MILTON

With Merle's burn marks and Milton's bullet wound, the two of them were not making as much progress as they would have liked, staying just off the road so that if the Termites came hauling ass in their trucks, the two of them wouldn't be spotted. Michonne had come in the van, but whether or not she had managed to get Beth there or picked up the rest of the group remained to be seen. By now Milton would have expected to run into someone since he and Merle were only a few minutes behind, but they saw no one and heard no more gunshots, which had Milton deeply worried.

Their pauses were becoming more frequent since Merle had to readjust his pant leg so that it wouldn't rub so harshly against the fresh burn on his calf. Milton asked him if he had considered rolling the pant leg up entirely to solve the problem, but Merle only told him to shut up. With the dropping temperature, even the cool air on his burning skin would develop into a problem. They had stopped yet again for Merle to try and smear some saliva on the brand mark when the foliage ahead rustled in warning.

They drew as one—and out came Daryl, flushed and muddy.

"Dammit, Daryl, I nearly fuckin' killed you, man," said Merle irritably.

"Took me forever t'find y'all and I been runnin' in goddamn circles for ages, so don't get sore at me."

"Where's Andrea?" asked Milton.

"She's fine; I left her with Rick. We caught up to each other 'bout a quarter mile outside've Terminus and I volunteered t'go on foot, see'f I could catch up with y'all. The others were still lookin' for Michonne'n Beth, but with any luck, they'll've found each other."

Daryl glanced around for a moment. "Governor not make it?"

"I did say he was only a meat shield, didn't I?" Merle reminded him.

"Walkers or bullets?"

"Both," said Merle, but he didn't elaborate, for which Milton was grateful because he didn't need Daryl telling everyone else that Milton was mentally unstable and sadistic.

The brothers began contemplating their best strategy for getting back to Groverfield to regroup and resupply while Milton stood by shivering in his wet clothes. He saw a biter lumber past them some twelve yards off and then another and another until—

"Regardless of which way we're going, we need to move," said Milton.

In synchronized movement, Merle and Daryl positioned themselves to fight, but Milton didn't think now was the time, not when they could just lose themselves in the bushes. But even as he thought it, it seemed that much more difficult to accomplish because his lungs were begging him for air. Running seemed as possible as flying.

"Git goin', Miltie," Merle ordered. "We'll join ya when we're finished here."

"I can help."

"We know you can, but you ain't gonna," said Daryl. "We've got this, now go."

He wouldn't make it alone. It was a proven fact. He'd only gotten so far from Woodbury on his own before Andrea had to double back for him. Now, being wounded and suffering from the onset of an asthma attack, Milton wouldn't last fifteen minutes.

Merle and Daryl were backing up heel to toe and Merle stepped on Milton's foot by accident. Milton swore loudly and the biters shifted their attention to him.

"Follow the road home, go!" hollered Merle, banging his rifle against the metal casing on his arm while Daryl whistled through his fingers.

Merle and Daryl's racket had the biters occupied, but for how much longer, Milton didn't stick around to find out. He knew they were doing this to give him a head start because putting on a burst of speed and keeping that pace right now wasn't within Milton's range of capability. He needed to outdistance the biters by at least a half mile. His paper bag was sopping wet, completely useless, but Milton compensated by bunching up his shirt and sucking in what little breath didn't seep out the holes in the fabric. It wasn't much, but it was all he had to work with as he jogged alongside the road, ever mindful of the sounds around him.

Judging by the light, he had maybe four hours before nightfall and he and Merle had already been going for a long time. There was nothing else to do but press on for as long as he had the light. Come five in the evening, he would be out here with nothing to guide him on his way. The thought was enough to give him a small burst of energy that helped him sustain his speed. The throbbing, searing pain in his arm was only secondary to the tightness in his lungs so that every step was a milestone. His entire body ached from brawls and falls.

Ready to use his last bit of strength to climb up a tree for the night, he spotted a familiar pothole in the road and just beyond that, a moss-covered sign that read: Groverfield. He could have sobbed in relief, but he didn't think he had anything left to spare if he wanted to make it inside the gated community. He wended his way up the winding road to the community and darted off the path just out of sight of Groverfield in case the Termites had gotten there first and he had somehow missed them. There was no car to be found and no fresh prints on the ground, so Milton snuck inside, making straight for the burgundy house.

