"We can just go back," Michonne told him.
It sounded so simple and easy and for her it was just that. For him, it would be an admission that Rick and his do-gooders were right. He'd be like a kicked pup that comes crawling back with its tail between its legs and he damn sure wasn't going to do that.
His brother might have gone soft but this Dixon was no pussy. No, sir.
Merle took another long sip of the amber liquor from the now half empty bottle of Jim Beam and stared out at the ruined world before him. Life had never been anything more than a kick in the teeth and it wasn't going to be improving any time soon. He'd pinned his hopes on finding Daryl for a long time but his little brother was a changed man. He'd become part of Rick's group, a respected part. Darryl said he wanted his brother back but Merle couldn't be the kind of brother Daryl needed. He never really had been but especially not now. Being Daryl's brother now meant joining his little band of survivors and pretending to be all noble and caring. Not Merle Dixon's style, not by a long shot.
The image of the scars on his brother's back suddenly flashed into Merle's head. It required another long chug of whiskey to wash that memory down. Merle had scars of his own so he should have stopped it. He should have saved his baby brother by killing the son of a bitch who had sired them both.
That was just one of the things that haunted him. He'd done so much bad in his lifetime. It had been mostly small stuff before he'd met up with the Governor. The man he'd believed was his savior had turned out to be worse even than his old man. At least with his dad, he'd known what to expect. With the Governor, there was always a hidden agenda, a bad one.
With the Governor leading him, Merle had become every bit the monster he'd wanted to kill in his own father. He'd killed men, not just walkers, living men. He'd tortured people. Glen and Maggie's ordeal had been almost entirely at his hands. Why hadn't Rick or one of the others just shot him on sight? Daryl, of course, had prevented that. Merle was pretty sure that the little Chinese guy would have killed him if he'd had a chance, despite Daryl.
So, why was he now sitting in this damned hot car, watching the walkers stumbling aimlessly around in the vacant lot across the road? Getting drunk, sure. Feeling sorry for himself? Maybe. Mostly though he was thinking about what was coming.
The Governor wasn't a man who chose diplomatic solutions. He had the guns and the men to wipe out the handful of survivors at that prison, including his baby brother. He couldn't go back but he couldn't let that happen either. Dixons took care of their own and though he'd never admit it, he kind of liked some of those folks. Carol had surprised him with her new spunk and outspokenness. Rick's kid, Carl, was a tough little bastard. He'd just caught a glimpse of the baby that Daryl had nicknamed Little Ass Kicker but she looked pretty cute. The main thing was that Daryl cared about all of them and he wasn't going to let anyone take anything else from his brother. He wasn't going to fail him again.
He'd made up his mind right after he let Michonne out. He knew what he had to do. Hell, the only thing he could do. He was going to make it right with Daryl.
He cranked the car, reached down, pushed the CD into the slot and cranked the volume knob to full blast. Heavy metal music blasted from the speakers. The walkers that hadn't noticed him before suddenly turned towards the car. He took another long pull on the bottle of Jim Beam as he watched the half rotted carcasses lurch toward his location. Within minutes the car was mostly surrounded by the dead.
"That's right, come on, come on, follow me, you bastards" he goaded the moaning and snapping husks as he inched the car forward. "Yeah, come on, follow me!" he yelled out the window, inciting the hoard even further. Slowly, yard by yard, he made his way down the road and toward the barn where the Governor and his men waited. He kept his speed at a crawl, making sure the walkers were able to keep up. Just a little further and their paths would intersect. The walkers would encounter the heavily armed Woodbury group.
Merle knew that all the Governor's men were tough, but he also knew he had a big enough group following his car to overrun their defenses. A lot of people were about to die and Merle fully expected to be one of them. The only thing he wanted was one chance to take out the bastard with the eye patch. If he could kill the Governor, the threat would be over.
As the car pulled into the space behind the silos, Merle jumped from the moving vehicle and rolled into the door of a nearby barn. He watched as the walkers followed the blaring music toward their next meal. Then he heard the shots. Men were yelling. It was chaos for a moment.
He had his rifle at the ready and as the man himself stepped out into the fray, Merle lined up his shot. He had the man in his sights and he fired. At the last moment, one of the newcomers to Woodbury stepped into the path of the bullet. He tried again but he knew he'd lost his chance. His target wasn't a man who made the same mistake twice.
The Governor and his few remaining men advanced on Merle's location. It didn't take long. There had only ever been one shot at this. As he looked into the face of the mad man who held a gun to his chest, he remembered Michonne's words. "We could just go back." But Merle knew, he'd always known, sometimes you can't just go back. Sometimes there was nowhere to go but straight ahead, even if you couldn't see the road in front of you.
The pain was quick and sharp but then it was over. He felt the blood pooling under his back as he lay staring straight up. His last thought was, "I'm sorry, little brother."