While the hammers bang, Beth regrips the crossbow, stretching her fingers wide about the grip, her long index finger dancing over the trigger. Stoically she stands guard against the noise of Simon's and Daryl's work, impervious to all but their task, the entrenchment they are staking. The stairwell to their building is being fitted with trip wires, an alarm system, and weight falls in two of the stairs. Outside clamber three walkers – no doubt drawn to the noise – for the moment still docile enough to let be. Simon's advocating for an eventual covered pit at the front door, one with blades or a deep hole to stymie unwanted foot traffic, but if they act on it at all it will have to wait until they're further established and better moved in. There is still considerable gear and supplies to be brought up, and the stairs themselves now will create enough of a challenge to this until the bulk of the stockpiling is completed.
The plan is to fortify their building and the town under the cover of vacancy. Their's will not be the overt defenses of Morgan, but like the woods before this town, they will strategize the landscape of the town of Pierce to their defense and advantage. Three days now they've been executing their measures, taking care not to announce their residency in any step they take. Covertness is the path they've elected.
Out front they've pushed three cars into the road outside their door; ostensibly, to the casual eye, it's just another crash, but the seeming collision provides a sort of barricade for them. It'll slow a stampede if one comes at them. Beyond that they've taken other measures, covert alarm riggings in the road that pass as random fodder from a town once brought down by chaos.
Second to securing their own building, they're establishing safe houses throughout the town. Punctuating different paths through town, houses, ones with strong vantage points of the road and of the town and its outskirts, have been cleared. These houses, indistinguishable by their exteriors, have reinforced bolts, heavy furniture at the ready to barricade doors, shadowbox peepholes installed, impaling weapons stashed, and small stores of food and water. Simon's working on a signal system should any one of them ever get cornered and trapped in one of them. They may never need any of it, but preparing for all eventualities runs deep in their blood, a training that cannot be unlearned.
In making their rounds they've come upon the remaining wreckage of gruesome scenes. Suicides, slaughterings, families overrun, living bodies destroyed in terrible ways. And worse. Despite so much in the world pushing them to be, none among these three have hardened to the cost of such sights. They see the carnage, neither immune nor impervious to the ugliness, to the terror, and they soldier on. Still so fresh are their most recent losses, compounding the ones they've carried longer, not one of them can afford the empathy. The dead, no matter how innocent, no matter how alive and human they once were, are dead: not of them, not theirs. Mutely they pass through treacherous tableaus, killing what needs killing, passing by what is already gone. "Only the living can be saved," Carol once had said.
Around town, walkers are being killed in ones and threes and fives. In houses, on the streets, in shops, the general count is being culled. Before too much longer they plan to clear the vet clinic, hoping there may still be some meds inside. Their stock of food grows slowly, with some good finds among it, but still, it will not be enough for the three of them for too long. They will need to continue to scavenge. It's clear which houses fell early: some pantries are virtually untouched. Some fridges are time capsules of collapsed and disintegrated mold, long past growing. They've found still-sealed mustard jars and jams. They've found flour, honey, oils, seasonings, rice, beans, canned veggies, and bottled beverages. They've uncovered some over-the-counter painkillers, some stomach tonics, blood pressure meds, nasal sprays, and allergy medicines. Added to this is a total of seven bottles of children's chewable vitamins, three handguns, a carton of rounds, and a cache of fireworks.
Beth is advocating for and working on creating a separate store of food and supplies. Should they get raided, should they get robbed, or even accidentally burn down their apartment in the heating of it, she does not want them left with nothing. Hedging their bets is the order of the hour, and with two cars at the ready for flight or desertion in either direction, each with siphoned gas stored on hand, taking up residency – transitional though they all may deem it – is proving doable.
Simon lifts his head from his work and exhales heavily through a lazy smile his lips form. Sweat mats his floppy white-blond hair to his brow and he pushes it back with a tanned and dirty forearm still lean from youth. "Phew," he chuckles. "Gettin' light-headed." After another three powerful and direct blows with his hammer, Daryl too straightens his body, stretches his back and leans against the blood-marred wall. "Whudd'ya think?" Simon asks, surveying their work.
Daryl nods. "Yhep," his low voice rumbles. Wordless, his right arm reaches toward Beth and relieves her of the bow she wasn't having trouble keeping raised.
She lets him take it, the way he generally keeps her from carrying loads when he at all can help it. She doesn't thank him, she's not certain he's aware he does it. "What's next?" she prompts.
Simon glances up from the calluses he's rubbing, peeking through his long lanks of fallen hair, "Anything to move forward with for the garden?"
Beth's head shakes. "There's nothing much." She's been looking for viable transplants, for planting packets, for bulk seed. "Dandelion greens, that's about all I'h've seen." The three survivors do their best not to allow this to bankrupt their progress too much. "I found a bag of birdseed," Beth continues. "If they germinate, we may get some pumpkins and sunflowers. In the spring maybe millet, or rapeseed or sorghum, but the yield will be small, and it's unlikely at best." Her dimples deepen as she continues in earnest, "We'll need to spend these next months cultivating a store for planting."
Outside the walkers still mill and shuffle about – not agitated, but pacing in wait. Daryl raises the crossbow. "Snares need t' be set." With a broad step he passes over the tripwires and fall steps and descends toward the exit. "Got near two hours b'fore sundown." The two others nod, and with blades, firearms, and line in tow, they circumvent the new defenses and meet him at the thick slab door.
