The Walking Dead: Daryl Dixon
Credit: AMC
I don’t mean to complain, but there were some important things left off the brochure. I was told the zombie apocalypse would mostly involve moving from town to town scavenging for old cans of food. Clearing houses to find shelter. Finding clean water. Occasionally, we were told, but only occasionally (if we were smart and kept out of big cities) we’d have to kill some zombies.
I was okay with this. I signed on the dotted line with one hand while I loaded my Smith & Wesson with the other. Lock and load, I thought to myself. We’ll show these undead shamblers what for. You call them “walkers” I call them “target practice.”
I used to be filled with vim and vigor, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Now I start to wonder if we’re actually the walking dead.
And yes, I knew that bandits were a risk. The brochure did warn us about bandits. But it did not mention anything about bandits wearing horns, dressed up like Mad Max goons, and it implied – not stated, but implied – a certain level of realism. If I wanted Mad Max, I would have signed up for that apocalypse, not this one. I also wasn’t prepared to go to Spain and have everyone here larping as late 19th century Mexican villagers. That was definitely not on the brochure. Trust me, I’ve read it about a hundred times at this point.
If someone had told me this was a Magnificent Seven remake, I might have opted for a different apocalypse altogether. Fallout, maybe. At least it has a sense of humor. Everyone here takes themselves so seriously. It’s exhausting.
I have other gripes. These clothes aren’t comfortable, for one thing. I wish I’d kept the old ones I’d scavenged from that abandoned Walmart outside of Athens. Not Athens, Greece, mind you. Athens, Georgia. That Walmart was remarkably well-stocked. Guns, bullets, barbie dolls. Even some Doritos.
Doritos. That reminds me, the bandits called themselves “primotivos” because they believed in a primitive lifestyle. Not many Spaniards were following a “Paleo” diet before the end of the world, but these guys are strictly gluten free. Organic meat and produce only. It would be impressive if they weren’t such pricks.
I don’t know where these “primotivos” shop. The horned masks don’t seem all that sensible. How do they see out of those things? At least the Whisperers made sense on a certain level. They were zombie whisperers. They whispered whole hordes of zombies around, which is a pretty neat trick, even if that Alpha chick was off her rocker. The zombie masks weren’t just for show. They had utility. That was useful in a world without gas or bullets. But that was like ten years into the apocalypse. Now, we have gas and bullets aplenty. I met a woman last night during the festivities and I asked her how she was doing and she said “Abundant.” That was weird – but not wrong. We have an abundance of everything now. I’m not really sure how, but we do.
Sorry if I’m complaining too much. I guess I just really miss Cooper. He was my best friend. Cooper could do anything. Everyone loved him, which was weird since he was an American and they’re normally the worst (see, for example, Carol lecturing everyone all the time). Americans are the worst. Everyone says so.
But not Cooper. He was a diamond in the rough. Generous, confident but not in a weird way. He put you at ease. He could tie knots like a boy scout, and his voice was like an angel. I wept every time he sang “Els Segadors” under a full moon. We’d drink tequila and trade tapas recipes and I’d always end up sobbing about my mother and how I couldn’t save her, and he’d always listen. Cooper was patient like that. It was like his shoulder was built for crying on.
He died such a senseless death. He was so young, too young to be such a hero. I mean, you know what I’m talking about, right? You all loved Cooper as much as I did. We all have so many stories about good ol’ “Coop”. He may not have had the easy grace of Julian (RIP) but after all these years, it’s just depressing to lose a character as near and dear to our hearts as Cooper.
There are silver linings. I don’t speak much Spanish, but at least the villagers here are all bilingual to a fault and often speak in English even when they don’t have to. Maybe it’s just to include me, or to one-up the French. Cooper spoke beautiful Spanish and French and half a dozen other languages. A lot of the locals said his Spanish was better than their own. The best Spanish. The very best. The senoritas all swooned when he recited “Romance Sonámbulo”. Show me some of them flamenco dances, and pass me a bottle Mr. Coop.
I still don’t really understand why Justina took Alba’s place. She was so in love with Roberto. They could have come with us on the boat. I mean, to be fair, the boat is a terrible idea. We’re all going to die on that boat, but at least Justina and Roberta would die together. Star-crossed lovers to the bitter end.
Daryl came over from America on a freighter ship. Carol somehow managed the crossing in a tiny little plane. So anything is possible. I was on a submarine when the world ended. A yellow submarine. It was meant to be a fun little underwater tourist cruise but we were out there for months. The smell alone . . . .
