The convoy rolled to a stop just fifty-something feet of the rail yard's main gate.
Engines idled low for a bit.
Diesel vibrations hummed through the frames of the trucks—steady and alive against the dead quiet of the place.
Ahead, the main entrance was choked full of vehicles.
A cluster of abandoned vehicles—sedans, delivery vans, trucks, and what used to be a maintenance pickup—sat twisted together like they'd tried to force their way out and failed.
Rust had already started creeping along the edges.
Wind pushed loose paper and trash through the gaps and between them—
Movement.
Walkers.
About a dozen of them.
They drifted slow, trapped in the bottleneck.
Some still wore high-visibility vests; one had a hard hat hanging by a cracked strap, tapping against its shoulder with every step.
I cut the engine.
The rest followed.
Silence pressed in.
I grabbed the radio. "Gate's hot. Walkers, about a dozen. We clear them first"
Quiet sounds of acknowledgement followed.
No one argued.
Doors opened in near unison.
Boots hit dirt.
Weapons came up.
I held up my hand.
"Bows first," I said low.
Daryl and Merle were already moving, spreading slightly to get angles.
Rick stayed back a step, his pistol low but ready, suppressor catching the early light.
Jim stayed next to him.
I nocked, drew.
My breath slowed automatically—half in, hold, then release.
Thwip.
The arrow punched through the base of a walker's skull who was near.
Clean.
No sound beyond the soft impact.
It dropped where it stood.
Daryl's bolt followed a heartbeat later, then another.
Merle wasn't far behind—less precise, but fast.
We moved in a rhythm.
Draw, release, thwip.
Repeating the motions again and again.
No wasted motion.
Rick fired once—soft pfft—a walker too close to the vehicles to risk a miss.
A minute, maybe less, was all it took.
The last one staggered forward, mouth opening in a dry, useless groan.
I stepped in close, my knife in hand. In and out at the temple.
It dropped at my feet.
Silence returned.
For a second, no one moved.
Then—
"Drag 'em," I said.
We worked without talking.
Hands on collars, belts, whatever held.
The bodies were still heavy—dead weight in the worst sense.
Boots scraped against gravel.
Clothes snagged on broken metal as we pulled them clear of the path.
One by one, we stacked them off to the sides, out of the lane.
By the time we finished, the gate looked almost passable.
Almost.
I wiped my hands once on my pants, then gestured toward the trucks. "Let's clear the wreckage. Quick."
Jim was already moving, hauling the thick tow lines down from the box truck bed.
The coils hit the ground with a dull, heavy thud.
"Hook points there and there," I said, pointing at the front frame of the first sedan.
Jim nodded quickly, already threading the cable through his hands, working fast.
Daryl and Merle helped, securing the line, checking the tension.
He then opened the sedan's door and shifed the gear to neutral.
"Clear!" Jim called, then stepped back.
I climbed into the lead armored truck and turned the key.
The engine revved, low at first, then louder.
The cable went taut—slow, deliberate.
Metal groaned. For a second, nothing happened.
Then—
The sedan shifted forward slowly, dragging across the asphalt.
I kept the pressure steady.
No sudden pulls, just constant force.
I kept going until I got it to the side.
One by one, the vehicles peeled away from the choke point, dragged off to the side like discarded junk.
The path opened, now looking usable again.
I cut the engine again and stepped out.
Merle let out a low whistle looking at the armored truck. "Damn, that's one damn beauty!"
"Yes, it is," I said.
I turned to Jim. "Let's get you to work."
The yard swallowed us as we moved in.
Heat hit first.
Georgia humidity trapped between steel and asphalt, thick enough to feel in your lungs.
The air carried layers—old diesel, old blood, and rot.
Can't say I missed this smell.
The reach stackers sat where we had left them yesterday.
Jim, dragging the tow table he got out from the box truck with Daryl and Merle, climbed up onto the side ladder of one of them, wiping his hands on his pants before getting to work.
He prepared to drain the tank.
Daryl handed him a container to drain into without being asked.
Merle followed with the tool box both of them moving like they'd done this a hundred times.
"Grease monkeys, huh?" Merle said, smirking as he worked.
"Less talk," Daryl shot back.
Jim drained the tank, dark stale fluid spilling out in a sluggish stream.
The smell hit harder up close—old fuel mixed with water and decay.
"Gotta clear this or she'll choke," Jim said, more to himself than anyone.
Fresh diesel went in next.
Clean, sharp.
He moved to the battery housing and took the dead batteries out.
Daryl and Merle hauled the full-powered lead-acid batteries up together.
Heavy, awkward, but between the two of them, it went in fast.
Cables connected.
Jim paused, then reached for a set of wires near the control panel.
"Cutting the sound lines," he said. "Won't kill it, but it'll keep some of the noise down."
"Do it," I said.
Snip, snip.
Then he stepped back for a second, looking over everything, his hands resting on his hips. Then—
"Alright, that should be enough," he said.
Then he climbed into the cab.
We all stepped back, instinctively holding our breaths.
He turned the key.
The engine coughed once, twice—
then—
it caught.
A deep mechanical roar tore through the yard, echoing off steel and concrete.
Not subtle, not quiet, but alive.
The entire machine shuddered as it woke up, exhaust coughing out a thick plume before settling into a heavy rhythmic idle.
For a second—no one spoke.
Then Merle laughed. "Hell yeah!"
Daryl smirked, shaking his head slightly.
Rick let out a breath he'd been holding.
Jim leaned back in the seat, a grin breaking across his face.
I watched the machine, listened to it rumble, then a smile crept into my face.
"Good work," I said.
And I meant it.
(To be continued..)