The Third Dixon [The walking dead]

Chapter eight

Measi woke to a deafening blast, her heart lurching as instinct took over. She slammed her hands over her head, rolling off the bed and stumbling down the stairs. Smoke burned her lungs as she coughed, the acrid scent filling her nostrils. Her sniper clattered to the floor for a second before she scooped it up, swinging it across her shoulder as she scanned the chaos around her. Seconds later, the watchtower she had called a fragile refuge erupted in flames behind her, the heat licking at the wooden beams.

"Move!" Daryl's voice cut through the smoke. He grabbed her roughly by the arm, pulling her toward the group. Her eyes stung from the smoke, but she saw familiar faces—Maggie, Beth, Carl, Rick, Bob, Sasha, Tyreese, Nathan—all pushing toward safety. Nathan was right beside her, guiding her down low, shielding her as she coughed violently.

Outside, the world had gone impossibly still, except for the field beyond the fences. There, framed by the rising smoke, the Governor stood, flanked by armed men. And worse—behind him, the unmistakable shape of a tank glinting in the morning light.

Measi's chest tightened. The Governor's calm, measured tone carried memories that made her freeze, shadows of old pain creeping into her mind.

"Rick! Come down here. We need to talk."

Her hands trembled on Nathan's shoulder, grounding herself as memories threatened to pull her under. But Rick's firm voice, calling back, brought her back from the edge.

Rick's voice carried above the chaos. "It's not up to me! There's a council now. They run this place!"

"Is Hershel on the council?" the Governor asked.

Measi's stomach dropped. Hershel was being brought out of a vehicle, hands tied behind his back, his face a mixture of defiance and fear. Her pulse raced, a cold dread spreading through her chest.

"And Michonne? She's on the council too?" The Governor's eyes flicked toward Michonne, who had been shoved into a similar position, a deep cut across her forehead hinting at the blow that had knocked her out.

Rick's response was strained. "I don't make decisions anymore."

The Governor's voice remained steady, unsettlingly calm. "You're making the decisions today, Rick."

Rick leaned over Carl, speaking in hurried whispers, his eyes flicking between the prisoners, the tank, and the Governor. Then, almost reluctantly, he walked toward the gate.

Daryl's hand landed on Measi's shoulder, firm and grounding. "We can't take 'em all on."

Measi exhaled sharply, nodding slowly, her gaze flitting over Nathan. He squeezed her shoulder, a quiet, steady comfort amidst the panic, and she rested her hand over his in response. "We ain't got the numbers no more," Daryl added grimly.

Her mind raced, thoughts snapping into tactical focus. "When's the last time someone checked the stash on the bus?"

Sasha's voice was tight with worry. "Day before we hit the Big Spot."

Measi cursed under her breath. Rations had already been low then. Now... now they were dangerously low.

Daryl's eyes scanned the horizon. "Yeah, we'll manage. Things go south, everyone heads for that bus. Let everybody know."

Tyreese's brow furrowed. "What if everybody doesn't know when things go bad? How long do we wait?"

"As long as we can," Daryl said, jaw tight, eyes hard.

Measi's grip on Nathan's hand tightened slightly, grounding herself in the only solid thing she could hold onto as the smoke from the burning tower rose higher, curling into the sky like a warning. The field beyond the fences was alive with threat, and for the first time in weeks, she felt the full weight of the war closing in on them.