Jonathan slammed his fist on the roof of the G-Wagon, signaling Nikolaj to stop and reverse back to the crossroads they had just passed. As the Mercedes backed up, Jonathan quickly spun the turret to the left, positioning his machine gun to cover the road ahead. Nikolaj brought the vehicle to a halt at the intersection, awaiting further orders, his eyes scanning the road for any sign of what had caught Jonathan's attention.

On the passenger side, Mads swiftly exited the vehicle, taking advantage of the removed door for easy access. He stepped out to get a clearer view.

"Three of them!" Jonathan shouted, pulling back the bolt on his trusty MAG machine gun, bringing the figures into his sights.

Mads, now ready with his bolt-action rifle, set up the bipod on the hood of the G-Wagon and took aim.

"What do you see?" Jonathan called out to Mads.

In a calm, controlled tone, Nikolaj radioed in, "Oksjo 1, this is Victor 2. We have three unknown contacts moving north up the road towards Grästorp," he said, casually chewing on his makeshift protein bar.

Biting into it, a dense and rustic creation made from ingredients cultivated by the Oksjo settlement. The bar had a rough, uneven texture, with visible chunks of dried berries and nuts embedded throughout. The primary base was a blend of ground oats and barley, mixed with honey harvested from the settlement’s beehives. Sunflower seeds and roasted hazelnuts added a satisfying crunch, while the tartness of the dried lingonberries offered a sharp contrast to the bar’s natural sweetness. A hint of sea salt, collected from the nearby coast by another settlement, brought out the rich, earthy flavors, making it both nourishing and energizing. Despite its humble appearance, the bar was a testament to the settlement’s resourcefulness and self-sufficiency.

“Yeah, no, they look like average Joes,” Mads said, peering through his scope before lowering the rifle and placing it back inside the passenger seat. He settled into his seat and gripped his assault rifle.

“Drive towards them and stop at 50 meters,” he instructed Nikolaj, then reached for the handheld radio.

“Oksjo, they appear to be regular civilians. We’re moving in to intercept,” Mads reported.

“Noted. Be careful, Victor 2,” Peter’s voice crackled over the radio in response.

“What the hell are they doing north on that road, I thought Vårgårda had that road in check!” Nikolaj asked as he drove down the road towards the three figures.

As the G-Wagon rolled to a stop, Jonathan relaxed slightly at the sight of the couple and the young child ahead. They wore a mix of hiking gear and civilian clothes, each burdened with a backpack almost as large as they were. Their posture spoke of weariness, both physical and mental.

Jonathan, still shouldering his machine gun, chose to tilt the barrel skyward, a non-threatening gesture to avoid escalating the situation and to not scare them. Nikolaj and Mads stepped out of the vehicle, lowering their rifles but keeping them at the ready, just in case.

The couple came to a halt, raising their hands in surrender as Mads calmly instructed.

A few minutes later, Nikolaj put the kid on the hood so that he could sit while he drank the milk and strawberry drink Jonathan had given him. He must not have been older than eight years old. The parents sat on the side of the road as Mads checked their identity papers. Those were not worth anything but it could help identify if they were lying or not.

“So you wintered near Nossebro?” Mads asked.

The couple nodded.

“Seen any mad men out there?” he asked as he passed a water bottle to both.

“Our neighbour claimed to have seen two of them while he was hunting. That was a week ago. There hasn’t been much game so that why we left.” The father said after taking a long sip from the bottle. He tried to pass the bottle to Mads who refused it “All yours mate. Just keep the plastic bottle once you’re done don’t throw it away.” As he walked back to the car and grabbed the radio’s hand held device.

“Oksjo, any news on the taxi?”

“again, it’s on its way. Stay put” Peter on the other end answered. He knew the sprinter they used for such tasks didn’t have any radio.

Mads glanced down the empty road, thinking of the old sprinter van that was still on its way. They still had a long day ahead of them and wanted to wrap this up quickly. Without the refinery’s regular shipments of gasoline—provided in exchange for the securing the trading routes from Trollhättan to Mariestad—those daily patrols would be unthinkable and they would have scrapped the van long ago for its metal and wires.

