"It isn't ego," she mutters through grit teeth. She pulls the last wire into place, and the car rumbles to life. "I just don't like basements."
The way the conversation's turned has robbed her of the sense of triumph she'd usually feel, having resurrected a car. The thing's working now, and from the sound of it, it's not going great, but it's something. It would have gotten her a few miles, maybe more, before she had to try another one, or start scavenging for parts.
Well, there goes that plan. "How far's Fairyland?"
Maybe not, since he's eager as hell to get back home. Slowly, he walks around to open the passenger door, though he doesn't sit just yet. She still looks like she might try to bolt.
"Tradin' a ride for a cold drink and a clean bed, it ain't so bad." He points down the road.
"Well, this thing hasn't got a ton of gas," she says, but if it's twelve hours walking, that's still enough to get them there in a car. Shit. She stares at him, clearly expecting her to climb into the driver's seat.
There's one peice of this whole stupid goddamn puzzle she's missing. Maybe she should just ask. She goes like she's going to sit, but doesn't pull herself all in the car just yet. Doesn't put her foot on the pedal, doesn't put her hand on the wheel. She waits.
"Why you want me there so bad?" She says. "I mean, besides outta the kindness of your heart." She cocks her head to the side, a flat look on her long face. Let's not shit ourselves.
Shrugging, Merle flashes another one of his broad, shallow smiles her way.
"Maybe I been out in the sun too long."
It's a fair question, though, and if they're ever gonna get on the road she needs an answer she can buy.
"We got a town. Towns, they need people." Simple as that. Not so simple, because if she doesn't fit in she's not gonna last very long, but there's no reason to scare her off. This car's running which proves she's got a shot of being useful.
"You need 'em enough to point a gun at me?" Her eyebrows rise a little. Hey, maybe he just likes pointing guns at people. She could believe it.
She wonders if she could just walk away. He'd have the car and everything; he wouldn't benefit from shooting her. But he wouldn't take a loss, either, and maybe he just likes shooting people. She could believe that, too.
She sits more properly in the car. "Fine," she says, and the low tone of her voice shows how she isn't pleased about it. "Fine, let's go to Fairyland."
"Don't take it personal," he drawls, settling easy into the passenger seat. The gun isn't going away anytime soon, either. "'s how things are, now. Anyone who ain't pointin' a gun at a stranger's probably got somethin' worse in mind."
He gestures again down the road, all the more eager to get going. Bringing back a working car, that's always handy. And more than that he's waiting to see her react when she finds out he's not completely full of shit. Woodbury might as well be Fairyland, the way things are out here. She doesn't want to believe it but as far as he's concerned, he is doing her a favor.
Joan takes her time adjusting the seat and the mirrors. It's petty revenge, but it's all she can afford at the moment. When she finally moves the car along, it runs more smoothly than she expected. It must have been abandoned more recently than she thought.
"You're pointing a gun at me. It's personal," she says, mostly for the sake of her own pride. She knows it's stupid-- you should lay aside your pride and just try to survive when you've got a potentially murderous stranger in your car-- but she's held onto her sense of self too long to let it go when everyone else is dead. Her father couldn't take it from her. Merle Dixon can't either. "The only way it's not personal is if I'm dead. That's how things are, now."
Christ, she's a pain in the ass. It's nearly enough to make him regret picking her up-- but she got this piece of crap running, and quick. That's not the kinda skill you just ignore. If playing driving instructor cheers her up, hell, let her waste a couple minutes, they'll still come out ahead.
"Stubborn as shit," he mutters, but try as he might there's a bit of approval in his tone. He's not quite ready to put his gun away, though.
"We ain't friends yet, Princess. You'll hafta deal with it."
Does she hear something like acceptance there? And then she's immediately annoyed-- if not revolted-- with herself for wanting it. Who the fuck cares what this asshole thinks? Is she really that lonely since everybody died? That starved for approval? Fuck, she hopes not.
...But she suspects that if she wasn't, she never would have gotten into this car. It's a train of thought she immediately abandons, because thinking of it too closely brings up some ugly truths about herself she doesn't want to acknowledge. Especially not when there's a fucking gun pointed at her.
She keeps driving. The car picks of speed.
