She has been standing there for hardly a moment when the man lets out a gurgled moan. She sets back, eyes wide as she takes in the sweaty sheen on his graying skin. Her knife is in her hand, loosed from its hilt with a steady flick of the wrist. For a long moment she waits, breath held as she listens to the rattling sound of his chest, to the pained whimpers leaking from his lips.

One, two, three –

But the man doesn't turn. He doesn't sit up and reach for her with a hungry growl. He simply remains slumped, arm wrapped in a bloody shirt – she eyes it for a moment before she realizes that it isn't campfire she smells on him, but the smell of burnt flesh.

She blinks and reaches forward to check his pulse. The weak flutter under her finger tips makes her wince. He needs help – now.

The cube van is a company vehicle, and a quick once over in the cab yields a meager first aid kit. She clutches it fervently, taking in the few items with a reverence. It would be so easy to walk away from him – he was pretty much dead already, and the first aid kit could be salvaged and coveted. Why waste what she had on a man that had little hope of surviving? It's ruthless, unthinkable, but such are the times they live in.

The ruthless calculus of war.

The first aid kit is heavy in her hands.

"Damn it."

She places both it and her knife down.

She moves closer and reaches out, fingers pinching at the fabric and pulling it away. She's always been good at compartmentalizing – damn good, in fact –, but she still feels a weakness creep along the backs of her thighs and spine at the sight of it.

"I won't beg, ya hear me..."The voice has her frozen. He moans, eyes fluttering. He is delirious and disoriented and seeing with eyes that don't truly see. She turns to meet his gaze, her lips tight and hand inching towards her knife. "Hey, hey darlin'. No time for tha' until ol' Merle's all sunshine 'gain – hm. I can't be - I can't be bumpin' wit' you when I ain't got both hands-"

And suddenly he's gone, eyes rolling back and chin dropping.

For a long and drawn out moment she sits there in silence deciding what to do. The thought of leaving him behind is no brief and fleeting debate; it sits heavily in her mind, more tempting than the thought of helping him.

She glances back down the highway. Atlanta looms in the distance. She can practically taste the walkers on the air.

She shoves into the cab and pushes the unconscious man – Merle, she reminds herself – out of the way. He hits the passenger door hard, and she hardly cares – maybe once upon a time, but not now. Sliding the keys from his hand and into the ignition brings the van to life, and then she's shifting into drive and rolling away. She doesn't look back.


They had stopped on an old back-country road – something ugly and bumpy and untouched in recent years. It wound its way off the I-85, and fell away into the forested hills there. She had driven slowly up that first night, parking the van at the top of a hill that looked out towards the distant haze of Atlanta. From there the city had looked somewhat normal, nothing alike the mass graveyard it had become.


The light from a key-chain flashlight and the failing day is all she has to work by. The stuffy box of the van is the only place she can work in. The door is thrown open, and the last light of the evening filters in and spreads across Merle's body. She tries not to focus on the fact that a walker could come ambling up and clamber right into the box with them. She reasons that she'll close it when all is said and done.

She's peeling back the first layer of cloth when she realizes that he could very well die. Well – die faster. She had known from the moment she saw him slumped in the front seat that every breath he took could very well be his last, but this was different. The stump was fresh, and she knew when she had last seen him hollering like a maniac off of the edge of that high-rise that he had had both hands. Something had happened to his hand that had necessitated removing it.

She wonders briefly if he had been bitten. At that thought her fingers tighten on the knife again.

The man stirs, and then takes a long and deep breath.

She grits her teeth and gets to work.

The amputation itself had been dealt with, instead she's left reeling over the third degree burns that stare back at her blandly. The raw, twisted meat of his arm leaves her wondering if it wouldn't be better to just stick a knife through his temple now and be done with it. She can't even imagine how painful it's going to be when he wakes, or what they'll do if infection sets in.

She reaches into her pack and produces several wet wipes. She can't help but think that KFC never intended for their product to be used this way.

She cleans off the dirt and gore, mindful of the red and angry blisters that run along his twisting skin. The wet wipes are nothing more than water and soap, and so she has no qualms prodding them into any red and angry pore that weeps. The man twitches once or twice, but remains unconscious.

By the time she is finished, the wipe is black, and she still pours half a bottle of water over the mangled stump to make sure it's as clean as possible. The man's forehead is dotted with sweat, and his shirt darkens with it. She tips the last half of the water bottle into his mouth, watching as every last drop drains away.


