Sinclaire glanced at Merle. He was drinking from a bottle of water and squinting into the late afternoon sun. They'd been on the road for almost a month now. Fort Benning had been a bust; there had been no one left alive. Just lots of zombies in fatigues.

They'd kept up with fuel easily; the car graveyard yielded plenty to refill the fuel barrels and Sinclaire generously allowed Merle to handle the siphoning so he could get a buzz. Careful rationing meant they still had food and water. She was thinking it was about time to set up a camp and try to stick out the coming winter in one place, but she didn't know how Merle would feel about that. They still hadn't found a trace of his brother or the others.

"Ready to head on?" he asked.

She nodded and got behind the wheel.

"Winter isn't far off," she said after a while.

"Ya wanna find somewhere to camp," Merle stated flatly.

"Damn. I thought this would be a big argument," she replied.

"I don't like the idea," he said. "But I don't like the idea of runnin' outta food neither. We might should find somewhere and get some huntin' done. We could live outta the truck I reckon. Be safer than tents or whatever."

"I agree with all that. What do you say we start looking for places that might work? We need a water source, woods, near a road in case we need to move on quick, fast, and in a hurry," she finished, borrowing one of his expressions.

"Yeah," Merle ran his hand over his head and sighed. "If I ain't got this then what the hell have I got?"

Sinclaire didn't really know how to answer. All the typical reasons for living life had died with the majority of the population. There was no money to earn, no way to show off accomplishments, no rank to aspire to, no women or men to impress. There wasn't even TV to dull the boredom.

"Come on," he went on when she was silent. "Act like a woman for once."

"Everything will be fine. You'll find Daryl and the world will be a better place again."

"All right, don't do that no more. Don't sound right comin' from ya."

She gave a quick laugh and Merle snorted in a half laugh of his own. They didn't fight nearly as much anymore, although they still went toe to toe when they did disagree. He couldn't say that he minded.

Another few days on the road yielded a good location. It had been bar and campground. Sinclaire thought it was an odd combination; Merle reminded her that this was the South and people with sense didn't camp far from their beer.

She looked at the rotting wood of the front porch and the sign that stated the name of the place, somewhat ominous under the circumstances, "The Last Chance."

"Well, on the plus side, it's got a good little stream," she said as they hiked around the area.

"Yeah. I wanna see if there's any of the good stuff in there too," Merle indicated the bar.

"I sure could use something a little stronger than water," Sinclaire admitted with a smile.

The interior of the bar was dusty and jumbled, but Sinclaire wasn't sure how much was apocalypse and how much was "ambiance."

"Boo-yah!" Merle whooped. "Look at this!"

Most of the liquor was still there. Sinclaire walked around behind the counter and raised her eyebrow at Merle.

"What can I get you?" she asked.

"Nah, ya gotta get a better accent. Ain't drinking liquor poured by a Yank," Merle drawled as he pulled up a stool.

"What can I getcha sugar?" Sinclaire put her hand on her hip and gave him a wide grin, twirling her hair around her finger. If she'd had gum she would have popped it.

"Jack Daniels, straight."

She rummaged and came up with an unopened bottle. She opened it and examined the shot glasses. They were just dusty so she poured a shot and slid it over to Merle. It didn't work the way it did in movies. About half the whiskey soaked into the wood of the bar top.

"Ya need practice," he said, before downing the whiskey left in the glass. "And you're accent's awful."

"Couple more of them, cowboy, and ya won't even notice," she informed him, knocking back her own shot.

"Nice, Yank," Merle said in approval. "Course I reckon that's the Injun in your blood."

Sinclaire laughed and poured another.

By the time she was nice and warm from the inside she and Merle were making grandiose plans for their new hideaway. There wasn't a sign that it had ever been touched by zombies and Merle had a plan about smoker barrels for meat…something he vaguely remembered Daryl talking about.

"Daryl must be a hell of a guy," Sinclaire said.

"Ah you're with the best Dixon brother right here," Merle threw his arm over her shoulder. "Daryl wouldn't have had a damn thing to say to ya for weeks."

"I wouldn't mind a little quiet," she teased.

"Yeah well…trust me…you like me better. We ever find him and you'll see."

"I like you just fine," Sinclaire admitted. "But hunting wise…"

"Fuck. I can fuckin' hunt! And Daryl woulda been up shit creek if he'd been the one on the roof. Can't shoot a crossbow one handed now can ya?"

"Guess not. Don't know for sure. I've never seen anyone use one," she admitted. "Not exactly standard military issue these days."

"Ya know what?" Merle glanced down at her. "You're drunk. You're talkin' all slow."

"You're hearing all slow," she argued. "I am not drunk."

"How the hell ya hear slow?" he laughed.

"I don't know…but you are. Because I'm not."

They both looked at the bottle of Jack and realized there was only about enough for two or three more shots.

