Chapter 20 - Daryl

I walked out of the house, slinging my backpack over my shoulder, heading toward Rick's house. He'd given me a list of needed supplies from Denise the night before. Most of it was medical, with a few essentials like batteries and food. But at the very bottom, almost as an afterthought, was one item: a brand of soda.

It seemed a bit out of place, but I wasn't going to question it. Still, curiosity got the better of me. I needed to know if Denise really wanted the soda or if it was just a random addition. So I decided to stop by the infirmary on my way to Rick's and ask.

I spotted Denise walking down the street, looking as absorbed in her thoughts as usual. I jogged to catch up with her.

"Hey!" I called out.

She turned to me with a slight smile, her eyes curious. "Yeah?"

I pulled out the list from my pocket, pointing to the very bottom. "This thing here. You want the drink, right?"

Denise's face flushed instantly, her gaze dropping to the list. "Oh... uh, yeah," she said quietly. "But..." she trailed off, clearly unsure of how to continue.

I raised an eyebrow. "It's not medical," I said, keeping my tone neutral.

She adjusted her glasses, clearly embarrassed, before speaking again. "No, it's not," she admitted. "I drew a line between the necessary items and that. I just thought... if you weren't in a rush, you might see it and pick it up." Her voice was hesitant, as if she was unsure of her own reasoning.

I nodded, not really bothered by it. "Okay." I didn't think it was a big deal, but I could see that she felt a little awkward about it.

She seemed to get more flustered. "Anything medical, of course, comes first. Or food, or gas, or batteries. Or books for the kids, or clothes, really... But I just put it there, in case you had time. I didn't mean to make it seem important."

I nodded again, not wanting to draw it out. "You want it for Tara, right?"

Denise's face reddened further, but she nodded. "Tara mentioned it in her sleep. I wasn't sure if she was talking about liking it or hating it. If she likes it, I thought it might be a nice surprise. If not, well... it's not that important."

I listened to her explanation, then glanced down at the list before glancing back up at her. "You like it, right?"

Denise nodded quickly. "Oh, no I hate pop."

I raised an eyebrow. "Pop? The hell is pop?"

Denise chuckled awkwardly. "I know, I know. It's just what we call it, I'm originally from Ohio. I didn't think it mattered."

"Alright, well, I'll pick it up for you," I said, turning slightly to leave. "Anything else you need?"

She glanced down at the list, shifting on her feet. "No, that's it. Thanks, Daryl."

I gave her a quick nod, "No problem," and walked away. It wasn't a big deal, but I could tell Denise didn't like asking for it. Either way, I'd make sure to get it.

The whole way to Rick's I was mentally ticking off the list of things we needed. Food, obviously, was the top priority. As much as I hated to admit it, the supply runs were getting tougher. Every trip we made seemed to yield less and less, and people were starting to look desperate. When Rick and I got into the car, I immediately started running through what we needed to grab on the way. Canned goods, grains, anything that would keep. We could use more medical supplies too, but food—real food—was the real lifeline right now.

As we made our way to the gates, I was still thinking about what Rick had said earlier about the food shortage. My eyes were focused on the road when we were stopped at the gate by Eugene.

"I drew a map of the agricultural supply places in the area," Eugene said, pulling his usual weirdness. "Even if they've been picked clean, my bet is that the sorghum would be left untouched. It's a criminally underrated grain. It could change our food situation from scary to hunky dunky."

I glanced over at Eugene, unable to hide my confusion. "You're a weird dude. Ain't ya?" I said, my voice flat, but there was no malice behind it. It was just Eugene being Eugene.

He didn't even flinch at my remark, continuing with his usual over-the-top explanation. "Well, I'm just saying. It's got good standability, drought tolerance, and a grain to stover ratio that is the envy of all corns. Think about it."

I raised my eyebrows, still not entirely sure if I was supposed to be taking him seriously or not. "Thanks, Eugene," I said, still not sure what he was getting at but giving him a nod of acknowledgment. I wasn't going to waste time trying to figure out his logic.

Rick didn't seem phased either, just pressing the accelerator to move forward as Eugene backed away. We had a mission, and we were going to stick to it, even if it meant hearing more of Eugene's rambling along the way.