With a nod Daryl handles the bow and kicks open the exit, firing into one walker as another stumbles back from the impact of the swinging door. Their work is swift as blades flash and swipe, sticking fiercely at their points of impact then drawing back stark and final. Five they take down in total, then make fleetly for the edge of the woods.
"How you feeling?" Simon asks Beth as he travels beside on the bloody pavement.
"Better," the small girl nods. "The exhaustion's gone; 'm feeling a little more like myself."
"Good," the boy nods. "That must be good." They follow behind the long brash strides of Daryl, who leads them into the shadows of the trees and into the rustlings of the brush, across the highway into the naturally growing world. "Will it happen here? The baby?"
Beth shakes her head and trains her eyes on the forest floor. "We won't be here that long." By her rough estimations she gathers she has twenty, maybe as many as twenty-five weeks more; a lot can happen in that time. A lot can happen in so many minutes, enough to destroy homes and to cut down loved ones. She is not counting on this place. Several paces more Beth lowers to the ground to assemble a snare along a small game trail. "We're not home yet."
Her river eyes flash to the east in immediate response to his whistle. When her eyes catch his, Daryl's glaring at the both of them, telling them in silent glowers to shut up and get to work. Her contained smile answers his condemnation and her unfazed hands work all the more quickly to complete the task.
Two squirrels and a fledgling network of snares running west to east and north to south are the products of two hours in the woods. Before them the sun is low and hazy in the sky, pulling down with it the clouds and the shadows, bringing in night over their heads. Though the light is dimming in the mauve-streaked orange-gold burning sky, the trio walks softly in leisure, feeling in each step the pride of hard work done, and stability being fortified. Simon drinks from a canteen, drawing two long, quenching drafts then passes the bottle off to Daryl. Daryl drinks, spits, then drinks again.
"Gotta get the water supply settled," Simon says. "This is all going to be for naught if we can't."
"No chance of crops until then," Beth agrees.
"We got transport," Daryl breaks in. "We'll make a run, fill up. Repeat. Two fishin' shops in town? Gotta be a river close."
It'll mean hassle, it'll mean risk, driving out to cart in water, and until they've completed at least one run successfully they won't consider the matter settled, but already the prospect of a feasible water supply has got them breathing easier. Water security, food security, consumes so much of their waking attention, crowding out all nonessential considerations and concerns. Water. Food. Walls. Weapons.
For tonight at least, all bases are covered. As natural as anything, without breaking his stride, Daryl sweeps Beth's head in to him and plants a kiss at the top of her tangled dirty head. Once more he kisses her, then releases her in quiet contentment. Beth's sweet face presses to the brawn of his arm and presses her chapped lips to his woolen bicep. Somewhere overhead a brown thrasher chirps and calls. Their feet fall softly on the wooded ground.
"I'm going on a run—" Simon starts with a hazy grin. "And I'm going to get ammo."
Beth smiles, straightens her head from Daryl and answers. "I'm going on a run and I'm looking for ammo and batteries."
"'Getting,'" Simon interjects. "Positive thinking, Beth."
"Al'right," she smiles her gentle concession, "'Getting.'"
"Dixon?" the boy invites when the turn isn't promptly taken up.
Daryl shifts the weight of his bow, glances at his comrade, and clears his throat. "Goin' on'a run f'r ammo, batteries, an' cigarettes."
"Soft 'c', I like it." The sun is dropping more quickly now and dusk edges in on the glowing sky as it shrinks smaller at the western horizon. Nearly back to the highway now, Simon considers his next turn… "I'm going on a run and on that run I'll get ammo, batteries, cigarettes for Daryl, and… dry goods."
"I'm—"
Daryl's raised hand shoots out and at once both Beth and Simon stop. Stillness settles as they watch and listen, attending to every quiver of the forest line, every gust of breeze, every rustling of the brush. Nothing. Daryl signals sustained silence and Simon and Beth assume formation. The woods had been peaceful. In two hours they'd only happened upon a total of half a dozen walkers, seeing no signs of larger masses. Daryl scans their darkening surroundings intently, missing nothing, but he glances back at Beth, his eyes holding her briefly in his gaze before he makes his next move.
Strong seasoned hands grip the narrow crossbow and raise it to aim. "Come out," he growls. Simon's and Beth's eyes search for threats. "You've seen us," Daryl barks grimly. "Walk away or show y'rselves." Beth raises John's pistol, hoping the posturing is all she'll need. They don't have the rounds, or the numbers for a gunfight. In her ready stance she hopes for a friend, she hopes for the gnarled gnashing decaying face of the dead. She does not want a standoff. Their couple of rounds, her knife, Daryl's bow, won't help much if it's the living, armed and dangerous, coming through the tree line. Beside her Simon's gun is raised, his magazine less than half full. As rough and road-worn as they are, with weapons raised they must be making somewhat of a lethal showing, and in the flash of time that all this has taken, Beth harnesses all she has in her – as beside her the two remaining people in her life tense and flex, ready for action – to will it that a showing be all they'll be required to make. "Com'on!" Daryl roars.
Hey there! If you're reading — THANK YOU! I would LOVE to hear from you! How is all this going? (It's so hard to tell as I sit so long with this story on my own.) It'd be so helpful to hear what's working, what isn't or what's keeping you reading (is it something you're seeing or something you're hoping to see?). As always, much love! xx :D