The screen door creaked as I stepped onto the farmhouse porch.
The first thing that hit me was the smell of diesel; the second was the sight of Morgan and Morales looking like death itself.
Six armored trucks sat idling in the yard, engines rumbling softly in the cool Georgia morning.
Beside them sat Jim's box truck, its cargo area already packed with enough tools, spare parts, and fuel to get the earthmover vehicles we need up and running again after the months of hibernation.
Jim stood near the open rear doors with a mug of coffee in one hand and a clipboard tucked under his arm.
He looked tired, but compared to Morgan and Morales, the man looked fresh as a daisy.
Morgan was sitting on the bumper of one of the armored trucks with his head hanging between his knees.
Morales wasn't much better; the man was leaning against a tire with both hands wrapped around a coffee mug like it was the last source of warmth left on Earth.
And to be fair, to him, at this moment, it kinda was.
I took one look at them.
Morgan looked up. "Never again."
Morales nodded immediately. "Never again."
I snorted. "You say that now. Wait until next time they want a party again and we'll see."
"That's because whenever Merle talks us into drinking, it turns into a bad idea."
A familiar, obnoxious voice drifted across the yard. "Ain't my fault y'all drink like little girls."
Merle emerged from behind one of the trucks, his crossbow slung on his back.
Daryl followed behind him, carrying his crossbow.
Morgan then pointed at me.
"What I wanna know is, how the hell you're standing?"
Morales squinted. "Yeah, you drank more than anybody, well except maybe him." He pointed at Merle.
I just shrugged. "Guess I'm just built differently."
Morgan stared.
Morales stared.
Then both groaned simultaneously.
Jim nearly choked on his coffee laughing.
The yard erupted with tired chuckles.
For a few moments, it felt almost normal.
Almost.
Then I checked my watch.
The smile disappeared from my face.
Time to work.
"Alright."
The joking stopped.
Everyone straightened up.
"Mount up, we got work to do."
And just like that, the atmosphere immediately shifted.
Jim headed to his box truck while the rest of us each got into one of the six armored trucks.
Doors slammed.
Engines growled.
Today we're hunting something important: infrastructure.
Machinery that could reshape the entire farm into something more worthy to stand tall in this dead world.
Within minutes, the convoy rolled through the farm gates—six armored trucks, one box truck.
Seven vehicles forming an armored convoy heading down the country road.
Dust rose behind us as the farmhouse disappeared in the rear mirrors.
I drove lead, Rick behind, followed by Morgan, Daryl, Merle, Morales, then finally Jim.
A couple minutes in, static hissed through the radio.
"Still alive in there?" Merle's voice came through.
"Barely," Morgan replied.
"Thought I saw your soul leave your body just now."
"Shut up, Merle."
Laughter crackled over the radio.
The convoy continued north.
As the miles passed, the green countryside gradually gave way to the concrete jungle.
Atlanta appeared on the horizon.
Silent.
Dead.
Waiting.
The drive took a little over an hour.
The roads became the familiar roads filled with abandoned vehicles strung about, semi-rotting billboards, and empty gas stations.
Scattered walkers here and there, shambling with nowhere to go.
The industrial district looked exactly the same as I remember leaving it when I came here to loot back then.
Rows of abandoned warehouses, rusted chain-link fences leading to yards starting to choke with weeds.
Shipping lots stood frozen in time.
Dust coated everything.
Nothing moved.
No engines.
No voices.
No signs of life.
I keyed the radio. "Convoy halt."
Acknowledgements came back immediately.
The vehicles rolled into an abandoned logistics yard and stopped.
Engines shut down one by one.
Doors opened and the group climbed down, weapons in their hands while their eyes were scanning the perimeter.
Everyone gathered beside the lead truck.
I spread a folded map across the hood.
"Listen up."
The mood shifted instantly.
No more jokes, no more hangovers.
Just business.
"Daryl, Merle, Jim."
The Dixon brothers looked up; Jim adjusted his cap.
"You three are to stay with the trucks to keep them safe."
Jim nodded, already used to it.
Daryl didn't say anything.
Merle just grunted.
I continued. "Jim's our mechanic. He's our lifeline right now. If something goes wrong, I want the two most dangerous bastards in this convoy covering him."
Merle smirked. "Aww, you'll make me blush."
Daryl rolled his eyes.
I ignored both of them.
Then I pointed toward the northwest sector.
"Rick."
Rick stepped forward.
"Morgan."
"Yeah."
"Morales."
The man looked up.
"You three scout northwest grid."
Rick nodded.
Morgan checked his rifle.
Morales nervously adjusted the strap of his holster.
"Search every dealership, rental yard, and equipment lot you can find."
Then I pointed toward the opposite side of the district. "I'll take the eastern sector."
Nobody argued.
Everyone knew the routine by now.
Spread out.
Move quietly.
Stay alive.
Before they left, I stopped them with one final warning. "Stay sharp. A quiet city is usually the most dangerous kind."
Rick nodded.
The others did too.
Then the team split apart.
Rick, Morgan, and Morales headed northwest.
Daryl and Jim took up security while Jim stayed inside one of the armored trucks.
And I turned toward the eastern industrial blocks—alone.
The silence of dead Atlanta swallowed me as I disappeared between the warehouses.
(To be continued...)