When they find a town, it's one of those snooty little places that got built up around a hot spring over a century ago. It's populated, now, by bed & breakfasts in fancy old houses on wide, treed streets and little shops full of expensive clothing and jewelry rather than useful things. It isn't the kind of place Daryl ever spent much time in before the turn. He remembers driving through a similar neighbourhood in Marietta once in his old truck, circling the block while Merle was inside one of the houses, cramming valuables into a duffel bag.
Regardless of his aversion to the place, Daryl figures anywhere there's been people, there's bound to be something left behind that he and Beth might use. It's worth a look, at least.
Pickton, a blue-painted sign by the side of the highway announces, Home of Historic Pickton Hot Springs!
They approach the town by walking parallel to the main highway, picking their way through the woods until the trees thin and give way to newly paved, curving streets lined with cavernous McMansions and wide patios of expensive stone.
They meet back up with the highway where it becomes the main street into downtown, and there they find an enormous blockade constructed of cars and sections of fencing. It's tumbling down, full of gaps, either overrun or unfinished – Daryl can't tell. A piece of rusting, corrugated metal dangles awkwardly off the structure, swaying in the breeze in slow, creaking rasps. Otherwise, the town is silent. Abandoned, like everywhere else.
But not ransacked. The streets are strewn with garbage and fallen leaves and branches. Some street signs have been knocked or blown over, and there are empty cars and broken glass on the pavement. But aside from the dirty windows and peeling paint, the stores appear untouched.
Daryl frowns. Nowhere's like that. It unsettles him, but their food stash has been reduced to Slim Jims and Twinkies and whatever they can hunt, so they don't have much choice.
"Weird," Beth mutters. Daryl looks over at her. She's frowning, her thumbs looped in the straps of her backpack. She glances at him. "Don't you think it's weird? Did they try to protect the town, or just leave, or…?"
"Dunno," Daryl replies, worrying the inside of his lip between his teeth.
"Think it's some kinda trap?" she asks, fair eyebrows drawn together, her forehead creased. Daryl meets her steady, wary gaze. They haven't talked about the funeral home again, but Daryl sees they both privately drew the same conclusion. That place wasn't just left that way, it was made that way.
"Only one way to find out," he says.
Beth turns in a slow circle, taking in the empty street, the lifelessness. Daryl's eyes pass over the storefront across the way, a realtor's office. Yellowed listings are still taped to the inside of the front window, slowly peeling away. Daryl can just make out the red BANK SEIZURE stamps on many of the listings, remembers the news blaring stories about foreclosures and bank failures while he stood in line for smokes at the gas station. It was only a few years ago, but he'd forgotten all about it.
"You ever think about the people who lived in places like this, and died, and how their families and friends probably never even found out?" Beth says softly. It sounds like a question, but somehow Daryl knows it isn't, so he says nothing, just waits for her to continue. "I keep thinking about all the stories that die with people. All the things I wish I'd asked Mama, or Shawn, or Dad, or Maggie, that now I'll never - they're just gone."
Daryl watches her profile, sees her jaw clench, the delicate muscles of her throat working as though she's swallowing a lump in her throat.
"I keep wonderin' who'll tell our stories," she says.
Nobody, Daryl thinks. He doesn't say it. Instead, he reaches out and cups her elbow.
"Ain't gotta worry 'bout no stories right now, Greene," he says. "Just gotta worry 'bout findin' some food for them hollow legs of yours. Don't think I can stand another night bein' kept awake by that noisy damn bear you call a stomach."
A surprised laugh escapes Beth's throat and she turns to him. Her hair swishes over her shoulder, the breeze catching a long golden thread between her chapped lips. Her eyes gleam, and Daryl's fingers itch with the urge to free her hair from her open, smiling mouth.
"Let's not be stupid today, okay?" she says, raising a sardonic eyebrow at him.
Daryl scoffs. "Sure as shit," he replies, and she smiles.
They continue down what a crooked sign says is Main Street, past a florist and an autobody shop and a gas station, and several boutiques with fancy black dresses and hand-blown glass vases and expensive scented candles still displayed in their grimy front windows.
