Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead.
a/n: I am so sorry that I haven't updated this in a while, but the last few weeks have been pretty tough for my family and myself. Recently we lost a dearly beloved member of the family suddenly, and it has been really rough for us all. I honestly thought that I would be able to write to help myself through this horrible time, but every single time I opened word pad up, I would just sit there staring at a blank page, getting more and more frustrated with myself. The story and plots were all there churning away in my mind, but I completely lost the ability to voice and write any of it down.
I would like to take a moment to thank a few people.
Wildcow258- I just really can't express and find the words to thank you enough for all the words of encouragement, sympathy and for simply being just being here with me since day one. Thank you so much. I appreciate you a lot more than you know.
To the guest reviewer- Thank you. I've been writing this for so long and have invested so much into this that I won't stop writing it now. I have very firm plots and ideas on where this is all going, and I'd love to say what exactly- but I really don't want to give anything away.
ArcheryLefty- I owe much to you also, thank you. Like you, I write this because I simply adore Merle, and I've always hated the fact that he was killed off in the manner that he was- when there was so much more to him to be discovered. He is always so refreshing to write, and his journey is only really just starting, I guess.
As always, I'd really like to thank everyone here with me, reading this story.
...
Guns had always held a fascination for him. Even when he was a teen, fresh out of juvie, trekking through the woods and up the winding mountain trails with his sniveling snotty-nosed brat of a brother in tow. Daryl reverently lugging the battered old crossbow over his puny little shoulders, Merle with a hunting knife strapped at his waist, their pa's old Marlin sneaked out and slung over his own shoulder. Hunting young bucks, possum and rabbits, anything for the laugh and buzzing thrill of the chase and eventual kill.
Of course that wasn't the only buzz that he'd get. He always had a little emergency backup... something stashed away-nothing to hard and heavy, nothing to get him too wildly shit-faced while he was out in the wilds with his kid brother, but just enough to help take the edge away. And of course he'd pretend to be mad as hell, angry at Daryl. Angry at the boy for slowing him down, but the truth of it was- while Merle was there, he wasn't going to take any chances and leave his baby brother there alone with their drunken asshole of a father.
While they trekked and hunted, alone together in the comforting familiar solitude of the woods-Merle would often dream that one day, he would just swoop right on in there, man the hell up and take his baby brother away from the fucked up shit-fest of a life that they both lived- hell they'd even move far away, and try to live a different kind of life. Maybe they'd luck in and have the whole goddamn American dream, right down to the lawn chairs and cool refrigerated beers, hell- even them prissy little white picket fences. He'd put his brother through college while he got himself clean and knuckled down and got a job, earn enough to keep them both safe, alive and sane. It never happened though. Merle was too young to really understand, and then...when he was finally old enough, he'd fucked up his life too much to care anymore.
"Merle? When ya gonna let me have a go at this thing? I can shoot it, I'm big enough now."
"You ain't squirt. Damn 'bow gotta be bigger than ya."
"You ain't never gonna let me," Daryl sulked. "You said before an' ya never ever let me. Ya even let me carry it for ya! I ain't believing you no more. Ya tell lies, Merle. I ain't trusting you. Pa was right, you ain't never been nothing but a goddamn useless piece of shit."
"You wanna watch that sassy little mouth of yours, Darlina. God help me if you back chat me once more kid...I'm gonna bust you right on yer goddamn ass."
"Why do ya hate me, Merle? You're always gone. You ain't never there. You promise you're gonna teach me things, and then you're gone. You always go and leave. You ain't never cared 'bout me, 'cause if ya did, you'd show me how to use that 'bow."
Merle sighed, then turned to his brother. Daryl was nine years old, and the stupid little kid tears he was blubbering was tracking down and smearing the dirt on his face. "Hell, why would ya even say that, huh? I ain't never hated ya, brother. Hey, now...ah shit. All right...all right squirt, jus' quit that damn caterwaulin', an' I'll show ya, even though I'ma reckonin' you ain't never gonna be able to handle this damn 'bow. Yer way too scrawny an' little."
