Days pass at the township, as the residents attempt to pick themselves up and leave the town, as they all recover from their shared trauma, as they move forward as best they can. The town itself has been completely upturned, not just because so much of it is now covered in countless bullet holes and dried blood. It’s also because the sounds of life that previously surrounded it are more or less gone. Or at least, diminished.

The barn has long since been emptied and its gates opened. Some of the chickens and goats have gone out into their usual feeding fields to do their daily thing, though most have already wandered into the woods further and have made new lives out there.

You like to imagine that they’re all doing their own kind of walkabout, each in their own ways. Hopefully chickens and goats are capable of finding enlightenment in the first place.

The southern side of the town is relatively empty and quiet, too. Most of the occupied houses have been opened up and cleared of everything useful and valuable and memorable. And everything unwieldy or heavy or impractical are left wherever they’re found.

Even the shops that circle around the Town Square have been emptied out. Since everything they hold are among the most valuable items in the town, most have been packed away for later. The only things left in the shops are scraps, dust, and other useless detritus.

Thankfully, the Town Square itself is relatively lively. Just about everyone from the town is here - or at least the forty or so that didn’t leave for the Fortress. Most are resting wherever there’s shade, and the rest lug around sacks or crates of various things into the square itself.

Everyone’s geared up for the long hike northward and have donned their most rugged gear and largest packs. Not that the townsfolk are carrying all their personal effects and gear, of course.

There are four carts surrounding the fountain, each one of various sizes and makes. The two largest are truck utility trailers made of heavy-duty steel. You’ve seen these on the road before, at least before the end of the world. They’re the kind that hitch up to the back of some big pickup or van, and are usually loaded up with logs or furniture or whatever.

Their ramps have been lowered, allowing various townsfolk to stuff them with everything they can.

Perhaps the smallest of the carts is an older-style farm wagon. Not the wood kind that’s bound with cast iron and all rickety. This one is basically like the truck trailers, but without any outer rails to keep things in. It’s just a flat wooden bed on wheels with a thin layer of flattened straw on top of it.

It looks as though someone is welding some kind of rail at the rear - presumably to keep things from falling off when the thing starts moving.

The cart that’s middling in size is an old one. It looks like an old-timey luggage cart that’s usually shown off at train stations, as though they’re some kind of historical artifact. You suppose that they are, in their own way. But now that you’re seeing one in person, you’re less than awed.

Its design is basically similar to the others, in that it's a flat bed on wheels. What makes this one different is that it has relatively tall wooden barriers on various sides in order to keep plenty of luggage inside. Kind of like those baggage carts that airports use when they load up the planes, except this one is probably a hundred years old now.

But instead of a sleek modern baggage carrier, what’s in front of you looks like it has been made out of rusted steel and rotted wood all along.

You would never think to actually get on top of it, if it wasn’t for the wheels and axles. It looks like someone has gone through great pains to clean up all the rust and debris around those moving parts, and even greased them up rather generously. The old metal wheels have been taken off, and more modern wheels have been attached. You guess these have been salvaged from whatever derelict tractors are around.

Plenty bits of flaked off metal, clumps of dried mud, and various other clusters of unidentifiable stuff litters the ground underneath it.

Each of the carts have been modified significantly - all of them previously had hitches designed for cars and trucks and tractors and such. But without gasoline or working car batteries those hitches are all but useless.

Instead, some of the townsfolk have shorn them off and welded on steel horse hitching. You count about eight of them laying around near the carts, which makes you suppose that the town has eight horses somewhere.

Beyond that, no matter their size, each of the carts have been packed tight with all of the residents’ larger things. Their tools and implements, dried meats and grains, spare arms and munitions, so on and so forth. Each one also holds a medium-sized chest, each of which hold a variety of crop seeds from corn to Jerusalem artichokes to beets to filberts to tomatoes, and more. The sheer variety astounds you.

