Just as I had launched my last arrow, I heard the sound of boots on metal behind me.
I tilted my head just enough to spot from the corner of my eye Daryl and Merle climbing back up—moving quicker now, but still controlled.
Turning my eyes, I looked out over the sector.
It was quieter; not silent, mind you, but close.
Nearly a hundred bodies were down, spread across the lanes in uneven clusters.
The movement below had slowed to isolated twitches—stragglers bumping into obstacles they didn't understand.
"Almost done with this sector," I turned as they came up beside me.
Daryl slung the empty crossbow over his shoulder, glancing down at the cleared lanes with a small, satisfied grunt.
Merle wiped a hand across his face, smearing sweat and grime together.
"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered. "We actually pulled that off."
"For this sector," I corrected.
His grin faltered slightly. "Yeah… there's that."
I nodded toward the deeper stacks.
"We keep moving like this, we control the spread and clear one line at a time. Keep to our strategy and we should be good," I continued. "After we get back the arrows, we continue same as we were. We keep angles covered. No clustering."
Merle raised a hand immediately. "I'll stay up here."
Too fast, too eager.
I looked at him, then at the bodies below, then back at him.
"…Overwatch," he added, a little less subtle now. "Better view, ya know? Tactical and all."
Daryl snorted; he couldn't help it. I felt the corner of my mouth twitch just a fraction before I shook my head.
"Yeah," I said dryly. "Tactical."
Merle grinned like he'd just won something. "Damn right."
I let it go.
"Fine. You stay here. Keep eyes on adjacent lanes. Call if you spot movement."
"Ya got it, chief," he nodded, already backing toward the higher stack like he'd been given a promotion instead of an excuse.
Daryl watched him go, shaking his head slightly. "Ain't even gonna pretend, huh?"
"Nope," I said.
He huffed a quiet laugh.
I turned back to the yard, my eyes already moving to the next sector.
"Let's move."
And with that—we started again.
I swung over the edge first, holding the now-warm edge of the container, and in a controlled drop, my boots hit the ground, my knees bending to absorb the impact.
Daryl landed beside me a heartbeat later.
And then it hit: The smell.
Up top it had been bad; down here—it was a nightmare.
Heat trapped between steel containers turned the air into something thick and wet, saturated with fresh rot, blood, old oil, opened skulls, ruptured tissue—all of it cooking under the morning Georgia sun.
It crawled into the nose, coated the tongue, and settled in the lungs like wriggling maggots.
We didn't have the luxury to react.
I turned to Daryl and leaned in just enough for him to hear my voice.
"Let's keep this as fast and quiet as possible," I murmured. "Don't drift, and stay away from the rest of the walkers here."
He gave a short nod.
Then, we moved.
The ground wasn't ground anymore—it was bodies.
Uneven footing, soft in places, boots sinking just enough to remind you what you were standing on.
I crouched beside the first dead walker.
The arrow shaft was buried deep at the base of the skull.
I gripped it and pulled.
Resistance.
The bone held for a fraction of a second before giving with a wet, disgusting—squelch.
I wiped the shaft on the walker's shirt, quick and efficient, before I returned it back into the quiver.
Next.
Daryl worked a few meters down, doing the same.
Less delicate, maybe—but just as fast.
Bolts came free with sharp, wet sounds, wiped clean on whatever cloth was available, then stored.
The retrieval went on.
No wasted motion.
No conversation.
Just work.
Step,
crouch,
grip,
pull,
squelch,
wipe,
store,
repeat.
Every sound felt amplified: a boot shifting gravel, fabric tearing, the wet drag of steel leaving bone.
Too loud.
Always too loud.
I kept my breathing slow, controlled.
In through the nose—regret that instantly—out through the mouth.
We moved through the narrow canyon between containers, steel walls boxing us in.
Sound had nowhere to go but bounce ahead.
A walker shifted, still active, half-trapped between bodies, arms twitching as it tried to push forward.
I froze for a moment.
The thing let out a low, wet groan, its head turning slightly—
I stepped in.
Put one hand on the skull; the other drove my knife up under the chin.
Quick, precise.
The body slackened instantly. I wrenched the knife out of its chin, wiped it clean on its rags, and kept moving.
Minutes blurred.
The quiver grew heavier again—arrow by arrow, shaft by shaft.
My fingers grew slick despite the wiping, the texture of dried blood and fresh rot clinging no matter how clean I tried to keep them.
We didn't rush too much; couldn't.
One mistake here—one loud misstep—and the rest of the sectors would come barreling in.
By the time we reached the far end, the remaining walkers had drifted further into neighboring lanes, drawn by distant noise or simple aimless movement.
Good. Less pressure.
We circled back through a second path, picking up what we'd missed.
I checked my watch.
Thirty minutes had passed.
It felt shorter.
Doesn't matter.
I checked the quiver; full enough.
Daryl adjusted his grip on the recovered bolts, rolling his shoulder once.
"Good?" he muttered.
"Good," I said.
We moved back to the stack.
Daryl boosted me up again and, in turn, I held my hand out for him to grab.
Merle was already there, stretched near the edge like he'd been keeping watch the whole time.
He glanced over.
"'Bout damn time," he said. "Y'all smell like a slaughterhouse."
Daryl snorted. "Try standin' in it."
Merle's face scrunched up. "Yeah, I'm good up here."
I shook my head and settled my bow back into position, my fingers testing the string.
Grip adjusted automatically.
Below, the sector sat quieter now, manageable, since most of the rest of the walkers were drawn into the neighboring sector by the noise of the walkers there.
I exhaled slowly.
"Alright," I said. I stepped back to the edge, my eyes already scanning for the next lane. "Let's get back to work."
And so, the rhythm started again.
(To be continued...)