The open road stretched ahead like a scar across the land.
For forty miles, nothing moved but the wind. No walkers. No people. Just empty silence and the occasional crow circling above.
Rick drove with both hands on the wheel, eyes alert. Joe stared out the window, one boot resting on the dashboard, rifle across his lap.
They didn't speak much. There wasn't much to say.
Then, with a sudden lurch, the cruiser jerked to the right. The rear end dropped with a loud thump-thump-thump.
Rick swore under his breath and guided the car off the road.
Two of the tires had blown out. Worse, the gas gauge was kissing empty.
Joe pushed the door open and grabbed the duffel bags from the trunk. "Well, that's our luck," he muttered.
Rick sighed. "Guess we walk."
They slung their weapons over their shoulders and hoisted the heavy bags. The sun beat down as they walked. Slow and steady, silent. The road stretched on forever.
...
After about two miles, they spotted it. A small, single-story farmhouse, nestled in a field of tall grass. Weather-worn siding. A porch swing swaying in the wind.
Rick approached the front door and knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again, harder.
Still nothing. Rick looked over to Joe, questioningly.
Joe stepped forward and kicked the door in, the wood splintering. Then groaned, from the wound on his leg before steadying himself.
They stepped inside, weapons raised.
The air was stale. A heavy stench.
Then they saw them.
An elderly couple sat slumped on the couch. Hands clasped. A shotgun lay across their laps. Blood dried in wide stains on the cushions. The woman's head leaned on the man's shoulder, their final act frozen in time.
Joe lowered his rifle slowly. "They made their choice."
Rick nodded grimly, looking at the bite wounds on them. "Didn't want to become one of them."
They stood in silence for a moment, then covered the bodies with a faded quilt from the recliner.
Joe picked up the shotgun. "Shells?"
Rick opened a drawer nearby. "Three left."
They looted the kitchen next, half a dozen cans of food, some bottled water, and a few loose rounds in a jar labeled "misc."
Rick sat at the table, opening a can of corn with a can opener while Joe worked on a can of peaches with his knife.
They ate in silence, staring at the dust dancing in the light.
When they finished, they stepped outside to search for a vehicle.
In the distance, a horse grazed in the field beyond a split-rail fence.
Rick eyed it. "We'd move faster."
Joe shook his head. "Can't carry both of us. Not with the gear."
They kept looking.
Around the back of the property, inside a weather-beaten red barn, they found it: a rusted old pickup truck, buried under a tarp and cobwebs.
Joe opened the door and checked the visor.
The keys dropped into his hand.
Rick climbed into the passenger seat. Joe turned the ignition. It sputtered. Coughed.
Then roared to life.
Rick smirked. "Lucky day."
Joe grinned faintly. "Let's not push our luck."
They threw the bags in the back, checked the mirrors, and drove out of the barn with the sun at their backs.
The road was still long. But for now they had wheels.
...
The city skyline ahead, was gray, distant, and lifeless.
The pickup rolled down the cracked highway in silence, the tires humming on hot pavement. The other side of the highway packed with cars exiting the city, completely abandoned. It looked like their had been a max exodus.
The closer they got to Atlanta, the heavier the air felt. The building started to look worse each passing minute, signs of fire and explosions.
Joe commented, "Looks like the city was bombed." Rick nodding solemnly, a worried look on his face. Joe patted his shoulder.
As if to mock the bleak situation they found themselves in, the truck shuttered.
The engine sputtered once, coughed twice, and died.
Rick turned the key.
It wouldn't crank.
Joe sighed, "Engine locked up tighter than a nuns..." Rick gave him a look. Joe sighed.
Joe leaned back in his seat. "We're dry."
They climbed out, stretching their legs. The city's edge was just a few blocks ahead, towers looming, a concrete jungle.
Rick opened the rear door, lifted the bench seat. "We stash the weapons here. Don't want to look like a raiding party if anyone's watching."
