well to kick this thing off, I invite you to read my most recent work n3n
The gravel crunched languidly under the tires as they rolled to a stop outside a rundown gas station, a little bit further out than usual.
There was the sound of the shift moving into park, and then the engine cut. The men popped their doors open nearly in sync, then it was the sound of their boots crunching on the hot gravel and faintly buzzing insects. Rick squinted as he glanced around the property.
They were both thinking it, so neither had to vocalize, ‘I don’t think we’re gonna find much here.’ Loathe as they were to admit it and retreat… It was looking like a bust.
They trudged across the lot towards the foggy, broken glass of the long-abandoned corner shop and the darkness beyond. If they hadn’t been driving almost an hour with nothing else to catch their interest, they probably wouldn’t have bothered stopping.
They closed in on the shopfront, weapons drawn, and only feet away did Rick bother to step more lightly to disguise the sound of his footsteps. It was better to draw the walkers out with sound, but the uneasy feeling that came with them didn’t permeate the air around here. Therefore, all they had to fear were the types of adept, cutthroat hunters who would have been the only ones to survive this long out in the new world.
Rick turned his cheek to wipe a bead of sweat off on the shoulder of his shirt.
As the shapes became clearer inside the shop, it was easy to tell it was cleaned out. Shelves were half collapsed on the tiled floor, and most of the leftovers were busted open and strewn about.
His eyes flickered over to follow Daryl’s worn grayish brown wings where he’d fanned off to the side. Rick turned completely and sidestepped closer when he saw Daryl jogging off around the side of the building.
“Daryl!” He snapped, breaking the muggy summer silence for the first time between them.
“There’s no one here, man,” Daryl said, shrugging and tossing his head back to pin Rick with slanted, sleepy feline eyes. A few beads of sweat flipped off his feathery long hair.
“We stick together,” Rick insisted, quickly closing the distance between them and bumping his shoulder against Daryl’s, even though he’d lowered his gun. After all, Daryl was probably right. There was no one here, and nothing here. Just them and the apocalypse-ready gnats.
And the Coca Cola vending machine that had caught Daryl’s eye.
“It looks broke open, just like everything else here,” Rick said after a moment, slowing to let Daryl ahead while he continued to glance around. As he drew closer though, he saw what Daryl saw: that it wasn’t cleaned out at all.
There was a halo of rusty-red smattered glass around the machine, and it had been smashed open clumsily, the mission aborted halfway through. Besides an ugly, oblong hole in the center and the crackled glass creating a spider web around, the glass face was intact, and the only items taken were those in close reach of the opening.
Daryl made quick work of clearing out the rest of the glass, and pulled out a plastic bottle, pinning Rick with a triumphant look. Rick grinned and rolled his eyes.
“Looks like no one won the scuffle over this one,” Daryl noted evenly. Someone’s head could have been bludgeoned to break the glass, but it was still a success to find consumables. Rick turned his back trustingly, scanning the area. Maybe they would clear the indoors after all, in case a packet of snacks had been left behind for the drive.
“It’s enough to make some of ours happy. Glenn,” Rick answered, shifting on his feet. The hiss of carbonation sounded unexpectedly as Daryl twisted the top off, making Rick tense for a split second before he categorized the sound.
“Makes me happy,” Daryl said gruffly, wrapping his lips around the opening, tipping his head back for a drink. Rick’s eyes wandered back casually, tracing the sleek lines of musculature twisting up Daryl’s raised arm, and the prominent line of his throat. His eyes were back on the tree line before the other man had dropped his face back down.
How Daryl managed to sneak up on him across gravel was a mystery, but a split second later, his partner was slapping the bottle against his cheek firmly enough to turn his head, and Daryl had moved to position the bottle in front of his face by the time he’d whipped it straight again.
