Merle walked back into the room, leaving Metzger in the hall where he'd fallen.

"Sinclaire? Where ya at?" he called.

"Over here," she informed him, without bothering to get up.

"Hey," he crouched down in front of her. "He'd been bit…"

"No he hadn't. But I'm touched that you took the time to make up a lie to make me feel better. Or maybe you're just worried that I'd be pissed at you for killing Metz."

"More like that," Merle admitted. "Ya ain't though. Are ya?"

"I'm…no," she sighed. "I'm not. I'm relieved it was you and not me. Thanks. As fucked up as I feel saying it or feeling it…thanks."

"You're welcome. Ready to get the rest of the shit and move?"

"More than," she agreed, allowing him to pull her to her feet.

It took a while to organize everything, but several hours later there were several crates near the door, full, or in the case of the water crates, half full of supplies, everything from water to MRE's to ammo and weaponry.

Merle had switched his leather vest for a tactical one like hers and stocked it with weaponry he could use one handed, a handgun, grenades, his knife. A machete now hung from his belt at his right side. He'd also found fatigues and combat boots in his size and insisted on packing some that "oughta fit Daryl, my little, and I do mean little, brother."

"He can't be that small," Sinclaire protested. "You make him sound like a midget but those fatigues are a pretty average size."

"Yeah. He is average I guess," Merle looked thoughtful. "I been hasslin' him about bein' shorter than me for so long I kinda can't stop."

"I bet Daryl's just crazy about you," Sinclaire held up the flak jacket Merle had tossed into the crate for his brother, confirming her suspicions about a man of average height and build.

"Sure he is," Merle said easily. "I'm all he's got."

"Did he lose a lot of people to this thing?"

"Nah. He never had nobody to begin with. Told ya, Daryl's terrible with people."

"Yeah, but you also said he's 35. He didn't have a wife? Or even just a girlfriend? Kids? Friends?"

"Nope. Gotta talk to get a girl, gotta get a girl to have kids and hell…even I don't know why he didn't have friends."

"He doesn't talk?" now she was really curious about this mysterious Daryl.

Merle sighed in frustration.

"He talks. Just not much. I think you're gettin' the wrong idea. He ain't fuckin' Rainman or nothin'. He's just quiet and when he does talk, he usually says the wrong damn thing."

"So you're telling me that your 35 year old brother has never had a girlfriend?"

"That's what I'm tellin' ya."

"This hooker thing runs in the family huh?" Sinclaire crossed her arms, figuring that she'd gotten to the bottom of the matter.

"Nah," Merle laughed briefly. "Ya have to talk to them too, at least long enough to work out the business end."

Sinclaire digested that in silence for a moment. Her mental picture of Daryl morphed from a shorter, blonde version of Merle into something different. Now she saw him as average height but much more awkward, wearing glasses (granted Merle had never mentioned his brother wearing glasses, but her imagination tended to go overboard) lots of nervous gestures, probably a stutter, and also probably not good looking. No hot guy could possibly get through 35 years unscathed, whether he talked or not.

"Why all the interest in Daryl anyway?" Merle asked.

"I don't know. Symptom of being an only child I guess," Sinclaire shrugged.

"I wanna check out the medicine wing after all," he said. "Arm's killin' me."

"As long as you're not planning on doing something super redneck, like making meth in the back of the truck."

Merle snorted and they walked down the hall. Sinclaire was glad that the unit had completed her order about painting the windows black. They could use their flashlights without worrying about attracting any unwanted attention.

"Here we go," she said a few moments later, pushing a door open. "The crates are marked; I'm guessing that what you want is over there," she pointed to the medicine crates and he walked over.

"Holy shit! You people were really, really, hooked up."

"We were running supplies for a hospital," she reminded him. "Don't get crazy. I don't feel like ferrying you around high as a kite. I need an intelligent person to talk to."

