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*Hi there! Thank you Ashmo21 and ChaosUmbrella for your comments! Merle is most certainly on the way and I hope you enjoy my characterization of him. Thank you also to those reading and alerting. Have a good day!
Dylan listened to the men whisper just below one of the windows. He'd managed to crack it open about two inches without anyone noticing. He'd intentionally kept Ben away from the window as the discussion their visitors had both angered and disgusted Dylan. One suggested slitting the Murray boy's throats and burning the bodies. Another had a slower, more painful approach. Dylan wondered how so many people were so willing to part with their humanity. Dylan knew he'd never intentionally hurt someone, but if his or especially Ben's life hung in the balance, he was willing to kill another human being if he had to.
The reality of this scared Dylan more than he would have liked to admit. Fortunately, he had not had to resort to violence against another person in order to survive. Not yet. However, he knew the time would come. In fact, as he listened to the tragic fate that the men outside had planned for him and Ben, that time was now at hand.
"What do we do?" whispered Ben.
"We wait until they try to get in here," said Dylan. "Which, trust me, they'll do."
"And then?" asked Ben, his nerves rattled, but still holding his rifle steady. "Will we at least talk to them?"
"We don't need to," whispered Dylan. "I heard everything they said. It's either us or them, Ben."
Ben looked down at the floor. "But we can't fire our guns. Walkers will hear."
"We might have to take that chance," said Dylan, approaching Ben. "Look Ben I can handle the…the shooting. Just keep your rifle handy in case something happens to me, okay?"
Ben's face was painted with concern. "If something happens to you? I…okay. Okay Dyl," he said, swallowing back any fear he had. "I'll be ready."
The men outside engaged in a short, yet heated argument regarding how they would get into the pub before they agreed upon breaking the window and going in through the stockroom.
"Idiots," said Dylan, shaking his head. "Where'd these dummies learn to whisper? A helicopter?" He nodded to Ben. "Get behind the bar. I don't want you coming out until my signal and do not fire that rifle unless it's absolutely necessary, you hear me?"
Ben hustled behind the bar without argument. He got down on one knee and waited. He flinched when he heard the sound of glass breaking. Dylan stood just to the left of the window as the first man tried coming inside. Dylan saw a mop of scraggy blonde locks and wasted no time slamming his gun down upon it. The man made no sound before he lost consciousness. Dylan used all of his strength to drag the man in through the window. He silently scolded himself due to his lack a cogent plan. What the hell was he going to do with the three men once he'd dragged them all inside?
He dropped him on the floor, all the man's dead weight landing with a thud. From the outside, it appeared as if the blonde man simply fell as he was trying to crawl in through the window, causing the other two males to snicker at their friend's mishap.
"Have a nice trip, Nicky?" one of them whispered through giggles.
Dylan made quick work of searching the unconscious man for any useable weapons. He unsheathed a large hunting knife, and turned it over in his hand, the metal gleaming. "Well you're not totally useless are you, Nicky?" asked Dylan. He looked down at the unconscious man and held the knife steady in his hand. 'Just a quick slash," he thought to himself. 'He'll never even know and no walkers will hear.' He struggled as the sound of his heart thrummed in his ears. It felt as though he were having an out of body experience, watching himself cut someone's throat. The man's sun-bronzed neck indicated a strong pulse. Dylan's breathing became rapid. He raised the knife, but stopped short when he heard an argument ensue outside the window.
"Who the hell are you?" one of the men asked.
Dylan heard the raspy drawl of a man quite obviously not with the intruders' crew. "Ya'll best take your shit and leave them boys alone," he said.
"Or what?" asked one of the men.
"Well, keep standin' there mouthin' off if ya really wanna find out ya dumb son of a bitch," said the mystery man.
Dylan approached the window and carefully looked out. The two intruders were standing across from a much larger, extremely imposing looking individual. His hair was kept nice and short, like Liam Murray used to wear his own. He was well built, possibly in his forties or fifties from what Dylan could gather. His clothing consisted of well-worn black jeans, a t-shirt, leather vest, and large black boots. He cocked his head to the side and blinked twice upon looking at the man's hands. Was he missing one of them? Dylan thought maybe he was seeing things, but upon closer observation he confirmed it. The mystery man was clearly missing his right hand.
Dylan quietly watched the scene unfold. The two intruders, one very tall and lanky, the other short but stocky, aimed their guns at the mystery man. "Looks like we can mouth off all we want, shithead. We're the ones with the guns," said the short man.
"Hey," said the mystery man. "I think instead of standing here chatting with me, you two slack jawed idiots might try to look for your friend. He's been gone awhile, hasn't he?"
