In addition to the drilled wells, the commune also maintains a handful of hand pump wells, strategically located in areas with a high water table. These shallow wells were here before everyone else and were easier to maintain and provide water for non-potable needs, such as irrigation for crops and washing. Although hand pump wells are more susceptible to impurities, the people of Oksj? take no risks when it comes to water quality. Every week, a small team from the Water Collective, a group of a few skilled and dedicated volunteers, samples and tests the water from every source. They meticulously check for impurities, ensuring that the water is safe for all its intended uses.
To prepare for dry spells and ensure water is always available, Oksj? has invested heavily in large storage tanks and cisterns. These systems, scattered throughout the commune, hold water collected from both the wells and occasional rainwater harvesting. Rainwater, while less predictable, is captured from the roofs of communal buildings and stored in cisterns that are filtered and treated for secondary use, such as irrigation.
The tanks are the pride of Oksj?'s engineers, designed with insulation to prevent freezing in the harsh Swedish winters and coated to protect the water from algae growth in summer. During rainy seasons, the tanks are filled to capacity, creating reserves that can sustain the commune during less fruitful months. This redundancy ensures Oksj? rarely suffers from water shortages, a reputation that makes it the envy of other nearby settlements. Although most of these conditions had yet to be tested. Until recently only pumping wells were available.
Unlike many settlements where water is rationed sparingly, Oksj?’s water allocation reflects the community’s commitment to both equity and care for its residents. Every member of the commune, from the youngest child to the elders who share their wisdom, is entitled to:
- 4 liters of drinking water per day – a generous amount compared to other settlements, where even 2 liters is a luxury.
- 15 liters for washing and hygiene daily – allowing for simple but effective hygiene routines. This allotment also includes laundry and communal cleaning.
However, the system is designed to reward those who shoulder the more physically demanding roles. Fighters or Fotsoldater as they are called in Swedish, patrol the fence and the surrounding village, hills and forests to ensure the safety of the commune, and the builders, who labor to expand and maintain the settlement’s structures, are given additional allowances:
- 6 liters of drinking water daily – recognizing the toll their work takes on their bodies and ensuring they stay hydrated and healthy.
- Unlimited war showers in the manor (up to 15 minutes) for every day they serve on duty – a privilege that both honors their contribution and ensures they can wash away the grime and sweat of their hard work. Only if they cleaned the showers after they are done.
These policies create a sense of fairness and motivation within the commune. Residents know their needs will be met, but they also understand that extraordinary effort is recognized and rewarded.
Farming is the backbone of Oksj?, not just providing food for its people but also surplus goods for trading with neighboring communes. Managing water for agriculture is a significant part of the commune’s operations, and they have adopted innovative techniques to ensure that every drop of water is used wisely.
Crops and Water Needs
The commune grows a mix of high-yield staple crops like potatoes, carrots, and grains, alongside more water-intensive vegetables like cabbage and berries. Their agricultural lands are carefully divided into:
- Primary fields: Dedicated to staple crops with moderate water needs.
- Greenhouses: Used for year-round cultivation of high-value vegetables like tomatoes and cucumbers, requiring controlled irrigation.
- Orchards and berry fields: Which are planted with deep-rooted plants that can withstand minor droughts but still need occasional watering during dry spells.
Irrigation System
To minimize waste, Oksj? uses a drip irrigation system across all their fields. This system delivers water directly to the base of each plant, reducing evaporation and runoff. The graywater collected from sinks, showers, and laundry is treated through a simple filtration system of sand, gravel, and plants, then repurposed for irrigation. This ensures that no water is wasted and that even non-potable water contributes to the commune’s food security.
Seasonal Adjustments
In the dry summer months, when rainfall is scarce, the commune prioritizes watering their most critical crops, allowing less essential fields to go fallow temporarily. Mulching techniques are employed to retain soil moisture, and water-intensive crops are planted in smaller quantities. During winter, when the ground is frozen, snowmelt collected in cisterns supplements irrigation needs for greenhouse farming.
