The Millers didn't waste time.
By midmorning, Evelyn had claimed the long kitchen table with a cup of tea and a stack of old notebooks pulled from her bag. Harold stood beside her, a pencil in hand, while Emily and Sarah leaned in, listening.
"This slope here," Evelyn said, tapping a rough sketch of the property. "It drains well. Too well, before. Now?" She smiled faintly. "Now it'll hold what we give it."
She spoke with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent years watching bodies and systems respond to care. Only now, the patient was the land.
"We should start with fast crops," she continued. "Leafy greens. Root vegetables. Things that show results quickly. It'll tell us how strong the affinity really is."
Harold nodded. "And stagger the rest. Corn, beans, squash. Traditional rotations still matter. Affinity doesn't mean shortcuts don't bite you later."
Emily's eyes were bright. "You can feel the soil, can't you?"
Evelyn nodded. "Not like you feel fire. More like… appetite. Some ground wants to work. Some needs rest."
Sarah watched them, thoughtful. "We can fence the first plots close. Easy to defend."
"That's where Harold comes in," Carl said from the doorway.
Harold had moved outside at some point, walking the perimeter with long, measured strides. When he came back in, he carried dirt on his boots and a look that meant his mind was already building things.
"We need walls," Harold said simply.
Mark looked up from checking a map. "That was quick."
Harold shrugged. "I've seen what happens when people wait."
He spread a rough drawing across the table—lines sketched with the same careful economy as his movements.
"Stone and earth," he said. "Roman-style palisades if we can manage it. Timber frames backed by packed earth, sloped faces, firing steps behind them. Not pretty. Thick. No straight shots. Built to absorb pressure, not just stop it."
He tapped the sketch again.
"We leave a wide interior—room to maneuver, fall back, reposition. You never want to fight pressed against your own walls."
Luke studied the drawing. "And the fields?"
"Some inside," Harold said. "Enough to survive a siege. The rest outside, farther out. That forces trouble to expose itself if it wants food."
Jethro nodded slowly. "Layered defense. Pressure outward."
"Exactly," Harold said. "Walls don't keep enemies out forever. They buy time. And time lets you decide."
Mark folded the map he'd been holding and set it down.
"All good," he said. "But to build something like that—around that much ground—we're going to need more people."
The room went quiet again, but this time it was thoughtful.
Harold didn't hesitate.
"The interior area I'm thinking of," he said, tapping the sketch again, "could support fifty people. Maybe more, if we're smart about it."
Emily glanced up. "That's a lot."
"It is," Harold agreed. "But only if they're the wrong sort."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "Define wrong."
Harold's expression stayed calm, but firm. "People who won't work. People who expect walls to replace effort. People who panic when things get hard."
He looked around the table, meeting each pair of eyes in turn.
"Good sorts," he continued. "People who understand that food doesn't grow itself, walls don't stand without hands, and defense is everyone's problem—even if you never pick up a weapon."
Sarah nodded slowly. "That kind of community feeds itself."
"And defends itself," Carl added.
Mark leaned back in his chair, considering. "Plattsmouth might have people like that."
"And might not," Ethan said.
"That's why I'm going," Mark replied. "We don't recruit blindly. We observe. We choose."
Harold smiled faintly. "Fifty good people beat a hundred desperate ones."
Mark glanced at the door, then back at the plans spread across the table.
"If we're doing this," he said, "we're doing it deliberately."
Emily folded her arms. "That makes us a beacon."
Harold nodded. "Everything worth defending is."
Mark picked up the truck keys and rolled them once in his palm.
"Then I'll see what's left of town," he said. "And who's worth bringing home."
Outside, the sun climbed higher over fields already marked with string and stakes, lines drawn not just in dirt—but intent.
The homestead wasn't just putting down roots anymore.
It was preparing to grow.
________________________________________
Mark had just opened the driver's door of the Ford when Carl's voice cut across the yard.
"Hold up."
Mark turned. Carl was coming fast from the house, jacket already on, axe slung at his back out of habit more than expectation.
"I'm coming," Carl said. Not a question.
Luke paused mid-step, glancing between them. "You sure?"
Carl nodded once. "If you're looking at town, you're looking at people. I know some of them better than Mark does."
Mark studied him for a moment, then tossed the keys once in his palm and caught them again. "Alright."
Emily appeared at the edge of the porch, boots already on.
"And me," she said.
Mark frowned slightly. "You just absorbed a core."
