The kid was walking the fence line holding a pistol equipped with a silencer. The length of the whole barrel went past his knees. He wasn't taking it lightly either. He had a look of steel in his eyes as he passed the moaning walkers just outside the fence. Hell, the boy couldn't have been more than 11 or 12 and he was already like this. What was he going to be like in another ten years, Merle wondered? That was if he made it that long. There were no guarantees for anyone anymore, not that there ever really had been.
Merle laughed a bit to himself thinking that Saint Rick might be in for a spot of trouble from that boy one of these days. He was growing up too fast, having to face things kids shouldn't have to face. Daryl told him about the boy having to shoot his own Mama right after his baby sister was born. Life didn't get much meaner than that.
Merle Dixon was a bit of an expert when it came to the meanness of life. He'd been both a giver and a receiver when it came to hard knocks. He could teach that kid a thing or two if they'd let him. Rick would never allow something like that though. They all considered Merle a redneck low life. It wasn't anything new. In fact, it was the story of his life.
The funny thing was that they'd taken Daryl under their wings like some little baby chick. They were protecting Daryl, even trying to protect him from his own big brother. He was surprised at how much his little brother had changed as well. He didn't want to go it alone anymore, just the two of them against the world the way it always had been. He said they needed these people. That'd be the day. He didn't need anybody, never had, never would.
People other than Daryl were divided into two categories, those he could take from, and those who would take from him if given a chance. He'd learned long ago to distinguish which ones were dangerous and how to stay on his guard when he encountered them. These people at the prison were mostly all people he could take from. Rick was an exception but his ideals got in the way of his meaner nature. That little guy Glenn was probably more dangerous than Rick right now because of what had happened with the Governor. Glenn was jonesing to avenge his woman and that made him more volatile.
Merle kept one eye on the Chinaman whenever their paths crossed. And then of course, there was Michonne. There was nothin' soft about that woman. They had been circling each other like two wolves ever since they've first met. He was just waiting to see who was gonna get first blood.
The rest of them were sheep. One mean old wolf like himself could wipe them out, especially now that he'd been let inside the fence. He really wouldn't have cared what happened to them except for the fact that Daryl seemed to care an awful lot. Daryl always had been the softie in the family.
Merle could remember back to when they were kids. He was ten years older than Daryl. Their Daddy had left Merle's mama when the boy was only two. The old man had gone through a few other women before settling down with Daryl's mom. Merle was nine when his mama died from a stroke, at least that's what they told him. As he'd gotten older, he realized she'd probably died due to her alcohol and drug habits.
That's when they sent him to live with his Daddy. By then his old man was shacked up with Wanda in a dilapidated trailer and she was pregnant with Darryl. He'd never really known the man before so at first he'd been excited by the idea of having a father. It didn't take long for that to fade. The man was a drunk, a mean drunk and he liked to use his fists to make a point. Wanda did her best to protect the boy for a while. She really had been a pretty decent woman despite her dirt poor raising and little in the way of education.
After Daryl was born, their Dad left for a while. Wanda kept Merle, did her best to keep him fed and clothed for over a year while his Dad whored around down in Florida somewhere. When his new girlfriend got tired of supporting his lazy ass, she'd put him in the road, and he'd come back home to Wanda, Merle and baby Daryl.
Almost immediately, he'd started back to beating both Merle and Wanda. At first, he didn't do much more than yell at Daryl who was still less than two years old. Sometimes it made Merle so angry that his brother was spared the beatings that he had to endure. Sometimes he hated the little shit. Other times, Daryl was all that he cared anything about. Daryl was his blood, his brother. The only real family he could claim other than the father that hated them both.
It didn't take long before Daryl was getting his share of abuse. He could remember nights when their father would pick the little boy up and throw him across the trailer, leaving him in a bruised, crying heap wherever he landed. By that time, Wanda was so beat down, she rarely even spoke anymore. She drank cheap wine from stained plastic cups all day every day. It numbed her to the violence they all had to suffer through. She gave up trying to protect the boys or herself.
