Morning in the marina came in slow and flat.
Water tapped against the hull in soft, uneven rhythms.
Dock lines creaked somewhere down the pier.
A walker let out a wet, gurgling groan, then went quiet again.
I stepped into the cruiser and paused.
The deck flexed under my weight—not much, just enough to tell me that the hull still had integrity.
Good start.
The boat was older than I imagined; paint sun-faded, salt crusted along the rails.
I could tell that someone had cared about it once.
That someone was long gone now.
I sat my pack inside the cabin and started looking around.
If the previous owner left the keys here, the most obvious place, the ignition, was empty.
Next was the glove compartment. Empty again.
It wasn't until I checked the helm dashboard did I find the key in a small dry bag, hidden within the wiring panel area.
"Bingo," I muttered then retrieved it.
I got to work.
Fuel first.
I propped the engine cover and leaned in, bracing my forearms on either side.
The smell of gasoline and warm metal sat heavy in the compartment.
My fingers traced the fuel line from tank to feed, checking for cracks, soft spots, and loose clamps.
Nothing obvious came up.
I cracked the bleed valve and worked the primer slowly.
One pull.
Two.
Three.
The air hissed out in short, controlled bursts.
I watched the line carefully, waiting for bubbles to stop.
When the flow ran clean, I tightened the valve back down and gave the line one firm tug.
Solid.
Next problem: the intake.
I moved to the stern and dropped to a crouch, reaching down into the intake housing.
My hand came back coated in swamp sludge—stringy plant matter and black grit.
The kind of buildup that would choke the engine the moment I pushed her hard.
I began to clear it piece by piece.
Slow. Methodical. Thoroughly.
No shortcuts.
The marina stayed quiet around me while I worked.
Too quiet for a city this size.
The silence pressed in at the edge, the kind that reminded you how few living people were left to make noise.
I didn't linger on it; it didn't help.
The marine batteries sat loose in their tray near the bulkhead.
Heavy, dead blocks.
Dead weight to most people.
I wasn't most people.
I crouched, slid my hands under the first one, and lifted.
No strain. No pause.
Just controlled movement as I sat it properly into the bracket and locked it down.
The second followed just as easily.
The rusted retaining bolt fought me for half a second before giving way under steady pressure.
My peak human physique wasn't for show.
I wiped my hands on a rag and ran through the checklist again in my head.
Fuel—primed.
Electrical—stable.
Intake—clear.
Hull response—acceptable.
Now, only topping off the fuel left.
I took care of that too, just as efficiently.
Ready.
I stood there a second longer than necessary, looking out across the empty slips.
This was the part that stuck with me more than danger: the quiet. Back at the farm, there was always movement.
Voices, footsteps, people close enough to reach out.
Here, though—just me.
My inventory sat like a locked door in the back of my mind.
ROB.
My second life...
The advantages I couldn't explain without sounding insane.
Maggie trusted me.
Rick and the others relied on me.
And I couldn't tell any of them the truth. I couldn't show them my abilities.
I couldn't make use of my strength while they were around.
It was frustrating.
Stifling, like I was bound with invisible chains that bound me to normal human limits.
The weight of that didn't show on my face, but it stayed.
Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I moved.
Lines came off the cleats one by one.
I stepped into the cockpit and turned the key.
The engine coughed once, then caught.
A low marine vibration rolled through the deck and up my legs.
The cruiser dipped slightly as the motor engaged, the stern settling deeper into the water before leveling out at idle.
Good balance.
I eased the throttle forward.
The boat responded clean.
The bow lifted just a few degrees as we pushed away from the dock.
Water peeled off in smooth lines, the wake forming narrow and controlled behind me.
She rode light, better than expected.
Savannah's skyline slid into view as I cleared the marina docks.
Dead buildings.
Dark windows.
No movement.
I kept one hand loose on the wheel, my eyes moving between the channel ahead and the mental overlay running in the background.
Entry vectors.
Tide direction.
The air carried rot even this far out.
Salt helped, but it didn't hide it.
My breathing stayed steady.
I pushed the throttle a little more.
The cruiser settled into a steady glide, the hull cutting clean through the gray water as the Padre Shipyard waited somewhere ahead—quiet and full of problems.
I cut the engine a mile out and let the cruiser drift.
Momentum carried me the rest of the way behind a rusted breakwater choked with barnacles and old rope.
From there, Ossabaw Island came into view.
Padre Shipyard rose into view with it.
It looked like a grave that forgot to stay closed.
Steel stacks, cranes frozen mid-task, and between them.
Movement.
I lifted the binoculars.
The lenses steadied against my brow as I adjusted focus.
There it was.
A sea of dead.
Not scattered, not drifting—packed.
Hundreds of them, if not thousands, filling the container lines shoulder to shoulder.
From above, it would've looked like gray water moving through red and gray steel corridors.
Down here, through glass, it looked worse, much worse.
Now that I'm closer than last time, I see faces pressed close together, skin hanging loose, mouths working in slow, empty rhythm.
The sound carried faintly across the water; a low grinding, like a machine grinding gravel.
One mistake in there meant death.
No escape.
Not on foot, certainly not through that density.
I lowered the binoculars and let them hang against my chest.
Wind pushed salt against my face.
The smell reached me even out here—rot layered under brine.
Now, I only needed to find a safe way in for me, without attracting swarms of walkers my way in the process.
(To be continued...)