The convoy rolled back into the farm road as the sun dipped low, leaving dust trailing behind the trucks.
People noticed immediately.
The engines sounded heavier; the box truck rode lower and the pickups creaked under the load. Heads turned from the fields and fences. Chores paused mid-motion as the vehicles passed through the gates.
When we stopped near the farmhouse, the group gathered without being called. Rick cut the engine and climbed down first, followed by Morgan and Merle. I stepped out last, scanning the perimeter out of habit before turning back to the people waiting.
"It's clear," I said.
Carol's hand went to her mouth and Andrea exhaled sharply, tension bleeding out of her posture. T-Dog shook his head slowly; a disbelieving grin slowly formed on his face, like he didn't quite believe it.
"The depot?" Glenn asked.
Rick nodded. "No walkers left. We checked it twice."
"And this?" Maggie asked, eyes on the trucks.
"Fuel," Merle said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "And a hell of a lot of it."
Glenn stepped closer, peering into the box truck, eyes widening as he took in the strapped-down drums.
"This will last for months!" Glenn said awe all over his face.
"This'll last longer than that," Morgan said calmly.
Hershel moved forward, measured as always. "You're certain it's safe to use?"
I met his gaze. "We inspected the tanks and lines. Nothing compromised. We only took the sealed drums."
That settled it. A low murmur spread through the group—not loud or wild—just the sound of people letting themselves believe in something better than tomorrow morning.
"And there's more," I added.
The group quieted again.
"There's a tanker trailer still at the depot," I continued. "Intact. We're filling it tomorrow and bringing it back."
That earned real reactions. Jim blinked. "A tanker?"
Daryl let out a short, bark-like laugh. "That's big."
Hershel nodded slowly. "That changes things."
I glanced around the group. "We do it careful. Full daylight. Same discipline."
No one argued. The mood shifted after that. The conversations afterward felt a lot lighter, like a heavy load that they didn't know existed fell off their shoulders. I watched it happen quietly. We didn't just clear out the depot; we'd given the farm options, and options were too rare to come by these days.
The next day came in a flash.
We rolled out just after sunrise on two of the reinforced trucks: one heavy-duty rig fitted with a proper hitch, and a flatbed with reinforced rails and tie-downs for the rest of what the depot still held. No one treated it like a routine run. Fuel changed priorities; it changed risks.
Rick was in the flatbed with Morgan on the passenger seat. I drove the lead truck, my hands steady on the wheel. From time to time my eyes would slip to the side mirror, watching spacing and keeping the convoy tight. Merle rode the shotgun, chewing tobacco.
The road stayed clear as we left them. No walker drifted in from the tree line; no shapes staggered into view. The quiet felt earned, but no one trusted it.
When the depot came into sight—silent as a grave, no hum, no lights, just empty concrete and cold steel under the morning sun—no one relaxed. We parked in a staggered line just inside the gates. I looked at the pump station, then the darkened buildings beyond it.
"No power grid," I said. "Which means we make our own."
Rick nodded slowly. "And if we do it wrong, we light up the whole place."
Morgan's gaze swept the yard. "Sound trap."
"Exactly," I replied. "So we isolate first."
Morgan and I headed for the main breaker housing near the service building, prying the panel open and cutting power to everything except the pump station line. One switch at a time, making sure nothing else would come alive when the generator kicked on. Merle stood watch, crossbow loose but ready.
Once we finished, Morgan gave a nod. "Alright. Pump station only."
We then went to the back to the generator. I looked at the others. "Once this starts, we work fast and quiet."
Morgan positioned himself near the gates. Rick stayed by the valves. Merle took to the high ground.
Then I pulled the cord.
The generator coughed once then settled into a low, steady growl—loud enough to set nerves on edge, but contained. The pump station flickered on. Nothing else did. No flood lights, no alarms.
I let out a sigh of relief. Rick and I went ahead to grab the truck to hook it up to the tanker. The tanker sat right where we left it: cold steel, capped hoses, no leaks.
"Good. Same as we left it," I said to myself.
Then we got to work. Rick checked the fittings while I was confirming seals, valves, and connections.
"Good to go," said Rick, nodding.
I hooked the tanker to the truck, securing it tightly, then Rick connected the valves then turned the pump on. Fuel began to flow. The tanker slowly took on weight, metal creaking softly as liquid filled its belly. Every second stretched, every sound feeling louder than it was. We didn't speak until it was done.
Rick closed the valve while I killed the generator. The growl died instantly, plunging the depot back into silence.
"Alright," I said. "Let's finish here and load the stuff we left here."
We capped the lines, disconnected the hoses, and moved without hesitation. The tanker was full now; all that's left was finishing looting the place up. Turning to Rick, I said, "You go ahead and park the truck by the gate and get the flatbed and Morgan while you're at it."
"You got it," Rick replied before he went on doing what he was told.
I headed to the service building where we last left the rest of the pallets and drums, not forgetting to signal to Merle to come down to help in loading. By the time I arrived at the service building, Rick was already there with Morgan in tow.
"Let's finish this quickly," I said before starting hauling everything into the flatbed.
Spare hoses, filters, tools, replacement parts, sealed barrels, and pallets. Everything strapped down with redundant ties. Nothing loose. Nothing stacked too high.
"There," Merle said. "This ain't goin' nowhere."
"That's the idea," I replied, looking toward the horizon.
(To be continued...)