Disclaimer :The Walking Dead, Daryl and Merle Dixon (and the other characters) are the property of Robert Kirkman and AMC. Sadly, I do not own these characters. This writing is for pleasure only. No profit is intended.

AN: This one is all preseries. I'm guessing that Daryl is a seasoned 40 years old at the beginning of the show, in 2010. Dixon Demolition starts in 1987 with Daryl at 17 years old. Merle is nine years older. I wanted to tell a story of the brothers' close and eventful history. I hope you enjoy! Surplus Imagination

Dixon Demolition Beginnings

2010

Daryl choked on the powdered drywall and dust that thickened the air in his enclosed space. All around, construction debris covered him like jack-straws. He was buried in rubble so far deep that only small amounts of filtered light trickled through. The weight of the fallen wall pinned most of his body down with a thousand daggers. He wouldn't be walking outta of this mess without a limp, that was for sure. And he was damn lucky not to be entirely crushed.

And he was gonna freakin' kill Merle!

With his one free hand, Daryl tugged the neck of his Dixon Demolition t-shirt up over his nose and tried to make it easier to breathe. Without a doubt, this was the worst job he ever took.


1987

"You shittin' me, right?"

"Don't let your Aunt Maybelle hear you talk like that, boy. She'll slap you bald-headed. I'm being serious."

Merle Dixon lurked just outside his uncle's office eavesdropping shamelessly. He couldn't see anything inside that office, but thanks to a crack in the door, he could hear perfectly fine. Inside the room his little brother, Daryl, was being interrogated by their hard-nosed Uncle Joe.

"Ain't no one can control Merle. Ain't happen'n."

"You can. I've seen you do it."

"Phfft. That weren't control. I only show'd Merle wha Merle wanted. Side-stepped 'im a bit."

Damn right. Merle basked in the thought. Nobody controls me, but me. Merle leaned back against the wall and smirked. He could just see scrawny, awkward Daryl fidgeting at the end of his seat. Daryl didn't like being closed in and he didn't like to talk. Uncle Joe had pinned the boy down to do both. It was only a matter of time before Daryl ran like hell.

"Damn, boy. You sound like some ignorant, country bumpkin. It's time you learned to speak properly. I can help you with that. And Merle tells me you dropped out of high school, too."

"Can't drop out of what I never been to."

"What? You shittin' me?"

"Don't let Aunt Maybelle hear you talk like that. She'll slap you baldheaded ... if you had any hair!"

Uh, oh oh oh. Daryl had him some balls to mock Uncle Joe. Merle would give him that. If the boy weren't careful, Uncle Joe would put a hurtin' on his ass. Uncle Joe didn't take shit from nobody. Merle knew from painful personal experience. A little worried, Merle pushed off the wall and sidled to the edge of the door. Carefully, he eased the crack open and looked inside.

"Stop that sass! You may think you're too big for a whoppin', but I got the belt that can do the job," Uncle Joe threatened, jiggling his belt noisily.

Merle tensed and waited to see Joe's next move. He watched Daryl go completely still at the threat.

"Now, son," Uncle Joe continued, mollified. "Are you trying to tell me you haven't been ever been to high school? I may be a little stupid sometimes, but last time I checked, you were seventeen." Uncle Joe eyed the boy carefully. "Granted, you're scrawny enough to pass for fourteen. Did you repeat a buncha grades? Are you still in middle school?"

"Nope," Daryl insolently replied, popping hard on the 'p'. The way he said it made Merle wanna smack the boy himself.

"Daryl, don't make me take my belt off. I don't make idle threats," the big man blustered.

No shit, thought Merle, gathering himself to intervene. He was definitely gonna smack Daryl upside his thick skull for not playing this right. You'd have thought the boy was soft in the head.

"No, sir," Daryl replied with only a small mock in his voice. "Ain't in middle school." Daryl paused to see if that answer was enough. Since his uncle kept staring, he slouched back in his seat and finished. "Ain't been to class since that bitch Collins called CFS on my ass. Eighth grade, or some such." Too long, dirty blonde hair covered most of his eyes.

"CFS?"

"Children and Family Services," Daryl said with a deadpan voice.

"Children and Family...wait, I remember that. That had to be four years ago! How the hell did they let you stay out of school all that time?" Uncle Joe slapped his desk to punctuate his surprise. The solid sound made Daryl flinch noticeable. Merle tried not to notice that it made him flinch as well.

