If this chapter doesn't read terribly smoothly I apologize. Yesterday I thought I had it, then I reread it and re-pieced it, and now I'm feeling a little blind when I look at it, and a little resigned that I can't get it better. (Maybe I'm just being lazy and submit-happy.) No doubt I'll get home from work tonight and want to revise it totally :/
The night passed them without further event. In the later hours Peter roused Tom to relieve him; in turn Daryl could have woken either Simon or Michael - both of whom had abstained - to replace him, but he stayed on, feeling it better, with evidence of walkers so close, to stand watch himself. With night vision goggles and a crossbow, heavy and deadly in his hands once more, he watched the night, looking for the herd he hoped those four walkers were not an early sign of. Should they come, moving in en masse, the camp stood a good chance, positioned well to survive, or at the very least to stall for time for a clear exit. The walkers he'd taken down had all been moving east, coming in on the lower ground; with a river between them and trip lines as well, the camp'd be in fair shape with the advantage on their side. Far better than if there was an advance from the north-east, on the high ground. There too though there are trip wires, and sharpened palisade pikes, and the river also. The camp all around is well fortified, but given all that the land is still even on its east border, and thus does not barricade them the same as the dropped shelf of land does below. If ever a herd big enough comes through, the throngs would be enough to push across to the strip of island land. Given a choice, Daryl would choose the circumstances they're in— an attack from the west.
But it never came to that. When he retired to bed as the first rays of day broke out above the trees in the east, no herd had come. Nothing had moved in the night but a ground mouse, which he'd let scurry past, and a saw-whet owl, which he shot down with ease with the aid of the night vision.
Beth stirs some when he moves in beside her. Her head is heavy, and her stomach unsettled. She'd slept soundly but now roused she feels queasy and closes her eyes again and breathes. She hadn't thought the smoking had had much effect on her, but she feels it now — a strange sick feeling in her stomach, a cloudy floating headache and the sweats. Beth pushes herself up—
"Shhh," Daryl mutters, needlessly trying to settle her, already more than half asleep himself. "Ev'rythin's quiet…" he exhales into heavy sleep.
Beth drinks from her canteen, still it tastes funny to her, she'll remember to fill a mug from now and bring it with her to bed, only relying on the canteen when they're on the move in the woods. She thinks about rising and getting something into her stomach, or even just reaching into her pack beneath her head and pulling out some dried squirrel meat, but the thought of it does less than satisfy. Her stomach churns, so she lies her head down once more, turns in her blanket, shuts her eyes, and tries to sleep it off, remembering as she does the headache and dehydration she'd suffered after the night of moonshine. In his sleep Daryl turns too, wrapping his dead tired body around her, slinging one arm over her and pulling her in.
When she wakes again she feels more herself, her stomach is settled and her head is clear. She rises and goes to the river, brushes her teeth, washes her face, and puts the indulgence of the night, and its morning repercussions, behind her. Beth checks the fish traps and collects the single brook trout that got itself caught sometime in the early evening or night. The construction of the original basket woven traps was James'. The cone shaped design, with an angled opening leading in, making escape in the reverse direction difficult, was modeled as best it could be after the innovation of the Native Americans. With a swift cut Beth dispatches the fish and uses her freshly sharpened blade to carefully cut, clean, and filet the meat.
Days pass, time passes, the camp of seven restructures itself and solidifies as a camp of nine. Beth's hair's grown a little longer in the time, so that now it mostly reaches nearly to her ears, longer in some spots, still shorter in others. The weather's changing, it's getting colder. The air is icy in the mornings and nights; Daryl and Beth work diligently to tunnel through to the campfire, though admittedly little heat is likely to be drawn in by it, but it is better to act, better to try, better to not lie stiff and cold in the nights thinking there is something more that could be done.
