The sky had turned red by the time I reached where I left the cruiser.
The boat rocked gently in the somewhat hidden shallow beach; the water slapped quietly against the hull while I untied the mooring line and pushed the boat away from the shallows.
I boarded the boat as soon as I got it in a safe area to get the engine running, and steered the cruiser out into the channel and let the throttle settle into a steady hum.
The shipyard shrank slowly behind me.
A couple hours later, I had reached the marina.
I cut the engine and let the boat slowly drift to the pier and got to the deck as soon as the cruiser got near the pier.
Holding the mooring line, I tied it to the pier and headed to one of the warehouses I had previously cleared to radio in the farmhouse.
I had to get some distance from the ocean so as to not draw suspicion from the group once I radioed in the farmhouse.
Because I had told them that Padre Shipyard was off-limits and I couldn't get caught red-handed looting this close to it.
So when we return for it next time when we're more prepared, only to find it's already been looted, the suspicion won't fall on me.
Once I had reached the warehouse, I closed the door behind me and got into an office on the second floor.
I picked up the radio.
Static crackled when I keyed the transmitter.
"Farmhouse, this is Zephyr. Radio check."
A few seconds later, Glenn's voice pushed through the static. "Reading you, Zephyr. You alright?"
I watched the now darkened savannah skyline from the window. "Yeah, I'm good."
I let a pause stretch just long enough to sound believable.
"Ran into a herd moving through earlier today; had to spend most of the day evading them."
That part wasn't entirely a lie—there were thousands of walkers back there.
"Didn't get much looting done," I continued.
"Just a few scraps. I'm going to stay out here another couple days and see if I can circle around and find something better."
More static, then Glenn again. "Copy that. Stay safe out there."
"Always."
I set the radio back down, feeling a bit guilty lying to him like this, but there was no helping it.
I couldn't afford the truth getting out.
Sighing, I shook my head to clear my mind.
Then I got to work.
Grabbing a sleeping bag from my Inventory, I sat it down near the wall.
I fished out a gray storage cabinet from my Inventory and placed it in front of the window to cover up any light that might slip outside.
Then I grabbed a lantern for lighting and a portable stove to get my dinner going.
I sat down on my sleeping bag, stirring the ravioli that was being heated.
Exhaustion finally began to sit somewhat in my muscles, but underneath it was something stronger.
Objective accomplished.
And tomorrow… I'd start planning the next sector.
...
Two days later, I stood at the edge of the Padre Shipyard and looked back.
The place looked different now. It was now dead silent.
Where once hundreds of walkers groaned in unison, now all were dead.
Rows upon rows of shipping containers stretched across the docks, stacked three and four high like they always had, but the difference was inside them.
Hundreds of containers were empty—ghost shells.
Steel coffins that used to hold the logistical backbone of a functioning civilization; now they held nothing.
The evening wind rolled in from the ocean and pushed through the container lanes, making hollow echoes bounce between the steel walls.
It sounded almost like distant machinery trying to start up again.
My eyes moved across the yard one last time.
This place had been a jackpot.
I already knew that from my meta-knowledge, but seeing it up close was another thing entirely.
Food, medical supplies, industrial fertilizer stacked in fifty-pound sacks, construction materials—fasteners, sealants, treated lumber, palletized sheet metal, and ammunition.
God… the ammunition.
Military surplus containers packed with sealed crates of 5.56, 7.62, and 9mm by the pallet.
Enough munitions to keep a small army supplied for years. Weapons meant for the military personnel, no doubt.
All of it sitting quietly inside my Inventory now.
Enough raw material to build something real.
Not just survive.
Build.
I exhaled slowly and turned away from the shipyard.
Time to go home.
The marina warehouse was just as quiet as when I'd left it.
Dusty concrete floors, the smell of stagnant water and old motor oil.
The box truck waited exactly where I'd left it.
I climbed into the back and opened my Inventory.
This part took some thought—not just loading, but curating.
The group back at the farmhouse believed I was good at scavenging.
Lucky, maybe Experienced.
But there were limits to what luck could explain.
If I rolled in with an entire shipping container's worth of cargo, questions would start forming.
People might not voice them… but they'd start thinking.
And that line of thought led to problems.
So the truck got a carefully chosen haul.
Aside from the bits I'd scavenged during the trip here, I added three crates of antibiotics.
Two sealed trauma kits.
Several sacks of fertilizer.
A couple pallets of canned food.
A couple of ammo crates, and some bits of different spare parts.
Plus a couple crates filled with games and comics for the kids back at the farm.
Enough to look like the kind of once-in-a-lifetime haul a man might scrape together after a week of dangerous scavenging runs.
Not enough to look impossible.
Crate after crate appeared in the truck bed as I pulled them from the Inventory and stacked them carefully.
Weight distributed properly, no loose cargo sliding around.
By the time I finished, the truck looked exactly right.
Full, but believable.
I shut the rear doors and climbed into the driver's seat.
The engine coughed once before settling into a steady rumble.
Then I pointed the truck toward the highway.
The farmhouse appeared on the horizon just as the sun started dropping behind the trees.
Orange light washed over the fields and barns, turning the place into a warm silhouette against the darkening sky.
Home, I thought to myself.
I slowed the truck as I rolled up the dirt road.
The moment the engine noise reached the property, movement appeared.
Two rifled men appeared—Dale and Morgan—both standing guard.
It looked like it was their shift.
As the truck got closer, their rifles lowered immediately once they saw the familiar box truck.
Even from this distance, I could see the relief in their posture.
I pulled the truck into the driveway and killed the engine.
For a moment, everything was quiet except for the ticking of hot metal under the hood.
Then the farmhouse door burst open.
People came out fast: Glenn first, then Hershel, Carol, Beth, Maggie, followed by the kids.
They crossed the yard at a half-run, boots kicking dust as they headed for the truck.
To them, this moment meant one thing: the scavenger had come back alive with supplies.
A provider returning from the wasteland.
The thought sat oddly in my chest.
If they knew what was really sitting in my Inventory… if they knew the scale of what had been pulled out of that shipyard…
I shook my head and opened the truck door and climbed down.
My boots hit the dirt just as the group reached the vehicle.
Dale came to me first, placing his hand on my shoulder.
"Welcome back, son," he said with a gentle smile.
Feeling warmth in my chest, "Glad to be back."
(To be continued...)