By the time Merle was 15, he was almost as tall as the old man. He'd grown up working outside, chopping wood, hunting and working on his dirt bike. He wasn't skinny and pimply faced like the other kids in school. His chest and arms were thick and strong. His stomach was hard as rock and ridged with muscles like a washboard. He stayed gone from home a lot, spent a lot of time smoking pot and drinking with a bunch of older kids.
It was the only way to escape the hell that his home had become.
One night in early Fall only a few weeks before Merle's sixteenth birthday, he came home late, really late. He looked at the clock on the stove as he tiptoed in the trailer door. It was almost 3 am. His old man was passed out on the couch, snoring. Wanda sat in a rocking chair across from him. Her left eye was ringed with purple and swollen nearly shut. She just glanced at him as she sipped her wine from a plastic Burger King cup without saying a word.
Merle continued down the hall. He shared a room with Daryl. There were only two tiny bedrooms in the trailer so there were no other options. He slipped off his boots and dropped his jeans to the floor around his feet. As he got near the bunk bed he shared with his little brother, he noticed the boy wasn't in the upper bunk. He checked under the bottom bunk but found nothing. He walked back down the hall and into the other bedroom, checking the bed and closet but still found nothing. He was beginning to get a little scared. What if the son of a bitch had really hurt Daryl this time, maybe killed him? Daryl was only five.
He went back to his room and pulled his jeans back on. He walked to the back door of the trailer. There were no stairs from the door to the ground, just an old five gallon plastic bucket placed under the doorway to serve as a step. He whispered, "Daryl? Daryl, you out here?" There was no reply.
He walked gingerly around on the bare red clay of their yard trying his best to avoid the broken beer and wine bottles scattered around. He couldn't see much in the darkness but he noticed that Jack, their bulldog, was sitting outside his dog house whining. Merle walked over and patted the dog on the head. Jack stuck his nose inside the unpainted plywood house that the two boys had built him over the past summer.
Merle bent down and looked inside the dog house. Daryl was curled into a ball in the back corner. He was wearing only his Batman underoos and he was sucking his thumb. He'd told that boy that only pussies sucked their thumbs but Daryl always just said, "I ain't no pussy, Merle." Yeah, he'd taught that kid not to take shit off nobody.
He reached in and touched Daryl's leg, "Hey, wake up little brother." Daryl woke instantly and jerked back as if shocked, bunching himself even further into the corner.
"Hey, man, it's Merle. Come on. I ain't gonna hurt ya."
Daryl leaned forward slightly, taking the thumb from his mouth. "Merle?" he asked.
"Yeah, dummy. Come on. You gonna get eat up by fleas and redbugs out here. Come on back inside."
"Is… is he gone?" the younger boy stammered as he crawled through the tiny door of the dog house. Merle could tell now that his lip was busted and bleeding. It hurt him to see his baby brother like that.
"Naw, but he's passed out cold. We won't hear a peep out of him till tomorrow. I'll take you off somewhere in the mornin'. We'll stay out of his way."
"Okay," Daryl answered and began walking toward the back door of the trailer. As the boy walked in front of him, Merle saw the marks on his back. They were the exact width of their father's belt and they covered the boy's back in angry, red, raised marks. There was blood seeping out in some spots.
"Hold up," he told his brother, "He do this to your back tonight?"
Daryl nodded. He started to cry a little as he told his big brother, "I didn't do nothin', Merle. I was just watching cartoons when he come in and he started hollerin'. He hit Mama a bunch and then he called me a little bastard. He slapped me and when I cried he told me he'd give me something to cry about."
Merle stooped down to look right in Daryl's eyes. "Don't you cry, boy. Don't you never let that man see you cry. You hear me. If he thinks you're weak, he'll just hit you harder. You man up. Dixons don't cry. Now, come on, let's go to bed."
Daryl walked behind his big brother and pulled himself up into the trailer door when they reached it. His feet were covered in mud and his face was streaked with tears and snot. He took it all right into bed with him and fell asleep within minutes of climbing into the upper bunk, his thumb stuck firmly back in his mouth.
Merle wasn't able to fall asleep. He lay staring at the bottom of the bunk above him, thinking of the little boy sleeping up there, remembering when he'd first moved in with his Dad. He had been nearly ten and he could still remember how much it hurt when that big calloused hand connected with your face. Daryl was only five.
