Following Daryl a few paces behind so as not to get in his way, he considered the words. āLife canāt just be about surviving. There has to be more than getting from one day to the next. Weāre not the last of humankind. Babies are being born, kids are growing up. We need to build some sort of society for them. It has to start with us. If she canāt see thatā¦ā he sighed and shook his head sadly. āIf you think taking the approach that this will help keep them alive, then use that angle with her. Whatever works at this point.ā
He watched Daryl work, wondering how the man could make sense of the chaos. Eugene had said the herd had been through that area several times looking for him. If anyone could pick up a trail, though, it would be Daryl. Watching the man track was a thing of mystery and beauty. He could see things no one else could just by looking at a blade of grass. Paul was good at not being seen, Daryl was good at finding the unseen. He smiled to himself as he wondered what a game of hide and seek would be like with Daryl.
Paulās thoughts took a more devious turn as he imagined being found by Daryl, thinking back to the chase heād gave back in the field when Jesus had stolen their truck. He wouldnāt mind letting himself get caught by the manās strong, rough hands⦠He allowed himself a moment to study Daryl in the moonlight. Time and the elements had seemed to only make him more attractive somehow. Tall, broad, and defined muscles made Jesus feel tiny next to him, but there was something very alluring about that.
Shaking the thoughts from his head before they led him too far into dangerous waters, Jesus realized he still knew practically nothing about the other man. Daryl was an enigma, and he was sure the archer preferred it that way, but that didnāt make him any less curious.
āWhereād you learn to track?ā
The thread of movement tangled in unsteady laps around the farm, passing out to the far fields or skating to the edge of a tree line before looping, slow and inevitable, back through the barn. Something was damn sure, the strangers knew how to wrangle a herd. There were no signs of major break-offs, Walkers wandering off their own way, no matter how many times the herd turned. They were sheepdogs in goddamn sheepās clothing, could lead them around as easy an alarm. Except they were doing it while posing as Walkers, no noise or blood to lead them on.Ā
Heād be impressed if it wasnāt so twisted.
Jesusā question broke him from a long stare andĀ he blinked quick, glancing up at the other manās silhouetted form in the moonlight.
āSpend enough time in the woods, you pick shit up.ā And thatād be enough, usually. But maybe the years of quiet had loosened his tongue, or maybe itās justĀ ācause it was Jesus asking, but as he pushed himself out of a crouch he found himself adding:
āLearned a little from my uncle when I was a kid. Basic survival shit: donāt drink stagnant water, sun as a compass, how to shoot. After that,ā he shrugged.Ā āMe and my brother would spend days out, wandering. Sometimes on purpose, sometimes got lost. Mostly so we could avoid being home.ā
A smirk touched his lips at the memory, and he ducked to smooth his fingers over some bent grass.
āMerleād spend half the time shitfaced on dadās hooch. Said he was saving us from dealing with dad drunk by stealing it. Like sober and pissed was any better. But with him drunk and useless, one of us had to figure out how to get home. Or find food. Figure shit out pretty quick when youāre hungry.ā
It was a lot. He hadnāt talked about Merle in years. His dad, longer. But itād felt strangely comfortable coming out.
He readjusted his bow, slinging it tighter over his shoulder.
āWe should grab the horses. Found as much as I can here,Ā gotta keep following the trail back.ā