"Maybe we're both drunk," she said. "We should go back to the truck. Of course, if I'm going to be eaten alive then this is the time to do it. I think it wouldn't hurt nearly as bad…"

"Ya think them things can get drunk?" Merle pondered on their stumbling walk back. "If they was to eat one of us right now, reckon they'd feel it?"

Sinclaire found the thought funny and giggled all the way back to the truck.

"I didn't expect ya to laugh like that," Merle said when they both lay down in the back.

"Like what?" she was still giggling.

"I don't know. All light soundin'. I ain't really ever heard ya sound happy."

"All it takes is half a bottle of Jack to cheer me up!"

Sinclaire closed her eyes and fell asleep almost immediately. The next morning her tune had changed. She woke up feeling like her mouth was stuffed with cotton balls and her brain had apparently been replaced with a drum.

"Mornin'," Merle called.

"Fuck you Merle Dixon."

He just laughed. Several bottles of water and some headache pills later, she was feeling better.

"I say we scout the area," she said after lunch. "I'll go one way, you go the other, we meet back here for dinner."

"All right. Take this," he handed her the gun. "Two shots if ya need me."

She nodded and headed into the woods. It was a nice day, not quite as sweltering as the weather had been. She walked for a while, examined the plant life and hoped for something that looked edible. She wished she'd paid more attention to that kind of thing. Her attention was caught by a shuffle to her right.

A glance over her shoulder confirmed one lone zombie. She'd forgotten her silencer. It was a little more worse for the wear than most, basically falling apart, so she just sprinted away.

She'd always liked running and these were pretty woods. She felt sweat trickle down her back and she easily jumped a fallen log…she realized her mistake when, rather than landing on flat ground, she encountered a steep grade.

"Oh fuck," she whispered, trying desperately not to lose her balance.

It didn't work; she'd built up too much momentum to stop and she ended up going over a steep embankment. That wouldn't have even been so bad if there hadn't been a human shape at the base of the drop.

She landed right on it, planning to grab her knife and deal with it before its slower reflexes realized what had happened. Instead her breath went out in a rough gasp as strong hands yanked her over, then dragged her back, pressing a long hunting knife to her throat.

"Not one of them!" she gasped out, involuntarily closing her eyes. "Not…don't…"

"God damn," a man's voice, low and Southern said.

"I'd normally be the first to compliment you on the extremely sharp edge of your blade," she went on, opening her eyes and to find herself staring at a scruffy guy who looked as shocked as she felt. "But it hurts."

He pulled the knife back, still staring at her in wordless surprise.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I was running and I jumped and the ground wasn't flat like I thought it would be…and I fell off that," she pointed up at the edge of the embankment over their heads.

"Ya landed on me," he said. It was an idiotic thing to say, but he was totally shocked. And…well…she was still catching her breath and every one pressed her breasts against the fabric of a tight black tank top. That was distracting.

"I know. I didn't do it on purpose."

"I didn't figure ya did. I…where'd ya come from?"

"Originally? Or just now?" Sinclaire was well aware that he hadn't moved.

He was still holding her to the ground and she couldn't catch her breath. At least he would think it was because of the running. It wasn't. It was the same fear that dominated her anytime she was in a situation like this…and something else. A weird lag in her defense system that made her aware his body over hers, his belt buckle pressing into her stomach, his leg between her thighs…

"Just now," he answered.

"Me and the guy I'm with are over there," she nodded up the embankment. "I was running from a zombie."

"Holy fuck! Is it comin' after ya?"

"No. I left it in the dust a while back. I got carried away. I haven't had a good long run in ages," she felt like an idiot.

"So you're just out for a run durin' an apocalypse? What kinda fuckin' moron is your husband?" he knew damn good and well that if she was in his keeping she'd never leave his sight.

"He's not my husband," Sinclaire said quickly. "And he's not a moron…exactly. You haven't told me who you are."

"Ya ain't told me who you are neither," he replied.

"Sinclaire Lewis."

"Daryl Dixon."

"What?"

"Daryl Dixon."

"Oh my God! Daryl the bow hunter? Daryl the socially awkward? Daryl the virgin?"

"What the fuck?" he knew he was staring at her with his mouth hanging open but…seriously, just what the fuck? Her face went as beet red as he could feel his going and she closed her eyes.

"Merle Dixon's brother?" she at last managed to ask a question that made sense.

"Yeah…what…how'd ya…what…"

"Merle is the moron who lets me run around during an apocalypse," she informed him.

Daryl scrambled backward, getting her out from underneath him as quick as he could.

"Merle's alive?"

"He is," Sinclaire sat up; Daryl had knelt in front of her.

The poor guy was still red faced. Why the hell had she babbled like that? Merle had to be wrong…there was no way that a man that hot was a virgin.

"Do you want to go see him?" she asked when he didn't move.

"Uh yeah. Sure. I don't know. I guess so."