Man and teen stared at each other, each sizing the other up. Merle was about to push his way into the room when Daryl broke the silence.

"They don't got a say," he drawled softly. "I'm on my own." Another pause, they Daryl's voice gained a scornful force. "Have been ever since. I ain't never gonna go to another foster home. Ever! You turn me in, I'll run so far not even Merle can't find me." At that moment, Daryl turned his head and looked defiantly right into Merle's own eyes.

That little shit knew he was listening the whole time! Merle stared right back and silently promised Daryl that there was nowhere that boy would run that he couldn't find him. He'd find him every time. And make him pay for running!

"Jesus, son! I won't turn you in. I never thought things were so bad. I thought you were living with Merle all these years. Or with ya daddy," Uncle Joe's voice broke in. Merle didn't think that his uncle knew he was out in the hall. Uncle Joe didn't know a lot of things if he thought that Daryl would ever willingly stay with their old man.

Daryl looked back at their uncle. "Got my own place. Merle knows where it is."

Merle sure did know. It was a one roomed, ancient log cabin. It was probably first built somewhere around World War II, based on some of the emptied K-ration cans lying behind it. Daryl had found the derelict lodging years ago and had spent every penny he could spare on fixing the place up. Merle really had no idea that the boy had been living out of the place for so long.

"Fine. Fine. Long as you have someplace," Uncle Joe said, doubtfully. "Let's get back to Merle. Your brother needs you."

"Merle don't need nobody. 'Sides, he's outta jail," Daryl scoffed. Merle could see the boy start to fidget again.

"He's on probation. You know what that is, don't you?" Uncle Joe levered his huge frame up and walked over to a small refrigerator in the corner. Unable bend well at the waist, the big man had to raise one leg behind him, ballet style, in order to reach the sodas inside.

"Yes'sir."

Daryl caught Merle's eye mimed taking a picture behind his uncle's back. Merle grinned back and mimed grabbing the extended leg and tipping his uncle over. Both Dixon boys snickered behind their hands as Uncle Joe wrestled two red cans of coke free and straightened himself out. When he turned around, Daryl's game face was back on.

"Merle's on probation for two years. If he screws up and gets arrested for any damn reason, he's back in the stockade. He'll be court marshaled. He'll do at least five more years in military prison and have the rest of his life ruined." Uncle Joe plunked a can in front of Daryl and opened his own as he dropped into his seat. Beneath him, the old, wood frame groaned.

"Thought he was already court-marshaled. Thought that was a done deal."

Merle couldn't help but notice that Daryl didn't touch the can in front of him. Eyed it warily, like it was a snake and he didn't trust it. Merle wished he had a coke. Hell, he wished he had a whole six pack. Atlanta was a hell of a lot hotter than Coon Bottom.

"Son, very few things in life are a 'done deal' if you know people. Don't ask." Uncle Joe paused to chug down half his coke.

"What happens if he don't get arrested?" Daryl asked, obviously curious. Merle was curious, too.

"The charges will be dropped and he'll get a medical discharge. Merle will have a chance at a life. Do this and so will you. That's all I want for you boys. A chance. I owe it to your mother, God rest her soul."

Well, damn! Uncle Joe to the rescue. Merle backed away from the crack and went back to his place by the door. He had a lot to think about. He had wondered how the hell they let him out of the clink. Inside, the conversation continued.

"Why me? I ain't nothin."

"Let me worry about that. You listening?"

"Yes, sir."

"Daryl, I want to hire you to work for my demolition company. I want you to partner with Merle and keep him out of trouble Any kind of trouble. Capisce? You will both do whatever I ask. And, I want you to get your high school diploma-."

"That weren't part a nothin' a minute ago!"

"Shut the hell up! You listen, boy! You will get your diploma and be happy about it. Got me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now, I've got a trailer all set for you and Merle to live in. You both start work at seven in the morning. I'll figure the school part out with your Aunt Maybelle. She'll know what to do."

"Merle won't go along. No way."

"That's what I'm hiring you for, son. This is your new job."

"Won't work."

"It will work. Now remember, your job is to keep Merle out of trouble and out of jail."

"Impossible."

"No drinking. No drugs. No stealing. No whoring."

"Whoring ain't illegal."

"Yes it is. Well, everywhere outside of Coon Bottom. And most important, no fighting. That's what got him into trouble in the first place."

"You might as well ask me to drive him to the moon!"

"It might come to that. Now, go and get your brother. Head toward the house. Your Aunt Maybelle fixed us a nice lunch. We got business to discuss."


