Aaaargh! Can I get a FINALLY for the confirmed return of Merle Dixon? Official photo link below. Enjoy and anticipate!

/first-official-photo-of-merle-from-the-walking-dead-season-3/

He was in luck, which was a rare thing in Merle's case. He never got lucky. Ever. He was at least a mile down the road when he saw a walker bumbling around on the shoulder trying to grab a squirrel from a low-hanging branch and Merle strode up to it, lowering his shotgun and the gas container and taking the bat in both hands. With a sharp, piercing whistle, he waited for the walker to hear him and turn, which it did with its mouth hanging open stupidly and bloodshot pupils blinking blearily at him. A low, inhuman growl emitted from its throat and then raising the bat back to rest on his shoulder, Merle swung hard, cracking the damn thing's jaw as he delivered an uppercut. He came back around and took out a fair chunk of the walker's skull, splattering dark purplish-red blood all over the pavement. A tiny bit of the walker's brain leaked out and instantly flies began to settle in around it.

Nodding to himself in a self-satisfied sort of way Merle wiped the tip of the bat on the weeds beside the road and glanced up at the squirrel that was still perched on the branch and was now chewing an acorn with what Merle supposed was an intrigued look.

Lucky little bastard.

Merle picked up his shotgun and continued on his way, feeling somewhat better than before, but yearning for another walker, as he wasn't finished letting out all of his anger just yet. Sometimes the best way to relieve stress was to just beat the living—or this case, dead—hell out of something, which was one of the few upsides to the apocalypse; he could basically hit anyone and anything he wanted and not get in trouble for it. That was how he had ended up behind bars for the second time; he hit his commanding officer and popped out a few of the idiot's teeth. He was sure that Daryl still hadn't forgiven him for that one because the day Merle's sentence started happened to fall on the same day as Daryl's high school graduation. Go figure. As if Merle planned it out that way…

But Daryl would never know what it was like to survive with humans whose only desire was to rape. Daryl would not so easily have accused him of being a stubborn, selfish jackass if he had even the slightest idea of what Merle had been through. Daryl was still a child, an innocent child in that area and most likely would remain so since walkers couldn't rape.

He hadn't gone twenty more paces when he saw an additional two walkers ahead of him. Knife in hand, he swiped out at the closer one, ripping a long fleshy cut through its mouth as he proceeded onto the second one and stabbed it repeatedly in the left eye socket. Behind him he heard the first walker moaning as it stumbled towards him, blood and saliva dripping steadily from its deformed mouth.

"Oh, shuddap," said Merle as he drove his knife upward through the walker's chin until he could feel the corpse stop moving.

Even he had to admit that he was probably one of the best, if not the best walker killer in the business because he enjoyed it and even sought it out whereas people like Shane Walsh only did it out of necessity. What was the point in it if you didn't at least get a savage pleasure out of knocking the stuffing out of walking crash dummies? Merle believed that deep down everyone had always had the urge to take a bat or a knife or something to an actual human body with as much force as they could muster, but then again, that could be the crack talking. The world may have gone to hell, but Merle still had trouble sleeping at times or just needed a bit of a reprieve and he would continue to use his cocaine until he ran completely dry and then—he didn't want to think about what happened when he ran out. He had been dependent on that shit for too long to remember despite Daryl's constant attempts to hide it from him. He had warned his little brother that if he ever tried to take something that wasn't his again, he could kiss his chances of having children goodbye. It hadn't taken long for Merle to get hooked on the damn stuff and more than once he wished that he could kick the habit, but that was looking to be nearly impossible now. Plus, he wasn't too sure that he wanted to stop after all. He wanted to remember as little of his time in prison as possible, as little of his abusive dad and basically everything related to his childhood.

So suck on that, boy.

Daryl complained about Merle, but as long as he was the only thing his brother had to bitch and moan about, that was fine with Merle. At least Daryl didn't have to sniff away his worries. Thank God for small favors.

Small favors. Not the big ones because after two hours of mostly uphill climbing, Merle had not seen anything that even remotely resembled a gas station or another car and was feeling rather pissed off at the Big Man. He could hotwire a car (something he had picked up while serving out his sentence) but he didn't come across any of those either. He found it hard to believe that the road could be so barren but reminded himself that this road was more so dedicated to scenery than to actually get anywhere. All the major streets were crammed with abandoned vehicles that were deserted after their owners realized that they weren't going to get anywhere in an unmoving and never-ending line of traffic. The main streets had been a death trap, which was why Merle had purposefully taken a side road in an attempt to steer clear of the horde of the undead and the stupid. Now those same saving graces had turned around and stabbed Merle in the back since they yielded nothing of any use.

