The Dixon Brothers: The Beginning of the End

The Dixon Brothers: Beginning of the End (Part 4)

"You wanna know what I was before all this? I was just drifting around with (Merle), doing whatever he said we were gonna be doing that day. I was nobody. Nothing. Some redneck asshole, and an even bigger asshole for a brother." – Daryl Dixon, "Still" (Season 4, Episode 12)

= = = =

The siblings had settled into a routine: settle into a campsite for a few days, rise early in the morning to hunt for food if stock had run low, scout the area, keep a low profile, and then move on. Each day brought them closer to the city of Atlanta and maybe some sort of safe zone.

Daryl was a nasty drunk, but he hadn't had any beer or whiskey since he wanted to be alert for any of the biters. Even Merle was completely dry, with no meth or alcohol ingested for at least three weeks; he was still an asshole, but not quite as bad an asshole when he wasn't stoned or drunk out of his mind. He was a lot like their father in that way. It was probably unfair to compare Merle straight up to their father; Dixon Sr. had been a Grade A screw up and Merle had some good in him...you just had to really search for that good at times.

The elder Dixon was on point and held up a fisted hand to signal Daryl, who froze in place. Then he heard what his brother had – the murmur of conversation up ahead and the clinking of tin mugs carrying on the breeze.

Merle glanced to his younger brother with a silent question and Daryl responded with a quick shake of his head. They both continued forward and after about five minutes, arrived just inside the tree line.

"Yo, you there, in the camp!"

Merle's gravelly voice carried into the clearing where the group was camped. Using bush scrub as cover and looking through the overhang of trees and branches, the Dixons could see several men diving and grabbing for pistols, rifles and shotguns.

It was pretty much a lost cause since the brothers had already snuck up on the dumb bastards and could have started picking them off. Besides, if these dumb fuckers made that much noise it was only a matter of time before the dead converged on the area since the freaks seemed attracted to the sounds.

"Me and my brother have been on our own for a spell. It okay to approach your camp, we might have some trade."

Silence for a good twenty seconds and then an answering voice shouted back. "Come ahead then! Make it nice and easy!"

"Let's go Little Brother." Merle leered.

Daryl smiled back with the same toothy grin. "You sure 'bout this? These ain't the brightest crayons in the box ya know."

The elder man chuckled softly and stepped through the underbrush and into the open.

= = = =

Their cocky smiles dropped as soon as they got up close to the group, which was more of a complete joke then the two men had initially guessed.

It was a gang, of sorts. They were kids in their mid-twenties, wearing a combination of biker leathers and hunter camouflage clothing. Half a dozen dirt bikes parked in a neat row were set off to one side of the makeshift tents. A small cooking stove was lit and there was beer bottles scattered all over the area. The trash made the Dixon cabin look downright neat.

With an effort, the Dixons kept their expressions neutral, but their expressions when they glanced at one another were the same thinly veiled disgust.

These fools are treating this like a damn party.

A tall man who wore a beard that was almost too thick for his thin features was the first to speak up and Daryl recognized the voice who had told them to come into the camp. "Hey, you boys look like you've been out playing in the woods, want a beer? You got yourselves some leather," he referred to the black leather vests the two brothers wore, "you two with any of the local clubs?"

"Don't recognize the angel wings on this one's vest Boss."

The second man stood just off to Daryl's left and wore a red bandanna knotted around his neck. He referred to Daryl's vest, since Merle wore a plain vest.

The younger Dixon spoke up. "Nah, we ain't with anyone and the wings are my own..." He directed the next question directly at Bandanna. "...you got a problem with that?"

"Boss" spoke again, quickly. "We got no problem with it, Mister. Just settle down and we'll trade. You can even partake in our entertainment if you'd like, it won't cost you much neither."

The gang lieutenant - a burly kid just this side of fat sporting a scar on his lip - stood nearby, pistol stuffed in the front of his pants. The rest of the group went about their business, but kept an eye on Daryl and Merle.

Jesus, these kids give rednecks a bad name.

Merle started to speak again, going into the usual claptrap about trading and supplies and then he abruptly stopped speaking. Daryl's head snapped around and followed his older brother's gaze.

The girl was maybe sixteen years old? Her cheeks still had a touch of baby fat - was tied to a tree. Her face, neck and arms were bruised. Her top, a green tee shirt with the John Deer logo, was torn. Form the waist down, she wore no clothing. There was blood caked on her legs and fresh blood coated the inside of her legs, running in slow rivulets.

Merle didn't have much respect for women, unless it was contingent on how they were pleasuring him at the moment. But he didn't hold much with rapists and Daryl glanced over at him in time to see his face go slack and a certain light click on behind his eyes. When that light clicked, shit went down.

The shooting started less than half a second later.

Merle's shotgun took out the midsection of Beard and the second blast caved in the chest of Scar; Beard went down screaming but Scar was dead before he hit the dirt.

Daryl acted on instinct from a lifetime of following in his brother's shadow. He raised the repeater rifle and instead of firing batshit crazy like his brother, he picked his shots among the chaos, covering Merle as the elder Dixon reloaded.

He took out a fifth with a clean shot to the head; a sixth went down with a bullet in the neck.

A couple more members of the biker gang panicked and ran and both barrels of the sawed off roared, decimating the men and collapsing them in a spray of blood.

The younger Dixon shot one in the ass out of spite; the boy went down with a yell. His buddy actually stopped and went to help him and Daryl clipped him in the arm. The two eventually managed to stagger off together, crashing through the brambles and woods. It wouldn't take long for the biters in the area to pick up on the blood trail.

The dumbasses deserved it.

The moans of the dying stopped as they passed on or slowly bled out. A tense quiet settled over the area, the only sounds Merle's heavy breathing and the occasional cried whimper coming from the girl.

"C'mon, let's get this over with and get out of here, Merle. Those freaks'll be here after all that noise and the smell of blood..."

= = = =

The Dixons made short work of going through the belongings and tents of the gang. The girl hadn't spoken a word as the brothers looted the tents.

Merle spoke gruffly at the girl. "Turn ya head!" She did as she was told.

He blew away the chain, the shrapnel from the sawed-off embedding in the tree.

"You ain't coming with us! We don't need the extra mouth or the dead weight. Smear yourself in mud to keep your smell down and the biters won't come after ya right quick. Now go! Get someplace besides here out in the open."

The girl gave a stare to Daryl, the blank look still somehow managing to convey trauma, fear, guilt, shame and anger...and a slow burn of determination in the gaze. Daryl recognized the look as his own once upon a time when he'd been younger and Merle had gone off to play soldier.

There was life left in there, some determination...it was just a question of if she was too beaten down to survive...

The younger Dixon broke eye contact and hung his head, slung the rifle over his shoulder and trudged off in Merle's wake. The hunters ghosted back into the woods, blending with the trees and foliage.

The girl was left among the blood and gore and trees to fend for herself.