"What kind of name is Cal? You a dyke?"

"What kind of name is Merle? You a dog?"

He eyes her suspiciously, that crude jaw of his jutting out. Even though it's been a few days since she's dragged him out of Atlanta, there is still a suggestion of fever behind his eyes. From what she can tell thus far, his beaming wit isn't in the least bit affected.

"How you know my name?"

"You talk in your sleep."

This seems to appease him, if only for a moment. His eyes narrow again when he glances out the door of the van. "Where'm I?"

"Outside Atlanta," she says.

"Where you find me?" He asks, the confidence in his voice belies his thinly veiled uncertainty.

"On the road, passed out, missing a hand."

He ignores her pointed look at his wrapped stump."You got a group?"

She doesn't even think about it. The lie is out of her mouth before he has reason to doubt her, "yes."

"They here?"

"They're around," she offers.

"Where they at?"

"They're waiting," she lies easily, the words rolling off her tongue like there is an actual group out there waiting for her. She almost laughs – the last group she had had ended with a cop whistling a tune sadder than the end of the world and a cruiser car that had promptly been stolen from her.

"See if I'm good people and the like?"

She shrugs, "something like that."

"Not big on words, huh?"

She doesn't answer.

He considers her for a long moment, jaw working as he mulls over her apparent nonchalance and clipped answers. "I ain't goin' with you," he says, his words slurring together. "I got my own family to look out for."

She doesn't say anything to this, simply bites at her thumb nail and stares. Merle stares back, brow heavy over his eyes.


She doesn't trust Merle. Even missing one arm and still weak from both injury and exposure, she knows not to turn her back on him. Despite her own exhaustion, there was no way in hell that she was going to just hunker down next to him and see if she still had a heartbeat by morning.

By the time Merle is muttering away in his sleep the sun is low in the sky. The Georgian summer heat has hardly died – only just enough to offer the barest reprieve - making Cal all too aware of just how tired she is. She slips from the back of the cube van, sliding the door shut behind her, and proceeds to slip the keys from the ignition and into her pocket. For a long moment afterward she stands and looks out across the hills. The world is cast in a golden light, it almost looks like a dream.

She wanders into the trees, one hand sitting warily on the hilt of her hunting knife strapped to her thigh, and the other pushing back branches or sweeping across the ground to push aside a wayward twig. The forest is silent as she passes through – the trees hardly whispering as she moves beneath their boughs. The quiet that lingers in the golden wood reminds her of a time when sleep wasn't a fantasy, but something real and certain; when warm beds were a reality, and nights were filled with dreams.

It isn't long until a particular tree catches her eye, and with a long breath she begins to climb. The branches are thick, and she lets loose a grateful sigh when one in particular looks more inviting than the rest. She settles in, back against the trunk and legs spread out before her. She stares out across the fallen Atlanta, one hand resting on her stomach, and the other drum-drum-drumming against her knife.

For a while she thinks about Merle, and of the family he spoke of.

And then eventually, she sleeps.


The door slides open, cracking sharply against the top of the van. Merle jerks awake, letting loose a string of obscenities that would have had a prostitute blushing. Cal is a dark silhouette against the light of day. He blinks wearily at the sunlight, trying to block it with a hand.

"What the hell you think you're doin', huh? Tryin' to scare me to death?" Cal regards him coolly – he noticed that about her, she didn't really show a lot on that haggard face of her's – before stepping up into the box of the van.

"Here," she's leaning over him, dragging his arm away from his chest and peeling back the layers of fabric before he has a chance to react. He tries not to flinch when the fabric catches on a piece of raw skin, but he can feel her fingers tighten on his forearm in warning.

"Don't look too bad, doc," he says. He glances up at her, unsure. "Does it?"

"It'd look worse if you hadn't cauterized it."

Merle grins at her, sure and pleased with himself, "so, that makes me some sort'a clever, huh?"

She glances at him and turns away to the pack sitting in the corner. It's a few minutes before she returns, a KFC wet-wipe in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He feels a panic spike low in his gut as she moves towards him.

"Wha'cha think your doin', huh?" He's eying the wet-wipe warily. She cracks the package open and pulls out the damp towelette.

"I'm cleaning your arm."

"The hell you're not." He pushes back into the corner. Cal stops moving forward when she is suddenly reminded of animal, wild and caged and angry. "You come near me wit that and I ain't promisin' I ain't gonna knock you 'round the head."

There is silence between them. She stares down at him, he glares back at her. The stubborn set of his jaw is unyielding, and the bunched muscles in his shoulders and neck tells her exactly what she should do – nothing. She stoops down next to him and without looking away she places the bottle down with a thud, the wet-wipe folded neatly on top.

