Joel paced the edges of the depot yard, his boots crunching over gravel as his thoughts raced. The conversation with Darren and Craig about staying here had been brief but decisive—Darren was stepping into leadership, and Joel was moving on. His heart wouldn’t let him linger, not when every second away from Oliver and their daughter weighed heavier on his soul.
But getting to Fort Saint John was no small feat. Joel glanced out at the forest beyond the depot, a dark labyrinth of danger and uncertainty. Walking that far wasn’t an option, not with the distance and the monsters lurking between here and home.
“Gotta find something with wheels,” Joel muttered under his breath.
He made his way to the far side of the depot, where vehicles had been parked before everything went to hell. A few trucks sat in a loose line, their once-pristine paint jobs now dulled by dirt and grime. He stopped in front of a black Ram 1500 Warlock, its aggressive grille and solid frame standing out against the other vehicles like a prowling beast.
“This’ll do,” Joel murmured, running a hand over the truck’s fender.
Climbing into the driver’s seat, he turned the key still left in the ignition. Nothing. Not even a flicker of power.
“Of course,” Joel muttered, slamming the steering wheel in frustration. “Why would it be easy?”
He popped the hood, peering into the engine bay. Everything looked intact, but the battery was stone dead, just like everything else electrical since the system had taken over. He leaned on the truck’s edge, staring at the array of wires and components with a mechanic’s practiced eye.
Joel’s mind ticked over possibilities. The workbench could provide some solutions, but he didn’t know enough about how it functioned. He needed to experiment, to push its limits and see if it could help him get this truck running—or at least something else with enough power to carry him home.
With a heavy sigh, Joel stepped back and opened the truck’s driver-side door. He shifted the gear into neutral, planting his hands firmly on the hood. The Warlock was a beast of a vehicle, its weight pressing heavily against the uneven ground.
“Let’s see how stubborn you are,” Joel muttered, digging his boots into the gravel as he pushed. The truck groaned in protest, its tires rolling sluggishly at first, then gaining momentum.
The sound of his effort must have drawn attention, because as he strained against the weight, a voice called out behind him.
“Need a hand with that?”
Joel looked over his shoulder to see a pair of depot workers approaching, their faces smudged with dirt but their expressions earnest. One was a wiry man with a tool belt slung haphazardly over his hip; the other, a stout woman who carried herself with the quiet determination of someone who had been through worse.
“Yeah,” Joel said, stepping aside to let them take up position. “Pushing it to the workbench. Could use all the muscle we’ve got.”
They nodded without question, the wiry man taking up a spot near the front tire while the woman squared up beside Joel.
“On three,” Joel directed. “One, two—push!”
The group heaved together, their combined strength moving the Warlock with far less resistance. More onlookers noticed the effort and joined in, a rough line of workers forming behind the truck. Their silent cooperation carried the truck across the yard, the grating sound of tires against gravel replaced by a steady rhythm of effort.
By the time they reached the portable’s workshop area, Joel’s shirt clung to his back with sweat, but the sense of progress lightened his mood.
“Thanks,” he said, wiping a hand across his forehead.
The stout woman grinned, giving the truck’s bumper a pat. “Figure you’re trying to get something running. Might as well make it a team effort.”
Joel nodded, glancing at the workbench, now looming ahead like a promise waiting to be tested. “Let’s see if we can make this thing more than just a paperweight.”
As Joel stepped away from the group around the truck, Craig, Darren, and Ortiz were already moving through the small crowd of survivors, voices firm but steady as they began to organize the others. Each man carried an air of authority, but their tones stayed calm, their directions clear. The urgency in their voices reminded everyone of the stakes—they couldn’t afford to waste time.
“We’re splitting into groups,” Craig announced, his booming voice cutting through the quiet murmur. “We need hands on three main priorities. First up, the fence. If we can’t keep those things out, nothing else matters.”
