I snapped out of my thoughts when Jim let out a groan.
The aftermath of last night's celebration was visible to everyone to see.
It was worth it, I won't lie, but still painful.
I took another sip of my coffee, then asked, "Anybody know where we can find the earthmover vehicles?"
That got their attention.
Jim sat up a little straighter, blinked, then his eyes sharpened. "Atlanta's industrial sector."
"Industrial sector?" I asked.
Jim nodded. "Atlanta's got industrial rental yards all over the place. Construction companies, too. Equipment depots." He rubbed his chin. "Most of 'em would be around the industrial districts. South side, west side, near the interstates."
Rick nodded. "Commercial dealerships, too."
Everyone looked at him.
The former sheriff shrugged "County used to buy equipment through a few dealers. Big lots. Bulldozers, graders, excavators."
I nodded slowly; that matched what I remembered.
I set my mug down.
"Alright." The room quieted—mission mode. "Jim, you're coming with us."
The former mechanic immediately nodded.
"You start making a list of what we need to get the vehicles up and running. Keep in mind we would need at least two excavators, ideally three, plus a couple of dump trucks."
Jim whistled softly. "Big plans."
"Big property."
Nobody argued with that.
I looked around the table.
"Daryl,"
A grunt.
"Merle,"
A louder grunt.
"Grab Morgan and Morales." Both Dixon brothers nodded.
"And get the armored convoy ready."
Merle sighed dramatically. "Already? We just got back not even a day ago."
"More than enough rest," I replied.
"I was hopin' for at least another day of being lazy."
"Denied."
"You're a tyrant." Merle muttered.
Daryl smirked into his coffee.
I stood up. The meeting was over.
The mission wasn't—not even close.
A few minutes later, I stepped into my room.
Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains.
Maggie was standing beside the bed, pulling on a shirt.
She looked over her shoulder.
"Morning," she said.
"Good morning," I replied, while laying out my gear on a blanket to get it checked.
She turned over and looked at the gear that's laid out—the bow, the pistols.
The expression on her face changed. "You're going somewhere?"
"Getting some equipment."
She folded her arms. "What kind of equipment?"
"Earthmovers."
That earned a blink. "Earthmovers?"
"Excavators, dump trucks."
Her brow furrowed. "Why?"
Fair question.
I sat on the edge of the bed and began checking my gear—habit, routine, discipline, call it what you want.
I started with the compound bow.
I ran my fingers along the limbs, checked the cams, inspected the string.
No fraying, no damage.
Good.
Maggie sat beside me, waiting.
I holstered one pistol, then the second.
Only then did I answer.
"For defense."
"Defense?"
"You do remember the original intent behind acquiring the containers, right?"
Recognition appeared in her eyes. "Right. Encircling the perimeter with containers," she added. "But where do the earthmover vehicles come to play in all this?"
"To make the first line of defense."
She blinked once before her eyes went wide. "You intend to dig a trench CIRCLING the whole perimeter?" she all but yelled.
I smiled. "Smart as ever."
I could practically see the image forming in her mind: hundreds of steel containers connected, creating a perimeter surrounded by a big trench, circling the containers like a huge snake eating its tail, turning the farm to a veritable fortress.
"How big is the trench gonna be?"
"Big,"
"Zephyr."
"Very big."
That earned a laugh despite herself.
I smiled, then my expression became more serious.
"A trench stops walkers without using bullets." I picked up my bow, checked the string tension one final time. "A container wall stops what gets past the trench."
The room grew quieter.
Maggie looked at me, really looked at me, the way she did whenever she was trying to see past the soldier in me, past the plans, past the logistics. "That sounds like an insane amount of work."
I chuckled. "Because it is."
"No kidding." She shook her head. "You realize normal people don't wake up and decide to build medieval fortifications before breakfast?"
"This wasn't a sudden whim of mine, it was in the works for nearly a month." I chuckled, "plus," I added, "Normal people died two months ago."
The joke landed, then the reality settled in.
The smile faded from both our faces.
Outside the window, I could hear engines starting, voices, movement, life.
The farm was growing.
The farm was thriving, which meant it was becoming a target.
I stood and adjusted my holster.
Survival wasn't free.
It never was—not before the apocalypse, and especially not now.
Maggie stepped closer.
I rested my hands on her waist.
"For what it's worth," she said quietly, "you're completely crazy."
"Probably."
Her eyes softened. "But I understand."
I looked at her for a moment.
Neither of us spoke.
Then Maggie leaned forward and pressed her forehead against mine, just for a second.
A quiet moment before another day of work, another day of danger, another day surviving.
When she pulled back, there was a smile on her face—small, warm.
"Then go get your excavators and dump trucks."
I added, "And dump trucks."
She laughed softly. "That's the plan."
I then kissed her—quick, meaningful.
Then I grabbed my pack, adjusted the sling, checked my pistols one final time, and headed for the door.
Outside, I could already hear the armored trucks rumbling to life.
The next phase was waiting.
(To be continued...)