Once inside, he took an immediate left to the guest room, but the door was open and no body lay within. Milton checked how many rounds he had left in his pistol and hammered his hand against the wall to summon any biters from within the house. He felt the soles of his shoes sticking to the hardwood and upon closer inspection, saw that a macabre design of blood droplets painted the floor.

There was an unrealistic, foolish hope in the back of Milton's head that told him that Hershel had survived and gotten up to look for other supplies that weren't in the bag Milton had left at his bedside. Believing such a thing was not only stupid, but unfair because with the blood trail leading out of the bedroom, the likelihood of Hershel's survival was less than zero. He followed it out into the hall and into the lounge where it appeared that Hershel had been searching for something but fallen and dragged himself the last few feet to the umbrella closet.

Running his hand over the polished wood, Milton pressed his ear to it and from within, heard labored breathing. As if the door had some electric current running through it, Milton stepped back instantly. If he opened the door, he'd see that kind, unconditionally loving man's face transformed by the infection and that wasn't something Milton felt he could face, not after everything else that had happened.

It didn't make sense to Milton for Hershel to be in the closet because Hershel had already been shut inside the bedroom. He had a gun too, but some people just didn't have it in them to take that last shot that would end their life, and maybe that was the case for Hershel. Knowing this, his last moments must have been making his way down the hall to close himself into the closet since he believed that it was safer for him to be there when it truth, it was just going to be more difficult putting him down because of the enclosed space.

Milton could wait for the others, assuming that they were still coming. Or he could go get Carl from the panic room and ask for his assistance, but somehow, asking a boy to help him kill Hershel's reanimated form didn't seem like the right thing to do. What did seem right was to do this before Maggie and Beth returned to spare them the agony of having to do it themselves. And it was Milton's fault that Hershel took that knife in the back; it was his responsibility to see this through to the end. Long dead were the days where he believed a part of the person the biter used to be still existed somewhere inside of them. How naïve did he have to be to believe that then? If he had continued following Phillip down that path, he would have been bitten long ago, never made it to Groverfield, never knew Andrea. He would never have had to endure the pains that he had to undergo today. He would never have had to find out what a terrible place the world outside Woodbury's gates had become.

Milton grasped the door handle and threw it open.

/ / /

MERLE

There were no signs of the others, but Merle and Daryl proceeded anyway. They knew the surviving Termites would be on their way here, and the brothers needed to gather what weapons they could and stake out at the highest vantage point in preparation. Andrea had mentioned that she, Milton, and Maggie left Hershel with his gun, so Merle resigned himself to retrieving it from the old man's dead hands—that is, if he managed to opt out. Otherwise, Merle would have to put him down.

They came upon the burgundy house with the door wide open which didn't ring as suspicious because of the hurry in which they had left, but the blood trailing out through the room Hershel had been in caused Merle and Daryl to pull up short before rounding the corner to the hallway. They had just positioned themselves on either side when they heard a sniffling from somewhere further inside.

"Milton?" Merle called into the house.

With no answer, Daryl moved first, fixating his crossbow on the hallway in preparation, but when he lowered it, Merle came out from the other side of the entryway to see what had stopped his brother from shooting.

Milton was on the floor, supporting Hershel's head in his lap while leaning against the wall. Blood seeped out from under him and at first Merle thought that Milton had shat red, but then he realized that the blood was dripping from a stab wound in Hershel's skull. Milton's face had gone lax again so that it was like watching a wax figure with no emotion cry silent tears. He had picked out a spot on the floor and was staring intently at it. Merle knelt down beside him and lifted Hershel's head. Underneath, Milton's shirt had a chunk missing and there, sticking out plain on his forearm was a bite mark. How long ago it had been, Merle didn't know, but he instantly forced Milton to lie flat as he extended the contaminated arm. Daryl took Milton's fingers and tugged, causing Milton to scream in pain and Merle raised his blade to slice through Milton's arm.

"No!" Milton screamed.

"There's still a chance if we take it off now, so shut up," said Daryl, leaning away from the arm so that the blood wouldn't splatter him.

"It's too late, leave it—"

"Quit actin' like a lil' bitch and stay still," Merle spat.

"DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE, MERLE DIXON!" Milton roared. "It's been at least two hours. It's too late."

"Oh, bullshit. I got this; I won't chop off no more'n I need to."

Milton was quick to the draw, pointing his pistol at Merle's broken nose. "I'm done. The infection has already spread and I'd like to die whole, thank you very much."

