I unfolded the map and smoothed it flat.
"The location is coastal Georgia, near Savannah. Specifically, a shipyard named after the operation itself: Padre Shipyard."
Tracing the route with my finger, I continued, "We avoid downtown Savannah proper. We stage outside the urban perimeter before advancing."
Morgan folded his arms. "Distance?"
"Roughly four hours pre-fall," I replied. "Now, expect triple that, if not more, depending on road clearance."
Rick tilted his head slightly. "And what exactly are we expecting to find?"
"Structured infrastructure," I answered evenly. "Shipping containers filled to the brim with all kinds of supplies that would be crucial in rebuilding communities. Food, water, medicine... possibly maritime equipment."
Hershel looked thoughtful. "Government involvement?"
"Most likely. There could be survivors for all we know," Rick added quickly, "which means planning carefully before committing to anything yet."
"Mhm." I nodded.
"How many walkers would we be expecting?" Carol's voice was steady.
"Heavy infestation is expected," I said without hesitation. "Urban spillover plus coastal traffic."
Daryl grunted. "Don't forget the shipyard itself might be filled to the gills with undead soldiers."
"That too," I said, nodding. The room absorbed that, looking at the pensive looks on their faces. "We scout first," I said. "Light advance team." I inclined my head. "We take the box truck. We establish perimeter assessment before committing heavy transport."
Morgan spoke next. "How are we doing this?"
"Noise discipline," I replied. "We avoid drawing herds unless we control terrain. Clear sectors deliberately; no rushing structures blind."
Merle cracked his knuckles slowly. "And if it's a nest?"
"Then we dismantle it," I said simply.
Glenn looked up. "When are we doing this?"
"Prep day tomorrow. Vehicle check, ammo count, food for seven days minimum. Departure on the next."
Shane leaned forward. "And who's going?"
I didn't hesitate. "Three." I looked at Rick, then at Daryl. Rick's jaw set, not surprised, as if expecting it; Daryl just gave a short nod.
Glenn blinked. "Only the three of you?"
"It's just a scouting run," I answered, "not extraction."
Hershel frowned slightly. "That's reckless."
"I'm limiting the risk factor," I calmly said, folding the map carefully. "Too many people mean too many things that could go wrong. We're just going to gather intelligence, assess infestation levels, identify approach routes. Then we come back."
Hershel nodded slowly, the frown still on his face. Andrea crossed her arms. "How long are you gonna take?"
"Three days maximum," I said. "If we're not back by then, assume delay—though keep your radio on. We will inform you in case of delay."
Jenny and Carol exchanged looks. "We'll start assembling long-term ration packs."
Maggie added, "I'll prepare a couple fuel drums for the go."
I gave her a brief look of approval. Dr. Gale cleared her throat. "I'll have a couple of medkits ready before the departure, and I'll make sure the truck is in top condition and topped off."
"Alright." I nodded once. "Meeting adjourned."
Next morning came in a flash. The farm moved with purpose—not frantic, efficient. Jim handled the mechanical side first; he crawled under the box truck, checking for any potential hidden dangers, while Daryl was transporting salvaged steel plates to weld them on the front of the truck for added protection.
Rick laid weapons across the farmhouse table like a quiet ritual: cleaning, loading, adding suppressors, and checking them twice, sharpening the blades until they caught light. Maggie was hauling a couple of fuel barrels on the back of the box truck with the help of Otis, while Jenny and Carol were loading rations in boxes and having Shane, T-Dog, and Morales transport them inside the truck.
Dr. Gale came over with the two medkits and handed them over to me. "I hope you won't need them, but just in case you do," she said.
"Let's hope we won't need them," I replied while stashing the kits in the truck.
Morgan helped without needing directions. Merle put a couple pry bars and a bolt cutter in the cargo area without saying anything, while I added three bedrolls and a spare radio. By late afternoon, the box truck sat ready: engine tuned, cargo area reinforced with internal tie-downs, the front plated enough to push through light blockages.
Rick walked a slow circle around it once. "Solid," he said.
I nodded once. "We leave at first light."
Later that night, the farmhouse had gone quiet. Prep had wrung the energy out of everyone. Tools were put away, weapons stored within reach. The box truck sat ready under the moonlight like a patient beast ready to run.
I stayed up later than the others, like I always did before an operation. I stepped inside the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind me. The shower sputtered before steady hot water began to fall. Steam filled the tight space quickly, fogging the cracked mirror, muting the edges of the world.
I stood under the steam, my hands braced lightly against the wall, my mind running scenarios: route options, choke points, fallback plans. The water traced down my shoulders, down my back. I exhaled slowly.
Then the door opened—quiet, careful. Startled, I turned slightly, brows drawing together. "Magg—"
I didn't finish. There she was, bare as the day she was born. For a second—just a second—I froze, because I hadn't expected this. Her eyes were steady, determined, a flicker of frustration beneath it.
"You're leaving tomorrow," she said softly.
I opened my mouth to respond; she closed the distance instead. The kiss wasn't hesitant; it was heat and decision and weeks of restraint breaking at once. I staggered half a step back under the surprise, my hands instinctively catching her at the waist.
"You've been taking your time," she murmured against my lips.
There was no accusation in it, just truth. I had been careful, measured—building something slow and steady instead of rushing it in a world that devoured everything fragile. Clearly, Maggie had other ideas.
The shower water ran hot around us, steam thick and blurring everything but the feeling of her hands against me. I stopped trying to talk and started responding, the rest unfolding without hesitation. Tension dissolving into closeness, restraint giving way to certainty—two people choosing each other in a world that didn't offer many guarantees.
The water eventually ran cold. We didn't notice.
(To be continued...)