"Look, I'll come back with y'all tomorrow if I have to, but we need to get Merle out of here now."
Merle cracked his eyes open at the sound of his brother's voice, and he groaned as a throbbing headache settled in behind his eyes.
"I'm sorry man, but I'm not walking the streets of Atlanta with nothing but my good intentions."
That was T-Dog.
Merle shifted a little so he could see what was going on. His brother and the Three Stooges were sitting and standing around a bunch of lines and trash they had set up on the floor.
"That's exactly my point," said Rick. "How do you expect to get your brother to the trucks without those guns?"
"Same way we got here," countered Daryl.
But Merle was suddenly a lot more interested. He propped himself up on his left elbow and said, "Guns? What guns?"
The others gave him a look of surprise. Apparently they weren't expecting him to join the conversation.
Seizing the opportunity to sway Daryl, Rick said, "I dropped a bag of guns in the street yesterday and we want to get them back, but Daryl here thinks we should get you out of the city first."
Merle scrunched his face up at his brother. "Screw that. I ain't hauling my ass out there without weapons. You thinking like a pussy again, Daryleena?"
Daryl frowned at the use of his least favourite nickname, but kept his cool and said, "The delirious man dying of heat stroke ain't getting a vote."
"That still makes it 3 to 1," Glenn shrugged. "So here's what we do..."
With the argument settled, Merle quickly lost interest interest. He was still exhausted and his head still hurt like the day after a bender (which he kept forgetting it was), so he laid back down and shut his eyes.
Then next time he woke up, he was alone with T-Dog and he felt like his skull was going to split open and pour forth something graphic; probably spiders. His vest and pants were back on though. That made him feel a little better.
"Where's Daryl?" he rasped.
The black man had been staring out the window and his head whipped around at the sound of Merle's voice. He bit his lip, shifted uncomfortably, and said, "I don't know if you remember the conversation about the guns or not..."
"I remember," Merle cut in.
T-Dog nodded. "Daryl didn't really want to leave you here, but with that crossbow of his, he was the best choice to back up Glenn."
"Glenn?" Merle's brow rose at that. What exactly was that sneaky bugger doing?
"He volunteered to go out there alone." T-Dog transferred some water from the jug into one of the empty bottles. "Daryl and Rick are spotting him from the alley."
So Daryl wasn't running through the streets with his ridiculous crossbow? Merle swallowed and said, "That kid's got some balls, for a Chinaman."
"He's Korean," said T-Dog in a frosty voice. He handed the bottle to Merle and went back to staring out the window.
Clearly he was done talking.
It was strange...
In the past, the black man's attitude would have set Merle's teeth on edge and he would be laying into the guy. If there's one thing he hated, it was being ignored or dismissed. It pissed him off to no end, and when Merle Dixon is pissed, so is everyone else; his loud, awful mouth made sure of it.
Only Merle wasn't pissed. Hell, he wasn't even a little miffed. He used to be furious at this man to the point that finding out he was dead was a huge disappointment. He had so wanted to be the one to put T-Dog down.
And now he couldn't call up any of his old hatred and rage. It was all gone; an emptiness taking its place.
Death puts a unique perspective on things.
Merle stared at T-Dog, who fidgeted and pointedly refused to acknowledge him. He didn't hate the man anymore, so what was he supposed to feel now?
Guilt?
A hazy memory flitted through his mind of name calling, and shouting, and fighting; and then Merle had a gun his hand as he stared into the terrified eyes of that man now calmly standing there. He'd nearly done it. The thrill of cocaine and power almost had him pulling the trigger on someone who's only crime was not taking his bullshit. He shuddered, finding himself disturbed by the memory. It would have been the first time he ever killed someone, and it would have been so fucking pointless.
He stared at a spot of the floor.
The thought of apologizing left a sour taste in his mouth. T-Dog dropped the keys and left him cuffed to the roof to die... but no... wait... Merle wasn't dead. Was he? They came back for him, didn't they?
Didn't they?!
Before he could put his thoughts and memories in order, a ruckus kicked up in the hall. Some high, annoying voice was hollering in Spanish.
"That the hell?" T-Dog rushed to the door and opened it to usher Rick and Daryl inside.
The two of them were hauling a wriggling Hispanic kid between them who looked like he was about to piss his pants.
When Daryl shoved the kid to the floor, Merle staggered to his feet and moved to one of the office chairs. He didn't know what this was, but he didn't like the spark of ice in Rick's eyes. He didn't want to be in the middle of anything if Officer Friendly was involved. Last time, he ended up dead.
The cop got in the kid's face and said, "Where did your friends take Glenn?"
"Wait... something happened to Glenn?" T-Dog's voice rose as he spoke.
The kid glared at them defiantly and he kept his lips tightly shut, so Daryl gave him a good kick and said, "This little shit's friends tried to steal the guns and nabbed Glenn instead!"
Merle leaned forward and put his head in his hands. Sweet Jesus Daryl could be a loud son of a bitch when he was worked up.
This drew Daryl's attention, and the younger brother bit his thumbnail as he paced the room like a caged wolf. They didn't have time for this... but Glenn didn't have to come and help save Merle either. Without the Korean's help, they wouldn't have made it in time.
