AN: This story requires a little explanation. It's a story that I've plotted and wanted to write for about a year now. It's a different take on Seasons 2 and 3 from the show. It's going to be following several "groups" or couples as they continue on from where they are to where they're going. (I don't want to give everything away.) It's a Caryl story because (spoiler alert) Carol and Daryl will end up being one of those couples. There will be other small groups, too. I tell you this so that you won't grow frustrated and so that you can make a decision about if you want to read the story. Caryl will not be the subject of every single chapter, but they will be the subject of their chapters.

I own nothing from the Walking Dead.

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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Scouting was either a grand success or a complete waste of time. There never seemed to be anything in between these days. It was either a case of hitting a jackpot and being able to load down the truck—and sometimes even mark a location to return to when the truck was emptied—or it was a case of coming up dry because everyone that had come through the area had picked it entirely clean.

This run had come a lot closer to being a total waste of Merle's time than it had to being a success. He could've told the Governor that it would be too—these were all small farms in a rural area and wouldn't offer much more than the few home goods he had stored away in the truck—but the Governor didn't ask his advice on that. Advice was Milton's job. Merle knew, though, that even if Milton knew his way around the quirky little lab that he'd built, he didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground when it came to real life shit.

Merle was the one that the Governor should've asked about this shit. Instead, he simply sent Merle out on runs.

The only time that the Governor asked Merle's advice was when it came down to who might be a problem for them. That was really what he saw Merle as good for—someone who could read people pretty damn well.

Merle could read people pretty damn well, but that didn't mean he hadn't made some sorry calls in his life. Of course, those sorry calls were probably why he'd learned to read people half as well as he could.

Still, Merle could've told the Governor that the farmhouses peppering the countryside weren't going to do much for increasing the items they had in storage. Each house offered up only the basics that someone would have on hand to last until the next time they made it to the store. A box of food out the cabinet that hadn't spoiled, a small box of toiletries, a trashbag or two of decent clothes, and a couple rolls of toilet paper was about all that Merle pulled out of any of the houses that fit the bill of what he'd come to gather.

The other reason for his week spent moving house to house was to look for people, but he hadn't seen a single one of those either. There were Walkers out the ass, but there wasn't anybody left alive out there. They'd moved on. More than likely the cars piled up on the highway belonged to the people who had lived in the humble houses that Merle had been picking clean. Those that hadn't made it out in time were still trapped in their homes—a few with bullet wounds they'd given themselves when they were still too dumb to know that brain destruction was the only way out—or they were wandering around the woods in the strange little packs that they seemed fond of forming while they searched for food.

Some places Merle got sent to weren't void of people, though, and that was how they built the population of Woodbury. It was also how they got information about other people that might be around. It was a new group of people—six in total—that had brought the information about the farmhouses and had suggested that there might be a population of survivors holding out there. The farms, after all, were some of the most self-sufficient locations around.

When Merle had searched every one of the farmhouses on his map except for one, he took the time to record the inventory that he had in the journal where he scratched such information, and then he drove on to the last house with the intention of spending the night there. When morning came, having cleared that house of anything it might offer up, Merle would head back to Woodbury. After a quick conversation with the Governor, he'd get his pick of anything he wanted off the truck as payment for his service and, more than likely, he would get his new orders.

The last farmhouse was smaller than most and tucked a great distance off any main road. Without the markings on the map done by their new arrivals, Merle never would've found it. It was, honestly, the kind of place that Merle would've liked to have had for himself before the world went belly up if he ever could have afforded such a place. He and his brother, he figured, could've lived very comfortably in a little house like that. It was a good distance away from neighbors, probably had a well all its own, and was in a prime location for hunting.

The farmhouse could've been a veritable Dixon paradise, but now it was just an abandoned little farmhouse and Merle was on his own.

Merle didn't like to think of himself as a man who held grudges. He didn't have the time or energy to keep track of every asshole who'd ever done him wrong in his whole life. If something bothered him badly enough, he usually broke the bastard's jaw or nose and called it even. But these days, he was carrying around a grudge and he knew it.

Officer Friendly had come riding his ass into town like he was some kind of superhero that was going to save them all from something that could very well be a Biblical plague for all that Merle knew. He had no sooner arrived than he thought he ought to be calling the shots. He ought to tell them all what to do and how to do it. He didn't even stop to ask if what the hell they'd already been doing was working for them well enough. Maybe they didn't all sing kumbaya around the campfire every night while they toasted marshmallows, but not even their tiffs had come to anything that had cost anyone life or limb.

Officer Friendly had no sooner gotten there than he very nearly cost Merle his life and he absolutely cost him a limb.

Like he was no damn better than a dog, Officer Friendly had left Merle handcuffed to a roof in the Georgia sun. He'd left him there without food and water and he'd left nothing between him and the Dead but a chain held by a deadlock—a chain that would eventually give way.

Directly or indirectly, Officer Friendly had left Merle to die and he'd cost him his hand to save himself from such a miserable death. Officer Friendly had also cost Merle his brother—the one damn thing he had left in the world and the only person he'd ever really had even before the Dead started walking.

Merle had looked everywhere for Daryl, but his little brother had disappeared, it seemed, from the face of the Earth. For all Merle knew, Officer Friendly had done away with him just because he didn't fit whatever image he had of the ideal citizen that was allowed to remain in his group. Daryl had probably been just another loose end that Officer Friendly had taken care of while he was preening the group to be just what the hell he wanted it to be.