He lay with fists and jaw clenched for the rest of the night. The thought of putting a stop to his father's violence had long been in his mind. Whenever he faced the wrath of the drunken man, the thought would spark, fueled by his own anger and resentment. The spark was usually quickly quelled by Merle's fear of his father. Tonight, though, the spark grew into a blaze in his mind. He figured he might have to kill the old man in order to stop him but he had decided that it was worth whatever consequences would follow.
The next morning early Merle woke Daryl up early, made him get dressed and took him down the road to an old neighbor lady who had sometimes given them food when they'd been locked out of the trailer. He asked her to watch the boy until he got back. She agreed and seemed almost scared of Merle. He kind of liked how that felt.
He walked back up the road to the trailer. Wanda had gone to bed. His father still lay on the couch. Merle slammed the door hard enough to rattle the entire trailer. The noise startled the sleeping man and he sat up abruptly, "What the hell! Boy, what do you think you're doin'? Goddammit! Get the fuck out of here and let me sleep."
Merle walked over to where his father sat. "No, sir. I don't think so. Not today."
His father straightened himself up on the couch, "What did you say to me, you little prick?"
Merle swallowed hard and planted his feet, "I said, no, sir. I ain't leaving. Me and you are fixin' to have a talk."
His father stood then. He was a giant man, both in height and width. His face was blotchy and swollen and his eyes were bloodshot. Despite Merle's sturdy frame, he still felt small next to this man.
"I reckon you're looking to get your ass kicked early this mornin'," he yelled from within an inch of Merle's nose.
"I don't want to fight you," Merle said quietly, still not able to look in his father's eyes, "but I will if I have to."
"By god, you ain't gonna sass me and get away with it."
Merle took a step back and he could see his old man smirking. He thought Merle was backing down. The smirk quickly disappeared when Merle stopped and finally looked directly up into his father's face.
"I want you to stop hittin' Daryl. He's too little. He ain't able to take it like I was," Merle told him.
"Oh, he been crybabyin' to you about takin' his medicine when he deserves it? I always knew you was both nothin' but little girls," his father spat at him.
"No, sir. He ain't been whinin' about it but he was pretty beat up last night. If you keep on, you're gonna kill him and I ain't gon let that happen," Merle said with a hint of steel to his voice.
"YOU ain't gon let it happen and who the fuck are you? You ain't nothin', boy. You ain't shit. What the hell you gonna do about it? You gonna call the law. I know how to handle the law. They ain't gonna believe some teenage delinquent's story no how," the old man said as he advanced toward Merle.
"I wasn't planning on calling the law. If you won't stop, then I plan on stoppin' you," he said.
His father laughed out loud, bending over and holding his belly. The laugh turned into a deep, hoarse cough before he looked back up into the eyes of his son. "You gonna stop me? That'll be the day! You ain't nothin' but a worthless little son of a bitch that was dropped on my steps a few years ago. Hell, I ain't even sure you're mine. You ain't got nothin' to tell me boy. Nothin!" and he swung to punctuate his last word, hitting Merle squarely on the chin.
Merle stumbled backward a bit before regaining his footing. His head swam. The old man could pack a wallop even when he was hung over. He charged back toward his father, swinging for the man's face as he drove his head into his midsection.
His father fell back against the couch, pulling Merle with him. They wrestled on the couch, each getting in solid blows. Merle's lip was already bleeding and his knuckles felt bruised and swollen. His father outweighed him by at least fifty pounds and it was wearing on him trying to keep the man down. Suddenly, an explosive kick came from underneath and punched into his gut propelling him off the couch and across the room where he was stopped by the edge of the kitchen counter.
He saw stars for a moment and tried desperately to catch his breath. Something in his ribcage was grating and moving as he breathed. The pain was unbelievable. His father was grinning and stomping across the floor towards him, cursing as he came. "Goddamn little bastard. Think you're gonna come in MY house and tell me what I can and can't do. Let's just see about that."
