Beth and Daryl walked slowly down a dirt road, ambling, feet dragging. They decided it would be best to scour the immediate area on foot, leaving the station wagon at their little camp. If they didn't find any source of gas, or any better rides, they would just head back. Stay a couple more nights and rest before they had to find their way into a city.
"If it comes to that, we'll drive the station wagon 'til she dies. We'll have to hoof it the rest of the way," Daryl said.
Beth had nodded in agreement. She hoped they found something - even if it was just gas instead of a fancier car. She always felt better when she was moving, like she was doing something. Going somewhere - she just didn't know where yet. And maybe she'd never get there, but it felt better than sitting on her butt.
Whenever there was too much quiet, or too much time to think, Beth seemed to drown in her own thoughts. The years she spent on her own were exhausting. Every day she pushed herself to her physical limit, and sometimes even further. When she stopped her body shut down quickly and efficiently. She didn't have to remember anything. None of it. She just had to welcome sleep with open arms and know tomorrow she would be going somewhere - anywhere - the direction didn't matter as long as her feet would just keep on moving.
Beth cupped a hand over her eyes and looked over to her companion. Daryl was walking with his hands in his pockets, casual as you please. But Beth knew if danger crossed their paths he would be ready at a moment's notice - calm, precise, deadly. Beth tried not to think about it too much; it was easier to imagine he was as easy-going as he looked, and that there were not muscles tense and coiled under his skin, ready to snap.
"How happy would you be if we found a motorcycle?" Beth asked, mostly to shake herself out of her thoughts.
"Pretty dang happy," Daryl admitted.
"You miss it, huh?"
"Yeah. There was nothin' like it," Daryl said. "Close as you can get to flying nowadays."
Beth stopped to pick up a wrapper and look at it. Lays potato chips - she closed her eyes against the memories. Long summer days, barbeques outside. Cafeterias. How she used to complain of their grease. Daddy, why didn't get Doritos? You know I love cool ranch! Funny, had she known how soon she'd be eating possum, maybe she wouldn't have wanted so much from life and just enjoyed what she had.
"I always wanted to try it," Beth said.
"Hm?" Daryl hummed in question.
"The motorcycle. I've never been on one," Beth said glancing at the trees on the side of the road. "Hey, look, it's a squirrel!"
The wind blew warm against her face, rustling her sticky hair. It was a hot day and she had been sweating enough to prove summer was just a breath away. Daryl moved to grab his bow. Just as he began looking towards where she had pointed, she spoke again.
"Can't we let this one go?" Beth asked. "We already got four."
"You're soft, girl," Daryl muttered, lowering his bow and swinging it back to its original resting spot.
"Not really," Beth said. "We got leftovers as it is - with four squirrels, I bet one of 'em would start to rot before we got around to it. Besides, this one had crazy eyes. I don't want to eat it. Probably has rabies."
Daryl didn't respond but continued walking. Beth began to daydream about a nice cool shower. Flower scented soap - something lilac, or maybe jasmine. She thought of her old vanilla perfume left on her bedside table; probably would've reminded her too much of her mother. Beth chewed on the inside of her lip.
"You shoulda told me," Daryl muttered.
"Huh?" Beth asked.
"That you wanted a go on the bike," Daryl clarified. "You should've told me. I took out most of the kids."
"Geez, thanks," Beth said rolling her eyes.
"I know you ain't a kid, Beth. Trust me, I know," Daryl said. "They were just the only ones that ever asked."
"Always felt like I was buggin' everyone anyways," Beth said with a shrug of her small shoulder. "I tried to pull my weight as much as I could, but there was only so much everyone would let me do."
"Yeah, well, can't blame 'em, Beth," Daryl said. "No one can exactly picture Cinderella going off to stab dead people in the brain."
"Her stepmother and stepsisters emotionally abused her, basically. They forced her to work herself to the bone for them. She lost everything she had and she still endured. Cinderella was tougher than anyone else in that story."
"Guess you're right, Princess," Daryl said dryly. "'Course, I wasn't read too many fairytales as a kid. Just remember she was the one with the blond hair."
"She also had all those birds and mice help make her clothes and get her dressed," Beth responded.
"Explains why you're always ready before me."
"Hey," Beth said, "what is that?"
They both looked up ahead, squinting against the sun. On the side of the road, maybe a mile up, was a car. Beth couldn't tell if it was better or worse than the station wagon; if it would even run - or have any gas - but it was something. After all their walking, it was something.
"Guess we got lucky," Daryl said.
"First time for everythin'."
"We been luckier than most," Daryl said.
"Guess it depends on your definition of luck," Beth said quietly, walking past him, hands shoved into her pockets.
You're lucky you're pretty, a voice said in her head. She clenched her fists. You're lucky we aren't just going to kill you. You're a lucky, lucky girl.