Merle didn't like to think of himself as a man who held grudges, but he couldn't say he had a soft spot for Officer Friendly. And since he'd never gotten to work out his feelings by busting the man's jaw the way he might have wanted, he couldn't exactly swear that it they'd be sharing beans and cornbread together if they ever got a chance to meet again.

The little farmhouse could've been a good spot for the Dixon brothers, but now Merle was alone and Woodbury was just as good for him, on his own, as any place else.

Merle pulled a plastic tub off the back of the truck and carried it into the house. It had taken some work to learn how to carry things like that, especially once they were loaded down and heavy, with only one hand, but Merle had figured it out. As a result, he felt like he was three times as strong as he once had been. He only had one hand, but that didn't mean that there were too many men who dared to cross him.

He'd figured most things out, honestly, and he didn't miss his hand half as much as he'd thought he would in the beginning. That was what the hell Officer Friendly didn't know about Dixons—it was hard as hell to kill them, and even harder to keep them down if they were left with breath in their bodies.

Merle took the tub into the house and immediately started emptying contents from the cabinets into the tub. There wasn't much there. It had been pretty well picked over. Some beans and some canned vegetables were in there. There was more than enough tomato sauce for a few good pots of spaghetti, but there weren't any noodles. There was a bag of flour and half a bag of sugar. All in all, there wouldn't be much to add to his list from this house.

While he was working, Merle heard the floorboards upstairs creaking. He heard the shifting of the old flooring under the weight of feet. He ignored the sound and continued filling the plastic tub until he was sure that he'd gathered up anything and everything that the Governor might think was good for their storage.

It was a Walker. Merle was sure of it. The damned things got trapped in the houses a lot. It was upstairs, so chances were it had been there since the turn. When he got up there, Merle figured he would see some sorry son of a bitch with half his head blown off or something equally as depressing. Whoever it was, though, and however they'd died, they'd wait patiently for Merle to come and put them down or else they'd fall down the stairs trying to figure out how to get to something to eat.

Either way, Merle would take care of them in his time.

Merle didn't bother with the Walker until he came back in from getting his pack out of the truck. He wanted to sleep upstairs, in some nice bed, and he wanted to go through the bathroom cabinets up there. He wasn't going to be able to do that in peace until the dumbass Walker was put down and disposed of.

Sighing, Merle mounted the steps toward the upper level. The creature had grown quiet, which was unusual for them. Once they smelled something they wanted, they usually didn't back down. Merle figured it had probably wandered into something it couldn't get out of and was stuck somewhere—trapped in several levels of hell and infinite frustration.

When he got up there, though, Merle couldn't find the Walker. He knocked the bayonet cuff that he'd made to cover his stump against the wall. In response he heard nothing. Slowly, Merle walked room to room and pushed open doors on the upper levels. No Walkers popped out. Nothing moved.

Merle swallowed.

It wasn't a Walker, and now things just got trickier than they had been before.

"Come out," Merle said. "I know you up here. Best damn thing you can do is come on out now." There was no response. "I got a place. Safe. Food and people there. You come on out, don't cause no trouble, I'll take you back there." Merle laughed to himself. "You come out and jump at my ass? I ain't takin' you back, though. I'ma kill you right the hell where you are when I find you. Consider your ass warned."

The only response that Merle heard to his warning was a very light bumping around, but the sound was enough to let him know where the person he was now searching for was taking refuge. Merle walked toward the bedroom, dragging his bayonet prosthetic down the wall to warn the person that he was coming. He didn't care if they prepared for his arrival or not. If they tried to kill him, he wouldn't have to wonder what kind of person they were. He'd know exactly what he was dealing with and he was confident that he was fast enough to deal with them before they ever got a chance to try to kill him.

When he pushed open the bedroom door, he found the room empty. He closed the door back and turned the lock on the knob so that, if the person tried to run for it, they'd at least be slowed down. Merle went to the closet and slung open the door, but he found it empty.

He might've believed the room was empty and that his ears had tricked him, but he heard something brush the carpet and he turned in time to see the cloth that was hanging around the bed stir.

Merle swallowed back his laughter. Whoever this asshole was, they were hiding under the bed. Merle, suddenly, wasn't afraid of them at all.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Merle said, laughing to himself. He pulled his gun and held it in his hand, ready to fire if needed. He walked over to the bed and threw up the fabric so that it didn't hang to the floor. They didn't come out. They didn't reach for his feet.

Merle leaned down and got to his knees, keeping his gun in his hand if he should need to fire at them.

Putting his face to the floor and taking a chance, Merle glanced under the bed to see what he might find there, but he didn't expect what he saw.

Staring back at him was a little girl, as flat as she could be against the floor, with her mouth open and her eyes wide with fear.

But she wasn't just any little girl. The last time Merle had seen her, his brother had been offering the girl some hard candy that Merle had given him from a bag he snatched on a run.

Merle's stomach tightened, he almost didn't believe his eyes.

"Where the hell is everybody else?" Merle asked, surprised at the way his own voice sounded as it came out of his mouth.

The girl still looked at him, owl-eyed, the same way her mother looked at him whenever she was watching him to see what he might do or say. She recognized him, though. That was clear, because her features softened just a little when he spoke.

"I'm don't know," Sophia said quietly.

"What'cha mean you don't know?" Merle asked, not even caring that his face was pressed against the carpet and he was having a conversation with a kid stuck up under a bed.

"I'm alone," Sophia said.

Merle swallowed.

"Makes two of us," Merle responded. "Come the hell out from under there. I ain't gonna hurt'cha."