Merle was sitting in a darkened, ransacked apartment somewhere on the seedy side of Atlanta. He'd worked his way to this place after he left his hand on that rooftop downtown. This was an area he knew well. It was the part of town that people like Saint Rick averted their eyes from when they passed it. It was home to crack houses and meth labs. In the time before the turn, women, or more often girls, could be found on most corners, ready to sell their bodies for a quick fix. Where there weren't girls, there were dealers. Whatever illegal pleasure you wanted could be found in this part of town, all for the right price of course.
Now, this part of town was pretty much like every other place. The only people on the streets were already dead, still walking and hungry, but dead nonetheless. Merle knew, though, that if he could make it to this place, he could find what he needed. After that fiasco on the roof what he needed most was just to escape the pain and blood and fear for a while.
This was his former dealer's house and sure enough he hadn't been disappointed when he'd broken in. The guy's stash included a whole bag of that new blue ice that had become Merle's favorite. There were also a couple dozen hydros to help with the pain from his arm. He wasted no time in downing two of those before cleaning himself up and wrapping his stump in a reasonably clean looking towel held in place with duct tape.
That had been close to a week ago. He hadn't left the apartment in all that time. His arm was getting infected, he knew. Hell, it was what he'd expected after sawing through it with a rusty old hacksaw. He just couldn't seem to work up the energy to care. Of course, his apathy might have been caused by the continuous use of meth and pain killers. The thought at least crossed his mind. It just wasn't something he planned on doing anything about.
He'd barely eaten since before the rooftop incident and he was running out of shit to drink. It was amazing how fast you could go through six cases of beer. They'd been stacked up waiting for him in the dealer's pantry. He didn't remember drinking all that many but last time he checked there was only about a case left. Shit was gonna get real when the suds ran out. The thought of that made him laugh. Here he lay dying from sawing his own hand off in the middle of the apocalypse and he was worried about running out of beer.
Well, nothin' for it but to get his ass up and go out looking for some food and most importantly drink. A little whiskey would go well with those remaining hydros. He might just have one last big ole party for himself before the end, cause the end was comin' either from the infection that was creeping its way through his veins or from one of those sick bastards outside. A nice bottle of single malt to wash down the rest of those pain killers didn't sound like a bad way to go, all things considered.
He grabbed the pistol he'd pulled off a dead cop last week and went to check the street outside from the apartment's single window. The geeks were around but none too close. There was a liquor store and a Circle K up the block a ways. He was sure they'd been picked over but maybe there'd be something left. He didn't have the strength to go any further at this point.
He caught his reflection in the glass as he turned away from the window. Hell, he could pass for one of those geeks outside. He face was gaunt with dark rings circling his eyes. His lips were dry and peeling probably due to the fever he'd been spiking for the last few days. He was still wearing the same jeans, now covered in dried blood and reeking, he suddenly realized.
He made his way to the bedroom and found a pair of Skinny Pete's jeans which he swapped for the filthy ones he was wearing. He didn't expect them to fit but they slipped right on. Funny how not eating for almost a week had that effect on you. He also dragged a worn out Metallica t-shirt off a hanger and pulled it over his head and still bandaged arm. His boots were by the door and he slipped them on before once again picking up his pistol and carefully pulling the door open.
He slipped through in a crouch and rushed over to a parked truck to give him some cover from the walkers in the lot across the street. He stayed low, moving from car to car, and staying out of sight for half the block. With no geeks in sight, he finally stood and moved quickly across the street to the shelter of a rundown thrift store on the corner. From the front of the store, he scanned around the edge of the building and down the street. He could see the liquor store and only a handful of the walkers stood in his way. He stuck the gun in his waistband and pulled his hunting knife out of the sheath on his belt. He'd take these few out quiet and get into the store without attracting more attention.
He moved quickly. The first walking corpse went down fast and hard and he was instantly on the next one, driving the knife deep into its skull without hesitation. He was winded now. Normally he had much more stamina but this infection was sapping him. He'd have to take care of the other two quick or run out of steam.
He ran straight into the next one and knocked it to the dirty concrete before plunging the knife through an eye socket. By the time that was done, the last one was almost on top of him. He rolled to the side and pulled up just in the doorway of the liquor store. Thinking he could make it inside and close the door, he failed to look behind him and ended up having to jump through the door to avoid the rather long maggoty arm of the walker following him. He tried pushing the door closed but the last corpse standing was bigger and stronger than he bargained for. It pushed back and ended up throwing him backwards into a display of wine glasses.