Joe nodded, slipping his sidearm and a few mags into his vest. He kept his M4 slung on his shoulder and his Ka-Bar knife strapped tight to his thigh.
They slid the rest of the guns and ammo beneath the bench seat and shut the door.
"Let's move," Joe said.
---
The streets of Atlanta were eerily quiet.
No birds. No cars. Just the occasional rustle of newspaper on the wind.
The deeper they moved into the city, the more surreal it felt, like walking through a concrete graveyard.
Then they saw them.
Two walkers wandered between abandoned cars, groaning softly, dragging their feet.
Rick raised his weapon.
Joe raised a hand to stop him.
"I got it."
He moved quickly, limping slightly from the long walk but with deadly precision. The military Ka-Bar flashed once. Then again.
Both walkers dropped in silence.
Rick looked impressed. "Still got it."
Joe didn't respond.
They pressed on, navigating alleys and narrow streets, ducking under signs and stepping over bodies long rotted into the concrete.
Eventually, they passed a military tank sitting in the middle of an intersection. Hatches open. No movement. No driver.
They gave it a glance, but didn't stop.
Then they heard it.
Rotors.
Faint at first, then louder.
A helicopter.
Rick's head snapped up. "You hear that?!"
He broke into a run, eyes scanning the skyline.
Joe followed, limping behind, trying to keep pace. "Rick, wait—!"
Too late.
They turned a corner and froze.
What stood ahead was not hope.
It was a horde.
Hundreds. Maybe more. Walkers, packed tight, shoulder to shoulder, spilling into the street like a living tide.
The buzzing of the helicopter faded behind them but this… this was real.
Rick stood frozen in shock. "Jesus…"
Joe's face went cold. "Run."
They turned and sprinted back the way they came.
The walkers screamed, their moans rising like a tidal wave. A sea of rot chased them down, shambling fast and hard.
They reached the tank just in time. Rick scrambled up the hull, reaching down.
"Come on!"
Joe grabbed the edge. Rick pulled.
They climbed to the top, turning and opening fire as the horde reached them.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Walkers dropped. Some fell over their own. But there were too many.
On a distant roof, a man noticed the commotion.
Their rifles grew hot. Magazines ran dry.
"They're surrounding us!" Rick yelled.
"We hold here or we're done!" Joe barked.
Their backs to a wall. No escape.
They climbed inside.
The interior was dark, cramped, and stank of old blood and oil.
As Joe swung down, a groaning sound echoed in the steel.
A military walker lunged up from the floor and grabbed Joe's leg.
Joe didn't flinch, he slammed his boot down, crushing the walker's skull with a wet crack.
Rick dropped inside. "You good?"
"Always."
Joe checked the control panel. "It's dead. No power."
Rick cursed and rummaged through the walker's vest. "Hold on, got something."
He pulled out a Beretta M9—fully loaded.
And a grenade.
Joe raised a brow. "That'll make a hell of an exit."
Rick was about to respond. The tank's radio crackled to life.
"Hey, dumbasses."
Both men froze.
Rick lunged for the receiver. "Hello?! Who is this?"
The voice came through again, hurried but calm, a bit younger than they expected.
"You two in the tank? You look a little stuck."
Joe leaned over. "Who the hell are you?"
"Name's Glenn. You've got about sixty seconds before those things start stacking on each other. I'm in a building two blocks over, alley just north of your position. Fence blocking the alley. Can't miss it."
Rick glanced at Joe. "We're surrounded."
Glenn's voice cut back in, quick and sharp.
"Not yet you're not. But if you wait, you will be. Look, if you want to live, follow my directions. Stay low, move fast, and whatever you do, don't stop. I'll guide you in."
Joe was already checking his gear. "M4, 5 rounds left, M9 full"
Rick tapped his newly found Beretta. "We've got a few rounds. It'll have to be enough."
Glenn added, "And hey… try not to shoot me when you get here."
Rick smirked. "No promises."
Joe climbed to the hatch. "Ready?"
Rick gave one last look around the tank. "Let's go."