Before we started, however, I stopped Jim.
"You're staying here," I told him.
Jim blinked tiredly.
The man looked dead on his feet.
Grease stained his shirt.
His eyes were bloodshot from three straight days inside the rail yard.
He'd done his job and then some.
"Thought we were heading back out," he said.
"We are." I jerked a thumb toward the farmhouse. "You aren't."
He frowned automatically, probably out of pride more than disagreement.
I said evenly, "You got the stacker up and running. That was your part."
The others looked over quietly.
They knew it too—without Jim, the rail yard operation would have been a lot harder.
I nodded toward the porch, where Dale waited with a cup of water already in hand. "You're more useful rested than collapsing inside that yard."
Jim stared at me for another second before finally exhaling. "…Fair enough."
Dale guided him toward the house while muttering something about hot food and sitting down before he keeled over.
I turned back toward the convoy. "Let's unload immediately."
Everyone moved.
Rick and Daryl headed for the trailer locks, while Merle stretched both shoulders and hissed dramatically.
"Christ," he muttered. "Feels like my damn back got run over."
"You done complainin'?" Daryl asked without looking up.
"No"
"Good means yer alive."
The heavy metallic CLANK of the twist-locks echoed through the yard as Rick disengaged the container restraints.
Air brakes hissed sharply from one of the armored trucks while Daryl cranked down the stabilizers.
I settled the loading ramps, then climbed onto the trailer where the reach stacker had been strapped.
The straps still held tight.
Good.
I crouched and started undoing the binders one by one.
CLACK.
CLANK.
Each ratchet fell away with a heavy rattle against the trailer bed.
Standing up, I climbed into the cab.
It still smelled the same as before—like sweat, dust, grease, and stale diesel fuel baked into old fabric.
By now, my hands understood the rhythm of this machine.
The engine roared alive beneath me—deep, heavy, powerful enough that several of the kids watching from the porch jumped slightly.
Slowly and carefully, I eased the Reach Stacker backward down the loading ramps.
The trailer groaned under the shifting weight.
Hydraulics hissed.
Metal creaked.
One wrong angle and seventy thousand pounds of machinery would flip sideways into the dirt.
"Easy…" I muttered to myself.
The giant tires finally touched the ground with a deep THOOM that vibrated through the farmyard.
Several people stepped back instinctively.
Can't blame them; the machine did look intimidating after all.
I rolled it across the farmyard toward the designated safe zone we'd cleared near the equipment sheds.
Then, the real unloading began.
The spreader descended slowly over the first medical container.
Hydraulics hissed softly.
CLACK.
The locking pins engaged.
I lifted forty feet of steel into the air.
Even inside the cab, I could feel the engine strain slightly as the container swayed slowly.
I maneuvered it across the yard while everyone watched in silence.
Then, I lowered it into position beside the others.
THOOM.
Dust rolled outward across the dirt.
One container down, two more followed after that.
A few minutes later, the three massive medical containers sat stacked neatly in the farm's new storage sector like vaults full of civilization itself.
Medicine, surgical kits, antibiotics—supplies that will change the future of every person on this farm, and more.
I parked the Reach Stacker back into the trailer and strapped it back, then climbed back down.
Morgan was already approaching from the RV, while Morales stood nearby with his family, watching the convoy with focused eyes.
Good.
Saves me the trouble of calling them separately.
"Morgan! Morales!" I called.
Morgan came over immediately, lifting an eyebrow as if asking what's up.
Morales, on the other hand, was startled by the call, then jogged over as well.
"You two will be driving the remaining two trucks and come with us. We're scaling up the operation."
Morales straightened a little at that—a bit nervous, but ready.
Good sign.
Morgan's eyes flicked toward the convoy. "We're heading back already?"
"Not immediately," I said. "We'll refuel, eat, then go." I paused a bit, then continued, "You go get your trucks ready."
And with that, they moved to their respective tasks.
Fuel came next—the lifeline of this operation.
Jim's siphoning kits and manual pumps got dragged out immediately.
Hoses fed into truck tanks while diesel sloshed from reserve drums into the convoy.
Chunk-chunk-chunk.
The steady rhythm of hand pumps filled the yard.
Morgan and Morales had gotten the two trucks up and ready, parking them near the rest.
Rick checked trailer locks and tires.
Daryl topped off reserve cans.
Merle leaned against one of the trucks, eating jerky, munching out loud.
"You helping anytime soon?" I asked.
"I'm supervisin'."
"You're eating," I said flatly.
"Takes talent."
I snorted softly and returned to work.
Soon as we were done, I grabbed the lunch Carol packed—bread, cured meat, and cheese.
Simple but filling.
Nobody talked much while eating.
Too tired. Too focused.
We sat on trailer beds and truck bumpers while diesel engines idled around us, the late afternoon sun baking the dust into the air.
Then, I stood.
Lunch time over.
Mission back on.
"Mount up."
Immediately, the atmosphere shifted.
Truck doors slammed shut.
Engines roared to life one after another.
Six armored trucks rolled out of the farmstead in formation, dust kicking back behind them like a military convoy heading back into hostile territory.
(To be continued...)