The engine settled into a heavy, steady idle.
It was alive, not quiet—not by a long shot—but controlled and contained, which was good enough.
I let it run for a few seconds longer.
My eyes kept moving across the yard, tracking the lines between containers, the blind corners, and the dead space where something could be waiting.
Nothing moved.
Not yet, at least.
I turned to the group. "Admin building," I said.
"We need to find the shipping manifests."
Merle groaned. "Paperwork? In the apocalypse?"
You want to open every container blind?"
He shut up when I turned to Jim. "You stay with the trucks."
Jim blinked. "What?"
"You get into one of the armored trucks," I said, nodding back toward the gate. "You park it inside, engine off. Stay low and keep the radio on."
He shifted his weight, glancing once at the yard then back at me. "You sure?" he asked.
"Yes," I answered firmly. No hesitation.
"You're far more valuable to us alive and in one piece than dead," I added. "We can't afford to lose you, especially this early on."
That settled it.
Jim nodded once. "Alright."
Rick gave him a quick clap on the shoulder as he passed. "We'll keep it quick, yeah."
"You better," Jim muttered, already moving toward where the trucks had been parked.
I watched him go for a second, then turned back to the others. "Alright, let's find these manifests."
And with that, we moved.
The Norfolk Southern administrative building sat off to the side of the yard—a multi-story, rectangular block of a structure, primarily constructed of light-colored brick and concrete block.
It featured a flat roofline common for industrial office spaces of the mid-twentieth century.
Some of the windows were either broken or cracked, covered with a light coating of grime.
The front doors hung crooked.
I stepped closer to the entrance and gave the door a couple of solid knocks.
Don! Don! Don! Then waited.
Nothing moved.
I then stepped inside, and one by one, Rick, Daryl, and Merle followed.
Inside, the air changed.
Stale.
Heavy.
It smelled like paper that hadn't been touched in months, dust, old coffee, and something faint and sour underneath.
My boots crunched softly on scattered debris.
Papers covered the floor—forms, printouts, shipping logs—all of it trampled, kicked aside, and abandoned mid-use.
A chair lay overturned near a desk, indicating that someone had left in a hurry, causing it to flip.
We spread out without needing to say it.
Rick took the left side—offices with metal and glass partitions; most of the glass part was broken.
Daryl drifted right, moving slow, his eyes scanning corners more than desks.
Merle lingered near the center, muttering under his breath as he kicked through piles of paper.
I moved deeper, heading upstairs toward what used to be the operations room.
Computers sat dark, monitors coated in a fine layer of dust.
A coffee mug rested beside one keyboard, the liquid inside long dried into a dark ring.
I ignored all of it and went straight for the filing cabinets.
Locked, of course.
I pulled the knife, wedged it in, and twisted.
Metal popped; the drawer slid open.
Inside—folders, labeled and organized.
I flipped through them fast.
Dates, routes, yard allocations...
Close, but not it. I moved to the next.
Forty minutes.
That's how long it took.
Forty minutes of moving paper, opening drawers, and stepping over the remains of a world that had collapsed mid-work.
Then—
"Hey." Rick's voice was sharp, focused.
I turned immediately, moving toward him.
He stood near the back office, one hand holding a stack of papers, the other bracing against a desk.
"Found something," he said.
I took the pages.
Shipping manifests, container IDs, sector assignments, contents... all of it.
For a second, I just looked at them.
Then, I exhaled slowly.
"Good," I said.
Merle leaned in. "That our jackpot?"
"Keys to it?" I replied."
Daryl glanced over the pages, then back toward the door. "Then let's not sit on 'em."
"Agreed."
We moved fast after that, back out into the yard and back into the heat.
The difference was immediate.
Before, it had all been just guesswork.
Now—every step had purpose.
Back at the trucks, Jim got out as soon as he noticed us. "About time you came," he said.
"Sorry," I said. "Took us a bit more than expected to find the manifests."
Holding the manifests in my hand, I spread them across the hood of one of the armored trucks, holding them down against the light breeze.
"Alright," I said, pointing. "Food sector—here. Tools—down in there. Medical—north side, near the maintenance stacks."
Rick leaned in, tracking the layout.
Daryl nodded once, already memorizing routes.
Merle just cracked his knuckles. "Finally."
I grabbed a marker from the truck. "Once we confirm, we mark," I said. "Make it visible. Fast recognition."
I drew a rough cross on the margin of one page. "Medical stuff—cross".
A wrench shape followed "tools and equipment."
Jim nodded.
"Then a simple box for food."
Rick gave a small nod. "Clear."
"Then let's begin."
We moved in—fast, precise.
First container: Tools. Rick pried the lock.
Metal snapped with a sharp crack that echoed too far.
We froze, listened for anything that moved.
Nothing.
He opened the doors slowly. Inside—pallets, wrapped and untouched.
He cut one open.
Hand tools, power tools, boxes stacked clean and dry.
"Confirmed," he said.
He stepped back and drew a wrench symbol on the container's exterior in a bold stroke.
Next container, same actions repeated.
Next one, then the next, and the next.
About four dozen containers, all of the same category: tools.
All opened, verified, and labeled.
Next: Food.
Same process.
Doors open—the smell hit first.
Rot.
I stepped in anyway.
Pallets of perishables—meat, dairy, vegetables—gone bad.
Swollen packaging, leaking fluids.
Safe to say this shipment was no good.
I didn't linger.
I marked it with "Box" and a sad face, then moved past it, cutting deeper into the stacks.
About a dozen more had spoiled goods before we started hitting the non-perishables.
Canned goods, dry rations, bottled water, sealed goods. About eight dozen containers.
"We're taking these," I said.
We marked it with a box symbol and a happy face.
Next: Medical.
The cross went up before we even opened it.
Inside—sterile packaging, kits, bandages, antibiotics, all kinds of medicine.
Untouched.
Rick let out a quiet breath.
"Yeah," he muttered. "That's worth it."
"Hershel and Dr. Gale are gonna have a field day," I said.
Daryl just snorted.
We didn't waste time.
We marked container after container.
It came close to ninety containers of medical stuff.
Our faces brightened with each medical container opened.
Medicine was worth more than its weight in gold in these times, and this amount was going to last us for a long while.
By the time we finished, the yard didn't look like a graveyard anymore; it looked more like a supply line.
I looked back at the group. "Let's hook the trailers."
(To be continued...)