For a moment, a phantom memory made him expect the bottle to be cold, and for it to be years ago, at the beginning of his marriage, back when the world was only on its deathbed and silent about its disease. Lori had approached him on the back porch on a warm summer evening while he was laughing with their friends, sitting in the thick stream of flavorful smoke from the grill. She pressed a frigid beer to the back of his neck, and the condensation slipped down under his collar. He laughed freely and flinched forward, interrupted, then turned around to receive it with a thank-you kiss.
The Cola from Daryl was warm, and the fact that most of the world was dead and they were stealing warm soda out of a broken and bloody vending machine was jarring. He alternated between staring at it stupidly and glowering at Daryl’s playful expression, unbalanced.
“Drink it,” Daryl insisted, shaking the bottle in a way that was meant to be enticing, but it just caused the beverage to foam dangerously and slosh up the sides. His steady look was grounding. “Remind ya why it’s good to check ‘round the sides of buildings.”
Rick swiped it out of his hand and took a long drink, keeping his eyes fixed on Daryl the whole time. “I only meant you shouldn’t take off to the backs of buildings alone,” Rick said emphatically when he was finished. The dark drink fizzed and settled unfamiliarly in his stomach. He licked his lips.
Daryl grabbed the bottle back and butted Rick with his elbow before turning to gather several more from the machine.
After a moment, Rick said, “Let’s check inside… Then we’ll go on a few more miles before we backtrack.”
“A’right.” Daryl replied easily, zipping the drinks into his pack and turning around to follow Rick back around.
“You remember cold soda?” Rick finally deigned to ask some time later, when they were piled back into the car with their scarce loot rolling around the back seats, and Daryl’s booted feet were kicked up on the dashboard, legs angled leisurely. The grayish-green mat of grass extended out on either side, all the way back to thirsty, yellow-tipped trees. They couldn’t hear the gnats anymore, just the hum of the engine.
Daryl glanced over at him in alarm, as if Rick was insane. Rick’s face split in a sane, albeit tired, grin. He didn’t say anything more to justify his question.
“’Course I do,” Daryl said, in a fitting tone of bewilderment. He waited for Rick to go on, but Rick just dropped one of his hands from the steering wheel into his lap, drumming his fingertips absently on the inside of his thigh. Daryl watched the movement, and finally followed up carefully, “… Drank more beer than Coke.”
Rick let out a startled laugh, only because Daryl’s words mirrored the direction of his own earlier thoughts. Daryl’s small smile was strained and dark, but he looked simultaneously relieved to elicit Rick’s positive reaction. He turned his eyes back to the road, picking at his fingertips.
“Me ‘n Merle drank Coke with fizzy candy as kids,” Daryl suddenly added, surprising even himself with the voluntary information. Rick turned his head to look Daryl over, his smile sobering a little bit, too.
“Warm soda’s better,” Rick claimed loudly, breaking the strange, awkward reverie that was falling over them. “Carbonation stings enough without the chill, you know?” He said, making a random gesture around his mouth.
Daryl was back to staring at him again, hooded eyes appearing very blue with the strong sunlight shining through the window, highlighting everything from his dark leather boots to his sunbaked skin and dark hair.
“… Yeah, whatever you say, man…” Daryl finally managed, relaxing back against the seat.
A couple of moments of silence passed before Rick reached out with the random impulse to see if there was a CD left in the player. A laughing grin split his lips as a twangy country song started to pour out of the speakers.
“Ah—Hell no!” Daryl complained, reaching out for the stop button. Rick slapped his hand away, beginning to chuckle. After all of the stress of the past weeks… The past… however long… This was what the world had come to: Stolen soda to survive and bad country tunes, coming from the speakers of a stolen car, driving down a deserted road on some messed up road trip.
By the CD’s third run-through, Daryl looked like he wanted to get out of the car and walk home, even if he had to jump out of it while it was flying down the freeway and go through a sea of walkers, and Rick had gleefully memorized at least the chorus of all the tracks.
“Pass me a Coke, would you?” He requested, throwing some of the pretzels they’d scavenged into his mouth. Daryl obliged with a put-upon glower.
The shadows chased them, growing longer as the sun dropped down and they headed towards home.