"Fine," she says evenly, the frustration she's feeling at his noncooperation bubbling just barely out of sight. "If you're feeling like an infection might be a good time, by all means don't clean it. Let it fester." She sits down in the van opposite him, her eyes stretching out across the yellowed horizon. Merle is silent behind her, and she almost smirks at the thought; the damn bastard had been loud and obnoxious in every waking moment thus far, it was a nice change to hear him succumb to the quiet.

Cal reaches out and pulls her backpack from the cab and onto her lap, grimacing as she finds the contents somewhat less than desirable. A few melted chocolate bars squish within their wrappers. She glances up at Merle, grimacing slightly when she finds him eying her pack with hungry eyes. She tucks it away, effectively placing herself between him and what little food remains.

"How'd it happen?" She asks, attempting to divert his attention.

"A lawman and his pet nigger 'cuffed me to a roof – left me to rot. Bunch of walkers snappin' at my ass... I did what I had to." There is an anger in his voice, and she is surprised to find she understands it. The biggest inhumanity that could be dealt these days was a slow death. She still remembers that punch of fear she had felt, reeling and disoriented after having been pistol whipped and left for dead. It had been unlike anything she had ever felt; helpless terror in the face of certain death. They had simply left her there – they hadn't even wasted a bullet.

And that was the problem.

"Did you know them?" She asks. Merle nods. "Anyone family with them?"

"Little brother. I'd reckon he ain't no longer. Kid's smart, he'd put two n' two together."

There was a pause, and then, "you're going to go looking for him?"

Merle looked at her darkly, as if she even had to ask, and chuckled. "Knowin' him, he'll be the one to find me. But yeah – I'mma go right back to where those sorry assholes be shackin' up, and I'mma show em what leavin' ol' Merle behind means."


Eventually Merle crawls his way out if the cube van, and he sways uncertainly on the hill-top overlooking the vast spread of forest below. He leans on the door heavily, using it as a crutch. He stands there for a good while looking out across the woods with his defiant, grim stare.

"There," he says, pointing across the woods towards a jagged scar in the side of a mountain. "That Quarry – we was makin' camp there."

Cal stands beside him, and stares. She remembers the dark of night and the quiet, and the sudden crack and flash of gunfire. Merle had been unconscious then, but she had sat into the night and stared across the valley well after the gunfire had ceased and wondered who had lived, and who had died. She had felt that sliver of apathy that shadowed her in this new world – she hadn't cared. Not really. All that mattered was that it wasn't her fighting for her life in the dark, lighting the night with the bravest, brightest beacon. Someone else is dying, she had thought, so that you may sit here and live.

She doesn't say anything to Merle about the gunfire. "You're going back?"

He nods, "first thing in the mornin'."


She goes with him to the camp. Not because she's overly concerned about his group, or even him, but because her pack is low and hollow against her back. She can feel the last chocolate bars squishing around, and there isn't much else – the last bottle of water had been the one she'd given Merle for his arm.

She needed supplies.

As Merle slides into the front of the van she follows, and watches as he fumbles with the keys. "Can't even stick a goddamn piece of shit key into-"

"Want me to drive?" Cal's voice is low, almost as if she's afraid he'll bolt if she speaks too loudly. Merle looks at her sharply, his jaw tightening. He is staring at her defiantly, his anger and prejudice roiling in his eyes. He casts a pointed look at her breasts before he glowers at her.

"What? You thinkin' I'm some nancy-ass, huh? Jus' 'cause I ain't got both hands -"

"I don't want to die if you pass out at the wheel," she interrupts bluntly. "Which could very well happen considering you've only just begun to have lucid conversations and you're insisting on exerting yourself. Save your energy. Let me drive."

Merle grunts at her, jaw tight and brow furrowed. He steps out of the cab, keys discarded on the driver's seat. For a long moment they stand toe to toe. He pushes past her, shoulder bumping her into the door and continues on to the passenger side. Cal frowns after him, but slides her way into the van and starts the engine.

"Don't you have your own group to get back to?"

She shrugs, the lie coming out easily, "they don't expect me back for a while."

"They don't sound too smart letting their doctor wander off – that's what you are, huh? Some kind of doctor?" He's looking at her – he always is, she thinks – with that defensive, stubborn expression of his that makes her feel like a sack of meat. Cal shifts the van into drive and rumbles down the gravel road.

"Does it matter?" She eventually says. "What I was before all of this?"

Merle grunts, "guess not. Jus' be nice knowin' if you're a chef or nurse, ya know. See if you're going to be doin' me up one way or the other. Heh."

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye.

"I don't eat dog," she says blandly.

Merle's laugh is like thunder in her ears.


