The closer I got to the kitchen, the heavier the smell bombarded me.
Eggs, sausages, bread, coffee.
Hot grease in the air, thick and heavy, mixing with the bitter bite of brewed grounds.
It permeated the air, drawing anyone in like a moth to a flame.
I stepped in, rolling one shoulder as a dull ache flared and settled again.
The accelerated healing bonus R.O.B gave me sure came in a clutch for these kinds of situations; otherwise, it'd be worse.
Speaking of worse, Merle was already at the table halfway through a plate, wincing every time he got the fork to his mouth.
He glanced up, his eyes narrowing just a touch when he saw me.
"Well, look at that," he drawled. "Thought maybe you'd finally worn out, soldier boy."
I grabbed a plate without answering, moving with habit more than thought.
"Slower," he added, smirking. "Definitely slower."
Daryl, sitting beside him, didn't even look up; he just grunted once around a mouthful of food.
Rick gave me a nod from across the table.
"Morning," Jim followed it up, a little more awake than usual. "You look… about how I feel."
"Functional," I said.
I ignored him, cutting into the eggs and eating steady.
Fuel first, conversation second.
For a minute, it was just that—the scrape of forks, the low hum of chewing, the quiet start to a long day.
Then, I looked at Jim. "We'll need a tow cable."
He froze mid-bite. "Tow—?" He blinked, setting his fork down. "For what?"
"Entrance is choked," I said. "When we did surveillance around the rail yard, we found the entrance full of abandoned vehicles. Don't tell me you forgot about that already?" I asked, lifting an eyebrow.
"Oh… I forgot," Jim said sheepishly, his cheeks coloring slightly red.
Merle chuckled from the side, causing the poor man to be even more embarrassed.
Rick asked, "Are you thinking… drag and clear?"
I nodded. "One vehicle at a time. Hook, pull, stack them off the lane. Keep it tight, keep it quiet."
Rick nodded. "Yeah, that's doable."
Merle snorted. "So we ain't killing things today? Finally!"
"There'll be killing alright but you can stay back and watch if you're tired," I said without looking at him.
"Hell no," he shot back immediately.
Daryl huffed something that might've been a laugh.
The plates emptied quick after that.
No one lingered.
Forks scraped the last bits clean, coffee mugs drained, and chairs shifted.
One by one, we stood.
Dishes hit the sink with a series of dull clinks.
Then, we moved. Work's waiting.
Back upstairs, the room was quiet.
Maggie wasn't there; she probably went for a bath.
I started checking my weapons.
The bow came first.
I picked it up.
I ran a hand along the limbs, checking for stress, micro-fractures, or anything that didn't belong.
The string followed—tension, alignment, no fraying.
My fingers worked through the motions automatically.
Arrowheads next.
Each one inspected, edges tested, shafts straight.
Then the sidearms.
Magazine out, check chamber, clear, slide smooth, back in, repeat.
Everything had a rhythm, a pace.
No wasted movement.
When I finished, I holstered the pistols, then picked up the bow and turned for the door.
Outside, the yard was already alive.
Engines idled low, diesel rumbling through the ground in a steady vibration you could feel through your boots.
Four armored trucks lined up, the box truck sitting just behind them.
Dust shifted lazily in the morning light.
Rick stood near the lead vehicle.
Daryl leaned against another, his crossbow already in hand.
Merle was pacing, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake the last of the stiffness out.
Jim stood off to the side, looking at a coiled set of thick tow cables laid out on the ground.
He glanced up as I approached. "Got what you asked for," he said, nudging the cables with his boot. "Heavy-duty. Should hold."
I crouched, grabbing one end, feeling the weight and the tension in the weave.
"Good. This'll do," I said, standing.
Jim nodded, a little tension in his posture—but steadier than before.
He had a job now that mattered.
I looked over the group.
Everyone was ready.
Everyone was watching.
"Load up," I said.