The settlement of Oksjo had evolved into a crucial middleman between the military-run oil refinery in Lysekil and the larger settlement of Norrköping. Lysekil, situated about 80 kilometers west of Oksjo on the coast and just 80 kilometers south of the Norwegian border, was a stronghold for what remained of the Swedish armed forces. Over time, many of the disorganized, roaming bands of soldiers in southern Sweden had gravitated toward Lysekil, seeking the stability that their own positions in the wild, lawless lands could no longer provide.

Norrköping, on the other hand, had become a haven for those who had escaped the chaos of the Stockholm region but, for various reasons, hadn’t ventured north. With a population of around 10,000, Norrköping dwarfed Lysekil’s 2,000, but the vast majority of its inhabitants were civilians, unlike the more militarized community in Lysekil.

Oksjo found itself caught between these two powerhouses, each representing one of the largest remaining settlements in Sweden. This position put Oksjo in a delicate and often precarious situation. Despite the risks, they supplied both Lysekil and Norrköping with valuable resources, most importantly, nearly pharmaceutical-grade homemade antibiotics. But Oksjo also played a vital role in facilitating logistics between the two factions.

Norrköping traded munitions, clothes, and various supplies with both Lysekil and Oksjo, while Lysekil maintained a monopoly on oil and gasoline. Oksjo, with its strategic position and essential resources, had become indispensable to both sides, but the balancing act required to maintain these relationships was fraught with tension and uncertainty.

Before Kristianstad had taken over and merged with Oksjo, Lysekil had received a letter from the now-defunct king, demanding that they cease their operations or pledge allegiance to the crown. Despite the king's lack of real power, Lysekil couldn’t help but respect how Kristianstad, with its small group of mercenaries, had managed to take control of Oksjo.

There were other settlements in the region as well. Kungälv, located north of Gothenburg, had proven essential to the survival of the other communities in western Sweden. Acting as a bulwark, they stood proudly against the threats moving northward, protecting the region from the chaos that plagued the south. Oksjo and Lysekil supplied Kungälv with oil and other crucial resources, ensuring their continued resistance.

Other smaller settlements dotted the landscape, though none boasted a population greater than a hundred. These outposts, while vulnerable, served an important role as early warning systems for the larger communities. If a settlement stopped responding on the radio or if refugees started fleeing from it, the larger settlements knew that trouble was brewing in that direction. This gave them time to fortify their defenses or, if feasible, to launch a preemptive strike to eliminate the bandits or madmen who had overrun the smaller communities.

In this way, the network of settlements, large and small, worked together to survive in the increasingly dangerous and unpredictable landscape of post-collapse Sweden.

The semblance of order and cooperation among the settlements brought a fragile sense of normalcy, but it did little to ease the anxieties of people like Sven, Przemek, and Sofia. The network of alliances and trade agreements provided some stability, but it was always overshadowed by uncertainty. They couldn't rely on the settlements any more than they could throw them—trust was a scarce commodity, and caution ruled their interactions.

Sven, Przemek, and Sofia lived with the constant tension of Oksjo trying to appear insignificant enough to avoid being a target while also preparing for the worst. Their efforts to seem like less trouble than they were worth were matched by carefully laid contingency plans in case Lysekil decided to act aggressively.

The presence of armored infantry fighting vehicles in Lysekil’s arsenal only heightened their unease. Although maintaining and supplying such equipment was no small feat, the fact that Lysekil possessed them was a bad reminder of their potential threat. Sven, Przemek, and Sofia knew that relying on hope alone that Lysekil wouldn’t march east and overrun Oksjo was a dangerous gamble. Every day, they balanced the act of fostering cooperation with neighboring settlements while staying ever-vigilant for the possibility of a hostile takeover.