We got a little ways from Alexandria when Rick started his usual pep talk, trying to lift the spirits after another lackluster run.

"Today's the day," Rick said, turning toward me with that determined gleam in his eyes. "Today, we find food and people both. We've got some food, but no people. I'm confident this run is gonna turn it around."

I sighed, running my thumb over the edge of my seat, staring out the window as the scenery blurred past. "We ain't seen people in weeks," I muttered, chewing absently on my thumbnail. "Maybe it's better that way."

Rick's eyes flickered toward me but he said nothing. He was always optimistic, even when there was no reason to be. I wasn't so sure. People were dangerous, more than anything. At least with walkers, you knew what to expect.

He leaned over to the center console and without a word slid a CD into the radio. I pinched the bridge of my nose in frustration, already feeling the headache building.

"Don't," I muttered under my breath. "C'mon man, not today."

Rick shot me a shit-eating grin and turned up the volume without a care in the world. That stupid country music—his "feel good" music—blasted from the speakers, and I could already feel the dread building up inside me.

"Draws the walkers away from home!" Rick shouted over the music, the grin never leaving his face. He was absolutely relentless about it.

I rolled my eyes and gritted my teeth, trying to ignore the thumping bass and twangy guitars that I was already so sick of hearing. The CD had maybe twelve songs on it, all by the same woman, singing the same tired songs with the same damn instruments. I hated it. But Rick loved it.

I slouched in my seat, trying to shut it all out, but it was like the sound was coming for me. The more I tried to block it out, the more the stupid music invaded my brain, and before long I was just counting the minutes until we reached our destination.

"Let's just find some damn food," I muttered under my breath, crossing my arms and trying to focus on anything but Rick's musical choice.

He was driving along when I tapped Rick on the shoulder, nodding toward the right. "Back up," I told him, pointing at the barn down the street we hadn't yet checked out. The roof had one word painted across it in big, bold letters: sorghum. Rick gave me a quick glance before smirking, throwing the car in reverse and speeding back into the intersection, turning toward the barn.

The engine's roar faded as we finally pulled up, and the music that had been blasting in the car came to a welcome stop. I sighed in sweet relief, rolling my shoulders and stretching out, ready for a break from the endless twang of Rick's favorite country tunes.

"You ever tried listenin' to good music for a change?" I asked, keeping the question casual, though the frustration was clear in my voice.

Rick shot me a sly smile, not even pausing as he climbed out of the car. "That is good music," he said, his tone teasing.

I rolled my eyes, already knowing where this conversation was headed. I reached behind me, grabbing my backpack, and pulled out the small crowbar I kept stashed in there. "Nah," I said, shaking my head as I adjusted the crowbar in my grip. "Good music's The Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, Kiss, shit like that." I raised my eyebrows, waiting for him to react. "That's real music, not that... whatever it is you're listening to."

Rick chuckled, walking toward the barn door. "I don't know, man," he said, "Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Hank Williams Jr.—that's real music. Real soul. You should try listening to something with a little more... grit."

I followed him, smirking as I walked toward the barn's metal door. "Grit? Sounds like you're just stuck in the past, Rick. You need to broaden your horizons. The classics are where it's at."

He threw me a glance, the smirk still there. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it, Daryl. You don't even know what you're missing with the good ol' country stuff."

"Country stuff? Hell, if I wanted to hear about someone's truck breaking down or their dog running away, I'd ask the locals around here." I shot him a teasing grin as I moved to the side, getting ready to open the barn door. "But hey, you do you, buddy. I'll just stick with the classics."

Rick rolled his eyes as he took position on the other side of the door, giving me a look that said we were about to agree to disagree. "Fine, fine," he muttered. "But one of these days, you'll see. Country music... it speaks to the soul."

We counted to three together, and with a grunt, threw open the barn door. The space inside was empty except for a big box truck, its dusty metal surface gleaming in the sunlight. Rick's eyes lit up as he walked toward the truck, a grin spreading across his face.

"The law of averages," Rick said, a satisfied gleam in his eye as he examined the supplies neatly packed inside.

