Merrick shook his head in disapproval as he listened to Buckle's plan - or lack thereof - to attempt a conversation with the supposed witches. Ignoring the fact that Buckle did not seem to be the best person to negotiate with anyone, there was also the dangers inherent with dealing with anyone accused of being a witch. Even if they were just normal people, they would most likely either be dangerously crazy or pushed so far back into a corner that they would do anything to ensure their survival. The best analogy Merrick could think of was an animal caught in a snare, something which he had experienced several times in the outback of Australia. Even the tamest of critters would suddenly become ferocious monsters when faced with imminent death.
Still feeling slightly skeptical about the paranormal nature of the happenings around the town, Merrick decided against going with Buckle to deal with the witches. Chances were that they were simply Native Americans performing rituals unknown to the people of Paradise, and were thus condemned as witches. Merrick had enough close brushes with natives to know that he threaded a very fine line when dealing with them; all it would take would be one simple mention of his presence at Wounded Knee and negotiations would quickly go downhill. He did, however, feel slightly reassured when he heard that Gavril would be going along with Buckle. The red-eyed man definitely seemed odd to Merrick, but he sounded well-spoken, polite and more importantly, it looked like he knew his stuff.
"Good luck,." Merrick said to the two men with a nod as he followed the rest out of the church to deal with what the sheriff and preacher called 'zombies'. They were probably just vagrants being too aggressive in looking for food, shelter and money, Merrick guessed, but he was willing to be surprised. He had heard of strange rituals in islands and territories to the far south of the Americas which allowed shamans and witch doctors to bring the dead back to life. They were, however, just stories as far as Merrick was concerned.
They did not have to walk far before the crack of a gunshot shattered the night's silence. Immediately, Merrick pulled his rifle off his shoulder and held it at a low-ready. The group continued to advance towards the graveyard; whoever had fired the shot had obviously not aimed it at them, or they were an incredibly poor shot. Not a few seconds later, there was a second shot, then a third and a fourth. By then, it was clear to Merrick that someone was in trouble, and they were directly ahead of the group. "Let me take a look," Merrick said and moved to the front of the group. He had experience fighting in low-light conditions; in the army, nights and dawns were the only times when it was safe for he and the other scouts to do any sort of reconnaissance. Any other time and they would have been picked off by the natives.
He scanned the area ahead of him as he walked, and then he saw the graveyard. Tombstones in various states of disrepair lined the squarish plot of land, but what caught Merrick's eye was the bustle of activity around a particularly large monument. There was a person - a girl, if Merrick's guess was correct - standing on top of it with a crowd clawing just inches from her feet. It did not take a genius to know that the person was in a heap of trouble, and zombies or not, the group was going to act fast if the person was to escape unscathed. "Someone's in trouble!" Merrick shouted out and dropped to a knee, shouldering his rifle.
He opened fire on the first target he saw. The Snider-Enfield kicked hard against his shoulder as the huge .577 shot cleared the muzzle. It flew straight and true, striking his target in the arm. The target staggered from the shot, but then continued moving as though nothing had happened. That certainly came to a surprise to Merrick; the .577 was not known for its killing power, sure, but it definitely inflicted wounds severe enough to stop anyone in their tracks. It easily tore limbs from bodies, and whatever skepticism Merrick had about the paranormal vanished quickly. Anything that walked on two legs and could withstand the might of a Snider-Enfield was most definitely not human.
He unlatched the breechblock and swung it open, pulling it back to extract the shell as he did so. His left hand reached for his cartridge box to grab a new bullet while with his right, he flicked the rifle to the side to discard the used shell. Then, he returned the rifle to his shoulder, loaded a new bullet and closed and locked the breech. He took aim at the same target, but this time, he made sure to aim for the head. Whatever it was, Merrick was almost certain that it would at the very least be severely impeded by the lack of a head. Having fired at moving targets while being on a galloping horse himself, this was almost child's play. He pulled the trigger, the rifle's report echoed through the desert and a split second later, his target's head exploded.