The Third Dixon [The walking dead]

Chapter thirteen - part two

The wind tore at Measi's face as the bike thundered forward, the night swallowing them whole.

Daryl kept the headlight low—dimmed just enough to see without lighting them up like a beacon. Even so, it cut a narrow tunnel through the dark, revealing bodies at the last possible second. Walkers drifted out of the black like ghosts, arms reaching, mouths hanging open as the engine's growl drew them closer.

Too close.

Daryl swerved hard, the bike jerking beneath them as he threaded between two walkers that nearly collided where they'd been. Measi tightened her grip around his waist, pressing herself closer, her boots scraping against the side as they narrowly missed a grasping hand.

"Shit," Daryl muttered, more breath than sound.

The headlight flickered over dozens—no, hundreds—of dead shapes, scattered thick across the field. They weren't packed like the herd at the farm, but there were enough to make every second a gamble. One wrong turn, one stalled engine, and they were done.

Measi didn't speak. She could feel the tension in Daryl's body, the way his shoulders stayed rigid, his movements precise and controlled. He wasn't panicking—he was calculating. Every swerve was intentional. Every burst of speed measured.

She raised her handgun over his shoulder and fired once, the muzzle flash brief and blinding. A walker dropped just as it staggered into their path.

Daryl didn't thank her. He didn't need to.

They pushed deeper into the darkness, the headlight carving a thin, fragile path through the dead. Walkers turned at the sound of the engine, some stumbling toward them, others already too close to avoid. Daryl leaned the bike hard to the left, then right, tires slipping on dirt slick with dew and blood.

Measi's heart slammed against her ribs. She scanned constantly, calling out when one drifted too near his blind spots, firing only when she had to. Every shot felt like a risk—light, sound, attention—but letting one grab the bike would be worse.

"Left," she said sharply.

Daryl twisted the handlebars, narrowly missing a walker that lunged out of the dark.

"Hold on," he warned.

The bike surged forward, engine roaring just enough to break free of a tightening cluster. Measi buried her face briefly against his back, breathing him in, grounding herself in the heat and solidity of him. The farm felt miles away now. So did everyone else.

She didn't know who had made it out.

Didn't know if Nathan was alive. If Glenn and Maggie were safe. If anyone else had survived the chaos.

The only thing she knew was the sound of the engine beneath her, the thin cone of light ahead, and the dead closing in from every direction.

Daryl eased the bike toward a darker stretch, cutting the engine slightly, letting them coast. The sudden quiet made the groans feel louder, closer. Walkers shuffled past just feet away, unaware, confused.

Measi held her breath.

They slipped through the shadows like ghosts themselves, the bike rolling silently for a few precious seconds before Daryl twisted the throttle again, breaking free into open ground.

The road appeared ahead, barely visible.

Daryl didn't slow as they reached it. He turned them onto it hard, leaving the fields—and the farm—behind.

Neither of them looked back.

They rode into the darkness with no map, no plan, and no way of knowing who was still alive—only the certainty that stopping meant death, and that the night was far from over.