2010

Daryl tried to steady his breathing as he waited for rescue. His ribs were a damn mess. Every cough felt like he was full of broken glass. Hell, he probably had an all-time record high on the number of ribs that were broken. Kurt currently held the record with six full breaks. Good thing that man made the best apple moonshine in the entire state of Georgia. Kurt spend the better part of a month recuperating from those record-setting breaks, by sampling his wares. When he ran out, Kurt taught Daryl how to brew to help him out. Daryl had been moon-shining ever since.

Brewing good moonshine was an art and Daryl liked to experiment. He liked to bring subtle differences to his 'shine. His current experiments were using pomegranates. Of course, Merle bitched about it. Pomegranates made the 'shine too tart. Merle liked his corn liquor sweet. Sweet as candy. Merle always did like candy.


1987

Daryl came out of the office balancing two red cans. He carefully closed the door behind him, passing off one of the cans to Merle. "Knew you'd still be here. Guess ya heard everythin'." He beckoned Merle to follow him down the hall.

Merle accepted the can with a smile. "People in the next county heard. Uncle Joe's got a mouth bigger than a herd of roosters." Merle popped the can and started chugging as he walked.

"What the hell does that even mean?" Daryl asked with a loud belch.

"It means, little brother, that I heard every word." Merle saluted Mrs. Cockburn's sour expression at the reception desk, as they left the building and headed toward Daryl's old, blue truck.

When they got to the truck, Daryl pulled a full pound pack of Twizzlers out of his shirt with a flourish. "It don't bother you, us talkin' about you like that?" Daryl balanced his open can on the rooftop, while he opened the candy. Merle snatched the bag away before Daryl could take any.

"Naw. Sticks and stones, bro," Merle drawled, his hand deep in the bag. "Where'd the sweets come from? I love me some Twizzlers!"

"Asshole," Daryl grouched and wrestled the bag back. "Found it in the 'fridge when I got this Co-cola. Uncle Joe said I could get one for you."

"And did he also give you this candy? You know that Uncle Joe keeps a sugar stash hidden from Aunt Maybelle." Merle bit down on the red stick. "You know how cranky he gets when she takes it away."

"Five-fingered discount," Daryl smirked, eating his own candy. "'Sides, I left the giant Hershey bar. Thought it would melt 'gainst my skin." Merle chucked in response.

It didn't take long for the two boys to polish off that pound bag of candy and still be thinking about lunch.

"We supposed to eat at the house," Daryl said, tossing the trash. "Aunt Maybelle is gonna be all in our business."

"Mm, mm, that woman can cook," Merle replied, stretching his torso out like a cat. "She cooks good 'nuff that I don't care if she is nosy. Since we're here, we might as well enjoy ourselves."

Daryl dug the keys out of his pocket "Uncle Joe says no more drinkin'. No more drugs. No more smokin'. And no more whorin'."

"I know for a fact that smokin' was not one Uncle Joe's requirements." Merle eyed the keys and punched Daryl in the shoulder hard enough that he dropped them. The two boys scrambled for control. Both reached the keys at the same time.

"He weren't talkin' about cigarettes, ass-weed," Daryl gritted as he tried to slam Merle into the side of the truck to make him let go. Unfortunately for Daryl, Merle's bigger bulk just made a dent in his truck's door. Merle held tight to the keys.

"That all ya got?" Merle laughed tauntingly. "And here I thought you was supposed to be in charge of me." Merle used the arm that held the keys to wrap around Daryl's middle. He held the teen in place while the other arm almost lazily moved around to put Daryl in a headlock.

Daryl panted while he tried to get out of Merle's grip. Of course, he was too damn stubborn to let go of the truck keys and let Merle win. Daryl was all too familiar with the headlock. It was Merle's signature move. Once Merle had him that way, it was game over. A few years ago, Merle kept Daryl in a headlock through an entire football game. Now, Daryl hated football.

"Won't be like that," Daryl gasped, while thrashing in Merle's grip. "You and me, bro." Daryl made himself relax and let go of the keys. "Like always."

"That's what I'm talking about." Merle chuckled meanly, while he rattled the keys. Assured of his dominance, he loosened his grip just enough.

With lightning fast reflexes born from years of getting away, Daryl struck. He rammed one elbow low into Merle's groin. It was a solid, dirty hit. When his brother reflexively doubled over, Daryl whipped himself out of the hold and snatched the keys right out of Merle's hand.

