stargazr41 - I think you effectively brought the word 'wackadoodle' back for me. Thanks! ^_^
RandomMoonshadow - Whack-a-doo. That is all. XD
Claire Randall Fraser - You always seem to catch the nuances I often hope get relayed in my characters. So thank you so much!
itsi3 - Oh woman too!
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Chapter Thirty-Three: It's A Mean Old World
**Glenn**
Skulking around the convent grounds, Glenn noticed there was a lack of something.
It was almost like all the hope and joy, things only the convent had provided them, had been sucked out and replaced by that dark unknowing fear that plagued them during those terrifying days of the quarry and Hershel's farm.
In the dormitory kitchen, a crowd had gathered around St. James, who had fallen asleep on his knees as he dug through their supplies in his desperate search for milk replacement formula for the babies, his face pressed against the counter.
He was literally dead on his feet from his relentless watch over Grace, over Scout and over little Five.
"Do we wake him?" Sister Mary Agnes asked.
Merle scowled down at the form.
"Let him sleep," Michonne said.
Mrs. Douglas moved forward from the hall with a blanket and very carefully covered St. James with it.
"What do we do?" Glenn asked her as she stepped back from the man.
"What do you mean?" She asked him.
"About everything? I mean…?" He felt like someone should do something.
St. James snorted awake then and almost collapsed sideways in his hurry to get back to his task, unaware of the crowd that had gathered as he dug almost desperately for formula.
"That's it!" Glenn growled.
He couldn't just stand by anymore.
Storming from the kitchen into the cool Georgian winter air, he headed for Carl who sat on the wall with Layla, the two chatting amiably in the growing evening.
"Carl!" He shouted up.
The young man stood up. "What's up?"
"Get a group together, pick whoever you think would be best. You're going into Atlanta."
Carl hopped down. "For what?"
"Formula…I don't know…a woman who can feed the babies, better anti-biotics," Glenn said. "Anything, something."
Carl frowned. "Okay."
Glenn glanced over at Layla and found her eyeing him with fearful, beautiful brown eyes.
Turning, he headed for the gate, finding Rick rounding the corner of the dorms as he did so, the taller man heading right for him.
"Rick," Glenn greeted.
"O'Hara and Rhoades are at the gate," Rick stated.
Nodding, Glenn said, "we need to do something about Grace and the babies."
The other man nodded. "I know."
"I told Carl to gather a group for a trip into Atlanta," Glenn went on as they both headed towards Rhoades and O'Hara who were pulling to a stop in front of the church. "I want to take some people out too. We'll find something. We have to."
Hopping out of the truck, Rhoades approached them, followed by O'Hara.
"We hear you've got some trouble," Rhoades said.
"Things are bad," Glenn returned.
"How bad?" O'Hara asked.
"Grace…isn't good. The babies are getting weak from hunger, but she can't feed them with an infection." Rick declared.
Blinking, O'Hara dropped his seemingly all seeing eyes, before he took to one knee before them, his pack falling to the ground.
Glenn and Rick watched as he opened it and pulled out two cans of formula.
Nearly collapsing in his excitement, Glenn took the cans.
"Rhoades and I stopped on our way and scrounged up some useful things for your people here," the man said.
"This won't last forever," Rhoades said. "But maybe it'll get you through?"
Grasping O'Hara by the upper arm, forgetting the man didn't like to be touched, Glenn grinned broadly. "Let's get these to St. James!"
Major O'Hara politely pulled his arm back and nodded Rhoades in the direction of the dorms to accompany Glenn, remaining behind with Rick.
Tearing into the building, Glenn searched every room for St. James, before he was pointed towards the cellar by Mary Agnes.
Practically fumbling down the stairs, Glenn slammed hard into the weary man, knocking him into a shelf hard.
"Formula!" Glenn exclaimed.
St. James took the cans and eyed them quickly, scanning them.
"Will it work?" Glenn asked.
"It's expired, but…better than what we had before," the man replied over his shoulder, already tripping up the stairs.
Remaining behind in the cellar with Rhoades for a moment, Glenn was approached by the tall man.
"So Grace…is she…going to make it?"
Glenn shrugged. "I don't know, she went downhill fast."
"What do you need to treat her?"
"Milton's already made us some anti-biotics last month in his little drug shack," Glenn said. "But we'll ask St. James what she'll need. In the meantime, I think I'm going to head out after Carol and the Lieutenant. Or supplies even. I have to do something."
Rhoades shifted on his big boots, bending at the waist to eye the shorter man.
"I don't have any real plans," he said.
"Will O'Hara let you come?" Glenn asked as they headed up the stairs.
"He'd better, because I'm going."
Upstairs in the kitchen, they found only Andrea cleaning her rifle and Blue drinking a cup of strong tea.
"Hey," she greeted.
"You wanna go on an adventure?" Glenn asked her.
She smirked. "Wow, with swords and goblins and everything?"
