I woke up staring at the ceiling with a killer headache.
My head pounded like somebody was using a sledgehammer inside my skull.
Every heartbeat felt weaponized.
I groaned quietly and dragged a hand down my face before realizing two things immediately:
One—I was still fully dressed.
Two—I was never trusting Merle when he said "it's just a drink" ever again.
The man had apparently spent his entire life training his liver like an Olympic athlete.
Beside me, Maggie slept peacefully beneath the blankets, completely unaffected by my suffering.
Early morning sunlight spilled across her face while one arm rested lazily over my chest.
I looked at her, then at the ceiling again for a long minute before a sigh escaped my lips.
I rubbed my hand on my face and tilted my head right to the nightstand.
There was a water pitcher sitting there.
For a moment, it looked like a holy artifact.
I grabbed it immediately and drank straight from it without shame.
Cold water hit my throat and I swear I felt my soul restarting.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered hoarsely.
Maggie stirred slightly beside me, her lips twitching faintly. I leaned down and kissed her forehead lightly before forcing myself out of bed.
My body protested immediately.
Looks like I won't be recovering for a couple of days.
I splashed cold water on my face in the bathroom mirror and stared at myself afterward.
Red eyes, stubble, slightly haunted expression.
Yep.
Still alive.
Barely.
The farmhouse kitchen smelled like heaven.
Coffee, eggs, bacon grease, fresh bread.
The second I stepped into the kitchen, Carol looked up from the stove and immediately started laughing.
"Oh god," she said.
"The dead rise."
Jenny nearly snorted coffee through her nose from the kitchen table.
"Honestly," she added, "I thought Merle killed you."
"He damn near did," I grunted and reached straight for the coffee pot like a man dying in the desert.
The first sip nearly made me emotional.
Carol eyed me over her shoulder. "You boys emptied almost an entire crate of liquor last night. That sounds extremely medically irresponsible."
I leaned against the counter, holding the mug with both hands. "Merle kept saying it was 'just one more.'"
Carol snorted. "That's because he was already drunk enough to see God."
"Mm." Jenny pointed at me with her coffee mug. "You know everybody else is still unconscious, right?"
"Shocking."
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously as I poured another cup. "How are you even standing right now anyway?"
I took a long drink, then answered completely deadpan, "Guess I'm just built different."
Carol burst out laughing while Jenny groaned loudly. "Oh, I hate that answer."
"Yeah," I muttered. "Me too."
The coffee hit my bloodstream fast.
Five minutes ago I felt like roadkill.
Now?
Now the gears slowly started turning again.
Work mode.
I drained the mug, grabbed another thermos refill, and headed outside before either woman could force breakfast onto me.
Cold morning air hit my face the second I stepped onto the porch.
The farm was only beginning to wake up.
A few people moved between buildings slowly.
Somebody coughed near the watchtower.
Ghost trotted lazily across the yard, chasing absolutely nothing.
And sitting near the storage sector were the final five containers still mounted on trailers.
Unfinished work.
I rolled my shoulders once and headed for the Reach Stacker.
The massive machine groaned to life beneath me a minute later.
Diesel rumbled deep through the frame, hydraulics hissed, then I got to work.
By now, the controls felt totally natural.
Joystick.
Lift.
Tilt.
Lock.
The spreader descended onto the first container.
CLACK.
Locks engaged.
I lifted forty feet of steel smoothly into the morning air and carried it toward the designated stack zone near the other containers.
The machine vibrated beneath me constantly while diesel fumes mixed with cool Georgia air.
The work settled into rhythm fast.
Lift, move, stack, repeat.
The rest of the camp slowly woke around me while I worked through the containers one after another.
People wandered outside rubbing sleep from their eyes, only to stop and stare at the Reach Stacker moving across the yard like some giant mechanical beast under my control.
Thirty minutes later, I was done and dusted.
Five containers unloaded and stacked neatly beside the others.
I parked the Reach Stacker carefully and climbed down just as the farm fully came alive around me.
The smell of breakfast drifted across the yard again.
My stomach reminded me I technically hadn't eaten yet, so I headed back inside for another coffee refill.
The kitchen looked like a casualty ward for alcohol survivors.
Rick sat slumped over his mug, staring into space like he'd seen combat again.
Daryl looked functional purely through caffeine.
Merle had sunglasses on indoors.
Indoors.
Jim looked moments away from death while T-Dog was slowly eating toast like rapid movement might kill him.
I grabbed coffee and sat down.
Nobody spoke for a few seconds.
Then, Merle stared at me for a long second, then pointed weakly at me. "Ain't natural."
I sipped calmly. "Hydration"
"Bullshit."
"That sounds like a skill issue to me."
Daryl made a choking sound that might've been laughter.
Merle gawked at me, his lips trembled in disbelief, then he slumped on the table, dejected.
Rick rubbed both hands down his face before finally focusing. "So," he muttered tiredly, "what's next?"
Just like that, the atmosphere shifted.
I leaned forward slightly over the table.
"Defense."
That got everyone's attention.
"The containers and supplies change things," I continued. "We aren't just surviving anymore. We're building something permanent."
Rick nodded slowly.
I took another drink before continuing.
"We need some excavators. Dump trucks too."
Jim blinked tiredly. "For what?"
"Trenches."
That woke them up faster than the coffee.
I pointed toward the windows.
"After we empty out the containers and layer them around the property as the first defense line, we then dig deep perimeter trenches around the property, an outer layer of defense if you will."
Rick immediately understood, his eyes sharpened. "Walkers would fall in," he said quietly, "and stay there."
I nodded in confirmation, "No ammo wasted, no manpower wasted. Herds hit the trench and lose momentum. The containers will act as secondary defense against both walkers and human enemies."
Daryl grunted approvingly.
Merle lowered his sunglasses slightly. "Actually smart."
"Write that down." I said dryly, "Only happens twice a year."
Daryl snorted into his coffee.
I leaned back slightly, already mentally mapping the property.
Excavators, earthmovers, fuel usage, kill zones, fallback routes.
The farm was changing.
Not just into a camp.
Into a fortress.
And after what we've seen and what we've been through? I knew exactly how badly we were going to need it.
(To be continued...)