I shifted position, held up the binoculars, and scanned again—this time for an entrance point.
The north gate was a wall of bodies.
The main entrance yard was worse.
The loading ramp was cluttered with walkers—no good either.
Western fence line—
There.
Somewhat sagging chain-link near a drainage culvert, vegetation thick around it.
Fewer bodies drifting that sector compared to other lanes.
Still bad, just less fatal.
I sat my binoculars down and started my gear check.
My hands moved automatically.
Knife sheath: secure.
Side arms: suppressed.
Magazines: full, with plenty spare ready for use in my Inventory.
I crouched and retied my boots, pulling the laces firm until the leather hugged my ankles.
The small ritual settled something in my chest—familiar, grounding, old habits from an older life.
My breathing slowed on its own. In, hold, out. Pulse steady.
Sixty years of instincts sitting clean inside a twenty-five-year-old body.
Killer combination.
I left the cruiser where it sat and moved along the shoreline, keeping low where reeds and cracked concrete gave me shadow.
The closer I got, the worse the smell became: salt, rot, old blood baked into steel.
I reached mentally into my Inventory and grabbed a military-grade respirator mask.
Useful for situations like this, even with my enhanced immune system; there is no way I would continue like this without one.
Reaching the somewhat sagging chain-link sector, I paused and listened.
The noise was worse up close.
The herd's collective groan vibrated through the steel around me—not loud enough to be called a roar, just constant, endless, like background machinery noise.
No sharp turns, no sudden spikes.
Good.
I grabbed a bolt cutter from my Inventory and started cutting along the fence an entrance for me.
I took my time to slowly cut through the fence, link by link, so as to not attract the walkers to my position.
It took half an hour before the last link was cut.
I grabbed the cut section and gently sat it down to the side.
I slipped through the hole I made, careful not to rattle the metal.
Inside, the ground was gravel and oil-stained dirt.
My boots found quiet spots automatically, each step placed with care.
Heel never struck hard; weight rolled through the ball of my foot.
Peak human control wasn't about speed—it was about precision.
A walker stood five yards ahead, back turned.
I closed the distance.
My left hand clamped over its mouth; my right hand drove a knife up under the jaw, quick and precise.
I caught the body before it dropped and eased it down behind a stack of empty pallets.
No thud. No scrap.
Clear.
I moved. I stopped for a second before I reached into my Inventory, ignoring the "wrongness" I felt.
The compound bow and quiver slid into my hands without a sound—a clean find from a hardware store run a couple days back.
Lightweight, well-balanced, better than most of the junk people thought passed for archery these days.
I ran my thumb along the bowstring. Smooth. Proper tension.
Good.
Firearms were louder than most people give them credit for—even suppressed.
Out here, in a bowl full of dead ears waiting for an excuse?
This was a bow job.
Decision made.
I moved, taking into consideration the severity of the situation.
I used the empty pallets nearby to climb a container to get a clear view on my targets.
I flattened against the container roof and crawled forward until I had a visual on the nearest lane.
Target acquired.
A dozen walkers in a loose drift pattern below.
Perfect.
I took aim at the closest walker; it was wearing bloodied military fatigues, unaware.
I inhaled halfway and drew.
The compound bow came up smooth and level.
Left arm locked, right elbow pulling back in a clean, practiced line.
The world narrowed down to sight picture and distance.
Ten meters.
Clear.
Exhaling, I released.
The arrow punched through the walker's eye socket with a wet, decisive thunk.
The body jerked once and folded on itself like a puppet with its strings cut.
Clean kill.
Second shot.
Third.
Fourth.
Fifth... tenth, eleventh, twelfth.
Twelve shots in just over a minute.
The walkers below shifted slightly—not alarmed, just confused by the subtle changes in motion.
I moved like a ghost atop the containers.
Each takedown meant one less walker to worry about.
No wasted motion.
No unnecessary risk.
Professional. Methodical. Necessary.
But even with the rhythm settling in, the weight in my chest never fully eased.
Because nobody back at the farm knew what I was really doing out here.
Not Rick, not Daryl, not Morgan, not Hershel—not even Maggie.
They saw supplies.
They saw the results.
They didn't see the "cheat."
Didn't see the Inventory.
Didn't see the impossible.
And I couldn't tell them.
Didn't dare to.
To Rick...
Doing so... that secret sat heavy in my gut as I kept taking down walkers.
One more thing I carried alone.
One more thing that didn't fit into any rucksack.
One secret that will stay with me to my grave—I'll make sure of it.
I continued releasing arrow after arrow after arrow.
I was on full hunter mode.
I didn't stop until I realized that my quiver was empty and the oil-stained gravel yard below was filled with corpses.
The immediate container lane was quiet.
Empty.
Clear.
I remained still for a full ten seconds, listening, watching for secondary movement.
Nothing significant.
Now came the time-consuming part: retrieving the arrows.
Even though I had much more inside my Inventory, these arrows were limited in quantity and couldn't be crafted for now.
One by one, I retrieved the arrows and wiped them on the walkers' clothes before setting them in the quiver again.
It took about ten minutes before I was finished.
Only then did I straighten slightly and turn toward the prize.
Six containers sat in this lane.
Weathered. Sealed. Untouched. High-value freight.
I flexed my fingers once by my side, then stepped into the shadow of the first container—hand ready and already reaching forward—and began the opening phase of my looting operation.
(To be continued...)