After a hot night in the back of the truck, Sinclaire was more than ready to hit the road. Her passenger was grumpy because, as he put it, "He had to piss like a racehorse," and he couldn't manage the intricacies of his belt buckle one handed.

"This is a new level of awkward," she muttered, looking away while she fumbled with his belt buckle.

"Well now don't be nervous," Merle drawled looking down at her. "I'm sure it ain't your first time."

"This is just such a special moment," Sinclaire muttered. "Zipper too I imagine?"

"Can't do much with it up. You're gonna have to…"

"I know. Yell when you're done."

"I'll give ya a holler," Merle assured her. "Might take me awhile. This is a more of a two-handed job."

She chuckled and walked around the side of the truck while she waited. Rearranging his jeans wasn't as awkward, maybe because she managed to think about something other than how close her fingers were to his crotch.

"So we hit the road," she said in a businesslike tone. "Head east, find your camp. Find your brother. Then what?"

"I put my boot up Rick Grimes ass."

"What you do to other men's asses is none of my concern," Sinclaire said with a grin. "If you want vengeance, do it on your own time and after I've hit the road."

"Whatcha hittin' the road in?"

"This," she gestured at the box truck. "And if we're going to argue over it…"

"Nah, we ain't. I got a bike back at camp. Far as I'm concerned this old thing's yours if ya want it. Not my style," Merle finished up.

"Image during an apocalypse is so important," Sinclaire agreed. "So…your brother. Besides having a girl's name…what's he like?"

"I don't know," Merle couldn't figure out what she was getting at. "He's just a guy. Nothin' special I don't reckon."

"One avenue of conversation down the tubes. I unzipped you. You should at least answer my questions."

"What you wanna know? What he looks like? What he acts like? What the hell you want from me?"

"Don't get all in a twist about it. He's younger you said. How much younger?"

"He's 35, I'm 41, his birthday's in October and he's a bow hunter," Merle continued.

"A bow hunter? Talk about apocalypse advantages," she raised her eyebrows. "Better than my silencers by a mile or two."

"Yeah, he was awful damn smug about it when he found out about noise drawin' 'em too. I don't know what else to tell ya…he's kinda blonde, blue eyes, a little short if ya ask me…"

Sinclaire laughed and said, "Well, I look forward to meeting the smug bow hunter."

"No ya don't," Merle shook his head. "Daryl's awful with people. Especially women. Especially hot women."

"You think I'm hot?"

"Everything but the damn Yankee accent."

It was true; in Merle's opinion the woman in the driver's seat was worth looking at for sure. She had chin length jagged cut brown hair and olive skin, big brown eyes and a very, very nice body.

"Eyes up," she said without taking her gaze off the road.

Her smile was sexy too. Possibilities there.

Merle directed her to the camp and Sinclaire watched in pity as the color drained from his face when he saw the wrecked site, the fresh graves, and the note.

"Merle…I'm so sorry," she put her hand on his shoulder; he shrugged her off.

"I guess now we'll have that argument about the box truck," Merle growled.

"Hey now," Sinclaire held up both hands. "I promised to get you back to your brother and I will. We don't have to argue about anything."

"Get me back to him?" Merle flung his left hand out at the freshly turned graves. "What the fuck makes you think that he ain't in one of them graves? I was stuck out there with you while my brother was bein' attacked by those bastards!"

"You wouldn't have made it back in time anyway. They moved out way before we even hit the road. It was your shock and blood loss that made me take this slowly," Sinclaire said, speaking quietly so that Merle was forced to lower his voice and listen. "There's only one way to find out if your brother is under that dirt."

Merle stared at her in disbelief.

"Ya gonna dig 'em up?"

"You know of a better way to prove who's six feet under and who's not?" she crossed her arms and quirked an eyebrow.

She actually knew of a few ways, but she had pretty much figured this guy out. He and his bow-hunter brother apparently had one thing in common. They both lost their shit when things went awry. A shock like the idea of going grave digging should get him thinking more clearly. And if it didn't…well, Sinclaire wasn't afraid of the dead. Make that the non moving dead.

