"Fuck off," Joan says from her tree. As nicknames go, it's not horrible, but she makes a point of hating all of them. Maybe they'll replace some of the worse ones.

Not that it really fucking matters with Merle.

She hears something rustling in the woods, something coming; it's a noise she would have ignored, years back, but now she's always primed for this kind of shit. That's the new human race, listening for snapping twigs like deer in the forest. Not that Merle would ever let himself be seen as a prey animal. No, she can see him now, ready to kill whatever came across them.

She hopes it's not someone who doesn't deserve it, but honestly, she's not interested in stopping him. It wouldn't be a good bet.

Joan climbs back down the tree and worms her way back into the car as quickly and efficiently as she can. She's got tree sap and pine needles on her shirt, but it's covering some of the blood and ash, so she'll take it. She throws the supplies-- jerky, tape, ammo, like she said-- in the back, and picks up her gun. She doesn't lean out of the car-- what a great way to get bit, wow-- but she does watch his back. Hopefully he'll be quick with it.

Like anything's ever that easy.