Be Good

"We should do somethin..." I murmured quietly, blinking and looking up from the fire at last. I'd seen enough of the devastation for one night, enough to last me a lifetime, and now it was slowly chewing away at me, and I needed to get my mind off of it.

Daryl barely glanced up at me, his eyes unreadable again, his back slouched in defeat, arms resting atop his knees, he dropped his gaze and went back to glaring into the flames.

"We should do something." I repeated, louder this time, determined.

"What?" he finally responded, he looked at me suspiciously as I watched him back. He looked uncertain of what I was going to say.

"We can't just sit here. They're out there, and if we go now, we could find them." I say, rephrasing my plan from earlier. I'm certain we could... I know we could.

"Could..." he echoed flatly, "We could, but chances are, we won't."

"Why?" I whispered. Not entirely sure why I'd asked. "Don't you think they're alive? They survived months outside the prison, and now you're so sure that because we're not all together, they're dead?" I demanded softly.

He didn't answer, he didn't even look up. I sighed and looked back at the fire. "Fine..." I sighed, looking up at him again, once again, he didn't exchange. "I need a drink." I declared suddenly.

This got him to look up, he tossed me the water bottle, that held about a half a cup of water left in it. I looked down at it as it landed in my lap and contemplated it. "No..." I tossed it back to him, his eyes narrowed a little. "I need a real drink."

He didn't respond, he didn't even look at me. Angrily, I stood up and dusted off my jeans, marching over to yank his hunting knife out of the log beside him.

"I ain't staying in this suck-ass camp eating water snakes. I'm going out there, and I'm going to go find myself a drink. I'm going to make my own plans, and I'm going to find them." I declared, marching off into the shadows. He made no move to follow me until I'd gotten several yards away, then he sighed in frustration, rising and stomping out the fire, painting the woods around us in blackness, guided only by the silver moon above, slowly working it's way to the western horizon.

I led the way, he just followed, so silently several feet behind me, I had to glance every few minutes to be sure he was still there. It surprised me that he was coming with me at all, I had honestly expected him to just let me go. Or maybe he feels the same way about me that I feel about him. If we are the last of our group... If. If we split up, there'd be no one left, no one to remind of the past, to reminisce with. And it's just all to painful to have so many memories and no one to share them with.

"Walkers." I whispered, taking cover behind a tree, watching to make out how many there were. I crouched and dug through the leaves at my feet, pulling up a rock the size of my palm, I aimed, and threw it across diagonally, it hit a tree and echoed, the branches of the small tree shook from the blow. Slowly, the walkers began making their way towards it.

"Okay..." I whispered, as a handful of undead fingers curled around my forearm, I screamed and turned around struggling to push it back and remain in cover, too late, the walkers were approaching me now.

The walker in my arms dropped dead, and Daryl bashed in the skull of another with his crossbow, stabbing the last two with an arrow.

"I had it!" I shouted angrily. One of the few chances I had to prove I'm not weak, that I could do the same thing Maggie, Michonne and Carol could do.

"It just 'bout damnear bit you!" He shouted back.

I glared at him, scrubbing the walker drool off my arm. "I can take care of myself." I muttered, grabbing my knife off the ground and continuing deeper into the woods. It was a while before he did anything other than follow me silently.

He didn't speak, so I assumed he was mad at me. He could stay mad, if he wanted. He knows what we need to be doing, and he just wants to sulk.

By the time the sun started rising, we emerged into a clearing. A long stretch of a once well cared-for lawn. The grass tangled and thick from not being trimmed. We waded through it, passing a sand dune, which I recognized as part of a gold course. A small hole in the center of the sand with a flag beside it marking the hole with a number. A few feet to the right, was an overturned gold cart, the rotting remains of a woman with rows of pearls around her neck flung out a few feet away, body mangled by walkers. The driver of the cart, a middle aged man in yellowing golf khakis, laid halfway through the windshield, glass puncturing his abdomen.

I winced and turned away, continuing to make our way up the hill. Daryl did not comment on anything, it was like I was under a test, he was observing my decisions and reactions to evaluate my performance.

The farther up the hill we got, the outline of a large brick building rose up. White granite pillars on the porch, and on the awning, a stone sign declaring it to be a country club.