Even from his disadvantaged position, he managed to get his knife thrust upward through the walker's mouth and into its brain. The ensuing cacophony of breaking glass as he knocked over the wine glasses, however, was like ringing the dinner bell to every walker within hearing distance. Before he had a chance to even look for another exit, he found himself face to face with three more moving in from the back room and several had begun walking towards him from the front of the store as well. He ran to the side and leaped over a counter giving himself a bit of separation from the clawing, biting geeks but he also boxed himself in. He had no way out now and only 8 bullets. Even if he could take these out with his gun, the sound of the gunfire was only gonna attract more of their friends.
Merle laughed hollowly to himself. "Well, all you dead sumbitches, looks like it's check out time for old Merle." He pulled the gun out of his waistband and took out the two walkers that were closest to him before holding the gun up to his own temple. He gritted his teeth and took a few deep breaths while staring straight ahead at the vomit inducing pack that was now within lunging distance. Then something inside him clicked. "Nah, I don't think I'll pussy out just yet. I won't make it that damn easy for you," and with those words he turned the pistol and fired the remaining six rounds at the walkers in front of him.
The gun was now useless so he threw it aside. Another four of the undead were pushing through the front door and he could hear shuffling from the back again. "I may be done but by god, I'm taking as many of you fuckers with me as I can," he promised them before leaping back over the counter and beginning his attack.
He took out three but he was waning fast. His stump was throbbing mercilessly. He knew the fever was on him again as well. The sweat rolled off his head and into his eyes as he continued the attack. Within minutes there were too many to keep track of. The moaning and shuffling was all he could hear. He kept stabbing and stabbing until he began to feel his legs going. Just as he began to slide to the ground, he heard the staccato pulse of an automatic weapon and watched as the walkers in front of him fell aside like blades of grass against a scythe.
Merle was fading. His stump had begun bleeding again through the towel. His fever was up and was causing him to shiver uncontrollably. These fellas that had just saved him were gonna think he'd been bit for sure and then he was most likely gonna eat a bullet.
He heard a few men talking and saw a very tall, muscular black dude reaching down to check him for bites.
"He's wearing a bandage of some kind," he heard the man say.
"Oh, to hell with it, just shoot him and get it over with, man. He's just gonna turn into another biter if we leave him," another said.
"No, " he whispered, "No, I ain't bit." He was trying as hard as he could but the words didn't seem to be making it past his lips.
He heard a pistol cocking and closed his eyes thinking, "Bye, baby brother. See you in hell." Then abruptly another, very authoritative voice broke in, "Stop, let's check him first."
The large black guy grabbed his towel bandage and jerked it quickly off Merle's arm causing him to yell and writhe in pain.
"Goddamn, his hand is …gone! What do you think happened? It looks pretty ugly. You think he got bit and amputated it?" the second guy asked. Merle was pretty sure he was a beaner.
The guy in charge stepped forward. He had a kind face and voice. Merle almost smiled at the sight of him. "Let's see what we can do to help this poor man. He's obviously been through hell."
The two other guys looked at him for a moment but they followed directions. He felt a clean bandage being wrapped around his arm and then the sting of a needle. After that he was in thankful oblivion for hours.
When he woke he was in a hospital bed in a clean room with an iv tube snaking into his arm. A woman in scrubs stood nearby writing something in a chart. "Hey," he croaked, "can I get a drink?"
She brought a cup of water with a straw over to him and held it close enough for him to take a long drink. "Got anything stronger?" he managed with a laugh.
"No, sir," the woman replied rather coldly, "we don't."
Well, whoop di fuckin' do, wasn't she just a peach, Merle thought to himself. He'd only been joking or at least half joking. He wouldn't turn down a drink right now if anyone was offering.
The woman walked out but Merle could hear bits of a conversation through the door. Then, the door opened and the man in charge, the one who saved him in the liquor store, walked in and sat next to the bed.
"You look like you're feelin' better," the man said with a smile. Merle nodded, "Yes, sir. I am."
"Well, that's just fine. Just want you to know you're safe in Woodbury, my town. We been takin' care of ya for a few days now. Your arm was pretty badly infected when we found ya," he told Merle.
"Yeah, I figured I was pretty much done for," Merle said, "Thank you."
"My people call me the Governor," he said rather bashfully, "It's silly, I know, but what can you do? What is your name if you don't mind me askin'?"
"Merle, Merle Dixon," he said sticking out his good arm for a handshake.
