The hunt was already over.
The second team had returned earlier, reported in, rotated out, and folded back into the rhythm of the homestead. There was no celebration—just acknowledgment, quiet approval, and the unspoken understanding that tomorrow would likely demand the same again.
So everyone went back to work.
Fear had a harder time taking root when there was timber to cut, ground to mark, and food to preserve.
________________________________________
Carl claimed the dead refrigerator without discussion.
It sat near the barn, useless now—another artifact of a world that had depended on things that no longer worked. With Luke and Ethan helping, he tipped it onto its back, ripped out the shelves, and punched a vent through the side with three efficient swings of his axe.
By mid-afternoon, thin blue smoke curled upward.
Strips of venison—clean, perfect cuts left behind by the strange new rules of the world—hung inside on makeshift hooks. The smell of curing meat spread across the yard, grounding in a way nothing else had been since the change.
"Refrigerators make fine smokers," Carl said, adjusting airflow with a practiced hand. "Just needed the excuse."
Sarah paused as she passed, inhaled once, and nodded. "That'll keep."
Carl grunted. "That's the idea."
________________________________________
Caleb worked a short distance away, building something less elegant but no less necessary.
Using scavenged sheet metal, old fence posts, and firebrick pulled from a collapsed chimney, he finished a larger, boxy smoker by late afternoon. It leaked a little smoke from the seams and didn't hold heat as evenly as Carl's converted refrigerator—but it had space.
A lot of space.
The remaining venison—nearly the rest of the sixty pounds—went into it in thick slabs, hung from heavy hooks.
"Not as efficient," Caleb admitted, wiping his hands on his jeans. "But it'll do the job."
Carl glanced over and nodded once. "Quantity matters too."
________________________________________
Out beyond the barn, the land itself was being rewritten.
Harold Miller stood over the staked line they'd marked earlier, cane resting against a post he wasn't using, eyes tracking distance and alignment with the ease of a man who had planned things that mattered.
"Roman-style palisade," he said again, tapping the dirt with his boot. "Straight runs. Overlapping arcs. Deep set. Wide interior."
Mark stood beside him, studying the line. "We'll need a trench deep enough to seat the logs properly."
Harold smiled faintly. "Which is why we don't dig it by hand."
All eyes turned to Aaron.
The boulder waited where the earth had half-swallowed it years ago—rounded, massive, immovable by old standards.
Aaron stepped up, placed both hands against stone, and closed his eyes.
He didn't force it.
He listened.
The ground answered—density, resistance, buried root and stone revealed in quiet awareness. When the boulder moved, it did so reluctantly at first, then with steady inevitability.
It rolled forward.
Not dragged.
Not lifted.
Its weight pressed down and forward, soil folding away beneath it as the stone carved a clean, deep channel behind itself.
A trench formed.
Straight.
Uniform.
Luke let out a low whistle. "That's a backhoe."
Aaron breathed slowly, sweat darkening his shirt. "It's not lifting. It's persuading."
Harold watched with open approval. "That's how land should be handled. Firm. Respectful."
The boulder continued its slow progress, trench lengthening exactly along the staked line. Soil piled neatly to either side, already settling in a way that would make setting timber easier later.
Emily stood nearby, fire-sense brushing the edges of the cut. "The walls won't slump," she said. "The ground's stable."
Aaron nodded without opening his eyes. "It wants to hold."
Mark crossed his arms, looking at the smoke rising from the barn and the trench growing across the field.
Yesterday, they'd defended.
Today, they were establishing.
The homestead hummed with purpose—meat curing, earth moving, plans turning into structure.
The goblins had tested them.
Now the land itself was being claimed in return.
________________________________________
Inside the house, the work was just as deliberate.
Sarah had cleared the kitchen table of everything that wasn't useful. Dishes were stacked. Books pushed aside. What remained was leather—cleaned, stretched, and already half-responsive to her hands—and folded lengths of heavy cloth Ruth had brought with her from the Washington farm.
Ruth ran her fingers along a bolt of fabric, eyes intent. "This weave holds tension well," she said. "It'll take reinforcement without tearing."
Sarah nodded, feeling the leather under her palms warm slightly as she focused. It wasn't dramatic—no glow, no heat—but the hide softened, fibers aligning as if listening.
"Hardened leather on the outside," Sarah said. "Flexible, not brittle. Enough give to move."
"And layered cloth beneath," Ruth added. "Quilted. It'll spread impact and keep the leather from cracking under stress."
They worked side by side, not speaking much after that.