When he comes to it is with a start. It isn't pretty. More yelling and anger than anything else. She thinks of a wounded animal, desperate and ready to fight for its life. Except this man isn't a dog caught in a corner; he's large and dangerous and his eyes are wild with fever.

"You're wounded," she's nothing more than a silhouette – the morning sun bright behind her.

"Where'm I?"

"Outside Atlanta."

"Back at camp?"

She blinks at him, realization settling upon her – his voice is rough and slurred, but she can hear the delirium there. "Yeah," she says, hoping the defensive fire in his eyes dies as promptly as it had been ignited. Sure enough, he relaxes.

"Where's my baby brother at?" His words are growing softer, like he's slowly succumbing to something heavy and encompassing. His eyes are fluttering, his head is lolling.

"He's right here," she lies as she climbs into the box of the van to kneel beside him. Her fingers find his shoulders and she is pushing him back, back into the corner where he can rest his head. "Just sleep."

He doesn't close his eyes and welcome sleep as much as he succumbs to unconsciousness. The moment his head touches down on a folded jacket, his eyes reel and he passes out. She sits there for a long moment, watching him, wondering if his baby brother is dead or a walker or somewhere out there in the wide world looking for him.

She lets out a long breath and turns back to the sunny day looming outside.


The day falls away. No walkers come up the hill. She sits in silence and waits, knife in hand and keys in the ignition of the van. She's ready to run if something happens. The words of the cop are like a prayer in her mind. Remember to be quiet, and don't be afraid.

The man – Merle – is still, although he occasionally murmurs obscenities. She changes his dressing only once, keeping the burn dry and protected. There isn't a lot she can do for him, except tip water into his mouth and push her few remaining capsules of Tylenol past his lips. He could live or he could die.

She sits in silence and waits.

When the sun goes down she hears gunfire in the distance; it lights up the hills like thunder and lightning.


"You did this?" His voice is shocking – like a sudden explosion, or a thunderclap from a blue sky. She turns quickly and finds him staring at her, leaning on his good elbow while cradling the stump against his chest.

"You're dehydrated and need rest," she hands him a bottle of water and the last – the very last – travel pack of Tylenol.

He takes both, ripping open the small pack and tipping the pills into his mouth. He washes it down with a chug of water, all the while never letting his eyes leave her. "You wrap me up?" He wiggles his ghost of an arm at her.

She nods, not really knowing what to say. The last time they had spoken he had been little more than dead – and even though he is still weak, she finds the clarity of his gaze to be somewhat disconcerting. There is a fire there, more anger and prejudice and danger than anything remotely human.

He doesn't like being weak; he doesn't like being helpless and dependent – especially to a woman. She can see the contempt in his eyes, and she can tell he isn't the kind of guy to sit idly by under her authority. She can envision it already – betrayal. Him taking her out in the night and making off with her supplies. He wouldn't even blink.

"Wha's your name, girl?" When she doesn't answer right away he smirks, lazy and sure. "Huh? You got a name, don'cha?"

It's a game. The kind of one a predator might play with its newest meal. She knows because it's something she's done – something she did, once in another life.

He's sitting there staring at her, waiting for her to say something.

It's funny, thinking about her name – it echoes of a world where names were important. It reminds her of first grade, when she stood in front of a class of wide eyed kids and told them how she wanted to be a nurse. It reminds her of a time, in a place that was dark and sweet and hot, when a man was sliding against her whispering her name over and over. And of a time when a flag, folded and beautiful and horrible was placed in her hands with whispered apologies. It reminds her of a time when she felt real and human and alive – not like some animal scrounging in the dirt of a dead world.

From the way he's looking at her she knows it's a mistake. There is something about the man that is dangerous – something manipulative and caustic. But, he's also a person. A human. One of the first she's seen in the past few weeks who hadn't held a pistol to her head right off the get-go. She doesn't know why, but she feels a craving deep in her bones. Like an addict, she just wants her next hit – a reprieve from the pain.

She just wants something more than silence and quiet and nothing.

She just wants a goddamn conversation.

Everything is screaming at her not to say anything, not to give him anything. But she's so caught up in that echo – that echo of a world where names were important – that she ignores her better judgment, all for a moment to feel like the world isn't going to hell.

"Cal," she says. "You can call me Cal."