Several workers nodded, stepping forward to volunteer. Craig pulled them aside, pointing out the areas of the perimeter where the barriers were weakest. “Start reinforcing what we’ve got. Scavenge anything that looks sturdy—steel bars, pallets, pipes. If it can hold up against a charge, use it.”
He gestured toward a corner of the shop where a few dusty welding machines sat. “We’ve still got these welders,” he said, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “They’re nothing fancy—basic, like the kind you’d find in a high school shop class—but they’ll do the job. They basically use gas, no electricity here, but when we run out of gas that is it, so don’t waste it.”
The workers exchanged glances, some nodding with grim determination. Craig stepped forward, inspecting the machines to make sure they were operational. After a few quick adjustments, one sparked to life with a hum and a faint glow.
“Alright,” he said, straightening. “Start cutting and welding what you need. Focus on reinforcing the weakest spots first—corners, gates, anywhere those things could force their way in. We’re not building a fortress, but we are building something that’ll give us time to fight back.”
The group set to work immediately, hauling scrap metal toward the perimeter and positioning it for welding. The sharp hiss and bright flare of sparks began to punctuate the air, accompanied by the rhythmic clanging of tools against metal. Slowly, the outline of a sturdier fence began to take shape, a tangible sign of their determination to survive.
Craig lingered for a moment, watching the progress before joining the others. They had a long way to go, but at least now, they had a start.
Darren took over, gesturing toward another group. “Next is food. We’ve got the creek out back; it’s full of fish. We’re putting together some fishing crews and an outdoor cooking area. We need to set up stations to clean, cook, and store what we catch. Volunteers?”
Hands shot up quickly this time, the promise of a hot meal driving eager nods. Darren offered a sharp grin, giving out quick instructions before turning to Ortiz.
“Last group’s on shelter,” Ortiz said, his deep voice carrying a commanding edge. “We need a place to warm up and a place to sleep. We’re converting the main shop into a mix of crew quarters and a workshop. Clear space, set up beds, and get a fire pit going outside. Let’s make this a place that feels human again.”
He paused, scanning the crowd. “This isn’t just about surviving. It’s about living long enough to figure out what’s next. We do this right, and we’ve got a chance.”
The fishing crew gathered by the creek, their enthusiasm tempered by the cold reality of their situation. Lacking proper gear, they began improvising with whatever they could scavenge. One worker stripped electrical wiring from a discarded tool, fashioning it into crude fishing line. Another used a grinder to reshape scrap metal into jagged, makeshift hooks. A third person raided a nearby supply cabinet, pulling out lengths of rebar to serve as fishing rods.
Darren approached the group, carrying a spool of cable wire he’d found in the shop. “Here,” he said, tossing it onto the growing pile of supplies. “Use this for line. Strong enough to hold just about anything.”
Another worker grinned, holding up a hook they’d just finished forging. “If it doesn’t hold, I’ll wrestle the fish out myself.” The comment earned a chuckle from the group, a rare moment of levity.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
The team worked quickly, rigging together nets from leftover rope and weaving in strips of duct tape for added strength. Someone repurposed a broken rake into a crude spear, testing its balance by flipping it in their hand. Within a few hours, they had an assortment of fishing gear that, while far from perfect, looked functional.
Joel stood nearby, watching the team’s ingenuity with quiet admiration.
System Notification:
[Settlement Level-Up Detected]
The message hovered before him, glowing faintly in the air.
"Settlement upgrade: Rig Supply Depot has reached Level 2. Workbench capabilities enhanced. Resource production efficiency increased. New features unlocked."
Joel blinked at the message, then glanced toward the shop where the workbench sat. The faint hum of its activation thrummed in the distance, a pulse of power radiating outward like the beating of a heart.
Craig’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Hey, Joel, did you see that?”
Joel nodded, his eyes narrowing with a mix of curiosity and determination. “Yeah. Let’s see what this upgrade means.”
As he looked our over the yard, the sound of laughter and work followed him. Despite everything, they were finding a way to rebuild—not just the depot, but their hope.