Merle knew he was running out of time. He'd never seen his father so mad. He couldn't fight him now. He was pretty sure he'd broke some ribs. As his father advanced, he scrambled backwards reaching along the counter for something, anything that he could use as a weapon. He threw a coffee cup and a pot but that barely even slowed him down.
Just as his father reached down and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, Merle's hand closed over a knife.
It wasn't a big knife, just a small serrated steak knife, but it had a sharp point. Merle wished he had his big Buck knife right then. He could slit the old man from stern to stem with that thing. Right now, he had to settle for stabbing him. Merle was aiming for the big man's chest but his father moved aside at the last moment taking the blade in his left arm instead. He jerked back yowling in pain and grabbing at the handle of the knife protruding from his arm.
"What the fuck! What the fuck, you stupid son of a bitch. You stabbed me!" his old man yelled as Merle pulled himself up to stand beside the counter. "That's it, you bastard. You're gonna pay for this."
Merle had reached back and grabbed the black cast iron skillet from the stove as his father cursed and removed the steak knife from his arm. As the man approached him, Merle swung and made contact with his father's head, the force of the blow leaving a ringing noise resounding in the small kitchen of the trailer.
His father dropped to the floor like a rock. Merle looked around to see Wanda standing in the door to the bedroom with her eyes huge and her hands covering her mouth. She stepped forward cautiously toward the unconscious man. She kneeled down and put her hand to his bloody forehead. "Is he dead? Merle, did you kill him?" Wanda asked.
Merle could feel his insides shaking at the prospect. Had he just killed his own father? "I don't know. He was…he was gonna kill me. I had to do somethin'. You saw that, didn't you? He was comin' at me."
Wanda leaned her head down to within a fraction of an inch of the man's nose and turned her ear to listen for breath. She stayed that way for a bit, leaving Merle in suspense. She sat back and looked up at the boy. "He's still breathin" she whispered.
Merle dropped down into a squat, drawing a shaky breath. His hands went to the back of his head, pulling himself into semi-fetal position. He would not cry, no matter what happened.
He was still looking at his own shoelaces and trying to hold it together when he felt Wanda's hand on his back, "Son, you've got to get out of here. Your Daddy ain't dead but when he wakes up, he's gonna make you wish you'd killed him. You've gotta go Merle. If you stay here, one of you is gonna end up dead."
Merle looked up at her. "What about Darryl? he asked.
"I'll do my best to protect him Merle. He's tougher than you think. He learned from you. It's gonna be worse for all of us if you don't go. You know how your Daddy is. He'll take this out on everybody if you stay here." Wanda pleaded.
Merle knew she was right. Every instinct in his body told him to run. He still worried for Daryl but how could he protect his brother if went to jail or worse, if their old man actually did go too far and kill his oldest son? Merle looked up at the broken woman, "Yeah, okay," was all he could manage to say.
The old man began to groan and stir a bit which prompted Merle to quick action. He ran into the bedroom, grabbed an old army duffle that he picked up at a neighbor's yard sale and dumped his one drawer of clothes inside it. There was an old elastic bandage stuck in the drawer from when he'd hurt his knee during the summer. He wrapped it as tight as he could around his ribs, hoping it would hold him together long enough. There really wasn't much else to take.
He walked back out to see Wanda holding a wet washcloth to his father's head. The old man still wasn't fully conscious. "Well, I reckon I'm leavin' then," he told her. "I'll stop and tell Darryl to come home later this evenin'." He ducked his head and was about to step outside when he heard Wanda say, "Wait."
He turned back. She was holding his father's wallet that she'd taken from his back pocket. He would have killed her if he'd been awake. She opened it carefully as if expecting a booby trap and tucked her finger inside. She pulled out five $10 bills and a few loose singles and handed them to the young man. "You'll need some money," she whispered.
He gave her a questioning look but she only nodded and pushed the money into his hand. "Keep safe, Merle," she told him, giving him a small, weak hug before stepping away.
"You, too, Wanda," he said as he stepped out. As he started walking down the dirt road, he wished his dirt bike was working but it was laid up behind the trailer with a broken fuel line. He'd been scouring the junkyard for something to fix it but nothing had turned up. Now, he figured it would lay there and rust. He was leaving and he was going to have to walk.