Merle ran his left hand over his head and stared at her in a combination of admiration and alarm.

"Lemme think for a second."

She nodded, leaning casually against the side of the box truck with her thumbs hooked into her belt.

"His truck's gone," Merle realized after a moment. "And my bike. I doubt they'd take 'em…gas shortages and shit. He's probably fine."

"We can always try to catch them," Sinclaire pointed out. "It can't be that hard to catch up. Should be pretty noticeable…a caravan like you're talking about."

"I guess I got no choice," he looked around the abandoned camp. Thinking about it, he was more than a little surprised that Daryl had left without him. For the first time since his brother was born, Merle had no idea where he was. It was an uncomfortable feeling. "Let's hit the road," he said gruffly. "No sense waitin' around for more of them fuckers to find this place."

"I whole heartedly agree," she raised the door on the truck and said, "I'm gonna gear up. I don't need an audience either."

Merle walked around and got in the front seat, casually tilting the side mirror. She'd stripped down to her underwear and she was stepping into a pair of camo fatigues. She tossed her head, shaking her hair out of her eyes as she buttoned them. Her stomach was flat and her ass was round; his palm actually itched to smack it. Different time and place and he would have, even though it was plain from the way she acted that he'd get the smack returned and it sure as fuck wouldn't be a love tap. She covered up those nice tits with a black tank top and he was afraid she was going to go even further, but she frowned at the flak jacket and left it alone. It was damn hot, especially in the back of the truck like she was.

She leaned over, her breasts pushed against the fabric of the tank as she tied her combat boots. He looked casually out the window because he figured she'd be headed up to the front after that, but when she didn't, he glanced back again. Apparently she wasn't finished.

Sinclair shrugged into her vest and buckled it tightly. Then she knelt on the floor of the van and gathered her ammo. Four pockets for pistol ammo, her M9 in the cross draw pocket, her other one in the shoulder pocket, three pockets for rifle ammo, the Mossberg rifle she'd found would be near her, behind Merle's seat in case she needed it, the silencers for the M9's and her knife in the extra pockets; she filled the hydration bladder with a bottle of water from one of the cases she'd stockpiled and stood up again, patting her pockets and going over the list again under her breath. She strapped another, longer hunting knife to her left leg and stepped up front.

"Ready to go?"

"Sure thing sweetheart," Merle looked at her. "Damn. You're ready for anything ain't ya?"

"Don't look so surprised. I saw you watching me get dressed," Sinclaire put the truck in reverse and negotiated a turn. "Put my mirror back where I had it by the way."

"So ya didn't mind?"

"If I didn't mind I wouldn't have told you I didn't need an audience," she sighed. "I had to think about ammunition and weaponry. I don't have time to waste on a peeping tom. Besides, I'm used to it with the Army and all."

Before he could comment on that she said, "Which way?"

"How the hell do I know?"

"No clues? No ideas? You lived with these people…where would they have headed?" she tapped the wheel impatiently.

"We wasn't exactly the best of pals," Merle held up his right hand, or rather his lack of one. "'Member this?"

"Okay so you don't know and neither do I. The question stands. Left or right?"

Merle thought for a moment. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate. He was so fucking tired!

"Left," he said after a long moment.

Sinclaire watched him slump against the passenger side door and dredged up everything she knew about cocaine withdrawal. Not much of it was pleasant. The one plus side was that the symptoms weren't usually physical. Hopefully she wouldn't have to worry about him hurling chunks in her nice new box truck or having the shakes at a bad moment and distracting her. Of course the downside was that the symptoms were mental; fatigue, which he was obviously feeling now, depression, which was not a good thing to add to the stress and worry of the already tense situation, and suspicion, which she did not need right now. Sinclaire eased one of her M9's out of its pocket slowly and put it under her left leg. She could shoot just as well with her left hand in case she needed to. She really hoped she didn't need it, but there was simply no way in hell she was going to survive this far to be killed by a (probably reluctantly) recovering addict.