Merle helped and showed him that day, and he was fucked if Daryl hadn't had gone and proved him wrong after all. Turned out little brother was a natural with the crossbow, even if he didn't have enough strength in his puny little kid body to hold and string a bolt, and even though his first shot had landed him smack on his ass in the dirt.
And himself, well... he'd found that guns were a lot more efficient than any damn stupid old crossbow. He liked the smell of the guns, liked how right they felt in his hands. They were less time consuming. Guns did the job sweet and clean, and that suited him right down to the fucking ground.
…
He'd lost his original firearm a while back, and he still mourned the lack of his faithful Colt. That pistol and him had been through some damn fine wild times in the past. Now he was relegated to using a Beretta that he'd taken from the armory at the prison, and as he glanced down at the holstered weapon, he felt a thrill of irony that maybe little brother had been bang on the money all along. There was a time and a place for the usage of a firearm, and now just wasn't one of them. Not that he could've used a fucking crossbow. But hell, the thought still pushed at his mind.
Merle pushed back at a sapling, kneeling in the leaf littered dirt and undergrowth, resting his weight on his prosthesis as the blade dug into the soft ground.
He narrowed his eyes as he watched the camp, absently swiping at a trickle of sweat that beaded, then ran slowly down his temple. He'd lost track of how long he'd spent watching and observing, noting how many times the guards were changed, and how many men (and not to be a complete sexist pig) women...were left at the outposts alone. He wished then for that goddamn 'bow, wishing that he could've pegged a few of them sentries. His gun was useless -he didn't need the noise of the weapon alerting anyone to his presence. The only thing on his side was silence and stealth.
He got to his feet, pushing his way from the camp and slinking further back into the undergrowth. He'd been badly shaken up when he'd seen Philip Blake sauntering around the camp as if the man owned it, as if nothing had damn well happened. Merle shouldn't have been half as surprised as he'd felt, after all- Blake seemed to have led a charmed life all in all- but he fucking well had been. He'd thought that ass-fucking-hole was long, long dead. Merle had been gripped with a strange paralyzing fear, his whole body freezing and rooting him to the spot; the unfamiliar fear coursing its unbridled way through him, almost all the way to his damn soul. He'd never been truly afraid of any one in his life, not even of his old man at his worst-but the Governor had a way of casting that unusual spell on him.
He'd only just managed to rouse himself from the dull paralyzing stupor; the memory of his nine year old brother smiling up at him like Merle was the only goddamn thing that mattered in his crappy life, proud as hell with his first blood kill. The rabbit strung and slung over his shoulder, its crimson life blood seeping down the kids grimy ripped T-shirt. The 'bow on his back too large and too heavy, but Daryl still smiling under its weight, pleased and as proud as fuck.
And for every goddamn thing that he'd never done, for every single time that he'd never been there -Merle had always remembered that look of simple and uncomplicated adoration in his young brothers earnest blue eyes.
…
He'd stumbled on the RV purely by accident on his first initial sweep of the camp, and he'd stood a while amidst the low unearthly growling issuing from the pits. He should've been surprised to see the pits, but the truth of it was-he wasn't. It felt like he was slipping backwards, back to times before the prison, and back to Woodbury. They'd made them pits- at first...they were nothing more than a way to contain the many biters that roamed. And then the Governor had found another use for them, and as unfavorable as it'd seemed at the time, Merle had to concede that like the first time he'd really discovered his love for firearms, the pits did a similar job. Nice and clean and efficiently.
He cast his eyes over the opened expanse of long withered grassland, ringed by the deep murky woods. The pits were barely discernible if anyone was unaware that they were there, but they were. He must have counted at least six of them, long furrows in the ground, dug eight foot deep, and measuring at least twenty foot from start to finish.
The nearest pit was a few yards away and off from the general direction of the RV, and Merle barely cast it another look as he walked over towards the motorhome, glancing over his shoulder to stare across the grassland, even though he knew that he was alone. The few biters in the pits were suddenly subdued and silenced as he moved further away from them, and Merle knew they'd alert him if anyone ventured near; they'd pick up the fresh scent of the blood of the living faster than a goddamn blood-hound seeking spoor.
He trod up the steps, cautiously pulling the door open, holding his prosthetic out in front of him. The interior was empty but dim, faint light spilling in through the ragged dust grimed drapes hanging loosely from filthy window panes.
