They need gas and baby food, so they stop at a little roadside truckstop situation in the middle of nowheresville, surrounded by those big farms and long stretches of forest. A place to stretch your legs, refuel, take a nap– and for the farmers around who'd want some cheap beer and chew.
There's gas stations on opposite ends, with 18-wheelers left parked in the lots, a general store and a small pharmacy. A dingy 6-room, single story motel, just for the long-haul truckers, probably. A Waffle House next to it, it's sun-faded bright yellow sign broken up and bullet-ridden. A large mechanic's shop, garage big enough for the18-wheelers. A little gift shop, the windows advertising JAMS PRESERVES HONEY PEACHES PECANS GOAT'S MILK SOAP & MORE! A couple of crappy mobile homes.
There were too many walkers before, when Daryl and Beth came through, lurching and chasin' after the small car. He'd hardly had to think about speeding by.
Today it's fine. The handful of walkers hanging around are easily dispatched between him and Abe, who still kills with a certain amount of jovial energy Daryl can't fathom. Beth once said killing walkers– viciously, violently, over the top– made him feel better, but it didn't make him grin like Abe. He and Merle were cut from very similar cloth.
They're off in different directions: into the pharmacy, the store and gift shop, jimmying locks with pocketed bobby pins and useless credit cards, avoiding extra noise. Carol and Bob get into the mechanics garage, Eugene and Tara siphoning gas tanks. Carl and Beth go through the cars on the road, working together quietly like that last winter on the road. Abraham holds his gun ready across his body, walking the road in front of the motel, alert.
Daryl should go in the mechanic's shop, but he finds himself loitering outside still, in the road between the mechanic's and a gas station, bow in his hands. The safety's on, but somethin' tells him to stay sharp.
Maybe it's Merle's ghost, another warning.
A car groans sadly in the garage. A few dry lackluster rumbles before it turns over, but it sounds weak. It turns off again.
Daryl catches himself following the line of Beth's leg– she leans across the driver's seat of an ashy gold Ford Taurus, rifling through the glovebox. He decides to check the big rigs, see if there is anything useful left in the sleepers.
He's midstep, when he hears something.
Down the road, Abraham's head swings that way too. He stares toward the mountain they're heading to.
To his right, Carol opens the shop door and starts, "Hey, Daryl, we–"
Daryl slices a hand up, stopping her. Carol follows his line of sight, down the endless road. A low humming has begun. Getting just loud enough to recognize it.
Abraham booms out, "Hear that?"
Yeah. An engine. It's far away right now, but gaining quick.
Daryl hollers, "Car! Hide!" hoping Rick and everyone inside hears. "Hide them cars!"
Then Abraham bellows, his drill-sergeant voice carrying, "You heard the man! Move!"
They do, fast-footed: Glenn swerves the coupe into an alley, Rosita hides the SUV among others parked in a lot. Maggie holds the gift shop door open for the sprinting Glenn. Eugene, Tara and Rosita jog by Abraham, he goes in the pharmacy last. Carol is gone, the mechanic's door almost closed. Carl darts past Daryl, going for his father in the general store.
Beth abandons the bag she'd been filling somewhere and stops at his side, staring down the street, too.
Daryl sweeps his eyes around once more– meets Rick's through the store's glass door– he snatches up Beth's elbow, dragging her to the closest door, a Chevron station. He shoves her in first.
The shelves and racks are askew and tipped, empty snack-size chip bags and candy bar wrappers litter the floor like dry leaves. There's too many windows, the doors are all glass, but they're covered in a few summers of dust and old blood.
"Did ya see 'em?" She asks, looking around, mapping out the place.
"Get behind there," he orders, swinging his arm at the counter where the cash register's been toppled over and spilled open.
She kicks coins as she goes, only ducking so far down, craning her neck to see out smears on the windows. He puts his back to the wall right on the edge of the glass, craning himself to see what they're up against this time.
Their group is silent– the quiet of the woods when a predator comes– this whole place returned to a ghost town. Full of restive, watchful ghosts. The mannequin he spies in the gift shop window is Michonne; everything's as frozen as her. Even the wind moves nothing.
The hum grows. They're going at a decent clip, steady and insistent until, Daryl guesses, they're coming up on the buildings. It eases to a rumble.
The blood-hum in his ears gets louder than the engine outside.
"Daryl," Beth's hushed voice sounds so loud. He checks her quick– not being attacked by some silent walker, still crouched down– he shushes her sharply and turns back.
Takes a long time, something about the landscape must help sound travel. He's so focused on listening over the blood rushing inside his head, he doesn't notice Beth tip-toeing under the window panes. Doesn't realize till she's halfway there.
She won't meet his eye when he glares over his shoulder, she only peers around him. He ain't got time to be properly annoyed.
The vehicle reaches the pharmacy, and Daryl sees the grill: A white, dented and battered Chevy, a Tahoe, blood or mud on the hood and bumpers. The windshield is splattered with blood, pushed around by the wipers.
It creeps slow by their hiding spots.
There's two men in the front, lookin' around. The back windows are tinted, can't tell if there's more inside. They go by the store and gift shop, and when it's half past them, they see it at the same time.
He knows 'cause she stops breathing. She tenses up against the back of his arm. He's confused, and the cool hand of dread slips down his back, the time it takes his brain to register and process– everything is suspended for just the blink of his eyes.
Beth shuffles away from the wall– maybe to see better. Maybe she's processing, too, her brain spinning. She takes another small, thoughtless step.
Before she slips by him, he snaps his arm back across her stomach– like front seats with his mother, no seatbelts. He pushes her back into the wall. Her fingers dig into his arm through his coat.
"The cross," she whispers urgently. Like a spell she casts, the disquiet rushes through him again, a hot wave of adrenaline and ominous apprehension.
It's a replica of what he chased, the brightest thing in the red tail lights that night. Exact same shape, dead center on the back window. He's back in the dark, runnin' down the road like walker bait, his smoker's lungs already burning. The terror, then desolation, hopelessness. Guilt.
Daryl shakes his head once, sharply. Not now.
To himself and her.
She leans her whole rigid body into his braced arm, still leering around him.
The crunch of loose gravel cuts off suddenly, the brake lights flicking on, gleaming.
Shit, he thinks.