Nikolaj, Mads, and Jonathan were well aware of the risks they faced, but their understanding did little to ease the daily grind. They spent nine hours a day, every day, patrolling the roads and ensuring their assigned corridor remained “safe.” Their duties included escorting the trucks that passed through their sector every two weeks, a task that was both physically and mentally demanding.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

For Jonathan, stationed on top of the turret, the harsh reality of the job overshadowed any grand strategy. Though the spring weather was turning warm. The wind and rain still battered him from time to time, the cold gnawed at his bones, and his hips ached from the relentless jarring against the roof of the G-Wagon. As he scanned the road ahead, the strategic importance of their mission seemed distant and irrelevant. All that mattered in that moment was getting through the day and returning home.

As the sprinter picked up its passengers and the G-Wagon followed behind, Jonathan found a moment of solace in the scenery. On good days like this, being atop the vehicle offered a surprisingly pleasant vantage point. He made an effort to appreciate these small comforts, knowing well that he could have been toiling in the fields, scrubbing the kitchen, or sweating it out in the greenhouse.

Instead, he stood proudly behind his machine gun, savoring the rare sense of freedom and purpose. With one hand gripping the turret to keep steady and the other holding a Corona—gifted by the couple they had intercepted—Jonathan tried to relish the simple pleasure of the moment. As the wind and sun mingled, he let himself enjoy the view, even as the reality of their job loomed in the background.

Przemek’s gentle squeeze on Sofia’s thigh jolted her awake just before she drifted off. The meeting had dragged on longer than expected, and the thick, warm air in the library made it hard for Sofia to stay alert. She wasn’t alone in her struggle; she noticed Karim nodding off a few times as well.

Olaf, the head of the agriculture collective for the week, was still droning on about the expected vegetable yield. He kept backpedaling and adjusting his estimates with every question asked.

Around Sofia sat Przemek, Olaf, Linda the representative of the healing circle, Niklas who oversaw all the sheep and cows, Milan the head of the resource Cooperative, Lars the head of the builder’s and maintenance cooperative, Karim who was the representative of the energy collective. Olin, the head of housing, Amir who was here for the homeguard, Inge who was the representative of the learning collective and Sven at the head of the table acting as facilitator.

Each one was the representative of his or her collective. Most were voted in every couple of months between the members of said collective. Though most of the members were the head of said department thanks to their knowledge and experience. Sven was the facilitator; he was elected by the heads of all the departments. Przemek and Sofia’s presence here was a given, their department didn’t have a name but they were as valuable to the defense as the home guard was.

“what does kål mean?” Przemek whispered in her ear.

“Cabbage.” She answered with a silent chuckle

"Thank you, Olaf. If there are no more questions, I suggest we move on to the next item on our agenda. Olin?" Sven's tone was calm, bordering on bored. For Sven, boredom was a good sign. In Olaf's case, it meant he trusted him not to let Oksjo go hungry with the upcoming harvest.

“A family has joined us today, and their temporary housing is in the gymnasium, along with a quarter of us. Safe to say, we’re at full capacity. If we don’t start building new quarters soon, we’ve planned to convert the mansion’s ballroom for housing and, as a last resort, the canteen,” Olin rattled off quickly. Despite the urgency of his speech, the room remained silent.

“Lars, I think this might be your cue,” he added.

“Yeah, well, I still don’t have the manpower,” Lars replied, his frustration evident. “Everyone here is a volunteer, and most folks would rather pick up potatoes or brew vodka for a few hours than lay bricks all day. Hell, we don’t even have enough bricks for a single wall, nor wood. And my maintenance teams are too small and overstretched to even start dreaming of building anything.”

“Don’t worry about the resources,” Milan said, his nonchalant demeanor belying the seriousness of his offer. “If you let me know what you need in advance, my team will handle it.”

Sofia found Milan’s calm exterior puzzling. The resource cooperative had always come through in the past, thanks to their impressive trade connections across the region—connections that sometimes involved borderline corruption and bribes. Sven had kept this “bureau,” as they called themselves, on a tight leash to avoid antagonizing nearby factions. But it turned out that this level of oversight wasn’t necessary. The “bureau” had become increasingly essential and beneficial, whether for Norrköping or Lysekil.

