The garage smelled of oil, dust, and rusted metal. The kind of place that felt untouched for years, like time itself had stalled. Michael sat against the wall, rifle propped at his side, head tilted back against the cold brick. He hadn't slept much. His eyes burned, but his body didn't let him rest deeply not anymore.
When he blinked awake fully, the faint flicker of the system hovered in the corner of his vision.
> [SYSTEM UPDATE: Basic Crafting unlocked.]
[Blueprints available: Spiked Bat, Pipe Bomb (shrapnel), Reinforced Machete.]
[Resource requirement: Tools detected in current location.]
Michael sat forward slowly, rubbing the stiffness out of his neck. The tools scattered on the workbench pliers, hammers, scrap nails, duct tape looked ordinary. To him, they were a reminder of every deployment where soldiers had turned scrap into survival. The system wasn't magic. It was only telling him what he already suspected could be done.
"Michael?" Sarah's voice was groggy. She'd been curled up on an old blanket in the corner, hugging it like a shield. Lena sat beside her, knees to her chest, silent but alert.
"Up," Michael said quietly, standing. His tone was steady, practiced the kind of voice he used to use to wake green recruits. "We've got work."
Sarah rubbed her eyes. "Work? Here?"
He nodded toward the tools. "You don't survive long with just hope and prayers. You survive with what you can make."
He picked up a length of pipe, held it up, and then showed them the nails scattered across the table. "Spiked bat. Old trick. You don't swing it wild like in the movies you drive it straight, tight, and with purpose." His eyes locked on Sarah's. "You control the swing, or the swing controls you."
Her throat bobbed as she nodded.
He handed Lena the pipe. "Try fitting the nails through. Duct tape them down when you're done. Doesn't have to look pretty. Just has to work."
Lena's fingers shook slightly, but she got to work, threading the nails, pressing them against the pipe, and binding them with tape.
Michael turned back to Sarah and placed a machete on the table. Its edge was worn but still sharp. "This one's different. Close, fast, cleaner than a bat if you've got the guts. But…" He picked up scrap metal, layering it along the handle, then bound it tight with tape. "Reinforcement. If it slips, if blood makes it wet, this grip keeps it in your hand."
Sarah reached for it, tentative.
Michael crouched in front of her, voice low but firm. "Hold it tight. No, not like a kitchen knife like this. Thumb along the back, not across. That way, if you hit bone, the blade doesn't twist."
She adjusted her grip as he guided her hands.
"That's good," he said. "And when the time comes, you don't hesitate. Hesitation will get you killed."
Sarah swallowed hard. "But… what if I miss?"
Michael's gaze hardened. He thought of soldiers who'd asked him the same thing before their first mission. Some of them never came back. "Then you swing again. And again. Until it stops moving."
She bit her lip but nodded.
While they worked, Michael shared pieces of his past not details, but fragments.
"Afghanistan, '09," he said as he checked the crude bomb he'd assembled from an empty can, nails, and duct tape. "We had nothing but scrap. We made traps from fuel cans and shrapnel. Took out trucks twice our size. The lesson? Tools are what you make of them."
He glanced at Lena, who was nearly finished with the spiked pipe. "Not bad. Crude, but it'll put one down if you land the hit right."
Lena looked up briefly, her face pale. "You've done this before."
Michael nodded once. "Different war. Same rules. People survive when they stop waiting for rescue and start building their own."
The system blinked again.
> [Crafting Complete.]
[Spiked Bat – durability: low.]
[Reinforced Machete – durability: medium.]
[Pipe Bomb (shrapnel) – count: 2.]
Michael stored the bombs carefully in his pack, away from their food and water. He glanced at the two girls, both holding their weapons awkwardly but with a spark of determination.
"Lesson two," he said, leaning against the workbench. "Weapons don't save you. Your head does. These?" He tapped the machete, then the spiked bat. "They're tools. They work if you keep calm. They'll fail you if you panic."
Sarah tightened her grip, trying to mimic the way he held his rifle.
Michael smirked faintly. "Not bad. You're learning faster than most of the recruits I trained."
That earned him the smallest smile from her.
The garage door rattled softly in the wind, reminding him that quiet moments didn't last. He adjusted his pack, slung the rifle across his back, and nodded to the girls.
"Time to move. Houston's still a long way. And out there, nothing's waiting for us but noise and teeth."
Lena held the spiked pipe like it was the only thing tethering her to courage. Sarah followed, the machete in her hand, steps unsteady but growing firmer.
Michael scanned the street outside once more, the system overlay painting faint red warnings along the edges of his vision. He took a breath, cold and steady.
Another day alive. Another day to teach them how to stay that way.
And beneath it all, the same promise echoed in his chest he wouldn't let them die, not while he still drew breath.