"You guess so?" she stared at him in shock. "You guess so? We've been through hell to find you…I land on you…you "guess" you might take the time and trouble to see your brother?"

"It's complicated!" Daryl defended himself. "I don't know what he's told ya…"

"He said people in your group left him on a roof in Atlanta…"

"Yeah. And if I know my big brother he ain't back to hand out a big helpin' of forgiveness," Daryl rubbed his hand over his forehead.

"I figured there'd be some yelling," Sinclaire began.

"Yellin'?" he stared at her. "Yellin' won't cover it. He finds out where the camp is and Rick and T-dog will be lucky to die in their sleep."

"So what should I do?"

"I don't know," he sat with his back against the bank of the overhang she'd come sailing off of. "I ain't gonna let him hurt 'em."

"What about them hurting him?"

"Ain't likely. Rick ain't the type. Does Merle know we came back for him?"

"No. You really did?"

"Yeah! Me and Rick. T-dog and Glenn…we all went back. Some motherfucker stole our goddamn box truck…"

Sinclaire felt her face flood with color.

"That was me," she admitted.

"What the fuck?"

"I didn't know it belonged to anybody! I just knew it would carry my supplies. He would have tried to steal it if I hadn't. But Merle was pretty messed up. He said there were zombies after him…"

"What was after him?"

"Zombies…those things…"

"Oh. We call 'em Walkers," he explained. "And wasn't none of 'em anywhere around. Just a few in the lower levels…"

"Huh. Well, he was coming down off the cocaine and he was really dehydrated. Maybe he imagined them."

"Ain't that some shit? Imagined himself into choppin' off his own damn hand," Daryl shook his head and spat into the leaves at his left side.

"You know about his hand?" Sinclaire was surprised.

"Sure. Was the only part of my brother left on that roof."

"I'm sorry you had to find it like that," she wrinkled her nose.

"Hell, it ain't your fault. And I got to freak out a punk-ass gangster with it…so it kinda worked in my favor."

"You…I…did you…what?" she was baffled.

"It's a long story," he said. "Anyway, I don't know. Maybe ya oughta just go on back with Merle and…"

"And what? Daryl, he's not going to stop looking for you. That's what he's been doing this whole time! And furthermore, we're stopping for the winter here. We've got a base camp…"

"And a box truck."

"And a box truck," she agreed. "I'd like to know where you are…"

"What for?"

"Because I've dedicated the last month of my life to finding you!"

"Yeah, but you might tell Merle…"

"Of course I won't. I don't need any more blood on my hands. But…are you really going to avoid your brother forever?" when he frowned she went on quickly, "And anyway…hell and damnation! I've been stuck in a box truck with no one to talk to but Merle for a month! I need intellectual stimulation!"

Daryl looked at her. He figured she was sleeping with his brother. He knew that, if she was, she was the best looking woman Merle had ever managed to get. But why the hell was Merle chatting her up about Daryl's sex life? Or rather his lack of one. That was totally humiliating. But, goddamnit, he wanted to talk to her more. His words seemed to come out at least somewhat the way he wanted them to around her. Maybe that was because he figured she already knew every embarrassing thing there was to know about him.

"All right," he said after a long moment. "We've got a camp over there," he pointed in a westerly direction. "About 5 miles. Ya could drop by sometime. Maybe meet everybody…we could figure out something to do about Merle."

Sinclaire nodded and said, "We're up that way. Near The Last Chance. It's a bar," she explained when he gave her a confused look. "Still a good bit of the good stuff up there too. Maybe you could come have a drink sometime."

Daryl barked out a half laugh and stood up.

"Well…bye then," she said awkwardly. "It was…you know…it was nice to meet you."

"Yeah," Daryl adjusted the crossbow over his shoulder and nodded, looking away from her. "It was."

She started up the bank, gripping some roots and pulling herself up easily.

"Ya reckon ya gonna come by tomorrow?" he called.

"Sure thing bow-hunter," she sat, dangling her leg. "You want to meet here? Walk me over?"

She had long legs. They drew his eye to the rest of her. God what the hell was wrong with him? His brother had probably been all over that.

"Nah," he said gruffly. "I'll probably be huntin'. Just think ya oughta meet everybody else. I'll tell 'em to expect ya."

"Okay," Sinclaire stood again and waved. "Maybe I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Doubt it," Daryl strode off through the woods.

With a shrug, Sinclaire moved away in the opposite direction.

"Where the hell ya been?" Merle pointed at her when she walked up. "I figured ya for a goner."

He felt the knot of tension in his gut dissipate as she shrugged and grinned.

"Just walking, got a little turned around. I'm planning on going out again tomorrow. We need to scout thoroughly. I'll go west. You go east."

"All right, Yank," Merle shrugged and handed her an MRE. "Maybe one of us'll be able to scare up some meat."

"Hope so," she replied.