Just got to thinking that I've been suffering from a severe case of Walking Dead withdrawal since the end of Season 2. Today I got some GREAT NEWS—that is to say, I saw an announcement concerning the elder Dixon brother. Merle. He's back y'all! Or at least, he's supposed to be and if he's not I might write a strongly worded letter to the editor. But in the meantime, I wanted to start up another Merle fic, one that is completely unrelated to the trilogy I did. I would like to express my apologies that my characters are repetitive, but I will be honest to say that I only really liked Merle, Dale, Daryl, Jim, and Andrea, so that is why they are always front and center in my stories. But, let's face it—they rock! I try to mix things up and make them a little different each time while maintaining their personalities. Poor Dale and Jim are no longer with us, but I swear if anything and I mean anything happens to Daryl and Merle, there'll be Hell on Wheels to pay, oh, wait, wrong story. I don't know where this story is going yet, but let's just take it one chapter at a time. Anyway, for the fourth time Merle Dixon makes an appearance starting now…

Now…

If he was completely honest with himself (which was a rare thing) he would not have chosen the old man or the older blonde bitch to be part of his survival group, but he had had no say in the matter thanks to Daryl who had answered the call of nature at the worst possible moment. Forty-eight seconds. That was all it took for one walker to break into camp and then another and another until the survivors were overwhelmed. The dead sent them scattering and Merle was the only one who had the sense to go for the weapons in place of food, which was most likely why they were still alive. While everyone else had grabbed tin cans and water bottles, Merle had raided the weapons supply and dumped what he could into the back of the pickup truck that Daryl was tossing equipment into. To Merle's intense displeasure, old man Horvath and the blonde woman had climbed into the front seat next to Daryl and Merle was forced to kick his motorcycle into action to keep up with his little brother who shot off down the trail going well over sixty. They had seen no one else from the camp since and it had been six long days of no one but Merle's three companions to talk to. Several times he contemplated clamping his teeth down on his Browning Hi-Power and just shooting the hell out of his brains to spare him the agony of trying to keep a conversation going with the old man who just wouldn't shut up, but in the end he always decided that he loved his miserable excuse for a life too much to end it so soon. He would start out the morning by grumbling and accusing Daryl of having the shittiest bladder ever, take his portion of the food in the truck, yell at Daryl again, and then steer far clear of his three companions for as long as he possibly could.

When Dale confronted him about his contribution to the group, Merle had to exercise every ounce of self-control he possessed to not bitch slap him right then and there. He went on to make the very valid argument that they could defend themselves and hunt with the weapons he had scrounged while the food and toolbox Dale had saved would not be at all useful in helping to gather more food or in protecting them from walkers. Merle would take a gun over a can of refried beans any day. He could go shoot something with his gun and eat it after, but he wasn't going to take out anything with a can of refried beans unless he ate the damn things himself and let out a round of flatulence. The idea was about as appealing as chewing off his own arm to eat and he would only resort to that if he was the last living thing on the planet.

If one good thing could be said for Dale, it was that he knew when to back off when Merle was in a high temper, but Andrea didn't seem to know the meaning of the phrase. If anything she came in closer to the danger zone and Merle had to remind himself that she was, in fact, a woman, and that he couldn't hit her, though several times he dearly wanted to. Just the smug look on her symmetrical, flawless face made Merle's insides twist into nauseating knots. She was nothing but a stuck-up bitch who thought herself above someone like him who didn't even have a high school diploma, but what the hell did that matter? She was the college graduate and he was the high school drop delinquent, yet both of them had survived the end of the world thus far, though if she kept up her high and mighty shit that might change very soon. Merle would have preferred for her to just take a swing at him instead of standing before him with her hands on her hips, shaking her head at him as if he were something unintelligent and nasty like a slug.

Daryl didn't attempt to intervene anymore since it only made Merle angrier, but this was only a bonus. Merle didn't trust himself to not pop his little brother in the mouth every time he tried to break up the arguments. He, like Dale and Andrea avoided Merle as much as Merle tried to steer clear of them, though at night this was rather difficult. They threw a tarp over the back of the pickup if it rained and huddled beneath it, but this was a rare occasion. Mostly Dale and Andrea slept in the back while Daryl and Merle slept upright in the front seat with someone always on lookout. Thankfully there had been no sign of walkers at night, but there wasn't a sign of anything else either. Since joining up with the group, Merle had grown accustomed to seeing around two dozen faces every morning and no matter how little he wanted to admit it, he harbored a deep feeling of security in knowing that there were still people in the God-forsaken wasteland that used to be America. Now, however, as they drove on aimlessly, Merle saw no one and nothing that looked alive.