"Yup," I replied, my gaze lingering on the stash of canned goods, medical supplies, and a few other essentials. This was more like it. We could make this work.

"Well, let's get this thing going then," Rick said, still grinning like a kid in a candy store. "Grab our gear and we'll come back for the car later. We can take another way back and see what we find."

I looked over at the box truck, eyes narrowing slightly as I considered the task. "You think it's gonna start?" I asked, hoping we weren't getting our hopes up for nothing.

Rick's grin didn't falter as he leaned over the truck's side, giving it a quick inspection. "Yeah," he said with quiet confidence. "As a matter of fact, I do."

I slammed the truck door shut and made my way toward the back to grab our gear, as Rick fired up the engine. The roar of the engine filled the air, and we hit the road in the box truck, the road ahead stretching before us.

"So," Rick's voice cut through the sound of the engine. He glanced at me briefly, eyes flicking between me and the road. "How's things with you and Ella?"

I leaned back against the seat, chewing on my thumbnail. "Pretty good."

Rick raised an eyebrow but kept his focus on the road. "Before the walkers got in the walls, you two were kind of rocky. Are you back together now?"

I let out a sigh, rolling my shoulder, trying to brush it off. "Yeah," I muttered. "According to her, we weren't really broken up. She just wanted space, and I guess I gave her too much of it. I don't know... She's more open now, happier. But shit's still tough. She won't let me touch her past kissin' and holdin' her." I stopped, my gaze falling to my lap. "I want things to go back to how they were before."

Rick didn't say anything for a few moments, his hands steady on the wheel.

I could feel him watching me. "Does it make me a jackass for wantin'..." I waved my hand vaguely through the air, searching for the right words, but they didn't come easy. "For wanting more? I mean, it's been so long."

Rick took a deep breath, then shrugged, giving me a sideways glance. "I don't think so." His voice was thoughtful. "I mean, you're human. It's gonna come up eventually. You can't just ignore that. It's normal to want intimacy. Maybe she's waiting for you to make the first move, you know? After everything that happened, with her pushing you away, and you kind of going distant, maybe she's waiting for you to take that leap."

I stared out the window, my fingers tapping anxiously on my knee. "I don't know, man. It just feels wrong to push her like that, to ask or... to be blunt about it. I don't know if she even wants me like that yet."

Rick chuckled softly, the corners of his lips curling up. "The way you two are together? I don't doubt she wants you like that. Trust me, I've seen the way you two act. Hell, it was hard enough keeping you two from tearing each other apart when you first got together."

I shot him an eye-roll, trying to suppress the smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Fuck off."

A brief silence passed between us. I shifted in my seat, glancing over at him, the hint of a smile still lingering on my face. "We weren't that bad, were we?"

Rick snorted, laughter escaping his chest. "You remember that first barn before the prison, don't you? We heard everything." He grinned widely, an uncharacteristic smugness in his tone. "Everything."

I groaned, burying my face in my hands for a second. "Shit. I forgot about that." I chuckled, shaking my head. "What can I say, man? That early stage... it's hard to keep your hands to yourself."

Rick smirked, his gaze flickering to me briefly before settling on the road again. "Oh, I know. Lori and I were the same way when we got together." He shifted gears and glanced at me with a grin. "How do you think we got Carl?"

I let out a dry laugh, not expecting that. "God, Rick," I muttered, a grin playing on my lips despite myself.

As we approached a gas station up ahead, Rick narrowed his eyes. "You want to stop and see if we can siphon some gas?"

I grunted in response, my gaze fixed on the overturned vending machine beside the station. It caught my eye, and I had a sudden thought. "Maybe we can grab that soda for Denise while we're at it. You know, the one she wanted."

Rick snorted but said nothing as he guided the truck toward the gas station. The familiar sense of purpose settled in as we neared, and I couldn't help but feel a little lighter. Maybe it wasn't just the soda I was thinking about—it was the fact that things were, slowly but surely, moving forward.

Once we managed to get the vending machine turned over, I wiped away the thin layer of dust on the glass. I let out a frustrated sigh when I found no soda cans, especially the brand Denise had asked me to look for. I was ready to turn back to Rick and let him know the bad news, but before I could get a word out, someone slammed into him hard.

