Chapter 103 - Chapter One Hundred!

It's chapter one hundred baby!!🎉🥳🎉🥳 It feels like forever since I started writing this fic! And to be completely honest I never thought it would do nearly this well! I want to thank you guys for supporting me throughout this journey, it means the world to me. Stick around for more because I promise you there's a LOT more coming! Thank you guys again and enjoy the chapter!

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Getting six armored trucks and a box truck through Atlanta was like trying to thread a needle while wearing boxing gloves—slow, painfully slow, and frustrating as hell.

The convoy crawled through the city one intersection at a time.

Every few blocks, another obstacle appeared: abandoned sedans, jackknifed delivery trucks, city buses sitting sideways across entire streets—the remains of accidents from the first days of the outbreak.

Some roads looked like people had simply stopped driving and abandoned their vehicles where they sat; others looked like war zones.

I sat behind the wheel of the lead armored truck, my hands resting lightly on the steering wheel as I guided us through another detour.

The radio crackled.

"Road's blocked again," Rick's voice came through.

"Yeah, I saw it."

Ahead, nearly thirty vehicles had become tangled together into a rusted metal knot.

No getting through that.

I glanced at the map spread across the passenger seat. "Taking a right up here."

A chorus of acknowledgments answered me.

The convoy turned one truck at a time, six armored trucks and a box truck snaking through the dead city.

I checked my mirrors constantly—years of military driving habits, old instincts.

Every few seconds, my eyes flicked between the road ahead and the vehicles behind, checking if they're still there, checking if everything's still alright.

The convoy remained right.

Good.

Atlanta was still Atlanta alright.

The apocalypse had turned the interstate system into a giant graveyard of steel.

Eventually, the warehouses began appearing: concrete, steel, rust, chain-link fences.

I eased off the throttle as the familiar Yancey Bros. sign came into view. "There she is."

The lot appeared beyond the fence.

Rows of heavy equipment sat exactly where I'd left them: excavators, bulldozers, loaders—millions of dollars' worth of machinery gathering dust beneath the Georgia sun.

I keyed the radio. "Alright, everybody listen up."

The chatter immediately died.

"We'll park inside next to the machines for easier and quicker load out."

A chorus of acknowledgments answered me.

Minutes later, the convoy rolled into the yard.

I positioned the lead truck beside the first excavator.

The others followed my example.

The vehicles formed a rough circle around the work area—not perfect, but defensible.

Good enough.

I climbed out.

Thankfully, now mid-November, the weather is comfortable, not like the blistering heat it was before.

I gathered the team and pointed. "Merle, Morales."

Both men looked up.

"You two stay with Jim."

Merle grunted.

Morales nodded immediately. "Got it."

I looked at the others. "Rick, Daryl, Morgan." My hand swept toward the interior. "We clear everything. No shortcuts, no assumptions. I already did a general clearing, now it's time for a thorough sweep. Better safe than sorry"

They nodded in acknowledgment.

We worked methodically, warehouse by warehouse, office by office, storage room by storage room—every corner, every blind spot, every dark doorway.

The tension never really left.

Industrial buildings were dangerous—too many shadows, too many hiding spots.

Three walkers were found in a break room.

Two more inside a maintenance garage.

Another nearly fell from a second-floor catwalk before Rick dropped it with a suppressed shot.

We kept moving—professional, methodical.

It took the better part of two hours before we finished.

Then, we returned.

Jim was already hard at work.

Daryl and Merle looked less like survivors and more like grease-covered shop assistants.

Heavy batteries lay scattered across the pavement.

Fuel hoses snaked across the concrete.

Toolboxes stood open.

Jim wiped sweat from his forehead. "First one was easy."

I looked toward the nearest excavator.

The machine stood silent but alive—fresh batteries, fresh fuel, ready to work. "What's the issue?"

"Condensation, same with every vehicle nowadays." He pointed toward the drained fuel tank.

I nodded; I'd expected that.

Jim continued, "Second machine had dead batteries." He kicked a discarded commercial battery. "No surprise there."

"What about the third?"

"Flat tire," he grinned. "Easy fix."

A few minutes later, the third excavator rumbled to life.

The massive diesel engine shook the ground beneath our boots.

Black smoke erupted from the exhaust.

Hydraulics hissed.

The boom slowly rose.

A grin spread across Jim's face.

I walked over and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good work."

His grin widened. "Feels good fixing something again."

I understood exactly what he meant—it's frustrating having a set of skills and not be able to use them.

After securing the excavators, we moved toward the truck section.

Rows of commercial vehicles stretched across the lot: Macks, Internationals, Freightliners.

The moment Jim saw them, he frowned.

Not a good sign.

I crossed my arms. "I was hesitant to get the trucks from here, thought I'd ask you since you are the expert."

"So, how bad is it?"

"Visually? Trash heap," Jim said. "But we don't look at the appearance," he added.

Then, he went around checking the trucks one by one.

He crouched beside one truck. "Most of these have been sitting too long, longer even before the apocalypse happened." He pointed toward cracked rubber. "See here?" he said. "Dried tires."

Then, toward another.

He cracked open the hood, tried cranking the engine fan.

It was stuck.

"This one's engine is stalled."

Then another. "This one's lacking parts."

I sighed. "About what I'd expected."

Jim scratched his chin. "But,"

I looked over—his grin returned. "There are a few good candidates."

An hour later, those candidates were alive—not pretty, not perfect, but running.

That was all I needed.

The loading process took another stretch of hard work.

Chains rattled.

Hooks clanked.

Engines roared.

The excavators climbed onto trailers one by one.

The dump trucks followed.

Everything was secured with enough steel and chain to survive a hurricane.

I stepped back and looked over the convoy: excavators, dump trucks, armored escorts—the exact equipment needed to transform the Farmstead from a mere camp into a fortress.

We mounted the armored trucks and, one by one, the vehicles rolled toward the gate.

The convoy rolled out of the industrial yard, heading straight back home.

(To be continued...)