Some hours later, Daryl and Beth break through the foliage into the outskirts of a small cross-strip town. Beth, looking forward to her two-night stint in a real bed, is as cautious and alert as her companion on point as they leave the shelter of the woods and enter again the crossroads of men and the remnant structures of what had been civilization. Truth is, like the dead, the living are everywhere — in towns, on the roads, as well as in the wilderness. They were never exclusively safer in the woods; bandits and marauders roam the countryside now, and there's no knowing where they might be. But towns are the points where all survivors eventually converge. The draw of the comforts and necessities of the old life become too strong, or too dire, and regardless of how thoroughly picked-over these empty towns and residences become, the living still come to eke out what they can from a life and a world that's in decay.
His eyes keenly askance, Daryl signals for Beth to take the right, and they move forward, advancing with weapons raised and loaded. Within minutes Daryl's arrow shoots, hitting a roaming walker directly in the back of its head, sending it falling straight forward into the pavement. Both Beth and he look, and with no immediate signs of others, Beth, gun still raised, knife at the ready, hurries forward to retrieve the arrow, stepping her boot on its skull to do so. Daryl reloads, and they move on. They have learned to be cautious. They touch their palms to the hood of each vehicle they pass; they keep their voices low, or do not speak at all; they tread lightly, and look for any sign the town might be claimed, by the living or the dead. Rounding the corner, the pass the water tower and head east, up toward the center of town. They pass by repair shops and auto garages, moving in practiced stealth as they do.
"Should we go in?" Beth asks in a hushed tone. Who knows what little's left to salvage in any of these places, and without a vehicle, or a home base, there's only so much they can carry, but they're in town so rarely, it'd be wrong not to get what they can. Daryl shrugs his vote and Beth's eyes scan the vacant street to vote for the best target. Pointing to the auto garage, Beth looks to Daryl; he nods, and they move toward it. At the wooden door, compromised with dry rot, Beth takes point, raising her weapon as Daryl prepares to kick in the door. Once it's down she's in first, then steps aside as Daryl follows, scanning with his crossbow, resuming the lead. There are no signs of walkers. Beth lowers her gun, then Daryl his bow, and they proceed to scavenge. There isn't a lot. They pocket some screwdrivers, Beth takes a crowbar, then makes for the bookkeeping desk to see what's there while Daryl looks for fuel.
"You enjoyin' your 'nice day'?" he grunts as he comes up empty, container after container. She'd asked for something simple, for something pleasant from her old way of life, not to go on a less than fruitful run.
Popping half a stick of stale spearmint gum in her mouth, Beth turns around and smiles. "Mm,hm." They've only just reached town, her spirits are far from dampened; at the very least they're out of the hot sun, and for the moment not aimlessly walking miles on end. She offers the other half of the gum to him then sticks the rest of the pack into her bag.
"You find a gun or anythin' up there?"
"Uh, uh." She scours on, pocketing a carton of something as she does. "Why'd they keep a gun? Who'd rob an auto shop anyway?"
Daryl looks at her, once more (as so often he is) surprised by something she's said. Shifting past her in the cramped walkway through lifts and machinery, Daryl plants a light kiss on her brow as he talks into her forehead in the passing: "Dumbasses lookin' f'r a fix'll do any variety of stupid shit; an' folks never j'st had guns for protection."
She looks at him, with the knowledge he'll probably never stop speaking to her like she knows nothing about anything. Her eyes glance about the garage, knowing also that Daryl's tendency to talk to her this way, is, in his way, Daryl saying something very kind about the way he sees her. It doesn't faze her. She is who she is, as is Daryl. His simultaneous irritation with and admiration for what he takes to be her naivete is of little concern to her. The equity in this partnership of theirs trumps any need for false equalities. They are not the same, and neither she nor he would wish them to be. "Not much else here," she observes. "Unless you see some Daryl-Dixon thing I'm missin'."
Daryl shoots her a look — this girl loves to give him a hard time. Is it her? Is it her age? Or is it something he brings out in her? "Like whut?"
"I dunno," she smiles. "C'n you build a motorcycle out of scraps? Make a second crossbow outta spare auto parts?"
She is teasing him. Daryl pops the other half stick of gum in his mouth and grimaces wryly, "Shut up."
"Wait—" He'd been heading to the door when the thought of something struck her. Daryl turns around. "Think what we'd need to make another silencer would be here?"
He looks at her; it'd been Rick who'd figured how to do it, and it'd been some time since he had, but Daryl swings his bow back round his shoulder and steps back towards the nuts and bolts and washers. "Ain't got th' right kind of flashlight… No aluminum bat neither. An' even if we did," he continues, his eyes carefully appraising the hardware, "might not have the right firearms t' fit it."
"Still though," she makes her case, "it's easier to find a flashlight or even a gun out there than a washer or a clamp; right? Shouldn't we take what we'd need while we c'n get it?"
