Red ~ TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Half Truths and Whole Lies

I never took a road trip when I was a kid.

Mostly because my father was Satan incarnate so "fun things" like family vacations weren't in his wheelhouse. The man never met a phone book he didn't want to throw at my head so there was zero chance the two of us got into a small, metal, motorized, vehicle for an extended period time without someone dying along the way.

After he kicked the bucket, taking my mother with him, my sister and I were shipped off to live with my mother's parents. We celebrated one death with a party and the other with a funeral before boarding a plane to our new life. I was giddy with excitement the entire way, recalling my mother's infamous stories about her "family adventures" when she was a little girl. My grandparents took her camping at the Grand Canyon, white water rafting in Colorado, and even to the happiest place on Earth, Graceland. Unfortunately but understandably by the time we moved in they were too old and money was too tight for such extravagances.

As an adult I'd traveled all over the world, but that wasn't my idea of a road trip. One, I rarely drove so technically I wasn't sure it even qualified. Two, let's be honest, a HALO drop into a communist occupied country wasn't on anyone's bucket list.

Since the world ended it felt like I was on a never-ending road trip, and honestly I felt a little cheated. First and foremost it wasn't fun. Second, we never went anywhere worth seeing, if such places even existed anymore. Lastly, being stuck in a car with family ranked one step above fighting through a herd of walkers blindfolded. One, small, step.

I was no expert, but I was almost certain today's venture would technically qualify as a bonafide road trip. It contained all the necessary elements I'd been led to believe all road trips possessed.

Stuck in a car with family? Check.

Driving somewhere that takes longer than an hour to get to? Check.

Having to pee, but there was nowhere to stop? Check.

Listening to something that could only loosely be described as music? Check.

"Oh this is a good one," Rick hummed, cranking up the volume on our puny car radio.

He bobbed his head and snapped his fingers along with the beat, but I didn't hear music coming out of the speakers. I heard animals dying. I would take Nugget's midnight wailing over this crap any day of the week. Even Hershel cringed when the banjo kicked into overdrive. What kind of music even incorporated banjos? And was that...a kazoo? When you put it all together it sounded like a bunch of cows were being slaughtered while seagulls squawked overhead.

Sighing I let my head fall against the seat, watching Daryl who was on his bike in front of us. So close yet so incredibly far away. I was full of cheesy metaphors where the man was concerned. Currently, our relationship was the emotional equivalent of offering someone a handshake only to end up in a half-hug, half-handshake situation, awkward and unavoidable. However, all things considered I would take the awkward, emotional, hug/handshake over riding in a confined space with Rick in control of the music.

I should have sucked it up and accepted his offer when we left the prison. It wasn't like riding a bike was conducive to talking, and I could bitch slap my dick sharpener into submission if she decided to get frisky due to his close proximity. It wouldn't be the first time (or the last) since Daryl and I parted ways that I got all tingly when he was within 100 miles of me.  I was starting to think it was a permanent medical condition.  I'd even buckled and asked Hershel if there was anything he could give me that would make me less slutty.  His response was to pick up his Bible and pray for a solid hour.  I took that as a firm no.

I groaned when Rick tipped his head back belting out something that sounded like he was dying a slow, painful, excruciating, death. I'd heard captives make similar noises under duress so I'd would know.