Livestock Watering
Oksj? also maintains a modest number of livestock, including chickens, goats, and a small herd of cows. However, a heated debate is currently underway about whether to phase out the remaining cows, as their upkeep is notably resource-intensive. At the same time, finding an ox or two has become a priority for the commune, as they could greatly assist with farming and reduce reliance on more labor-intensive methods.
Water for the animals is drawn primarily from the shallow wells and occasionally supplemented by rainwater. Animal waste is composted and used as fertilizer, closing the loop between water, food, and soil health.
Every resident of Oksj? plays a role in water conservation. The Graywater Recycling Team works tirelessly to collect and filter water from sinks, showers, and laundry, repurposing it for irrigation. The Farming Collective maintains the irrigation systems, ensures that crops are prioritized according to the commune’s needs, and experiments with drought-resistant plants to improve resilience.
Children learn from an early age about the importance of water conservation, with community lessons that include activities like building small rain catchers or helping with planting and watering. The kitchens practice conservation by using water sparingly and reusing it for cleaning when possible.
Sofia gave her report one final review. The pages she had carefully written were meant to serve as a briefing for newcomers, a concise introduction to help them understand the workings and values of Oksj?.
Przemek waking up early to take a shower had jogged her memory—she needed to hand those pages over to Stefan later today.
The heat inside the makeshift cabin was unbearable. Despite precautions taken for the summer, this hastily constructed shelter was designed with the biting Scandinavian winter in mind, not the relentless summer heat. It trapped the warmth like an oven, offering no relief.
Sofia couldn’t wait to step outside and shower, even if it was just for five minutes of freshness. Sweat trickled down her face, threatening to drip onto the pages she’d worked so hard on. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, the damp paper sticking faintly to her palm. Even stripped down to a simple T-shirt and briefs, the heat was oppressive, clinging to her like a second skin as she hoped she’d get used to the heat soon.
“Nick!” Ming called out, her voice carrying through the air as Nikolaj walked out the main gate with Amir. Both men turned around, Nikolaj suddenly remembering what he had forgotten. He pulled the key of the mortar round cases from around his neck and handed it to her. Ming smiled, her expression softening as she took it from him. With a quick glance back, she helped close the heavy main gate behind her. The Oakley sun and shooting glasses perched on Nikolaj’s nose felt precarious, ready to slip off from the sweat streaming down his face. The relentless summer heat was made worse by the plate carrier strapped tightly to his chest. Whether it was paranoia or just his way of taking things seriously, the vest was a non-negotiable for him—but it came at the cost of a constant, suffocating layer of sweat trapped between the carrier, his T-shirt, and his skin. Amir, walking beside him with his AR slung casually across his chest, had taken a lighter approach. No vest, just the rifle. He looked more at ease, his movements fluid compared to Nikolaj’s rigid, gear-laden gait. The task ahead wasn’t complicated—just a routine walk around the camp to mark the distance between the existing wall and where the second layer of fortifications was to be built.
The reason for the second wall was clear to anyone who had lived through the last year. Oksj?'s wooden perimeter wall, though sturdy and well-constructed, was a single line of defense. If it was ever breached, there would be nothing but open ground between the attackers and the heart of the commune.
The truth was, both Nikolaj and Amir understood that no one wanted to endure a siege, no matter how strong the walls were. The walls weren’t a final solution—they were a means to buy time, to contain any attackers long enough to mount a counterattack and fight their way out.
With a population of 202, Oksj? could muster around 80 fighters—men and women who had trained for this very scenario. The rest of the commune, those unable to fight, had a clear directive: during an attack, they would make their way to the manor at the center of the settlement and shelter in the newly expanded underground basement. This space had been fortified to withstand anything short of a direct bombing, providing safety for the vulnerable while the fighters took their positions. Plans were being made to create a tunnel that would bring people out of the settlement. But until the builders came up with it, countering and beating an enemy force whatever it may be was priority as retreat was not an option.
