The Third Dixon [The walking dead]

Chapter eight

Measi made sure she was last.

The others moved ahead in a loose line toward the gate, boots crunching softly against gravel and dead leaves, but she lagged behind just enough to keep the whole place in view. Her sniper rested in her hands, familiar weight, familiar balance. The scope swept slowly—left to right, up along the wall, down to the shadows where steel met earth. No movement. That, somehow, made it worse.

The wall rose high and smooth, too perfect. No gaps. No desperate repairs. It didn't look like something built in panic. It looked planned.

Nathan walked a few steps ahead of her. He hadn't turned around, but she knew he was aware of her position anyway, the same way he always was. When he shifted slightly to the left, opening her line of sight instead of blocking it, something tight in her chest eased.

Then—

Rattle.

The sound was small, stupid. A can skittering against pavement.

Every single one of them froze.

Weapons snapped up in a heartbeat. Measi's scope was already searching, breath steady, finger loose but ready. Before she could finish tracking the movement, Daryl fired.

The shape burst from the shadows and collapsed in a tangle of fur and claws.

Silence followed, thick and stunned.

Daryl bent, grabbed the thing by the tail, and lifted it up toward the gate.

"We brought dinner."

A short, surprised laugh slipped out of Measi before she could stop it. She clamped down on it just as fast, but when she glanced toward Nathan, she caught the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. It was gone a second later, replaced by that careful, guarded look they all wore now—but it mattered anyway.

The gate creaked open.

Aaron stood there, hands raised, curls plastered to his forehead, eyes moving over them with something like relief.

"It's okay," he said quickly. "Come on in, guys."

Measi didn't lower her rifle.

She stepped through the gate last, shoulders tight, eyes everywhere. Houses lined the street—real houses. Porches. Windows. Wind chimes clicking softly in the breeze. Lawns trimmed too neatly, like no one had told them the world ended.

It felt wrong. Like walking onto a stage set after the audience had left.

A man stepped forward, jaw clenched, authority sitting stiff on his shoulders.

"Before we take this any further," he said, "I need you all to turn over your weapons."

Measi scoffed openly, pulling her sniper closer to her chest. The idea of handing it over—here, of all places—made her skin crawl.

"Stay," the man snapped. "You hand them over."

"We don't know if we want to stay," Rick said flatly.

Aaron stepped in before the tension could snap. "It's fine, Nicholas."

Rick didn't take his eyes off the man. "If we were gonna use them," he said, voice low and dangerous, "we would've started already."

Measi scanned the rooftops again. Windows. Blind spots. Angles. Nathan shifted closer, just half a step, his arm brushing hers for the briefest moment. Not a hug. Not comfort. Just presence. Solid. Real.

Aaron nodded once. "Let them talk to Deanna first."

"Who's Deanna?" Abraham called out.

Measi barely heard him. Her attention had locked onto the gate behind them—distance, width, how long it would take to clear if things went bad. She could already feel the path in her legs.