Measuring how many hours of daylight he had left with his fingers, he contemplated whether or not he should press on for a bit more or start heading back. The thought briefly flashed across his mind to just keep going and not return to the other three and, had Daryl been with him, he would surely have continued walking, but as luck would have it, Daryl was back at the damn pickup as was Merle's beloved bike. It wasn't an appealing thought to consider that he might be stuck in the middle of the road with Dale and Andrea for a few more days until they found some gas and that notion alone made him decide to look a little longer.

His thinking was well paid off when he stumbled across a rest stop another three miles up the road, but the bad news was that apparently a lot of people had had the same idea to stop and fill up. The result was that the place was crawling with walkers—at least twenty—and there were abandoned cars blocking the way to the gas pump. Swearing under his breath, Merle kicked out at a nearby tree in frustration and in addition to his throbbing head, now had a stinging pain in his big toe. Hopping about on one foot, he came to the conclusion that the only way he was going to get gas (if there was any left at this point) was by luring the dumb bastards away from the pump and then hauling ass back to fill up before sprinting off down the road again.

He put two fingers to his lips and blew hard. The whistle sounded too loud even to him and as he strapped his shotgun tightly over his shoulder he thought too late about what a stupid idea this was. It worked like a very bad, nauseating charm; the walkers turned collectively in his direction and began to give chase, or their rendition of a chase which was a drunken stagger. Some bumped into each other or got stuck trying to go around a car and Merle briefly thought that if the situation hadn't been so serious that the sight might actually be comical. Preparing himself for what was to come, he set the gas container down and started shuffling to his left towards the woods where he knew he could lose them and then double back. The hard part was going to be making sure that they all followed him far enough away to buy himself some time. He kept up a stream of swearwords and insults as a way of making noise though privately thinking that his tactics were sure to bring every walker for five miles down on him. He began to walk backward, glancing over his shoulder every few feet to make sure that he didn't trip or run into anything. The walkers followed like obedient hounds trailing their master who had the bone except in this instance, he was the bone. After nearly ten minutes he could no longer see the rest stop between the numerous tree trunks and he decided that now was as good of a time as any to book it. He would run forward for a spell and then cut sharply to the right before rounding the herd at a reasonable distance and hope that they wouldn't hear him crashing away through the underbrush.

He turned around and broke into a run, though not quite at full steam just yet. He might need to save his energy for later and he didn't even have that much energy to begin with after living off of canned corn and chipmunks for the past week. He jumped over a small brook and rounded a thick elm tree before dashing back at a reckless speed, clutching his shotgun to keep it from bumping against his belt and making a clinking noise that would be sure to arouse the walkers. When he had cleared the herd he put on an extra boost of speed back to where he had set the gas container down. Scooping it up while still going fairly fast, he jumped and slid over the maze of cars barring his path until he came up right beside the gas pump. As he toggled the nozzle and prayed that gas was still inside, he peered back towards the woods to check for the walkers. Seeing that the pump accepted coins, he hurriedly began searching around for a male body, as it was more likely to have a wallet stuffed in its back pocket. He found one body sprawled over a blood-stained seat and wrinkled his nose at the grueling smell. As he rummaged around, feeling for the shape of a wallet in the body's pockets, he was aware of how very wrong this was on so many levels. Finally, he found what he was looking for and as he popped open the wallet, he dumped the contents of the pouch into his hand. With a small whoop he counted out six quarters and stuffed them haphazardly into the coin slot. A small clink and a suction sound later he was filling up the container as the gas began to flow out of the nozzle.

Muttering to himself about the trouble he had to go through just to fill up a tank he kept his eyes on the woods, tapping his foot anxiously. When the nozzle gave a retraction he let it fall and screwed the cap back onto the container, wishing he had considered that the weight of a full jug of gas might slow him down. As he began to pick his way back out from between the cars a sudden snarl caught his attention and twirling around wildly, he saw a female walker lean out of one of the open car doors and grab onto his pant leg. He panicked, misstepped, and went crashing to the ground, striking the back of his head on the pavement. White dots floated in midair over his eyes as he went for his knife and released the container. The walker threw itself at him, jaws open wide but Merle thrust out with his arm and slid the blade up the walker's nostril. The dead weight sagged onto him and he quickly kicked it off of him as he rolled over, snatched up the container and his bat, and continued running, though now with pain on both sides of his head.

Damn gas better be worth it, he thought darkly as he stuffed his knife back into its sheath. Thinking miserably of the long trek back to the pickup, he slowed down ever so slightly. The walkers weren't following him and so he had nothing to run from—yet.