"Oh, shit," she says, dry and sarcastic. Her tone lacks any real feeling. "I might cry. So where's this place, anyway? Since I'm, you know, driving you there?"
That's how this works. She doesn't give a shit what this asshole thinks and this asshole doesn't give a shit if she gives a shit. They're not friends, they're not even allies. Not yet. Maybe sometime. That's how it works. (It never really works that way.)
"A ways down the road we'll turn off. I'll tell you."
No good reason to keep secrets if he's taking her there, but it seems like it'll get on her nerves and he hasn't got anything else to amuse himself.
"Town's called Woodbury." It's something. Won't help her much, with all the signs knocked down-- they do better keeping unexpected visitors to a minimum, trying to avoid people looking to scavenge-- but maybe it'll pique her interest. Or make her admit her interest's piqued.
Merle's hunch is right; it does, indeed, get on her nerves. He has an uncanny skill for it, damn him. She liked to think herself unflappable, usually. No one's gotten under her skin this often since her whole family died, and there's a comparison nobody wants. His hair isn't nearly the right color, even if he is, probably, ugly enough to fit in a group photo. His smile is certainly the right kind of cruel.
They see-saw into a pothole, and the engine makes a sound that isn't quite purring. Joan groans.
"You gonna tell me about it before or after I get the special tour?" She says. Her eyes are carefully on the road, though that does nothing to hide her expression, generally displeased, or her tone, generally matching. "You know, the gunpoint tour."
She's not dropping that. It can't be denied, and it's something Merle apparently has no anxiety over. She can harp and grouse over it without fear of fatal retribution, which is good, because meekly accepting it would be just as bad. Shit, that might kill her.
All it earns is a snort of laughter. Truth is he might've put it away but he's enough of an asshole that keeping her on edge is its own reward.
"I left you yours," he reminds her instead. Damn stupid move on his part, no matter what-- you're always better off if you're the only one armed, that's just plain sense-- but so far she's been smart. He appreciates that, and not only because it saves him the mess. Should've, could've demanded it, but he thought maybe keeping it would put her at ease.
"Tour guides'll make you leave it at the gate. Probably trade you a cold Coke for it."
"Yeah," she says, rolling her eyes in the rear view mirror, "and the second I touch it, you shoot me. Mother Theresa'd be proud as shit."
She moves the car to the center of the road, avoiding a gaggle of undead lunatics clawing at the sound of their talkative motor. This hunk of junk will get them a few miles strong, to Fairyland or Woodbury or wherever, but it'd need more care to get much farther. Joan had been intending to put in the effort, before the ghost of jury duty past had shown up.
"Oh, so you're not giving the tour?" Her smile is a little hard around the edges. "But you're so friendly."
That gets a crow of laughter, nothing more or less. She's not wrong. He's had an eye on her gun the whole time, but the fact remains, he could've taken it. Oughta count for something, right? But rather than push the issue he just watches the road roll be, sneering pointlessly at the biters struggling and failing to keep up. He hasn't pointed out the obvious, yet-- that this car's done for before they get there, that they're gonna have to ditch it and run no matter what, or they'll be bringing home a herd.
"It ain't what you think it is."
Doesn't much matter what she thinks. He's pretty sure she's wrong.
That gets the tension right back into her shoulders. She was trying to distract herself, she realizes. Trying to forget about the horrible death she's driving herself toward. What a fucking idiot she is, Christ. It'd be a miracle she was still alive, if she didn't know exactly how she'd gotten this far. Was she really paying back her continued existence with these clowntown fuckups?
Her tone is a bit lower, a bit more wary, but she refuses to be entirely scared. Not while she's in front of this asshole. "But lemme guess," she says, "you're not gonna tell me shit."
He shrugs, likely enough to be visible even if her eyes are on the road. Still has a gun pointed at her, sure, but he's less and less inclined to use it. The closer they get to town, the more eager he is to turn her over to whoever's on welcome duty and go on his way.
Joan shakes her head, eyes briefly rolling upward. "The poor-pitiful-me thing doesn't work when you're the one with the gun." And about a hundred pounds advantage in a fistfight. Lucky for Joan, she fights to have fought, not to win.
"Lying wouldn't get you anything," she says after a moment. She wants him to be lying, it'd back up her low opinion of the scuzzy asshole, but when she looks at it with the rough, raw logic Luke had valued, she can see the futility of it.