Hell, if this was how the world was now, Merle wasn't too sure that he wanted to continue living day to day.

He had been kept awake with the nagging worry of the remaining gas in their tanks and where or when they would be able to fill up or if they would just have to break into another one. That, however, would require walking, which was about the stupidest thing they could do up to this point. The rain had started up around midnight by Dale's watch and they had set out rain catchers since their water supply was running low.

Merle rested his forehead against the window, watching the hypnotizing raindrops roll down the other side of the dusty glass, never making the same pattern twice…

He shoved someone out of his way, didn't know who, didn't give a damn. A collection of bats, pistols, and a few shotguns sat in a crumpled cardboard box near the Winnebago's front tires and he snatched up the lot, lugging it over to the red pickup and tossing everything into the back. He heard someone scream and it sounded like a woman, but judging by the tone, he concluded that she was already beyond help. Daryl passed him, throwing open the pickup door and jamming the keys into the ignition. His crossbow was slung over his shoulder and in no position to fire as a walker emerged from the other side of the door. The walker stuck out its arms drunkenly and scrabbled at Daryl's pant leg. Kicking out, Daryl tried to shake the walker off, but the damn thing held fast. Merle drew his Jungle Master hunting knife and jabbed it upward into the walker's skull base, snapping its neck sideways as he did.

"Get that ass movin', son," he told Daryl as he ran for his bike. A walker had already beaten him to it and he punched the ugly sucker in the face with his knife before starting up his bike and kicking off towards the trail. Daryl was already speeding along, accompanied by the old man and that blonde woman. The road was narrow, but Merle still pulled up beside the truck, teetering on the edge of the cliff as he called out to Daryl over the roar of both engines.

"The hell're they doin' in there?"

"Same thing we're doin', dumbass," Daryl retorted, eyes on the road.

"I ain't babysittin' two whiny-ass nit-pickers!"

"You're gonna run outta road, that's what you're gonna do," Daryl warned, pointing ahead.

Merle cursed, veering and braking simultaneously, but the road was slick with gravel and the bike tipped, dragging him along. His pant leg split as he skidded and though he tried to grope for something to hold onto and break his fall, his motorcycle took him with it right over the side of the cliff. He fell, windmilling his arms and screaming.

He sat up in alarm, smacking his head on the low ceiling. Grasping his hands over the tender area, he saw stars and swore. "Ow! Son've a bitch!" Breathing heavily through his nose he jammed his fist against his door in anger. When the pain had somewhat subsided, he dropped one arm to see Daryl leaning far back from him against his own door, hands tucked into his armpits. He had a look of subtle concern on his face.

"Y'just gonna sit there gawkin' at me like an idiot?" Merle demanded.

"Well, y'seem t'be just fine." Daryl replied casually. "I was watchin' ya twitch and moan for 'bout five minutes b'fore y'woke up. Had a nightmare, didja?"

"No shit, Sherlock," Merle grumbled, massaging his head. "Couldda woke me up instead've spectatin'."

"Naw, y'wouldda hit me if I did. I tried that once b'fore and I had a black eye for two weeks."

"Argh, screw you."

Merle pinched the bridge of his nose, clasping his eyes shut. He could still hear the rain pattering outside and opened his door to stick his head out into it. The cool wetness was rejuvenating after the sweat-inducing nightmare. Swinging his legs out of the truck, he bent over, rested his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands at his forehead.

"Was it walkers?" asked Daryl from behind him.

Merle almost smiled to himself. Funnily enough, it wasn't walkers. Here he was in the middle of hell and he had nightmares about falling off of a cliff. No, he had relived the night that the walkers broke upon them detail for detail right up until he fell off his bike. That part had never happened. In actuality he had pulled the motorcycle sideways just in time and continued to follow Daryl down the road.

"Y'gonna talk 'bout it or not?"

"Go back t'bed, kid."

"I will if you stay awake this time. You're on watch duty, remember?"

Merle looked over his shoulder and shot Daryl the middle finger just before his little brother closed his eyes. Pulling the door shut none too quietly, Merle put one leg up on the dashboard and crossed his arms.

Shit.

So…I appreciate any comments. Also, I only just found this, but the following link will be sure to bring a smile to all Merle fans.

/walking-dead-season-3-merle/