By late afternoon, I drove back to the familiar gravel road toward the farm. The box truck rattled with the supplies it was hauling.
Dale spotted me first from the RV roof; he called out to Morgan and Rick, who opened up the gates for me. Rick approached as I parked and opened the rear doors, revealing the boxes. "Damn," Rick muttered. "That's a hell of a load. Where'd you find all this?"
I shrugged casually. "The back storage of a supermarket I went scavenging in was intact. The place was loaded with walkers; I had to get creative to get inside."
"Creative?" Rick asked, giving me a look that was both of amusement and worry.
"Improvised sound trap," I said simply "A repurposed timer with a metal rattle canister attached that I placed in the opposite of the place. Worked like a charm."
"That was reckless, Zephyr," Maggie said with a reproachful expression.
"Hey, it worked alright," I said, shrugging. She glared at me. "Alright, alright, I won't do it again." I said, putting my hands up.
"You better," she huffed.
That drew laughter from the rest. Hershel gave me a meaningful look, then smiled approvingly. "You've done the community a great service, son."
"Just doing my job," I nodded.
The next day unfolded the same as the two before it—quiet, methodical, and familiar in its own rhythm. At sunrise, me, Rick, and Jim rolled out again in the box truck, the diesel grumble echoing through the cold morning. Siphoning fuel along the way, clearing the dealership perimeter, Jim climbing into the rigs, testing keys, marking the dead trucks red and the survivors with green. We secured another two workable Class 8 trucks by midday—another Kenworth and a Volvo.
And just like before… I stayed behind. Another round of dismantling, another round of scavenging, and I was back again before sunset.
The rhythm was nearly perfect. By the next morning, after the third retrieval, we had six heavy-duty rigs lined up in the back field—each one functional. Now came the hard part: armoring the trucks.
Beneath the metal awning near the barn I had commandeered as a workshop sat the first Class 8 rig, waiting like a wounded beast about to be reborn. I rolled my shoulders, cracked my neck, and powered the welding rig. The hiss of gas and the bright flare of the torch cut through the morning air. Sheets of scavenged steel—some were salvaged from early scavenging runs, some ripped from dismantled vehicles—were stacked nearby amongst a heap of scrap metal that was also salvaged in preparation to this.
Jim arrived carrying a crate of metal strips. "Brought the angle bars you asked for," he said.
I nodded. "Good. We start with the underbelly."
Daryl leaned against the truck, chewing on a piece of straw, watching sparks fly. "Ain't gonna be pretty, but it's gonna be mean."
"Pretty won't keep us alive," I muttered, guiding the molten seam along the steel plate.
Day 1: We began by lifting the rig with the jacks we salvaged earlier. Dale helped for the first few hours, tightening bolts and securing jack stands before retreating to look over vehicle fluids. I worked beneath the truck, welding steel plates along the vulnerable fuel tank and underside. Jim handled reinforcement bars, measuring carefully, sparks reflecting in his glasses. Daryl hauled scrap steel and cut it with a reciprocating saw, the buzzing echo carrying across the farm.
By noon, sweat dripped from our brows. By sundown, the entire undercarriage of the first rig had been strengthened with several millimeters of plated steel—enough to shrug off debris, shrapnel, even a crawler trying to puncture lines. Our hands shook with exhaustion, but the progress was undeniable.
While the men armored the truck, Hershel stood at the edge of the field, surveying the half that had already been cleared four days ago. This had been a tangle of overgrown bush and weeds; now it was recognizable farmland again. He lifted a handful of soil, rubbing it between his fingers. "Rich enough. Needs compost and tilling, but good soil."
Eli was hauling old branches into a pile. Tom was pulling out rocks with Shawn helping him, sweat darkening his shirt. Otis worked the tiller they repaired, guiding it through freshly cleared land. The place buzzed with purpose.
Day two saw us armoring the cab. By morning, I had already cut several steel plates from the scrap we looted, welding them along the front of the cab, creating angled deflector armor that would force walkers to slide off instead of piling up. Jim installed heavy-duty mesh over the windshield and side windows—not enough to block visibility, but enough to stop walkers from smashing through. Daryl reinforced the grill, bolting a steel frame that extended forward like a jaw—a prelude to a full battering ram. We used the portable welding kits to fuse joints, seal seams, and attach hinges strong enough to endure vibration, weather, and impact. By afternoon, the rig looked like something pulled straight out of a Mad Max movie.
Day three was spent on the ram, reinforcing doors, and tire protection. Daryl helped cut two long I-beams; Jim held them while I welded. Hours later, the ram took shape—a heavy sloped steel triangle fixed securely to the truck's front, something that could plow through abandoned cars, walker hordes, or barricades if necessary.
Next came the doors. I removed the interior panels, inserted cut steel plates inside them, then remounted the panels. The weight increase was obvious—the doors thudded shut with a heavy metallic sound. For the tires, I used scavenged steel strips to create makeshift run-flat cages, leaving enough space for movement but preventing collapse if punctured.
Daryl inspected the work. "Hell, Z… this ain't a truck, it's a damn tank."
I only grunted before starting up the welding rig again. Reinforcing the floor with metal plating, welded anchor points for straps, mounted hooks and racks for tools, replaced the damaged insulation, and welded a small lockbox beneath the passenger seat.
Next came the electrical systems. These were more of Jim's thing, so he took care of it. He installed some LED strips I salvaged from Home Depot, rewired the battery system, and added a second battery with a manual switch, then improved the airflow between the cab and sleeper compartment.
We tested every modification, fixed what needed fixing, before we stepped back. All three of us looked at the monster we created. Daryl wiped his brow. "Damn," he let out a low whistle. "This thing's gonna cut through them walker hordes like a hot knife through butter."
"Yeah," Jim nodded.
I exhaled. "One down, five more to go."
(To be continued...)