The relentless cold weighed heavily on every resident of Rock Fortress.
Basic food and shelter were not a problem, but anything warmer or more comfortable required extra credits. The newcomers each had their own skills, so they had earned quite a few credits.
That had started to draw quiet complaints from some people.
This undercurrent was most obvious among the worker prisoners Calista had rescued from Lorenzo's weapons production line.
They saw themselves as the base's "veteran" labor force, people who had taken part in building Blackberry Ranch.
Although they were grateful to Calista and the others for saving their lives, under the daily pressure of bitter cold and rationed supplies, a subtle resentment began to grow.
One night, in a corner of a newly built communal dormitory at Blackberry Ranch, three people sat around a wood-burning brazier and spoke in low voices.
"Damn it, when is this miserable life gonna end?" a man named Jack muttered, rubbing his hands red from the cold. "We spend all day breaking our backs cleaning sheep pens, then come back at night and have to squeeze into this crappy dorm!"
A thinner man beside him sighed and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Keep it down, Jack. Being alive is already better than nothing. Besides, we've got it much better than the survivors outside."
"Alive?" Jack gave a derisive snort, lowering his voice even further, though the anger in it only grew. He avoided talking about how people in other survivor camps were living and only wanted to complain.
"Look at those newcomers!
That old guy from the library, and that family with the sick kid!
What have they even done?
Why should they get to take our food and use up our already limited fuel the moment they arrive?"
Brian, the gaunt-faced man who had once tried to guilt-trip everyone when Calista first announced the credit system, only to have credits deducted instead, joined in indignantly. "Exactly!
Whether we take people in, and how many, is a huge decision. Shouldn't everyone get to discuss it?
But now? Those few people at the top decide everything!
They've got guns, so whatever they say goes!
There's no democracy at all!
We work ourselves half to death earning credits, and with a few words, they decide to hand the fruits of our labor to outsiders!"
The man with glasses hesitated, then said quietly, "But... didn't that plumber fix the water pipes? And that teacher is teaching the children.
Besides, the base actually has a lot of supplies. Those search teams keep bringing fuel back too..."
"What the hell is that worth?" Jack cut him off harshly. "Can fixing pipes fill your stomach? Can you burn it for firewood?
Teaching kids? In this world, can reading kill walkers?
I think the leader's just gone soft! Women are always too soft-hearted..."
The argument was bitter and twisted, but under the pressure of severe resource shortages, it easily found ground to take root.
They believed they were the ones being ignored and deprived, that power and resources were concentrated in the hands of a small group of "armed elites" centered around Calista, while the newcomers were taking a share of their already limited resources.
By then, the man with glasses had stopped talking.
A while later, he found an excuse to leave and squeezed into another dorm with the others.
Only Brian and Jack remained in the room.
With Brian deliberately egging him on, Jack grew angrier the more he talked and decided to secure a little "benefit" for himself.
Resentment spread like mold, silently creeping through the cold darkness.
...
That evening, Merle returned to the base with the squad.
They had been lucky that day. In the back lot of a remote auto repair shop, they found more than a dozen forgotten barrels of antifreeze and a small amount of sealed motor oil.
It eased some of the pressure on the base's vehicles and certain pieces of equipment.
According to the rules, all recovered supplies had to be registered together, stored, and then distributed.
Jonathan and Carver were called away by Maya as soon as they returned, leaving Merle, Daryl, and a few other team members to handle the storage.
With a cigar he had found somewhere clenched between his teeth, Merle easily carried a barrel of motor oil with his one arm and swaggered toward the warehouse area at Blackberry Ranch.
All weapons, medicine, equipment, and other key supplies were registered and stored at Rock Fortress. Food and other daily necessities were partly kept at Rock Fortress, while most of the rest was still stored at Blackberry Ranch.
Merle was too lazy to line up like Daryl and wait for the Blackberry Ranch warehouse keeper to count the supplies. Instead, he circled around to the side of the warehouse, near a ventilation window that was now half-blocked by snow.
He wanted to find a place to set the stuff down first, then light the cigar when he had a chance.
Tobacco was precious, listed among the high-credit exchange items, so smoking it openly was not exactly appropriate. But he always had ways to sneak a couple of puffs somewhere out of the wind.
Just as Merle approached the window, his eyes narrowed sharply.
A faint rustling came from inside the warehouse, different from the usual sounds of supplies being moved.
He stopped in the shadows, held his breath, and listened.
"...Damn it, only this much..." A man's voice, kept extremely low and warped slightly by nerves, drifted out faintly.
A cruel smile tugged at the corner of Merle's mouth.
After decades scraping by at the bottom, he had an almost instinctive sharpness for the dirty little schemes people hid in corners.
He knew that sound. It was the nervous, greedy tone thieves had right before they got their hands on something, or while they were doing something rotten.
Merle did not alert the person inside. Instead, he moved silently toward the warehouse door, leaned behind a stack of wooden crates, and took the cigar from his mouth before tucking it into his pocket.
After a while, one of the warehouse's small side doors was pushed open a crack. A figure slipped out sneakily, something bulging under his clothes as he looked around in alarm.
In the fading evening light, Merle saw the man's face clearly.
Jack.
Jack thought no one had noticed him. After making sure no one was around, he hurried off toward the dormitory area.
"Hey, buddy." A mocking voice suddenly sounded behind him.
Jack went stiff all over. He whipped around and saw Merle stepping out of the shadows, grinning at him with a chilling look.
"M-Mr. Merle..." Jack's voice shook so badly it almost fell apart, and the things in his arms nearly dropped.
A few compressed biscuits, a pack of cigarettes, and a bundle of tinder wrapped in oil paper, clearly stolen and hidden away.
Merle strolled forward and used the axe blade on his right arm to easily lift aside the coat Jack was trying to use as cover, exposing the stolen goods underneath.
"Well, well," he clicked his tongue. "Pretty quick with your hands, huh, Jack? What, the cafeteria rations not enough to feed a stupid mule like you? Or did you think the warehouse belonged to your family?"
"I, I..." Jack's face went ashen, and cold sweat instantly soaked through his undershirt.
The people on the field teams had either been mercenaries or soldiers before the apocalypse, and after the world ended, they spent every day scouting, patrolling, and searching for supplies. Not one of them was easy to mess with.
Jack knew Merle's vicious reputation all too well. If he fell into Merle's hands, nothing good would come of it.
"Come on," Merle said, giving him a shove that was neither light nor heavy, enough to send Jack stumbling.
His tone was casual, as if he were inviting a friend out for a drink. "I'll take you to meet someone who can keep you fed."
...
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