Disclaimer: As always, I do not own The Walking Dead, nor Merle Dixon.

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The car lurched forward slowly and Merle glanced across to Michonne. Her gaze was tight and focused, facing the road determinedly and not even so much as blinking, but he could see the tell tale signs of strain by the way her eyes narrowed slightly, the way her lips parted minutely as she tried to ignore the pounding against the roof and the sides of the car. The thud of numerous hands slapping and clawing and the occasional slam of a body hitting the cars frame echoed dully inside, and as he looked away from her to the road in front, he couldn't help but chuckle.

They were surrounded by the undead, the car idling noisily and the loud music blaring from the stereo herding all the undead assholes along with them. He'd planned to do this alone and he still felt a tick of irritation that she had demanded to come along with him. He wasn't stupid. She'd kept at him, needling him-trying to find a weakness and when she'd found it, she'd fucking pounced, much to his ire and disgust.

He glanced at her again, watching as her head turned slowly towards him. He had to speak up so that she could hear him over the loud noise blasting through the car. "You got the plan now, right?" he asked.

She inclined her head briefly, "I got the plan."

"Fuck it up an' you're on your own. You got that?" He saw her nod her head again slowly, and he gave her a small tight lipped smile. "Not too late to back out."

"I'm not going to back out. I got the plan, Merle," she repeated slowly, and he watched as her eyes glowered at him warningly.

"Good." He rested his prosthetic arm across the steering wheel as the car slowly coasted along, and swatted at his forehead with his hand. He wondered how exactly this was going to go down. He was going to take out as many Woodbury bastards as he could, and of course, the Governor. Might even be easier with Michonne out at his back, covering his ass.

He sighed and tugged the handgun from the waist of his pants. He leaned forward a little, reaching across and nudging her shoulder with it, smirking as she stared at the gun wide eyed. He prodded her with it again, "Take it, ya gonna need it," he rasped harshly.

"I don't need a gun."

"Ain't gonna offer again. I said take it. You gonna need it if shit goes down an' you go get yer ass corned. No big assed sword gonna save you in a tight spot."

She reluctantly palmed the gun from him, slipping it at her own waistband.

Merle huffed at the rigid little expression on her face and how she turned to stare out of the passenger window at the biters. She jumped a little when he slowed the car down again and one of them slapped at the window, dirty ragged fingers trying to slip through the slight gap. He couldn't help but laugh, "He likes ya," he grinned widely.

Michonne narrowed her eyes at him and shook her head.

"Ain't long now Michonne," he stared at the road, suddenly swallowing at the thick lump forming in his throat. His heart started to beat a tattoo in his chest and as he stiffened in his seat, leaning forward, he said abruptly, "We're here."

She reached across to the back seat and dragged out his rifle, placing it next to him. Her hand swatted at the gun at her waist, her eyes drifting to the katana propped next to her. Her fingers slid across the scabbard and she gripped it tightly, alertness wired into her lithe frame, watching his every move.

"Now!" he shouted as he rammed his door open, his eyes sweeping across to her, seeing that her door was thrown wide open. He grabbed at the rifle and threw himself out, rolling across the thick grass. Taking a second, he glanced back across to her, watching as she jumped to her feet and strode quickly over to him, graceful as a cat.

He nodded to her, gesturing with one finger to the buildings to their front. His eyes drifted past her, and he watched as the car rolled to a slowing stop, the biters herding all around it. He ran with the rifle gripped tight in his hand, listening as the loud music faded behind them, the nimble boot tread as Michonne ran alongside him.

He paused at a doorway, the metal twisted and gaping, and he ushered her away, gesturing again with his hand. She stared at him and mouthed quietly, 'Are you sure?' and he nodded at her impatiently, waiting until she moved out of sight before he grasped the door with his hand and thrust himself into the semi-darkness.