The plan was simple in theory but complex in execution. Fighters stationed on the walls and rooftops, supported by mortar teams, sharpshooters and mounted machine guns, would focus on softening up the attackers. Once the enemy was weakened, the real work began. A breakout—swift, coordinated, and devastating.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Amir and his committee had devised a plan centered around small-team tactics. Ten-man squads would be the backbone of any manoeuvre, each with a specific role and route to follow. The breakout would hinge on their ability to act quickly and decisively, exploiting the chaos created by the defenders on the walls. Some teams would pour out of the main gate, while others would slip through secondary exits, flanking and outmaneuvering the attackers. Plans for tunnels so that fighters could stealthily leave the settlement to pop out and flank the attackers were also discusses but the priority laid on a main evacuation tunnel for the entirety of the community.
At the heart of the plan was their "Ace in the Hole," a counter assault team made out of 10 to 15 of their best fighters. The Ace team’s job was brutal and simple: they would take the brunt of the assault head-on, holding the attackers' attention and drawing their fire as they breached out of the gate and opened the possibility for the smaller teams to exit. Heavily armored, equipped and battle-hardened, they were the spearhead, the tip of the blade that would lead the charge.
While the Ace team engaged the enemy, the smaller squads would strike from unexpected angles. Whether advancing directly through the front gate alongside the Ace team or using concealed secondary exits to flank their attackers, the goal was to confuse, divide, and dismantle the assault force piece by piece.
The plan wasn’t perfect—no plan ever was—but it was built on the principles of mobility, aggression, and coordination. Oksj?’s defenders wouldn’t just survive a siege; they’d end it decisively, chasing off anyone foolish enough to attack their home. For Nikolaj and Amir, the walls weren’t just a barrier—they were a trap, one designed to turn any attackers’ ambitions into their undoing.
Once a direct attack was countered, the teams would quickly reposition, taking up defensive positions in the surrounding valleys and hills. From these vantage points, they could regroup, secure the area, and assess the remaining threat. It wasn’t enough to drive attackers off—Oksj?’s defenders needed to be sure the threat was neutralized before letting their guard down.
The stakes were always high. More than one settlement had fallen not just from the initial force of a siege, but from its prolonged toll—exhaustion, dwindling supplies, or the crushing weight of uncertainty. Oksj?’s resolve to avoid such a fate was visible everywhere. Makeshift flags adorned with a painted skull and bold, defiant words—“No gods, no masters, no cowards”—fluttered in the wind above some of the walls.
Although unofficial and divisive, these flags had become a symbol for many of the guardsmen and women. The committees that governed Oksj? and a majority of its people didn’t officially condone the slogan or its imagery, deeming it too crude, too provocative. But that didn’t stop it from spreading. The skull and slogan could be found everywhere in the guard’s quarters—hung in make shift flags on the walls of their rooms, locker rooms, even scribbled onto personal gear.
Nikolaj couldn’t help but stare at the field infront of him. The slight breeze coming from that gave him some comfort as Amir measured the distance with tape between the wall and the picket fence infront of him.
“Maja asked about you again yesterday,” Nikolaj said, wiping his face with the back of his hand before pulling out one of the rolled cigarettes he’d prepared earlier. He lit it with a practiced flick of his lighter, taking a slow drag as they walked.
“What’d she ask this time?” Amir asked, his tone carrying an edge of amusement as he rolled up his measuring tape. He scribbled the latest measurements into his notebook, not even glancing up.
Nikolaj exhaled a thin stream of smoke, smirking slightly. “She saw you talking to Sofia and wanted to know if there was anything between you two.”
Amir let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Helvete,” he muttered, slipping his measuring tape back onto his belt. “Przemek would screw my head clean off my neck if there was.”
He kept his pace casual, his stride unbothered, but the corner of his mouth twitched in mild irritation. Nikolaj followed close behind, still puffing on his cigarette, his expression unreadable.