Shrugging, Daryl pieces through the parts, "You're th' boss." Now beside him at the workbenches, Beth shifts her hip to bump his. "Here," he says, ignoring her playfulness, "look f'r more o' these." He hands her a washer and a hose clamp. "Still need a hand saw… An' a drill…"
Beth browses through the shelves and drawers behind them while he pockets some odds and ends, and— "Daryl," he can hear the broad smile she must be wearing just by her voice alone; he turns around. "Look," she holds up her find. In her hands is an almost full roll of duck tape, the uses of which are so varied even this windfall seems not nearly enough. Daryl nods at the find and watches as Beth slips the roll onto her wrist like some crazy industrial bangle bracelet. Beth never does what he would think to do…
Loaded with all what little they can use, they head — once again on high alert — back onto the street, making several more stops as they make their way further into town. There isn't much left anywhere, but Beth thinks to stop into an untouched craft store and there — though the winter months are still far off — they score from half mannequins and display hangers knit sweaters, scarves, hats, and mittens, all meant as models for future projects never to be undertaken. Daryl has to give her credit for that one — he, and evidently no one else, would have ever thought of that. In a dish by the register is a bowl full of Tootsie Rolls; Daryl tugs Beth around, opens the flap in her pack and dumps them in.
At a well-raided general store, Beth picks up some much-needed bug spray, one more tiny bottle of hand sanitizer, and a pocket packet of facial tissues — destined not to be used on their faces. Beth looks, the personal hygiene and feminine care aisles are barren. Grimly ironic, as she isn't, and there are things she — and now he — need. Behind her, Daryl uses his knife to crush in the skull of a slow-moving walker that had emerged from the storeroom, grabbing, as indifferently he steps over it, the single jar of artisanal mustard that had somehow been overlooked by previous scavengers.
There isn't much else to get. No sign of food. All the storefront cafes have long since been ransacked. They move on. When their path takes them past a boutique baby and toddler store, with headless mannequins of children and toddlers macabrely posed in faded once-cheerful clothes and happy tableaus, both Daryl and Beth look away. It's too much, the loss of all those children, of all those young lives. Judith… For some time it had been hard for Daryl to break the habit of keeping his eyes open for baby things — formula (even though she'd already mostly outgrown it), diapers, toys. They don't need them now, but it's been tough retraining his eye not to look. He's found he misses a lot of the prisoners in this way, thinking as he scours shelves and drawers and closets: this for Tyreese, this for Carl, this for the couple in G block, this for dental hygienist in A, this for Carol—
… Now, he looks only with Beth in mind, hoping he'll never have to force himself to forget what she would like, or need; hoping he'll never have to look away when he sees a piano, or a blank journal, or some silly figurine. Even a cloud, or a yellow flower…
"Le's g't goin'," he grunts. "Don't have t'do the whole town in one sweep."
Beth nods her second, "Alright." She looks about the quiet streets, then at him, "Where to?"
From the street, Daryl surveys the lay of the town. The sun by then is low in the sky. Somehow Beth's day off from walking had turned into one more long day of little but walking. They have yet to take anything that would pass as a rest. And it'd been long hours since they'd last eaten. They should take a quick run through a couple of houses, look for some food, then settle in. Daryl leads the way, crossing the street from the shops and up the corner block to the first row of houses, still in sight of the main street thoroughfare but somewhat off the beaten path. Shooting a walker in the street, Daryl bashes in two more before they make it to the first house. On the stoop, Daryl squares himself for preparation to knock the door in with his shoulder, but Beth tries the knob and the door opens easily — it's been forced open already. Daryl shoots Beth a look.
Stepping in, the wait for any sounds of the dead or of the living. Nothing. The rooms and hallways quiet, Daryl moves further in, his crossbow reloaded and ready, slowly, alertly scanning the place. Meanwhile, Beth shuts the door behind them and drags over a credenza to block and secure the entrance, staying there at the ready should she have to maneuver to undo that safeguard in a hurry. Pulling her knife, Beth's eyes follow after Daryl, but aside from what looks like had been the remains of a person, maybe a child, and three dead walkers in the living room, and some other smears of blood, both human and walker, the house is clear.
They move straight for the kitchen. After raiding the house's whole lower level, the kitchen in particular, and coming up with nothing in the way of food, or weapons beyond a small hammer and very dull kitchen knives, Beth says over her shoulder, "I'm gonna look upstairs." She mounts the stairs, one at a time, her knife poised and ready, and Daryl follows after. At the landing he nudges her back and takes the lead — one, two, three bedrooms are clear. There's no sign of walkers but lots of evidence the place has been run through by groups several times over. Moving with rote efficiency, Beth proceeds through the hallway, ducking her head into each of the rooms — a little girl's, a boy's, probably only slightly older, the master. Beth steps in, crossing straight to the bed.
It is unmade and rumpled, no doubt any number of people have spent a night in the bed since the owners disappeared, but Beth, who at one point in her life was repelled by the blankets and coverlets in hotel rooms, now happily and gleefully drops herself face down on the bed. She might easily have spared three minutes more to search cabinets or shelve for clean linens, but truthfully the thought never entered her mind. She sighs deeply in contentment.
"Hmph." From the doorway Daryl watches her. "Happy?"
Her answer is muffled by the pillows she threw herself onto but he can just make out something that sounds like "'s heaven." Daryl snorts in appreciation, and looking at her, seeing she clearly has no intention of stirring, Daryl crosses into the room. Setting down his crossbow against the bedside table, Daryl moves to tug off her boots.