“First come, first served. Let people know that if they want better housing, they’ll need to join us from the ground up and help with the construction,” Przemek said, twirling his pen.

“You took the words right out of my mouth!” Milan responded with a grin.

“All good and all, but we haven’t agreed on what we will build. How do we even safely house..” Lars stopped as he looked through his note book “143 people”

“146, don’t forget about the nice family that joined us today” Olin interrupted Lars.

“Yes, 146. Now about sixty people have what we could call permanent housing. Be it the people from the village itself, a dozen in the mansion. And I’m sure this we can even cut corners. One person living alone doesn’t need more than the small room he might have in his workplace. But it’s not looking good.”

“We all agreed on having minimal private living quarters but extensive common areas, such as kitchens and lounges, to focus on communal interaction due to our limited resources,” Inge stated, her anarchist ideals clearly coming through.

“We could consider using temporary housing, like those prefabricated structures from construction sites or refugee camps,” Niklas suggested. He was met with a less-than-enthusiastic response from the group.

“Niklas, you really want to spend a week setting up camp in a refugee camp, dismantling those buildings piece by piece, and somehow transporting them without getting into serious trouble?” Sven replied, chuckling softly. “There’s a reason no one is allowed near what’s left of those places.”

“True, but he does make a good point. It’s a shame we can’t access any of those structures; they would have been really useful,” Przemek said, trying to boost Niklas’s spirits. Sven looked at Przemek with a knowing gaze, as if seeing right through him. Sofia caught up as well as she put her hand on his thigh.

“What’s the name of that kid who lived with the Mormons in America?” Sven asked Milan as he was reaching for another cigarette.

“Evert? He was with the Amish, not the Mormons. He was just passing through, and I doubt he can provide anything that fits our needs,” Milan replied.

“Still, it’s worth a shot. Ask if he can come over,” Lars suggested.

Milan shrugged as he jotted down the suggestion in his notebook.

“I’d be more comfortable if we stopped dragging this out,” Inge said firmly. “We need to start building before winter arrives again. We’ve just come out of winter, but if we don’t address this seriously, people will be sleeping rough by the next snowfall.”

“I suggest we raise the issue of ‘getting in on the ground floor’ with our respective teams and during the midday address in the canteen,” Niklas proposed. “That way, we can gather a list of volunteers and build on that.”

“Aye,” someone in the room agreed, and the sentiment was echoed by everyone present.

“Everyone aboard?” Sven asked as he wrote down the suggestion and that everyone voted yes in his notebook.

“I’ll bring the white board to the canteen tonight, with instructions on it for people to volunteer.” He added.

“Last topic before we all head off —Przemek, you’re still holding the first aid course tomorrow evening?” Sven asked.

“Yes, it’s still set for the ballroom at 19:00. I recommend emphasizing how crucial this is, especially for the people in the homeguard,” Przemek replied.

The homeguard, under Amir’s jurisdiction, operated differently from the mostly horizontal organization of Oksjo. It functioned more like a paramilitary unit with about 30 members. Though every able-bodied person was expected to participate in gate and wall patrols and to be ready to defend Oksjo if necessary, the homeguard maintained a more structured approach.

During each shift, at least two militiamen were assigned to patrol the outer perimeter, accompanied by one “civie” (a term for other villagers), and one at the gate with two additional civies. If trouble was anticipated, three teams of militiamen would patrol the wall, with six stationed at the gate. At least twelve others, the remaining militiamen, would be stationed centrally in the village, ready to respond wherever needed.

Most of the homeguard members had been soldiers at some point in their lives. They were reliable, though not quite at the level of Przemek or Amir. Despite their nonchalant attitude, their presence gave everyone peace of mind. The main issue was their detachment from the rest of Oksjo. Various attempts had been made to integrate them more effectively, but Amir quickly dismissed any suggestions of having them take on tasks like picking potatoes or working in the stables during downtime. The worry of them becoming their own clique was calmed down when Sofia reminded Sven in private that those people had their own folks in Oksjö. That their family, siblings, partners and childs were living in those walls despite the gun ho attitude they might express.