Emily met his eyes calmly. "And I'm part of the rotation. You said so yourself."
Carl gave a short approving nod. "She's right."
Luke stepped forward before Mark could speak again. "Then I'm in too."
Mark looked at him. "You're next on rotation."
"Exactly," Luke said. "And four's better than three."
Carl smiled faintly. "He's not wrong. Four's the smallest number that still gives you options."
Mark considered it, then nodded. "Alright. Four it is."
Luke turned briefly toward the barn. "Ethan's got perimeter with Jethro?"
Mark nodded. "And Sarah."
Luke climbed into the truck without another word.
Carl stepped closer to the passenger door. "One more thing."
Mark waited.
"We shouldn't go straight into town," Carl said. "Not yet."
Emily tilted her head. "Why?"
"Because towns collect chaos," Carl replied. "Farms don't. Not the right ones."
Mark considered that. "You've got people in mind."
Carl nodded. "Good sorts. Families that've worked the land for generations. People who already know how to hold ground without needing to be told."
"And if they're gone?" Luke asked quietly from the back seat.
Carl's jaw tightened. "Then we know."
He rested a hand on the truck's door. "Also—fuel. Diesel tanks, and petrol for this old truck. Old pumps. Stored reserves. If we mark locations now, we don't waste time later."
Mark exhaled slowly. "That makes sense."
Carl pointed east, past the low rise. "There's a place we should check first."
Emily followed his gaze. "Who?"
"The Washingtons," Carl said. "African-American family. Been farming that land longer than anyone around here can remember. Their great-grandfather worked it. Their kids came back after college. Good people."
Mark nodded. He knew the name. Everyone did.
"Quiet," Carl continued. "Hardworking. Didn't chase trends. Didn't sell when land prices spiked."
Emily said softly, "If anyone held out…"
"It'd be them," Carl finished.
Mark opened the driver's door fully. "Then that's our first stop."
They climbed in—Mark behind the wheel, Carl beside him, Luke in the back seat with Emily. Four bodies, four roles, the truck settling under the weight like it approved of the number.
The Ford rumbled to life, engine steady, hungry but reliable.
As they pulled onto the gravel road, Mark glanced at the fuel gauge and grimaced slightly.
"Still not efficient," he muttered.
Carl smiled faintly. "Efficiency's overrated. Reliability isn't."
Luke leaned forward slightly between the seats. "Four's good," he said. "Feels… balanced."
Emily didn't argue. She was already watching the fields and tree lines slide past, heat-signatures faint but readable at the edge of her awareness.
They drove out past the marked fields, past the beginnings of walls drawn only in pencil and intent, toward farms that had weathered decades—and now faced something far stranger.
This wasn't a rescue run.
It was a census.
Of land.
Of people.
Of who might still be worth building a future with.
________________________________________
## Chapter Five (continued)
### The Washington Place
The Washington homestead sat where it always had—low and wide, fields rolling out behind it in long, patient lines. Nothing burned. Nothing broken. No dust-stains where bodies should have been.
Which, Mark realized as he slowed the Ford, might have been the strangest sign of all.
"They got lucky," Luke said quietly.
Carl shook his head. "Luck doesn't last this long."
Mark killed the engine a hundred yards out, habit overriding comfort. They approached on foot, spacing natural, eyes up.
A man stepped out onto the porch before they reached the fence.
Hands visible. Calm stance. Watching them the way you watched weather.
"Afternoon," he called. "You're a bit loud, but not sloppy."
Mark stopped and nodded. "That fair?"
The man smiled faintly. "Fair enough."
He waved them closer.
---
The Washington family had done exactly what survival demanded without ever knowing why it worked.
They stayed quiet.
They stayed inside.
They let danger pass.
"They came through the trees," the man said later, seated at the kitchen table. "Didn't look at us. Just… walked by. Like they were heading somewhere else."
Emily frowned. "How close?"
"Close enough to hear them," the woman said. "Too close."
The man extended a hand. "Name's **Caleb Washington**. This is my wife, **Ruth**."
Mark shook it firmly. "Mark Jensen. This is Carl Henley, Luke Jensen, and my daughter Emily."
Two younger adults hovered near the doorway.
"My kids," Caleb said. "**Aaron** and **Naomi**."
They were alert in the way people became when the world proved their instincts right. Not afraid. Not naive.
Carl studied the place as they spoke. The furniture was solid. Handmade. Every joint tight. No creaks under weight.
"You built most of this," Carl said to Caleb.