There was no way of knowing if the infection had spread, if there was even the slightest chance that Milton could survive, but Merle didn't question it further because it was Milton's decision. If he believed himself too far gone, then he was. If he wouldn't even try to save himself for Andrea, it really was too late.

"Merle—" Daryl began.

"Let 'im be," said Merle.

/ /

They didn't try to move Milton as they waited for the disease to consume him, but they did scrounge up the rest of their weapons from the other houses, ordered Carl to remain in the panic room with Judith, and set up shop right there on the burgundy house floor,. Merle didn't want to leave Milton to turn and possibly attack one of the others if they got back before the Termites did. Daryl lit a cigarette and then offered one to Milton who grimaced and shook his head.

"C'mon, man, it's not like one cigarette's gonna make a difference now."

"My lungs have always had a hard enough time processing oxygen flow. I don't want to die choking on cigarette smoke."

"Suit y'self."

Milton turned his attention to Merle. "Tell me something, Merle, when you were given the chance of getting the one person in this fucked up world you know without a doubt you care about out of Terminus, why did you hold back? It should have been the easiest thing in the world for you to do, especially with all the bad blood between us and the fact that I'm the reason Phillip invaded the prison. I mean less than nothing to you, so why did you pass up the opportunity?"

"Tell y'what, Miltie, I'll answer that when I find that it's any've your fuckin' business. Now jus' shut up'n die."

"That won't be long from now, but I need you or your brother to pass on a few words to the others if they make it back."

"Man, I don't owe you shit."

"You owe them and they'll want to know what happened to Hershel. I need you to tell them how he died."

"That's a given, Miltie; he turned and y'stabbed 'im in the head, but not b'fore 'e bitcha."

"There was a Bible at his feet when I found him. That will mean something to his daughters. And I made it painless for him. I held him."

"Touchin'."

Milton shook his head to himself. "Let me try to find the exact words that would convey my feelings towards your reaction—fuck you. You are the world's last and biggest fucking asshole, Merle Dixon, and I hope there's someone still alive to tell you that every day for the rest of your life ."

"You need t'hurry up'n die, son."

"Merle, shut up," said Daryl, speaking at last. "The man's done alright by me. He earned his right t'be here, same's you, now let 'im go out in peace."

"No one can leave this world in peace anymore, only pieces," said a voice from the doorway.

Merle and Daryl reached for their weapons, but it was a pointless move because Gareth, Kara, Tyrone, Billy, Walter, Josiah, and at least four others were already standing there.

"I'd like you all to come outside so that we don't ruin the interior decoration of this lovely house," beckoned Gareth. "Come out slowly, please. All of you."

Merle didn't think Milton would be able to stand, but he did, wobbling and clutching at the wall for support. He followed Daryl and Merle went out last until the three of them were standing on the porch, facing the firing squad.

Gareth beamed at them from a few steps down on the lawn. "It was a good run, but it was always going to end like this. And I have to say, you're the biggest disappointment, Merle. I really thought there was a chance with you. But it is what it is. Walter, do the honors of relieving the Dixons and their friend of their weapons."

Walter moved quickly, snatching away Daryl's knife and crossbow, Milton's dagger and pistol, and Merle's assault rifle, only he went around to Merle's back to pat him down for extra weapons, lifting up Merle's overshirt and tugging at his belt. He then moved out of the way to go and stand behind Gareth. If Merle hadn't been looking, he would have missed it, but Walter's right eye closed a quarter of centimeter—it might have even been a nervous tick or random twitch—but it looked like a wink to Merle and his suspicions were confirmed.

"Tell me, Merle, was this four-eye bitch worth it? Was it worth losing all of your people to save Milton?"

"We didn't lose our people," said Daryl viciously and Merle found a small amount of satisfaction in seeing Gareth's smirk flicker.

The cannibal recovered quickly, however, and continued his taunting. "No matter, it won't take us long to track them down, wherever they are. We already reclaimed Phillip; he's in the truck and he'll make for a filling supper tonight. As for the others, well I can honestly say I never had my meat as young and fresh as Beth."

Merle went for the pistol that had been planted in the back of his belt, drawing it out with his sights set on Gareth's forehead. His finger was on the trigger when Kara shoved Gareth aside and the bullet meant for the leader took out her brains. Walter and Josiah each flew at Billy and Tyrone while Daryl snatched up Kara's shotgun to face the remaining cannibals. Merle threw himself at Gareth, kicking out hard against Gareth's knee so that he could actually feel the reverberations of the bone as it snapped under Merle's impact. Scrambling for where his pistol had fallen when he attacked Gareth, Merle started to straighten up.

