The Third Dixon [The walking dead]

Chapter ten

The first pale light of morning filtered through the clouds, casting long shadows across the abandoned road. Measi's feet felt heavy against the cracked asphalt, each step measured, deliberate. The snarls and groans from the trees along the road pressed in around her, a constant reminder that she was alone and exposed. Her sniper rested on her back, straps digging slightly into her shoulders, while her knife felt alive in her hand—three fingers wrapped tightly around the handle, muscles coiled for action.

She had scavenged a few miles north, finding a small cache of food and a handful of ammunition. The memory of Daryl flickered across her mind, a pang of longing cutting through her focus. A walker staggered in front of her, an arrow lodged in its skull. Measi knelt slowly, hands steady despite the tension coiling in her chest, and pulled the arrow free. She examined it, turning it over in her hands, then carefully tucked it into her backpack. When she found Daryl again, it would be a gift. A reminder.

The snarls drew closer. Impatience and irritation flared as the creatures shuffled toward her. With a sharp sigh, she threw her backpack over her shoulders and hoisted her sniper into position, readying herself for the oncoming threat. The first walker reached her just as she lunged forward, knife sinking deep into its skull. Another fell beside it. Her foot slipped in the mud, forcing her to readjust, but she didn't hesitate.

More emerged from the tree line. She pulled her handgun, squeezing the trigger rapidly, only to hear the hollow click of an empty chamber. Frustration spiked, but she didn't falter. Her eyes narrowed, moving quickly to the next target. She snatched her sniper from her back, slid it into position, and took down three more walkers with precise, controlled shots. When the last of the nine walkers fell, she exhaled sharply, muscles tensing, and tossed her sniper back over her shoulder. Her backpack came up again as she moved among the fallen, checking for anything usable.

Only one had bullets—three in total. She stuffed them into her pack with a frustrated huff, noting how many more she had burned. Her handgun had jammed for reasons she couldn't figure, so she loaded the three bullets into its magazine anyway, tucking it back into her belt. She adjusted the strap of her pack and pressed forward, scanning the horizon for any sign of danger.

Ahead, a faded sign caught her eye. She walked closer, squinting at the letters scrawled across it: "Sanctuary for all. Community for all. Those who arrive survive."

Her fingers traced the star painted in the center of the sign, hesitant yet drawn to it. It was a place that might offer safety, a place that might still be holding together when everything else had fallen apart. Or it could be a trap. She didn't know. Couldn't know. The risk didn't frighten her. It was calculation, survival instinct—tempered by the knowledge that she had no one else to rely on.

She stepped onto the railroad tracks beneath the sign, the metal cold beneath her boots. The distant groans of walkers faded behind her, swallowed by the morning air. One step. Another. Each measured, deliberate, carrying her farther from the ruins of her life inside the prison and closer to whatever awaited her at Terminus.