The Outskirts of Savannah
We angled inland instead of toward the shoreline, keeping within the outskirts.
The terrain shifted from residential blocks to light industrial—low warehouses, fenced lots, and rusted signage.
Through the gaps between buildings, I caught glimpses of something taller further in.
Steel legs; a rounded tank.
I stopped to study it.
It was a water tower, an old municipal structure with a ladder cage running up on one side and a platform beneath the tank.
It was taller than anything else in the immediate area.
"There," I said, pointing at the water tower. "That'll give us a line over the marsh."
Daryl squinted. "Long climb."
"Worth it," I said.
We approached from the rear, keeping to blind spots and clearing any walker that stumbled upon us.
Arriving at the base of the water tower, I paused and scanned the surrounding blocks.
No immediate movement.
The ladder cage was still intact.
"I'll go first," I said, approaching the ladder.
I started climbing slowly, without rushing, boots steady on the metal rungs.
Then, I paused halfway to listen.
Nothing but the wind.
Continuing on, I soon reached the top platform.
I eased myself over the railing and scanned the horizon before signaling down that it was clear.
Rick climbed next, followed by Daryl.
The wind was stronger up on the water tower.
It carried salt from the coast, blended with the ever-present faint stench of rot.
The view, however, was stretched clean over the rooftops and marshland.
Beyond the shallow green sprawl—water, and further out, Ossabaw Island.
I crouched low against the railing and reached for my binoculars.
I adjusted the focus slowly.
The island immediately sharpened: thin pieces, tree line foliage, the structures, warehouses, piers, and docked vessels.
The Padre shipyard.
Taking a deep breath, I held the binoculars steady.
That's when I saw it.
Movement.
Dense.
The docks were packed solid with walkers.
Not scattered, not drifting—stacked. From afar, it looked like a bunch of worms wiggling about.
They covered the pier from end to end, pressed against the warehouse doors, clustered in the open yard space and between buildings.
Some spilled into the shallows along the shoreline.
Hundreds.
Likely more.
Heh. It's like the fuel depot all over again, I thought wryly to myself.
I shifted the binoculars slightly, searching for signs of control: barricades, guard rotations, smoke from contained fires—anything human.
There was nothing.
No patrol boats cutting through water, no perimeter activity.
Nothing.
Rick watched my face. "How bad is it?"
I handed him the binoculars.
Rick looked and went still. "My God."
Daryl took them next.
He adjusted focus himself this time, scanning longer, slower. "The whole dock's swallowed," he said finally. "That ain't just spillover."
"No," I replied. "That's a super horde. Same, if not more, than what we had at the fuel depot. The kind that forms when something draws them and keeps them there."
Rick turned to his senses. "If anyone was holding that shipyard, they'd have cleared a perimeter. They'd have thinned it before it got like that."
I agreed.
Daryl leaned back against the railing, eyes still on the island. "So Padre's gone."
"Yeah, and we're not dealing with that just yet," I said. "There's a lot more places we can loot shipping containers from."
Wind moved, blew across the railing again, rattling the ladder cage slightly.
Rick nodded once. "Do we head back?"
"Yeah," I said. "But not empty. Since we're already here, we might as well loot."
Daryl and Rick exchanged a look, seeing the exasperation in each other's eyes, then turned toward me.
Rick's mouth twitched faintly.
"Alright, might as well," he said in exasperation.
Savannah's outskirts stretched behind us—industrial blocks, strip malls, warehouses, and distribution centers.
Untouched in places, abandoned in others.
A city that had emptied fast.
I looked once more toward Ossabaw Island, then turned away from it.
"We don't stay long," I said. "We take a couple days to hit the outer rings only. No downtown push."
Daryl and Rick nodded.
"We'll split up," I continued. "We'll cover more ground that way."
Rick frowned slightly, but still agreed.
"But before that," I added, looking toward Daryl, "you go retrieve the box truck while I go look for another truck. This place looks mostly untouched, so we'll take everything we can. And don't park the truck right at the alley mouth. Angle it in, then cut the engine off as soon as you're in."
"Alright." Daryl nodded; no argument. He slipped out of the alley and disappeared into the narrow streets without another word.
Turning to Rick: "Alright, I'll go ahead and look for a truck. You can go loot while I'm gone."
Rick's jaw tightened. "You're going alone?"
"I'll be within a few blocks."
Rick held his gaze for a second, then nodded once. "Don't get ambitious."
I almost smiled at that. "No promises."
I moved north at the warehouse strip at a steady pace, making sure to make as little noise as possible.
Two walkers came in view; I took care of them swiftly.
A third wandered from between parked sedans.
I sidestepped it, grabbed the back of its collar, and drove my blade right up under its skull, then lowered it gently to the pavement.
I kept scanning for a viable truck to take back.
On the third block, I found it.
A medium-sized box truck parked behind a produce distribution warehouse.
Rear doors closed, cab untouched with no visible damage.
I circled it first.
Checked the undercarriage, peeked through the cab window.
No movement inside.
I opened the driver's door slowly.
Empty.
Keys weren't in the ignition either.
I glanced toward the warehouse front doors.
Chained.
Side personnel entrance—slightly ajar.
I slipped inside.
The warehouse interior was large and mostly empty, pallet racks stripped early in the outbreak.
Looking around, I found half a dozen walkers drifting near the far wall.
I handled them one by one.
Quiet.
Methodical.
In a small office near the loading bay, I found a pegboard with labeled hooks.
Fleet keys.
Most were missing, only one still hanging. I checked the tag; it matched the truck number outside.
"Jackpot" i whispered to myself.
Pocketing it, I headed outside. But before leaving, I walked the warehouse floor once more.
What little remained—industrial cleaning supplies, sealed gloves, unopened crates of plastic wraps—vanished piece by piece into my inventory.
Then I returned to the truck.
Climbing into the driver's seat, I inserted the key into the ignition and turned.
The engine turned over on the second try.
I let it idle low for a bit before I eased it out of the loading bay and kept speed minimum through the side streets.
Two turns later, I spotted the original box truck already angled into the alley. Daryl stood near the driver's seat scanning rooftops.
Rick remained seated with a small pile of scavenged goods near his feet.
I rolled the truck from the opposite end and killed the engine.
Rick came over, staring at the truck I brought for a bit.
"You found one," he said.
"Yeah," I replied. "We didn't waste time."
Rick gathered what he found in a nearby empty box and loaded it into the original truck.
"Alright, let's get this over so we can go home," I said.
For the next couple of days, all we did was loot, eat, and sleep.
Warehouses, grocery stores, gun shops, bait shops, garages, distribution centers, pharmacies—whatever we found was taken.
Canned goods, dry goods, cases of water bottles, tools, seeds, weapons, arrows, bandages, sutures, antiseptics, electronics—the works.
By the end of day two, the trucks were filled to the brim.
I lost count of how many crates and pallets of supplies were thrown inside my inventory.
But one thing is for sure: we won't be hurting for supplies for a very long time.
(To be continued...)