The truck rolled on.
Same rhythm, same steady grind of engine and asphalt.
But the air in the cab had changed.
Rick fell silent after hearing what I said. His jaw was set, contemplating what he had just heard.
"What was the worst of it?" Rick suddenly asked.
"The worst of it," I repeated, my fingers tightened on the wheel. "Is how normal it gets."
That landed heavy.
"You wake up," I continued, keeping my voice steady. "You put the gear on. You step outside and your brain already knows what the day is gonna be."
I shifted gears, the engine growling briefly before settling again.
"Clear a building. Survive the snipers that were constantly on the lookout. Watch a street. Listen for that sound." My thumb tapped the wheel once—clack.
I exhaled quietly. "And after a while… it's just another day."
Rick's brow furrowed slightly. "Like it doesn't bother you anymore?"
"It does," I said.
A beat.
"Just not in a way that slows you down."
Silence stretched again.
Rick leaned back slightly, absorbing that.
Then—
"You said you got out," Rick said. "When was that?"
There it was.
The part that didn't fit.
The part that never would.
"Four months before the world went to shit," I replied.
That wasn't really true.
Just… compressed truth.
Rick let out a low breath.
"Damn," he muttered. "You barely made it out."
"You can say that again."
I kept my eyes on the road.
I didn't let anything slip into my voice.
I didn't let the decades behind that answer show.
Because the reality? I hadn't been in that desert for years. Decades, even. Different life. Different body. Different time.
But the memories—they didn't care about any of that. They sat right there, untouched by time.
Heat still burned in my lungs.
Weight still pressed on my shoulders.
That clack still echoed in my head, still haunting my dreams like it might as well have been yesterday.
Rick shook his head slightly. "Hell of a thing," he said. "Going through all that… and then this."
I didn't answer, because there wasn't one.
Outside, the road curved slightly, guiding us closer to the city.
More abandoned cars now—some pushed aside, some not.
The skeleton of Atlanta was rising larger with every mile.
Rick shifted again, resting his arm against the door, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the approach.
"You know," he said after a moment, quieter now. "I thought I'd seen the worst of things before all this." He paused, then added: "Guess I was wrong."
That was it.
No more questions.
No more words.
The silence that followed wasn't empty; it was heavy. Shared.
Half an hour later, the box truck rolled to a slow, grinding stop just short of the rail yard's outer sprawl.
I let the engine idle for a second longer than necessary, listening.
No movement beyond the low, distant murmur of the dead.
No sudden shifts in the air.
Just the thick, clinging smell of diesel, old grease… and rot.
I then killed the engine.
Silence filled the space.
A moment later, Rick and I grabbed our weapons then stepped out.
The moment my boots hit the ground, the heat wrapped around me—heavy, wet, immediate.
Even in this late summer, it was still blisteringly hot.
Atlanta humidity didn't ask permission. It pressed in, sank into your clothes, and settled on your skin like a second layer.
We went ahead and opened the back doors of the box truck.
The doors creaked as they opened, loud enough to make everyone pause for half a second.
Daryl was the first to drop down, followed by Jim, careful and deliberate. Merle came out last, slower than the rest, one hand bracing against the frame as he stepped out, all had their weapons attached.
"Damn it," he muttered, rolling his shoulders, then his lower back.
"Next time I ain't ridin' in the back of that thing."
"No one asked you to," Daryl shot back without looking.
"Yeah? You try sittin' on a damn battery crate for the whole ride back and see," Merle grumbled, stretching again with a wince he didn't quite hide.
I ignored him and looked around.
Too exposed. Too open.
I didn't like it.
"We're not leaving it here," I said.
Rick looked around as well. "Agreed."
I turned to Daryl. "Find a warehouse," I said. "Something close, out of sight. Get the truck inside, secure it, and get back."
Daryl nodded. "Yeah."
I tossed him the keys. He caught them clean and gave a short nod.
"Fifteen minutes," I added.
He gave a half-grunt at that, already moving toward the driver's side.
The engine turned over again—louder this time in the quiet.
Too loud.
I watched as he eased the truck forward, slow and controlled, then turned off the road and disappeared between two low industrial buildings.
The sound of the engine faded, then—
Walkers. A dozen of them.
Some still wearing tattered civilian clothes; others had bloodied high-visibility vests.
"Let's get rid of these things quick before more show up," I said. Already reaching for my knife, I quietly added, "Silently."
I reached the nearest walker to me and drove my knife into its ear cavity, dropping him instantly.
Rick followed suit.
Merle shot a walker in the eye with his crossbow, killing it instantly, while Jim kicked a walker in the knee—dropping it—and drove his machete into its head, keeping to the lesson Rick and Shane taught them back in the farmhouse.
A minute later, and all the walkers were down.
Exhaling slightly, I said, "Let's drag them to the side." Then I got to work, grabbing a walker by the legs and started dragging.
Rick nodded and started to work.
Merle muttered profanities but followed suit nonetheless.
Jim wiped the sweat on his forehead and grabbed a walker nearby to drag as well.
It wasn't until five minutes later that we finished.
Then, we spread out.
Rick took the left side of the road, stepping up onto a low rise for better visibility.
I moved opposite, keeping the yard's perimeter in sight while scanning the approach we'd come from.
Jim stayed near me, eyes flicking between us and the direction Daryl had gone.
Merle lit a cigarette out of habit but kept his eyes on the perimeter.
The wait stretched.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Every second felt longer than it should.
Fifteen minutes came, then—movement.
A figure stepped out from between the buildings.
Daryl.
He walked back like nothing had happened, pace easy, his shoulders loose—but his eyes were working, scanning. He spotted the dead walkers.
"You had company," he said.
"Yeah," I said. "Did you get everything done?"
"Found a place," he said as he closed the distance. "Old loading warehouse. Doors still good. Truck's inside."
"Clear?" Rick asked.
Daryl gave a small nod. "Checked what I could. Didn't see anything movin'."
"Good enough." I gave a short nod. "Then we move."
We gathered close, hands moving over gear one last time.
I rechecked my bow—string tension, nock alignment, arrow seating.
Then my pistols: suppressors, magazines, everything.
Rick ran through his own checks beside me—quiet, methodical.
Daryl adjusted his crossbow, fingers brushing over the bolts.
Jim double-checked the smaller tools at his belt, his hands moving faster now, nerves settling into routine.
Merle checked his crossbow as well before slinging it on his back.
He grabbed his knife and spun it once before gripping it properly, cracking a grin.
"A'right," he muttered. "Let's dance."
I stepped forward, my eyes locking onto the rail yard's outer fence.
From here, I could already see it: stacked containers, narrow lanes, shadowed gaps where things could hide.
And the movement—subtle.
I exhaled slowly. "Stay tight," I said. "Keep the noise on the down low. We don't need mistakes."
No one argued.
Time to see what we were walking into.
(To be continued...)