Caleb nodded. "Wood talks, if you listen long enough."
Emily's attention snapped to him.
"That's not a metaphor," she said.
Caleb paused, then smiled slowly. "No. It isn't."
Ruth laughed quietly. "Took us a bit to realize we weren't imagining things."
---
It came out in pieces.
Caleb could *feel* grain direction before cutting. Could shape beams that carried weight better than they should have. Woodworking came easier every day—cleaner joins, stronger frames.
Ruth's hands never tired when sewing. Cloth stretched, held, and reinforced exactly where she wanted it to. Fabric lasted longer. Repaired itself faster.
"And you?" Mark asked Aaron.
Aaron hesitated, then stepped outside with them.
He crouched near a loose stone by the foundation and held out a hand.
The rock *shifted*.
Not lifted. Not thrown.
It slid, ground trembling slightly beneath it, settling into a tighter, stronger position.
"Stone," Aaron said. "I don't push it. I… persuade it."
Luke stared. "That's telekinesis."
"Kind of," Aaron said. "But only with rock. Earth."
Naomi spoke up from the porch. "Mine's fire."
Emily turned sharply. "Show me."
Naomi hesitated, then snapped her fingers.
A flame sparked—clean, controlled, hovering for a second before vanishing.
Emily grinned despite herself. "Okay. Yeah. That tracks."
Caleb exhaled slowly. "We didn't fight anything. Didn't kill anything. We just… changed."
Mark exchanged a look with Carl.
"Affinity without combat," Carl said quietly. "Low growth, but stable."
"And you were passed by," Emily added. "Because other places burned brighter."
Caleb nodded once. "So what now?"
Mark didn't soften it. "Now you decide if you want to keep surviving alone—or help build something that lasts."
Silence stretched.
Then Ruth stood.
"Well," she said, brushing flour from her hands, "if we're building, we'd rather build with people we trust."
Caleb smiled. "And we've known your families a long time."
Aaron glanced at Naomi. "We're in."
Mark nodded. "Then pack what matters. We'll help move the rest later."
Outside, the fields rustled softly in the breeze.
This time, not ignored—
—but claimed.
________________________________________
It was Caleb who brought it up as they stood near the barn, the late afternoon light slanting in through the open doors.
"If we're moving," he said, "we don't leave these behind."
Mark followed his gaze.
Goats.
A dozen of them, maybe more, shifting and stamping in their pens, curious but calm. Tough animals. Sharp-eyed. Used to bad terrain and worse weather.
Luke blinked. "You kept goats?"
Caleb smiled faintly. "They keep themselves, mostly."
He moved easily among them, checking gates and harness points with hands that knew the work.
"Milk," Caleb continued. "Meat if it comes to that. Leather. Bone. Horn. They'll eat brush nothing else will touch, clear land fast, and they're smart enough not to panic at every shadow."
Carl nodded slowly. "Multi-use assets."
"Exactly," Caleb said. "And if things get worse, goats adapt faster than people."
Ruth appeared with a coil of rope and a weathered ledger tucked under her arm. "Trailer still here?"
Caleb nodded. "Old cattle trailer. Tires are good. Axle too."
Mark hesitated only a moment. "We've got the torque for it."
Luke glanced at the truck. "Barely."
Mark shrugged. "Barely is still."
They worked quickly.
The trailer hooked up without complaint, the Ford's suspension settling lower but holding. The goats loaded easier than expected, more curious than afraid, hooves clattering against metal as they shifted inside.
Emily stood back, watching heat signatures settle into a cluster that felt… steady.
"They'll be good for us," she said quietly. "They fit."
Naomi nodded. "They always do."
Caleb closed the trailer gate and secured it, stepping back to check the hitch one last time.
"People think survival's about weapons," he said. "It isn't. It's about useful things."
Mark met his eyes. "Agreed."
Carl glanced toward the road. "We should move before dark."
Ruth climbed into the cab beside Caleb. Aaron and Naomi took seats in the back, wedged in carefully among packs and tools.
The engine growled again as Mark eased the truck forward, the trailer following obediently behind.
As they pulled away, Luke glanced back at the Washington homestead—empty now, but not abandoned.
"We'll come back for the rest," he said.
Caleb nodded. "Land doesn't go anywhere."
The road stretched ahead, leading back toward walls not yet built, fields not yet planted, and a growing community that understood the value of work.
Behind them, the goats shifted and stamped, alive and stubborn and useful.
And for the first time since the world changed, the future smelled faintly of hay and possibility.