Aiden descended from the rooftop with the silent grace of a predator—calculated, practiced, unfaltering. His boots hit the pavement without a sound as he made his way toward Merle's slumped reanimated corpse, the arrow still embedded cleanly through the side of its skull. The once-aggressive man, now reduced to a hollow vessel of infection and death, lay twitchless beneath the dim flicker of the streetlamp.
Without hesitation, Aiden knelt.
The street was silent around him, save for the far-off moans of the wandering dead echoing faintly between the buildings. He placed a knee on Merle's back and firmly gripped the shaft of the first arrow. With a practiced yank and a faint squelch, the arrow came free—coated in sticky, darkened gore and bits of splintered cranial matter. He quickly wiped the shaft and head clean with a scrap of cloth he pulled from his duffel bag. The second arrow followed the same fate, removed and sanitized with quiet precision.
Aiden examined both projectiles, checking the integrity of the tips. Still sharp. Still usable. He slid them back into his quiver with a subtle, mechanical grace.
Then he pulled a sterile vial from the system inventory, along with a syringe and a pair of nitrile gloves. He worked swiftly, deftly rolling Merle's limp body to the side. The right arm—still intact—offered what he needed. Despite the coldness creeping into the flesh, Aiden found a usable vein near the bicep.
Pierce. Draw. Click. Seal.
The vial filled slowly with thick, infected blood—dark red, almost black in hue. He watched it with clinical detachment, like a scientist watching a specimen under glass. When the vial was half full, he pulled the needle free and sealed the container tightly.
[Item Acquired: Vial of Infected Human Blood (Type: Stage-1 Reanimation Carrier)]Properties: Can be used in advanced virology study, biochemical traps, or weapon enhancement when paired with an appropriate skill level.
With a smooth motion, he fed the vial into his endless system inventory, watching as it dematerialized in a soft flicker of blue light—safe, suspended, and perfectly preserved.
He stood slowly, adjusting his duffel strap over his shoulder and casting one last look at Merle's body. There was no hatred left—just a husk. A mistake is given a consequence. A lesson finalized.
Aiden pulled his hood up and turned away into the shadows of the street, silent, composed, and one step closer to mastering the grim world unfolding around him.
With the infected blood safely stored and the task complete, Aiden cast one final, disdainful glance down at Merle's crumpled body—blood pooling beneath him, the sneer of arrogance still etched faintly on his lifeless face. Aiden scoffed, the sound more breath than voice, and turned away without another word.
He moved swiftly, weaving through alleyways and scaling rusted fire escapes with an ease born of habit. His muscles burned faintly from exertion, but his steps remained precise, driven. Within minutes, he was back atop the familiar rooftops of downtown Atlanta, where the city's corpse stretched out in every direction beneath a veil of smoke, concrete dust, and distant sirens.
The wind was steady now—cooler at this altitude, brushing gently past his face, fluttering the edge of his black tactical jacket. He walked until he found a flat spot near a long-dead ventilation unit and dropped his gear beside him. With a sigh, he lowered himself to sit, legs bent, back against the structure, finally allowing his body to relax.
Before anything else, he pulled out a canteen and a bottle of antiseptic from his inventory. He carefully poured a small amount of the solution into his gloved palms and scrubbed thoroughly, then repeated the process with his bare hands, scrubbing between his fingers, under his nails, and around the edge of his bandaged ear. He knew the virus didn't spread through air—it needed an open wound, a bite, or blood into the bloodstream. But he wasn't about to risk underestimating it.
Precaution now meant survival later.
He washed his hands a final time with water from the canteen, then pulled out a sanitizing wipe and rubbed down his bow grip, the arrow tips, and the surface of his duffel. Anything that might've been touched with tainted fluids got cleaned. If the virus was dormant in him—as some theories from those books suggested—he'd keep it asleep. No mistakes. Not now.
Only when everything was clean and stowed did he finally pull a vacuum-packed meal from his system storage—spicy beef stew in a self-heating pouch. He activated the chemical heater, letting the faint steam rise as the scent filled the cool air around him. While it warmed, he took out a notebook and flipped to the page where he'd been tracking symptoms from earlier. He scribbled a new line beneath the entry:
"Merle – infected via projectile. Time to fever/death: 3.5 hrs. Reanimation: rapid. Hostility high. Partial awareness present at onset."
He underlined partial awareness.
That was the part that stuck with him.
As the stew finished heating, Aiden dug in with a fork, eyes on the horizon—watching the ruined city beneath the setting sun, and the ever-growing river of walkers that moved with mindless purpose down the street far below. He chewed in silence, deep in thought, the wind catching strands of his hair and the echo of that last gunshot still ringing faintly in the corners of his mind.
He would move again soon. But for now, he ate, cleaned, and recorded—just another piece in the puzzle of survival.
The following morning, the sky was painted in dull shades of slate gray, smeared with lingering clouds that promised either rain—or worse. Atlanta had grown quieter, eerily so, as if the dead themselves were holding their breath. It was a silence that carried tension in the air like static before a lightning strike.