In an instant, both Rick and I had our guns drawn, pointing them at the man who had appeared out of nowhere. It felt strange not having my crossbow—ever since that bastard Dwight had stolen it—but the pistol would have to do for now. I took a deep breath, keeping my aim steady as I sized him up.

The man raised his hands slowly, his brow furrowed in what seemed like surprise, but his eyes remained calm. "Hi," he said, his voice smooth, almost too calm. Everything below his eyes was covered by a white piece of fabric, making him look almost like a ghost or some kind of bandit.

"Back up!" I barked, my voice tight. "Now!"

He started lowering his hands, but Rick wasn't having it. "Keep 'em up!" Rick ordered, his voice hard as he took a step forward, placing himself between the stranger and me.

The man complied, raising his hands again, but his body language remained oddly relaxed, almost like he wasn't in any real danger. "Woah, guys," he said, still too calm for my liking. "I was just running from the dead."

I couldn't help but eye him suspiciously. His chest wasn't heaving, and his breaths weren't labored. He wasn't out of breath or panicked like someone who had been fleeing for their life. I stepped closer, my finger lightly resting on the trigger.

"How many?" I asked, my voice gruff as I eyed him.

I heard Rick moving in the background, presumably checking around for any walkers nearby. The stranger didn't seem concerned about that at all.

"Ten, maybe more," the guy replied. He shrugged as if it didn't matter. "I didn't exactly stick around to do a headcount." He glanced at us, his brows lifted as if he were smiling behind his mask. "Once it gets to double digits, I start running. Not risking it."

I stared at him, my suspicion deepening. There was something off about his demeanor, like he was too calm for someone who had just been running from walkers. His eyes were bright, sharp—green with intensity—but there was something else in his gaze. He didn't seem as worried as someone should be when there were ten or more walkers nearby. And then there was the fact that he was too clean.

I took in his appearance—black beanie, black leather gloves, a long black trench coat that swayed slightly with his movements. His clothes were pristine, far too clean for someone who was supposedly on the run. The man wasn't carrying any visible weapons either, not a gun at least. No holster, no sign of a knife, nothing.

I narrowed my eyes, pressing the gun against my palm, but I didn't lower it. Something wasn't right here.

"Where?" I asked, keeping my tone even, watching for any sign of hesitation in his answer.

He tipped his head in the direction he had come from, his body still strangely relaxed despite the situation. "About half a mile back," he said, his voice casual. "They're headed this way. You've got maybe..." He paused, tilting his head as if doing some quick mental math. "Eleven minutes."

Rick's footsteps had moved further off, and I could hear the safety on his gun click back into place. I didn't holster my own weapon yet, though. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about this guy.

"Thanks for letting us know," Rick said, his voice as neutral as ever, but I could see the wariness in his eyes.

"Yeah, don't mention it. There's more of them than us, right?" The guy said, a flicker of amusement sparking in his eyes. "Gotta stick together. Right?"

His voice was casual, but I wasn't buying it for a second. His words didn't match the tension I could feel simmering beneath the surface. He finally lowered his hands, exhaling like he'd been holding his breath the entire time. The relief in his body language was clearly forced, like he was trying to convince us he wasn't as on edge as he looked.

My instincts were screaming that something was off. This guy—his posture, his demeanor, his too-casual attitude—set off alarm bells in my head.

"You have a camp?" he asked, tilting his head slightly as if he was trying to sound innocent.

"Nope." I didn't hesitate, voice flat and firm. There was no way I was letting this guy anywhere near our group.

Rick glanced at me before answering, "Do you?" He was just as suspicious as I was, but maybe he was trying to gauge the situation, trying to see if this guy was worth talking to.

The stranger shook his head, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "No. Sorry for running into you." He turned to leave, but paused after a beat, throwing over his shoulder, "If this is the next world, I hope it's good to you guys."

I didn't trust him for a second, but Rick called after him anyway. "I'm Rick, this is Daryl, what's your name?"

The guy stopped, hesitated for a moment, then turned around slowly, lowering the makeshift mask from his face.

