13.
"I don't know why I do the things I do. Never did. I'm a damn mystery to me."
Why Rick came to visit Merle in the empty cellblock however, was no mystery at all.
He needed a guy to take out the trash and that's what Merle did best. Since his return to Woodbury is a foregone conclusion anyway, he's hardly going to argue.
He's gripping the steering wheel as if his life depends upon it. Keeping a sharp eye on the road, because god forbid he should screw this up before he even makes it to the meeting point. Trying to drown out Michonne, because he can't have her say these things to him. Alas, the only thing he can drown her out with are his thoughts, and they are hell bent on torturing him with the fresh remembrance of someone else trying to talk sense into him.
"I just want my brother back."
Goddammit Daryl.
"I'm still here…"
The recollection of uttering these words makes him wince, and not because of the shaky defensive tone (and boy, was it), but because it was the most cowardly lie he's ever told. All the more gut wrenching for being the last thing he said to the brother he loved more than he could say. A fitting epitaph for a flawed relationship, if ever there was one.
What else could he have done, though?
If he'd gone soft on him, he would've known something was up.
Cain't have you with me on this one Darylina.
He'd been at his wits' end as they'd gone to meet with the Governor, the thought of putting Daryl in his path once more...
So yes, to put it in Daryl's own words, he was leaving. Again.
As far as he could tell, it was the only way.
Michonne is still talking, and Merle can hear her loud and clear despite the chaos of thoughts swirling in his mind. He almost ends up throwing her out just to get her to shut up.
"We can just go back."
"I cain't... go back. Don't you understand that?"
It is clear she does not, because she asks him why, and the world that sits so heavy on his shoulders pushes the air out of his lungs and he is suddenly so tired – every single day of what has been a long and difficult life making itself known in a body that is beyond exhausted and a mind strung out to the nth degree.
He cuts the wire binding her hands before he can talk himself out of it.
It doesn't escape him that he's now royally screwed, but it seems he doesn't have the stomach to hand her over to the Governor either. One less regret, he tells himself. Although, most likely it is his brother he has in mind. He and his friends could use a good fighter.
The fighter in question says nothing at first, merely eyes him suspiciously – unsure if he's bluffing and it reminds him of a certain someone so much that it hurts.
Funnily enough, when she does eventually slide out of the car, almost as an afterthought, she asks him what exactly it was that she saw in the cellar at Woodbury.
"Don't matter what it was, all that matters is that it... she... she deserved better than what they done to her."
A wisp of a smile appears upon Michonne's lips. A knowing smile. As if some notion she had about him has been confirmed and Merle is about to drive off because he's sick of this Dr. Phil shit, but she puts one hand on the door frame to stop him and says in a soft voice, "You need to put her down, Merle."
A long silence follows. She gives him that much and he gladly takes it.
"I know."
He sighs low and long, because yes he did. He always had.
"I figures... first I'd set her free, y'know? Give her one last look at the sky... Give us both..."
He leaves the sentence hanging - too choked up to do any other - pulls the passenger side door closed, hits the gas and doesn't look back.
He turns Motorhead up as loud as the shitbox he's driving will allow.
Fast and Loose.
Lemmy knew the deal.
The best decisions you make are when you are true to yourself and Merle's long done with being someone else. He knows why he's here.
Born to raise hell, y'all.
He ditches his ride and takes cover. Is careful with his aim when the A-Team come running. Can't afford to waste ammo. Can't afford to stick around too long either - just long enough to do some damage - take out some of the men and the tyres of their trucks... who knows, maybe a miracle will happen and he'll take out his primary target...
Alas, as the Governor comes into range – the shots are coming Merle's way thick and fast, which means he's out of time. For a brief moment, he considers trying to take the shot anyway, but thinks the better of it - he can hear gunfire in the building as they finish off the biters - they'll be on top of him soon.
Time to go.
One of the dead stumbles towards him and Merle takes it out but keeps it close – skewered in place on his blade – then turns on his heels, grinds out a quick expletive-ridden prayer to the lord, and charges into the fray like a crazed buffalo.
Had he been able to talk, he might have said something along the lines of "bet you shitbirds weren't expectin' that now, were ya?!" As it is, all he can do is scream the demented scream of a man charging into a war zone with only a stinky meat apron between him and a hail of bullets.
