Chapter Sixty-Eight: Lapin

**Milton**

After about three hours of sitting in the infirmary with Andrea, uncertain as to why they shoved him inside it with Merle as an armed guard, a tall, wavy haired man stepped inside like some kind of leader, followed by three others who were all carrying rifles, save for the youngest Dixon who had in his hands his crossbow.

"Get up," the wavy haired man commanded.

"Please don't kill me," Milton pleaded, putting his hands up.

"They're not going to kill you, Milton," Andrea said, struggling to get her crutches and get to her feet. "They just want to talk. Don't you, Rick?"

The man eyed Milton quietly. "We'll see what kind of story he has to tell us."

Stepping forward the youngest Dixon grabbed hold of Milton's shirt at the back and hoisted him almost off his feet, shoving him ahead of the group out into the night.

It was all so very ominous.

Outside in the clear, Milton was pushed to his hands and knees on the cold, dewy grass of the lawns and struggled to turn in time to face the barrel of a heavy duty hand gun, aimed directly at a point between his eyes.

He closed them and felt like crying.

This was it. All that effort and he failed the people of Woodbury.

See Milton? This is the reason why you need to be handfed, you suck at everything macho and manly. You are most definitely not a heroic type.

"Okay, get talking." Rick ordered gruffly.

Opening his eyes, he stared down the barrel of the pistol. With it aimed at him, Milton found words eluded him, his mouth moved, but nothing came out.

"You're scaring him, Rick!" Andrea shouted. "Put it away."

Rick cocked the hammer of the gun he held and Milton felt all blood drain from his head, he was either going to throw up or pass out.

"Get talking," Rick insisted softly.

Oh God, he couldn't remember the word for…what was…

His vision blurred and it faded to grey, then black.

..-~-..

..-~-..

He was drowning!

Struggling to swim, he sat upright, finding himself in the middle of a group of people, Andrea at his head, splinted leg out straight at her side, hands gripping his face.

"Are you okay?" She asked him.

"I was trying to do the calculations," he whispered to her. "On how likely it would have been to stumble across your group here."

"What?" She asked.

"Clearly the likeliness was too phenomenal to actually put into mental calculations," he went on.

Around him the others were still gathered, weapons at rest. He spied Michonne, Andrea's friend, eyeing him quietly, hands free of a weapon.

He knew she carried hers on her back anyways.

"Did I faint?" He asked, embarrassed to have such a reaction in front of so many people.

"Yeah, you did."

He flushed. "He had a gun to my head."

"I know."

"Did they laugh?"

"No."

Milton struggled to his feet slowly, aware he was being watched by several pairs of sharp eyes.

"I, uh…Philip wasn't always like this," he began nervously, addressing Rick, who was obviously the leader. "He was good man."

"We don't need to hear you singing his praises, we just want the reason why you're here," Rick growled.

"This is a narrative, do you mind?" Milton asked. "It explains everything, but you need patience." He cleared his throat lightly. "I'm in no way condoning murder, that may be what people have resorted to in these times, but I'm not a killer. I can't even squish an ant without analyzing the repercussions, not just to his little ant colony but to the ecosystem of which that ant was a part of." Suddenly curious as to what the repercussions of the biters on the ecosystem was, he patted himself down for his little notebook and quickly jotted a note to himself to look into that at a later date.

"What are you doing?" One of the gun wielders demanded. She was a black woman with skin perhaps a shade or three lighter than Michonne's, but she carried her gun like she meant it.

"I'm just writing a note to myself," he explained. "On the effects of—"

Finding his notebook snatched away from his hands by the youngest Dixon, Milton frowned as the man pawed through the book quickly, before handing it back. Daryl shook his head at Rick.

"Go on with your story," Rick stated firmly.

Eyeing the heavy pistol which hung at Rick's side, Milton adjusted his glasses. "Philip was a good man and somewhere inside him I know he's still that good man, but he's been through a lot."

"We all have, son," an older man grunted.

Milton eyed him and the stump that used to be his leg with a curious twitch to his brow. He'd have to ask the old man about it later.