The building was large, dimly lit by a few cracked windows with dirt smeared panes, the sudden heavy musty smell acrid in his nostrils. His eyes roamed quickly as he ran, noting the position of the windows, viable entrances and exits. Pausing at one window, he shouldered the rifle, watching as he saw two wannabe Woodbury soldiers pass his line of vision. He peered awkwardly through the scope, his eyes tightening in concentration and he fired two quick shots, one taking a man down with a head shot, the next taking the other in the shoulder, winging him and making him land in a tumble of arms and legs in the deep grass.

Merle didn't even think, he just lunged for the next window, peering intently through his sights, popping two more precise bullets into another two men, his mouth fixing into a determined fine line as he saw those hit the ground heavily. Undead came surging through the grass, and he saw them eagerly twist towards the bodies on the floor. He watched as Michonne crept through the thick long grass behind them, saw as she took down a man quickly with her sword, before ducking under cover again.

He ignored the anguished cries of men and bullets, shut out the rending sound of growling biters as he raced back across to the first window.

Taking sight again, he peered through the scope, popping more bullets into the Governors men. He allowed himself a grim satisfaction as he watched those men die-they didn't deserve pity, they didn't even deserve any more thought, and he dismissed them as if they were nothing more than a splatted bug. He caught sight of Michonne, briefly saw the frustrated expression on her face as she stood back some distance behind a group of undead.

His breath caught suddenly and tightly in his throat as he saw Martinez, saw his old comrade in arms look across towards where he was hidden. He swallowed thickly, sensing that time was speeding up and he was getting shit out of time.

Then he saw him.

He felt a thrill of hatred and loathing flow through him as he saw the Governor stood there, pistol in hand, shooting at the undead that swarmed at them. Merle felt his skin prickle with heated anticipation and he swiveled the rifle, adjusting the sights with his hand before taking a measured gaze. But just as he pressed the trigger, a youth-Ben he suddenly remembered the kids name, stood to the front of the Governor, and the bullet meant for him, arced into the young mans throat, spraying blood thickly. The Governors gaze shifted abruptly to where he was hidden and as Merle pulled back from the window, he cursed his fucking shitty luck.

He let the rifle lean against his prosthesis while he hurriedly swatted at the sweat on his brow, his skin feeling damp and on fire. Pressing the butt of the rifle firmly to his cheek again, he readied himself for another volley, and was so focused that he didn't notice the biter until it was practically on top of him. He twisted out of its grasp, its fingers narrowly missing tearing at the skin of his good arm, and he pushed back at it hurriedly with his prosthesis before raising his arm and trying to impale it with his blade. But the biter was suddenly looming in too close again and he angrily sliced at it with his bayonet, the blade spraying thick semi-congealed blood. It surged back at him, pushing and pressing him forwards and as he tried to dodge it, its hands were clawing frenziedly at his arms and they were both tumbling out of the doorway, landing heavily in the dirt.

He managed to twist out of its way and plunge his blade through its soft skull, so focused that he didn't see or hear Martinez and the Woodbury men surround him until he felt a rifle butt smack him squarely in the temple. He fell heavily to the ground, trying to curl himself into a ball as he felt a myriad of boots and gun butts kicking and smacking at him viciously. One booted foot caught him squarely in the face and he felt the hot blazing pain as his nose and lip bust, the warmth of his own blood flowing across his chin and as he groaned, he tasted the metallic tang as it filled his mouth. More blows reigned over him and he brought his arms up desperately trying to shield his head. He tried to roll away but he was outnumbered, and as he felt the pain explode all over his body he ached for himself in a different way. It couldn't possibly fucking end like this.

He heard a voice in the distance yell angrily, "Leave him, he's mine," and as hurt as he was, an icy chill coursed insidiously throughout him, and for a split second he wondered what exactly the fuck it was. It was something he'd never really known before, and as he felt himself being yanked up roughly to his feet, felt an iron-like arm catch and wrap around his neck painfully- squeezing the breath from his throat, he found he could suddenly give name to what it was. Fear.

