The outpost raid had given them more than supplies. It had given them momentum.
Crates of rifles and antibiotics sat stacked in the turbine hall, their presence almost unreal. For years, survival had meant scrounging scraps, fighting over crumbs. Now, for the first time, they had enough to think past tomorrow.
Michael didn't celebrate.
He spent that night hunched over a workbench with a lantern, pen scratching across scavenged paper. The system pulsed in his skull, quiet but steady, dropping fragments of blueprints into his thoughts. He copied them down in rough sketches: walls built from scrap cars and welded beams. Towers of wood and steel rising above the dam. Weapons pieced together from pipes, propane, and pressure.
The drawings weren't pretty, but they didn't need to be. They only needed to hold.
By morning, he spread the sketches across a table in the turbine hall. Survivors gathered, staring down at the rough lines.
"First step is defenses," Michael said. His voice carried through the hall, calm but firm. "High walls. Strong towers. Nothing gets in unless we want it to."
Tommy leaned over the table, arms folded. "We've got the people. We'll need time."
Alice smirked. "And a hell of a lot of scrap."
"Then we start digging," Michael said.
The dam turned into a worksite.
Hunters stripped the nearby forest for logs, dragging them back with ropes and horses. Mechanics raided the abandoned road for rusted cars, hauling them up the slope and stacking them like bricks. Welders cut and hammered day and night, sparks flying as metal groaned and bent into shape.
The first watchtower rose on the ridge after three days. It was ugly, all mismatched beams and scavenged nails, but it stood. From the top, the valley stretched wide and open, a hundred blind spots now visible. A boy climbed it first, his grin wide when he shouted down that he could see smoke miles away.
By the fifth day, the first wall section was finished. Cars welded door to door, steel plates braced with timber, gaps filled with scavenged scrap. When the gate closed, the dam no longer felt like a ruin. It felt like a stronghold.
Michael wrote in his log that night: The dam is becoming a fortress when the first tower stood, Michael brought out new sketches. Weapons.
He laid them out by the fire, the survivors leaning close in the flickering light. A machete with a propane torch strapped to its spine. A pipe rifle powered by compressed air. An arm brace built from a car jack, storing force like a spring-loaded hammer.
"These aren't clean weapons," Michael said. "They're ugly. They're dangerous. Some will break. Some will backfire. But they'll buy you one more swing. One more breath. That's all we need."
Alice grinned, grease already smeared across her cheek. "Let's see what blows up first."
Testing was rough.
The compressed-air rifle spat its first bolt twenty feet, then hissed, the pipe splitting with a loud crack. The shooter swore, dropping it before the tank burst.
The hydraulic punch sleeve looked promising until its first trial. When the spring slammed forward, the brace buckled, twisting the tester's wrist. He screamed, clutching his arm, while Alice cursed and ripped the sleeve apart for redesign.
The torch-machete roared to life with a burst of fire, its edge glowing orange in the dark. It cut through a rotted log in one swing, sparks trailing like a comet. But two minutes later, the propane hissed too hot, the flame sputtering before almost catching the user's coat.
"Not safe," Tommy growled.
"Not safe," Alice agreed. Her grin didn't fade. "But scary as hell."
By the end of the week, weapons lined the racks in the turbine hall. Heavy, brutal, ugly but sharp. A rebar club with nails jutting out like teeth. A machete reinforced with steel plates. Spears tipped with sharpened pipe. They weren't perfect, but they were theirs.
Defenses followed the same rhythm: trial, error, and adaptation.
Noise traps were strung along the outer paths cans tied to wires, old radios hooked to stripped batteries. If something moved in the dark, the whole camp would know.
Spring-loaded spike traps were buried at the dam's weak flanks, triggered by hidden plates. Michael tested one himself. The rebar slammed up with enough force to punch through a car door. Everyone nodded, impressed, until Alice muttered: "Don't step in the wrong place, or we'll be burying our own."
Tripwire bombs came last. A propane tank here, a scavenged grenade there, all wired with trembling hands. Michael warned the group twice over where they were set. Even so, the tension in their voices grew when they walked those paths at night.
By the second week, the dam's face had changed.
Watchfires burned on the towers. The walls stood high and jagged, steel teeth gleaming under torchlight. Survivors walked with purpose, weapons at their sides.
And word spread.
First came a family of four from the north. They arrived thin, pale, half-starved, but alive. Michael met them at the gate, rifle across his chest. He asked no questions about their past. He only handed them tools. "Earn your place," he said. They did.
Then came three hunters, scarred men carrying bows. They offered their skill for a warm bed and steady meals. Michael accepted.
By the tenth day, more voices echoed in the dam's halls. Children's laughter returned, high and bright, mixing with the clang of hammers and the hiss of welding torches. For the first time in years, the place felt alive.
Still, Michael never forgot the Firefly notes. The Cordyceps fungus is mutating.
Each night, after the fires burned low, he sat alone with his logbook, copying down what progress they had made. Walls here. Towers there. Weapons tested and failed, then tested again. Survivors arrived, names listed, faces sketched.
The system stirred again one evening, soft as a whisper in the back of his mind:
> [Construction Protocol Progressing]
Structures: Watchtowers, Walls, Traps.
Weapons: Improvised, Functional.
[Blueprint Potential: Automated Defenses / Signal Relay Tower]
Michael stared at the new lines that burned faintly across his thoughts. He didn't show them to anyone. Not yet.
He closed the book, rose, and walked the walls. Above him, the watchfires burned bright. Below, the river roared against the dam, endless and steady.
For the first time, Michael allowed himself to believe they weren't just surviving anymore.
They were building and when the fungus showed what it was becoming, they would be ready.