“System Notification: Workbench claimed. Ready for task input.”
“Let’s see what you can do,” Joel muttered.
He pulled a piece of scrap metal from a nearby pile and set it on the bench. The system hummed louder, almost as if responding to his intent.
“Input task: Combine materials or craft new item?”
Joel stared at the glowing interface that had appeared above the bench. He hadn’t used it much beyond claiming it with the others, but if the system could hand out heart cards and spawn monsters, maybe it could help him rework the truck’s systems.
He thought back to the Warlock, considering its electrical systems. If he couldn’t use the battery, maybe there was a way to bypass it entirely—use something else to jumpstart the engine. But what?
He fished in his pocket, pulling out a small piece of circuitry he’d scavenged earlier. Setting it on the bench, he added a length of wire and a spare alternator he’d found among the depot’s scattered supplies.
“Combine,” Joel said firmly.
The system whirred, glowing symbols flickering across the interface. The materials began to shift, melting and reshaping under the workbench’s invisible hands. Joel leaned closer, his mechanic’s instincts kicking in despite the surreal nature of it all.
When the glow faded, a new object sat on the bench—a compact generator with sleek, streamlined wiring and a faint blue glow coursing through it.
Joel picked it up, testing its weight. It wasn’t like anything he’d worked with before, but its design radiated potential. “Okay,” he muttered, setting it on the truck’s hood. “Let’s see if this gets us somewhere.”
He spent the next hour rigging the generator to the truck’s dead electrical system, connecting wires and bypassing old circuits. The work felt oddly familiar despite the alien tech—his mechanic’s instincts kicking in.
He flipped the switch on the generator, holding his breath. For a brief moment, the faint hum of power surged through the truck, only to sputter out seconds later.
Joel cursed under his breath and tried again, adjusting the connections. A spark crackled, and the generator hissed before shutting down entirely.
System Notification:
[Failure. No compatible energy source detected.]
Frustration gnawed at him as the hours stretched. Attempts to modify the generator yielded little success, and the biting wind outside only deepened his irritation.
----------------------------------------
By the time the sun dipped lower in the sky, Joel sat slumped by the workbench, staring at the truck’s lifeless frame. His thoughts drifted aimlessly, but then something sparked—an odd, almost silly idea.
He pictured a steam locomotive, its powerful pistons pumping, the hiss of pressure escaping its valves. Heat and motion—mechanical energy born from water and fire.
Joel’s gaze snapped to the depot’s main building. Hot water heaters. They used them to keep things running even in this unforgiving cold.
“Steam,” he murmured, standing abruptly.
He grabbed a few tools and made his way inside. The heaters were large, industrial-grade, and bolted securely to the floor. He spent over an hour dismantling one, dragging its parts across the yard to the workbench.
As he worked, the system chimed again:
Local Personal System Notification:
[Mechanic's Core: Experience Gained.]
[Ingenuity Bonus: Adaptive Resourcefulness.]
Joel raised an eyebrow at the message, wiping sweat from his brow. “Good to know you’re paying attention,” he muttered.
The workbench hummed as he placed the heater’s main tank before it. The generator followed, along with salvaged gears and tubing he’d scavenged. Selecting the Combine function, he held his breath as the machine analyzed the components.
Local Work System Notification:
[Combining... Components Analyzed: Industrial Heater Core, Compact Generator, Salvaged Mechanical Parts.]
The workbench emitted a faint glow, and the components shimmered as they were consumed by its internal mechanisms.
Local Area Network System Notification:
[Success! Prototype Steam-Driven Generator Created.]
The newly forged device materialized on the workbench, a compact yet intricate creation. Pipes coiled around its central core in a labyrinthine pattern, gleaming with polished brass and dark iron. The core itself pulsed faintly, glowing a deep orange like the embers of a dying fire. Small gears clicked softly at its base, synchronized with a rhythmic hiss of steam escaping through slender, riveted vents.