"Never mind about him," said the tall man, raising his gun a little higher. "Why don't you hit the old dusty trail, man? Let us take care of business."
"Business? Oh you mean robbin' and killin' two kids? I don't think so," said the mystery man. "And don't tell me when its time to leave."
"Oh yeah? Well what would you do, huh? Them little bastards found this prime piece of real estate. Got everything we need here. We're frikking starving and need shelter. We'll make it quick. Blow their brains out. Clean and easy," said the tall man.
"Maybe keep the younger one for awhile though," said the short man, snickering. "Ain't had a woman in ages. That little guy would be fun. Just close your eyes and ya won't even know the difference!"
They both laughed uproariously. Dylan felt sick to his stomach at the thought of anyone doing something so disgusting to Ben. Dylan knew they'd have to accomplish their sick acts over his dead body.
"Besides, we've been tracking those two little pricks since the waffle house near 74. We earned it, asshole," said the tall man.
The mystery man scoffed. "Ya didn't earn nothin. I've been following you three dumb bastards for a week and you had no idea."
The two intruders looked warily at each other.
Dylan considered going outside to help the mystery man, however, he didn't know what his intentions were either. He could just as easily show up to "save" the Murrays, and gain their trust only to turn around and rob them and kill them himself. He decided to let the three of them duke it out. Maybe they'd all kill each other in the process and save Dylan any extra effort.
"Like I'd believe anything you said, you old bastard!" hollered the tall man. He approached the mystery man and held his pistol right against his head. "You best get out of here or we can burn your body in the same pit as them boys," he said angrily.
The mystery man giggled. "You know, you should never place a gun right up against someone, stupid. 'Cause they can always do this," he said, grabbing the tall man by the wrist. Dylan heard the man's wrist bones snap before he howled and the gun fell from his limp hand. The mystery man then slammed his right foot into the tall mans knee. Dylan winced as he saw the bones separate in the man's legs. He fell to the ground, groaning in agony.
Without missing a beat, the mystery man picked up the tall mans gun and tossed it towards the very shocked and dumbfounded short man, who fumbled with his own gun, only to drop both weapons on the ground. Quick as could be, the mystery man slammed his left fist into the short man's nose. Fresh blood spilled from his face as he fell to his knees. The mystery man wrapped his left arm around the short man's head and whispered something in his ear. The man suddenly began to struggle wildly before the mystery man quickly and forcefully broke his neck.
The short man fell to the ground on his face. The tall man squealed and crawled along the ground. "No! No! Please!" he screamed, as the mystery man unsheathed a large hunting knife. "Oh God no!" said the tall man, trying to stand on his good leg to no avail. The mystery man straddled him, breaking his other wrist. The tall man panted and begged for his life.
Dylan jumped when he felt Ben come up beside him. "What's going on?" he asked, trying to look outside. "Jesus Ben I said stay put," he said, grabbing his brother and shielding his eyes; just at the mystery man slashed the tall man's throat. He held Ben to him and covered his ears as the man's gurgles slowly faded away.
Dylan watched in horror as the mystery man stood and turned around. He locked eyes with Dylan. "Ben get back behind the bar and keep your rifle ready," ordered Dylan, as they ran from the stockroom, nearly tripping over the unconscious blonde man on the floor.
"Who was that guy?" asked Ben.
"Not sure if we want to find out," said Dylan. He'd never seen such a large person move so swiftly and gracefully before. In addition, he attacked with the force of four men. He'd never known anyone so dangerous, save for his father. However, his father he could trust. This man did not share the same distinction.
Dylan heard him enter through the window, stopping presumably to inspect the blonde man, Nicky. Satisfied that the man was sufficiently unconscious, he entered the bar area, where he saw only Dylan, holding a Beretta with a surprisingly steady grip. "You okay kid?" was all he asked. Dylan was taken aback by the sincerity and softness in his voice, but quickly recovered, remembering that this was a man who just killed two grown men in the time it would take to pour a cup of coffee.
Dylan backed up a step. "I'm fine," he said cautiously. He contemplated firing on the man, but something was holding him back. He certainly didn't trust the newcomer, but part of him was fascinated as well.
"Where's the other boy?" asked the man.
Dylan shook his head. "It's just me."
The man chuckled. "Boy I already know there are two of ya. I was trackin' the three idiots that came here for over a week. When they set upon ya'll, I followed along. I know for a fact there's two of ya." He came closer to Dylan, who circled around, his back now to the stockroom. "All right, I get it. You want to protect your little friend. I get that. I'm not tryin to be no trouble to you boys, I promise. I'm Merle. Merle Dixon."
Dylan studied Merle carefully. "Dylan," he said. "Dylan Murray."