Without looking, Daryl drove himself forward breaking into a run. He didn't make it five steps before Merle ploughed into him from behind. They landed flat on the gravel-paved lot with Daryl on the bottom, sliding about two feet before stopping. Daryl quickly decided that he hated gravel, too.

"Uncle Joe never looks at things that hard. What he don't know won't hurt him," Merle crowed, pinning his little brother flat. He groped for the keys, but Daryl still wouldn't let go. With an exasperated sigh, Merle bounced a little to make the little shit let go. Daryl groaned in pain, but kept a firm grip. "And he won't know unless you the one ta tell him."

"I ain't no snitch," Daryl growled from his prone position. He tried to buck his brother off, but only succeeded in grinding himself further down into the gravel lot. "Get your fat ass off me, Merle. This hurts." With that, Daryl managed to twist himself enough and spat a pebble out of his mouth, scoring a direct hit high on Merle's cheek.

"Oh, I got a fat ass, do I?" asked Merle dangerously, his eye twitching right above the red mark.. "We'll see about that." Letting go of the keys, Merle pushed up onto his haunches, flipped Daryl onto his back, slamming him into the gravel again. While Daryl lay, stunned, Merle turned around and began to lower his hindquarters directly over Daryl's face, bracing all of his weight directly on the center of Daryl's chest.

"No, no, no!," Daryl screamed. "Merle, don't!" Daryl thrashed violently. Merle held him down with an iron grip.

"Give me the keys, Darlina, or I'm gonna drop all the way down," Merle smirked. He wiggled his rump lower and tried to ignore how his thighs were starting to cramp. "I feel some serious gas commin' on!"

"Merle! Daryl! What the hell you boys doing?" Behind them, Uncle Joe's voice boomed. "Merle, get your ass outta your brother's face. Daryl, get the hell off the ground."

Daryl and Merle froze. Looking down, Merle saw that Daryl's hand was fisted around the key ring, poised to ram right into the underside of Merle's crotch. Merle glared at Daryl while carefully standing back up.

Daryl rattled the keys in triumph. He flipped Merle a bird with his free hand, a smirk on his scraped up face.

Merle flipped his own bird and deliberately stepped right onto Daryl's gut. The air rushed out of Daryl's lungs as he curled around Merle's boot. The keys dropped on the ground with a jingle.

"You two stop fooling around. I'm about to starve to death," Joe bellowed, stomping toward the row of company trucks. Right when he was about to pass the pair, he stopped and stared at Merle until he took his boot off of Daryl's stomach. Looking down at Daryl, he simply said ,"When I said no stealing, that meant you, too. Those Twizzlers are coming outta your first paycheck." Then he stomped away without another word, got into his truck and drove off.

Merle helped Daryl to his feet by picking him by the shoulders and giving him a shake. A shower of small pebbles dislodged from baggy clothes and tumbled to the ground. Daryl helped out by flicking out the last few bits embedded in his skin.

"I think I'm gonna like working for Uncle Joe," Merle said, climbing into the driver's side of the tired, blue truck.

Daryl just sighed and climbed into the passenger side. His whole body was aching from the tussle on the ground. He'd never admit it, but Merle had hit him like a freight train. Daryl wondered if he could skip lunch and curl up in the truck for a nap.

"He sure had your number, you little sneak thief. Told you not to take a fat man's sugar stash," Merle cackled as he cranked the truck and started on down the road. "Gonna come outta your paycheck! Ha ha ha ha ha…."

"Shut the hell up, Merle," Daryl snapped. He turned slightly away from Merle, trying to find a comfortable spot on the bench seat. He was gonna regret this job. He just knew it.

Beside him, Merle rolled the window down and was singing along with the radio, slightly off-key. Daryl could hear him keeping the beat with his hand just out the window. The familiar sounds were comforting on a level that Daryl didn't realize he was needing. With all that humming in the background, Daryl felt safe enough to fall asleep.


2010

Daryl lurched out of his doze with start. Somewhere above him, Daryl could hear Merle calling out for him frantically. Hollering his name over and over and over. Daryl tried to answer, but his lungs just choked on powdered glass again. Pain ripped through his chest.

Spitting out a mouthful of blood, Daryl gave up trying to call out. It was just too hard. He had to let Merle know where he was, if he ever wanted to get out of this.

