Chapter 27: Landfall
Savannah was beautiful from the water—old Southern architecture, tree-lined streets, historic charm preserved by money and tradition. Up close, it was a tomb.
We docked at a private marina on the river, the kind of place where rich people kept their yachts before the concept of "rich" stopped meaning anything. Other boats sat at anchor—some burned, some half-sunk, one with a body still hanging from the mast.
"Stay together," I said, checking my Glock. "Daniel, Travis, with me. Everyone else secure the boat."
"I'm coming," Alicia said.
Madison started to protest. Alicia cut her off. "I've been training. I know how to use a knife. And I'm not staying behind anymore."
"She's right," I said. "She should come."
"Since when do you make decisions about my daughter?"
"Since she asked me to teach her to survive. Let her prove she learned."
Madison looked between us, jaw clenched. Then nodded once. "Stay close to Jax."
We moved into Savannah on foot, four people armed with pistols and knives. The streets were worse than LA—older infrastructure meant more places for the dead to hide. Colonial-era buildings with basements and attics, narrow alleys that twisted like labyrinths.
Walkers shambled between abandoned cars. Fresh ones—recently turned—and old ones that had been walking for weeks. We avoided them when possible, dispatched them quickly when necessary.
An abandoned car dealership sat three blocks from the marina. The lot was full of vehicles with keys still in them—inventory that would never be sold. I chose two pickup trucks, newer models with good suspension for rough roads.
"How do you know how to hotwire cars?" Nick asked, watching me work the ignition.
"YouTube."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. Pre-apocalypse life skill you never think you'll need." The engine caught, rumbling to life. "Until you need it."
We loaded supplies from the Abigail—food, water, weapons, medical equipment. Stripped the yacht of everything portable and valuable. Strand supervised with the air of someone watching his home being dismantled.
"Two weeks," he said when we were done. "I'll wait here for two weeks. After that, I'm gone."
"Where?" Madison asked.
"Somewhere else. Maybe Mexico, maybe an island. Somewhere without millions of dead people."
"We might not make it back in two weeks."
"Then I'll see you in hell."
He handed me a satellite phone—expensive hardware from his yacht's communication suite. "Check in every three days. If I don't hear from you by day fourteen, I'm assuming you're dead."
"Fair enough."
Alicia hugged him. "Thank you. For everything."
"Thank yourself. You all earned passage." He looked at me. "Keep them alive, Mercer. I've gotten used to this group."
"I'll try."
"Try harder."
We left him standing on the dock, watching us load the trucks. Patricia climbed into the passenger seat of my truck, Nick and Alicia in the back. The second truck carried Madison, Travis, Liza, Chris, Daniel, and Ofelia.
Ten people heading inland toward Atlanta. Leaving Strand alone with his yacht and his secrets.
The first thirty miles were nightmare navigation. I-16 was packed with abandoned vehicles—everyone had tried to flee Savannah simultaneously, creating a permanent traffic jam. We took back roads instead, winding through small towns that had died quietly.
Some showed signs of military presence—barricades, burned buildings, mass graves. Others looked untouched except for the complete absence of people. Just empty houses and cars and lives, like everyone had been raptured and only the walkers remained.
"It's everywhere," Alicia said quietly from the back seat. "It's not just LA. It's the whole country."
"The whole world, probably," Patricia said. "The compound had radio contact with ships for the first week. Then nothing. Europe went dark. Asia went dark. Everyone just... stopped transmitting."
"How many people do you think are left?"
"Globally? Maybe a million. Maybe less."
"Jesus."
We drove in silence after that. The weight of extinction pressing down on everyone.
[ TIMER: 54:19:47 ]
Just over two days. I'd need to find a target soon. Atlanta would provide opportunities—a city of five million reduced to walkers and whatever survivors remained. Surely one of them would deserve infection.
This is getting easier. That should worry me more than it does.
We camped that night in an abandoned gas station. Barricaded the doors, posted watch, rationed food carefully. No fire—couldn't risk attracting attention.
I took first watch on the roof, Glock in my lap, watching the road for movement. The horizon glowed orange toward Atlanta—fires, maybe, or just the city's death reflected in the sky.
Daniel climbed up to join me halfway through my watch.
"Can't sleep?" I asked.
"Too much to think about." He sat down, letting his legs dangle over the edge. "We're walking into a city of the dead to find answers that probably don't exist."
"Yeah."
"And you've known this from the beginning."
"Yeah."
"So why go?"
"Because everyone needs hope. Even false hope is better than accepting there's nothing."
"And when they discover the hope is false?"
"Then we find new hope. That's how survival works."
He pulled out Griselda's rosary, ran the beads through his fingers. "I've been thinking about Martinez. About the Canal compound. About what you did."
"I treated wounded soldiers."
"You did more than that. I can't prove it, but I know." He looked at me. "In El Salvador, I knew men who could kill without hesitation, who could make choices that destroyed them inside while keeping everyone else safe. You're one of those men."
"I'm a medical resident."
"You're a weapon pretending to be a doctor. And I don't say that as criticism. I say it as recognition." He stood. "Get some rest. I'll take the rest of your watch."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to. Let an old man think in peace."
I left him there, rosary beads clicking softly, and went below to try to sleep.
Alicia was still awake, sitting against the wall with a knife in her hands, practicing the grips I'd taught her.
"Can't sleep either?" I asked.
"Nervous. About Atlanta. About what we'll find."
"Probably nothing good."
"That's comforting."
"Honesty is more valuable than comfort."
She set down the knife. "Do you think we'll make it? Long term, I mean. Not just to Atlanta, but through all of this?"
"Some of us will."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have. Some people will survive. Some won't. The variables are too complex to predict."
"And which category am I in?"
"Survivor. You're strong, adaptable, learning fast. You'll make it."
"What about Nick?"
"Depends on whether he stays sober. Addiction makes you vulnerable."
"Mom?"
"She's tough. She'll be fine."
"And you?"
I considered the question. Patient Zero, carrying a virus that required periodic infection, hiding a secret that would get me killed if discovered.
"I'll make it. Or I won't. Either way, I'm not the one you should worry about."
She picked up the knife again, turned it over in her hands. "I'm glad you're with us. Even though you're frustrating and secretive and probably lying about half of what you tell me."
"Only half?"
"The other half you just don't tell me at all."
I smiled despite everything. "Fair assessment."
She fell asleep eventually, knife still clutched in her hand. I stayed awake, watching over the group, counting down the hours until we'd reach Atlanta.
[ TIMER: 52:18:13 ]
Two days, four hours. Time was running out.
But ahead, Atlanta waited. And in Atlanta, opportunities for infection. For targets. For the constant necessary evil that kept me human.
Somewhere in a hospital in King County, Rick Grimes was dreaming. In a week, maybe less, he'd wake up.
And then the real game would begin.
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