They didn't rush it.
Mark parked the Ford at an angle that gave cover without blocking the road, trailer settling behind it with a soft creak of springs. He killed the engine and let the silence return.
Positions were taken without discussion.
Ethan slipped away first, fast and quiet, climbing onto a low rooftop across the street where he could see the front entrance, the parking lot, and the long stretch of road behind them. He vanished from sight but not from awareness—Mark knew exactly where he'd be.
Emily stayed near the truck, one hand resting on the hood, fire-sense extended in a careful, controlled net. She wasn't looking for enemies. She was watching for *changes*.
Mark moved.
---
The supermarket's main entrance was wrong the moment he saw it up close.
Metal shutters were half-lowered, jammed in place with shopping carts, broken shelving, and pallets stacked haphazardly behind the glass. Someone had tried to reinforce it—but without time, tools, or understanding.
It wouldn't stop anything determined.
Not goblins. Not worse.
And worse than that—it was obvious.
A bright sign that said *people are hiding here*.
Mark didn't touch it.
He moved on, circling the building, boots crunching softly on gravel and old leaves. The side wall showed no damage, no forced entry. Emergency exits were chained from the inside, crude but effective against wandering things.
The rear loading dock told a different story.
The big rolling door was down—but not sealed. A gap at the bottom let out a thin line of warmer air. Not much. Just enough.
Mark stepped into the shadow of the dock, keeping his hands visible, posture relaxed but ready.
He raised his voice—not loud, not sharp.
Just human.
"Hello," he called.
"Anyone inside?"
The word echoed dully off concrete and steel.
He waited.
Emily's presence brushed against him through the distance—not words, just reassurance. The heat signatures inside shifted slightly.
People moving.
Mark tried again.
"I'm not here to take anything," he said. "I'm not a goblin. I'm not alone—but we're not hostile."
A pause.
Longer this time.
Then, from somewhere beyond the loading door, a voice answered.
Hoarse. Careful. Male.
"Say that again," the voice called back. "Slow."
Mark nodded, even though they couldn't see it.
"I'm Mark Jensen," he said. "Farmer. Ex-Army. Came in from outside town. We found you because my daughter sensed heat—people, not monsters."
Another pause.
Then shuffling.
A metal bar scraped.
The voice returned, closer now.
"If this is a trick—"
"It's not," Mark said evenly. "And if it was, that front door wouldn't have stopped anything."
That earned him a short, humorless laugh from inside.
"…Fair point."
The loading door rattled once, then lifted just enough to show a sliver of darkness beyond.
An eye appeared in the gap.
Sharp. Exhausted.
"How many of you?" the man asked.
"Three here," Mark replied. "More back at our homestead."
The eye studied him for a long moment.
"…You look real," the man said finally.
Mark allowed a faint smile. "So do you."
The door lifted another few inches.
Not open.
But open enough.
Inside the supermarket, something shifted.
Hope—or fear—Mark couldn't yet tell which.
But for the first time since Plattsmouth fell silent, the quiet was about to be broken by voices instead of echoes.
________________________________________
The loading door rose another foot.
Then another.
Mark stepped back to give space, hands still visible, posture open. The gap widened enough for faces to appear—drawn, wary, hopeful in a way that hurt to see.
They came out in pieces, not all at once.
Rachel first, eyes sharp as she took in Mark, Emily, and the open space beyond the dock. Denise followed, jaw set, already scanning for threats. Maria hovered close behind her, one hand resting protectively on a child's shoulder.
Then the kids—quiet, bundled in mismatched layers, eyes too old for their faces.
Last came Grant Heller.
He didn't look at Mark at first. He looked past him—at the truck, the trailer, the open road.
"You're really leaving," Grant said. Not a question.
"Yes," Mark replied. "Now."
That was enough.
The tension broke like a held breath.
They didn't cheer. They didn't cry. They *moved*.
Introductions were brief—names exchanged quickly, details saved for later. Mark kept it that way on purpose. This wasn't the time for stories.
"We take what we can carry fast," he said. "Dry goods only. Flour. Salt. Anything sealed."
Denise nodded immediately. "Storage room's intact."
Maria was already moving. "I'll grab sacks. Denise, help me lift."
They disappeared back inside without waiting for permission.
Emily stayed near the door, fire-sense stretched thin and wide, watching the town for any shift in heat that didn't belong. Ethan's silhouette shifted on a rooftop, keeping overwatch.
Grant, meanwhile, made his own choice.