Perhaps most critically, all of the carts have dedicated water collection barrels on them. All are relatively standard molded plastic 50 gallon drums, but with special kinds of tops on them. Instead of a regular lid, it’s a stretchy waterproof fabric with a filtered hole in the center. There are weights on the filter that pulls the hole down a few inches, making a wide but shallow funnel leading straight in.

This ingeniously allows the townsfolk to collect rainwater, even while they travel.

It’s so pragmatic and clever and obvious that you find yourself a little envious. If only you have a more portable version of that rain collection system, one that works while you’re traveling, then you’d be set. Having a renewable source of water would be a game changer for you. After all, you can’t rely on finding bottled, purified water everywhere you go. At some point, that supply is gonna dry up.

Just as your own worries about the flow of water start to rise, a physical bottle of water is placed right in front of you, blocking half your view of the square. When you turn your head to see who’s holding it, you see Frank with a wide grin on his face.

“I was calling out your name but I don’t think you were quite here,” he says. “Figured I’d get your attention this way instead.”

He then places the bottle in your hands, then adds a second one to them.

“Said I owed you water,” Frank continues. “And I’ve still got more if you need. Just say how much and it’s yours.”

“This is more than enough,” you reply. “Thank you.”

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“You sure? I’ve got plenty. I’m sure you don’t.”

You stuff the two bottles into your messenger bag, causing it to become close to full. That causes the bag to become that much heavier, and you physically feel its weight dragging your shoulder down. It feels awkward and uncomfortable, and so you instead shuck your pack off and place all but one of your water bottles in it instead.

As you do so, you realize that perhaps water truly is the most valuable thing out here, besides those seeds. Everything needs it, and it’s in shorter and shorter supply with every day that passes. It makes so much more sense that they’re in your trading pack now.

Water is very likely the currency of the future, and everything else will be weighed against it.

You make a note to figure out how to carry more water, without getting too overburdened by it. Then you snap out of your own thoughts, seconds after you realize that you’re still talking to Frank, and that he’s still waiting for you to respond.

“Sorry, I got lost there for a sec,” you say sheepishly, but Frank doesn’t seem to mind. “Anyway, I can’t carry too much water no matter what. Not just ‘coz they’re kinda heavy and awkward, but I don’t have too much space to begin with.”

Frank nods in understanding - your hiking pack is only a day pack. Might be a bit larger than other day packs, but still small in general.

“I might have a weekender bag somewhere,” Frank says. “It’d be an upgrade to the one you got. Could carry twice as much, I’m guessing.”

Though it’d be a good idea to take him up on his offer and put on a pack twice as large, you shake your head in refusal.

“I’d rather stay light,” you tell him. “Mostly so I can hide or run or fight better and all that. But thanks for the offer. I, uh, appreciate it.”

Frank nods in understanding again. He then turns his gaze at the road heading northward out of the square and through the town. Anticipation and anxiety waft off from him in heavy waves, making clear that he’s both excited and afraid of the path ahead of him, of the whole town.

“You sure you can’t come with us north?” he asks after a long minute.

“I’ve gotta keep going west,” you reply. “I feel like it’s been calling me for years now since this all started. And it’s high time I listened to that.”

“I get it, and I don’t blame you. We all got that kinda calling sometimes. I know I did. It hit me deep, drove me towards something I couldn’t quite grasp, not at the time. So if that’s what you’re feeling too, then I know there’s nothing I can say or do to stop you.”

As you thank him for understanding, you wonder how his own journey looked like. How he made it through it and ended up wherever he did.

“Did you go on a walkabout?” you ask. “That’s what I’m doing now. Walking. Thinking. Hopefully changing for the better along the way.”

“Walkabout, huh?” he replies. “Sounds leagues better than what I did. I joined the army. They said it was about self actualization, among other horseshit. I guess it kinda was in its own way, just not what I wanted or expected.”

“Why’d you stay?”

“Ain’t the kind to wash out. And also ‘coz I was promised seeing the world, which was what I actually needed to do. I wanted to meet randoms everywhere, yokels like me out in the back woods of wherever. Make friends with them.”

Frank’s throat dries as he speaks, until his voice cracks and his psyche fills with a sorrow that’s been softened by decades.

