Dinner was a simple affair—canned stew, corn bread, and whatever vegetables were brought back from the Greene farm garden. Once the plates were cleared, I motioned toward the meeting room. "Rick, Jim, let's talk."
Tomorrow, the three of us slipped away from the main group, closed the doors around us, and settled around the big table littered with maps and Glenn's scribbled notes. Jim was the first to speak. "The trucks we brought back today will need fuel and more thorough check-ups in case I missed something, but they're stable, good trucks."
I nodded, then tapped my finger on the second circled location on the map. "Tomorrow we hit the western dealership," I said. "Glenn said it's smaller, but the back lot is fenced. Fewer escape routes."
Rick leaned to study the area. "Fences work both ways. Good for keeping the walkers outside, bad for us if there's a lot inside."
Jim scratched the back of his head. "We'll figure it out once we're there. Same team, same set up?"
I nodded. "Yeah, just us three. Box truck only. We siphon fuel on the way again—today's retrieval burned through a lot. We'll need to refill the empty drums we used to fill the trucks."
Rick agreed. "And same as before: Zephyr and I clear the area, you check the rigs, mark the dead trucks, prep the good ones." Rick then glanced at me. "You're heading off again afterward?"
I shrugged casually. "If time allows. Might as well grab supplies if we're already deep in the city. No sense coming home empty-handed."
Jim chuckled. "Man's got the right idea."
Rick didn't question it. Zephyr had earned trust without even trying. We exchanged some small talk for a while before we left the room quietly.
The next morning, the first light of dawn shone on the farm when I cranked up the box truck. Rick climbed up right after, followed by Jim. "Let's head out," I said, before we rolled off the property onto the rural road.
As we neared the outskirts of Atlanta, we kept eyes out for suitable abandoned vehicles. We found our first batch just past an interchange—three sedans and a delivery truck. I parked the truck and the three of us went to work. Rick covered the perimeter. I went behind the truck and grabbed the tow cable and a couple of empty fuel drums to fill, while Jim went ahead and cracked the fuel caps on the vehicles one by one and deployed the hose lines.
Fuel trickled into the drums, refilling the fuel we burned yesterday moving the Kenworth and Freightliner. We repeated this process a couple more times as we moved deeper in the city until the drums were topped off.
"Good enough," I said. "We already hit quota."
Rick capped the last drum. "Let's finish this fast."
This location we arrived at was different from the wide-open lot from yesterday. Tall fencing wrapped around the property. Gates hung broken, twisted by some earlier force. Inside, the dealership looked claustrophobic—rows of trucks squeezed tight, shadows pooled between them. Walkers wandered behind the fence, bumping into the rails, fingers slipping through the bars.
Jim whistled quietly. "Yeah… this place collected them."
I scanned the perimeter. "We go in slow, clear systematically."
Rick lifted his suppressed rifle. "Then let's get started."
The walkers inside reacted quickly to the noise of our entry. I dropped the first couple of walkers before they could stumble more than a few feet. Rick slipped between two trucks, stabbing quietly and quickly. Jim stayed in the box truck same as yesterday, waiting for the cue to come out. After ten minutes, the interior was silent again.
"Clear," Rick said.
"Then let me work," Jim replied, already moving toward the nearest cab.
Jim repeated yesterday's process: turn keys, listen, check wiring, check fluids, mark status. Within two hours, he emerged with two thumbs up. "This one's a runner," he said, tapping a blue Volvo, "and so is the black International."
I nodded approvingly. "Good. Prep them. I'll break off soon."
Rick shot me a look—half amusement, half warning. "Try not to get yourself killed."
"Not planning to," I smirked.
After helping Rick and Jim clear the blocked pathways, move debris, and prep the two trucks for extraction, the time finally came. Jim climbed into the Volvo, Rick into the International.
"See you back at the farm," Rick called out over the engine rumble.
I raised a hand in farewell. "Drive safe."
I watched them roll out of the fence and disappear down the cracked road. Only when the engines faded did I speak again. "Round two."
I moved through the fenced-in lot like a surgeon through an OR. Today's haul was noticeably less than yesterday: three diesel engines, multiple windshields, mirrors and doors, fuel tanks, full wheel sets, some air brake components, electric harnesses, some body panels, and a couple of HVAC units. Every dead truck was stripped clean of good parts. By the time I finished, the western lot looked as gutted as yesterday's—skeletal trucks and hollow frames.
"Not much," I muttered, "but a good haul nonetheless."
But I wasn't done. A nearby supermarket was calling out to me. The place was only a couple of blocks away and it was packed with walkers. Dozens of them outside the perimeter, some trapped inside by shelves and fallen debris. The front windows were smeared with grime, bodies pressing against the glass.
"I don't have time to clear them all out," I muttered. "I guess I gotta improvise."
I pulled a small sound trap from my inventory—a repurposed timer with a metal rattle canister attached. I set it down at the far end of the parking lot. Thirty seconds later—CRRRRRR-CLATTER-CLATTER-CLATTER-CLANG!
Walkers instantly dragged themselves toward the noise, leaving the supermarket, all except those trapped inside. I handled them silently with quick knife work. Inside was a disaster—toppled shelves, some half-eaten skeletons, the stench of rot. Fresh produce was rotten, the bakery aisle moldy, and the frozen section was thawed and spoiled. But the dry goods were mostly untouched.
I swept entire aisles into my inventory: canned vegetables, soups, proteins, jerky, pasta, cereal, crackers, dried beans, rice, canned meat, long-shelf cheese, and powdered milk. The latter reminded me that I should go out on a separate scav hunt just for baby stuff and condoms. Mentally noting that, I continued on: snack section—chips, cookies, crackers, old limited-run flavored snacks; the beverage section next—soda cases, juice boxes, water, sports drinks; then the household items—cleaning agents, toilet paper, trash bags, pet food, pharmacy items.
Finally, I reached the back storage room. It was locked. A couple of minutes later—I stood frozen. The place was filled to the brim with sealed boxes stacked to the ceiling. Untouched stock. Untouched treasure.
Into the inventory it all went, every last box. Afterward, I selected a couple dozen mixed boxes—food, paper goods, drinks, cleaning supplies—and loaded them onto the truck, enough to make the run look incredibly productive.
(To be continued...)