The town was breathing, but just barely.
From the watchtower, Tommy could see the full sprawl of Jackson spread beneath him a rough shape against the winter valley. Walls of sharpened logs ringed the settlement, uneven but tall enough to give raiders second thoughts. Smoke lifted from half a dozen chimneys, curling into the pale sky. Inside the walls, the place looked less like a community and more like a promise that hadn't been kept yet.
Cabins were patched with scavenged plywood, doors hanging crooked on their hinges. A few stubborn houses still carried the bones of the old world porches sagging, roofs half-collapsed but life had returned to them all the same. Chickens pecked at the frozen ground. Two men dragged in a deer from the northern trail, blood bright on the snow. Children darted between lines of laundry, laughter quick but fragile, breaking off every time a whistle sounded from the walls.
Jackson was alive, but alive wasn't enough.
Tommy descended the tower steps, boots crunching against frost. He'd walked these streets every day for months now, memorized each face, each patched wall. Maria called it progress. He called it survival on borrowed time.
At the gate, a woman with tired eyes was arguing with one of the guards about food rations. Tommy stopped, rested his hands on his belt. The guard looked relieved when he approached.
"What's the trouble?" Tommy asked.
The woman turned, voice sharp. "The trouble is I've got three mouths to feed and half a loaf to do it. We can't keep stretching scraps, Tommy. Winter's not letting up."
He let her words settle. Anger, fear both justified. "I hear you," he said. "I'll talk to the council. We'll see if the hunters can push further out."
She shook her head but didn't argue further. People trusted Tommy. Maybe more than he deserved.
He made his way to the meeting hall really just an old barn stripped and reinforced, lanterns hung from beams. Maria was already there, speaking with her father. Maps lay unrolled on a rough table, stones holding the corners down. Lines were drawn in charcoal: hunting routes, patrol shifts, ration tallies.
When Tommy stepped inside, Maria gave him that look half relief, half steel. "We're talking the dam again," she said.
Her father leaned on the table, tapping one thick finger on the map where the river bent like an elbow. "It's sitting right there, son. Concrete walls, steel doors. You get that turbine running and suddenly we've got lights, heat, pumps for clean water. That's the difference between living and rotting."
Tommy pulled out a chair, sat. He'd had this argument before, but never with the weight of so many watching. Half the room was filled with townsfolk hunters, guards, even a few kids leaning in the doorway, listening like their lives depended on it. Which, in a way, they did.
He rubbed the scar on his jaw. "I'm not saying the dam isn't worth it. I know what it could give us. But it's not just a switch we flip. Raiders watch the roads. Infected choke the river paths. We send a team out there, we risk thinning Jackson's defenses."
Maria folded her arms. "And if we don't risk it, this town freezes in the dark. People are already restless."
Murmurs rose. A man near the back muttered, "She's right. My kids can't live on promises."
Tommy felt the old soldier in him stir the part that remembered planning patrols, drawing up fallback points. That voice had saved him more times than he could count, but Jackson wasn't a squad of hardened fighters. It was families, children, people who barely remembered what a rifle felt like in their hands.
Still, he knew Maria was right. If Jackson was going to last, they needed more than walls and grit. They needed power.
He stood, resting both hands on the table. "Alright. We do this smart. Small team, light gear, in and out. We scout first, make sure the dam's clear. If it looks good, we bring in the rest. No one goes in blind."
Maria's father grunted approval. Maria herself gave the faintest smile, though it didn't reach her eyes.
A hunter spoke up. "And if the dam isn't clear?"
Tommy looked around the room, meeting each pair of eyes. "Then we clear it."
The words hung heavy. People wanted reassurance, but reassurance was a currency he didn't deal in. He gave them truth, even when it cut.
That night, Tommy walked the edge of Jackson, lantern in hand. The walls cast long shadows, the timber posts creaking in the wind. He paused at the gate, staring out toward the river valley where the dam sat unseen in the dark.
Maria joined him, her coat pulled tight. "You're thinking about tomorrow," she said.
"Always."
"You sure this is the right call?"
He exhaled, breath steaming. "Right call or not, it's the only one. Without power, we're just another camp waiting to starve."
She slipped her arm through his, rested her head briefly against his shoulder. "Then we'll make it work. Like we always do."
Tommy watched the horizon. Somewhere out there, the dam waited, turbines silent, halls cold. He pictured lights flickering to life, heaters humming, kids laughing under bulbs that burned away the dark. It was a vision he couldn't shake.
"Tomorrow," he said, almost to himself. "Tomorrow we ride for the dam."
The next morning, the town stirred early. Horses were saddled, rifles checked. A dozen chosen for the run, each handpicked for steadiness under fire.
Tommy walked at the front, Maria at his side, her father seeing them off. The gates creaked open, spilling winter air into the streets. Children watched from doorways, eyes wide with hope and fear.
As they set out, Tommy felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders. Jackson needed this. The dam wasn't just concrete and turbines it was the spine of a future.
What he didn't know, not yet, was that others had already laid claim to its bones.