Gareth raised his revolver from where he was laying in the grass, smiling at Merle who was dead in his path. He had fired before Merle even had a chance to react—only someone else had reacted between the time Gareth fired and Merle realized what was about to happen.

A body threw itself between Merle and the bullet, shielding Merle's entire torso and as the bullet struck, Merle saw shock, pain, and acceptance register on Milton's face. Milton collapsed, falling forward into Merle's arms and Merle could see where the bullet had entered his back, opposite his heart.

"Y'stupid shit."

Gareth, shocked by Milton's sacrifice, hesitated before firing his second round. Merle didn't wait. He lifted his hand under Milton's armpit and capped off four bullets in Gareth's face. Without pausing to see his kill flop uselessly into the drenched grass, Merle lowered Milton to the ground, placing his hand over the wound on Milton's back as if by covering it, he could reverse its effect.

Milton's cracked glasses were covered in grime and blood, but behind the lenses were two veiled eyes that didn't need the glasses to see anyway, so Merle removed them by carefully lifting them off of Milton's nose with the tip of his blade. The man in his arms was dying in one of the most painful ways possible, a way that movies and books could never properly portray, because who could say what it was like to die? And yet, even as his legs kicked uncontrollably, his bloody hands shook, his lips glistened red as he choked up more blood, and his Adams apple bulged with every swallow, Milton was focused on Merle's face as if he could sense what his dead eyes would be looking at.

What could Merle say to this person? This person who had never wanted or earned his friendship, who resented him for his bullying ways, who hated him for eyeing the woman he loved, who expressed longing to kill him for the sake of people he hardly knew, who had thrown himself in front of Merle to save him? This good person, this decent human being who was now everything Merle once aspired to be. What in the ever-living fuck was he supposed to say to this man?

Milton saved him the trouble. "Andrea?"

"She'll be comin' soon," Merle lied.

"Are y-you there?" Milton whispered as if Merle had not spoken.

"I'm here," said Merle, not sure if Milton meant him specifically or someone else from his past, or even Andrea.

"T-they forgive you," said Milton. "All o-of th-them…f-f-forgive you. They w-want you to-to k-know th-that we all f-f-forgive you."

What the fuck.

The change in Milton's noun usage made Merle wonder if Milton was giving Merle his own blessing of forgiveness, but Milton was losing his grip on reality at double speed, so how could he even know? What if he thought he was talking to Andrea or God-knew who else?

"Would-would you do s-something for m-m-me?"

Merle said nothing.

"D-don't let m-m-me go-un-until it's ov-ov-over," said Milton, his stuttering becoming worse and worse with every word.

Just like a child afraid of the dark, afraid of the unknown realms that only existed when the imagination ran wild, Milton wanted comfort, just someone to be there, someone whose warmth and presence would reassure him that everything would be alright in the morning, that it was okay to go to sleep now.

Merle propped Milton's head up against his knee, struggling to keep him steady with no hand supporting the body as he took his one and only hand from Milton's wound and grasped the dying man's fingers tightly. Joined together, their hands formed a complete circle of scarlet.

"I-I c-c-can't f-feel any-anything..." The effort for him to even form words at this point must have taken the last bit of movement his body had. He was almost gone. "Don't-don't l-let g-g-go."

"I won't."

"Y-you won-won't?" It was a question of hope, of pleading.

"I gotcha," Merle assured him.

Milton's cracked, bloody lips pulled back into a smile but the irony was that he probably didn't even know he was doing it. "Y-yes," he whispered. "I can see you do…"

What in the hell does that mean?

A prickle ran down Merle's neck and he shivered, glancing up at the sun as it peeked out from behind the clouds and winked at him through the early spring branches while leaves of muddy brown settled around him. Then, the sun ducked back behind the clouds, and Merle felt a slight change in the weight against his leg, felt something flee the body in his arms. He dared not look down yet, but as he became aware of the clammy coldness pressed against his hand, one last shot of sunlight burst through the overcast sky in a fleeting second, flashing against his eyes like the full power of the sun reflecting off of the smooth surface of glasses.

Glasses.

No fucking way.

He saw Walter hacking away at one of Gareth's men even as that man tore into his face with his fingernails. Josiah was repeatedly beating his bat into Billy's skull and Daryl was tugging his crossbow out of the last cannibal's dead grip. Merle's brother wiped his nose on his sleeve and then turned around to look at him.

