The Third Dixon [The walking dead]

Chapter thirteen - part one

Waiting for Rick and Shane to return stretched the night thin.

The Greene house had never felt so small.

Darkness settled heavy over the farm, pressing in from every direction, the kind of quiet that made every creak of wood sound like a warning. Lamps were low, voices hushed, nerves frayed raw. Every set of eyes kept flicking toward the windows, toward the road, toward the tree line where two men had vanished hours ago.

They should've been back by now.

Daryl was the first to move, pushing the front door open and stepping onto the porch. Glenn followed close behind, Andrea at his shoulder. Measi came last, the strap of her sniper already settled across her back.

The night air hit her like ice.

She lifted the rifle instinctively, scanning the horizon. Her breath caught. She swung the scope north—and froze.

"Holy shit..."

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

The beam of moonlight revealed movement. Not scattered. Not wandering.

A wall.

Bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, a slow, relentless tide spilling through the fields. Hundreds of walkers. Maybe more. Their silhouettes rolled forward in uneven waves, groans bleeding together into a low, endless hum.

The group followed her onto the porch, Hershel's voice cut sharp and steady. "Patricia—kill the lights."

The farmhouse plunged into darkness.

Andrea shoved past the growing crowd on the porch, already moving. "I'll get the guns."

Glenn swallowed hard, eyes never leaving the horizon. "Maybe they're just passing," he said, hope thin in his voice. "Like the herd on the highway. Maybe we go inside, stay quiet—"

"Not unless there's a tunnel downstairs I don't know about," Daryl snapped. He glanced at Measi, who had gone very still, hands clenched tight around her rifle. "A herd that size'll rip the house down."

Andrea returned moments later with the gun bag slung over her shoulder, dropping it hard at their feet. Weapons were passed hand to hand. Measi crouched, snapping her sniper open, loading with calm precision. Andrea shoved extra ammo into her hands, and Measi stuffed it into her jacket pockets without looking.

Daryl shook his head, voice low and grim. "I got the number. It ain't good."

Hershel adjusted his grip on the shotgun, face set. "You're free to leave if you want."

Daryl scoffed. "You plannin' on takin' 'em all on?"

"We have guns," Hershel said, chambering a round. Then, quieter but firmer: "We have cars."

Andrea straightened. "We kill as many as we can," she said, resolve hardening her voice, "then use the vehicles to lead the rest off the property."

A stunned voice cut through the group. "Are you serious?"

"This is my farm," Hershel said simply. "I'll die here."

Measi nodded faintly. She understood that kind of loyalty. That kind of stubborn love for a place that made you who you were.

She rose, slinging the sniper over her shoulder. "What's the highest point in your house?"

Maggie didn't hesitate. "I'll show you."

They moved fast, climbing narrow stairs, higher and higher until the house thinned into beams and dust. The attic was cramped, the window small—but the view was clear.