And he did want out. It weren't just that he was having a shit day all cause of Merle had been playing with dynamite. It weren't just because every goddamned bone in his body hurt. It weren't only that he had a big, ole mojo-marinated pork roast with black beans slow-cooking in the crock pot, that Aunt Maybelle dropped off. Hell, he even had a leftover half-pan of double thick brownies to look forward to.

Daryl just had to get out of this because tonight was the start of the fall TV premiere week. He had been waiting nigh on five goddamn months, to find out what was gonna happen between Booth and Bones after they went separate ways last season. What was House and Cuddy gonna do after Cuddy told House she loved him. And why Sam was standing outside of Dean's and Lisa's house, when he was supposed to be sealed in hell with Lucifer and Michael. He had a twenty riding on a bet with Merle on the outcome of that one.

He'd be damned if he didn't have the chance to kick Merle's ass into next week and win that bet!

With a last bone-racking cough, Daryl felt around the rubble until he got his one free hand on something metal. After a few excruciating tugs, he managed to pull in free. It was a short piece of rebar. Good enough.

Gripping it the best he could, Daryl slammed the rebar against the leaning wall. He kept hitting different spots until one rang with the clang of metal on metal. Grunting with the pain of effort, Daryl hit that sweet spot, over and over and over, until he heard the shout he was waiting for.

"Hold on, little brotha! I'm coming!"


1987

Daryl sat on a half-rotted log in the clearing behind his aunt and uncle's house. Evening was just setting in. All around the clearing, Daryl could make out the tiny, hopeful flashes of lightning bugs. Fruit bats whirled and dove silently in the dimming air above.

"Gawd-damn, boy! The hell you doin' out here? Feel like feeding every damn mosquito in the county?"

Daryl turned and watched his brother wade through the weedy grass, a six pack of beer under one arm. As he got closer, Daryl could see him slap at a cloud of flying insects around his head. Merle always did draw bugs.

"Nothin's biting me," Daryl replied with a shrug. It was true, for some reason Daryl was never plagued with bug bites and stings. "Guess I don't taste good."

Merle just snorted and half collapsed next to him on the log. With a heavy sigh made for someone twice his age, Merle popped two cans of beer out of the plastic and handed one to his brother. In silence, both boys cracked their beer open and drank deeply. Around them, the cicadas sang a heavy welcome to the night.

"Joe and Maybelle have been at me the last hour," Merle finally said after his third beer. "Like I need a new set of parents at my age," he grumbled.

"What for?" Daryl wanted to know. He finished off his second can and reached for his third. Merle beat him to the grab.

"Hey! That's my beer!" Daryl slurred slightly. Aunt Maybelle's patch job on Daryl's scraped chin dangled by half the adhesive. No doubt the boy had been picking at it ever since.

"Look at you. Drunk on two beers," Merle shook his head sadly, obviously amused. "Makes me ashamed to call you a Dixon."

"Ain't drunk, you asshole. Gimme back my beer," Daryl growled, feeling a little woozy.

"That so?" Merle smirked. "Tell you what, prove it and I'll give the beer back."

"You'll give it back," Daryl repeated uncertainly, as he climbed to his feet. It took a lot of effort to stop the slight sway from side to side. He willed his feet to be tree roots and slowly looked up to glare at his brother.

"Damn, there must be an echo." Merle laughed. He popped open the last beer and cradled it between his thighs. Then he pulled a rolled smoke from his pocket and lit up. "Hell, yes. You pass the test and I'll give you the beer."

"What kinda test?" Daryl could smell the unique odor come off of Merle's smoke. It didn't smell like no Marlboros. Uncle Joe was gonna be pissed if he caught them.

"Same test as all the cops give." Merle took a drag and let it out slow. "All ya gotta do is stand on one leg and whistle Yankee Doodle." Merle offered the smoke to Daryl who shook his head 'no'.

"Thought you was supposed to walk a white line with your eyes closed," Daryl shot back, thinking. Hell if he could remember how Yankee Doodle went. A hundred different bird calls, yes. Stupid children's song, no. Shaking his head slightly, Daryl switched to considering which leg might be best to balance on.

"Naw. That's just for TV," Merle snickered, drawing deep again. "Don't like Yankee Doodle? How about William Tell's Overture?" He said the last part with a little cough.

"The what?" Daryl looked up, bewildered.

"The theme song to the Lone Ranger," Merle cackled and slapped at mosquitoes. He had forgotten how much fun it was being around his gullible little brother.

Daryl brightened. That one he knew. Daryl took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Carefully, he unconsciously centered himself and lifted his left knee. With a clear, sure sound, Daryl liltingly whistled a steady rendition of the song. When he was done, Daryl opened his eyes and gave Merle a wide grin, before putting his left foot back on the ground.