"Yes, I am well aware of what the world is like these days." He tucked his notebook away and went on. "Philip's put so much into finding your group, tracking every last one of you down and annihilating you that he's neglected the fact that our people aren't capable of feeding themselves. We have bankers and Human Resources specialists, we don't have hunter-gatherers who can catch us our daily meals. With this neglect, a majority of Woodbury – the ones who need the nourishment the most – have come to find themselves facing starvation. By my estimates they have two-three weeks tops before they begin to feel the pinch, as it were. I'm not here to help you kill anyone, I need to make that perfectly clear, I'm here to ask for your help in feeding my people."

"Feed the people of Woodbury?" Rick asked.

"Yes."

"Same people who were screaming for Merle and I to tear each other apart?" Daryl demanded.

Milton swallowed thickly. "A barbaric sport Philip invented, I must admit, but not everyone at Woodbury approves of it, I can assure you. We have the old, the infirm, the youth, they are the ones I'm pleading for."

"So you've thrown yourself in with the infirm, Milt?" Merle teased.

"Merle, I can assure you, this is a very grave matter. We have children too young to do much but mess their diapers and the elderly waiting to die, don't they deserve the dignity of humanity?"

"The elderly wear diapers too, right?" Merle shot back.

Sighing lightly, Milton decided to ignore Merle for the moment. The man always liked to give him a hard time.

Everyone eyed Rick.

It seemed Milton's assumption that the man was in charge was correct.

But then Rick turned to the military man, who up until this point, remained passive and silent.

The two held a quiet conversation amongst themselves.

Milton suddenly had a thought. This place may have been inhabited when Rick and his people showed up, maybe the military man was perhaps in charge of this group. Though there seemed to be a flawless blending of the two.

Curious to say the least.

He wondered how many of the others were ex-military personnel.

A couple of the others wandered over to get in on the conversation and soon Milton was left with Andrea and one of the – as of yet to be – unnamed members of the group.

He glanced over at Andrea, who was thus far his best chance for pleading his case in the event they decided to kill him.

She was quietly sitting at his side, trying to hear the conversation.

"They're going to kill me," he muttered to her dejectedly. "This was my gravest mistake."

"They won't kill you, Milton," she said with a sigh.

"They'll kill me and I'll have accomplished nothing. Why did I even leave Woodbury? This compassion for people I've developed from a young age is going to be my end. I blame my mother for this. Freud would have a field day with that admission, but there you have it."

"You'll be fine, Milton. You need to just breathe, okay?" Andrea reassured him, gripping his hand with hers.

Milton offered her a force smile, but dragged his hand from her grip. "I'll be better once they stop pointing their guns at me."

"It happens."

"I'm still trying to wrap my head around the theory of large numbers. That I came across your group, the second place I came upon, it's…the science is just impossible on figuring that one out."

"You got lucky."

"Luck has nothing to do with it, I'm afraid. There is no luck, no destiny, we are just running around the universe like chicken's with our head's cut off, bumping into misfortune through random happenstance. I'd much rather be back in Woodbury—"

"Watching people starve to death?" Andrea broke in. "That's not you, Milton. I'm glad you came and that you made it safely."

"Yes, well, don't get too attached to me," he replied. "What is this place anyways? A church? No…it's a monastery? A convent, maybe?"

"Convent."

"Ah, we're among nuns, hm? Well, I'll keep my opinions on the existence of God to a minimal. Did the nuns make it?"

"Some of them, yeah."

Milton glanced around at the women huddled by Rick, there weren't many, a handful less than the men, but he supposed a few of them might be nuns. Nuns with guns, interesting.

The group huddle broke up and Rick moved across the lawns to kneel before Milton.

"Okay, here's what's going to happen, you're going to give us everything you've got on the Governor's military tactics, how his men move, where they go, how they get there, in return we'll see what we can do to help your elderly and young. Deal?"

Milton licked his bottom lip. "I won't fire on anyone from Woodbury, including the Governor. You want a war, you're on your own, but yes I'll help you in whatever ways I can if it'll liberate the people of Woodbury."

"Milton pretty much didn't do anything back in Woodbury," Merle broke in. "He was more of the mascot."