Before the days shorten, and before the hunting goes scarce, Daryl and Tom are making plans for a more efficient method to dry and smoke meat. The camp's methods of fishing too is being redesigned. The basket traps work, but require a lot of maintenance and baiting. Up river, where the stream runs wider and shallower, is the site of a new construction they've started at Daryl's suggestion, what he called a 'Cherokee V'. It's a large elongated 'V' formation in the riverbed built of stones and rocks. The wide mouth opens upstream — the fish swim in, but do not swim out. The construction of it would go faster if there were more rocks and building materials at the ready, but the wooded forest is flat, and not too rocky. As it is, the group loads them in in small batches carried in packs on their backs when they journey out to track or to clear. Along now with tracks and edible plants they look for rocks when they're out, and also branches — long ones, straight, no broader than a ring or pinky finger, with not too many offshoots. Daryl has started making bolts, shaving them down, sharpening the ends, make a cache for the crossbow. The camp was high functioning when Beth and Daryl joined it; with two more pairs of hands and two more heads for planning it's only getting stronger, in both defenses and provisions.
In accordance with the camp's egalitarian structures the crossbow belongs to the camp as a whole, but it's more Rob's than anyone's – just as Peter and James are the would-be leaders if there were any – but Daryl has the usage of it. It would be unjustifiable if he did not, given the level of skill he'd demonstrated, and it would be pointless if he did not, everything he kills with it benefits not just himself, not just Beth, but all of them. He's taken the time to offer Rob some pointers, and given Simon some training with it as well. Daryl uses it now for his hunting rounds and keeps it with him when standing watch with anyone other than Rob. Beth uses it too on her stints of night watch, but she's only ever had occasion to shoot it when Daryl makes her practice or takes her with him when he hunts. The bow is not his own, it fires differently, the scope and range are not as good as what he's accustomed to, but it is so far better than nothing, as both Beth and he knows, and life is slowly piecing itself back together. Not in a way that it was before — the others would have to be found for that — but in a way that feels all right. They are all right.
Though Beth has it in her head there is something wrong with their water, something that must be upstream somewhere, infusing it, maybe infecting it. It isn't just the canteen; the water does not taste right. The others detect no difference, and because there is no other option but to continue to drink it, she does, and tries not to think about it. Beth is doing a lot of that lately, tucking certain inconveniences of reality away, leaving them to face for another time. For now she, like the others, has her mind on winter — preparing for it and getting through.
From the swimming hole below Daryl returns to camp in the falling dusk, wet and freshly bathed. The realities of this new world — blood and rot and sweat and dirt — seem to be bothering his bunkmate more noticeably now that they're not so constantly on the move and have time for things like a bath and clothes washing. Though clothed in a shirt a little too tight, pants both a little too short and too tight, and a sweatshirt that won't zip – garments borrowed from James and Tom while his own tattered articles hang drying by the fire – even Daryl Dixon can't deny the comfort of wearing something not describable as grime.
Approaching the circle of light thrown out by the flames, Daryl, not unlike a dog, shakes out and throws back his wet hair and feeling somewhat renewed steps closer. Beth, who he half thought might already have retired to their hut, is there amongst the other familiar faces of the camp. She's been needing more rest recently, sleeping more than she had been, taken to resting before dinner, maybe, now they finally have a constant place to lay their heads, at last making up for all the miles and miles they walked on end without reprieve. But she is up, seated at the fire with the others, talking some and chatting.
In their time with them, this group and this camp has rendered themselves a home for the two prison refugees, and now he watches as she sits there, seated beside boys her own age, smiling, a laugh even occasionally breaking out across her flushed and contented face. Daryl takes a swig of water, and blinks. There where they sit in the firelight, he reflects, lit in the fading pink light of dusk, laughing and talking as they are, eating a fire-roasted meal, sipping from sturdy-handled mugs, they could be on a campout almost; just a bunch of college kids out on some campout or picnic. Excepting how tired, dirty, and thin they all objectively look, this could be any old group of friends before the turn, out in the woods for fun, their youthful faces lit by the light of the low-burning fire. She'd fit in so naturally, and the guys proved eager to welcome her. They tease her, kid with her, vie to make her laugh. James does so especially, then there's Rob, who's quiet mostly, or, economical with the words he uses with her, but he looks, watching her some, if he feels no one else is. More than once Daryl's caught Simon in a series of flustered blushes, his fair complexion revealing more than any adolescent would wish revealed, but Daryl sees it all as harmless, and of no threat to Beth. Her presence in camp may have introduced a dynamic that was not in camp before their arrival, but it hasn't changed the core nature of the boys who built it. Intrigued they most definitely are, amorous maybe, but little more; he can't fault them for that.
