Beyond The Frontline

Fragment November

There were no grand welcomes when they returned. Just quiet nods and a few relieved smiles.

Exhausted and dust-covered, the four of them took their well-earned rest without question. The adrenaline had long since faded, and sleep came fast and deep. Only after they had washed off the road and war from their bodies did the debrief truly begin.

In Theo's old home, now an unofficial meeting spot, the familiar faces had gathered again—Kap, Arin, Loyd, Schmit, Glen, Freya, and a few others. Colt sat at the table, arms crossed, listening intently.

Kap was first to speak, delivering his report with precision. "Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Minor disputes, nothing serious. Patrols held up. No sightings of stragglers from the Black Dogs or other threats. Supply storage remains intact. We're rationing where needed."

Colt nodded once.

Freya leaned forward, her tone lighter. "My team and the survivor group are settling in. They've been helping where they can. No friction between anyone, which is more than I expected, honestly."

Others around the table murmured in agreement.

"We've been keeping things moving," Loyd added. "Workshops are back in full swing. No shortages yet."

"Same with the herbal stocks," Glen spoke up next. "But Arin and I've got some basics growing again."

The talk continued like that. Like an annual report, one piece at a time. And through it all, Colt listened, piecing together the current state of the village.

It wasn't thriving. But it was standing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A month passed.

Life, while not easy, had found its rhythm again. The village and its people continued to survive. No major threats, no drama.

The town of Rine was picked clean. Every resource, every usable scrap of wood, metal, cloth, and anything that could be repurposed was stripped clean and carted back in trips until the only thing left behind were hollow buildings and dust. It was emptied not by force, but by necessity.

Back in the village, the rifle production line saw a short but productive run. They stopped once they hit forty units, shifting focus towards ammunition. That part started strong, thanks to the salvaged materials, but gradually slowed as limited resources caught up with them. More people meant tighter allocation.

There were now thirty trained shooters, competent and reliable. The remaining ten rifles were kept as spares, just in case. Colt had considered with the idea of teaching every able-bodied person how to shoot, but the cost in ammunition would've been ridiculous, even by his standards. For now, it was quality over quantity.

That might change down the line. But for now?

Things were running smooth.

Morning sunlight poured through the window, casting a warm glow across the wooden desk cluttered with papers and notes. At the center of it all sat Colt, slouched slightly, head resting on one hand, eyes scanning a report with practiced boredom. His hair was unkempt, it was less from neglect, more from the habit of running a hand through it too many times.

A steaming cup of tea sat to his right. His Beretta rested on top of a stack of papers, acting as a makeshift paperweight.

He let out a quiet sigh through his nose, muttering as he read, "Twelve belts left for the M249...eight full mags in reserve..."

He lifted his eyes and glanced at the M27 leaning against the wall nearby, its matte black frame catching a glint of the morning light.

"All shooters with thirty rounds each," he continued under his breath. "Spare stock's at five hundred."