The next day came in a flash. We were in the repurposed workshop, staring at the first reinforced Class 8 rig gleaming in the morning sun—its engine purring under its new armored housing. Bull bars were welded tight, and mesh was locked over the windshield. One down, five to go.
"Now we know the rhythm," I murmured.
And we did.
The first truck had taken us three days: welding steel plating across the cab, building the undercarriage and the custom bumper frame, and figuring out how to reinforce the wheel wells without compromising the turning radius. Every step had been trial, error, and recalculation. But now we knew the angles, the weight tolerances, and exactly where to brace or leave breathing room.
The second and third trucks barely took a day and a half each. By afternoon, smoke drifted from our makeshift workshop as sparks showered over the gravel. I took the more delicate welding tasks; Daryl handled the cutting and heavy lifting. Jim took care of the internal systems—electrical, fuel line checks, and engine tests. Dale wandered in occasionally with cold water or iced tea, shaking his head in disbelief.
"You boys are turning these things into damn tanks," he muttered.
I answered without looking up from the welding torch, "That's the idea."
While the "truck team" powered through steel, sweat, and diesel fumes, the farmstead's other half moved with a different rhythm. On the sixth day, with the early morning sun painting the field gold, Maggie jogged up to me. I was on top of the third truck welding a roof rack frame when she waved a rag to get my attention.
"Zephyr! Daddy says the reclaiming is officially complete!"
I killed the torch, lifted the welding mask, and grinned. "In six days? That's good work. Real good work."
Maggie smiled with pride in her eyes. "Daddy said he wanted you to come and look when you get a chance."
"I will," I promised, before returning to the welding.
Later that day, I walked into the field where Hershel was giving Morgan pointers on seed spacing. "Hershel!" I called. The older man turned, leaning slightly on his shovel. Sweat stained the collar of his shirt, but there was life in his eyes—a purpose.
"Zephyr, you're here," he said, a faint smile on his weathered face.
"Yeah. Maggie said you wanted me to come and get a look."
"Yes," Hershel said, pride shining in his eyes. "We finished clearing the land up."
"I can see that," I said, eyes scanning the freshly cleared land. "Excellent work, Hershel." I turned to him and smiled. "Now that the reclamation is done, we can move to the more pressing matter."
"Pressing?" Hershel asked.
I nodded. "Yeah, something important."
Hershel wiped his brow. "Go on."
I gestured toward the stretch of land near the barn—flat, open, and close to the creek. "I want to build a greenhouse. Something sizable. Reinforced frame, poly panels, irrigation routed from the creek."
Hershel listened carefully.
"I can get the materials," I continued. "Panels, steel piping, irrigation lines—Atlanta still has plenty of stores with what we need. But building it? Managing it? Making it produce enough food for the whole group long-term?" I shook my head. "That's your family's domain, not mine."
He stared at me for a long moment. "You're asking me to run it?"
"I'm asking you to lead it," I said. "Build it, design it, and operate it your way. You know crops, you know soil, you know seasons... and your family needs structure. Something to anchor them."
Hershel's jaw tightened at that last part. He glanced at Maggie and Beth working near the fence, and Annette kneeling beside a trench of newly planted seeds. He exhaled softly.
"A greenhouse would give us stability," Hershel finally admitted. "Crops through winter, reliable food, control over temperature and pests."
I nodded. "And it keeps everyone involved. Everyone contributing."
Hershel looked at me and nodded. "I'll oversee it. The greenhouse, crop rotation planning, soil management—everything agricultural."
I allowed a rare smile. "Good. It's yours."
With Hershel and his family leading the farm's next major project, I returned to the workshop with renewed energy. Truck four went faster than truck three; muscle memory had taken over. Trucks five and six both took two and a half days to complete. By the seventh day, the "fleet" looked like they belonged to a post-apocalyptic convoy straight out of a war zone. The trucks were idling, rumbling like a growl of hungry beasts.
The kids noticed the noise. Carl was the first to wander over, curiosity written all over his face. Duane followed next, then Eli and Sophia. Not long after, the Morales kids—Louis and Eliza—ran up as well, drawn by the noise. They reached the yard just as Daryl revved one of the newly reinforced trucks, testing the engine after reconnecting the battery.
All six kids froze. Their eyes widened and their mouths fell open. Even without understanding the engineering behind it, the visual alone was enough to blow their young minds.
"Whoa..." Carl whispered.
"That—is—so—cool!" Duane practically yelled, bouncing on his heels.
Louis and Eli's eyes darted between the trucks. "They look like tanks!"
Sophia giggled. "They look like monster trucks, but angrier."
"Does it shoot anything?" Eli asked with way too much hopeful interest.
I couldn't help the small grin that tugged at my lips. The kids' reactions had a way of grounding the bleakest of times.
I warned "Don't go under them, and no touching the weld joints. They're still hot."
Instant withdrawal. Six pairs of hands snapped back like someone had yelled "lava!" Rick, standing next to me, chuckled at the sight. The kids ran between the trucks, excitement lighting their young faces, laughing and whispering among themselves like they were witnessing superheroes gear up.
Sophia tugged on Carl's sleeve. "Imagine riding in one!"
Carl's chest puffed out a little. Rick overheard them and snorted. "Not until you reach the pedals, Sheriff Junior."
Carl groaned and the others laughed, but their awe didn't fade—it grew. In a world falling apart, seeing the adults build something powerful kindled a spark of hope none of them had realized they needed.
And I took notice, kids don't react like that to fear, only to safety. That meant the group was on the right path.
(To be continued...)