Chapter 5: A Bounty of Supplies

Mark had always prided himself on his understanding of this era. Some of the finer details might have faded from memory, but he still grasped the broad principles. He recalled, for instance, the establishment of the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC)—designed to provide work for unemployed youth while launching massive environmental rehabilitation projects—and the ever-present challenge of transportation in rural America. Without these limitations, he mused, he could easily relocate closer to regions rich in wildlife, even if supplies were scarce. After all, as he glanced at the firearms arranged on his nightstand, he was reminded that many of his old skills were still intact.

Mark approached the nightstand, where three guns lay in neat array. The farm was equipped with an AR-15 sniper rifle—renowned for its precision and fitted with a high-performance thermal scope—earning it the nickname "Coyote Slayer" in his capable hands. The other two were no less impressive: one was a 94B shotgun, the so-called "farm defender," though Mark had rarely found a reason to use it; the other was his prized personal weapon, an HK MK23 combat pistol equipped with a suppressor, whose smooth, stealthy report always gave him a thrill.

But those were only the visible part of his armory. Tucked discreetly under his bed was the gem of his collection—a black-market HK416 assault rifle. Though owning such a weapon was technically against the rules, Mark kept it safely stored away for maintenance and emergencies. With practiced ease, he lifted the wooden panel covering a concealed compartment, revealing a large metal box. Inside lay the HK416 in full assembly, accompanied by three forty-round magazines and a neat stack of golden bullets. When he bought the rifle, he'd purchased 2,000 rounds; after two years, he'd fired barely a hundred, leaving him with around 1,800 spare rounds.

Running his fingers along the cold, unforgiving metal, Mark inserted a magazine and chambered a round. A sudden rush of security washed over him—as if even a charging tiger wouldn't stand a chance. In his mind, no carbon-based life form could withstand the raw power of that weapon.

Tempted though he was to fire a few rounds just for the thrill, he wisely held back. Each bullet was irreplaceable, and as far as he knew, these 5.56mm flechette rounds were a rarity in this time—if they existed at all.

With his weapons secured, Mark left the house and made his way to the barn. To his astonishment, the barn was completely empty. The once abundant supplies—high-quality feed and an array of farming tools—had vanished without a trace. The warehouse, stretching over 800 square meters with a ten-meter-high ceiling, now stood bare and cavernous, a silent testament to the mysterious changes that had overtaken the farm.

But that wasn't all. Mark's instincts told him something was even more peculiar: time itself seemed to have paused in this space. To test his theory, he casually reached for his broken wristwatch from the bedroom. Instead of falling neatly into his palm, the watch floated midair, its hands frozen in an eternal moment.

"Just as I suspected," Mark murmured with a wry smile. To him, this anomaly was a goldmine—a tool with endless potential.

Leaving the warehouse, he turned his attention to the well nearby. Given the drastic transformation of the farm, he wondered if the water had changed too. Focusing his mind, he summoned a small sphere of water from the well, guiding it gently to his lips. Taking a tentative sip, he was surprised to find the water slightly sweeter than usual. It didn't alter his condition, but it was undeniably more refreshing than the standard fare.

Next, his gaze fell upon the vast, open field. With a mere thought, a patch of soil at his feet began to shift: overgrown grass gave way to the dark, rich earth beneath. A deep sense of relief washed over him. That soil was pure gold for a farmer—a promise of abundant harvests waiting to be sown. The dormant agronomist within him stirred, and he felt confident that, with his focused will, he could clear and cultivate this land singlehandedly.

Still curious about the peculiarities of this place, Mark returned to his room to test the flow of time. He sat by the window, fiddled briefly with his wristwatch, and then tossed it aside. After counting sixty seconds in his head, he retrieved it only to be slightly disappointed—the watch had advanced by only a few seconds. Time here, he concluded, flowed almost as it did in the real world. "Not perfect, but it'll do," he muttered.

Overall, the farm had already presented him with more surprises than he had imagined. It was a secret treasure trove, and with careful planning, he believed it could become exactly what he wanted it to be. In this rural setting, seeds were never hard to find, and who knew? Perhaps more changes were on the horizon.

Over the next few hours, Mark performed a series of tests. In the "real" world, he couldn't summon objects from thin air without a medium, but within the confines of the farm, items could appear anywhere within a fifteen-meter radius at will. Similarly, his mental perception was crystal clear within that same distance, suggesting that his power to manifest was intrinsically linked to his focus.

It was an ability he quickly came to appreciate—one that allowed him to, for instance, visualize Mary Thompson approaching his door before she even knocked.

"Why are you up already?" Mary asked as she pushed the door open, carrying two chipped enamel bowls. She set them on the table and then opened the window to let in a fresh breeze.

"Eat something first," she said gently. "We'll make a proper meal when your father gets back."

Mark glanced at the bowls. One contained a thick, grayish porridge—dense but not quite thick enough to coat a spoon. The other held two eggs, noticeably smaller than the ones he remembered from better days. It was clear that after his recent illness, this was all they could muster.

Under his mother's expectant gaze, Mark scooped up a spoonful of the porridge. The taste was awful—a bizarre blend of wood shavings and sour flour that nearly made him choke. Desperate to mask the flavor, he quickly cracked one egg in half and swallowed it, hoping to neutralize the unpleasant aftertaste.

"Mom, you should eat too," he said, offering her the remaining half.

Mary averted her eyes, gathered some worn clothes from near the bed, and headed out the door. "I'm not hungry. Just eat and rest a bit longer. Your health is what matters," she murmured softly.

Watching her leave, Mark sighed inwardly. In his previous life, eggs were so common they were taken for granted. Here, however, they were a luxury—something many in the village might not see for an entire month. He recognized the deep longing in his mother's eyes, a hunger not just for food but for a better life. For a fleeting moment, he wished he could use his newfound abilities to provide her with all the supplies she desired. But he knew that the secret of the farm was one he had to guard fiercely. Exposure would label him an outcast—one whose gifts were too dangerous for public knowledge. In his mind, if someone found out, they'd be as good as dead.

Determined, Mark resolved that every resource had to be accounted for and explained away logically. The farm—and its miraculous supplies—was his secret, and it must remain so.

As he mulled over his next steps, Mark felt a surge of optimism. The farm had already given him a taste of what might be possible. In time, he could transform it into the thriving enterprise he'd always dreamed of. With ample seeds available in a rural setting, and with a bit of ingenuity, there was no limit to what he could achieve.

The future, it seemed, was full of promise.

And so, with renewed determination and a mind buzzing with possibilities, Mark prepared to delve deeper into the mysteries of his newfound domain—careful to keep his secret safe at all costs.