He turned, surprised by that remark, but Sinclaire wasn't looking at him. She'd turned and begun digging though a box of first aid supplies. Intelligent wasn't a compliment tossed his way with any sort of frequency. He glanced into his bag at the small box of morphine vials and needles. There were 10 vials and the crate was jam packed with a shit load more. Enough to have put over half of Sinclaire's unit on its ass. In other words, more than enough to keep him real happy for a real long time. Maybe he'd add some more…"intelligent" damn it, that was nice to hear. Maybe just one more box. You never knew.

She concentrated on antiseptic and bandages, mostly so she could redress Merle's…well, not hand…arm? Wrist? Stump? Yep, there was no politically correct word there.

"You done?" she called.

"Yeah."

He answered from right behind her.

"Damn. You scared me," she breathed out.

"Sorry," he knew he didn't sound sorry, but that was because he really wasn't. He'd thought it was funny as hell to make her jump like that.

"Sure you are. Ready to face the masses? Or…" the idea occurred to her. "We could catch some sleep here. It's cooler than the truck is going to be with the sun coming up soon."

"How long you reckon it'll take to get to the CDC?"

"Not long. If there's not a lot of cars blocking the way," Sinclaire adjusted her statement as she stretched. "We're in the general vicinity. I'm just so damn tired…"

"I don't guess one more night'll hurt nothin'," Merle agreed. "You're the one drivin'. Where would we sleep at?"

"We set up cots in the rooms across from where we came in," she said, walking out and over to them.

"Be a hell of a lot more comfortable than the damn truck," he remarked, putting his backpack down.

"Damn straight," she grinned and said, "I'm going to go see if the water's still working."

"Ya'll got a shower?"

"No. But there's a sink and napkins. It'll have to do. Sorry," she added when his face fell. "If you want me to, I can wrap that," she gestured at his bandage, "in a plastic bag and you can wash up though."

"Might as well," he agreed.

He'd never been exactly what a person would call obsessively clean, but a week or two in the Georgia heat was enough to make anyone crave a good cold shower.

Sinclaire was pleased and surprised when the water worked readily. She washed up, sighing in pleasure as the cold water met her skin and dirt swirled down the sink drain. By the time she was done she'd managed what she felt like was a decent enough bath; she'd even washed her hair.

Merle was already lying on one of the cots when she walked in.

"I was right; it is better than the truck," he said. "But just barely."

"Well aren't you just Mister Sunshine?" Sinclaire smiled as she spoke. Being clean was such a wonderful feeling!

"Just honest," he answered.

Cravings were worse in the quiet. He could hear the wheels turning in his own brain and it was driving him crazy.

"Talk to me."

"About what?" Sinclaire stretched out, surprised by the request.

"I don't care. I'm…it's too fuckin' quiet in here. Maybe if you start yakking, I can go to sleep."

"Okay," Sinclaire wondered if he wanted his mind off the drugs she'd seen him put in his backpack. If so, she was happy to help. A sober redneck was a good redneck, especially when the redneck in question was fast enough to get her on the ground, literally one-handed. "Ask me a question and I'll answer it."

"Ya a spic?"

"What?"

"Ya got real pissed when I called Morales a wetback. Just wondered."

"No, I'm not. Racism bothers me, even when it's not against a race I belong to," she turned on her cot and squinted at him in the low light of the lamp he'd lit and put in the corner.

"Ya got dark hair, dark eyes…I thought maybe…" he trailed off.

"Nope. I'm Indian. Native American that is. Lenni Lenape tribe to be precise," she explained.

"No shit?" he was surprised.

"None whatsoever," she grinned. "If you want the specifics, it was actually my dad that was half Lenni Lenape. His mother was full. My mother was generalized American. German and Irish, a bit of English, some Cherokee I think…"

"Where's that tribe at? Not Cherokee, that other one."

"Lenni Lenape. Started in Delaware. New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, that area. Trail of Tears moved most to Oklahoma, but my dad's family came back to Pennsylvania later. That's where I'm from."

"Like a reservation?"

"No. Just a regular life in the 'burbs…mostly," Sinclaire cleared her throat. "What about you?"