"Hmm," I paused, looking up at the entrance. "Think there's any in there?" I asked, turning halfway towards Daryl. "Golfer's like boozing it up, right?"

He barely shrugged, and continued to watch and follow me, like a ghost. Hardly there, but observing.

I grabbed the door handle and tried to turn it. "Locked..." I muttered.

"Here, I got it."

Daryl stepped up with a gold club in hand and wedged it into the door, doing his thing.

"Where'd you even get that?" I wondered, I hadn't seen him pick anything up.

"Down by that san'dune, when you'were admirin' the crash." he replied with flat sarcasm. I follow him in the open doorway without another word.

It's dark inside, a small amount of light comes between the boards on the windows, piles of luggage are heaped in front of the windows like a barricade. Daryl picks up a flashlight off the nearby table, still prepped for a fancy meal that never arrived. Fine china and silverware set precisely. around the table, set for four. I tentatively picked up a spoon, stray from the rest, sitting out of place between two plates.

I examined it, turning it over in my hands, Washington D.C.

I put it into my pack, and turn to see Daryl stuffing wads of cash into a leather backpack.

"What are you doin' with that?" I ask slowly, watchin him grab the few bills in the bowl by a register and stuff it in as well. "They ain't gonna need money, anymore." he explains, but it feels like there's another reason. I don't push for it, though. I turn to look at the rest of the room.

The little details pull together a story. Something that happened here, something tragic... There are row after row of stained, mildewed sleeping bags and pillows on the floor. Food wrappers, empty wine goblets and artifacts of the rich people who once visited here.

Pearls, earrings, necklaces with danty charms and diamond rings. I hear a crunch and take a step back, looking down at the broken pair of reading glasses under my boot, splayed out, broken and forgotten. It makes me feel sad, sad for a pair of reading glasses that weren't even mine, I keep going.

I enter a kitchen, Daryl's flashlight beam falling across the shelves and utensils, casting shadows across the wall behind them, Daryl split to the left, rummaging through some cupboards.

"This would be the place to find it, wouldn't it?" I asked, turning towards him, he barely mustered up a shrug. I sighed and went to find the pantry.

I walked quietly down a hall to the right, gripping my knife tightly, pushing back curtains hanging in corridors to check out the rooms.

"Ah, here we go." I stood in front of a doorway, the room small, metal shelves inside, most of them piled up or pushed over, the one beside the door still standing, held a box of matches, a bowl of rotten fruit and on the top shelf, a tall, slender bottle with a gold seal.

I took a step forward, looking down in time to see the rotten corpse lying on the floor, arms splayed out, blood a dried black puddle around it's torso.

My hands became sweaty as I reached above the body, towards the shelf. It was too far away. Carefully, I placed one foot on the lower rack and then the other, pulling myself up far enough to secure the bottle in my hands. Slowly, I began to climb back down, the toe of my boot slipped off the rack and came down landing on the frail ribs of the corpse below. I held my breath, it didn't move.

I jumped down from the rack, landing in the hallway, my pulse thudding. I took a deep breath, unaware of the movement behind me.

Arrgh!

I slammed into the wall beside the pantry, getting my barings and grabbling with the walker wearing the uniform of southern hospitality at the country club. I couldn't risk the seconds I'd lose reaching for my knife or gun. I brought the bottle of wine down on the walker's skull, shattering the bottle and stunning the walker. I stabbed it three times with the broken head until it's mangled head dripped brain fluids on the tile.

I looked up, Daryl casually leaning in the hallway, watching me with a cinnamon stick posed between his teeth.

"Why didn't you help me?" I demanded breathlessly.

He shrugged. "Ya said you could take care of yourself."

I glared at him in the darkness and sighed in frustration, turning away I continued down the hallway, annoyed with Daryl, annoyed with myself. And now I was annoyed because I had to find a new bottle.

"I'd try the bar, I'ffI were you." Daryl said a few paces behind me, I paused and turned halfway towards him. "What?"

"The bar, every country club's got 'em. You'd probably find some booze in there. Come on." He walked ahead of me, down another hallway that led out of the kitchen.

