Jim moved from truck to truck, opening cabs and checking wiring in case some are fried or missing, testing ignitions, and checking engine blocks. The first half a dozen of Class 8 trucks he checked were dead. One was stripped clean, a couple had their transmission boxes blown, and two others had seized engines, meaning they could get nowhere without replacing the whole engine. Firstly, we don't have a jack strong enough to lift a Class 8 truck engine, and secondly, it would take too much time—time we don't have. The last was missing some crucial parts.
Jim reached to a red Kenworth that looked relatively intact and turned on the key. A weak but promising "rrr-rrr" hummed through the engine. Jim marked it with a green check. After a couple of other trucks that were too damaged to run, had stalled engines, or some other thing, he found a white Freightliner that turned over after a few slow coughs. Another green mark.
"These two are workable," Jim announced, stepping back proudly. "Minimal electrical issues to fix, plus replacing the engine oils and some other easily fixable stuff, and we're golden."
I nodded. "Alright then, let's get to work."
For the next two hours, the three of us worked in steady rhythm. Jim focused on maintaining the trucks; Rick cleared the debris from around the yard; while I used the tow table and hoses to transfer fuel from the drums into the rigs, topping them off enough to give them proper range for the trip back. We worked without chatter, only the sound of tools, boots scraping asphalt, and engines coughing awake to break the silence. When both the rigs idled with steady, rumbling heartbeats, Jim allowed himself a rare smile.
"She sounds good," he said, patting the Kenworth's door. "Never thought I'd say it; I missed this kind of work."
Rick stepped back, wiping the sweat off his brow. "She'll run alright."
I stepped into the box truck's rear door and pulled it open. Inside sat the remaining gear of the mission: drums, welder, hoses, spare batteries, and tools. I pointed at the Freightliner. "Load everything here into that one. I need the box truck empty."
Rick looked at me. "For scavenging?"
"Yeah," I replied smoothly. "We're already here; no point driving back empty-handed. Plenty of shops between here and the industrial strip I can check."
Rick nodded once. "Alright, we'll take these two back. You grab whatever you can, then roll home before dark."
Jim gave me a thumbs up. "Don't get yourself killed out there."
I gave him a dry look. "You know me."
Together, we unloaded the box truck and rearranged the supplies into the Freightliner's cargo bed, strapping them tight. Finally, both Class 8 trucks were ready. Rick climbed the Kenworth. The Freightliner started up beside it, Jim at its wheels, testing the clutch with a steady foot. I stepped back, my hands on my hips, as I watched them line up facing the open exit lot.
"You two drive slow," I said. "If either of the trucks start acting weird, radio me. I'll come to you."
Rick leaned out of the window. "You sure about staying behind alone?"
"Yeah, I've done solo runs in worse places." My tone was firm—not to brag, but to end the argument before it started.
Rick stared a second longer, then nodded. "See you back home."
Jim gave a short nod. "We'll tell Hershel you're doing a supply sweep."
I smirked. "You do that."
The two heavy rigs rolled out of the dealership, their engines echoing down the empty road. I followed them with my eyes until they were out of sight. Some walkers were shambling in, no doubt from the noise of the trucks. I swiftly took care of them before I walked back to the rows of remaining trucks. I cracked my knuckles, pulled out a toolbox from my inventory, and exhaled.
"Alright," I muttered. "Time to get to work."
I approached the first dead semi. I started with an exterior strip down: took off the windshield, driver-side doors, mirrors, front bumper, side panels, and roof fairings. Each disappeared into my inventory. Next, I shoved a hydraulic jack under the front axles, pumped until the rig groaned upward, then removed the entire wheel set—both front and the duals in the back. Eight heavy tires and rims: gone into inventory. I then slid under the chassis and unbolted the driveshaft, suspension components, air brake tanks, fuel pumps and lines, and cable wiring looms. Each blinked out of existence the moment I touched it with intent.
The hard part was the interior. I popped open the hood and looked at the massive diesel engine. The block alone weighed nearly a ton. I didn't need to lift it, just disconnect it. I removed the mounting bolts, detached the remaining hoses, freed the turbo assembly, then placed both hands on the engine. Inventory—take. I watched as the engine vanished. I smiled. Onto the next one.
After another one, an old Freightliner, and a couple of newer ones, three Peterbilts, a beat-up International, a couple of Kenworths, and a rare Western Star with a reinforced chassis—I dismantled them all. The lot began to look like the skeleton of a mechanical graveyard—frames stripped, bare bones, cabs emptied, engines missing, wheels gone.
By the time I finished, I had ten heavy diesel engines, dozens of intact wheels and rims, cab glass, interior electronics, powertrain components, brake systems, HVAC units, wiring harnesses, batteries, alternators, fuel tanks, and salvageable body panels. Enough parts to last for a long time.
Once the dealership lot was reduced to a scrapyard, I headed to the box truck. I couldn't return empty-handed—that would look suspicious—and I couldn't return with truck parts—they'd ask questions. So, I dipped into the inventory. I pulled out five crates of canned food, three of dry goods, a couple of bags of assorted goods, a stack of books, manuals, guides, and survival texts, a couple of sealed water jugs, and three crates full of toilet paper and bathroom goods. I loaded them neatly into the back of the truck, closed the doors, and locked them.
"Looks like a productive scav run," I said with a grin. Only I knew the truth.
The sun was dipping behind the tree lines when I drove the box truck down the dirt road leading to the farmhouse. Dale was the first to spot me. "Zephyr's back!" he yelled from the RV roof.
Several people walked over as I parked and hopped out. Rick approached, still exhausted from the drive. "Good timing. We got the rigs home safe. How'd your scavenging go?"
I opened the back of the truck. The group's eyes widened at the visible spoils.
"Damn," T-Dog muttered. "You cleaned out a whole neighborhood?"
"Something like that," I said casually. "Hit a few places; most were untouched."
Hershel nodded approvingly. "Food, water, supplies. This will help everyone. Good work."
I just smiled, accepting the praise. Maggie came over, her smile brightening her face. "Good work out there," she said.
"Thanks," I replied with a faint smile.
No one asked anything. No one suspected the truth.
(To be continued...)