"Haha," he sighed.
Smiling a little proudly at her joke, she jerked her chin at Rhoades. "What's up, big guy?"
"My blood pressure, probably," he returned.
"I read The Hobbit twice to Princess," Blue remarked, holding up his hand. "I know adventuring like I know my own mother."
Glenn nodded. "Alright, two more."
Milton entered the kitchen from the backdoor, looking distracted. His normally well kempt blond hair disheveled, his glasses thrust up into the locks as though done in frustration.
He moved straight from the pot of tea that somehow always magically appeared, hot and full by the stove.
"Rough day, Milt?" Andrea asked.
"Ants under the mercy of the cordyceps fungus have a rough day, we as a human race have had a rough existence," he murmured pouring himself a cup of tea. "It all started with the burning of the Library of Alexandria and from there life just slipped downwards at an angle of one-ten." Flopping onto a chair at the table, the man sighed. It was the sigh of the living dead.
"Milton, why don't you come with me when we head out?" Glenn asked. "You could find what you need for making more medications."
"I could also go into business doing strip teases for the ladies of the convent," Milton grumbled.
"Was that sarcasm, Milt?" Andrea demanded with a twinkle in her eye.
"I'm tired," he explained easily. "And I'm not as smart as you all like to think!"
Everyone at the table held up their hands in surrender.
"It's just…I taught tenth grade social studies, not…" he sighed again and gulped down his tea like it was rotgut whiskey.
"What's up, little man?" Rhoades asked.
Milton scowled. "I burned my mouth," he muttered, going for another cup of tea. "People die," he said suddenly. "I get that. This is the world we're in now, but…I should have foreseen this happening."
"What?"
"The babies," Milton said softly. "I should have taken them into account. I could have been making a plan for this."
"Milton, you can't have a contingency plan for everything," Glenn pointed out.
"I can!" He declared loudly. "I should!" He calmed and set his mug aside. "Babies shouldn't starve. Not here."
"They won't starve," Glenn said, despite the fact that he and everyone there knew that it was a grim possibility unless they found Carol or more formula.
"You don't know that!" Milton shouted. "We don't know anything! We…we're stupid children clinging to a ball five billion years old, spinning around a flaming star that will inevitably die someday and…we know nothing."
In the silence that followed this outburst, no one moved. Everyone remained as they were, Blue in mid sip, Rhoades tilted to one side as he shifted his weight.
"Well," Rhoades said after a moment. "Shit." Elbowing Glenn hard enough to cause the smaller man to stagger forward a little, he joked, "guess my eighth grade English teacher was right."
It was Blue who stroked his stubbled chin and asked in the wizened tone of some revered elder from the dusty dry lowlands of Texas, "what's really eating your ass, sprout?"
"Starving babies aren't enough?" Milton demanded.
"I recall Lafayette told me a story once about a clam in the ocean," Blue began.
Glenn nodded. It sounded like something the Lieutenant would do.
"This clam minded its own line, kept to itself, made no sound or wave, just laid there in the ocean bed. And it was a clam, I guess, didn't do anything, not even sure if the damned things can feel emotions, but time got it. Killed this clam. Dead. Boom. And it never made a wave, just died in the ocean bed and eventually it rotted out and the empty shell floated off on the currents of the ocean."
Everyone waited for the moral of the story.
Blue frowned a little. "I realize now that Lafayette is better at this than me."
Rhoades cleared his throat. "The goddamn clam realized when it got to clam heaven that he wasted his life never doing anything. Like…I dunno, getting clam pussy or something." He looked off to the side and murmured, "he is better at this."
"But clams don't do anything," Milton argued. "That's basically their existence."
Andrea sighed. "Milton, they're telling the damned story wrong. The whole point is supposed to be that we're not clams. We need to do things and that's probably why we're on this earth, to experience it. We may be stupid children, but it's up to us to educate ourselves to the best of our abilities and to learn from our mistakes."
"None of this has been helpful," Milton said. "Thank you for trying."
Everyone watched Milton as he left the kitchen by way of the back door.
Glenn wasn't sure what to do about that. His main concern was just babies and Grace.
"Clams don't have assholes, do they?" Rhoades inquired.
Merle burst into the kitchen followed by Tyreese, Adele and O'Hara.
"If this convent were a clam, you'd be our asshole," Merle growled with a small grin.
Rhoades beamed. "Merle, you old nutsack! How you've been hanging?"
"Low and lopsided," Merle retorted.
"Oh good, this means I can talk about my vagina now," Andrea stated with a roll of her eyes.
"I wish you would, darling," Merle invited.
Rhoades swept his arms out. "You have an open floor and a ready audience."
Andrea shook her head. "You think I won't?"
"I hope you do!" Merle returned.
"Andrea, you pink taco, how've you been?!" Adele inquired suddenly.