He stopped by the old lady's trailer where Daryl was. The little boy came out and sat on the steps in front of his brother. "What's the bag for Merle?" he asked.
"Daryl, I gotta go. Me and Pops got into real bad and I can't stay here for a while, you understand?"
Daryl's eyes got big but he nodded.
"Listen, you remember what I told you. Stay tough. Don't take shit or let anybody push you around. And, remember, don't let that old man see you cry. Man up. You can handle yourself, little brother."
Daryl sat very still, taking in every word, "You ever comin' back Merle?" he asked.
Merle felt tears backing up behind his eyes so he chuckled and turned away for a second to pull it together. "Sure. Sure. I'll be back. I'll be back to kick your ass if I hear you're bein' a pussy."
Daryl grinned up at him. "Bye, Merle."
"Bye, little brother," he told him before turning to walk on down the road.
That was the last time he'd seen his old man alive. He'd heard about Wanda dying in the fire and then about 12 years later, the old man had keeled over in the parking lot of the local dive bar after too many shots of tequila. That was when he'd finally headed back home for good.
By that time, Darryl was grown. He'd been wary of his big brother at first but things had slowly fallen back into place. Merle took charge, made sure his little brother had what he needed to get by. He never could get Darryl too interested in the recreational pursuits that he had picked up while out on his own. Crystal meth he flatly refused to try. Women he didn't seem to need very often. He'd join Merle in a few beers or a bottle of whiskey now and then but Darryl had always just wanted to be out in the woods with that damn bow in his hands.
Merle knew, of course, that Darryl had developed that habit as a way of escaping. It was the same reason Merle had started snorting the white powder, a little vacation from reality.
After Merle had moved out, Darryl remembered his brother's words. He'd grown up hard and tough but somehow he'd never turned mean. Merle didn't really understand how that had happened. Maybe it was Wanda's doing.
He and his little brother had been together after that for the next ten years or so. They'd kept the trailer. Merle tried working as a mechanic but he couldn't keep to a schedule. He and Daryl hunted and fished, partied and did pretty much whatever they damn well pleased until the walkers started showing up. Nothing like a dead guy biting your friend's fingers off to bring a party to a screeching halt.
Merle sighed deeply and stood up. He'd been sitting here wool gathering for too long. Maybe he'd just stroll on over and have a talk with that kid, tell him a thing or two about life while all was quiet.
He started walking across the prison yard, rubbing his arm where the strap from the blade arm had rubbed his skin. Suddenly he heard his voice being shouted from the guard tower, "Merle, where you headed?"
It was Daryl, keeping an eye on him. Between Daryl trying to protect the rest of the group from him and the rest of the group trying to protect Daryl, Merle was definitely feeling like the outcast, black sheep, whatever you wanted to call it, just not fitting in. He didn't know how much longer this was going to work out for him. Most of the time, he felt like a powder keg about to blow.
Watching his p's and q's around people wasn't exactly his forte. He was trying to make the best of it though, hoping he and his brother could be together again like a family. So, he just smiled back up at Daryl and yelled, "Nowhere, little brother, just looking for you."
He headed up to the tower where Daryl stood watch, looking out over the surrounding grounds and fences. "Hey, Merle," Daryl questioned, "What you been doing down there man? You were sitting there for like an hour just starin' off into space? You high? Did you find some crystal somewhere?"
"I wish, baby brother. Oh, how I wish, but no. I was just thinkin', rememberin'. You ever think about the old man or your mama?"
Daryl shook his head dismissively, "Psht, nah, man, I don't. Ain't worth my time."
Merle could see his eyes though. He knew the truth. "Yeah, me either. Just testing you, man. Just trying to see if you still had your balls."
Daryl looked back at him smiling. "Why, you wanna borrow 'em?" he asked.
Merle grinned. He reached over and punched Daryl in the arm and dared him to hit back. They were soon play fighting like they had done as boys years ago in the dirt yard behind the old trailer. The Dixon boys were still here, still standing and still capable of kickin' ass whenever necessary.