I didn't linger much after that.
Just turned and headed for the stairs.
The hallway upstairs was quieter, the noise of the kitchen faded behind me.
I subconsciously kept my feet softer on the wooden floor here, more measured.
Soon, I stepped into my room and shut the door behind me and just like that—everything narrowed.
My gear was laid out orderly where I'd left it.
I moved without wasting motion.
First—firearms.
Pistols first.
I took the magazines out first, checking if they're full.
They were.
Done.
Slide back, clear, chamber's clean, re-seat. Smooth.
Rifle was next. Same process: slower, deliberate.
Suppressor threads clean, no grit, no misalignment.
The bow was next.
I reached out to my inventory and the bow slid into my hand smoothly.
I set it down, then took out the quiver next and sat it down next to the bow.
Next, I picked up the compound and ran my hand along the limbs, checking for stress, microfractures, anything out of place.
String tension—good.
Cams aligned.
Release was smooth.
Arrows next.
Fletching intact, shafts straight, broadheads tight.
Every piece mattered; every detail. I worked through it all like muscle memory carved into bone, because it was.
I took my time doing so. No rush, no hesitation—just repetition and certainty.
By the time I finished, everything was where it needed to be.
I stood there for a second, gear in hand, the quiet pressing in around me. Then I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders once, then moved for the door.
Time to hunt.
Stepping out of the house, I found them already waiting for me there.
Rick stood near the truck, a light pack slung on his shoulders, his gun on his right hip, suppressed.
His arms were loose at his sides, but eyes sharp, scanning without really looking like he was.
Daryl leaned against the side of the box truck, his crossbow slung, posture relaxed in that way that meant he was anything but.
Merle paced a few steps back and forth, rolling his shoulders like he was warming up for a fight.
Jim was crouched near the rear, fussing over something with focused intensity.
I walked over to them. Then glanced at the vehicles lined up near the barn—the armored trucks, SUV… then settled on the box truck.
"We're taking that," I said, jerking my chin toward it.
Rick followed my gaze. "Not the armored trucks?"
"Not today," I replied. "We're not hauling anything today. We're clearing the rail yard. Hauling loot is for tomorrow if we're done clearing the place today."
Daryl pushed off the truck with a grunt. "Makes sense."
Merle smirked. "No big boy toys today."
I ignored that and shifted my attention to Jim. He was already on his feet, wiping his hands on his jeans as he motioned toward what he'd set up.
"I got the thing ready," he said, a little breathless—but not from nerves, from focus.
Behind him sat a low trolley, one of the few I scavenged before. On it—a red toolbox, scratched but solid; three heavy lead-acid batteries, thick terminals dull with age but intact and strapped down tight; and two 55-gallon fuel drums. The smell hit faintly even from where I stood. Diesel.
Jim tapped one of the drums like he was introducing a prized asset. "Took two from the reserve you brought back. They're still sealed, so it shouldn't be contaminated."
"Shouldn't," Merle echoed with a grin.
Jim shot him a look then kept going.
"Batteries are charged as much as I could manage," he said quickly. "Not perfect, but enough to turn over something big—especially if we pair them." He crouched slightly, checking the straps again even though they didn't need it. "Toolbox's got what we need for quick fixes. Filters, basic tools, some improvised seals if things get… messy."
He then looked up at me, focused, certain. "If we do find a stacker and if it's salvageable—we've got what it needs to breathe."
I gave a single nod. "That's what I needed to hear."
We moved.
The trolley rattled as we rolled it up to the back of the box truck. The ramp creaked under the weight as we started loading.
"Watch the angle," Jim muttered, his hands hovering like he could will it into balance.
Daryl grunted as he took most of the weight on one side. I took the other, adjusting for the shift, controlling the momentum instead of fighting it.
"Push," I said with a grunt.
Metal groaned, wheels protested, but it went up slow and controlled.
Inside the truck, we secured everything down—straps pulled tight, drums locked in place, batteries braced so they wouldn't shift on a hard stop.
We were finishing up when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned slightly.
It was Carol.
She held out a small bag, simple cloth tied at the top.
"For the road," she said. "In case you boys get hungry."
I took it from her. "Thank you," I said.
She gave a small nod, smiling, her eyes moving past me to the others then back. "You guys be careful out there. Come back safe."
"We will." I gave a short nod.
I turned back to the truck, tossed the bag into the cab, and climbed in.
Rick took the passenger seat without a word.
Daryl and Merle headed for the back.
Jim climbed in last, already checking straps again like he couldn't help himself.
I gripped the wheel and turned the key.
The engine coughed once—then caught.
The vibration rolled up through the frame into my hands, steady and alive.
Good.
I let it idle for a second, listening.
No irregularities, no warning signs.
"Let's move," I said.
We pulled out slow, tires crunching over dirt as the farmhouse came into view ahead of us.
I glanced up into the rearview mirror.
The house sat there in the morning light.
I held that image for a second longer, then I shifted gears, pressed the gas, and let the road take us forward.
(To be continued...)