The Third Dixon [The walking dead]

Chapter fifteen

The night breathed slow around the prison.

Crickets. Wind through dead grass. The distant, wet sounds of walkers drifting aimlessly beyond the fence—usually too far to matter.

Measi mattered.

She stood in the watchtower again, silhouetted against the low glow of the moon, boots planted wide for balance. Her old rifle rested against her shoulder, familiar weight, familiar bite. She adjusted the scope with small, precise movements, breath steady despite the ache still lingering in her shoulder.

Too far, some would've said.

She squeezed the trigger anyway.

The shot cracked through the night—sharp, clean. Far out beyond the fence, a walker's head snapped back and dropped from its shoulders like it had simply given up holding itself together.

Measi exhaled slowly.

Again.

Another distant shape crumpled, barely audible when it hit the ground. She worked the bolt, smooth and practiced, lips pressed thin—not angry exactly, but focused in a way that shut everything else out. The tower was her world. Up here, nothing could touch her.

She shifted, adjusting for wind, compensating instinctively.

Behind the treeline, three figures lay still.

Martinez watched through binoculars, lowering them just enough to glance at the men beside him. Neither spoke. They didn't need to. The girl in the tower moved like she belonged there—like the rifle was an extension of her body rather than a tool.

"Jesus," one of them muttered under his breath. "That's gotta be three hundred yards."

"More," Martinez replied quietly.

They watched as Measi tilted her head, reassessing, then took another shot—this one threading clean through the eye socket of a walker barely visible against the dark.

No hesitation. No wasted ammo.

"She's good," the other man said. Not impressed. Wary.

Martinez lowered the binoculars again, jaw tight. "She's disciplined. That's worse."

In the tower, Measi paused, rolling her shoulder once before settling back into position. She glanced down toward the yard, scanning briefly—Beth moving along the catwalk, a shadow passing between buildings. Normal. Safe.

Still, something tugged at her.

Not a sound. Not movement.

Just that itch between her shoulders.

She swept the scope slowly along the treeline, eyes narrowing. Darkness stared back at her, dense and unbroken. Nothing out of place. No glint of metal. No silhouettes.

She frowned slightly, then dismissed it.

Focus.

Another shot rang out. Another walker dropped.

Martinez raised the binoculars once more, tracking her movements carefully now—not just watching, but learning. Her habits. Her timing. The way she leaned into the railing when she reloaded. The brief moments when she exposed herself.

"She's comfortable," he murmured. "That'll change."

One of the men smirked faintly. "Governor wants her breathing."

Martinez didn't smile. "Then we do this clean."

In the tower, Measi worked the bolt again, unaware of the eyes fixed on her through layers of shadow and intent. She lined up one last distant target, finger tightening on the trigger—