I stepped back, tilting my head slightly as to observe it.
"Good enough," I said.
Rick wiped his palms on his jeans. "If someone's scanning from the docks, they won't pick it out easily."
"And if they do," Daryl muttered, adjusting his knife holster, "we got bigger problems."
"Alright," I said. "Three days' rations each. Melee only—aside from you, Daryl," I gave him a side look.
"No guns unless it goes loud."
Rick nodded and checked his revolver out of habit.
I adjusted my knife, then glanced once more at the covered truck.
"We move along the tree line," I said.
"Stay off open pavement. If we see movement, we freeze first—not run. We don't want to give the wrong impression."
Rick met my eyes. "Understood."
Daryl just gave a short nod.
"Alright, let's go," I said, as I started toward the thin strip of trees running parallel to the water.
The city felt closer now, the stench of rot heavier in the air.
Somewhere ahead, seagulls cried over the river.
We left the box truck behind, buried in shadow and pine, and moved forward on foot.
The trees thinned and thickened as we moved further in.
I kept us ten, sometimes fifteen yards inside the tree line—close enough to hear the river when the wind shifted, far enough that anyone scanning from the docks wouldn't catch movement from the open shoreline.
I walked point, not far ahead, just enough to see trouble before it saw us.
Daryl followed right behind; Rick stayed half a step behind him. No one talked unless we had to.
The ground was uneven, roots pushing up through damp soil, fallen branches snapping if we weren't careful.
Twice, I had to stop them mid-step because of a single misplaced crunch under their boots.
We slowly adjusted.
Then, the first walker appeared ahead behind the trees.
It was roaming aimlessly, head tilted at an angle that wasn't natural. It didn't notice us.
We did.
Daryl eased his crossbow off his shoulder.
One slow inhale. The bolt thudded softly into the walker's eye socket.
The body went down like a sack of potatoes.
He approached slowly and yanked the bolt, wiping it off the walker's rags before he rejoined us.
"Keep moving," I murmured.
They did.
An hour later, we came across two more near a broken chain-link fence.
These two turned at the sound of us approaching.
Rick stepped forward, knife in hand; with one controlled thrust under the jaw, he dropped the walker for good.
I caught the second by the collar before it could lunge and drove my blade through the temple.
No wasted movement. No heavy breathing. Just bodies lowered quietly into the bush.
It was manageable until it wasn't.
A mile in, as we passed a small rise, we spotted movement ahead through the trees.
Not one, not two—at least eight, maybe ten, wandering without direction.
Some were in dockworker uniforms; one was still wearing a high-visibility vest.
I crouched immediately. The others followed. I watched them.
"Too spread to avoid clean," I whispered.
"Yeah," Rick replied.
Daryl shifted, scanning the left flank. "We take 'em one by one."
I nodded once, then we split without hesitation. Daryl circled wide left, I went center, and Rick drifted left.
The first went down quickly.
The second caught sight of Rick's movement and let out a low, rising groan.
I was on it before the sound built—hand clamped on its mouth, blade through the ear.
But it was too late. The noise had carried.
Two more turned. Then three.
What followed wasn't loud, but it wasn't clean either.
Knives, controlled strikes, a boot slipping in loose soil, breath coming faster.
When the last walker dropped, we stood still for several seconds, listening.
Nothing.
Daryl exhaled through his nose. "That's gonna slow us."
It already had.
The sun had shifted lower than I would have liked.
We made progress, but not enough to risk pushing into the unknown at dusk.
I checked my watch out of habit—pointless, but grounding.
"We stop before dark," I said. "Find somewhere with two exits. Second floor if we can."
Rick nodded immediately.
We adjusted direction slightly inland, keeping the river close to orient by sound.
Another pair of walkers fell along the way, one more near a collapsed sign.
Each encounter cost time.
By the time the light started thinning, the woods began giving way to sparse outskirt housing.
Small, aging homes spaced far apart—some boarded, some broken open.
I crouched behind a sedan and studied the nearest structure. Single-story ranch, shutters hanging crooked, front door ajar.
Too exposed.
I scanned left. Across a narrow side road sat a two-story house. Faded blue paint, windows intact on the upper floor, curtains still down inside. Backyard partially fenced.
Daryl and Rick followed my line of sight. "Better," they said.
We moved low across the road. Rick covered left, Daryl right.
I approached the front door but didn't use it. I circled the side instead and tested a window. Locked.
I glanced at Rick and Daryl, then used the butt of my blade to tap the glass slightly.
Once—
twice.
And waited.
Nothing moved inside.
I slid my blade between the frame and latch. Slow pressure.
The window gave with a quiet click. I lifted it inch by inch. Still nothing.
Daryl slipped inside first, crossbow raised. Rick followed. Me last.
The air inside was stale, closed up.
No immediate smell of rot.
We cleared room by room.
Living room—empty.
Kitchen—dishes still in the sink, flies, some cans in the pantry, but no bodies.
Stairs creaked slightly as we climbed.
Bedroom one—clear.
Bedroom two—clear.
Bathroom—clear.
Daryl checked the closets anyway.
"Good," he said.
I moved to the second-floor front window and peeled the curtain back just enough to see the street.
No movement.
Rick locked the door behind us and wedged a dining chair under the main handle downstairs.
We regrouped in the upstairs hallway.
"Shifts," I said quietly. "Two hours each. I'll take the first."
Rick shook his head. "You drove. I'll start."
Daryl leaned against the wall. "Wake me if anything even breaths wrong."
I studied them both for a second, then gave a short nod. "Two hours," I repeated.
We sat the packs down but didn't unpack much aside from the sleeping bags and food.
Boots stayed close, weapons within reach. Outside, the light drained from the sky.
Tomorrow, we'd push deeper.
(To be continued...)