Not expecting that, Glenn snorted as Andrea clapped her hands to her mouth, blue eyes widening with mirth and disbelief.
Merle and Rhoades gave the woman dual perturbed looks.
"It's uncomfortable, isn't it?" Andrea demanded of the two men.
As Merle and Rhoades left the room to escape it all, O'Hara sniffed and turned to Adele calmly.
"You are most certainly your brother's kin," he said.
Adele gave a small, adorable curtsey before going over to pour herself some tea.
Turning back to the others, O'Hara said. "You should gather everyone up, we need to make some plans."
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**Cash**
He sat like a pointer hound, upper torso forward, almost ready to pounce, the rest of him all tense, ropy muscles and sharp, flashing blue eyes.
The longer Delgado prolonged their presence at his farm, the more Daryl Dixon became less like a human being and more animalistic.
It actually scared Cash a little.
Finally, after a meal was offered, the smaller, fiercer man blew up and stood up so fast and hard, his chair flew backwards and clattered against the wall.
"What are we doing here?" He demanded.
Everyone seated at the table, looked up at him startled.
It surprised Cash that they hadn't seen the man slowly building up pressure like one of them Nuclear Power Plants before the meltdown. But then again, living with Daryl for the good part of a year, Cash was beginning to read the man better.
"You invited us in, we only came to ask if you've seen Carol!" Daryl shouted, pointing his finger at Delgado accusingly. "Come inside, here for five goddamn hours being fed and watered like fucking housecats!"
Delgado blinked at the man.
Knocking a nearby vase off a credenza, Daryl snarled. "Man, fuck you and fuck this!"
Watching the man storm out, Cash pondered going with him or waiting around for a hot meal.
In the end the hot meal option won out and he sat in Daryl's vacant seat.
"Hot-tempered little shit, ain't he?" The ginger fellow remarked.
"He once punched a bag of cotton swabs because he couldn't open it," Cash lied with a grin as the food arrived at the table.
"Hey," the dark haired women who travelled with Mullet-head and the Ginger Zinger said, jerking her chin at Cash. "That boy's woman…she really lost or did she run off with his best friend?"
Taking a big slab of steak, Cash plopped it onto his plate and cut off a piece to shove into his facehole, chewing for a moment, before saying with a full mouth, "you don' know the Lieutenan' or Caro'." He swallowed the piece of meaty heaven and explained. "They wouldn't do that." He motioned to the door with his fork. "He'll find them. Dead or alive or…deadish?"
Everyone eyed him quietly, before the Ginger made a jerking off gesture and dug into his own meal.
Cash returned the rude gesture by mimicking the man's trucker 'stache with his finger and thumb.
After dinner he stepped out into the growing dark to find Daryl steaming mad on the front porch.
"Well," Cash remarked with a sniff at the cold Georgian winter night air. "This is progress."
Daryl ignored him, scowling at the dark.
Easing onto a rocking chair beside him, Cash pat his full stomach and sighed. "I mean, I was expecting you to be long gone."
"No sense traveling in the dark," Daryl growled. "And shut up!"
"You say that," Cash replied. "But you don't really mean it."
As the man ignored him, the blond took a good long look at Daryl, before pushing a little more.
"What's holding you here? Ass tethered to the porch?"
"I'm going to punch you in your dick if you keep talking!" Daryl snarled.
The tone wasn't as menacing as it once would have been, which actually kind of worried Cash.
Not that he cared. He didn't care at all.
And then a thought hit him.
Daryl didn't storm off into the night, because he didn't have the first goddamn idea of where to begin looking for Carol.
The world was a huge place and fragmented due to the collapse of society.
But Daryl, being Daryl, couldn't just sit still and let life happen around him. The man had it in his DNA to be the one bouncing around and stalking the darkness while shit happened. He reacted.
And suddenly, Cash did care. The idea that this pathetic backwater redneck lost two people he really cared for over something as stupid as a random walker herd—
Cash jumped to his feet.
Where did those walkers come from? Out of nowhere? After months of nothing…
Standing at the railing of the porch, he squinted at the night, feeling like something was happening in his brain.
He was either getting close to an idea or he was gassy.
A herd of fresh walkers from out of nowhere…
Cash opened his mouth and belched loudly.
But no, that was just coincidental gas, this…this was something!
"Hey," he turned to Daryl. "We burnt all those walkers, didn't we?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"No!" Cash exclaimed. "Milton kept one to examine!"
"So?"
"They were fresh walkers, like…recent kills, right?"
Daryl pushed to his feet.
"What if…I mean, if Carol and the Lieutenant are still alive and…maybe captured? What if these walkers had something to do with who has them?"
"Like another group?"
"Maybe, or…I dunno," Cash grunted. "Never mind." He slumped back down.
But Daryl remained standing, brow furrowed under the mop of his greasy hair. He leapt over the porch railing and slipped off into the night so fast, Cash barely had time to slog his steak heavy ass after him.