekiel embraces the young man, and they pat each other on the back. "Though I suspect it is not I you come to see."
"Me," Henry says.
"Pardon?" Ezekiel asks him.
"Me. It's not me you come to see. It's the object of the verb."
Daryl smirks a little to see the king corrected for his pompous speech. He's still not convinced Ezekiel doesn't snore fancy, too.
Ezekiel smiles. "I see they have vigorous grammar studies in Hilltop."
"I learned that in the Kingdom," Henry replies. "I only went to school in Hilltop for a year."
Behind Ezekiel the trees rustle again. Daryl's bow flies up into position while Henry swings his staff into a defensive posture.
"Relax," Ezekiel says. "It's just Michonne. She's been organizing security for the water engineers. They're in the process of expanding the irrigation all the way back to the Potomac River so we can keep our reservoirs well filled."
Michonne strolls casually out from among the trees. At least she hasn't hacked off her dreads. She looks the same as ever to Daryl. She smiles when she sees him, and he smiles back. He strides forward to claim his hug, and when he pulls back, he asks, "How ya doin', Knight Commander?"
Daryl's always thought it was a dumbass title, but he suspects Michonne likes it. After Alexandria was destroyed in the War with the Whisperers, Michonne went to go live in the Kingdom. Now, she's responsible for the Kingdom's defenses and the continued training of the knights, and, if war ever strikes again, she'll lead them into battle.
Daryl was disappointed Michonne didn't choose to settle at the Hilltop, but he gets it. Unlike both Alexandria and the Hilltop, the Kingdom is a place where Rick rarely set foot. Michonne, Daryl thinks, wanted to start over someplace where every corner wasn't haunted with a memory of him.
Michonne nods to Ezekiel, "What do you think of the new look?"
Daryl shrugs.
"One day I tell him our dreads make us look like brother and sister," Michonne says, "and the next day he hacks his all off." Michonne looks over the motorcycle. "Is that new?"
"Yeah. Finished it last month. Runs on solar battery."
"Truly?" Ezekiel asks. "And that's manly enough for you?"
"Gets the job done," Daryl grunts.
"It looks fantastic," Michonne says. "Give me a ride the rest of the way back to the Kingdom?"
Daryl straddles the bike and nods over his shoulder. "Hop on."
"Don't forget about that backgammon match you promised me this evening," Ezekiel tells Michonne as she slides onto the bike behind Daryl.
"I said if I have time," Michonne replies as she slides on the bike behind Daryl. She gives Daryl a little tap above his hip to let him know she's ready to take off.
Daryl kick starts the bike, murmurs, "Hold on," and shoots off as fast as he can.
Behind him, Michonne raises one arm into the air and whoops.