“Instead I ended up aiming down sights at ‘em,” he continues after a choked pause. “Anyway, I hope if that ever happens to you, that you know to keep your arm down and your head calm, instead of squeezing that trigger while blind red.”

You turn to look down the road, at whatever Frank is looking at as well. You can’t see what he sees, at least beyond the road itself. That turns off northwest at some point further, obscuring the rest of it behind the thick treeline flanking it.

Now you understand why he didn’t point his weapon back at Carl, even if he wanted to.

The silence fills the space between you, though you break that silence before it becomes truly uncomfortable.

“Well no matter what, I’ll still journey with you at least for a week or two,” you say. “Gotta help you all acclimate to… this kinda travel. It isn’t easy.”

“We all certainly appreciate it,” Frank replies. “Especially Nance. Says she can’t wait for you to teach her some tricks or something.”

“Yeah, I told her I’d teach her what I know while I can. That way, you’ll have access to my powers, but with someone you can trust with your life.”

“I think it’s worth saying that we all trust you with our lives already.”

“Ah, well, you know what I mean,” you say awkwardly.

“You, uh, think she can handle what you can do?” Frank asks after a second. His doubt is clear in his voice.

Both of you turn your eyes to Nance, who’s over with her team near one of the carts. All of them are working together to pack their extra guns and ammunition onto it, along with whatever nonessentials they still have.

You note that every single one of them in her team are much more kitted out than usual. Now they’re all wearing ballistic vests, knee and elbow pads, and weapon slings. More than that, they’ve switched out their rifles for the ones that the ‘gangers’ were using, which are mass-produced carbine automatic rifles.

Perfect for skirmishes such as the one you’ve all defended from.

They’re all also wearing large packs on their backs, much larger than yours. They contain all their clothes, meds, food, water, supplies, ammo, at least as far as you can tell. And it seems like they have enough to last them a week in there.

Even Nance is relatively kitted out, though with a pack about the size of yours. She’s also sporting a large waist pack up front, which makes you think it’s filled with coupons and cash and maybe a snack. But of course, it’s filled with what seems to be her meds, a first aid kit, and a multitool, knife, and flashlight.

Nance herself isn’t athletic, or at least she doesn’t consider herself that. Unlike her rather fit team, she’s a bit soft in the middle. Which makes sense given her age - you guess she’s about five or six years younger than Frank.

You sense her mind and body struggle with everything around her, from all the aches and pains that her body is feeling, to the outright irritation from the pack’s straps on her shoulders. Despite it all, you also sense her drive pushing all those gripes away.

“She’ll be fine,” you finally reply. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

“Well, you can clearly see more than I do,” Frank says. “So I’m sure you’re right.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Known Nance for two decades now. Always been clumsy, stubbing toes and dropping books. She was one of the town’s teachers. Middleschoolers, I think. Now, nothing wrong with that, but what I’m saying is that she ain’t the physical, outdoor type.”

“Well, she was up front during all the fighting, right? That’s gotta count for something.”

Frank nods in agreement, after a few seconds of reflection.

“Like I said, you see more than me. And if you say Nance can do the same as you, then I’m happy.”

“She oughta know better than all of us how to learn, so yeah.”

A sense of peace washes over Frank, just enough to ease the rest of his tensions a little. His shoulders relax somewhat as a result.

While the two of you ponder the potential of your futures, one member of Frank’s team runs up to him with his breath a little out of sorts. He’s kitted out similarly to Nance’s team, and looks well-prepared for the road ahead.

“Chief!” he says. “Everyone’s just about rested and ready to head out. Only got a few last minute things to deal with, but we’re on ‘em.”

Frank turns to reply, reinflating himself as he does so. His previously relaxed state is gone as quickly as it arrives.

“That’s damned good news,” he replies. “Let’s get the horses hitched and those carts lined up now. That way we can hit the road an hour from now, just when the sun sets.”

“We’re traveling at night?” asks the townsperson.

“Only way you all won’t get cooked by the sun,” you reply.