Aiden emerged from the ruins of the rooftop, gear tightened, face covered by his balaclava, and duffel secure across his back. He descended with silent focus, boots landing softly on fire escape steps, metal creaking underfoot as he made his way down into the waking world of rot and concrete. The events of the day before still lingered in his bones, a phantom echo of blood and vengeance—but his mind had already moved on.
Now, it was time to plan for the long haul.
He unfurled a folded paper map as he made his way through the broken streets. It was stained, creased, and marked with several charcoal notations from the night before. Black X's across blocked alleys. Red dots where walker hordes had gathered. Blue lines where the group Rick had joined had moved. But this morning, Aiden's finger pointed to one place in particular—a truck stop on the outskirts of the city, just a few miles away from where he had seen the 8-wheeler the others had used to escape.
"If they can drive a rig through the city," Aiden muttered beneath his breath, "I can turn one into a goddamn fortress."
The idea had struck him last night while lying beneath the stars and concrete. A truck—the massive kind, with a sleeper cab and cargo trailer—wasn't just transport. It was a mobile base, a stronghold on wheels. With his system inventory capable of storing an entire grocery store's worth of supplies, and now dozens of weapons, tools, and gear, the truck wouldn't just be transport—it'd be camouflage, a moving front that made his operation look normal. Survivors might see a scavenger, not a one-man-army with a bottomless pocket dimension.
He stayed low as he walked, moving through alleyways, slipping between parked cars, eyes scanning for movement. Walkers shuffled in the distance, but Aiden had grown adept at dodging their dull awareness. He conserved his stamina, saving it for a potential sprint or fight. Every decision was calculated now. Every move measured.
The journey took hours, weaving through the chaos, ducking under collapsed overpasses, navigating around blocked roads, and occasionally dispatching lone walkers with silent strikes from his composite longbow. Each arrow loosed was a whisper of death—retrieved, wiped clean, and reused.
By late morning, the sun barely peeked through the overcast sky as he approached the edge of the city and spotted it: the truck stop.
It stood like a relic of the old world—large gas pumps long silent, the glass of the convenience store shattered, a row of diesel rigs parked along the side of the lot, their massive trailers swaying ever so slightly in the breeze. It looked half-abandoned, half-promising.
"Jackpot," he whispered.
He crouched behind an old SUV, scanning the area through binoculars. A few walkers wandered in the far end of the lot, maybe seven or eight in total, but the immediate area was relatively clear. More could be inside the building, or within the trucks themselves. He'd need to be careful.
Still, a small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth beneath the mask. His mind was already working—what tools he'd need to start one, whether he'd find a diesel siphon kit, and how to fortify the trailer interior to double as a mobile command center.
The truck stop wasn't just a location.
It was a stepping stone.
The beginning of Aiden's fortress on wheels—his own moving sanctuary in a world gone mad.
He drew his blade, adjusted his gloves, and stepped from cover.
Aiden moved with methodical precision as he approached the truck stop, every step measured, every glance calculated. The breeze tugged gently at the hem of his jacket, and the empty lot stretched wide beneath the dull morning sky, silent save for the occasional groan of rusted metal shifting or the faint hiss of wind slipping through broken glass.
Before anything else, he secured the perimeter.
He circled the lot first, ducking low behind abandoned cars, checking under trailers, peering into the shattered windows of nearby buildings. His bow was always at the ready, arrow nocked loosely but steady in his grip. Walkers could be anywhere—slumped beneath a dashboard, hidden behind a door, waiting in dark corners like half-forgotten nightmares.
He moved in a loop, using caution and instinct. Every now and then, he paused, listening intently. The low rasp of a walker caught his ear once—hiding inside the gas station's shattered convenience store window. Aiden crept forward and dispatched it swiftly with a dagger to the head, the body slumping without resistance. It was a young man in a gas station uniform. Aiden grimaced, wiped the blade on the walker's shirt, and continued.
One by one, he cleared the area—three more walkers inside the trucker's diner, one crawling out from beneath a tipped-over vending machine. Aiden handled them all without alerting any distant packs, taking care to remain silent. It was slow work, but in the end, the truck stop stood still and silent. Cleared.
"All right," he breathed, standing beneath the awning of the main office. "Now for the fun part."
He headed inside the truck stop office, once the administrative brain of the whole operation. Papers still littered the floor, chairs overturned, a coffee pot long dry and cracked in its base. He checked drawers, filing cabinets, even underneath tables, his eyes scanning for any hint of a key box or lockbox—anything to spare him the need to hotwire the trucks.
Then he found it.
Mounted behind the main desk, a small wall-mounted key locker, the kind you'd open with a combination or master key. Thankfully, the glass was already smashed. Inside were several labeled key sets, tags still attached—names, lot numbers, truck IDs.
He grinned.
"Sometimes… the world throws you a bone."
He took every key from the box, organizing them in his inventory, tagging them with mental notes based on the ID numbers and truck types. If even one of those rigs outside was operational and full of fuel, he could be mobile by sundown.
But he wasn't done.
Next, Aiden searched the break room, rummaging through lockers and utility cabinets. He found a few items that might come in handy:
A diesel fuel siphoning kit—jackpot.
Several replacement fuses and belts, likely spares for trucks serviced onsite.