While everyone else moved toward the store, he slipped past Mark with his head down and climbed straight into the trailer. He didn't ask where anyone wanted to sit. He didn't help load. He just pulled himself into the corner and stayed there, arms wrapped tight around his knees.
Mark noticed.
He said nothing.
Denise and Maria reappeared moments later, straining under the weight of flour sacks, salt bags slung awkwardly over shoulders.
"Careful," Mark said, stepping in to help guide the load. "We don't blow an axle."
"We're not leaving this behind," Denise replied grimly. "Not after eating rice dust for a week."
They loaded fast—efficient, practiced, the way people did when they'd learned to work together under pressure. Rachel organized the kids, keeping them close and calm. Lauren kept a hand on Noah's shoulder, murmuring reassurance. Tessa distracted Sophie with quiet questions about goats and gardens and anything that wasn't *now*.
Within minutes, the trailer was half-full—food stacked tight and low, people wedged carefully around it.
Mark did one last scan of the loading bay.
Nothing else worth risking time for.
"Alright," he said. "We're done."
The loading door came back down behind them—not barricaded this time. Just closed.
As Mark climbed back into the Ford, Emily glanced once more at the supermarket.
"It was holding together because of them," she said softly.
Mark nodded. "Places don't stay alive on their own."
The engine turned over.
The Ford pulled away from the dock, trailer heavy with flour, salt, children, and one man who hadn't lifted a finger.
Plattsmouth faded behind them—still decayed, still quiet.
But it had given up something important.
People who were ready to leave.
And supplies that would keep others alive.
________________________________________
They were already rolling when Emily stiffened in her seat.
Not fear.
Focus.
Mark noticed immediately. He eased off the accelerator without looking at her.
"What is it?" he asked.
Emily didn't answer right away. Her head turned slightly, eyes unfocused, fire-sense stretching past the town, past the road behind them.
"There's something," she said slowly. "About a mile back. Other side of the supermarket."
Mark kept his voice calm. "Something how?"
She frowned, searching for the shape of the feeling. "It's… goblin-like. But bigger. Not just one. And not moving."
Ethan leaned forward from the truck bed. "An ambush?"
Emily shook her head. "No. Too still. Too… heavy."
She swallowed. "It feels like a place."
Mark's hands tightened on the wheel. "A structure."
"Yes," Emily said immediately. "That fits. Like a nest. Or a den. Or—"
She cut herself off.
"Like it's been there a while."
Silence settled in the cab.
Mark glanced at the trailer in the side mirror—children huddled close, women bracing sacks of flour, Grant sitting small and useless in the corner.
"We're not turning around," Mark said flatly.
Emily nodded at once. "I know. I'm not asking."
Ethan shifted uneasily. "That thing related to the Hobgoblins?"
"Probably," Emily said. "It feels… organized. Anchored."
Mark exhaled through his nose. "A forward base. Or a holding site."
"Or something worse," Ethan muttered.
Emily looked back once more, fire-sense brushing that distant presence. "It doesn't feel active. More like… waiting."
Mark accelerated gently.
"Then it keeps waiting," he said. "We don't chase unknowns with civilians in tow."
Emily leaned back, tension still in her shoulders but controlled.
"I just didn't want you thinking this was random," she said. "They're not just wandering."
Mark nodded. "They never are, once they stop losing."
The road stretched ahead, familiar fields slowly returning, decay easing back into something more normal as they left town behind.
Behind them, beyond the supermarket, something large and goblin-tainted remained unmoving.
A place.
A problem for later.
And as the Ford carried people and food back toward the homestead, Mark Jensen knew one thing for certain—
They hadn't just rescued survivors.
They'd found the edge of something much bigger.
________________________________________
The homestead came into view just as the sun dipped low enough to throw long shadows across the fields.
Smoke still rose from the smokers. The trench line caught the light, a dark scar becoming a boundary. People looked up as the Ford rolled in—faces registering surprise, then relief, then something close to hope when they saw the trailer.
Children first.
That was how it always went.
Rachel helped them down carefully, one by one, hands steady, voices low. Lauren stayed close, eyes scanning the unfamiliar space, already measuring safety. Denise and Maria jumped down next, moving straight into problem-solving mode, looking for where to put food, where to help, what to do next.
Grant climbed out last.
He didn't ask where to stand. He didn't offer to help unload. He just hovered near the trailer, eyes darting, shoulders tight.
Mark took Carl aside before anyone else could.
"Word," Mark said quietly.
Carl studied his face and nodded. "Go on."
"Man named Grant Heller," Mark said. "Thirty-five. Supermarket group. He didn't help load. He didn't help organize. First thing he did was climb into the trailer."
