The Third Dixon [The walking dead]

Chapter twelve

Two days had passed since Measi had vanished into the forest, holding herself together with little more than mud, dried food, and a constant awareness of every sound. Her feet were sore, her throat dry, but her eyes were sharp—always scanning, always alert.

The morning sun filtered through the trees as she moved along a worn path, her sniper slung over her back, her knife in hand. Smoke curling into the sky caught her attention, and she crept closer, sticking to the shadows. There, in a small clearing, was a weathered cabin, half-hidden by overgrown brush.

Then movement—three figures darted from the building. Measi froze, her pulse spiking. She raised the scope of her sniper, squinting through the lens. The sharp crack of gunfire echoed through the trees, sending birds into the sky in a flurry. Her stomach twisted. Not those men again...

But as her eye adjusted, she saw the first figure: a young boy, maybe not even a teenager, wearing a sheriff's hat that looked far too big for him. He ducked behind a tree, gun raised. The second was a woman, dark hair tied back, a sword strapped to her back, moving with deadly precision. Her shoulders, her stance... there was no mistaking her. And the third figure, moving just ahead, easy to deduce from the way the others flanked him: a man, older, careful, calculated.

Rick. Carl. Michonne.

A shout erupted from a man behind the cabin—he'd noticed the trio. The sound of a rifle being cocked carried over the clearing. Measi didn't hesitate. She adjusted her aim, heart hammering, and squeezed the trigger. The man went down before he could fire again.

More men spilled from the cabin, guns raised, screaming, but Measi was already a ghost among the trees. Bullets whizzed past her, kicking up leaves as she dove behind a thick oak. Her chest heaved. She glanced back through the scope, seeing more men trying to rush her position. Her fingers tightened around the rifle. They were out of range—she was far enough to be untouchable.

Keeping low, she backed into the forest, moving silently, branches scratching at her arms. She needed to circle around, get closer, make sure Rick, Carl, and Michonne were safe. She couldn't help but notice the tension in the air—the kind she'd felt before, back when Merle and his men had hunted her. That instinct, that wariness, made her movements fluid and deliberate.

The cabin faded behind the trees, but the smoke and the faint cries of battle guided her. She pressed forward, scanning constantly, calculating her path. She had to find them, had to make sure they survived. Alone, yes—but now she wasn't just surviving for herself. She had a new purpose: keeping these three alive, too.

The forest closed around her, thick and shadowed, the sounds of the skirmish growing distant. But the adrenaline kept her sharp. Every step, every breath, every finger wrapped around her weapons reminded her: she was the hunter now.

Measi pressed through the underbrush, circling closer to the cabin where the chaos of gunfire still echoed faintly. The forest opened into a small clearing, and she froze, spotting movement ahead. Before she could react, a gun was pressed to her temple.

Her breath caught. She slowly turned her head—and froze.

A young boy in a sheriff's hat stood before her, gun aimed steady. Her heart raced, and for a moment she thought she'd miscalculated, that this was the end.

Then his eyes widened. Recognition hit like lightning.

"Holy shit."

Carl.

He lowered the gun so fast it almost seemed to fall from his hands. Measi blinked, shocked, her tension melting slightly as she saw the familiar determination in his face, the same spark she remembered.