"There," Beth says, pointing further down the street at a larger store. Thompson's Hardware and Sporting Goods, since 1925, the green sign proclaims. They approach the low building and cup their hands around their eyes to peer in the wide windows. It's dark inside, of course, but there's no movement or sound. Daryl glances at Beth as she looks at him. She shrugs, as if to say, why not?
Holding his crossbow up, Daryl opens the front door and they begin to move into the store. Although the place isn't completely picked over, it's clear that someone has been through here; many of the shelves are empty.
But there's no sign of walkers or humans at all, so they settle in for a thorough search of whatever is left.
They split up, taking opposite sides of the store. Daryl picks his way through the guns and ammo, most of which is already gone. He finds a couple of boxes of bullets for the pistols they held onto from the cops, stashes them in his pack, and moves on. Further down the aisle, he finds a dark blue backpack for himself and a tin of grease for his bow.
In the next aisle he finds a pair of hiking boots, holds them up. He frowns; he has no clue what size Beth's feet are, but they seem like they could fit, so he takes them. He grabs several pairs of thick socks for them both.
There isn't much else to be had as he wanders down the aisles, and so he whistles to Beth to meet him back up at the front.
He waits by the cash register and she appears a few moments later, winding her way around some toppled shopping carts. She has a bright grin on her face as she approaches him, and the moment is so normal, like he's waiting on his girl to finish up her half of their grocery list and meet him at the cashier, that he's thrown.
Daryl frowns. Grocery shopping, his girl - that never was his normal. In fact it's downright weird for this to feel normal. And yet.
"This place is great," Beth enthuses as she walks up, swinging her pack around and dropping it on the counter. She opens it and removes a length of nylon rope, a spool of fishing line, a pack each of hooks and lures, and a whetstone.
"Couldn't find any fishin' poles," she says, "but we can make our own. My dad made me one, once, out of a little birch sapling. Plus, this way it's less to carry."
"Good thinkin'," Daryl replies, pleased at her haul. It's all smart stuff; useful and small and light. He lifts the boots up and puts them on the counter. "Wasn't sure what size y'are, but thought these might do. You can always wear extra socks if they're too big, or stuff some newspaper in the toe..." he trails off awkwardly, looking away from her.
"They look perfect," Beth says, leaning down to pull her boots off. She sets them on the counter beside the hiking boots and pauses, regarding them. She gives a little sigh. "I know it ain't practical to keep my old boots, but…"
It's not, Daryl agrees, and almost says so, but something soft and sad in her expression stops him. She doesn't need him to tell her what's what. He watches as she brushes her fingers down the worn, faded leather of her cowgirl boots, pausing to rub her thumb against one soft, stained toe.
"They're the last thing Mama ever gave me," she says softly. "My dad too, I guess."
Daryl says nothing, lets her feel her way through the grief and nostalgia on her own, standing there in her socks, one toe peeking out from a hole in the greyed, threadbare fabric. After a moment, she gives a little huff and seems to shake herself.
"Maybe someone else who comes along'll need these more than I do," she says, giving a firm little nod. "Maybe they don't have nothin' on their feet at all."
Beth leans down, then, and pulls on her new boots, lacing them up over the cuffs of her fraying jeans. She straightens up, leaning her weight first on one foot, and then the other. She turns and takes a few steps away from him, then back. She grins.
"They are perfect. Just enough room for warm socks," she says, smiling big and bright at him. "Thanks, Daryl."
And then she's taking another step, and another, and she's right in front of him, grasping his forearm and pushing into his space, pressing the briefest brush of a kiss to the scruff of his jaw.
"Weren't nothin'," he grumbles, barely resisting the urge to step back from her, or worse, push her away.
"It's not nothin'," she replies, rocking back on her heels, still smiling at him. She lingers a moment longer, just standing there, smiling away at him like she's lost her damn mind, and Daryl's face might actually be on fire. Her eyes narrow, thoughtful, and he can see her examining his face like she's trying to figure him out. His stomach rolls over.
Beth watches him a moment longer, her measuring gaze softening into something gentler, something that feels less like she can see right inside him.
"Found somethin' for you, too," she says, then, taking a step away from him, back towards her pack. She produces a jacket, plaid, all earthy greens and browns and thin accents of fiery orange and red. It's lined with sheepskin, thick and warm.