"Do you remember what happened to you? How you lost your hand?" the Governor continued as he quickly shook Merle's hand.
"Oh, I remember all right," Merle told him through his clenched jaw, "a backwoods Sheriff name of Rick Grimes handcuffed me to a roof in Atlanta. Left me to mercy of those walking corpses. I had to cut it off myself to get away from 'em."
The Governor seemed surprised but looked mournfully at the floor, shaking his head, "It is shameful the way people treat one another. It's now that we should be pullin' together to survive this horror. I am sorry for what you went through, Merle. I truly am. "
Merle wasn't used to such kindness. It made him uncomfortable but he was also grateful for what this man had done for him. "It ain't your place to be sorry, Governor. But I swear to you, if I ever see that fella again, I will make him sorry."
"It's good to know you're a man of strength and character, Merle. You're just the kind of man I need in this town, to help me build up our civilization again, to keep people safe. I hope you'll consider stayin' on here with us," the governor stated.
Merle didn't know what to say. No one had ever wanted him to stick around. It was usually the other way around. He was always getting kicked out of places. "I hadn't really thought about it, " Merle told him. Truth was he hadn't thought of anything much except killing that cocksucker Grimes since he's staggered off that roof.
"You think about it then. If we can help you find this man who so brutally tortured you, we'll be happy to. Someone that evil, well my personal opinion is that he doesn't deserve to live among decent people. Oh, and one more thing, the doctor tells me you've been on a lot of drugs and alcohol recently. Now, that's completely understandable given the horrific circumstances you were facin' but here in Woodbury, we don't allow illegal drugs. Drinkin' is allowed in moderation, o'course. We just want what's best for everyone, you understand," the governor told him.
Normally Merle would have laughed in the face of anyone who thought they could tell him what to do but not this time. Not only had this fellow promised he'd help hunt down Officer Friendly, he'd invited Merle to stay in town, become part of something good. He felt like he'd just been given a fatherly lecture although this guy was most likely the younger of the two of them. Something about the way he spoke put Merle at ease, made him feel important. "Sure," he said with a nod, "that's not a problem."
"Thank you, Merle. You know I have a feelin' you and I are gonna be workin' together when you're all healed up. I think you're just what we need on our team," the man told him with another big smile. "I'm gonna let you get some rest now but I'll check back in on you in a few days. You don't worry about anything but getting well."
Whether it was the drugs he'd been on or the loss of blood or just plain old gratitude to be alive, Merle felt a little lump in his throat. "Thank you, again, governor. I appreciate what you did for me. Not many people woulda taken me in, seeing the shape I was in," Merle confessed.
"We're just glad you're gon' be alright, Merle. Get yourself healed up. That's all the thanks I need," he said as he left the room and gently closed the door.
Merle Dixon was not the type to feel anything much besides anger, greed and lust. This situation with the governor was a new thing to him. The man had gone out of his way to help with no thought of his own personal risk. Merle was for damn sure he wouldn't have done the same if the situation were reversed. He really felt he owed the guy his life. For the first time in a very long while, maybe for the first time ever, he felt like there was some hope for the future. He had figured on skedaddling once his arm healed up. Dixons were loners, always had been. If this guy still wanted him to hang around and help out, though, Merle decided he'd stay and do whatever he could to repay them for saving his life. He lay back against the pillow and closed his eyes. Maybe, finally, Merle Dixon had caught a break.
The Governor walked out of Merle's room and down the hall to where Milton stood looking at a closed circuit TV monitor which showed Merle laying in bed staring at the ceiling.
"What's your opinion of the new man?" Milton asked. "Is he one for the pits or not?"
"You tell me your thoughts first," the governor said rather forcefully.
"Well, I think anyone who could chop off their own hand and survive has to be pretty tough. I think he could be an asset if he's handled properly," Milton offered.
"My thoughts exactly, my friend, You know he took out almost a dozen biters alone with just the one hand? Merle Dixon may be the pitbull I've been lookin' for to do some of the dirtier work around here," the governor said as he stared at the monitor intently. "Yep, just what I've been lookin for," he said with just a hint of an evil looking smile.
Milton backed a step away. This was a side of the man that Milton feared. It was someone that hadn't existed before Penny was bitten, back when he had been simply Phillip. But this, this was the Governor and no one questioned his authority or methods if he wanted to continue breathing. Milton felt a bit sorry for the gaunt faced survivor in the hospital bed down the hall. Merle Dixon had no idea what he was getting himself into, no idea at all.