A quick hurried search revealed nothing more than a few rolls of duct tape, and a surprising number of golfing balls. He tugged his backpack off, stuffing a roll of the duct tape inside, dropping the bag to the floor. He leaned against a dusty work counter, his hand cupping his chin and scratching at his beard. He smiled suddenly to himself in thought as he glanced back at the golf balls- some brand new and unused, still held together in their cellophane tubing.
He had the start of an idea forming, and he was fucked if he hadn't had gone and damn well amused himself with the notion. He grabbed at the cellophane tubes, stuffing them into his backpack, pausing to grab a few of the loose golf balls as they rolled around the cracked vinyl floor, his boots sending them skidding.
Yeah. He had an idea all right. Crossbows and golfing balls – right now they all amounted to the same damn thing.
…
By the time he'd made it back into the depths of the woods, the sun was slowly starting to dip in the horizon, and he knew he'd spent too much time tracking and re-investigating the camp. Time was slipping away, and he had to make cover for the impending night. He saw a worn dirt track running along the side of a lake, and he instinctively avoided it, preferring to push his way deeper through the comforting shadows of the trees.
He encountered a few biters along the way, but they were slow and stupid and it didn't take much effort on his part to dispatch them. He dragged the corpses into the shelter of the thick undergrowth and shrubs, wanting to hide any evidence of his passing from anyone that dared to venture further into the woods. It took time, but it was something that he had to do.
He came across the clearing in the woods, the stillness suddenly broken by the mournful cry of a solitary bird, high up among the tree tops. He paused for a moment, reaching into his pack and dragging out a bottle of water, taking a few moments to chug down the warm liquid, quenching the dryness of his throat and soothing the cracked skin of his lips. For a seconds he allowed himself the luxurious tempting thought of pouring some of the water over his head, to try to cool down his sweat prickled skin, but water now was one luxury he couldn't afford to lose, so instead he popped the cap back on, and stuffed the bottle back into his pack.
He was so focused on looking around the ruins of the camp, staring at the numerous bodies littering the floor, the mangled relics of tents and broken and bust up camp fires, cooking utensils strewn all across the leaf littered ground, the mangled barbed wire bearing posts that jutted at all the wrong angles-as if a tornado had bust its way through and rended the camp, that he almost missed the biter until its hand was clawing at his throat.
He twisted sharply, the biter swaying with him as if the two were locked into some God-forsaken dance, its one hand caught in the webbing and strappings of his backpack. Its teeth snapped hungrily at the nape of his neck, dousing him in its cool fetid carrion breath, and Merle gagged in spite of himself, all the while twisting and trying to shake the hateful thing the fuck off and away from him.
Its hand was still trapped in the straps of his pack, its fingers peeled down to the bone, jagged points of bone that slapped and scratched as it searched desperately for the soft tender skin of his neck. He didn't have enough space to swing his prosthetic, and his knife had twisted awkwardly on his belt-just out of reach, giving him little chance to grab at it.
Their feet skidded in the dirt as they twisted, and they both tumbled heavily to the ground, the damn fucking thing landing on top of him, its ruined pallid face inching closer to his exposed throat, its long matted moss and twig encrusted hair flailing across his cheek. There was a soft wet squelch and popping sound as the biter pulled its arm away from where it had been trapped between his back, the ground and the backpack. It waved its broken arm wildly in the air, congealed blood spewing from its freshly broken wrist, the pale bone now exposed and jutting out.
In desperation, Merle managed to hook his hand under its chin and push upwards, but the damn thing was so decomposed that his fingers sank quickly into the putrid soft cold flesh of its throat, jets of blackened and congealed blood spraying and arcing out of its neck. He managed to twist his face to the side in the dirt as the first geyser hit, splattering his cheek.
"You bitch!" he spat out. "Why the fuck would ya do that?"
Adrenaline surged in his veins, and he pushed up with his prosthetic, the blade finally snagging into the soft rotten pulp of its belly. He struggled against its pallid chill body, and finally, after a few fraught seconds, he managed to bring his prosthetic up, gutting the damn thing, its insides loosening and raining down over him. He pushed his hand through its throat, his fingers digging deeper and gouging into its flesh, and with both arms, he finally managed to gain enough momentum to lever the body up and push it away from him.