The van is just under half a tank of gas by the time they make it to the road leading up to the Quarry. Merle is mumbling nonsense beside her as they begin the long and winding ascent – he curses vehemently every time the van hits a pothole, all the while glaring at her and mumbling to stop driving like a woman.

Cal hits the gas the next time she sees one, causing Merle to hit his head on the roof.

"You doin' that on purpose, huh? Or you jus' too dumb to see the big ass holes on the road?"

She shrugs, and then hits another one.

He turns away with a huff, muttering something along the lines of bitch and wench.

By the time the Quarry is in sight Merle is quiet. He's staring out the window darkly, eyes narrowed and hand twitching. The pool of water they pass is the first indication that something is wrong – the water is still, untouched. If the group was as large as Merle claimed, surely there would have been people at the water's edge.

"Bitches should be cleanin'," he mutters.

Cal leans forward in her seat as they begin the ascent into the hills, away from the water.

"You think they're still there?"

Merle is glaring at her, "my brother will be there."

Cal doesn't say anything.

As they come around a corner, the trees recede to reveal a small glade of trampled grasses and worn patches of dirt. A red mustang sits awkwardly off to one side, effectively crippled by the theft of its tires. Cal wheels the van around so its nose is pointing back down the hill, parks it, and tucks the keys away into her pocket.

Merle is out of the van in a second. She slips out after him.

She doesn't say anything. She stands back and watches as he moves towards the treeline. It's only as he nears the woods that she suddenly recognizes the slouched, dark shapes of several tents. Even from where she is standing she can tell that they've been torn into – the canvas shredded.

And then she catches sight of the burn pile.

She blanches as she recognizes the twisted limbs and blackened skulls as human, her mind reeling back to that night where the gunfire had lit up the hills like a thunder and lightning storm. Merle is suddenly beside her, lips pulling back into a snarl. "Sum'bitches got what they deserved."

"And what if your brother is in there?" She doesn't mean for her tone to sound clipped and condescending. "Did he deserve it?"

"He ain't dead," Merle lets out a low laugh. "Tents gone, 'long with the truck and bike. Ain't nobody but him gonna be takin' that bike. Not with the roar it makes. Nah," he says, waving his hand at the burn pile. "Only people there are assholes that deserve it." He wanders off, his steps staggered and his direction senseless, but he glances back over his shoulder to the pile of charred bodies, and Cal feels the chill of his uncertainty.

His moment of doubt.


They scavenge. Or try to. The tents ducking into the treeline are shredded and covered in gore, but there are a few items still inside that Cal pushes eagerly into her back-pack; a tube of toothpaste, a pair of socks, a box of band aids. She grins when she pulls back a bloodied pillow to find a bottle of Tylenol. It rattles loudly, and she shoves one of the found socks into it, effectively silencing it.

Eventually she wanders away from the tents, having gathered what she could that was both useful and not covered in gore. She finds Merle leaning against the red mustang, a bottle of something in his hands that looks more like alcohol than anything hydrating.

"Want one, sugar lips?" Merle motions to another bottle beside him – beer.

She ignores him, turning away to study the remains of the camp. The pile of bodies is still smoldering. Her eyes alight upon a path ascending a brief incline. She moves towards it, leaving Merle slumped against the car. The path isn't narrow, and as she follows it she can see the clear tracks of a vehicle having taken the trip numerous times. When she reaches the top, she knows why.

A row of fresh turned earth; a row of improvised markers; a row of new graves.

She crouches down beside the loose soil. They had buried some of the dead, and they had burned the rest. "Walkers then," she muses aloud.

"Must of been. These ain't here when we left," Merle is suddenly beside her, beer bottle in his hand nearly empty. He grimaces as he stares down at the row of graves. "Ain't no reason to go half 'n half. Burn pile must'a been walkers."

They turn and leave, walking back down the hill. Merle staggers unsteadily after her, but she doesn't stop to help him – he'd just turn her down anyway.

"We need to find you some antibiotics," she's eying the dark circles under his eyes, the sweat on his brow – she knows it's hot out, but it's not so hot that he should be dripping. He only grunts at that and runs a hand across his forehead.

It's as they're returning to the camp that she catches sight of the note sitting idly at the foot of the mustang. She moves ahead of Merle to pick it up.

"What's that?"

She reads the note aloud. "Says their heading to the CDC. This place isn't safe -"

"Well no shit."

"-signed, Rick. Who is that?"

Merle shrugs, "don't matter none, girl. Give me the keys."

"We've been over this," Cal says, stepping away from him to shove the corner of the note under the edge of the hood. It catches and stays – whoever it was intended would still find it."What do you think you're going to do? Go roaring after them into the city?"

Merle glares at her, jaw tense. "I'm gonna get my little brother. Give me the keys."