"Okay Dylan Murray. Nice makin' your acquaintance. What's your friend's name?" asked Merle. "The one hidin' behind the bar," he asked, with raised eyebrows.
Dylan could see Ben out of the corner of his eye. He watched the boy go to stand up. Dylan cleared his throat. "Like I said, it's just me." Ben crouched back down.
Merle nodded. "Just you. Okay then. Fair enough." Merle said, strolling around the inside of the pub, noting the safety measures the boys had taken. "Nice job settin' up in the pub. Good choice. Most people would have set up in one of them houses but I'd have chosen the pub too."
"Yeah, didn't help much though. Those guys got access through the stockroom easily enough," said Dylan, silently scolding himself.
"Eh, don't beat yourself up too much, kid," said Merle. "Next time you'll know to nail up some two by fours around the windows, that's all. Hell, you've survived this long. Ya must be doin' somethin' right."
Dylan nodded, never taking his eyes off of Merle, who sat down at one of the pubs large, upholstered chairs. He reminded Dylan of someone out of a movie, like some badass character Charles Bronson would have played. He had a strange, charismatic flair, which was magnetic yet terrifying. "Hmmm, comfy," Merle said appreciatively as he put his feet up on another chair. "Well Dylan Murray, I think a much more important matter needs to be taken into consideration right now."
"What's that?" Dylan asked.
Merle raised an eyebrow. "What you gonna do with the asshole that's lying on the floor of the stockroom? Have ya thought about that yet?"
Dylan gulped. "That plan is a bit of a work in progress."
Merle chuckled. "Ya got that right. If I were you I'd take care of him before it's too late," he said before extracting a cigar from the inside pocket of his leather vest. He held it between his teeth as he searched for a lighter. "Damn," he said under his breath, as his left hand padded at all of his pockets. "Now, where the hell did I leave that thing?"
Dylan had been so focused on Merle that he did not notice that Nicky had woken up. He suddenly felt an arm wrap around his neck and a large hand grabbing his wrist, trying to wrestle the gun away from him.
Merle sighed and watched. "Told ya. Too late."
Dylan knew it would be stupid to fire his weapon anyway, so he intentionally dropped the gun, remembering Nicky's hunting knife tucked carefully into the hip pocket of his fatigue pants. Ben had now emerged from the bar, pointing the rifle at the struggling pair.
"Ben stand down!" ordered Dylan, ramming the back of his head into the Nicky's face. The man stumbled backwards momentarily. He watched in shock as fresh blood dripped into his cupped hands.
"You broke my nose you little shit!" he roared, charging back towards Dylan, who, with a very small movement, dodged Nicky, who stumbled forward upon not making contact with his target. He turned his heels to face Dylan again, taking three swings, which Dylan, with almost no effort at all, avoided.
"What the hell?" Nicky asked. He went to grab the Beretta, now on the floor. Dylan only kicked it away with one swift movement. Merle picked it up and casually placed it on the table before folding his arms and watching the scene before him with amusement in his eyes. Nicky angrily charged, only to slam himself right into the bar, as Dylan once again avoided him. Nicky rushed Dylan twice more, successfully ramming himself into a set of barstools and next into a wall. He got up off the floor with great effort, panting in exhaustion.
Merle, who'd finally found his lighter, sat puffing on his cigar and chuckling at the show that was being put on. "Now this is way more entertainin' than television, I tell you what," he said, his shoulders shaking in laughter. "What's that Karate shit you doin anyway, kid?"
"Not Karate. It's called Ju Jitsu," said Dylan, watching Nicky carefully.
"Ju Jitsu," repeated Merle. "Try sayin that five times fast when you're half in the wrapper, huh?" he said, laughing heartily.
Nicky sneered at Dylan, blood now seeping into his short beard, staining it red. He caught sight of Ben behind the bar, eyeing him with rage in his eyes. "Bet that little shit can't dodge me," he said, nodding to Ben.
Ben kept his rifle aimed at the man. "Ben," warned Dylan. "Don't."
"Yeah Ben," taunted Nicky. "Why dontcha put that thing down, you little snot? I bet you don't even know how to use it." He walked closer to the bar. "Do you?" he whispered. He got up even closer, staring into Ben's grey eyes. The boy didn't give Nicky the satisfaction of withering under his gaze. He barely blinked while staring back at Nicky. The man broke gaze and paced a few steps, running his fingers through his hair.
Suddenly he leaned back on the bar, his demeanor changed. "Why we fightin' anyway boys?" he asked, his voice suddenly soft.
"You was the one fightin'," said Merle. "You sure showed them barstools a thing or two though," he said as he exhaled a puff of smoke.