Carl's mouth tightened—not in surprise.
"I know him," Carl said. "Worked a few jobs around town years back. Loud opinions. No follow-through."
Mark nodded. "He's scared. And he lets other people carry that fear for him."
Carl snorted softly. "Figures."
"He's not dangerous by himself," Mark continued. "But he'll poison morale if he gets space."
Carl's eyes flicked toward Grant, who was now pretending to be very interested in the ground.
"I'll keep him close," Carl said. "And busy."
Mark met his gaze. "Or gone, if it comes to it."
Carl didn't smile—but he didn't disagree.
"Understood."
They turned back as the unloading began in earnest.
Flour sacks were stacked under cover. Salt bags moved inside. The women coordinated without being asked, falling into roles that made sense. The children clustered near the fire, eyes wide but calmer now, fed by the simple truth of people working around them.
Emily stood off to the side, fire-sense sweeping the perimeter as the homestead absorbed its new weight.
Ethan leaned against the fence, watching the treeline. "You think they followed?"
"No," Emily said. "But they noticed."
Carl overheard that and nodded. "Good. Let them."
Mark looked around at the gathered people, the food, the growing walls.
They'd brought more mouths.
But they'd also brought hands.
And one known problem.
As evening settled in, the homestead adjusted—stretching to fit the newcomers, not breaking under them.
And Carl Henley, already cataloging tasks in his head, knew exactly where to put Grant Heller.
Somewhere he'd either learn to pull his weight—
Or make his nature impossible to ignore.
________________________________________
Grant didn't last five minutes without being noticed.
Carl didn't confront him. He didn't raise his voice. He simply watched—long enough to confirm what he already knew—then pointed.
"You," Carl said, nodding toward a stack of flour sacks still sitting near the trailer. "Inside. Pantry corner. Stack them two high, rotate the older ones forward."
Grant blinked. "I— I don't really—"
Carl's eyes didn't harden. They settled.
"You do," he said. "Everyone does."
Grant opened his mouth, glanced around for support, found none, and muttered something under his breath as he grabbed a sack. He staggered slightly under the weight, face flushing, but he moved.
Carl watched him go, then turned his attention elsewhere, already done with the matter.
The homestead absorbed the newcomers the way it had absorbed everything else—by assigning purpose.
Denise and Maria were pulled into food logistics almost immediately, comparing notes with Sarah and Ruth on what they had, what would last, what needed to be stretched. Rachel gravitated toward the children, helping establish a quiet corner near the hearth where they could sit, eat, and stop watching every adult's face for bad news.
Harold walked the perimeter with Lauren, pointing out where the walls would rise, where fields would spread.
"This much space," he said, gesturing with his cane. "Enough for families. Enough to breathe."
Lauren nodded slowly. "It feels… possible here."
"It is," Harold replied. "Because people are building instead of hiding."
Emily stood near the edge of it all, fire-sense brushing the new arrivals. No hostile heat. No sharp edges. Just fear easing into exhaustion.
She caught Mark watching her and gave a small nod.
"They're okay," she said quietly. "Just… empty."
Mark nodded. "That passes."
As dusk deepened, the homestead tightened its routines.
Sentries were reassigned. Extra eyes added. The children were fed first, then settled down with blankets and low voices nearby. The smokers continued their steady work, blue smoke threading up into the darkening sky.
Grant finished stacking flour and stood there awkwardly, unsure where to go next.
Carl appeared beside him as if summoned by indecision.
"Good," Carl said, glancing at the stacks. "You can help cut kindling next."
Grant swallowed. "I'm not really—"
Carl handed him a splitting maul.
"You are now."
Grant stared at it like it might bite him.
Carl leaned in just enough for the words to land quietly.
"Everyone here earns their space," he said. "That includes you."
Grant nodded stiffly and walked toward the woodpile.
Carl watched him go, then turned to Mark, who had observed the exchange from a distance.
"He'll either adapt," Carl said, "or isolate himself."
"And if he isolates?" Mark asked.
Carl shrugged lightly. "Problems that announce themselves are easier to solve."
Night settled fully.
The homestead glowed—fires contained, perimeter watched, voices low but present. It wasn't safe in the way the old world had been.
But it was held.
Mark stood for a moment longer, looking out toward the dark fields, toward the distant line where town and forest met.
Somewhere beyond that, something big and goblin-tainted waited.
But for tonight, people were fed. Children slept. Walls were becoming real.
That was enough.
Tomorrow would bring its own work.