Pulling into the farmstead felt like timely rain after drought.
The armored truck rumbled past the fences slowly, headlights sweeping across familiar ground while the engine ticked hot beneath me.
For the first time in five straight days, my shoulders loosened a fraction.
Home.
Or as close to home as this dead world allowed.
The gates creaked open ahead of me.
Shane stood there, a rifle hanging low against his chest.
Looks like it was his turn on watch rotation.
He gave me a silent nod as I rolled through.
I returned it.
No words needed.
The man took one look at me and probably realized I was running on fumes.
The second I parked the armored truck near the rest, Maggie appeared out of nowhere.
At least, that's how it looked to me in my exhausted state.
Didn't matter how exhausted I was; seeing her still hit something deep in my chest.
Before I could even fully climb out of the cab, she was already there beside the truck, concern written all over her face.
"What took you so long?" she asked softly.
I dropped down from the cab and my knees almost complained loud enough to embarrass me.
"Final inspection," I answered automatically. My voice was laced with exhaustion. "Needed to make sure we didn't miss anything."
Maggie studied me for a second.
Those sharp green eyes always noticed more than I liked.
"Did you?"
The question hung there between us.
I thought about the empty containers sitting in Inman Rail Yard right now.
Two hundred and thirty hollow steel ghosts.
Thousands of bottles of imported liquor.
Mountains of supplies.
Enough resources hidden inside my Inventory to build entire communities—and none of it could ever be explained.
So I lied again.
Calmly.
Smoothly.
"No," I said. "Everything essential was already hauled back. What's left ain't worth another run."
The words came easy.
Too easy.
That was the dangerous part.
Maggie relaxed slightly at the answer and nodded, accepting it without suspicion.
Meanwhile, the lie sat heavy in my chest like wet concrete.
I hated that part.
Not the secrecy itself—the necessity of it.
I trusted Maggie more than anyone in this world, but the Inventory?
The R.O.B?
Those truths would sound insane at best, terrifying at worst.
People feared what they couldn't understand, and fear ruined groups faster than walkers ever could.
Maggie stepped closer before I could sink too deep into my own head.
Then she kissed me.
Soft.
Warm.
Real.
Five straight days of diesel fumes, blood, rot, and exhaustion seemed to loosen from my shoulders all at once.
When she pulled back, her lips curled faintly.
"You need somesleep," she murmured. "You look dead on your feet."
A tired laugh escaped me. "I feel dead on my feet."
"Go."
There wasn't even a trace of argument left in me. "Yes, ma'am."
I nodded once and started toward the farmhouse.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
The adrenaline was finally gone now that I was back behind safe walls and friendly faces.
My body knew it, too. The second the mission ended, exhaustion came crashing in like a sledgehammer.
I barely remembered climbing the stairs.
Didn't even bother unlacing my boots.
Didn't even bother to strip out of the filthy clothes.
I hit the mattress face-first, and the darkness swallowed me whole before I could think another thought.
When I woke up again, sunlight spilled across the room in long orange beams.
Late afternoon.
For a few seconds, I just stared at the ceiling, disoriented.
Then the ache hit.
Deep, heavy—not sharp pain.
It was accumulated wear.
Five days wrestling steering wheels, hauling equipment, operating the Reach Stacker, sleeping in snatches whenever possible...
Plus the days before that spent pulling bowstrings—it all settled into my muscles at once.
Even with Peak Human physiology, with the boon of accelerated healing, there were limits.
I pushed myself upright slowly.
My boots were still on.
Dirty jeans, dust-caked shirt.
The smell alone made me grimace.
Then I looked down at the bed.
"...Fuck."
The sheets looked like I'd dragged half of Atlanta across them.
Dust, grease, dried sweat—probably enough rail yard grime to start a new ecosystem.
I rubbed a hand over my face and let out a long sigh before stripping the bed.
The dirty sheets hit the floor beside my clothes in one exhausted bundle, to be washed later.
Fresh sheets came out of storage a minute later, clean and cool against my hands as I remade the bed with slow, tired movements.
Small things.
Normal things.
Honestly, it grounded me more than the scavenging runs ever did.
After that, I headed for the bathroom.
The hot water hit my back and I damn near groaned.
Heat rolled through muscles that had been tight for days.
Blackened grime spiraled down the drain in streaks while steam filled the room.
I probably stayed there longer than needed, but I think I at least deserved that.
Not because it was relaxing—well, it was relaxing—but because it felt necessary.
Like maintenance.
A tactical reset.
The dust of Atlanta finally washed away inch by inch until the man staring back at me afterward actually looked human again, instead of some half-dead trucker crawling out of a war zone.
Fresh clothes helped, too.
Clean shirt, clean jeans, slippers covered feet against the wooden floorboards.
By the time I stepped out of the room, I finally felt awake again.
Still tired, still sore, but functional enough.
Grounded.
Then my stomach growled hard enough to make me snort.
The farmhouse carried familiar sounds now.
Muted conversation downstairs, the clink of dishes, kids laughing.
The smell drifting from the kitchen hit next.
Hot food.
Bread.
Tea.
For the first time in nearly a week, the mission was over.
And all I wanted in that moment was a hot meal.
(To be continued...)