“She made me swear three times that there wasn’t anything,” Nikolaj added after a beat, his tone carrying just a hint of teasing.
“Well, you made your bed!” Nikolaj said, his voice thick with mock sympathy.
“I told you how she lost her shit that one time because I asked her if she could sleep in her room because of the heat,” Amir shot back, shaking his head in exasperation.
“Oh, boo hoo,” Nikolaj replied, smirking as he took another drag from his cigarette. “You knew she was like that. With all that dick-swinging confidence of yours, you’re telling me you can’t spot crazy pussy?”
Amir laughed dryly, adjusting his belt as they walked. “Oh, looks like someone hasn’t been to Maja’s equality and gender talk from last week,” he retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Nikolaj snorted, clearly unimpressed. Amir, meanwhile, raised his rifle and peered through the magnifying scope, focusing on a house about five hundred meters away.
“Dogs again,” Amir muttered, lowering his rifle after spotting the pack.
The village near Oksj? had unintentionally become an open-air shelter for a group of twenty or so stray dogs. They roamed freely through the abandoned streets, scavenging what they could and making the ruined village their territory. To the untrained eye, they might seem like just another nuisance, but for Oksj?, their presence was a mixed blessing.
Though the dogs could be menacing to patrols—one had even been shot a few weeks ago after it "threatened to attack"—their value far outweighed the occasional inconvenience. They barked at anything unusual, their sharp instincts catching movement or sounds that human patrols might miss. In a world where danger could come in the form of raiders, wanderers, or even wildlife, an early warning system like that was worth its weight in gold.
Przemek lay on the cold cement floor beneath the hulking machine the settlement had come to call the "Ace." The Pansarterr?ngbil 300, tucked away in its makeshift garage, was one of the few truly cool spots in the entire settlement—a small reprieve from the relentless heat. Its chilled shade made the grueling hours of maintenance slightly more bearable.
The vehicle was a hard-earned prize, received as reparations after the last brutal clash with Lysekil. Getting it operational again had demanded an ungodly toll in manpower and time. Countless hands and sleepless nights had been spent wrestling the armored beast back into working order.
The Pansarterr?ngbil 300, or simply "Patgb 300," or “pat 300” as Przemek called it was a beast of a machine, built to survive in hostile environments. It looked like a massive, armored truck, sitting high on eight thick tires that could chew through mud, snow, and rubble with ease. Its metal body was covered in tough armor, designed to shrug off bullets, shrapnel, and even protect against roadside bombs. It wasn’t meant as a combat vehicle per say. It wasn’t meant to last if it got into contact with an actual military. But against bandits and Lunatics it could do the work. The underside was reinforced with a special blast-resistant design, deflecting explosions to keep the crew and the vital mechanics intact.
But what really made the Patgb 300 intimidating was the remote-controlled .50-caliber machine gun mounted on top. Operated safely from inside the vehicle, it could rain down destruction with terrifying precision, turning the APC into a mobile fortress. Whether clearing a path or defending a position, that .50 cal could shred through most threats before they got too close. It was also equipped with smoke pots, by the push of a button the vehicle commander could unleash ten smoke grenades at 180 degrees of the vehicle, perfect to help them get out of a nasty situation.
Inside, the vehicle was all business. Cramped and spartan, it could carry ten soldiers in full gear, with seats bolted to the armored walls and just enough room for their weapons and equipment. The driver’s cockpit was equally tight but packed with controls to handle rough terrain, from steep hills to rivers. The engine roared like a beast, giving the Patgb 300 enough power to pull itself out of almost any mess. Though it could carry ten men. It was modified to have only the driver, gunner, vehicle commander and two men in the back with machine guns to fire through modified ports out of the vehicle. All the spare room was dedicated for munition for this mobile pile box.
Przemek stood in the center of the makeshift repair bay, his wiry frame and sun-weathered skin giving him the look of someone who had spent a lifetime working the land rather than engines. His strength wasn’t flashy, but it was unmistakable—the kind of raw, unshakable power that came from years of hard, honest labor. Despite his lean build, everyone knew better than to underestimate him. He had a temper like a coiled spring, and when it snapped, it snapped hard.