Sarah's affinity guided the leather—thickening it where it needed strength, thinning it where joints required freedom. The hide responded to intent, curing and shaping in hours instead of days, edges sealing cleanly without stitching where she didn't want seams.
Ruth's cloth followed suit.
Threads tightened and aligned beneath her touch, the weave growing denser without becoming stiff. She layered panels with practiced hands, reinforcing high-stress areas and leaving others loose enough to breathe.
"Frontline needs weight," Sarah said quietly. "But not too much."
Ruth nodded. "And ranged fighters need coverage without restriction."
They sketched rough outlines in charcoal directly onto the table—shoulder guards shaped to deflect blows, torso pieces overlapping like scales, lighter vests designed to be worn under outer layers without advertising protection.
"Nothing flashy," Ruth murmured. "Nothing that screams special."
Sarah smiled faintly. "Just better than what hits us."
They tested a finished panel together—Sarah bracing it against the table edge, Ruth striking it with the flat of a knife. The blade bounced, impact spreading instead of biting in.
Ruth let out a breath. "That would've broken skin yesterday."
Sarah ran her thumb along the edge. "It won't tomorrow."
Outside, hammers rang and stone rolled.
Inside, armor took shape—not as relics or symbols, but as tools meant to be worn, repaired, and worn again.
The homestead was changing from a place people survived in…
Into a place they could hold.
________________________________________
As the light began to fade, the work slowed—not because it was finished, but because people were.
Tools were set down. Fires were banked. The trench waited patiently for morning.
Everyone drifted inside.
The evening meal was simple.
Bread—dense, still warm, cut thick.
And a heavy venison stew, dark and rich, steam rising in slow curls as bowls were filled and passed down the table.
Emily stood near the stove, ladle in hand, watching people eat.
For a moment earlier, she'd bristled.
"So I get shoved into the kitchen now?" she'd said, arms crossed. "What is this, the dark ages?"
Sarah hadn't even looked up from what she was doing.
She'd just said, calmly and firmly, "Enough."
Emily had blinked at the tone.
"History isn't what you think it is," Sarah continued, finally turning to face her. "People did what suited them. What they were good at. Men worked fields mostly because brute strength mattered. Women ran households because logistics mattered. Both were work. Both kept people alive."
She'd stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"And right now," Sarah added, "you control fire better than anyone else here."
Emily had hesitated.
Then she'd felt it.
The fire.
Not wild. Not demanding. Cooperative.
Cooking wasn't forcing flame—it was guiding it. Holding steady heat. Adjusting subtly. Drawing flavor out instead of burning it away.
The stew had come together faster than it should have. Cleaner. Better.
Now, as people ate, the complaints never came.
Carl leaned back slightly after his second bowl. "That's good."
Luke nodded around a mouthful of bread. "Really good."
Harold smiled faintly. "Fire treated with respect gives more than warmth."
Emily flushed despite herself.
Sarah caught her eye and gave a small, knowing nod.
No victory.
Just acknowledgment.
Around the table, conversation stayed low and practical—plans for morning shifts, notes on where timber would come from, quiet jokes about goats eating things they shouldn't.
Outside, the forest pressed close.
Inside, the homestead felt solid.
Firelight flickered against walls that would soon be backed by timber and earth. Bellies were full. Work was shared.
Emily sat down at last with her own bowl, the warmth of the stove at her back, fire steady under her quiet control.
This wasn't the dark ages.
This was survival.
And everyone was pulling their weight—exactly where they were strongest.
________________________________________
Morning came cool and gray, mist hanging low over the fields.
Carl was gone before breakfast finished.
He took a light team—experienced, quiet, no unnecessary weight—and pushed into the last remaining hunting vector that hadn't yet been fully tested. No speeches. No tension. Just a job to finish.
The homestead settled into its rhythm while they were gone.
Harold walked the trench line again, already planning timber placement. Evelyn checked early plantings, fingers brushing soil with practiced care. Sarah and Ruth laid finished armor pieces out to cool and set, adjusting straps and closures as they went. Emily banked the morning fire, keeping it steady while bread finished baking.
Two hours later, Carl's team came back.
No blood.
No dust.
No urgency.
Carl stopped in front of Mark and shook his head once. "Clear."
Mark frowned. "Nothing?"
"Nothing recent," Carl said. "Tracks are old. Scattered. Could be they pulled out after yesterday. Could be they were never settled there to begin with."
Luke, nearby, asked, "So they ran?"
"Or shifted territory," Carl replied. "Either way, that vector's empty now."
Jethro considered it. "Pressure works. Or at least… it redirects."
