Merle swore and shone his flashlight into the face of a man in fatigues, standing in the doorway.
"Did you break my lock on the door?" he asked casually.
"No," Sinclaire answered. "I picked it. He cut the zip tie."
"I'll have to fix that soon. So Captain. What brings you back?"
Merle read the name on the man's jacket, Metzger, just as Sinclaire said, "Listen Metz…"
"Listen? Fuck listening. I listened to you the whole time. You left us here to die."
The weird thing, in Merle's opinion, was that the tone of Metzger's voice wasn't changing with those words. If Merle had needed to say them, he'd have said them at the top of his voice and from a distance of three inches from the person's face. Metzger stayed where he was, hands in his pockets, right shoulder against the door frame, voice as cool and calm as if he were discussing the weather.
"I didn't leave you to die, Metz," Sinclaire said, but her voice wavered dangerously.
"Sure you did, Captain. Do you know what I was doing while you were getting your shit together to desert us? I was trying to brace doors to keep those things out, trying to treat the wounded, trying to round them up for a shot in the head that they had no idea I was planning to give them, trying to make sure that none of their blood got on me. You were packing and I was trying to stay alive."
Merle dragged his gaze away from Metzger and looked to Sinclaire, expecting a denial. Instead her hands were in a white knuckle grip on the side of the water crate and her next breath was loud and ragged in the still air.
"Metz I...I just didn't know what to do. Orders had stopped coming in because the city was too overrun. You saw what they did…the napalm…they decided to cut their losses; they left us."
"You left us."
"How many of ya'lls left?" Merle asked.
"Just me," Metzger answered. "I'm the only one."
"Then come with us," Sinclaire said. "You can leave with us. We've got a truck…supplies…"
"No," he cut in. "I have supplies. You don't have anything."
"Metz…"
"Hey, hey, hang on," Merle drawled. "Fuckin' women gettin' all emotional. Why they never shoulda put women in command if ya ask me. Now I been stuck with her this whole time and honestly, I'm just waitin' on her dumbass to get me killed. What about me and you strike a deal?"
"I'm listening," Metzger replied.
"Fuck you Merle Dixon," Sinclaire hissed at the same time.
"I'm gettin' pretty damn used to hearin' that," he answered. "What you want outta this?" he addressed Metzger again.
"I want her dead," he gestured to Sinclaire.
"Now that's just too bad," Merle sighed. "There was a couple things I really wanted to do with her."
Metzger's eyes drifted over Sinclaire and he nodded as well.
"Well come on into the hall and we'll talk terms," Metzger said. "Get her gun. There's no way out of this room and if she tries to get out past us, we'll deal with her."
Metz pointed his gun at her and Merle said, "Kick it over sweetheart."
She did and the two men walked out of the room. She closed her eyes and sat on the floor behind the crate. Her hands were shaking. She'd never, ever believed there would be survivors.
"So she just up and left ya'll?" Merle asked when the door was closed behind them.
"Yes. I saw her getting supplies together. I just never…I never thought she'd leave us all. I thought maybe the ones who weren't infected…"
"Ya thought maybe ya'd get an invite?"
"Yes," Metzger looked lost in thought.
Merle thought about what he'd heard. Sinclaire Lewis was a deserter in a time of war. Maybe that was why she'd laughed so hard at his "saint" comment.
"So she packed up her shit when the orders stopped comin' down and she figured out thatUncle Sam had just bent her over and fucked her in the ass," Merle mused.
"You sound like you admire her," Metzger turned, suspicion in his eyes, just a bit too late.
"Oh I do," Merle admitted. "I like self motivated people."
A quick pull of the trigger ended Metzger's struggle to survive.