A toolkit with heavy-duty wrenches, screwdrivers, and electrical testers.
Half a box of emergency MREs in the storage closet.
A half-full case of bottled water.
A pack of cigarettes and a lighter (not for smoking, but useful for fire starting or distraction tools).
Two walkie-talkies, their batteries long dead but salvageable.
He stored them all in the system inventory, save for the toolkit, which he slung into the duffel for immediate use.
Aiden moved back outside, clutching a small stack of keys in one hand. The rows of dormant trucks stood like sleeping giants before him, lined up and waiting.
He approached the first—a mid-sized box truck, maybe 26 feet long. He tried the labeled key. Nothing. Dead engine, no sign of life.
The second—an enclosed rig with a sleeper cab and long trailer—clicked when he turned the key. The dashboard lights flickered. Fuel gauge: just under a quarter tank. Promising.
He climbed into the cab, shut the door behind him, and locked it. The smell of old sweat and diesel was thick, but the space was secure. He turned the key again, slowly, listening.
Rrrrrr—rrrRRR—VROOOM.
The engine rumbled to life like a beast waking from slumber, and Aiden allowed himself a rare smile.
"There you are," he said softly. "My new home."
It was time to turn this truck into a mobile fortress. But first, he'd check the rest—maybe even swap parts, drain fuel from others, and make this one fully operational. If he played his cards right, by nightfall, he'd be rolling through Atlanta with everything he owned hidden in plain sight.
The dead had the streets, sure.
But Aiden had wheels now.
Aiden stood tall on the cracked pavement of the truck stop, the warm afternoon sun casting long shadows across the empty lot as the low purr of his newly claimed semi-truck idled behind him. Around him lay the quiet remains of once-bustling commerce—abandoned trailers, rusting rigs, broken pallets, and the occasional skeletal remains of walkers too slow to escape the dead tides.
But one thing was now certain.
He had found his rig.
The Truck Aiden Chose:
It was a military-green Freightliner Cascadia, heavy-duty and reliable, with subtle armor plating still intact on the sides—clearly a government-contracted transport, maybe used for moving emergency supplies during the first wave of the outbreak. The paint had dulled with time, but the truck's body was largely unmarred by rust. A faint white stencil on the side read:"GOV EMERGENCY SUPPLY UNIT – SOUTH REG. 74"
The grill guard on the front was reinforced with a steel mesh, perfect for plowing through debris or even a stray walker crowd. Large side mirrors still intact, windshield cracked but not shattered. The cab had twin bunks in the sleeper portion, and a small mounted safe behind the passenger seat, now opened with a crowbar and stuffed into Aiden's inventory.
The interior was worn but intact, dashboard glowing faintly, the hum of life echoing through the console like a promise. There were compartments for documents, flashlights, and even a half-used medkit stashed under the passenger seat. It was a beast—and more importantly, it was his.
Siphoning Fuel:
With the rig now secured, Aiden got to work.
He moved like a man with purpose, pulling out the fuel siphoning kit from his system inventory and heading toward the line of abandoned trucks. Most were dark—batteries long dead, engines silenced by age or carnage—but the tanks were the prize. With careful hands and the practiced motions of someone who'd done this too many times already, he fed the rubber hose into the first fuel port.
He bent down, sucked gently until he felt resistance, and then gravity did the rest—diesel fuel gurgled down into the 5-gallon jerry cans he lined up neatly beside him.
One truck…Then another…And another.
Some tanks were dry. Others still held gold—thick, amber diesel that he quickly funneled into portable containers, all stored away in the System Inventory once filled. It wasn't fast work—each truck took time—but with the sun slowly arcing westward, he had a solid 65 gallons stocked by late afternoon.
Only one truck he left untouched.
A jet-black Peterbilt 579, massive and spotless, with sleek chrome edges and an eerie cleanliness that stood out like a red flag. The windshield was shattered from the inside. Inside the cab, dried gore painted the dashboard. Something horrible had happened in there, and even Aiden—rational, cold—chose to trust his instinct.
"That truck's cursed," he muttered to himself, glancing at the blood-caked cab. "Ain't touching it."
Stripping Spare Parts:
With the sun dipping lower and the light just starting to golden, Aiden got to work gutting the other trucks for usable parts. Using the toolkit he'd scavenged, he removed:
Belts and alternators
Wiper motors and blades
Light bars and spare bulbs
Fuses and wiring harnesses
Seats and foam padding
Batteries (still charged or salvageable)
CB Radios, speakers, even antennas
Reflectors and emergency triangles
Working side mirrors, door handles, and latches
Each removed component was stored into the System Inventory, cataloged and filed mentally for future repairs or upgrades.
The sun was nearly gone by the time he wiped the sweat from his forehead, grease staining his gloves. He stood at the back of his new Freightliner, now fully stocked with:
Enough diesel fuel for weeks of driving.
Critical spares to fix almost anything short of engine death.
And a burning sense of progress.
He climbed into the cab, set a small MRE to heat on the dashboard, and leaned back in the seat, eyes scanning the empty lot one last time.
Soon, this truck would be more than just transport.It would be his fortress—on wheels.