Carl nodded. "Either way, they're not pushing us from that side."
Mark exhaled slowly. One less immediate problem.
"Good," he said. "Then we don't waste people chasing ghosts."
Carl met his eyes. "What's next?"
Mark looked toward the road that ran past the fields and disappeared toward Plattsmouth.
"People," he said.
Carl followed his gaze. "You sure?"
"No," Mark replied honestly. "But we can't build walls around an empty idea. If there are good people in town—hurt, hiding, waiting—we bring them in."
"And if there aren't?"
"Then we confirm it," Mark said. "Either way, not knowing is worse."
Carl nodded once. "You want backup?"
Mark shook his head. "Not yet. I'm not looking for a fight."
Carl snorted softly. "Doesn't mean you won't find one."
Mark allowed himself a thin smile. "I'll take the Ford."
He glanced back at the homestead—at smoke rising clean and steady, at people moving with purpose, at lines in the dirt already becoming something permanent.
"We've claimed ground out here," he said. "Now I want to see what's left in town."
Carl clapped him once on the shoulder. "Don't take chances."
Mark picked up his jacket. "I won't take stupid ones."
The road to Plattsmouth waited.
And whatever had happened there—
It was time to stop guessing.
________________________________________
Mark didn't leave unprepared.
He backed the Ford slowly toward Caleb's light cattle trailer, lining it up by feel more than sight. The hitch clanked into place, chains crossed and secured with the same care he'd once used checking tie-downs before convoys.
Caleb watched from the fence line. "It'll ride rough," he said. "But it'll carry weight. People too, if they don't mind standing."
"That's fine," Mark replied. "It's not meant to be comfortable."
He straightened and looked at the empty trailer for a moment.
*People… or food,* he thought. *Hopefully both.*
Dry goods were what he wanted most. Flour. Grains. Anything that could be stored, rationed, stretched. Bread fed more mouths than meat ever could, and baking didn't care how the world had changed.
He turned as footsteps approached.
Emily stopped a few feet away, jacket already on, hair tied back. "I'm coming."
Mark studied her for a second. Not as a father—but as a leader.
"Why?" he asked.
She didn't bristle this time. "Fire sense. Heat tracking. If there are people hiding, I can find them. If there's trouble, I can see it coming."
That was true.
"And," she added more quietly, "I should see what's out there too."
Mark nodded once. "Alright."
Ethan jogged up next, adjusting his gloves. "You'll want someone fast."
Mark allowed a small smile. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Ethan grinned back. "Town's got corners. Alleys. If things go bad, speed matters."
"Stay close," Mark said. "No heroics."
Ethan sobered immediately. "Yes, sir."
They loaded light—packs, rope, a few tools, empty sacks ready for grain or flour if they found any worth carrying. The trailer remained bare, waiting.
Sarah came out onto the porch as Mark climbed into the cab.
"You be careful," she said—not pleading, just firm.
"I will," Mark replied. "We're not pushing. We look, we listen, we come back."
Emily climbed into the passenger seat, fire-sense already stretching outward, brushing against the quiet fields. Ethan hopped into the back of the truck bed, settling in with practiced ease.
The engine turned over, low and steady.
As Mark eased the Ford onto the road, the homestead fell away behind them—smoke rising, trench lines waiting, people working.
They weren't abandoning it.
They were extending it.
Plattsmouth lay ahead, quiet and unreadable.
If there were good people there, they'd bring them home.
If there was food, they'd carry it back.
And if there were answers—
Mark Jensen intended to find them.
________________________________________
The road to Plattsmouth felt longer than it should have.
Not in distance—but in silence.
They passed farm after farm where nothing moved the way it used to. Gates hung open. Tractors sat idle in fields already starting to reclaim themselves. No smoke from chimneys. No lines of laundry. No people.
Animals, though—animals were everywhere.
Cattle grazed in untended pastures, fences broken or simply stepped over. Horses stood loose near empty barns, ears flicking as the Ford passed. Chickens wandered roadsides in small clusters, unafraid, unbothered.
"They haven't been driven off," Ethan said from the truck bed. "That's… wrong."
Mark nodded. "Predators usually move in fast."
Emily's gaze tracked constantly, fire-sense brushing heat signatures as they passed. "They're calm," she said. "Not hiding. Not hunted."
"That means humans left suddenly," Mark said. "Or stopped being a factor."
Neither option sat well.
The farther they went, the worse it felt.
________________________________________
When Plattsmouth finally came into view, it stopped them cold.
Mark slowed the truck instinctively.
