After wrapping up the lunch meeting, everyone finished their meals, then started to scatter back to their posts.
I also stood up and stepped out onto the farmhouse porch and headed for where we park our vehicles.
After arriving there, my eyes scanned the vehicles we have there one by one, finally landing on my red pickup truck that was parked beneath the shade of a large oak tree.
For a moment, I just stood there; a small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.
After weeks of armored trucks, box trucks, cargo convoys, excavators, dump trucks, and enough diesel-powered heavy machinery to start my own construction company, seeing the familiar old pickup felt oddly comforting.
The truck wasn't armored.
It didn't provide protection like the other armored trucks did.
It wasn't intimidating; it wasn't hauling containers or towing earthmovers.
It was just an old truck.
My old truck.
I stepped forward, unlocked the driver's door, and climbed inside.
The cab smelled faintly of worn leather and motor oil.
Turning the key brought an immediate response; the engine rumbled to life with a deep, familiar, suppressed growl.
Muffing the exhaust was the best decision I have ever done.
I rested my hands on the steering wheel for a second, then I put it in gear and headed toward the gate.
Shane was standing watch.
He looked up as I approached; the gate was already beginning to swing open. "Headin' somewhere?" he asked.
"Atlanta."
His eyebrow rose. "Again?"
I nodded. "Going to the CDC to see if any of the scientists there are still alive."
That got his attention. "Scientists?"
"Yeah," I nodded. "We need to see if they know anything more than we do about what's going on, and if they have a way to end it."
Shane snorted. "A fool's dream."
"Maybe."I shrugged.
"But someone's gotta know something. It would be unwise to outright dismiss the possibility."
Shane's expression hardened, looking thoughtful.
He nodded. "Maybe you're right. But still, after all this time, if someone's still alive, they would have already broadcasted their findings and we would know something by now, don't you think?"
"Perhaps," I nodded, not denying the possibility.
Then I added, "I still want to go and see. It won't take long anyway, and it would put my mind at ease."
He stared at me for a moment before nodding. "Alright. Good luck out there."
"Thanks," I said, before adding, "If Maggie asks, tell her I'll be back before dark."
Shane smirked. "She'll still worry."
"Yeah," I sighed, "she will."
The gate finished opening.
I shifted into gear. "Keep an eye on things."
Shane snorted. "Thought that was my job."
Then I pulled away.
The farmstead disappeared behind me; Atlanta waited ahead.
The drive took a little over forty minutes.
I kept the pickup off the major roads whenever possible.
The interstate was a death trap—too many wrecks, too many walkers, too many places for something ugly to surprise you.
Instead, I wound through side roads and industrial backstreets.
The pickup handled beautifully—light, responsive, fast.
Compared to driving armored trucks through Atlanta's clogged arteries, this felt almost relaxing.
I almost forgot how easy this truck handled.
Eventually, the skyline appeared—silent, lifeless, concrete monuments to a dead civilization.
I drove deeper, past abandoned office buildings, past looted storefronts, past entire streets swallowed by rusting vehicles.
Then I saw it.
The CDC.
Even from a distance, the building stood out—modern, high-tech, clean lines, and reflective glass.
A relic from a world that believed science could solve everything.
Unfortunately, science didn't help them when the dead started walking again.
Looking around, the vicinity looked like a frozen battlefield.
The military checkpoint remained exactly where it had been left: rows of rotting sandbags, collapsed fighting positions, barriers, concertina wire, military tents fluttering gently in the wind.
Humvees sat abandoned where their crews had parked them; a pair of tanks stood silent near the entrance, their massive cannons pointed toward nothing.
No soldiers, no guards, no movement—just silence and rotting corpses littering the grounds.
The silence bothered me more than the walkers ever could, because silence meant everyone had lost: the government, the military, the scientists—everyone.
I parked near the outer perimeter and climbed out.
The air felt strangely still.
My boots crunched across gravel as I approached the military encampment.
The tents had been abandoned in a hurry; equipment remained scattered everywhere: supply crates, medical kits, field desks, radios, boxes of MREs.
Nobody had come back for any of it, and I doubt anybody is still alive to come back for it.
I quickly got to work.
MRE cases disappeared into my inventory whenever I found myself out of sight; ammo crates followed; military radios, spare batteries, the odd weapons here and there field tools—anything useful vanished.
The rest that I couldn't store in public, I tossed into the pickup's bed.
The process became almost mechanical: open crate, check contents, store or haul back the valuables, then move on.
By the time I finished, the pickup bed was noticeably fuller—not that anyone would realize I'd taken far more than that.
Eventually, my attention shifted toward the main entrance.
The reinforced blast doors remained shut; the thick, protective glass reflected the afternoon sunlight.
No movement, no signs of life—nothing.
I walked forward and pounded on the glass.
The sound echoed across the empty compound: boom, boom, boom.
Nothing.
I looked up; a small red light blinked near one of the security cameras.
I stepped directly in front of it. "My name is Zephyr Ward, former military none commissioned officer," my voice carried through the silent courtyard.
No response.
I continued anyway. "I lead a survivor community about forty minutes from here."
The blinking red light continued watching me.
"We have food," I paused.
"Medicine." Another pause.
"Power."
The camera never moved, but I knew somebody was listening. "We have doctors"
That was the important one.
"Hershel Greene, a veterinarian." I shifted slightly. "Dr. Gale Macones, a doctor."
The red light continued blinking, steady, patient, watching.
I folded my arms. "I'm not here to hurt anybody."
Still nothing.
"We just want information."
Silence.
The wind stirred an abandoned tarp somewhere behind me; a loose metal sign clanged softly against a fence, then silence returned.
Minutes crawled by.
One.
Two.
Three...
Still nothing.
I remained where I stood, patient.
Still nothing.
Six.
Seven.
Eight...
At some point, I started wondering if anyone was actually alive inside.
Maybe the camera was running on automated systems?
Maybe Jenner was dead, took himself out?
Maybe I'd come all this way for nothing?
Nine minutes.
The hope began slipping away.
Ten.
Then—a deep metallic thud echoed through the entrance.
I froze.
Locks disengaged; hydraulics groaned.
Massive mechanisms that hadn't moved in months slowly came to life.
Relief washed through me—someone was alive.
The reinforced glass barrier began rising, inch by inch.
The grinding sound seemed impossibly loud after ten minutes of silence.
Up.
Up.
Up.
Until finally, the opening was large enough to see inside.
A man stood there.
He looked thin, exhausted, unshaven.
His clothes looked wrinkled and slept-in, dark circles sat beneath bloodshot eyes, and in his hands was an M4A1 pointed directly at my chest.
Dr. Edwin Jenner looked one bad day away from a nervous breakdown, which made him infinitely more dangerous than any walker I'd encountered all week.
(To be continued...)