Again, he huffs a laugh. Fuck, he wouldn't wanna see what it'd take to get her to shut her stupid mouth. Might be nothing will til she's dead.
"Not a thing," he agrees, leaning back against the door, getting comfortable. Best you can, anyway, in a piece of shit rustbucket that smells like something died in it because something did. Hardly notices it anymore, really.
Joan looks sidelong at Merle through the rear view, studying his lumpy profile. He reminds her of the kind of men her father hung out with, the kind of person her father occasionally thought he was. Merle has proven, to Joan's own fear and shame, that he's much smarter than her father ever was, and a lot more cunning. A lot more cruel. Could Peter Dority have turned his gun on a kid caught out alone? Maybe if there was something to steal, but never for as long a haul as this. No, Merle has the casual cruelty of her father, but he also has something deeper and meaner.
Which is all a lot of pretty words for something more simple than it feels. Like it or not, simply by the virtue of lowest common denominators, Merle Dixon is the key to Fairyland.
Doesn't bother him, the way she's watching him, long as she don't miss anything on the road. Last thing they need is to wreck this thing. (It's crossed his mind she might do it out of spite, but he doesn't think she's the type. If she was gonna check out she'd've done it. Wouldn't have come this far.)
"Shit," he murmurs, shrugging. "Who'd say no?"
Present company excepted, of course. He shifts to shrug his shoulder, lifts his bad arm just a little.
"Found me after this. Cleaned me up, got me back on my feet. Seemed worth stickin' around."
It's a more earnest answer than Joan was expecting. That, more than anything, unsettles her. The idea of him as a person, giving her an honest answer and not more bottom line bullshit- well. She doesn't know what to do with it.
She keeps watching him out of the corner of her eye.
"How'd it happen?" She doesn't think she'll get a real answer, but she's curious to know what he'll do when he's asked so directly. Probably hit her. The last time that happened while she was driving a car, the world hadn't ended. The more things change...
The honest answer served his point. Besides, it's hard to be too shy about the arm. It's usually the first thing people see. (It's the last thing some see, too; certainly the last a couple hundred biters saw, if their eyes were still intact.) Dancing around it just makes it worse.
Besides, he figures it'll keep her off guard. She asks the next question-- the obvious question-- and in spite of himself he grins.
"Did it myself." Again, the truth. "Hacksaw. Rusty piece'f shit."
Something about that answer feels right. The desperate violence of it-- you don't chop off your dominant hand if you've got other options-- seems like the sort of thing she'd approve of. She does, she realizes, approve of it. It's a strange, distant realization. She never expected to approve of him. She's pretty sure she never approved of her father, or her stupid brothers.
She feels unsettled with herself, a highly unwelcome sensation when she was so sure, before.
"Maybe a month, two, after shit got bad. Sonofabitch left me handcuffed on a roof in Atlanta."
Thinking about it even now, he feels a curl of warm, familiar wrath coil through him, a well-nursed hatred that feels like an old friend. Give him a chance today and he'd skin that fucker alive. Leave him to turn. If he ain't already; if he's still out there.
It's what passes, for Merle, for a constructive response; he dwells on that, rather than the less steady feelings it brings up: the lonely certainty that he was gonna die of thirst up there, slow and ugly, end up a withered husk snapping yellowed teeth at pigeons. (Shit, back then they didn't even know. Thought you had to get bit.) All by his lonesome while God laughed out of a clear blue sky and his baby brother had no one to watch his back.
Joan is well-versed in catching the signs of anger rising in older men. Some part of her tenses, preparing for the next stages. Her foot hovers over the break, because she won't be able to see, but she can't stop the car now, or she'll give up her chance to strike back, and end up defending, uselessly cornered before she's been pinned down. She waits, and the cues rise and fall. His anger doesn't extend to her.
She's not sure how she feels about that, either. But it's sharpened her focus, at least; the little rush of adrenaline makes her mind move quicker. She sets aside the philosophical concerns she was childishly chewing at-- could she ever be that angry at someone for hurting her? Luke, sure, but her? If it was family, maybe, but if it wasn't? And who's to say whoever chained Merle up wasn't family? That's the kind of personal stuff you keep between relatives-- and focus more on her driving. She angles the rustbucket around a larger group of loons, probably on their way to herd up with the cluster from earlier.
