The air changed the closer we got to the yard.
It thickened.
Humidity rolled off the Chattahoochee like a hot wet blanket, carrying the stink of stagnant water, oil, and rot that had been baking under the Georgia sun for weeks.
It clung to the back of the throat and sat heavy in the lungs.
Every breath tasted disgusting, like something left too long in the heat.
I slowed the group with a raised hand, guiding them along the outer perimeter.
Ahead, tracks split and overlapped beyond the fence, metal lines leading into a maze of stacked containers and idle machinery.
Too much infrastructure. Too much traffic.
I stopped near a cluster of overgrown brush and turned slightly toward them.
"Remember, this place wasn't small-time," I said, keeping my voice low.
"It was one of the busiest rail yards in Norfolk Southern's system, meaning freight in, freight out, and crews running shifts day and night."
Rick's expression tightened, eyes flicking past me to the yard. He got it fast. "So when things went bad…"
"They were here when it hit." I finished.
Daryl spat to the side, adjusting the crossbow in his grip. "Means more of 'em."
"Means a lot more." I said.
Merle rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck with a faint grin. "Goodie! More toys to break."
Rick shot him a glance. "Merle."
Merle just shrugged like he didn't care. Jim swallowed, shifting his weight. "Busy place before… means it's packed now."
"Exactly. So do keep that in mind and stay focused."
I let the silence sit for a second, then I moved.
For nearly an hour we moved like a reconnaissance team, sticking to the tree lines and the shadows that hugged the chain-link boundary of the rail yard, looking for the ideal breaching point.
We came to a halt near a section of the fence where the tree canopy dipped low, providing a natural veil.
I looked toward the river, then back at the massive stacks of Norfolk Southern containers that loomed like iron cliffs just inside the wire.
"This is it," I said, my tone final.
"The northwest corner. We have the river at our backs. It acts as a natural sound buffer. If we have to go loud, the water will swallow half the echo, and we're as far from downtown—far from the dense urban herds—as we can get."
Daryl spat into the dirt, squinting at the river. "Smart. Water don't carry a scream as far as a paved street."
"Exactly," I said.
Rick wiped sweat from his brow, his eyes scanning the corner. "This is as good as we can get."
Turning to Jim, I said, "Get the bolt cutters ready. We're going in quiet and we're going in small. One entrance, one way out. Once we're inside, we don't touch the ground unless we have to."
With that said, we angled toward the northwest corner, keeping low and using what little cover the terrain gave us.
The fence line came into view—chain-link, somewhat battered but intact. No obvious breaches, no signs anyone had come through recently.
Good.
Jim handed me the bolt cutter. The metal felt cold in my hands despite the heat.
I crouched near the base. Behind me, the others spread without being told.
Rick took the left, watching the approach. Daryl drifted right, his eyes scanning the tree line.
Merle hung back, posture loose but gaze sharp.
Jim stayed close enough to see, far enough not to crowd.
I set the jaws of the cutter against the first link.
Paused. Listened.
Nothing but the somewhat distant, low murmur of the dead inside the yard.
I squeezed—slow, controlled.
The wire gave with a sharp snap.
Too loud.
It cut through the morning like a crack of gunfire.
I froze, listening again.
No immediate reaction.
No surge of movement. Just that same low, restless noise from inside.
Relief immediately flooded my veins.
I freed a hand and wiped the sweat from my brows, then kept going, one link at a time, from bottom to top.
Working methodically. Keeping tension low so the metal wouldn't recoil or rattle more than it had to.
Two meters across.
Two meters high.
Clean edges, no loose ends to snag on the way through.
When I finished, I caught the cut section before it could drop, easing it down into the dirt on the side.
I stepped back slightly and nodded.
"Go."
Daryl moved first. He slipped through the opening low and silent, his crossbow already angled ahead.
Rick followed, controlled, one hand brushing the fence to steady himself without making noise.
Jim came next—slower, careful not to catch on the wire.
Merle last, ducking through with a muttered "Cozy."
I went in after them.
Inside felt different.
Closer.
The smell hit harder—rot and oil trapped between steel walls and baking heat.
We didn't stop.
Containers loomed around us, stacked two, three, four high, forming tight corridors—canyons of metal and shadow.
Sound didn't travel right here; it echoed, bounced, and came back wrong.
I pointed up.
Daryl was already moving.
He crouched under one of the containers and clasped his hands together, intending to boost me up.
I went ahead, caught the lip of the container, and pulled myself up in one smooth motion.
I turned around and crouched, holding a hand for the rest of them to climb up.
Daryl came up first with a grunt, followed by Jim, Merle, and finally Rick.
We repeated this action a couple more times, and we soon found ourselves on top of a four-stack containers.
We moved across the tops, stepping light despite the corrugated steel beneath us, making sure to keep the noise to the bare minimum.
Then the yard opened up beneath us. And then—we saw it.
Hundreds.
Maybe more.
Walkers packed into the lanes between containers, shoulder to shoulder in places.
Some wandered aimlessly, bumping into steel walls, turning, repeating.
Others just stood there—dead still—like they'd forgotten how to move.
High-visibility vests still clung to rotting torsos.
Hard hats hung loose or sat at crooked angles on sunken skulls.
Work gloves, tool belts—frozen in the last place they'd been alive.
Trapped.
The narrow corridors turned the whole yard into a funnel.
No escape paths, no dispersal, just a slow rotting mass.
Rick let out a quiet breath. "Jesus…"
Jim swallowed hard, his eyes widened in disbelief and fear. "That's… that's a lot."
Daryl's gaze tracked the movement patterns. "Tight lanes," he muttered. "They were trapped alive."
Merle went white in the face and hissed, "You're tellin' me we're gonna clear all them motherfuckers?!"
No one answered him.
Ignoring him, I just stood there.
I didn't feel fear. I didn't feel surprise, either.
I'd already foreseen it, and I had already done something similar back in Padre Shipyard.
What I felt was—weight.
Long days stretched out in front of me, measured in arrows, blades, and patience.
Work.
Just exhausting work.
I exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the lanes, breaking them down into sectors.
"Yeah," I muttered, my grip tightening slightly on the bow. "This is gonna take a while."
(To be continued...)