Daryl moves in, picks a serving of rabbit and root mash for himself, and drops himself to the ground, leaning against a sawed log stool for support. He feeds himself, chewing slowly, watching the embers absently, letting the light chatter drift over him, only half listening to anything they're saying. He looks up when Beth drops a dollop of her own uneaten food on his plate, his hooded eyes glance at her, then he digs in, scooping his index and middle finger together to spoon the stuff to his mouth.
When the conversation slows, and the night round them has grown darker, and nothing especially is being talked of, Daryl chucks a piece of bark into the fire, watching the momentary spark it creates when it hits. When the flames normalize he leans back, rubbing his calloused hands on the thighs of the worn and ripped-torn pants he wears. "Think it's time to do a run."
No one speaks, but most eyes turn to him. Since Beth and Daryl joined them there had been no runs into towns, or to highways. The group has made itself self-sufficient, it was a conscious choice: Supplies will run out at some point — what towns and cities have to offer will not last and there will for certain come a time when there'll be no choice but to depend on what they can get for themselves, so they started early, and got good at it. In doing so they not only better keep themselves supplied and fed, they stay clear of other scavengers, a point not to be undervalued.
It's Peter who speaks up, and his eyes meet Daryl not with suspicion, but prudent reservation. "Why?"
Daryl's eyes find Beth's, then focus on Peter and the others. "Season's changin'. Winter'll be here b'fore we know. Huntin' will be harder, nights'll be colder. We need food — if we c'n get it." He glances then again at Beth, "We need blankets, an' warmer clothes."
James looks at him, "We've done a winter outside already. Two of 'em."
"So 've we." Daryl's voice is firm and masculine, he's not trying to one-up teenagers.
"Being on the road — in cars and crashing in houses — is not what it's like out here," John remarks.
Daryl looks from James, to Peter, to Rob and John, and to the others. "You think this camp's got all it needs for the winter?"
Nobody especially says anything. Beth and Daryl are the first people they've encountered in a long time; it's worked out well but they're in no hurry to mix with others. Isolationism and self-preservation have been essential contributors to their long-term survival to this point. They don't take risks they don't absolutely have to, that's how who still remains of their once much larger group is still living.
Daryl rolls his tongue under his bottom lip , his lower jaw jutting out as he does so, and his gaze lands on Simon. "D'you?'
Simon looks at him, and swallows. The others listen for what he'll say. "I think," the boy says, "with too much comfort, we'll forget what's keeping us alive — what's making this place work. We stay light."
"Yeh?" Daryl grunts, "We'll be real light, soon e'nough." He says again, "We need what food we c'n get, while it's still out there to get. Even jus' salt f'r curing. Foil. More tools. A heating duct for the smoker. More."
"I'h wouldn't mind another blanket. Or three," Beth contributes. "And a change of clothes. Something warmer, with less holes."
"Gloves," Daryl nods. "An' socks."
"We could use a kettle," Michael adds.
Eyebrows rise at one of them breaking ranks, though Beth's request for a blanket had already seen just about all of them waiver.
"Doubt there's any left tuh find," John speaks up, "but we could use some batteries, if there 're any."
Eyes move around the circle, weighing costs, measuring needs, taking stock of each member's stance. Peter pinches the bridge of his nose as if in thought, then shrugs anticlimactically. "Make a list."
Just want to say how happy I am to have you all as readers, you have really made working on this and my other TWD pieces so much fun! Your responses, and insights, and predictions are the best! [To anyone who also reads "Hold On", it's not foresaken, just ruminating while I think on it and enjoy this story for a bit.]
I'll add one more thing, which is to say I know there has been some general anxiety about Beth and these boys, and without addressing anything definitively, I will say that when I started this whole section, I was thinking about several teenage/young adult boys I've known through my work, and thinking how people like them would fair and what they would do in this kind of world. This group isn't representative of every young man - there's Randal for starters - they are themselves. :)