I followed him underneath, turning right and emerging into a gift shop of some kind. Judging from the racks of polos and cardigans, it was the country club store. Daryl made his way across the store to the register, and I turned towards a display of clean clothes, dusty, but not covered in walker blood and sweat.

I grabbed a yellow polo off the rack and a white cardigan to go over it, and headed towards the dressing rooms to change.

I pulled my sweat stained brown and used-to-be white tank top over my head, exchanging them with the fresh polo. I looked at myself in the cracked dressing room mirror, turning around in the stiff polo. I sighed, it was better than nothing. I pulled the white fleecy cardigan over the top and paused on my way out, looking back at my clothes, lying discarded on the bench.

Too many memories...

I shut the door behind me and went to find Daryl. I approached him, he stood absently across the shop, looking up at something. I didn't need to ask. It was the lower body of a pale white mannequin, but atop it's hips, was the rib cage of a decaying woman, pined to the top like a swappable-part Barbie. She wore a bra, with a dusty rose pink blazer jacket over the top, hanging crookedly off one shoulder, head owed forward in defeat, heavy layers of bright makeup painted on her peeling skin like a clown. Her hair was falling out, what remained was in a once neat little bun.

"Damn..." Daryl muttered, as we examined the corpse. Around her neck, hung an open sign, probably stolen from the front of the store, flipped over, the words rich bitch were written in a dark red smear. I grimaced when I considered it was her own blood.

"That's so sad." I whispered sympathetically from beside him. He looked down at me sideways, "What? Her? Damn broad's like these, always thought they ran things. World's finally rid of em, and you're feeling bad?" he grunted in disbelief.

"There's another register over there for you to rob." I muttered frostily, ignoring him, turning away to flip a step stool back onto it's legs, I climbed it carefully and straightened the woman's pink blazer,pausing to brush back a lock of brittle hair out of her eyeless eye sockets. Sighing, I grabbed a dirty white sheet that hung over the hallway we'd entered through, and yanked it down, carefully pulling it over her head, putting her to rest the best I could.

I climbed down at looked up at the shrouded statue for a few more moments before turning to join Daryl near the front of the store.

"Are we almost there?" I wondered, following him through another hallway.

He grunted in response, and I sighed. Not entirely sure why I bothered asking him any questions. His only replies were grunts, sighs, yeah or naw, damn or shit. There was no real descriptive replies.

"Gonna need ta' duck." he muttered, already moving into a crouch. I pointed the flashlight up ahead, a massive, old, wooden Grandfather clock lie crooked across the hallway, forming a small tunnel underneath.

I followed him under and stood up on the other side, jumping back when the loud chime echoed down the hallways.

"Shit-"

Daryl didn't have time to complete his sentence, the building, which had so far, been a silent maze of relics hinting at a richer lifestyle, came to life. Groans echoed up the hallways from all directions, corpses came to life, pulling themselves off the floor, missing chunks of their bodies, skin shrinkwrapped to their bones, and wheezy breaths whistling between their teeth.

"Go!" Daryl urged me, shoving me forward into a run, darting around corners, I looked back and noticed he was still armed with the gold club.

"Daryl!" I shouted breathlessly, "The golf club!"

An idea sparked in his eyes and he lashed out, spinning around and cracking the aluminum pole down on the closest walkers' head.

"Get back!" he shouted to me as we got cornered into a gathering room. Overstuffed couches, oak coffee tables with glass tops, flat screens and dead houseplants squeezed into the room, made it previously a comfortable place to talk and drink, but now it was terrifying.

Four more walkers gathered behind the dropped one, Daryl lashed out at another one, this time the club got stuck in it's skull. He yanked it backwards, kicking it in the chest. It stumbled backwards, falling into the others and stunning them. Daryl wielded the now clubless stick, stabbing them in the foreheads as they advanced.

"Got em' all!" he shouted to me breathlessly, snatching his crossbow off the floor and reloading it. "Let's just get out of here already." he muttered, walking off for the corridor behind me.

I followed him, surprised that he knew where we were going. He pushed open another door a few moments later, barricaded from the other side with tables and chairs. We walked into a room with high ceilings, a fancy chandelier, and half the room divided with a granite countertop.