They moved.
Doors opened, gears shifted, and engines revved slightly as drivers settled in.
Jim loaded up the tow cable in the box truck.
I took one last look at the farmhouse, then climbed into the armored truck.
"Let's go."
The words cut clean.
Engines answered one by one.
The armored trucks rolled forward, tires biting into dirt and kicking up a growing cloud of dust behind them.
They went in a tightly controlled line.
We pulled out of the farmstead and onto the road, the convoy stretching forward as the land opened up ahead.
Atlanta waited.
The yard, the gold mine sitting behind steel and bone.
And we were coming back for it.
The road stretched out ahead in a long, cracked ribbon of gray.
The trucks rumbled on, kicking up dust behind us in a thick, drifting cloud.
Inside the cab, the radio crackled, static bleeding in and out like a bad connection that refused to die.
Every few seconds, a faint pop cut through the line, like the set itself was reminding us it was barely holding together.
I reached for the mic. "Radio check."
A burst of static—then Daryl's voice came through, rough and flat. "Yeah."
Merle cut in right after, "Loud and ugly. Just like you."
Another crackle. Rick's voice came through. "I hear you."
Jim followed, a little tighter but clear. "I've got you. Signal's… decent."
Good enough then—
Merle again. "Y'know what I miss?" he said, his voice riding over a bed of static. "Cold beer. Not this warm piss I've been drinkin'. I mean cold, sweatin' bottle. First sip hittin' your teeth—"
"Shut up," Daryl muttered, but there was no heat in it.
Rick huffed quietly. "I get that," he said after a second. "Game nights back in King County. Beer sure—but sittin' in the stands… crowd noise… whole place alive."
A pause.
"Didn't even like baseball that much," he added. "Just… being there."
Static filled the gap. Jim's voice came next, softer.
"Hardware store," he said.
Merle snorted immediately. "The hell?"
"I'm serious," Jim replied. "There was this one… just outside Atlanta. Old place, wood floors, little bell on the door when you walked in. Smelled like cut lumber and oil and… metal."
You could almost hear him thinking about it. "They always had everything," he added. "Didn't matter what you needed."
No one mocked him this time.
Even Merle stayed quiet for a beat. Then—
"Yeah," Merle said a little slower. "Alright, I get that."
Static hissed.
Daryl shifted the mic again. "Silence," he said.
"Silence?" Rick asked.
Daryl's reply came after a second. "Yeah. No walkers, no damn people. Just… woods. Simple."
It made sense.
The line went quiet again then— "What about you Zeph?" Rick's voice came through the radio.
I kept my hands steady on the wheel and thought about it.
Not the big things, not the obvious ones.
"Routine," I said.
The word hung there. "Good morning coffee. Not like the piss we drink now," I added. "Paper on the table. Knowing what the day looked like before it started."
Static filled the space again.
No one rushed to speak over it.
Merle broke it first.
"Hell, man" he muttered. "You all nostalgic over boring stuff."
"You can call me old fashioned, but those are the things that stick," I said.
A beat, then—
Rick chuckled, low and quiet. Jim followed, a small laugh slipping through the mic.
Merle joined in louder.
"Yeah, yeah—guess I'd take your damn paper over this mess."
Daryl made a sound—something between a grunt and a laugh.
For a moment, it felt… lighter.
The kind of quiet you get when people forget where they are for half a second.
Then, the horizon changed.
Steel, abandoned vehicles, broken lines cutting into the sky.
The Inman Rail Yard rose ahead of us like a graveyard of industry—gantries frozen in place, container stacks looming, rail lines twisting into shadow.
I shifted my posture just slightly, then eased my foot off the gas a fraction, my eyes narrowing. The radio crackled again.
No one spoke.
The laughter died on the line, cut clean without anyone saying a word.
Professional silence took its place.
Five vehicles, one objective.
The yard waited.
And just like that—the moment was over.
(To be continued...)