"Shut up," spat Nicky, noting Merle carried no weapon that he could see, and he still had no idea what happened to his two friends outside, therefore he was assumed to be a minimal threat. "I'm talkin' to these boys." He leaned his elbows on to the bar and put all of his focus on Ben. "Why don't you come live with me and my men, little one? Got lots of protection, you know," he cooed. "Don't that sound nice?"
Dylan walked behind the bar and stepped in front of Ben. "He isn't going anywhere with you," he said darkly.
The man scoffed. "Well even if he don't, me and my boys will just go back to our camp and tell 'em all about the sweet deal you got goin' here. We'll see how nice ya'll are when I bring twelve more men back. Yeah, I'll bet you'll be real welcoming' then."
Merle giggled. "Oh, about your boys. They's um, what's the word I'm lookin' for? Oh yeah…dead," he said, making himself laugh hysterically.
Nicky looked suspiciously between Merle and Dylan. "Is that right?" he asked Dylan. The young man nodded.
"Yep," Merle interjected. "Take a look outside for yisself if ya don't believe me. Ones got a broken neck and the other has a sharp lookin' Columbian necktie. I'll tell ya, those two sissies were about as tough to take out as them barstools," he said, cracking himself up again.
Dylan watched as Nicky looked down at the bar, tensing in pure rage. "Well," he whispered, his hand settling near a thick glass ashtray. "Isn't that somethin'?"
"And if you think YOU'RE gonna get outta here alive, then you even dumber than ya look," said Merle, this time without any hint of humor in his voice. A harsh, cold silence tore through the air. All eyes were on Nicky as the man struggled to regulate his breathing.
"So I'm a dead man, am I?" asked the man, now considering his options.
Dylan watched him intently. He knew what happened to the last two men that crossed Merle's path. There was not a doubt in his mind that Merle could easily kill Nicky. And, as he thought about it, that would be the best path to take. After all, if the man were allowed to go free, he'd surely go back to his camp and tell everyone all about the little town and how the two other men met their end. Soon, their safe haven would be crawling with angry, sadistic men out for revenge. No, he'd never allow that to happen, especially to Ben. He thought of Jack Dobbs. That man was granted trust where it was not deserved, and it got his parents and siblings killed. Nicky was just another Jack Dobbs. Dylan set his jaw, feeling the anger build with every beat of his heart. Merle was right. Nicky would not make it out of the pub alive. But Merle wouldn't be the one to kill him.
"Hey kid," said Nicky, looking at Dylan. "Pour me a drink would ya?"
Dylan shared a glance with Merle. The large man nodded at him knowingly.
Nicky pounded on the bar. "Hey! I'm talkin' to you boy! You don't need that asshole's permission. Now pour me one," he hissed.
Dylan considered for a moment. "All right," he said, softly. "What's your poison?"
Nicky grinned, showing dirty, yellowing teeth framed by a bloodstained beard. "That's the sprit! I want top shelf. I don't care much what it is."
Dylan nodded and looked at Ben as he turned. His older brother's expression turned his spine to ice. He gripped his rifle and looked down at his sneakers. 'Don't look up until it's over,' he told himself. 'Don't you dare look up.'
Dylan extracted a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label from the shelf. He held it up and looked at Nicky. "Top shelf enough for you?"
"Dang," said Nicky appreciatively. "Good choice. Maybe when my men come here and take over this place, you can be my lil bitch," he said, grinning. "You can get me drinks and little man over here can boost the morale!" he said, laughing heartily.
Dylan calmly took a rock glass and filled it with the brown liquid. Nicky eyed it with desire. Dylan slid the glass towards Nicky who turned the glass over in his hands, admiring the alcohol inside. "Bottoms up," he said, winking at Dylan. He tipped the glass and began taking a long pull from it.
Dylan wasted no time. He quickly removed the knife from his pocket and plunged the sharp blade just under Nicky's chin. The glass fell from Nicky's hands and he looked right at Dylan's with wide, bloodshot eyes. His body twisted and contorted in its final throes. Dylan held the knife firmly as he watched the life fade from the man. A life he was responsible for ending. Nicky fell face first on to the bar after Dylan swiftly extracted the blade.
Ben cringed before he looked up at his brother. Dylan stood, trying to focus his eyes. Everything was blurry and fuzzy, like after he killed the walker with the axe the day before. However, this feeling was different. Dylan felt nausea and vertigo. His skin suddenly felt clammy. He tried to look at Ben but found he could not. Instead, he chose to look into the steely gaze of Merle Dixon. "Nice job kid," the large man said, standing up and moving to the bar. He grabbed the bottle of Johnnie Walker and poured himself a glass. After taking a long pull, he set the glass back down on the bar and looked at Dylan. "Don't worry. The first time's always the toughest. Next one will be a lot easier."