"Thank you, Merle. As always your observations of my person are cruel and just a little uncalled for," Milton replied.

"Sorry, Milt, just thought they should know what they're buying into when they adopt you," the bigger man clapped his hand on Milton's shoulder hard and grinned. "Welcome to the convent, little man."

"Merle, you're in charge of watching him," the military man commanded with a sly grin.

"Why me?"

"Because you seem to be fond of him," the Cajun returned easily, clapping Merle on the shoulder in the same hard fashion Merle had clapped Milton's own shoulder.

"Fuck you, Cajun, I ain't got time to watch shit harden."

"Says the man who yesterday – as I recall – was sitting under a tree trying to tie his bootlaces."

Merle scowled deeply. "Yeah, I was under that tree because some dumb assed Cajun bet me he could climb to the top of it. I was waiting for him to fall on his ass."

The Cajun laughed. "Won that bet, didn't I? Just watch him, yeah?"

"Fine."

"He can have my cot in the shed." The military man said, turning to Milton with a studying look, before sticking his hand out. "Lieutenant Vancoughnett," he greeted. "Try not to cause us grief, yeah?"

Milton took the offered hand gingerly. "Milton Mamet."

"Nice to meet you formally, I wasn't joking around though, lapin, you try anything to harm these people and I'll shoot you in both knees and leave you for the uggies at the gate."

"I was going to say it's a pleasure," Milton trailed off uncomfortably. "But, uh…yeah…"

The Lieutenant nodded once to him and walked off.

Daryl paused by him, crossbow in hand. "I don't fuck around, you piss me off and I'll put a bolt in your brain, dipshit."

"Nice to meet you," Milton returned nervously taking a step back, closer to Merle. "I can already see the family resemblance."

..-~-..

..-~-..

"You can sleep here," Merle ordered shoving Milton onto the cot nearest the door.

Milton took in the state of the shed with a slight sneer.

He wasn't really used to…well roughing it.

"Where do you…um…where are your facilities?"

Merle blinked at him. "There's an outhouse behind the church, tucked in the corner of the yard."

"Ugh, really? That's…okay, I brought some wet wipes, so…okay."

Beaming, Merle clapped Milton on the shoulder again. " Welcome to the frat house, Milt. Leave your pussy at the door."

**The Governor**

Before him was a legion of pennies set out on the table.

He had been organizing them all day, putting them in orderly rows.

Something about the way they had caught the sun just before it set was calming to him, he liked to think it was the warm tones of light that danced off the copper coins that put him at ease, but more honestly it was the order he liked best.

A knock at his door and Martinez entered, boots thumping over the wooden flooring of his home.

"Did you find him?" Philip asked.

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"He must have slipped off during the night."

Removing another coin from the glass jar he had gathered them in, Philip set it on the table head's down with a hard 'tick', sliding it into place among the other coins. "Because he was put on the wall?"

"We were shorthanded," Martinez stated.

"So you put Milton Mamet on the back wall?" Philip asked again, ensuring the coin was in the perfect spot before reaching for another.

"He was looking to help out in whatever way he could."

"And who gave that order again?"

"I did."

"You made a mistake," he pointed out.

"It won't happen again."

Looking up from the coins, the Governor flashed a kind grin to the man behind him. "I'm not mad at you, Martinez. I'm disappointed in Milton, abandoning us when we needed him the most." He carefully screwed the lid of the penny jar back into place and picked it up. "Milton was our brain trust, without him we're going to struggle for a while, but we'll bounce back." Gripping Martinez' shoulder with his free hand, Philip beamed at him. "We always bounce back, don't we?"

"Yes, sir."

Bringing the jar of pennies up, Philip slammed it hard against Martinez' head, dropping the man's body to the ground and sending glass and pennies into the air around them.

Dropping on top of Martinez, the Governor gripped the lid of the jar where shards of glass remained attached and gouged at the man's throat, ripping and tearing his jugular with an animalistic ferocity.

As Martinez bled out in his unconscious state, Philip dragged his body over to the easy chair in the corner of his home and propped it up.

He could use the company.

The Cajun Dialect

Lapin - Rabbit