He was being dragged back into the building and he struggled, but the arm about his throat tightened the more he fought. His vision spun around before his eyes and then he was pushed hard to the floor and he lay there for a moment gasping for breath, his hand clawing at his throat. He stared up, then felt that familiar chill course through him as he saw Philip Blake stood watching him with that one hateful eye, the patch over his other making him appear almost psychotic. Merle watched him warily then yelped in pain as the Governor kicked at him, his boot smacking viciously into his already battered and bruised body.

He twisted on the ground and raised his prosthetic arm defiantly, lashing out but missing as the Governor quickly side stepped, and Merle spat a blood cursed oath as the other man raised his foot and stamped heavily on his arm, just above the metal of his prosthesis. He watched wide eyed as the boot was raised again and he managed to pull his arm back quickly, cradling it against his pounding chest.

Blake stood watching him with a cold dead eye and Merle struggled for breath, grimacing and closing his eyes briefly to the pain that wracked his body. He didn't think it was possible to hurt so badly in so many fucking places, but it did. He shuffled almost pathetically across the floor, his eyes flickering open and meeting the other mans intense blazing gaze. Raising himself shakily on his prosthetic arm, he tried to push himself up, falling back to the ground panting with exhaustion. He thought quickly of Daryl, of Michonne, wondering if this was really going to be it, and was that woman right-would his own brother even fucking miss him if he died right here, right now. The memory sent a bolt of anger through him and he pushed himself up again, his eyes widening in surprise as Blake rushed at him, scooping him up by a tight fisted grasp on his shirt collar, pulling him roughly to his feet. The mans hand was tight on his throat again, squeezing viciously and trying to choke the life out from him, and in desperation he curled his hand into a fist and thrust his left arm out, trying to gain momentum and push this damned fucking asshole the hell away from him.

He yelled out in pain as the Governor leaned forward and bit at him, he felt the pain spasm feverishly through him as he felt sharp teeth bite through his hand. In horror and revulsion he saw his own blood spill glistening vividly red down the Governors chin and he snapped his hand back roughly as the other man gaped at him, almost smiling, before turning to the side and spitting the blood out of his mouth. The hand at his throat tightened again, and pain exploded unexpectedly as Blake suddenly thrust his head at him, the hardness of his skull connecting solidly with his face. Merle felt the darkness return to his vision, thickly dimming his senses. His whole body burned and throbbed and as he was suddenly thrown back to the ground, his back hitting the wooden flooring solidly- he wondered if it would just be easier to give up now. He'd never amounted to anything in the whole of his damned shitty life, why would his end be any fucking different. Hell, perhaps he even deserved to die like this. Die like a fucking fool. Michonne was right. Wasn't ever going to be anyone to mourn his damned miserable hide.

He lay on the ground panting, his twisted and battered body refusing to listen to him as he willed himself to move. He felt like a fish caught and drowning in the air, his breath tight and his throat raw and hot, achingly refusing to listen to his own body's commands.

His gaze was blurring as he glanced up at the man towering over him with pistol in hand, the lethal black eye of the gun pointing at him and he blinked rapidly against the lethargy that coursed through his body, the feel of his own blood thickly cloying his skin. His voice broke in his mouth, hissing twistedly through his tortured throat, "I ain't gonna beg. I ain't begging you." The sound was rasping and painfully remote to his ears and he smiled defiantly, blinking his eyes to the vision of death stood darkly above.

Distantly he heard a woman's voice breath,"It's over, Philip," and Merle thought that he knew that voice, but it hurt too much to think and so he ignored it, choosing instead to wait for the inevitable end.

"Is that so?" Blake answered back. There was a loud retort and he felt white hot pain scorch through him as the bullet hit him, pinning him back to the floor. Another loud shot rang out and he felt a sudden heaviness on his chest and he closed his eyes as he felt the light splinter darkly before him.

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