"Oh," he breathes, the strength of his reaction surprising him. He really likes it; it's exactly the one he'd have picked for himself, the one he'd have wanted real bad and not had the cash for before. Out of practicality he'd never been particular about his clothes, but he wasn't above wanting a thing when it spoke to him.
"I know you're probably fine with what you've got, but that jean jacket ain't real thick and it's gettin' cold at night, now. There were camo ones and stuff - maybe you'd like those ones more? - but I just thought -" Beth is saying, shrugging and rambling a bit. She wants him to like it, he realises with a little jolt. She didn't just find him a jacket, she took time to choose a jacket. She wondered which one he'd pick for himself, looked for him in a row of stupid jackets. She's blushing, and Daryl realises she's nervous. Something like delight bubbles up in his chest and he can't help it, he smiles.
"S'real nice," he says, taking it from her. He drops his crossbow and shrugs it on, zips it up, pulling his vest on over top.
"Looks good on you," Beth says.
Daryl scoffs, shouldering the crossbow once more. They split their loot up between the two packs, ensuring that each of them has some glass to start a fire, and some food, in case they're separated.
"This is great," Beth says as she arranges the inside of her pack. "We'll be able to carry way more food now, between the two of us. I'm gonna get so buff this winter, carrying this stuff."
"C'mon," Daryl says, giving her elbow a tug and nodding towards the doors.
"So long, boots," Beth says softly as they leave, almost under her breath, almost too low for Daryl to hear.
They head back out onto Main Street and continue down the road towards the town square, passing churches and bars and a drug store. As they pass in front of the town's library, Daryl pauses, a distant sound piquing his interest.
"You hear that?" Beth asks, before he has the chance to ask her the same question.
"Yeah," Daryl replies. Beth stops as well, and they both listen. A gentle breeze blows leaves and loose debris across the pavement, and there's the sound of birdsong nearby. And somewhere, the low groan of a herd.
Daryl's grip on the crossbow tightens, and he sees Beth's hand slide down to grab her knife out of its sheath. Her eyes meet his, and she nods once, decisive. She, like him, would rather find them and see what they're up against than wait to be caught off guard.
They follow the sound of the herd.
Heading down one of the side streets in the general direction of the sound, the smell hits them. It's like walking into a physical wall of stench, the musk of rotting corpses hanging thick in the air.
"Oh my god," Beth groans, her face screwing up in disgust.
"Goddamn," Daryl agrees. He breathes through his mouth but it doesn't help much; it's the kind of smell you can taste.
They carry on, following the sound and the smell of the walkers, until they find an old community pool surrounded by a tall chain link fence. Approaching the fence, Daryl sees that the pool is drained of water but teeming with walkers, dozens of them milling about and bumping into each other in one large, ungainly horde.
"Don't make no fuckin' sense," Daryl mutters. The walkers are beyond rotted, most missing limbs and ears and noses and eyes. Walkers that are little more than legless torsos drag themselves between the feet of the others, gradually being trampled into a leathery, decaying mass. He shakes his head. "Probably been here since the start, baking out in the sun this whole time."
"Look, someone took all the ladders off to keep 'em in. Someone was trying to help," Beth says. She's staring down into the swimming pool, too, her eyes wide. "Maybe they penned 'em up, waitin' on a cure."
"Mm," Daryl agrees. The stench wafting up from the walkers is powerful, and he takes a step back from the fence.
"You think it's stupid," Beth says. He glances at her, remembering how she looked that bright summer day in front of the barn, weeping over her dead mama. The way they had to pull her off, even as the monster wearing her mama's own skin attacked her. Daryl remembers thinking she was indeed stupid, that the whole family was touched.
"Naw, it ain't stupid," he replies. "Didn't know no better, is all."
"We should put 'em down," Beth says.
"Ain't got no ammo left, and I ain't real keen on climbin' down there, neither."
"You're right," she sighs. She turns away from the pit, pulling on Daryl's sleeve. "Come on. If we can't do nothin' for 'em, let's just go."
