The first container door opened with a slow, careful pull.
Metal groaned softly against the hinges.
I froze, tilting my head slightly and listening.
The shipyard answered with the same distant chorus it had been singing since I got here—wet groans drifting between the container lanes, the somewhat distant cry of seagulls.
No sudden surges.
No footsteps that didn't belong.
Clear enough.
I slipped inside and eased the door just far enough closed to kill the sunlight.
The interior smelled like cardboard and plastic.
Turning my flashlight on, my breath hitched at the sight in front of me.
Stacked pallets ran the length of the container—boxes strapped tight, each labeled appropriately.
MREs. Military grade.
I knew what was waiting for me inside these containers; my meta-knowledge made sure of that.
But seeing it in person is a whole lot different than that.
My eyes flicked over the stamped dates.
Production: Eight months ago.
A quiet breath slipped from my nose.
Eight months.
That was it.
Eight months ago, this had been just another shipment in a never-ending supply chain.
Some bored logistics officer signing forms; some truck driver cursing traffic on the interstate. Normal life.
Now?
Now it was survival currency.
I stepped forward, my hand brushed the nearest pallet.
The moment my fingers touched it—it vanished.
The space it occupied collapsed into empty air so quickly the atmosphere shifted.
A faint pressure ripple rolled past my chest, as if the container itself had taken a breath.
Cold air had slipped through the mass where the mass had been.
My Inventory accepted the load without resistance.
It didn't complain.
I paused, still listening.
My breathing stayed slow and controlled, but my hearing stretched outward like a radar, playing to my peak physique's advantages.
No escalation. I turned back to the pallets.
Touch.
Gone.
Touch.
Gone.
Each time, the subtle shift in the air pressure rolled through the container as thousands of pounds of materials disappeared into my inventory space.
The silent way they disappeared made it feel surreal—like I was erasing pieces of the world one touch at a time.
Professional discipline kept me moving slowly.
No rushing.
No greed.
Objective first, speed second.
Within five minutes, the first container stood empty.
Just steel walls and echoing space.
I slowly stepped outside and closed the door gently behind me.
Another listening pause.
Wind groans, metal creaking somewhere deep in the yard.
Still quiet.
I moved to the second container.
This one had preserved cans—meat, vegetables, pasta, fruit, etc. Same routine of touch and disappear.
Then the third.
The fourth.
By this time, I had the rhythm deep in my muscles.
The sixth container had taken the longest to empty.
Not because of weight, but because I kept pausing.
Every few minutes, I would stop mid-motion and tilt my head toward the open yard.
Groans.
Shuffling feet.
The distant scrape of bones against metal.
My hearing caught it all, but nothing came closer.
Eventually, the final pallet disappeared into inventory.
I stood there for a moment in the empty container, looking at the bare steel walls that had been packed tight only minutes ago.
Six containers gone.
Outside, the lane looked almost eerie now.
Six massive shells sat hollow, their contents erased, like someone had cut the logistics straight out of reality.
I stepped out from the container and rolled my shoulders once.
Work done for this sector, at least.
My hand dipped into my inventory again, and the compound bow slid back into my grip.
An arrow followed, resting easy between my fingers.
The bowstring hummed softly as I checked the tension.
Somewhere deeper in the yard, another walker groaned.
My eyes lifted toward the next container sector.
Objective not complete.
Just Phase One finished.
The roof of the container was warm from the sun when I pulled myself up.
Hands on the edge, core tight; a smooth pull and my boots landed on the corrugated steel without so much as a pop from the metal.
I stayed crouched automatically.
Old habit. Up high, you're exposed.
Up high, you're also king on the battlefield.
From here, I could see the entirety of the next sector spread out in lanes of steel corridors.
Walkers drifted between container stacks, their movements slow and directionless.
The sound they made carried out like a disorganized chorus—groans, dragging feet, the dull thud of bodies bumping into metal.
I lifted the compound bow slightly and rolled my shoulders.
The riser was cold in my grip despite the heat of the sun.
Solid.
Balanced.
The bowstring hummed faintly under the tension when I flexed my fingers around it.
Good weapon.
Quiet weapon.
More importantly... respectful of the environment.
In a place like this, the wrong sound carried forever.
A bullet will bring the whole horde on your head.
Even something small—like an arrow glancing off steel—could echo through the container like a dinner bell.
So, you aimed soft: bone, flesh, eye sockets.
Never metal.
I stepped forward in a low hunter's crouch.
The first gap between containers was barely four feet.
Nothing dramatic.
Still, I measured it.
A short leap carried me across.
My boots touched down softly on the next container roof, knees flexing to absorb the landing. The steel didn't even flex. Peak human balance at play.
I moved again.
Another gap.
Another silent landing.
Weight distributed perfectly through the balls of my feet, my body flowing forward like I was walking across packed earth instead of shipping containers.
A dry thought crossed my mind.
Back in the army, there were days I'd have sold my month's pay to move like this.
Long patrols with fifty pounds of gear grinding your knees into dust.
Joints screaming, back aching.
If younger me could see this? He'd call it black magic or government experimentation.
Shaking my head in dry amusement, I ghosted across another container.
The motion had become automatic now—step, push, glide, land.
My boots touched the steel so lightly the metal never even had time to complain.
The bow moved with me like an extension of my arm.
A shadow flicked to my right.
I slowed just enough to glance sideways.
High loading platform, about twenty yards away.
A walker stood there, half-turned toward the container lanes.
A dockworker, from the clothes he's wearing.
The reflective vest hanging off its shoulders was stained almost black with old blood.
Its head tilted.
Milky eyes found me.
Its jaw opened.
I didn't stop walking.
My fingers dipped into my inventory, where I stashed my quiver and spare arrows to keep them from accidentally scraping against steel, and fished an arrow between my fingers.
Nock.
Draw.
The bowstring tightened smoothly against my fingers.
Distance was easy from this height.
Angle slightly downward, minding the wind direction... and release.
Thwip.
The string snapped forward with a soft breath of sound.
The arrow crossed the gap and punched through the walker's eye socket before it could make noise.
The corpse folded backwards and dropped off the loading platform, vanishing between the containers below.
I didn't even look to confirm.
I already knew the shot was good.
My feet carried me across another four-foot gap, landing on the next roof of the new sector.
Below me, the sea of walkers kept wandering.
Above them, I moved like a ghost.
(To be continued...)