"Nothin' I don't reckon. Never asked. Our old man was a drunk; our mama was dead by the time Daryl was ten," it had honestly never occurred to Merle to wonder. Being white and being American was enough for him to know. Now he kind of wondered. "Anyhow," he went on. "You and that guy…"

"Metzger," she replied flatly.

"Yeah. Ya'll was close?"

"Metz was my First Lieutenant. And…yeah, we got along. I guess I'd say we were friends."

"Ya took it weird that I killed him," Merle said. "Ya didn't seem…"

"You didn't kill the Metz I knew," Sinclaire rolled onto her back and sighed, trying to get her thoughts in order. "Metz was always joking, always laughing, he played practical jokes on all the new recruits…he was so sure everything would work out…"

"So that's how ya knew somethin' wasn't right?" Merle asked.

"Yeah. I guess he went crazy, being the only one left…"

"So ya really just cut out? Left 'em here?"

"Yeah," Sinclaire didn't elaborate.

"Hey, it's what I woulda done," Merle shrugged. "Why wait around for some jackass to fuck somethin' up and take everybody down with him right?"

"That was my train of thought," she admitted. "And I was…I was scared. No more orders, my men dying left and right, zombies showing up in waves that we couldn't drive all the way back; napalm rain, everybody was so scared. I…I just left."

"Nothin' else ya coulda done. And I'm kinda glad you're a deserter honestly. Who woulda unzipped me?"

"Yeah, that's an important consideration. Think you can go to sleep now?" she murmured sleepily into the darkness.

It was weird to hear a woman talk like that. He'd fucked his share of women, but he'd never spent the night with one. He preferred more of an "in and out" operation.

"Yeah I reckon so," he answered.

"All right. Night Merle."

"Night Sinclaire."

When Sinclaire woke up she felt a bit better; more ready to face loading the crates and tracking down the CDC anyway. Merle was still asleep; she noticed that he tended to stretch out to take up the whole cot. She slept the same way, filling all the available space. She was glad that they'd been sleeping separately, him in the front seat of the truck and her in the back; they'd get all in each other's space otherwise and that wasn't exactly something she wanted.

"Merle?"

"What?" he mumbled.

"Ready to hit the road?"

"Ready as I'm gonna be," he sat up and shrugged. "What's that?" he gestured toward her right hand.

"Zip tie. I'm going to lock the door from the outside. There's a lot of good stuff here. Maybe someone else can use it as a base or something."

Merle nodded and picked up his backpack.

"Then let's go," he said.

They walked back to the middle door and opened it cautiously. Sinclaire had parked at an angle so nothing could approach from the left once they were inside. The right was fairly clear; there were a few zombies in the general area, but the majority had shuffled toward the far end, back near the woods.

"Fast as we can then," she whispered.

He nodded and she stepped out, pulling the door up as he tossed both packs inside the truck. They'd organized the crates in order of priority like good soldiers. Water, ammo and weaponry, then food. The water crates went in without a hitch. Merle shot two zombies who approached Sinclaire's back as the ammo crate was loaded and that attracted the attention of the rest of the hoard.

"I want that food," Merle said flatly.

"Me too, but…"

"But nothin'," Merle pulled a grenade from his vest and yanked the pin with his teeth, then flung it into the crowd of zombies.

Sinclaire clapped her hands over her ears and prayed for the glass in the truck. She thought they were far enough away…they were. Before all the zombie parts had finished falling, Merle shoved the first food crate toward her and they lifted in unison, then grabbed the other. Merle followed it in and she quickly zip tied the doors shut.

"Move it along sweetheart," he called.

She glanced at the ground, littered with zombies who were dragging themselves toward her despite missing legs or arms.

"See Merle?" she called. "They've got the spirit!"

"Blow me!"

She jumped up and rolled the door down, giving him a grin as she cranked the vehicle and drove away.

"I'll pass. I don't know how much you'd like it anyway. I don't blow on a professional level."

Merle laughed. He was in a pretty good mood, all things considered. He was reasonably clean; they had food and a shit load of supplies, and they were on their way to get up with Daryl and, even though Sinclaire didn't know it, get vengeance on Rick and T-dog. It was a good morning, despite a smoky smell and feel in the air.