That he makes it to his destination - the one truck whose tyres he spared - is only due to the fact that, indeed, Team Woodbury had not been expecting that, and were so caught on the back foot that they spent more time with their mouths hung open than firing their weapons.
Fortunately, his luck doesn't run out there - there's a set of keys tucked in the truck's sun visor, which means he'll not have to hotwire the thing one-handed whilst under fire.
Unfortunately, the windscreen is promptly shot to shit, the chassis is Swiss cheese, and the rest will soon follow if he doesn't get a move on.
The truck lurches forward with a sick crunch of gears and Merle's heart leaps into his throat because for a second it looks as if the bastard will stall on him, but thank the lord, the engine turns over and Merle puts the pedal to the metal before there's nothing left to drive out of there.
It's touch and go after that, as the heck of the vehicle takes a pounding, and Merle is expecting the truck to veer dangerously to the side any moment as one of the back tyres takes a hit, but mercifully, it doesn't happen and after what seems like an eternity, the sound of bullets ricocheting off metal slows and finally comes to a stop completely.
When he thinks he can get away with it, Merle allows himself to cautiously raise his head and check the wing mirror.
His heart soars at the sight.
A yell of pure joy tears from his lungs and smothers the white noise that had been blaring in his ears.
He didn't expect to make it this far. Not on his own. Not without Michonne to give him covering fire.
And now here he is – watching the Governor and his men losing their shit as he makes his getaway.
It's almost too much.
His body sags as the endorphins flood his system and loud cries and whoops of euphoria flood out of him, peppered liberally with insults directed at the goons he just bested - all adding up to one big messy outpouring of triumphant happiness, wrapped up in a grin so large it has his face aching.
His eyes slip shut a moment as it really hits home and a voice is cautioning him to keep it together; to keep a hand on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road – he is not done yet by a long shot. Woodbury is waiting for him.
She is waiting for him.
So, he puts his head back on straight, rubs his face against his sleeve, leaving a watermark there that he will forever insist is sweat, and steals himself for the next round.
Gotta go the distance this time.
No more leavin'.
.*.*.
He knows where to strike.
Knows precisely which spot will get the most attention.
Feels sorry to trash the truck, after all, it just saved his life, but this has to be.
He takes one last look at the fence to make sure all is as it should be, and satisfied he has his audience, begins with the show.
He's never done this before. Has to summon his inner boy scout. He snorts whilst trying to light the makeshift fuse dangling out of the gas tank, because he doubts there's a badge for this. Then he tells himself to get a move on because there's no way he wants to be sitting in the cab when this thing goes up.
So he gets the truck revving, the rock in place on the accelerator, the handbrake off...
And…
It lurches sickeningly before coming to a shuddering halt.
Merle's stomach goes into freefall. He looks on aghast, still sitting exactly where he should not be. He slaps himself hard out of the panic that has taken hold, and goes through the motions of getting the truck started again despite the fact that he is trembling to the point where he can hardly steer his movements properly. It doesn't escape him that the gearbox problem is likely due to his lack of a limb, nor the sick irony of having escaped death by cutting off a hand only to die due to a complication caused by no longer having that hand.
Not f*ckin' today. I don't give a shit what I gotta do to get this piece of shit rollin'...
He wrenches the truck into gear, eases the gas pedal down, gets the truck so it's at biting point and slowly eases the handbrake down...
And the truck lurches forward...
Stops.
Lurches again.
And finally...
The motor kicks in.
Merle is so relieved he nearly blacks out.
Probably would've if he wasn't scared shitless that the thing might still stall on him. Not taking any chances, he cranks through the gears, ignoring all protests from the truck in form of sickening crunching noises or bunny hop lurches, kicks the rock onto the accelerator and throws himself from the cab, praying that this will work out as he hoped.
He need not have worried.
The gas tank goes up mere seconds after he lands in the brush and the motor powers the inferno slap bang into the fence, sending the residents of Woodbury scurrying like rats.
He's still shaking in a crumpled heap on the ground - nerves completely shot to hell, as a laugh leaks out of him - more a groan of relief than a laugh, and he curls up into a ball and gives himself a moment to soak it in.
It isn't over yet, but that should keep the people of Woodbury busy whilst he does what he came to do.
The thought has him on his feet and heading for the weak spot in the fence at the first opportunity.