Three days.
That's what it took to turn the Inman Rail Yard from a death trap into a silent graveyard.
Three whole days from morning to sunset.
It didn't feel like it was three days; it felt longer.
My shoulders reminded me every time I lifted my arms.
A dull, steady burn sat deep in the joints—the kind that didn't go away with a stretch, the kind that needed time to heal even with the body I had now.
A seventy-pound draw repeated a few thousand times left its mark.
Not crippling, but it sure left its mark.
Even with a couple rest periods in between, it was still there—a quiet bill coming due.
I rolled one shoulder as I stood on the container edge, feeling the sore muscles tighten then loosen just enough.
Below, the yard was… different.
No longer was there the low groans of walkers that was constant day and night.
It was quiet.
Dead quiet, which meant we did a good job.
Bodies carpeted the lanes in thick, uneven layers.
The "sea" had turned into something else—still broken, but no longer pushing as before.
Behind me, Daryl sat on the edge of the container, his head bowed slightly, one hand flexing open and closed like he was trying to get feeling back into it.
His fingers were raw, calloused in places; the skin around his knuckles was split.
Merle looked worse.
He was sitting, his back leaned against the container wall, breathing heavily through his mouth, his hands resting on his thighs, trembling. He was quiet for a change, not cracking jokes—too fatigued for that.
"Damn…" he muttered after a while. "Ain't felt like this since… hell, ever."
Daryl snorted faintly. "You ain't never worked this hard."
Merle didn't even snap back.
Too tired.
That said enough.
Rick was in better shape than them, but the three days of shooting had left him rotating and massaging his wrist.
I glanced down at my quiver—half, maybe a little less.
Even after everything we'd recovered, everything we'd started with in the truck… we were walking out with barely half our original count.
Some broke, snapped on bad angles, some bent, some got lost under bodies.
That's how it worked now.
Every gain cost something.
Always, no exceptions.
I climbed down again, slower this time, my boots hitting the ground with less urgency.
The smell had gotten worse.
Jim stood a few meters away, frozen in place.
He wasn't looking at the machinery; he was looking at the bodies, the thousands of them stacked, twisted, scattered between the steel walls.
His jaw worked slightly, like he was trying to say something and couldn't find the words.
"These… these were people once… with families… loved ones… they just—"
Daryl didn't even look at him. "They ain't now," was all he said.
Flat,
cold,
final.
Jim flinched like he'd been slapped.
Silence stretched for a second.
I didn't step in.
Daryl wasn't wrong, and in this new world… carrying that kind of weight got you killed.
Jim swallowed, nodded once hard, and turned away back to what he was good at—back to something that made sense.
"Let's check the reach stackers we found earlier," I said.
With that, we moved deeper into the yard toward the machines.
We had found not one, but five reach stackers yesterday during our clearing.
Three of them sat in the main yard—massive, silent beasts of steel, arms frozen mid-task like they'd been abandoned in the middle of work.
Which, in all honesty, they probably were.
Two more were parked near maintenance, tucked under partial cover.
Jim came alive the second he saw them.
Like a different man, he climbed up the first one with purpose, his hands already moving over panels, checking lines, gauges, connections.
Then he turned the heavy ignition key.
Click.
"Battery's dead. No juice left," he muttered. "Not surprising".
He stepped down and cracked the hood on the side, checking the fuel. "There's a bit left," he muttered again, "but I bet it's full of condensation in there." He added more to himself than us. "Been sitting too long."
Then he moved to the next one without waiting, checking it, then the third.
Rick stepped closer. "Are they fixable?"
Jim paused, looked at the machines, then us, then back at the machines. "Yeah," he said finally. "Yeah… easy fix."
These words were simple, but they hit hard. I could feel it.
The tension in the air—tight, stretched thin over three days of work—loosened just a fraction.
Merle let out a breath he'd probably been holding since we got here. "Well, I'll be damned."
Daryl just nodded once.
I felt it too—the relief, the return of our investment.
That spending these three whole grueling days clearing these walkers one by one wasn't for nothing.
"Alright," I said.
"We come back tomorrow. After a hot shower, a good hearty meal, and a good night's sleep. Then we get one of these up and running."
Jim nodded quickly. "Alright."
Merle let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging, while Rick and Daryl just nodded.
Though I could feel that they were relieved as well.
Good.
That was the point for all this—not the killing, the result.
Then we moved.
Daryl peeled off to retrieve the truck, disappearing toward the warehouse where he'd stashed it.
The rest of us held position, keeping watch out of habit more than necessity.
Ten minutes later, the engine rumble cut through the quiet.
The box truck rolled into view, slow and steady.
Daryl leaned out just enough to give a small nod.
I went ahead to climb in the passenger seat, but was beaten to it by Merle, who stood in front of me.
"Nuh-uh. I told ya I ain't ridin' in the back next time," he said with a grin.
I held his eyes for a second before I let out a chuckle. "Alright, Merle. You can have the front seat," I said, shaking my head slightly in amusement.
Merle's grin widened as he climbed up next to his brother, who just snorted.
Looking back to Jim and Rick, the corners of their mouths were twitching.
"Looks like I'm riding in the back with you this time." Rick shook his head, looking amused, while Jim cracked a slight smile.
Then we climbed back one by one—Rick first, Jim second, and me last, closing the door behind me.
Then the engine picked up, and the truck rolled out, leaving the yard behind.
(To be continued...)