Merle grew more and more pleased with himself. He deliberately rolled his shoulder, letting the blade catch the sunlight and throw off a harsh glare.
Then he looked at Calista, his voice rising with theatrical exaggeration.
"See that? Huh? You all see it? This was personally designed by Calista herself for yours truly, Merle!"
He put extra emphasis on "personally."
"The boss drew the design, had Ancheta bring a team, and it took two whole days to hammer this out! Ain't it badass? I'm asking you, ain't it badass!"
Merle swung his new weapon around, making a few mock slashes. The blade cut through the air with sharp whistling sounds.
"Next time I run into those son-of-a-bitch walkers, I'm cracking their skulls open with this! Way better than using my hands! Hahaha!"
Calista stepped closer, a faint, helpless smile on her face as she shook her head.
"Merle, save your strength. You'll have plenty of chances to try it on the road. Ancheta said you still need to get used to its balance."
"Easy, boss! This thing feels like it grew right outta me!"
Merle thumped his chest. But when his eyes landed on Calista's face, something else flickered across that exaggerated, cocky expression.
At that moment, he was nowhere near as brash inside as he appeared.
When Calista first handed him the design sketch, he had almost thought it was some kind of cruel joke.
Back at quarry camp, what was he, Merle Dixon?
A useful thug and hunter. A disgusting but necessary nuisance. Disposable cannon fodder that could be sacrificed at any time.
Those people needed him and Daryl to hunt. They needed him to do the dirty work. But their eyes were always full of disdain, as if the grime on the Dixon brothers and the foul language spilling from their mouths would stain their pathetic illusion of "civilized society."
Did they ever thank the Dixon brothers for the game they brought back?
Bullshit.
They thought it was only natural.
Daryl busted his ass risking his life. What did he get in return?
A casual line like, "You guys can deal with these squirrels"?
To them, the Dixon brothers were just a couple of "redneck hicks," not even worth a simple "thank you."
He was used to it.
Truly used to it.
It had always been this way since he was a kid.
The Dixon brothers had a mother who lay in bed smoking and drinking all day, a father who beat his wife and son, and a place that could barely be called a house.
To Merle and Daryl, it was never a home. Just somewhere to stay.
Growing up like that, they learned to wrap themselves in a layer of roughness.
That way, other people's contempt and disgust couldn't hurt them. Instead, it became something they could use.
But this woman, Calista Norton, and the mercenaries under her command were different.
They were straightforward in style and ruthless in execution. Whether it was killing walkers or people, they were clean and decisive, never putting on a false front.
Their hands were just as bloody, and their language wasn't exactly polite either. But no one frowned just because Merle said "fuck."
At Rock Fortress, strength did the talking, and loyalty was rewarded.
And this mechanical arm was not charity, and it was not pity.
It was a weapon. A mark of trust. A symbol.
Calista had designed it for him herself.
She saw how his value had dropped after losing his arm, but instead of discarding him, she chose to make him stronger.
She saw Merle Dixon not just as a problem, but as a fighter worth investing in.
That realization hit his long-hardened heart without warning, burning so hot it left him almost at a loss.
So he covered it up with even more arrogance and foul-mouthed bravado, afraid that showing even a hint of weakness would shatter this hard-earned respect.
Merle strode up to Calista, waving his new arm, his voice still loud and crude.
"Boss, don't worry. I'll use this beauty to carve us a bloody path! Any blind bastard who gets in our way, I'll rip his guts right out!"
But as he turned toward the vehicle and passed by her, he paused for the briefest moment.
With that cold metal arm, he lightly, almost imperceptibly, brushed against Calista's arm.
It was not something Merle Dixon would normally do.
There was no provocation, no lewdness. It felt more like a clumsy, instinctive gesture of goodwill and thanks, like something from a wild animal.
So quick it was almost unreal.
Then he immediately went back to normal, shouting at Carver.
"Hey, pretty boy! Quit dragging your feet and get in the car! I can't wait to smash a few walker skulls with this thing!"
Merle yanked open the door, climbed into the back seat, and kept loudly bragging about his new weapon, as if that fleeting moment had never happened.
But the people outside the car, Leah, Carver, and especially Calista, all caught it.
Leah let out a cold snort, though she found Merle just a bit more tolerable now.
Carver glanced at Merle in silence, said nothing, then slammed the trunk shut and let out a faint chuckle.
Calista watched the one-armed man still shouting inside the car, a knowing smile flickering in her eyes.
This bastard, more than anyone, craved a sense of belonging.
"Everyone ready?" Calista's gaze swept across her team, lingering for a second longer on Merle and Lorenzo.
"Ready!"
"Good to go!"
"Hurry it up, I can't wait!"
"Move out!"
...
On Highway 75 in Tennessee, the convoy headed south.
In the lead vehicle, Mike held the wheel with one hand while the other rested casually on the window. The half-smoked cigarette between his fingers had a long trail of ash.
"The temperature's gone up another two degrees," Bossie said from the passenger seat without looking up. "This isn't normal. It shouldn't be this hot in November."
Turner, in the back seat, snorted.
"Come on. The world's already ended and you're still expecting normal weather? Besides, we're heading south. Of course it's getting hotter."
Danny, sitting on the other side, said nothing and kept fiddling with the pile of communication equipment.
Lorenzo, sitting between them, seemed completely out of place.
His long fingers tapped rhythmically against his knee as he hummed under his breath.
"So this is the famous Route 75?" His Italian accent carried a distinct foreign lilt. "Looks even more run-down than in the photos."
No one responded.
In the second Humvee, the atmosphere was more relaxed.
Carver focused on driving, his thick arms steady on the wheel.
Leah sat in the passenger seat, one arm resting against the window, the other absentmindedly rubbing the grip of the pistol at her waist as she looked out at the passing scenery.