The town looked… old.
Not abandoned-old. Not vandalized. Not burned or looted.
*Weathered*.
Buildings slumped where they should have stood straight. Brick facades were cracked and spalled, mortar crumbling as if decades of freeze and thaw had been compressed into days. Wooden porches sagged, railings warped and split. Paint peeled in long, curling sheets, exposing gray wood beneath.
Street signs leaned at odd angles, rusted so deeply they looked unearthed rather than recently installed.
"What the hell…" Ethan murmured.
Emily pressed her hand to the dash, eyes wide. "This isn't damage. This is time."
Mark pulled the truck to a stop at the edge of town.
Years.
That was the only word that fit.
Years of neglect, erosion, and entropy layered onto structures that should have been standing just fine last week.
"It's like the town aged," Emily said quietly.
Mark nodded. "Fast."
He stepped out of the cab and looked down the main street.
Windows were intact—but clouded. Doors still shut—but swollen in their frames. Sidewalks cracked with weeds already pushing through, too far along for a few days' growth.
Whatever had changed the world—
It hadn't just brought monsters.
It had *accelerated decay*.
"Keep sharp," Mark said. "This isn't just empty. It's… wrong."
Emily's fire-sense stretched ahead, cautious now. "I don't feel goblins," she said. "But I feel… absence. Like something swept through and didn't stay."
Ethan jumped down from the truck bed, eyes scanning rooftops and alleys. "Then we move slow."
Mark nodded.
They'd come looking for people.
Instead, they'd found a town that looked like it had been quietly abandoned by *time itself*.
And whatever had done that—
Might not be finished.
________________________________________
The Ford rolled through Plattsmouth at a crawl.
Tires crunched softly over grit and broken glass. Wind pushed loose paper along the street, pages from old flyers and newspapers bleached nearly white, their ink faded as if they'd sat in sun for years instead of days.
Mark kept both hands on the wheel.
Every instinct he had told him the same thing—this wasn't looted chaos. It was abandonment layered with accelerated decay. The kind of place where danger didn't announce itself.
They passed storefronts with locked doors swollen shut in their frames. A barber shop with chairs still inside, upholstery cracked and brittle. A diner with menus still taped to the windows, edges curled and yellowed.
No bodies.
No dust.
Just… absence.
Emily's fire-sense stayed quiet. Too quiet.
"Nothing," she murmured. "No movement. No heat. It's like the town exhaled and never breathed back in."
Ethan shifted in the truck bed, scanning rooftops. "I don't like towns that empty."
Mark nodded. "Means something told people to leave. Or scared them enough to try."
They rounded a slow bend and the supermarket came into view.
Big. Boxy. Concrete and brick.
And immediately—*different*.
The parking lot was cracked and overgrown, weeds pushing up through asphalt far too advanced for the time that had passed. Shopping carts sat where they'd been abandoned, metal rusted through in places, wheels seized.
But the building itself—
It hadn't decayed at all.
The brickwork was intact. The concrete was clean of deep fractures. The loading bay doors were closed and straight, not warped. Even the signage, though unlit, hadn't peeled or collapsed the way everything else in town had.
It stood there like it had been *held in place* while the rest of Plattsmouth aged around it.
Mark slowed even more.
Then Emily stiffened.
"There," she said sharply.
Mark stopped the truck.
"Where?" he asked.
She closed her eyes, focusing hard. "Back of the store. Deep. One large heat cluster."
Her eyes snapped open. "People."
Ethan leaned forward. "How many?"
Emily concentrated again, breathing slow. "About a dozen. Maybe more. Mixed sizes."
Her voice softened slightly.
"Big and small," she said. "Kids. There are children back there."
Mark shut off the engine.
The sudden silence pressed in around them.
"Alive?" Ethan asked quietly.
"Yes," Emily said without hesitation. "Cold. Scared. But alive."
Mark nodded once, decision already made.
"That's why it's held together," he said. "They've been maintaining part of it."
He looked at the darkened storefront, then at the rear loading area barely visible down the side alley.
"Alright," Mark said. "We don't roll up loud. We don't spook them."
Ethan slid silently out of the truck bed. "I'll take overwatch."
Mark nodded. "Rooflines only. No disappearing."
Emily opened her door. "I'll keep sensing. If anything changes, I'll know."
Mark grabbed his pack and one empty sack—visible, deliberate.
"We approach like people," he said. "Because that's what they are."
The supermarket loomed ahead—decay stalled, shelter intact.
And for the first time since they'd reached town—
They weren't alone.