Merle was astounded. He hadn't expected that! Daryl was supposed to have provided some bumbling entertainment and maybe fallen flat on his ass. Instead, Daryl seemed to go all Kung Fu and find some sort of inner Zen standing there. Shit if that didn't chafe his ass. Disgruntled, Merle carefully stubbed out his smoke on the bottom of his boot and stowed the remainder carefully in his shirt pocket for later. Then he blew the last puff of smoke out and gave his brother a good shove.

Laughing, Daryl went down in the tall weeds with a thump. "I win," he chimed.

"Hell, you did," Merle grumbled. "I'm drinkin' ya damn beer, ya goddamn ballerina."

"Keep the beer," Daryl called from the weeds. "Probably all warm by now anyway."

All around him, the night came alive. Daryl lay on his back and stared up at the stars. He felt pretty good with a rare full belly and his brother nearby. His head swam a little and made the stars waver.

Daryl never could hold his alcohol. He'd never admit it, but those two beers were more than enough to give him a buzz. Off to the right, he could hear the odd chirp of a flying squirrel high in the trees. Almost immediately, off to the left he heard the jiggy 'whoop' of a couple of mating owls. At his feet, Daryl could hear Merle slurp down the last can of beer.

"Merle, you think we're doing the right thing by staying here?"

"Fuck if I know."

Daryl heard the sound of the can crunching. A distant ping told him that Merle had tossed the can away.

"You gonna work like Uncle Joe says?"

"Guess so. Better than rotting in that jail cell."

Daryl pushed himself up on his elbows to look at his brother. The darkness all but covered his face. "Then you gotta do things right," Daryl said, earnestly. "You need to lay off the bad stuff and earn some money."

Merle lumbered to his feet and stretched. One by one, the bones in his spine cracked. "I know what I have to do. Ain't like I've never worked before, Princess." Merle reached a hand out to Daryl and pulled him to his feet. "I'll do what I have to do. But I'm doing it my way," he grumbled.

"That's what I'm 'fraid of," Daryl sighed. He picked a few weeds out of his greasy hair and tossed them to the ground with a sense of foreboding.

"No need to fear, little brotha," Merle chuckled. "Ole Merle has it covered."

Merle slapped Daryl on the arm and started to walk out of the clearing.

"Hey, asshole," Daryl called. "You're goin' the wrong way."

Merle stopped and looked back. The clearing looked the same on all sides; dark and treey. "Fine, Einstein. Which way do I go?"

"This way," Daryl beckoned before starting off. "I always know where I am."

Merle snorted before following. "Them's famous last words."

Truth was, the little prick always could find his way around in the woods. Ole Merle just might have to teach him a little lesson, or two.


2010

"Goddammit, Daryl! Answer me!"

Merle Dixon threw another huge hunk of broken concrete off to one side. Two different men scattered to avoid the debris. He grabbed a piece of rebar sticking out of the rubble and started pulling. The effort caused a rumble below them.

"Wait, Merle. Wait!" Kurt, the foreman, cried out. He stilled Merle's frantic pulling with one gloved hand. "We're gonna collapse the whole damn structure right down on top of him. I know you're strong, but Daryl needs you to be smart."

"The whole damn structure is already on top of him," Merle shot back. "I heard him not a minute ago. I swear!"

Kurt looked from a panic-stricken Merle to the broken building. The whole thing had gone down with one ill placed explosion. There was little hope that the younger Dixon survived. "Merle-"

"Shut up and listen," Merle whispered, gripping Kurt's sleeve. Faintly, Kurt could hear a rhythmic pounding of metal on metal.

"I'll be dammed," Kurt grinned. "The little shit has got nine lives," he laughed. Together, the two men carefully located the most likely place the sound was coming from.

"Hold on, little brotha! I'm coming!"

Merle Dixon snatched up a shovel and started to dig.

Tbc….

AN: Howdy! I'm finally getting this story going. The various chapters should tie into Daryl's back-flashes in If It Weren't For Bad Luck, I'd Have No Luck At All. Personally, I'm looking forward to the chapter that will include Mexico. It's all preseries. Of course, you definitely don't need to read that one to understand this one. I'll post each weekend. I hope you all will come along for the ride.

I hope to hear from you all. Suggestions are treasure! Toss me a few bones.

Thank you for reading!

Surplus Imagination