The road hummed beneath the truck—low, steady vibrations that crawled up through the steering wheel and into my palms.
The box truck wasn't built for comfort; every crack in the asphalt translated straight into my bones.
If not for my enhanced physique, I wouldn't be able to keep scavenging like this every day.
Quiet morning.
Too quiet.
My eyes kept moving on their own: mirror, treelines, empty stretch of highway ahead, mirror again.
A slow, automatic old habit—old wiring that never really shuts off once it's burned in deep enough.
Nothing.
No sudden movements; nothing jumped out.
That should have been reassuring.
It wasn't.
The truck engine droned like white noise in the back of my skull.
The air inside the cab smelled faintly of dust and old cardboard.
Savannah sat somewhere ahead.
The safe play was obvious: stick to the outskirts, hit the warehouses we hadn't stripped yet, and bring back another clean load.
No sweat.
My fingers tapped once against the wheel.
It didn't feel right.
Padre Shipyard pushed into my thoughts whether I invited it or not.
Meta-knowledge is a funny thing.
People think it's clean information—bullet points, strategy guides.
It isn't.
It comes with weight, with half-remembered angles, with the way your stomach tightens because you already know what waits around certain corners.
Meta-knowledge wasn't a gift most days.
I haven't stepped foot into that shipyard yet, but I know what it turns into: containers stacked packed tight, sightlines that look open until they aren't, walkers…
A lot of walkers.
Enough that my grip around the wheel tightened before I consciously told it to.
Exhaling, I flexed my fingers, forcing them to loosen.
Savannah outskirts meant survival.
Padre Shipyard meant thriving.
Bulk food, industrial stock, medical crates, equipment, and more fuel to add to our already large stock—supplies that never reached where they were meant to.
Enough materials in one pull to change the board for everyone back at the farm.
If it could be done clean.
There it was.
The "if."
I exhaled slowly through my nose and forced my shoulders to loosen, but the tension didn't fully leave.
It sat there anyway, coiled and patient, because I knew something else too: Padre isn't just dangerous; it's the kind of place that punishes sloppy planning.
One bad noise, one wrong turn, one herd drifting the wrong direction at the wrong time—game over.
My thumb rubbed slowly along the steering seam.
Could I hit it solo?
The question didn't come with drama, just numbers, angles, and timing windows running quietly in the back of my head.
Maybe. Maybe not.
What I did know—what sat heavy on my chest whether I liked it or not—was the look on everyone's faces yesterday when we rolled back with these trucks.
Shoulders dropped.
People breathed easier.
Nobody said it out loud, but I saw it.
That kind of breathing room mattered.
I drove another mile in silence. The truck hummed; the tires rolled over cracked asphalt.
My jaw shifted.
"…Not blind," I muttered.
Padre was still on the table, just not like this.
My hand moved before I fully thought about it.
The turn signal clicked on—too loud in the quiet cab—and I eased the truck into the side. Gravel popped under the tires as the box truck rolled to a slow stop, the engine idling steady.
Patient for a few seconds, I just sat there—both hands resting on the wheel, eyes on the road ahead that didn't care about what decision I made.
Then, I reached back behind the seat and pulled the folded map free.
Paper rasped as I spread it across the steering wheel.
I already knew the layout, but I still checked.
Fingers traced the coastline, slow and deliberate: access roads, choke points, distance from the nearest heavy walker concentrations we'd already seen.
My shoulder leaned forward without me noticing.
Padre was doable. Not safely, not yet, and certainly not in numbers.
Need to find a boat first.
Insertion angle second.
Then maybe—maybe—it becomes survivable.
I folded the map carefully and slid it behind the seat.
Decision made.
Now for the preparation.
I shifted the truck into gear and eased it back onto the road, eyes already scanning ahead again.
I just needed the right tool before I knocked on Padre's door.
Savannah's outskirts came into view piece by piece—not all at once.
First, the long stretch of abandoned vehicles; the deeper I got, the more pronounced it became.
Then, the thick cluster of abandoned roadside businesses.
Then the smell.
Rot carries on the wind differently in cities—thicker, warmer.
It sticks to the back of your throat.