As much as he wanted to get his brother back to camp where there was medicine, and shade, and cold water, he couldn't bring himself to ditch someone who had stuck their neck out (however reluctantly) for his kin.
He and Rick plopped the kid in a chair and set to the interrogation, but as willing as Daryl was to get brutal, the cop wouldn't stand for it. All they had were threats, and the cocky little punk kept calling their bluffs.
Merle raised his head to stare at the proceedings.
There was something niggling at his aching mind. Something about Hispanic gangsters in Atlanta...
And then he had it.
Shumpert... the quiet archer from Woodbury's ranks.
Merle was taken back (or forward?) to a quiet, subdued night around a campfire. He had been laid up for weeks, his arm was finally starting to heal, and he had asked what kind of man the Governor was.
Woodbury didn't have walls yet. In those days they were a small, frightened encampment, and were still months away from anything resembling the safety and "normalcy" they would achieve.
The men surrounding him fell silent and looked at each other, uncertain of how to answer.
It was Shumpert who spoke up with a story about what went down just after they found Merle wandering half dead outside Atlanta. The men had gone into the city and came across a gang of Hispanics holed up at an old folks home. The Governor took two of his men to "talk." The rest waited in hidden vantage points in case things went south.
The Governor shot first.
When all the gangsters were dead, he and his men discovered the old folks they were protecting. He had them killed as well.
Merle had tried to hide his unnerve, but Shumpert saw it. He said that it was a tough decision, but the elderly would have died anyway, and the medicine they gathered had since been used to save many of their people's lives; including Merle's.
Snapping back to the present... past... whatever the hell it was, Merle squinted owlishly at the kid. Assuming this was real and none of that had happened yet, what was he supposed to do?
If he kept it to himself, this soap opera would continue for who knows how long and he would keep getting sicker. Not to mention, if it culminated in a shootout, Daryl could get hurt.
If he brought it up and he was right, he'd look like some sort of freak show.
Finally, there was always the possibility that none of this was real and he had turned into a nutcase without realizing it.
Damned if he did. Damned if he didn't.
"Fuck it..." he muttered. He cut into Rick and Daryl's questioning and said, "With all them tattoos and that attitude, you'd think this bitch was in a gang. Didn't realize they were letting little kids in."
"Who the fuck are you supposed to be, the Red Lobster?" the Hispanic spat back.
Daryl put himself between the little shit and his brother. "Merle, you keep your fucking mouth outa this."
"Merle?" sneered the captive. "What kind of hick name is that? I wouldn't name my dog Merle."
Merle should have been furious, but as with T-Dog earlier, the rage wouldn't rise. Instead he smirked. Without his temper, he could admit that was a pretty good burn, made all the funnier by Daryl's spluttering reaction and attempts at murder.
In seconds, the Hispanic was backed into a corner while Rick and T-Dog restrained one fucking pissed off Redneck.
As hilarious as it all was, Merle's head was still killing him and the whole world was pitching like it had decided to hop on a roller coaster through the stars.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, struggled to keep down all the water he drank, and barked, "ENOUGH! For fuck sake people, the bitch and his buddies are hiding old folks. That's why they want the guns. Now would y'all shut the fuck up?!"
You could hear a pin drop in that hot little office.
They all stared at Merle, startled by his sudden, crazy outburst.
Until their Hispanic "guest" shakily said the last thing any of them were expecting, "How the fuck do you know that?"
"Wait... What?" said Rick. He turned on the kid, but was ignored.
The Hispanic was staring between Merle, who still had his head in his hands, and Daryl. Deciding the younger hick was more likely to answer, he repeated, "How the fuck does he know that?!"
Daryl didn't answer. His face was neutral and his eyes were sharp as his hunting knife as he backed away towards his brother. He didn't know what the hell this was, but he did know it was seriously weird.
Rick stepped up to the shaking young man, put on his best 'helpful cop' voice, and said, "He's right? You're protecting old folks?"
Gone was the cocky gangster. It was a wide eyed, frightened teenager who looked back at Rick and tried to muster up the last of his bravado. He stuck his chin out and said, "No way, man. I got no idea what he's talking about."
"Bullshit!" Rick hissed, causing the kid to flinch. "Why the hell would you even try to hide it?"
"We ain't gonna be easy pickings. Just 'case you got a bunch of guns? We got guns too, man, and numbers. You ain't hurting any of our folks."
"Dude." T-Dog shook his head. "Do we look like we wanna hurt a bunch of old people?"
Biting his lip, the kid nodded towards Daryl and said, "You don't, but that culero shot my cousin in the ass with a fucking arrow!"
Daryl was going to retort, but Rick waved him off. The cop sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm starting to think we got off on the wrong foot." He extended his hand. "Rick Grimes. I'm willing to part with some guns, but I want my friend off the bargaining table."
The kid bounced with uncertainty as he stared at the offer of peace. He drew in a breath and closed his eyes. "Shiiiit." Finally he opened them, took Rick's hand in a strong grip, and said, "Miguel. I think... we gotta talk to Guillermo."