The road opened up twenty miles out.
Vehicles left crooked in lanes, doors hanging open, trunks half packed.
I kept both hands on the steering wheel, knuckles loose, eyes moving.
I didn't comment; I just eased the box truck around them.
Rick and Daryl shifted beside me, scanning the empty vehicles as we passed them.
A couple miles later, the traffic thickened.
Vehicles were now more strewn around, two pickup trucks nose-to-nose in the middle of the highway; a delivery van sideways.
Someone had tried to turn around and boxed themselves in.
I slowed.
"Blockage ahead," I said.
Rick leaned forward, scanning. "Left shoulder's got room."
Shaking my head, "Not enough clearance for the mirrors."
Daryl squinted out the windshield. "There's an exit ramp comin' up. Half mile."
I nodded once, easing the box truck through, though I didn't rush it.
The ramp was clogged up too.
A minivan with its back hatch open; suitcases spilled out.
One of the rear doors hung open, dried blood streaking inside the panel.
No bodies, though.
I drove past without slowing.
We cut through a service road, then a two-way state route, then another detour when a fuel tanker lay jackknifed across the intersection like a dead animal.
The closer we got to Savannah, the worse it became.
Cars layered on each other, bumpers kissing, windshields shattered.
Some had been looted already—doors stripped, hoods opened.
Others looked untouched, like their owners had simply stepped out and never returned.
Rick let out a breath. "This is just from the first panic."
"Yeah," I said.
Daryl snorted. "And this ain't even downtown."
We cleared through the last stretch.
I picked lanes by instinct now.
I angled through a grocery store parking lot—had to run over small swaths of walkers in the process—cut behind a row of warehouses, and took a narrow industrial road that scraped tree branches against the sides of the truck.
Finally, the skyline showed through the trees.
Savannah.
Low buildings, church steeples, a faint haze sitting over everything.
I eased off the throttle and guided the truck into the shade of an overgrown lot near the outskirts.
Former equipment yard. Chain link half-collapsed.
Abandoned from before the apocalypse, from the looks of it.
"Good cover from the road," I said.
I killed the engine.
Silence dropped heavy.
The ticking of the cooling engine filled the cab.
For a moment, none of us moved.
Then I reached behind the seat and pulled the folded map free.
"Out," I said.
We stepped down from the cab.
The air smelled different here—stale, river-damp rot carried on a breeze that moved slow and heavy.
Rick shut his door carefully.
No slamming.
Daryl circled once, scanning the tree line and rooftops before giving a small nod.
"Clear enough."
I spread the map across the hood of the truck. It crinkled loud in the quiet. Rick anchored one corner with his hand.
"Ossabaw Island," I said, finger tracing south along the coastline. "Barrier island about twenty miles downriver from the city."
Daryl leaned in. "No direct road?"
"It's military, not public." I traced the waterways. "The Wilmington River, the Ogeechee. We don't push through downtown. Too tight, too many blind spots."
"Population density isn't like Atlanta," Rick said.
"No," I agreed. "But it's still a coastal city."
Daryl adjusted his crossbow. "What's the move?"
"River approach. That's the cleanest option."
Daryl straightened slightly. "Means boats."
"Yeah." I shifted my finger to the mainland side. "There'll be marinas, private docks, maybe small fishing operations still intact."
Rick glanced toward the skyline. "And whoever's still alive might already be watching these."
"Exactly." I folded the map halfway and looked between them. "We don't assume we're alone. Not here. Not this close to the coast."
Daryl grunted. "So what's the play?"
I tapped the map again. "We scout first. Quiet. No engine noise near the water if we can avoid it. We park outside visual range, move on foot, find elevation."
Rick nodded slowly. "Cloak the docks. Count boats. Watch for movement."
"And watch for patterns," I added. "Smoke, traces of life, sound discipline. If someone's still running Operation Padre from the island, they'll have eyes on access points."
Daryl scratched his jaw. "Could be just walkers and empty docks."
"Could be," I said evenly. "But I doubt it. These are military-trained personnel with a mission. They won't be wiped out so easily. And we don't gamble on 'could'."
Rick looked out toward the city again. The wind shifted, carrying a distant, faint moan. Not close, but definitely there.
"We're still early," Rick said quietly. "Couple months in. In cities like this, most folks either died or ran, but there's definitely still survivors."
"Without a doubt," I replied.
I folded the map completely now. "We move before dark," I continued. "Find a secondary staging spot closer to the water. No lights tonight. No unnecessary shots."
Daryl smirked faintly. "You say that like you expect Rick to start firing at them seagulls."
Rick shot him a look. "I heard that."
I ignored both of them.
"We're not clearing Savannah," I said flatly. "We're threading carefully through it. There's a difference. Use bladed only if possible—though you are exempted from that, Daryl," I said, looking at his crossbow.
Daryl grunted, looking pleased.
I climbed into the cab again, followed by Daryl.
Rick checked over his shoulder before climbing next and shutting the door carefully behind him.
The engine turned over low. I kept the revs down, easing the truck out of the equipment yard and back into the service road.
We didn't head straight toward the water.
Instead, I angled us through light industrial buildings—shuttered garages, a feed warehouse, a storage lot with half its fence missing.
The closer we got, the tighter the road became. More civilian vehicles abandoned at odd angles. A city bus sitting diagonally across an intersection like it had simply stopped mid-route.
I slowed into a crawl.
"Too exposed up ahead," Rick said, eyeing a stretch where the road opened toward a clear view of the docks in the distance.
"Yeah." I turned down a narrower lane instead, trees pressing from both sides.
A hundred yards in, I stopped. To our right, an old bait and tackle shop, windows boarded. Behind it, a small gravel lot screened by a line of scrub pine and a collapsed privacy fence.
I killed the engine and listened. No immediate movement. No shuffling. No moans drifting close.
"We'll leave the truck here and continue on foot."
Rick glanced at me. "Close enough to move on foot, far enough not to announce ourselves."
"Yeah," I replied.
We stepped out.
I walked a slow circle around the truck, scanning rooftops, tree lines, shadows behind buildings.
Satisfied for now, I moved to the back door and opened one just enough to grab a tarp and a coil of netting I'd packed for contingencies. "Let's camouflage it."
"Yeah." Daryl was already dragging broken branches from the edge of the lot.
We worked swiftly.
I backed the truck deeper into the gravel space, tucking it behind the bait shop so as to better hide its outline by the building itself from the main road.
Rick and Daryl threw the tarp across the roof and upper panels, dulling the white.
The branches went over that—enough to disrupt the shape without making it obvious someone had tried too hard.
(To be continued...)