Honestly, the zombie apocalypse beats being stuck on a cramped little submarine for months with a crew of upset Russians and half a dozen other passengers and not nearly enough food or water to go around. That was basically Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas meets Gilligan’s Island and not half as sexy as that sounds. Look what God just did to us, man.
At least in the zombie apocalypse we have no shortage of anything (other than modern clothing). Plenty of gas, electricity, bullets, food. Scarcity is one of the things they warned us about on the brochure, but they clearly did not understand the nature of a zombie apocalypse. My car doesn’t even run out of gas anymore. Ever. It’s honestly a little weird. Am I actually dreaming?
I ask myself that a lot these days. I’m worried about going down that rabbit hole, to be honest. You start doubting reality and who knows what happens. The “primivitos” want to “burn it all down” (“quemarlo todo” in Spanish) but the perks are kind of amazing, so I’m not sure we should do that. I don’t pay rent anymore, which is pretty neat. And since I don’t have kids, I don’t have to give my daughter to the king (el rey). I can just go about my business, nose to the grindstone, and play Call Of Duty with my friends at night. WiFi is very much alive and well in this apocalypse, and multiplayer video games are a big part of how we all stay sane. Stay frosty, y’all.
I do worry sometimes. The brochure mentioned “plot armor” and how if you didn’t get it in Season 1, you’re probably going to die. Cooper learned that the hard way. I mean, he’d been around for what? Twelve or thirteen seasons? Just goes to show that even an old-timer like Coop is fair game. What are my chances? Without that mystical Season 1 plot armor, you’re basically screwed. Unless your name is Negan. I don’t know who Negan is, but the brochure clearly states that Negan gets the same plot armor as the Season 1 guys (and gal) which is kind of stupid, if you ask me, but then nobody asks me. Nobody here even seems to remember I exist. A few other survivors were able to get their hands on plot armor after season one. Maggie, Michonne. If you’re a chick whose name starts with the letter “M” you get plot armor. There are rules. They’re all printed on the stupid brochure. I’m thinking of changing my name to Miriel or Michelle or Magdalena.
Not everyone from Season 1 got the plot armor, of course. The brochure lied to them just as much as it lied to you and me. Sorry Glenn. Sorry Andrea. Sorry Billy Bob. I don’t even know who made this damn brochure, all I know is that this wool jacket is itchy and I wish the “no scarcity” rule applied to skin lotion. Nobody has any damn lotion. If I did, I’d put the lotion on my skin again.
You need gas for your motorcycle or bullets for your LMG, no problem. Here is a tanker full of gas and a thousand rounds. Here is an armored vehicle. Here is a beer-shaped hot air balloon. Take your pick. You need some aloe vera? Go kick rocks. (Seriously, go kick rocks at that bandit in a horned mask, he wants to kill you for some reason. The brochure doesn’t say!)
Cooper was going to do something about the lotion shortage. He promised me last week, though I think it was just to shut me up. He had a plan, though, a real plan. But we all know how that turned out. “The best laid plans of mice and men” and all that jazz. Killed while working on that little maritime deathtrap. I get the feeling that anyone who comes into contact with these two American interlopers is doomed. They’re cursed. I’m sure of it. I’m not even superstitious compared to a lot of the locals, but I have a bad feeling about this.
Daryl talks a good game and Carol sure seems to know what she wants, but I’d bet dollars to donuts that neither one of them actually boards that sinking boat in the end. They’re going to send Justina (once they rescue her, which they will, I can feel it) and Roberto off by themselves while they trounce off to Germany or Italy or somewhere like that. Croatia, maybe. They’re already talking about a certain “Laurent” that they’re going to track down when they get to America, but that feels like a hoax to me. “The chosen one,” Daryl said to me when I asked. Whatever that means. Sure, buddy.
I’d sail back to America, too, if I wasn’t so afraid of water. Well, large bodies of water, anyways. It’s trauma from the yellow submarine we all lived in. We all lived in a yellow submarine! For months! I’ll probably just go to Italy with Daryl and Carol. They won’t even notice I’m there. I miss pizza. The brochure said there’d be pizza. There’s no pizza. Just a ridiculous amount of mutton and paella and these stale saltine crackers. People keep talking about hot dogs, but I haven’t seen any. Not sure when we’re getting hot dogs, but I’m not going to say anything. That’s why I have this diary. I need a place to vent.
I keep my mouth shut, mostly. But a man has to vent.