It happened slowly, almost too slow for reality as Daryl's look of exhausted relief turned to panic and then fear. He pointed to Merle, screaming, running…

Merle looked down. Milton's corpse was pulling him closer by their joined grasp to rip into Merle's throat. Merle drove his blade down, straight into the skull just above the eyebrow and the body halted as if paused by remote control, then it fell back down, leaving Milton just as he had been in his moment of death.

Daryl reached him and tried to pull him out from under Milton by shoving Milton off, but Merle swatted at his brother.

"Cut that shit out, I'm fine," he snapped.

"There's the rest of your friends," said Josiah, nodding at the group running through the open gate towards them.

Merle saw her at the head of the group and as she counted heads and realized that there was one missing, she started running. He could see the panic on her face, the dread as she came nearer and all his plans to conceal Milton from her went out the window as she spotted his body and screamed. Merle caught her around the waist, but her momentum carried them forward in a semi-circle as he brought her down to the ground where she sobbed and cradled herself, staring at Milton's lifeless form.

Rick, Hans, Michonne, Maggie, and Beth gathered around them, uneasily at first upon seeing Walter and Josiah, but relaxing when Daryl stood up for the men. Daryl took Maggie and Beth aside to explain how their father had died and they too burst into tears, rushing inside to see his body. Hans didn't follow Maggie at first out of respect for the family affair, but Rick nudged him with his elbow and Hans went in.

"Hershel died while we were at Terminus," said Daryl quietly. "He turned. Milton got back first and went in t'check on 'im. Merle'n me were about two hours behind 'im and we found Milton holdin' Hershel in a pool've blood. Hershel had bit 'im, but I dunno if Milton tried t'stop 'im or if he let it happen. He wouldn't let us take his arm, so we waited, then Gareth and the last've the Termites showed up, tried t'kill us again. Walter'n Josiah helped us take 'em out."

"You said Milton was bitten on the arm," said Michonne. "Why is he bleeding through his chest?"

"Gareth put a bullet right through 'im," said Daryl, shrugging.

"Even though he was already bitten?" Rick questioned.

"Gareth got off a shot," said Merle, finally speaking. "The fucker meant for that bullet t'hit me. Milton moved in front've me, took it right through the back. Otherwise he mightta still been alive."

"He reanimated, didn't he?"

Rick was examining Milton's head where Merle had had to stab him.

"Just for a few seconds," said Merle, now uncomfortably aware of Andrea straining at his arm to crawl to Milton, but he wasn't so sure that it was the best thing for her to see him like that. He'd seen her at her physical worst, but emotionally, she always kept going strong, and allowing Milton's death to finally hit her wasn't something Merle wanted to witness.

"Andrea—"

"Let go of me," said Andrea quietly.

"I don't think—"

"Let go," she repeated.

Merle released her and took the opportunity to clear his face of anything that might prompt the others to ask him if he needed a tissue. It was a day of shameless tears, but none would come for Merle. He wasn't incapable of conjuring them; they just refused to put in an appearance now that he felt he needed them to. He needed to let out this anger, this confusion, this numbing pain from watching these men die.

"Why would he do that?" asked Rick so that no one but Merle could hear him. "And of all people, for you?"

Merle could only focus on Andrea parting Milton's damp bangs with her fingers, so he had no answer and he never would.

*NOTE* I know this outcome may be quite shocking/disappointing/jarring for some of you, as it was for me to write it since Milton is such a sweetheart and I killed off Andrea in my last piece so that it seems that Milton and Andrea will never be together. While contemplating which main character should meet their untimely end, I wrote an alternative ending in three or four chapters in addition to this ending. I'll wait to see what you have to say before considering posting the alternative ending, but know that if I put it up, it will appear as AE Chapter: " ", and that to read the story seamlessly with one ending or the other, go from Chapter 37: Savagery to either Chapter 38: A Good, Decent Person, or AE Chapter 40: Nature's Order, depending on your preference. I hope that made sense. Please don't cry, and stay tuned for the non-alternated ending chapter or two to see how the characters grieve (or don't).

Oh, and in case anyone is interested, I just finished a drawing of Dallas Roberts as Milton and another of Michael Rooker, so if you'd like to see them, visit AllyRae29 on Deviantart and go to my Portrait/Faces gallery.