"You know the city is a death trap. Why risk it?"

Merle steps closer. "I ain't no baby-bitch -"

"You need anti-biotics -"

"I need my baby brother... And if you ain't gonna help me, then get the fuck out of my way."

She takes a step back, alarm flashing through her at the intensity of his anger. She grips the hilt of her knife, more to calm her shaking nerves than to draw on him. She notices his eyes fall to her hand, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"What're you gonna do with that, huh? Skewer me up a bit after you fixed me up all nice?" He takes a step forward.

"Merle -"

He stops, jaw tight. Her eyes aren't wild and fearful, but flashing with clear warning.

"We're goin' to the CDC. I bet they got some good meds there. Patch me right up. Make me all pretty – put a bow in my hair. Then maybe you and I can-" she watches impassively as his eyes roll back and he slumps to the ground.


He comes to with a start. He doesn't yell or throw a fit, but laughs deliriously against the window. "How'd you get me in 'ere, lil' thing like you?" When there is no response he glances at the driver seat, and blanches – Cal isn't there. He hesitates for a moment, jaw tightening as he looks around wildly. They're parked on the highway, right beside the median.

He pushes down the lock and sinks low in his seat.

Suddenly the driver door is thrown open – and Cal is there, spitting at the ground and slinking into her seat with a grumble on her lips, a empty water bottle and a coiled hose in the other. She tosses it between the seats and into the box. "Goddamn gasoline tastes like-"

"Where the hell you been?" Merle snaps, and Cal hardly casts him a glance. She throws the car into drive and they're rumbling down road. The fuel gauge reads three-quarters full. "Where the hell are we?"

"We're heading to the CDC," she says. "You collapsed a couple hours back. Figured if you're going to die, might as well do it on your terms."

He smirks at her, "ah, girl. You jus' want me all healthy 'n pretty so you can take a ride."

Her jaw tightens, but she says nothing. He laughs.

For the rest of the ride neither of them say anything. Merle occasionally grumbles about her driving, but for the most part they succumb to silence. After a while she begins to whistle – it sounds like laughter and tears, and it makes Merle think of the old world.


She knows whats happening long before they get there. Black smoke is billowing into the sweet Georgian sky, and there is a heat in the air that is some ungodly furnace. The cube van mutters miserably as it runs over one or two bodies of the dead, and groans to a stop when she pulls up alongside a military barricade.

And then she sees it – the great clouds of smoke are twisting from the skeleton of a building, and the military barricade is little more than a mass graveyard of half charred, half eaten bodies. There isn't even a walker in sight, and it isn't hard to suppose that the heat flaring off the building's remains was enough to deter them from approaching.

"Oh my god."

The tone of her voice is enough to make Merle hesitate from his daydreams – the heat radiating off the window his head is resting against makes him flinch. He glances up sharply at Cal, brows furrowing as he takes in her wide eyed expression. They hadn't been around one another long, but he had seen only two expressions on her face; nothing or fuck-you.

But this... It makes him glance sharply out the window.

The burning building is nothing to him – at first-, but then he sees the blackened sign of twisted metal leaning against a parking booth. CDC – Centre for Disease Control.

He feels it come out from underneath him – the earth. Like someone's laughing in the distance and ripping a rug out from beneath his feet. It's a weird feeling; like nothing he's ever felt. It starts off hollow – a sort of disbelief that's waiting to be laughed off as a joke.

But then he looks around and it isn't a joke. This is the CDC and it is on fire.

He remembers when he was in prison, and Daryl wasn't anything more than a boy. And the call he'd gotten and the tears that whispered through his younger brother's voice still stuck in his head. Hardly more than a boy, and Daryl had told him their momma had died in a fire. Merle hadn't cried or anything; he'd been too damn pissed off to care.

"He's dead then," Merle says, and he can't help but scratch at his nose to try and chase that weird, sick feeling that's crawling up his throat. He doesn't look away, he can't - not with the fire spitting black smoke into the sky, not with it still licking the bones of the CDC and shattering them to ash. He doesn't even look away when he remembers Daryl's voice over the phone, and those sad little words 'fire ate 'er up. Ain't nothing left. It's like she was never here.'

He doesn't even have time to stand in that heat and wonder what it's like to die in flames. One moment they're sitting there, and the next Cal is hissing walkers and she's right – there they are, stumbling from the streets around the fire, into the heat. One catches on fire and walks towards them without pause – eventually it collapses, sizzling to ash.

"We gotta go," Cal is hissing, but Merle isn't listening. He's just looking out the window, staring at the fire. And as she throws the car into drive and leaves the blackened graveyard behind, Merle turns away from the flames, thinking about his little brother.

"Ain't nothing left," he says.

It's like he was never here.