"Paul Rovia," he said, his voice smooth and almost amused. He had a thick, dark beard, slightly lighter than his long hair, which was neatly trimmed—a little too neat for someone supposedly on their own. "But my friends used to call me Jesus." He spread his arms wide, as if offering us some grand reveal, his grin never wavering. "Your pick."

I exchanged a look with Rick, my suspicion only growing. Jesus? That didn't sit right with me. The name, the attitude, everything about him seemed too... comfortable.

Rick stepped forward, still focused on the man. "You said you didn't have a camp," Rick said, narrowing his eyes. "You on your own?"

"Yeah," Jesus—or Paul, or whatever the hell he went by—said, his tone nonchalant, as if he was bored with the conversation. "But still, best not to try anything."

"Best not to make threats you can't keep, neither," I shot back, my voice hardening. This guy's whole attitude made my skin crawl, like he thought he could pull something over on us.

"Exactly." Jesus nodded, a little too casually, before turning away again. "Well, see ya," he added, already starting to move.

I didn't even bother trying to stop him. He was already running, disappearing into the distance, quick and light on his feet.

Rick turned to me, his voice calm but firm, "How many walkers—"

"Nah," I interrupted him, stepping forward. "Not this guy." I shook my head. "Something's off."

Rick glanced at me, a bit of irritation flickering in his eyes. He didn't say anything at first, but then he sighed and stepped around me, moving toward where Jesus had stopped.

Rick called out to the retreating figure. "How many walkers have you killed?"

"Sorry! Gotta run!" Jesus shouted back, not even slowing down, his voice drifting over his shoulder. "You should too! Think you got about seven minutes."

Rick's face tightened as he realized Jesus wasn't stopping for anything, not even a simple question. But even as I watched the guy's retreating figure, something about him just didn't sit right. Every move he made—too calm, too rehearsed—told me he wasn't someone we could trust.

"The hell was that?" I snapped at Rick, frustration bubbling up in my chest as I glared at the spot where Jesus had disappeared.

Rick, still watching the path, ran a hand over his face. "His beard was clean, trimmed too." He turned to me, his gaze sharp. "There's more going on there than he's letting on."

"Yeah," I rolled my eyes, the suspicion simmering inside me. "That's why I said not him. The guy didn't even have a gun on him. No weapon at all."

Rick didn't respond right away, his mind clearly working through the possibilities. After a beat, he suggested, "We could track him. Watch him for a while, see if he's full of shit or if he's really alone."

I scoffed, shaking my head. "Nah. Asshole calls himself Jesus. Not buying it." The name alone was enough to set off alarm bells in my head, making the whole encounter feel like some kind of trick.

Rick flashed me a wry smile, but it was short-lived, dropping instantly as we both heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire—four shots in rapid succession. Way too close for comfort. Our heads snapped toward the noise, instinctively moving toward cover.

Without a word, we dropped to the side of the building, guns raised, scanning the area. We crept around the edge of the gas station, cautious and alert. The back of the building was quiet. No walkers, no movement, nothing out of place except a trashcan where some firecrackers were still popping off, the sound an unsettling, meaningless distraction.

Then I noticed it. Rick's belt. The keys were gone.

"He took the fuckin' keys!" I roared, fury spiking through me. Without another thought, I spun on my heel and started toward the truck.

Rick and I took off in a sprint, the weight of our frustration driving our pace. We rounded the corner of the gas station just in time to see Jesus—Paul, or whatever the hell he wanted to be called—cranking the engine of the box truck. Our truck. The one we'd just found, the one we needed to get back to Alexandria.

"Shit!" Rick muttered as we watched the truck pull away, the sound of its engine roaring to life and the grinding metal of the vending machine being towed behind it. The damn vending machine, the one we had turned over and chained to the truck in hopes of finding something useful, was now sparking along the asphalt as Jesus took off with our shit.

I slammed my fist against the side of the building, cursing under my breath. My heart pounded in my chest, the anger pushing through my veins like wildfire. That bastard had played us—fed us some bullshit story, and now he was taking off with our hard-earned supplies.

We watched as the truck disappeared into the distance, Rick's expression darkening. "We need that truck back."

I nodded grimly, my jaw clenched. "Yeah, and we're gonna get it."