Notes: I'm doing a time skip ahead because we haven't seen Daryl yet. The next chapter will have to time skip back, so I hope you don't mind. I made an educated guess that this would be readers' preference. I also didn't think I could quite fiction my way through Daryl actually hunting to check in with him earlier. The time required for me to do decent research for that would have taken me a while. Thus, compromise.
Disclaimer: Copyright for The Walking Dead belongs to AMC, et al. My writing belongs to me, as do errors.
Title: "Inventio"
Chapter: "6. Probably a Stew"
Daryl had begun hunting farther away from the prison about two weeks earlier. He and Merle had discussed the risks of the Governor's men along with the problems of the long-term residence that they were now in. If they continued to hunt too close there were numerous consequences.
Though the dead were everywhere, they still showed the uncanny ability to track the living. Since the group was tethered in one place, the dead would always be drawn, and any game would be doubly depopulated by hunting and walkers. Hunting close while war with Woodbury loomed also placed the hunter in additional danger of capture or attack since they knew they were under surveillance. They surmised that at some distance any tail would be more effort than the Governor's scouts would want to put forth. And then, of course, there was the fact that continuing to take game from the same area taught the animals that the territory was a no go zone. Wild ones were wary and smart.
However, this meant that whoever was going to take on the responsibility would have to travel farther, less often, and make any trip count for more. It couldn't be a daily effort, and it would probably require transport. The Triumph would be too loud, and wouldn't be able to handle a big game animal. A truck would be too obvious. The Dixons decided what they really needed was a four-wheel ATV. It would be able to stay off roads, could be easily camouflaged, and had the hauling power for bringing back what they hoped would be the supplements the group needed to its diet.
It had taken longer than they liked to find one. It had been Carl who had actually spied it. He and Glenn had been scoping out a small farming outpost, surrounded by fields that had returned after going to seed the season before. It wasn't a town, really. There was a grain elevator, a gas station, and an implement dealership at a crossroads, with a few houses along a dirt road. The gas station had been stripped clean, and the office of the elevator offered nothing but some reams of copy paper, a pack of AA batteries, hardened sticks of chewing gum, some very old tea bags, and a bunch of paper dishes and plastic silverware which the two stowed quickly in their vehicle. As they were about to check the implement for useful vehicle parts, Carl tugged at Glenn's arm.
"Hey, isn't that what Daryl was talking about?"
The dealership had all the impressive "big game" out in front, but as they had come up to the door near the corner of the building they were able to see around to the side where smaller machines were parked. A line of garden tractors of diminishing size were neatly arranged, and at the end of the row sat a stubby, four-wheeled vehicle with a boxy chest attached at the back. It was a jarringly bright orange and black color scheme, but Carl was right. It was exactly what the Dixons had requested.
Glenn had slapped Carl on the shoulder. "Dude, you got it! We are going be heroes!"
They had jogged to the machine and looked carefully over its starter and read its make and model number so they could search for its keys and any other accessories inside. They didn't want to pull it apart to start it if they didn't have to.
From his perch in the tree Daryl looked down on the "badger." He'd taken to calling the four-wheeler the "badger" because it had a funny kind of growl when it was running. It was surprisingly quiet at its low speeds where he usually kept it, but when it got revved up it was mean. The thing was all a dull black now. The first thing he'd done when he could manage it was to take some black spray paint from the prison's workshops to the screaming paint job. It made for much better cover. The matte finish was also better because it wouldn't reflect the light in the day time.
The chest was currently locked and filled with as much squirrel and rabbit as it would hold. He'd strung up the larger game he'd field dressed in a tree several yards away so it would be safe from walkers and other scavengers until he could start home with it in the morning. If it drew anything during the night he'd be able to deal with them from his position before retrieving it. It had simply been too late and he was too tired to risk heading back tonight.
He'd bagged a small buck and damned if he didn't find a group of sheep that had managed to escape from some farm and kept out of the clutches of the dead. He'd only taken two, because he couldn't carry more. Plus, he figured if they bred some that herds of wild sheep wouldn't be that bad to have running about. Easier for later.
Daryl secured himself and the crossbow to the tree so he could sleep without worrying about a fall, but the quick-release knots would let him escape with hardly a flick of his hand. The Georgia night was beautiful. The sunset had been glorious. It had made him glad to be alive. There had been fewer walkers on this trip than his last. This actually made him more edgy, not less. He worried it was a sign of a coalescing herd somewhere nearby. If he hadn't had the urgent business of providing protein for the group, he'd have scouted to see if he could find if it was close.
He leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes. He had managed to find refuge in a particularly gorgeous specimen of southern live oak. He wondered what Merle would think if he knew Daryl thought trees were "gorgeous." It was the state tree of Georgia. He wondered if any of the group knew that. He'd seen several Brown Thrashers today, the state's bird. Georgia even had a fucking state possum. He laughed to himself. The only reason he knew that was because he'd been caught with one by a game warden once and had to pay a fucking fine. It was the fucking Pogo Possum. If he found one of those bastards now he'd shoot it and cook it up and declare it a state holiday. He'd bet that pack of smokes Merle had hidden away that the group wouldn't have a clue why.
They probably wouldn't know that the Cherokee rose he'd given Carol was the state flower, either. Carol might not know, but she'd believe he knew it. Maybe he should tell her. This trip out he hadn't seen any. Maybe if he did on the way back he'd bring her one. He'd say it was for Judith, but she'd know. She always seemed to know. She knew so many things, the really hard things, like how to talk to people the way they needed it, how to be quiet without it being uncomfortable, and how to make things better, right.
His muscles were tired after the long day, and so was his brain. He'd been in full concentration mode since dawn. He'd been tracking, dispatching walkers, keeping an eye out for any living human sign, planning for the trip back from where his current position was, and even further ahead to how long this haul would last them, and how soon until they need him to leave again. If only Merle could be trusted, then he could trade off with this.
Hershel seemed to be getting on well enough with his brother, which was unexpected. Daryl hardly dared to hope that the time they spent together would result in a friendship to temper Merle's wild streak. He thought, not for the first time, that Hershel was the kind of father he wished he'd had, or at least an uncle or a granddad. To have known a man that didn't speak first with his fist and second with a bottle would have made a difference in Merle's life, and in his.
He wondered what Carol's dad had been like. Did a woman go to a man like Ed because her father was like him? Had Ed always been a bastard, or was he like one of those guys in the movies that was all flowers and candy until he got her home, or married, or pregnant and then turned into a monster? Daryl had seen some Jennifer Lopez movie once where that happened, and then she went all ape shit on the guy and beat him to death. Daryl smiled and shifted on the branch. Carol had put a pick to Ed's skull. If he were alive to see her now he'd be pissing his drawers. She could shoot him between the eyes at twenty yards and take a machete to his balls up close. Afterward she'd still be able to tell a funny little joke, and smile so beautiful, and drift down the hall like some swan with that long neck and those graceful arms.
He was glad he was alone because he could smile about her without anyone asking him what was he was thinking about. He wouldn't be able to explain it anyway. He never had the time he needed to work that out. He couldn't tell somebody else before he really knew, and he sure wasn't going to tell anyone other than Carol before he told her...if he told her. He didn't even know if it was something that needed telling to her.
He knew he liked to hear about news from her instead of other people. He knew he thought of things he'd seen and done on this trip that he'd been remembering to tell her. He'd added the oak, the thrashers, the sunset and even the possum to that. Nobody else would care, but she would. He knew that if he had a choice he'd take her as a partner for an activity over anyone else. He knew it felt better than most other things in his life now. He was starting to think that being around Carol felt better than most things...ever. He knew he dreamed about her sometimes, but he didn't remember them when he woke up.
He'd left with Merle, and he knew she'd understand. For some reason, though, he'd never felt like that was a final separation. He hadn't expected they'd go back, but he hadn't thought Carol was gone, either. He'd tried to figure out what he had thought would happen. He didn't know. The only thing seemed to be that he thought wherever he ended up he would find her there. Sometimes he thought that was insane. Sometimes he wondered if he should tell her. He had no idea how.
Maybe if Daryl had known a man like Hershel he'd be able to say the things he wanted to say when he wanted to say them. Sometimes he could. Back at the farm he had been able to a couple of times with Carol, but only after he'd had time to prepare. Any time he didn't he'd smashed around and hurt her. And with Carl, he'd had time to think about his mom. But people needed things so fast, especially now. Daryl needed practice. Hunting and tracking weren't natural. It took practice. Why the hell did they think all this stuff was so natural?
The one thing he knew for sure was that people didn't like him raw. He couldn't let out what he thought and felt the way it happened to him. They couldn't take it. But they never gave him any time to prepare it for them. They couldn't wait. What the fuck did they expect? He wasn't instant soup.
No, not instant soup. Probably a stew. Something thick, not very spicy, with carrots, and peas that took hours to cook. He liked peas. Potatoes were good, too, but not okra. Never did like that slimy stuff. Carol'd remember not to put any in...She always knew how to make things better...right...