I shifted my weight slightly, scanning the lanes, counting the patterns and mapping out routes in my head.
Then—
A sharp inhale broke me out of my thoughts.
Glancing from the corner of my eye.
Merle.
I turned my head just enough.
He'd gone pale.
Gone was his usual smirk and cocky tilt of his chin. His jaw was tight; his eyes were darting nervously from walker to walker.
This was something even the great Merle Dixon couldn't joke his way out of.
"Hell…" he muttered under his breath. "That's—that's too much!"
Daryl rolled his eyes at him and said, "Get your shit together, Merle. We did something similar back in the fuel depot, remember?"
Merle's head snapped at Daryl, his eyes wide, hissing, "We were just leadin' them corpses to the quarry, not getting close n' personal like this!"
Daryl just snorted and looked away, turning back to the sea of walkers.
Merle let out a short, sharp breath, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he was trying to wipe the image away.
"Yeah, alright," he added, his voice rougher now. "This was a bad, bad idea."
There it was.
Fear.
And fear spreads faster than anything in a place like this.
I turned fully toward him, letting him see me—not the yard, not the numbers, me.
Flat, dry, almost amused.
Not mocking him, mind you; just grounding him.
He blinked once, twice, held my gaze.
I didn't say anything.
Didn't need to.
After a few seconds, he huffed through his nose, shook his head like he was resetting himself. "Yeah, yeah…" he muttered. "I'm good."
Good enough.
I turned back to the yard. "Listen up," I said, keeping my voice low but clear.
They shifted immediately—Rick stepping closer, Daryl already half-focused, Jim looking like he was trying to anchor himself to anything solid.
"We're not having a fight with the walkers up and personal," I continued. "We're fighting from up top, and we control the rhythm."
I pointed down into the lanes. "Rick—you stay up top. High ground, far away from the walkers. Suppressed shots only. Keep them spread out. No rhythm, so as to not cluster the noise and draw walkers from other sectors."
Rick nodded once. "Got it."
I looked at the others. "Daryl, Merle, and me. The ones with bows. We go down to the ground container."
Daryl didn't even react—just adjusted his stance like he's on with it.
Merle glanced at the drop, then back at the walkers, then gave a tight nod.
"Alright," he muttered.
"We'll handle the bulk," I went on, quietly. "One at a time if we have to."
I shifted my weight slightly again. "And watch your shots," I added, my expression turning serious. "Arrow hits steel, that sound carries. Same with a round. Hollow metal turns it into a damn dinner bell."
Daryl grunted. "Aim away from the containers."
"Exactly."
I shifted my gaze to Jim.
He was sweating, clearly not from the heat alone, but he held my eyes when I looked at him.
"Jim," I said. "You stay out of this."
He blinked once, then nodded quickly. "Yeah. Yeah, I— Yeah."
"You're not here to fight. You're here to get that reach stacker running if we find any." I pointed deeper into the yard. "That machine's our golden ticket."
He swallowed, then straightened just a fraction. "Understood."
"Good."
I exhaled slowly, letting everything settle into place. "We use bows," I said.
I brought mine up, nocking an arrow in one smooth motion.
"We drop the walkers. We reclaim the arrows. Then we repeat. No wasted arrows, no wasted motion. Just efficient work."
Turning to Daryl and Merle: "When you're out of arrows, you call me on the radio so we can retrieve them. Alright?"
Merle muttered while Daryl just grunted.
I turned my eyes from them, and stepped into the edge, then dropped down to the next container, holding the edge of the container to ease my fall. My boots hit metal with barely a sound.
Daryl followed—silent, fluid. Merle came after, a little heavier but controlled enough.
Rick moved along the top, looking for a suitable angle to shoot; Jim stayed with him, away from the fight.
We spread out across the container roofs, each of us positioned.
No more talking.
Just the quiet draw of strings and the beginning of a long day.
Fifty minutes in.
The rhythm set.
Draw,
anchor,
release.
The world narrowed to that simple cycle.
The bowstring thrummed against my fingers, a tight, controlled vibration that never carried far.
The arrow slipped free with a soft hiss, fletching cutting through humid air before—thud.
The broadhead finding its destination in the walker's skull.
One more body folded into the mass below.
To my far left, Daryl worked the same cadence.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
His bolts punched down into skulls one after the other.
Merle was rougher—less clean, more force—but still effective. He adjusted fast, learned faster.
Above us, somewhere higher on the stack—pfft.
Rick's suppressed shots came in spaced, deliberate.
No pattern.
No clustering.
Just enough contribute without drawing more walkers.
We worked efficiently.
Not fast, not loud.
Just… constant.
Below us, the sea of walkers shifted.
Not gone, but thinning.
Walkers dropped one by one, their bodies stacking over each other, turning narrow lanes into uneven carpets of the dead.
Some twitched; some didn't. A few bumped into the fallen, stumbled, then joined them seconds later.
The air changed with it.
Thicker.
Heavier.
Old blood mixed with rot and engine oil. A metallic tang that coated the tongue and sat in the back of the throat.
Every breath just carried it deeper.
My quiver grew lighter with each shot.
Not by much at first, but more noticeable later.
Thrum.
Release.
Thud.
Another one dropped, vest still bright under layers of grime, hard hat rolling loose as the body collapsed.
Suddenly, my radio crackled.
Static first, then—
"I'm out."
Daryl's voice came low and flat.
A beat.
"Empty," he added.
Another crackle.
"Yeah, same here," Merle came through, breathing a little heavier but steady. "Bone dry."
I lowered my bow and grabbed my radio.
"Get back to my position," was all I said, before I continued shooting the last of my arrows.
(To be continued...)