He leaped to his feet, long coiled loops of bloodied intestine and guts slithering down his torso and sliding down his thighs, and angrily he raised his boot and brought it smashing down onto its face. He didn't stop until nothing remained other than a blackened pulpy mix of turgid rotten brain tissue, congealed blood and splinters of pale bone.
"That'll teach ya to mess with me, ya fuckin' bastard son of a whore," he mouthed angrily, dropping to his knees next to the corpse, his breath heaving in his chest.
…
He stunk to high heaven. He was heavily splattered with geek juice- his once beige shirt and grimy wife-beater sticking and clinging to his skin uncomfortably, and he tried to peel the fabric from off himself, giving up and sighing in irritation as he rubbed at his forehead, smearing more of the biter gunk across his skin.
Merle gazed across the camp as he walked, tugging the backpack off and dropping it near to the remains of a large camp fire encircled with soot smeared stones, half burnt blackened lumber dangling over the edges, the smell of the semi-charred brackish wood tingling his nose.
There were just over ten corpses in the small clearing, and from the looks of it-this small camp had been taken by surprise and ransacked, the pitiful looking inhabitants slaughtered indiscriminately. Tracks led off in every direction in the trampled down grass, intermittent imprints of heavy work boots in the soft soil. He knelt down on the ground, his fingers touching at a patch of blood, rubbing his fingers through it, feeling the drying tackiness on his skin.
Whoever had attacked this camp had done it hours ago, and Merle glanced up, frowning and quickly rubbing the blood and grime from his fingers and palm onto his thigh as the sounds of low grunting groans reached near to him. Several of the corpses were now starting to slowly move and flail where they lay in the dirt, arms and legs twitching and drumming softly as they groggily re-awakened.
He pushed himself to his feet, stalking across to the bodies, plunging his bayonet quickly through the skulls, silencing them once and for all. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of dragging and moving the corpses out of the way of the camp, but the survivalist in him warned him not to, so he left them where they lay. He would use this camp as a base, use the bodies of the biters to help shield himself. He could be safe, and he could be left alone here. There was nothing of worth in this camp no more, anything of worth and value had been stripped and pillaged. There was nothing left here for anyone to come back to.
Merle rummaged through the bodies, unbuckling the few meager weapons that were still strapped to their waists, feeling angry that these people had been taken so completely unaware that not one single one of the poor asses had had any time to draw out so much as a knife.
Near the center of the camp was the body of an old man; long white hair spilling over his shoulder and draping across the ground like a drift of soft red-tinted snow, a look of permanent surprise etched on his weathered dead face. Blood stained the dead mans parted lips and teeth, the dark crimson crusted across his wispy white beard and painted vividly down across his throat. For a long moment, Merle stared at the corpse, the dead man on the ground sharply reminding him of the old veterinarian, Hershel. Merle shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, feeling like a pussy for missing and even thinking of the old man back at the prison. He sighed quietly to himself, narrowing his eyes curiously as he spied out a familiar bulge in the pocket of the old mans brown plaid shirt, and he reached down, plucking it out and frowning to himself.
He paced back across the camp, grabbing his pack and taking it across to where a solitary lurid green tent still stood forlornly. He sat down heavily, resting his prosthetic across the tops of his knees as he fumbled with the pack of cigarettes, pulling one out with his teeth. He dropped the pack into his lap, tugging his lighter out of his pocket and lighting the smoke.
He exhaled, breathing out a small grey puff that spiraled up into the still humid air, enjoying the pleasant tingling feeling as the nicotine hit his bloodstream. He smoked in silence, thinking of a time before when he'd gone after the Governor, and he smiled slowly to himself, the plan he'd first thought of back in the RV formulating further in his mind.
Even though he was completely alone and had no Michonne to accompany him on this little trip, no Andrea to come and save his worthless old ass, he would do what he'd set out to do before. Buy everyone a little bit of time. But this was different from then, a whole lot different. This time he had plenty of reasons to want to come back from it and survive.
And he would.
...