“You’re right, they’ll be there. Do you mind if I add some of my own thoughts during the lesson?” Amir asked.

“Not at all. We can discuss it later or tomorrow if you’d like,” Przemek responded.

“Half an hour before the class?” Amir proposed.

“Sure!”

Sven nodded in agreement. “Great. Let’s wrap this up for now. We’ve covered everything on the agenda.”

With that, Sven looked around the room. “Thank you all for your contributions today. Let’s get some rest and tackle these challenges head-on.”

The members began to gather their things and stand up. Conversations started to pick up as people prepared to leave, and the room gradually emptied.

As the last few left, Sven took a moment to straighten up the papers on the table, a thoughtful expression on his face. The meeting had been productive, but there was much work still ahead.

Jonathan slammed his fist against the roof of the G-Wagon with more force than usual. This was by far his least favorite part of their patrol, and his frustration was palpable. Nikolaj didn’t need a second invitation to stop the car; it wasn’t the first time they had navigated this treacherous area.

The valley stretched out before them, eerily calm as usual. It was the same valley where they had discovered the remains of Liam, and it turned out that Liam wasn’t the first to disappear in this cursed place. The entire road through the valley and the surrounding hills had become a no-go zone, a dark patch on their map marked with grim finality.

Despite its designation as a no-go zone, their patrol duties included keeping an eye on this stretch of road. From his vantage point, Jonathan could see the road’s gradual descent before it climbed back up. He scanned the farmhouse, the fields with its flock of sheep that needed shearing, and the desolate landscape. Everything was where it was supposed to be—except for the figure that had plagued both his and Przemek’s nightmares.

As he surveyed the area and confirmed that there was no sign of activity, Jonathan’s jaw tightened. He slammed his fist on the roof again, a sharp signal for Nikolaj to execute a U-turn. Though Jonathan frequently checked behind him while driving, the road between the valley and Oksjo was one place he dared not turn his back on. Jonathan’s jokes were well-known, but his seriousness about this area spoke volumes. Nikolaj and Mads in the frontseat recognized the gravity in Jonathan’s demeanor. They understood that something was profoundly wrong, though no one dared press for more information.

No one had asked why patrols were rare or why the valley was shrouded in such secrecy. Even with the warning panels they had place indicating non-existent land mines on both sides of the valley. The lack of field mice or foxes in the valley was unsettling, and the sheep lived day by day under a dark cloud of unknown danger. It was an unspoken rule: avoid the valley at all costs. As they drove away, a troubling thought crossed Jonathan's mind. He abruptly spun around, knocking on the roof to signal Nikolaj. The vehicle screeched to a halt, and Jonathan dropped to one knee in the backseat.

“What is it?” Mads asked, his voice laced with curiosity and concern.

“Pass me the binoculars and drive back to where we were,” Jonathan instructed urgently. Mads nodded, handing over the hunting binoculars with a swift motion.

The G-Wagon reversed and came to a stop at the spot they had occupied just moments earlier. Jonathan lifted his military goggles and peered through the binoculars, his eyes scanning the scene below.

“What’s going on?” Mads asked, stepping out of the vehicle with his rifle at the ready.

“Look at the sheep,” Jonathan said, his voice tight with tension.

Mads lifted his Remington rifle, aligning the scope with the scene below. His face revealed his shock as he observed the fields.

“Notice anything?” Jonathan asked, his fears crystallizing into a grim reality.

“Enough with the blue balling; what’s happening?” Nikolaj called out from the front seat, his tone sharp with impatience.

Mads disbelief was evident, his face a mask of astonishment. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

“Someone’s been shearing them,” Jonathan answered, his voice a low growl of revelation.

Most people found it convenient that one of the roads leading to Oksjo had become “impassable.”. But no one wanted to test that theory.