The Third Dixon [The walking dead]

Chapter four

The forest was thick with mist, dew soaking the undergrowth and turning the fallen leaves to slick mats of brown and gold. The early sun struggled through the canopy, streaking the ground with long, pale lines of light. Measi moved like a shadow among the trees, her boots barely making a sound against the damp earth. Her rifle rested against her shoulder, a handgun snug in her belt, and a hunting knife gripped tightly in her hand.

The camp was quiet now. The men who could handle themselves in a fight had gone after Merle, leaving her behind. And Measi had no intention of sitting idle. She knew she was useful—more than useful. She could kill quietly, track accurately, and think faster than most. Out here, alone, that was enough to survive.

She spotted fresh prints in the mud—deer. Small, delicate impressions pressed into the dark soil. She crouched low, studying the pattern. The deer hadn't been careful, but she was. Each step she took was measured, deliberate. Her eyes flicked to every branch, every shadow, every snap of a twig. She had learned early that even the smallest sound could betray her.

A low groan interrupted her focus. She froze, turning slowly. A walker, pale and filthy, staggered into view. Measi didn't hesitate. Knife in hand, she slid into a crouch and lunged. The blade sank into the soft spot at the base of its skull with a satisfying crunch. Its body went limp, but her eyes never left the forest.

She moved again, slower this time. A deer, a magnificent buck, stepped into a clearing ahead, its ears twitching. She froze, letting the animal settle, noting the distance. But then another groan—closer, behind her. She pivoted just in time to see a second walker lunge, hands outstretched.

"Shit!" she yelled, spinning, foot slipping in the mud. Her body hit the wet earth hard as the walker's hand clamped down on her shoulder. She twisted violently, toppling it into a tangle of low branches. The second walker staggered, stuck, flailing. Measi yanked her knife from the first walker's skull and drove it into the other's temple. The body went slack.

Breathing heavily, she dropped to her knees, sliding the knife along the grass to clean it. Blood from the walkers splattered her gloves, but she didn't flinch. Animals could carry disease, and any contamination could ruin her hunt. She wiped the blade carefully, eyes scanning, muscles coiled for the next strike.

The deer hadn't moved. Its large, dark eyes fixed on her, wary but unafraid. Measi adjusted her rifle, steadying her breathing, every line of her body taut. She didn't shoot immediately. Patience was part of the hunt. She watched the forest, counting the distance to the nearest tree for cover, noting the small sounds—the rustle of leaves, the distant groans of walkers, the snap of a twig under her boot.

A branch snapped sharply to her left. Another walker emerged from the mist, dragging a leg. Measi didn't hesitate. She vaulted to the side, blade flashing, gutting the creature with a single, precise motion. Its body hit the ground with a thud that seemed loud in the stillness.

She glanced back at the deer. It had taken a few cautious steps forward but hadn't bolted. Good. She could work with this. She inched closer, slow, deliberate, rifle raised. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. Every step had to be perfect. One miscalculation and it was over—not just the deer, but her.

Finally, she found the right angle. She crouched low, exhaled slowly, and squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed through the trees. The deer stumbled, then collapsed, silent, final. Measi didn't rush. She approached carefully, checking the surrounding brush for any sign of danger before lowering herself to the ground.

She knelt beside the deer, checking for injuries that would ruin the meat, slicing carefully to drain it, her movements precise and efficient. Even alone, she worked like a well-oiled machine, aware of the forest around her, the distant groans of walkers, the faint wind carrying warning.