Copper fittings adorned its edges, their surfaces etched with faint, decorative grooves that gave it a refined yet rugged look. A pressure gauge was mounted on the side, its needle quivering just above zero, while a small, rotating fan on top emitted a faint metallic hum, cooling the inner mechanisms.
The whole thing exuded a steampunk aesthetic, a perfect marriage of old-world mechanics and futuristic design. It felt alive, as though it were breathing with each puff of steam curling from its exhaust ports. Joel couldn’t help but marvel at its craftsmanship, a fusion of his raw ingenuity and the system’s mysterious precision.
Joel reached out, testing the warmth of the metal. A grin tugged at his lips. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
He carried the prototype to the truck, excitement pushing back his exhaustion, generator in hand. Joel connected it to the truck’s systems, his hands moving with practised ease despite the oddity of the device. Once everything was in place, he climbed back into the driver’s seat, pausing for a moment before turning the key again.
The engine sputtered, coughed, and then roared to life—a sound that was both thrilling and fleeting as it died out again with a mechanical groan.
Joel let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, a small, triumphant grin tugging at his lips despite the temporary setback. “Step one,” he murmured, patting the dashboard with a mechanic’s affection.
It wasn’t perfect—far from it—but it was progress. The truck wasn’t just a lifeless hulk anymore; it was trying, and that meant he was on the right track.
Joel knew what he had to do. The vision was there—not fully formed, but vivid enough to pull him forward. Whether it was his own instinct, the subtle push of his mechanic’s core, or the enigmatic system itself, he felt the spark of creation igniting within him. He was going to fuse technology and ingenuity, make something unique, and make it home.
The next two days became a blur of motion and determination. Joel practically moved into the back shop, setting up a makeshift workstation next to the truck. He barely slept, catching quick naps against the toolbox while his mind raced with possibilities. Tools clattered, sparks flew, and the acrid scent of burning metal and heated oil hung in the air.
The truck transformed piece by piece under his hands. Its original sleekness gave way to something both rugged and intricate. Brass panels and exposed copper piping began to wrap around the vehicle's frame, reinforcing it while adding a strange, elegant charm. Joel scavenged old gauges and dials from damaged machinery, embedding them into the dashboard. Each one served a purpose, tracking heat, pressure, or the energy levels of the generator he’d fused into the engine.
The generator itself became the heart of the vehicle, its glowing core humming with life as he wired it directly to the modified drivetrain. Exhaust vents jutted from the sides, hissing bursts of steam that danced in the dim light of the shop. Joel reinforced the wheels with scavenged plating, creating a hybrid of rugged off-road tires and steampunk artistry.
Everywhere he looked, there were challenges to solve. A broken axle became an opportunity to craft a reinforced suspension system. The fuel tank, once useless in a world without gasoline, was converted into a pressurized steam chamber, fed by the salvaged water heaters he’d stripped for parts. He wired the truck’s headlights with makeshift conduits that gave them a faint, bluish glow, powered by the generator’s energy surplus.
The truck began to look less like a vehicle and more like a mechanical beast—an armored, steam-driven hybrid of modern functionality and old-world ingenuity.
By the end of the second day, Joel stood back, wiping sweat and grease from his face with a grimy rag. His muscles ached, his eyes burned from lack of sleep, but the truck… it was alive.
He ran a hand along its hood, feeling the faint warmth radiating from the generator. The vehicle’s new brass-plated body glinted faintly in the flickering shop lights. It wasn’t just a truck anymore—it was a declaration of intent. A testament to his drive to survive, to adapt, and to make it back to his family.
Joel climbed into the driver’s seat, pressing the ignition switch. The generator hissed, the engine groaned, and then the truck roared to life with a deep, guttural rumble. Steam hissed from the side vents, the pressure gauges quivered into place, and the headlights flickered before locking into a steady glow.
A grin spread across Joel’s face as he gripped the steering wheel. “Let’s see what you can do.”