They walk back up to Main Street and continue in the direction they'd been headed. The town square is like something out of an old movie, and must once have been a sight, with its black wrought-iron fence and lush lawns and red-and-white bandstand. The lawns are wild with tangled weeds and overgrown grass, and every painted surface peels and bleaches in the sun.
On one side are the courthouse and town hall, and across the way is a grocery store. With its one broken window, it's the most ransacked place in town. They decide with one long look at each other that it's still worth investigating, and they climb in through the busted metal window frame, broken glass crunching beneath their boots.
It's a mess inside. Seems whatever attempt at harmonious communal survival that had existed in this place at some point went to shit. Or people panicked. It's impossible to know, with no one left to say.
A man can only read what signs remain and fill in the gaps with whatever story suits him.
Daryl follows Beth, and they wander down dusty linoleum aisles lined with grimy, powder-coated shelves. Only odds and ends are left; boxes of scouring pads and packs of colourful crazy straws, heaps of cardboard boxes and torn plastic packaging, enormous clumps of dust all over. They make their way to the back of the store and find the grey metal doors to the stockroom chained shut.
"Dang," Beth mutters, resting her fingers lightly on the padlock for a moment. She rubs her sleeve against the cloudy window in the door, peers inside. "Looks like there might be some pallets of stuff back there."
"Hold up," Daryl says, grabbing a large fire extinguisher fixed to the wall by the door. Hefting it up, he lines the end of the canister up with the padlock before slamming it down. The bang it makes echoes through the empty store and rattles the doors. With a grunt, Daryl lifts the canister and hits the padlock again, and a third time, before the cheap lock springs apart and the chain goes slack.
Beth knocks the chain free and drops it to the ground, pushing the door open. Setting the extinguisher aside, Daryl follows her, crossbow in hand. The noise will have attracted any walkers lurking, but it's silent. Beth gives him a nod, and they start to explore.
The large room is dusty and still, illuminated only by the sunlight slanting in the high windows. Beth walks ahead of him into one of the sunbeams, sending dust motes swirling around her bright head.
She approaches a pallet of plastic-wrapped cardboard boxes before them. Pulling out her knife, she cuts the plastic, peeling away layers of packaging to reveal dozens of boxes of baby formula.
"Oh," she breathes, staring, the knife still clutched in her hand. "This woulda been such a good find."
Daryl swallows, watching the way Beth's face falls. Woulda been.
Couldn't something as simple as a damn supply run go easy on them? Couldn't the grief let up for even that long without reminding them?
"It still will be," Beth says, nodding and running her fingers along the cardboard. "Just for someone else."
"C'mon," Daryl says, ghosting a hand over her shoulder. She turns her head to meet his eyes, and her long ponytail trails over his knuckles, sending goose pimples prickling their way up his arm. She blinks at him and nods.
They explore the stockroom and find that much of the food was picked over before the place was chained up. Daryl wonders if someone planned to come back for what was left, mostly big cans of lard and flats of tomato sauce and jars of pickled onions and watermelon rind. A haul that would have had him whooping for joy back at the prison when he and Michonne and Glenn could have filled the cars and trucks up.
Now, it's just a waste.
Daryl thinks again of the funeral home, of how safe the place had seemed. About how badly he wanted just to stop, to rest a while, to catch their breath. To let Beth rest. Let her be still and grieve for real, in that place where death was still something to be treated with some decency. He wanted that for her.
He wants that for her, still.
"I guess it's better than nothin'," Beth says. He turns; she's stowing cans in her pack.
Daryl does the same, and when they are loaded down with as many cans and jars as they can carry, they leave the grocery store and walk in silence back the way they came, towards the housing development on the outskirts of town.
They pick a cul-de-sac preciously named Peachtree Crescent, and when Beth points to a sage green house with a red SUV parked haphazardly on the lawn, Daryl nods and readies his crossbow.
The house is empty but for a troupe of raccoons who scatter when Daryl sends a bolt through the biggest one. It's a large house that must not have been built long before the turn; the kitchen still looks like the displays Daryl used to scoff at in Home Depot, all granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. There's no evidence that anyone tried to defend the place, only that it was abandoned. Half-filled suitcases and boxes are scattered around the living room, as though the occupants had to leave in the middle of packing. A thick coat of dust covers every surface, disturbed only by the scrabbly prints of rodent feet and plenty of mouse shit. Daryl finds some boards and pieces of plywood in the garage and secures the entire main floor, covering every window.