"Do your thing." Daryl muttered, walking around the room, not observantly, just looking for more stuff to take. I noticed him pick up a leather clutch from under one of the tables, rifle through the credit card slots and collect the money, dumping it into his newly acquired leather backpack.

Ka-tisshh!

I looked back at him, he held the remains of a wooden frame in his left hand, the wood mangled, glass scattered in splinters across a pale pink tablecloth. I sighed "Was it really necessary to break it?"

"Mmm hmm." he hummed in response, pulling out a precisely flat piece of paper from the wreckage, holding it up to admire his find: a map of the country club.

I went at sat down at the counter, trying to imagine it a different way... A bartender in a crisp black and white suit works behind the counter, classical music comes from the grand piano on the low platform in the corner. Men and women all around, in cocktail dresses and light colored blazers and slacks, talking stocks and golf.

I imagine myself, maybe I would be an employee, or someone with a membership. I'd be wearing a floral gold dress with lace embellishments. Somewhere behind me, Maggie and Glenn are dancing to the music, both of them dressed neatly, instead of sweat stained t-shirts and jeans, they do not have gun holsters on their hips or knife seaths on their waists, they are normal for once.

I look around myself, none of the windows are broken, the air smells like fresh roses and daisies, and they're all around the room. In tall, decorative crystal vases. The chandelier above me is lit up pale gold, the hand painted designs of cherubs and angels with bows on the high ceilings, the floral rose design on the wallpaper, and across the room, is a large wooden frame with six photos of important figures who work at the country club....

Daryl stands back a few feet, and tosses a dart, it embeds itself into the forehead of the middle man in the large frame, the glass long since broken away.

The room isn't nearly as beautiful as I imagined. I turn back towards the counter, reaching for a cloudy glass, among other things on the table: a few strands of pearl beads, golden rinds, a deck of playing cards, a carefully folded tip of twelve dollars, tucked into the sleeve of a leather bill booklet with the company's logo on the front. Among those items, are small crimson droplets cast across the counter carelessly, now dry and almost black, it's still easy to tell they're blood.

I grab the only bottle with anything left in it on the shelf and walk back to my seat. I wipe out the inside of the glass with the dark red lipstick stain on the edge, with an embroidered handkerchief.

"Peach Snapps." I read the label out loud, turning halfway towards Daryl, who's still occupying himself with a private game of executive-darts. "Is it any good?" I ask him.

"No." he replies bluntly, turning to throw another dart.

"Oh..." I frown down at the bottle, turning towards the counter again, swishing the pale orange liquid around inside. I uncap it and pour a small amount into the crystal glass. I set the bottle aside and lift the glass to my lips. "Here goes..." I sigh quietly.

I am just about to take a drink when something stops me. I set it back down and stare at it hard, remembering my Dad.

Before I was born, Maggie told me, he was an alcoholic. Practically lived at the bar in town, hardly ever came home. I guess he gave it up before I was born, but I remember when Maggie told me... The day I'd tried... Nevermind, she told me Rick had found his flask, he'd gotten his box of relics out of the closet, along with my mother's favorite dresses, her perfume bottles, compact mirror.

He was as upset as me and Maggie were to find out she was dead... That everyone in the barn had been dead...

When I was sixteen, I went out to parties with Maggie sometimes. School parties, parties with collage kids, still, I'd just sit by myself and drink Coke from the red Solo cup of shame, watching other kids play 'Never Have I Ever.' I was too scared to drink anything real, afraid my Dad would pull up in his pickup and see me with it, and be disappointed.

I hadn't noticed the moisture that built up in my eyes, rolling over my cheeks, hot and sticky. I sobbed quietly, but still, it got Daryl's attention. He groaned under his breath and marched over, grabbing the bottle of Peach Snapps off the table and throwing it onto the tile floor harshly.

I looked at him in surprise, his eyes weren't angry or sad, they were multi-emotioned and unreadable.

"Yer' first drink ain't gonna be no damned Peach Snapps." he snapped, grabbing his crossbow off the table with the broken frame, and slung the strap of his leather backpack over his shoulder.

"Let's go."