The Third Dixon [The walking dead]

Chapter fourteen

The watchtower smelled like dust, old metal, and sun-warmed wood.

Measi liked it that way.

She sat on the narrow platform with her back to the railing, one knee drawn up, the other stretched out as she worked. Boxes of ammunition were stacked neatly within arm's reach—sorted by caliber, counted twice. Nothing wasted. Nothing sloppy. She lined the rounds up by feel more than sight, fingers moving with practiced ease as she fed them into magazines and set them down in a careful row beside her boot.

Below her, the prison yard lay quiet. Too quiet. Walkers clustered beyond the fences like a waiting tide, their low, restless sounds carrying faintly upward. The calm before something ugly.

She shifted, dragging one of the makeshift barricades into place—a slab of scrap metal bolted to the railing, angled just enough to give her cover without blocking her line of sight. She tested it, crouching, then rising again. Duck. Aim. Fire. Duck. Muscle memory clicked into place.

Good.

Satisfied, she reached for the rifle resting beside her.

Her old one.

The wood stock was worn smooth, darker where her hands had held it the most. Scratches along the barrel told stories she didn't need to revisit. This rifle had been with her longer than most people had. Longer than the prison. Longer than Nathan. Longer than safety.

She ran her thumb along the bolt, then cracked it open and began loading rounds one by one, the soft metallic clicks steadying her breathing.

This, at least, made sense.

Up here, things were simple. Distance. Angles. Wind. Targets. No Merle's voice scraping at old wounds. No arguments echoing in concrete halls. No eyes watching her too closely, wondering if she was okay.

She wasn't.

But she didn't need to be.

Measi finished loading and set the rifle across her lap, leaning her head back against the post for a moment. The sky above was a washed-out blue, thin clouds drifting lazily by like they hadn't gotten the memo that the world was ending again.

She closed her eyes briefly, listening.

The fence creaked. A walker groaned. Somewhere inside the prison, a voice called out—orders, maybe. Preparations. People moving, trusting her to be here. To watch. To protect.

Her jaw tightened.

She opened her eyes and lifted the rifle, resting it against the barricade, sighting down the road that led toward Woodbury.

"Come on," she murmured under her breath, not sure if she was daring the Governor—or bracing herself. "I'm ready."

And for the first time since everything had cracked open, she believed it.

Glenn's boots scraped softly against the metal steps before he appeared at the top of the watchtower.

Measi didn't turn right away. She'd already clocked his weight, his pace, the way he paused before stepping fully onto the platform—careful not to startle her. Glenn always moved like that around her. Not scared. Just considerate.

"You good up here?" he asked, easing himself down beside her, back against the railing, knees bent.

"Yeah," she said automatically, then corrected herself. "As good as it gets."

He nodded, accepting that for what it was. For a moment they just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the fence line. Glenn followed her gaze, eyes scanning the same routes she'd already memorized.