I cracked the window an inch anyway.
Better to smell trouble early.
The closer I got, the more careful my driving became.
Not just slower, but cleaner. No hard turns, no sudden braking.
I kept the engine noise low and steady—predictable background noise instead of a dinner bell.
A few walkers drifted near the road—singles, a pair at once—nothing worth stopping for.
My eyes kept moving.
I wasn't here to clear; I was here to harvest.
So, the fewer walkers I had to kill, the better it was in my book.
Ten minutes later, I spotted my first target: a mid-size warehouse sitting just off a service road.
Loading bay half-open, parking lot mostly empty except for a delivery truck parked near the curb.
Good.
I eased the box truck around back and killed the engine.
Silence dropped fast.
For a moment, I just sat there listening.
Wind through the loose metal, a distant hollow groan, no close shuffling.
I stepped out, my boots hitting the pavement softly.
I checked the parked delivery truck first.
The closer I got to it, the heavier the rot smell got.
The cab had a dead body inside, explaining the stench; it seems to have been dead for a while now, judging by the decay the corpse had.
Back in the cargo, I found it half-full of boxes.
I took a knife and opened a few to see what was inside: different canned goods, mostly fish and beef, with some canned pasta in between.
I transported half of the boxes into the box truck.
The other half went inside my inventory.
Entire boxes vanished.
Just… gone.
I huffed out a quiet breath. "Still weird," I muttered.
Even now, months into using it, the feeling still hit the same part in my brain.
Wrong.
Useful as hell, but wrong.
I rolled my shoulders and moved to the warehouse.
The warehouse's door was already cracked open.
I didn't rush it.
I put my hands on the handle and pushed slow, then paused.
Nothing lunged.
Inside smelled of cardboard and dust, not rot.
"Better," I muttered to myself.
Rows of pallets and stacks filled the floor: shrink-wrapped goods, bulk food, cleaning supplies, some industrial paper products.
My pulse picked up.
Jackpot.
I moved fast.
The knife stayed in my right hand out of habit while I approached the first pallet.
I exhaled once and rested my left hand against the plastic-wrapped stack.
Inventory.
The pull happened instantly.
One second the pallet was there; the next second, it was gone.
No flash, no sound—just empty concrete where nearly a thousand pounds of supplies had been sitting.
Ignoring the wrong feeling in the back of my mind, I moved to the next stack.
Touch, gone.
Touch, gone.
Clean, efficient, almost clinical—except for the thin edge of adrenaline sitting under my ribs the whole time.
Because this wasn't a game.
If I got sloppy, things would spiral fast.
I worked the warehouse in sections, leaving the heavier machinery and grabbing everything shelf-stable, medical, or high-value by weight.
By the time I stepped outside, the box truck was still alone in the lot and the sun was a little higher than before.
Good haul, but not enough.
I wiped my hands once on my jeans and climbed back into the driver's seat.
Engine turned over.
Back on the road.
The marina took longer to find than I liked.
Two false turns, one blocked coastal road, and one slow crawl past a cluster of walkers that forced me to step out to clear before continuing on.
My fingers stayed tight on the wheel throughout all that.
By the time the marina finally came into view, the sun had already started its slow slide west.
I didn't pull in right away. I watched and listened, then eased the truck into a nearby empty warehouse.
I killed the engine and closed the warehouse doors behind me.
The docks were quiet—too quiet to be comfortable.
I moved on foot this time, steps slow on the wooden planks.
One walker near the far slip turned at the sound.
I closed the distance before it could groan and drove the knife up under the jaw, caught the body before it could hit, and lowered it gently.
Still clear. My eyes scanned the boats one by one.
Most were useless: too big for what was needed, damaged, or too small to matter.
Then I saw it.
A mid-size cabin cruiser.
Paint a bit faded but intact, hull sitting clean in the water, lines still tied properly.
No obvious damage along the side.
"Could work," I muttered.
I stepped onto the dock beside it and crouched slightly, eyes moving across the deck, the cabin windows, the sides.
My brain was already running numbers.
Insertion angle, noise profile.
"...Yeah," I muttered quietly.
"This might actually work."
(To be continued...)