They roast the raccoon on the back patio, in the stone fire pit, next to the hugest barbecue Daryl's ever seen, a brushed steel monster of a thing. They eat the greasy meat with their bare hands as the sun goes down beyond the treeless suburban skyline that leans against the horizon like a low mountain range.
Inside, after their breath turns foggy in the cool air and their fire has died away, they each claim a portion of the large sectional in the living room. They stretch out, passing a jar of maraschino cherries back and forth, the only light the flickering tea lights on the coffee table.
Beth writes in her diary, scribbling away with it propped against her knees, humming softly to herself. Daryl lies back on one arm with the other resting on his full belly, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the luxurious comfort of the musty couch beneath his aching back, and the only thing he can think of to want is a cigarette.
"Today was a good day," Beth says, after a long period of silence. Daryl cranes his head to look over at her.
"Huh?"
"It was a good day," she repeats. The tea lights cast her in warm rose-gold, her hair half falling out of her messy ponytail, little braid peeking out of the waves, like she's trying to wear three hairstyles at once. Her eyes shine in the candlelight. "We found some supplies, got food for the road, caught dinner, found a cozy place to stay. That's a pretty damn good day, if you ask me."
"Guess so," Daryl agrees, his hand dropping down to graze his crossbow where it rests against the couch.
"I'm going to write down everything that happened today," Beth says, head bent over her green notebook. Daryl thinks of her writing the thank you note, the same pleased half-smile on her lips.
"Why?" he asks.
"So I can tell our story," she replies, without looking up. "The story of Beth and Daryl in the wilderness."
Daryl means to scoff, but the way she says Beth-'n'-Daryl all rolled together like that, like two things that used to be separate but are now one, kinda throws him. "Yeah? Who's gonna read it?" he asks.
"My millions of fans," Beth says, arching an eyebrow at him. She taps the end of the pen against her pursed lips. "If you don't wanna be included, I can always give you a fake name."
Daryl scoffs, watching as the corner of Beth's mouth twitches behind the pen when she tries not to smile. They fall silent again, Beth returning to her writing. Daryl watches her, takes in the look of concentration on her face, the crease between her eyebrows.
Daryl stares at the top of her head for a long moment, thinking about how empty the town is, how untouched, with dozens of vacant, comfortable homes. They'd have everything they needed, their own little fucked up suburban dream at the end of the world.
He thinks of her writing in her notebook another night, another house, another halo of candlelight, the same warm sensation filling his chest until there was no room left to breathe.
Contentment. He thinks that's the right word. This feeling of ease, of gentle silence that is allowed simply to be, to settle around them like a blanket. But also to be broken now and again in the best way - by Beth's murmurs to herself, the sound of her fingertips and her pen brushing across the paper.
He feels the words forming on his lips, wanting to suggest it again, to talk about staying. About being here together.
We'll just make it work.
But the peace and quiet of that place had been a lie. And if it's not a lie in this place, it's at least temporary. Fragile. Dangerous. Impossible to trust.
"I'll take first watch," she says then, glancing up at him. "You should get some rest. We're probably gonna want to get an early start if we're gonna scavenge some more before we leave, right?"
Daryl merely hums in agreement, dropping his head back against the couch to stare at the ceiling. He feels her eyes on him, and his face heats. Her scrutiny makes him uncomfortably aware of just having done the same to her. He glances over at her, and sees Beth's smiling at him, that same night-time smile, all soft edges and warmth.
"It's okay, really. I can keep watch. You don't have to worry," she says, mistaking the source of his discomfort.
"Ain't worried," he replies, looking away from her. Daryl stares at the ceiling and chews the ragged cuticle on his thumb. Finally, Beth's eyes drop, and he exhales.
"Good," she says.
Daryl closes the heavy lids of his eyes and lets the scratching of Beth's pen on paper and her soft humming lull him to sleep like white noise.
The story of Beth and Daryl in the wilderness.