Whatever the truth of Merle's story is, she decides she doesn't want to know any more. Not now, anyway. It's not that his tales are gruesome. It's that they aren't.
"And now you round up stray orphans out of the kindness of your heart?"
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what_wings_dare2014-10-20 06:48 pm
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The way the conversation's turned has robbed her of the sense of triumph she'd usually feel, having resurrected a car. The thing's working now, and from the sound of it, it's not going great, but it's something. It would have gotten her a few miles, maybe more, before she had to try another one, or start scavenging for parts.
Well, there goes that plan. "How far's Fairyland?"
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Maybe not, since he's eager as hell to get back home. Slowly, he walks around to open the passenger door, though he doesn't sit just yet. She still looks like she might try to bolt.
"Tradin' a ride for a cold drink and a clean bed, it ain't so bad." He points down the road.
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There's one peice of this whole stupid goddamn puzzle she's missing. Maybe she should just ask. She goes like she's going to sit, but doesn't pull herself all in the car just yet. Doesn't put her foot on the pedal, doesn't put her hand on the wheel. She waits.
"Why you want me there so bad?" She says. "I mean, besides outta the kindness of your heart." She cocks her head to the side, a flat look on her long face. Let's not shit ourselves.
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"Maybe I been out in the sun too long."
It's a fair question, though, and if they're ever gonna get on the road she needs an answer she can buy.
"We got a town. Towns, they need people." Simple as that. Not so simple, because if she doesn't fit in she's not gonna last very long, but there's no reason to scare her off. This car's running which proves she's got a shot of being useful.
"Dunno if you noticed there ain't so many left."
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She wonders if she could just walk away. He'd have the car and everything; he wouldn't benefit from shooting her. But he wouldn't take a loss, either, and maybe he just likes shooting people. She could believe that, too.
She sits more properly in the car. "Fine," she says, and the low tone of her voice shows how she isn't pleased about it. "Fine, let's go to Fairyland."
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He gestures again down the road, all the more eager to get going. Bringing back a working car, that's always handy. And more than that he's waiting to see her react when she finds out he's not completely full of shit. Woodbury might as well be Fairyland, the way things are out here. She doesn't want to believe it but as far as he's concerned, he is doing her a favor.
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"You're pointing a gun at me. It's personal," she says, mostly for the sake of her own pride. She knows it's stupid-- you should lay aside your pride and just try to survive when you've got a potentially murderous stranger in your car-- but she's held onto her sense of self too long to let it go when everyone else is dead. Her father couldn't take it from her. Merle Dixon can't either. "The only way it's not personal is if I'm dead. That's how things are, now."
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"Stubborn as shit," he mutters, but try as he might there's a bit of approval in his tone. He's not quite ready to put his gun away, though.
"We ain't friends yet, Princess. You'll hafta deal with it."
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...But she suspects that if she wasn't, she never would have gotten into this car. It's a train of thought she immediately abandons, because thinking of it too closely brings up some ugly truths about herself she doesn't want to acknowledge. Especially not when there's a fucking gun pointed at her.
She keeps driving. The car picks of speed.
"Oh, shit," she says, dry and sarcastic. Her tone lacks any real feeling. "I might cry. So where's this place, anyway? Since I'm, you know, driving you there?"
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"A ways down the road we'll turn off. I'll tell you."
No good reason to keep secrets if he's taking her there, but it seems like it'll get on her nerves and he hasn't got anything else to amuse himself.
"Town's called Woodbury." It's something. Won't help her much, with all the signs knocked down-- they do better keeping unexpected visitors to a minimum, trying to avoid people looking to scavenge-- but maybe it'll pique her interest. Or make her admit her interest's piqued.
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They see-saw into a pothole, and the engine makes a sound that isn't quite purring. Joan groans.
"You gonna tell me about it before or after I get the special tour?" She says. Her eyes are carefully on the road, though that does nothing to hide her expression, generally displeased, or her tone, generally matching. "You know, the gunpoint tour."
She's not dropping that. It can't be denied, and it's something Merle apparently has no anxiety over. She can harp and grouse over it without fear of fatal retribution, which is good, because meekly accepting it would be just as bad. Shit, that might kill her.