“Careful with that!” he barked, his tone sharp enough to make Jonas flinch. The massive lower blindage plate, a slab of reinforced steel, dangled precariously from their makeshift pulley system, held together by a mix of chains, pulleys, and whatever scrap they’d found lying around. The thing was heavy enough to crush a man if it fell, and Przemek didn’t have the patience for mistakes.
“I’m trying!” Jonas shouted, his scrawny arms trembling as he strained to keep the plate steady with a long crowbar. He was the youngest in the group and looked every bit like a fish out of water, his face red from the effort. “It’s slipping!”
“Then stop trying and do it!” snapped Rafal, the oldest and most grizzled of the crew, his cigarette bouncing between his teeth as he worked. He crouched near the pulley, his calloused hands flying over the bolts, tightening them with quick, efficient movements. Rafal’s gruff voice and permanently annoyed expression made him seem perpetually angry, but no one could deny his skill.
On the opposite side of the plate, Kasia kept a firm grip on the chain, her face streaked with sweat and grease but her movements steady. “You’re fine, Jonas. Just keep it steady,” she said, her calm voice cutting through the tension. Kasia didn’t waste words, but when she spoke, people listened. She was practical, quick-witted, and more than capable of keeping pace with the rest of the team.
Przemek exhaled sharply, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He crouched near the armoured plate, his eyes narrowing as he guided it into position as if he had done this a hundred times. “Alright,” he growled, his tone a mix of frustration and determination. “We’re getting this done now. On three.”
The team braced themselves, muscles straining under the tension of the chains and levers.
“One... two... lift!” Przemek shouted.
The chains rattled, the pulley groaned, and the plate slowly rose into position. Jonas gritted his teeth, leaning his full weight into the crowbar, while Kasia hauled on the chain with all her might. Rafal steadied the pulley system, his cigarette now nothing but ash, while Przemek slid into place to secure the first bolt. His hands moved fast, tightening the bolts with the kind of surety that came from years of working with stubborn, unforgiving machines.
“Hold it steady!” he barked again, his temper bubbling just beneath the surface as sweat dripped down his face.
“Still holding,” Kasia said, her voice calm but strained as the weight of the plate bore down on her.
“Done!” Przemek finally yelled, the sound of the last bolt locking into place like a sigh of relief. The group eased the tension on the chains, and the plate settled firmly into position, protecting the Patgb 300’s undercarriage once again.
Jonas stumbled back, collapsing onto an overturned crate and panting. “That thing’s a monster,” he muttered, wiping his face.
“Only because you’re a twig,” Rafal shot back, flicking the last of his cigarette to the ground.
Kasia rolled her shoulders and smirked. “You survived, didn’t you?”
Przemek stood back, wiping his hands on his grease-streaked pants, his sharp eyes inspecting the plate for any signs of error. For a moment, his ever-present scowl softened, just a bit. “Good job,” he said, though his tone was still rough around the edges. “Now let’s hope we don’t have to do this again anytime soon.”
The team broke apart to grab water and towels, leaving Przemek to stare at the vehicle for a moment longer. Planning to wash themselves at the nearby pumps.
With the heavy lifting done, Przemek could finally focus on the finishing touches. He reached over to the workbench, grabbing a white spray can and the stencil he had made yesterday. The stencil was simple: the pattern of a card's Ace symbol, bold and sharp, accompanied by a stylized letter beneath it.
Holding the stencil steady against the front armored plate right in the middle, he gave the can a few quick shakes, the ball inside rattling like a distant warning. With a controlled hand, he pressed the nozzle, the white paint hissing as it filled in the clean lines of the design. The Ace symbol stood out starkly against the dull green/grey steel surface.
After the front plate he went over to both sides, repeating the procedure. Lastly he climbed on top and spray painted the same pattern on the ammunition box holder.