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"I left you yours," he reminds her instead. Damn stupid move on his part, no matter what-- you're always better off if you're the only one armed, that's just plain sense-- but so far she's been smart. He appreciates that, and not only because it saves him the mess. Should've, could've demanded it, but he thought maybe keeping it would put her at ease.
"Tour guides'll make you leave it at the gate. Probably trade you a cold Coke for it."
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She moves the car to the center of the road, avoiding a gaggle of undead lunatics clawing at the sound of their talkative motor. This hunk of junk will get them a few miles strong, to Fairyland or Woodbury or wherever, but it'd need more care to get much farther. Joan had been intending to put in the effort, before the ghost of jury duty past had shown up.
"Oh, so you're not giving the tour?" Her smile is a little hard around the edges. "But you're so friendly."
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"It ain't what you think it is."
Doesn't much matter what she thinks. He's pretty sure she's wrong.
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Her tone is a bit lower, a bit more wary, but she refuses to be entirely scared. Not while she's in front of this asshole. "But lemme guess," she says, "you're not gonna tell me shit."
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He shrugs, likely enough to be visible even if her eyes are on the road. Still has a gun pointed at her, sure, but he's less and less inclined to use it. The closer they get to town, the more eager he is to turn her over to whoever's on welcome duty and go on his way.
"Any god damn thing I say, you figure I'm lyin'."
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"Lying wouldn't get you anything," she says after a moment. She wants him to be lying, it'd back up her low opinion of the scuzzy asshole, but when she looks at it with the rough, raw logic Luke had valued, she can see the futility of it.
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"Not a thing," he agrees, leaning back against the door, getting comfortable. Best you can, anyway, in a piece of shit rustbucket that smells like something died in it because something did. Hardly notices it anymore, really.
"So whatcha wanna know?"
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Which is all a lot of pretty words for something more simple than it feels. Like it or not, simply by the virtue of lowest common denominators, Merle Dixon is the key to Fairyland.
"Why d'you live there?"
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"Shit," he murmurs, shrugging. "Who'd say no?"
Present company excepted, of course. He shifts to shrug his shoulder, lifts his bad arm just a little.
"Found me after this. Cleaned me up, got me back on my feet. Seemed worth stickin' around."
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She keeps watching him out of the corner of her eye.
"How'd it happen?" She doesn't think she'll get a real answer, but she's curious to know what he'll do when he's asked so directly. Probably hit her. The last time that happened while she was driving a car, the world hadn't ended. The more things change...
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Besides, he figures it'll keep her off guard. She asks the next question-- the obvious question-- and in spite of himself he grins.
"Did it myself." Again, the truth. "Hacksaw. Rusty piece'f shit."
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She feels unsettled with herself, a highly unwelcome sensation when she was so sure, before.
"Shit," she mutters. "How long's it been?"
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"Maybe a month, two, after shit got bad. Sonofabitch left me handcuffed on a roof in Atlanta."
Thinking about it even now, he feels a curl of warm, familiar wrath coil through him, a well-nursed hatred that feels like an old friend. Give him a chance today and he'd skin that fucker alive. Leave him to turn. If he ain't already; if he's still out there.
It's what passes, for Merle, for a constructive response; he dwells on that, rather than the less steady feelings it brings up: the lonely certainty that he was gonna die of thirst up there, slow and ugly, end up a withered husk snapping yellowed teeth at pigeons. (Shit, back then they didn't even know. Thought you had to get bit.) All by his lonesome while God laughed out of a clear blue sky and his baby brother had no one to watch his back.
Yeah, vengeance is the way to go.
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She's not sure how she feels about that, either. But it's sharpened her focus, at least; the little rush of adrenaline makes her mind move quicker. She sets aside the philosophical concerns she was childishly chewing at-- could she ever be that angry at someone for hurting her? Luke, sure, but her? If it was family, maybe, but if it wasn't? And who's to say whoever chained Merle up wasn't family? That's the kind of personal stuff you keep between relatives-- and focus more on her driving. She angles the rustbucket around a larger group of loons, probably on their way to herd up with the cluster from earlier.
Whatever the truth of Merle's story is, she decides she doesn't want to know any more. Not now, anyway. It's not that his tales are gruesome. It's that they aren't.
"And now you round up stray orphans out of the kindness of your heart?"
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