by Mic Roland
Andy tried a smile, but it did not last. “Alright, I guess. Ashley isn’t feeling too good. Feels cold a lot. We even made fires for her. Jared just stays in his hut most of the time.”
“What about your leader, Cupcake…I mean…what was her name?”
“Oh, you mean Mara? Oh man, don’t ever call her cupcake. That would be like, the worst.” Andy shuddered. “She’d go femi-balistic. Me, Brandon and Jared, well, we’d take hell for the rest of the day, just cuz we had a different chromosome.”
“Okay, I’ll try not to slip up.”
“But Mara, yeah, she’s okay. Holding up better than the rest of us. She’s trying to keep us going, you know? All motivational speaker and go-getter, like. She’s been great…just a little touchy cuz she’s hungry too…” His voice trailed off.
Martin imagined sick college kids huddled in debris huts. He felt a twinge of sympathy: the way you still wince when a kid wipes out attempting some stupid skateboard stunt. They did it to themselves, but still, you knew it had to hurt. No one forced the paleo-idealists to camp in the woods. Mara might be doing better than the rest, but judging from Andy’s degraded appearance, she was probably in rough shape too. Photoshopping had to wear off.
Martin was not sure if he felt bad for Mara or not. She had a toxic attitude, but she was still a woman and a pretty one. He did not like the image of a pretty woman suffering — even a cranky one.
“You wouldn’t happen to have, you know, like, something to eat, would you?” Andy looked like the big-eyed starving African children in the missions posters, except that he was white and twenty, and had a new scraggly beard. At least the eyes looked the same.
“I’ve got a little peanut butter, and these two hard flatbreads.” Martin pulled them from his coat pocket.
Andy stared at them like Golem at his ring. His hands reflexively rose to snatch the prizes, but pulled back. “Oh man. I don’t know. Mara is gonna yell her head off if she knew I ate capitalist food.”
“Andy. It’s Flour, water and oil. How is that capitalist?”
That was all Andy needed to decide. He snatched the bread, breaking it into fragments and stuffing them in his mouth. He dropped to his knees to pick up the bits that fell among the leaves. With both hands darting from ground to mouth and back, Andy resembled a crab feeding in a tide-pool.
“Oo man. diss dastes so goob. Oh how I miff bread.” Andy carefully picked the littler bits out of his beard and ate them too.
“I better get back,” Andy said. “They’re gonna think I ran away, but I’m not the running away kind. We got something to eat today! I found this great burdock root and these beechnuts…if that’s okay with you, and all…since they were on your side of capitalist oppressor line and all.”
“You can have them, Andy.” Martin felt bad for the skinny young man. “You know. I might ‘accidentally’ leave a flatbread out here, under these beeches…sometime…when I’m checking my snares. Never know.”
Andy’s face lit up like an adopted puppy. “Oh, you’d do that? Aw man. You’re alright…for an evil capitalist oppressor.” He smiled.
Martin chuckled. “Yeah, we can surprise people sometimes. Might be under a flower pot, or something, just to keep animals from getting the ‘lost’ (air quotes) flatbread.”
Andy’s smile faded. “I better get back. Don’t want Mara coming to find me and seeing you again, and oh man, if you ever do see her, do not ever call her cupcake. Oh, that would be the worst.” Andy turned and slunk quickly through the brush with an animal-like flexibility.
Martin set up two more snares with his wire and what was left of his peanut butter then headed back. On the way, he heard the generator start up again. It was a red cape in front of a bull. “Not again,” he muttered to himself. “I thought we settled all that.”
Dustin was hunched over something near the shed. The generator puttered away beside him. Martin stomped over, madder than he was the first time.
“What in blazes are you doing?” he shouted. He kicked off the generator’s red switch. “It wasn’t just a few days ago, I told you that we have to save gas. We can’t be wasting it on trivial…What the blazes do you think you’re doing?”
Dustin said nothing in his defense. He simply hung his head with a guilty little-boy look. It reminded Martin of the time three-year-old Dustin painted the bumper of his truck with a can of OSHA Yellow spray paint that Martin had foolishly left within a toddler’s reach. Little Dustin thought his dad would be so proud with the color upgrade. Martin yelled a lot that day. Then he felt terrible.
He felt terrible again. Apparently, he did not learn much from the painted-bumper incident. He looked at the pile of junk in front of Dustin. His curiously trumped his anger. “No, really. What ARE you doing? What’s all this stuff?”
“I was going to make a gasifier, but I needed to run some power tools to put it together…once I figure out how to put it together. Sorry. I should have asked you about it first, but mom said you were out in the woods and…”
“A what?”
“A gasifier. I saw it on an episode of The Colony a long time ago. These people were trapped in a building and had no power, and evil gang thugs were outside, but they had a ton of wood pallets. They made a gasifier to turn the wood into gas so they could run their generator. I figured I could make one…and not use the gasoline to…” He trailed off, looking for clues to which way Martin’s mood was turning.
“Wait.” Martin stared at the junk. “How would that even work? Or was it just some dopy reality show gimmick…”
“No, it really works!” Dustin brightened up, seeing that Martin was not yelling, but merely puzzled. “I checked it out online after the show, cuz I wondered the same thing.” He pulled two five-gallon metal cans over. “Theirs worked like this. In one can, they burned wood scraps, just to make heat. In the other can, they put little cut up chunks of wood from the pallets. They sealed the chunks-can so the wood gas couldn’t get out, see?”
Martin nodded, but did not really understand. What good would gas do in a sealed can?
“Then they piped that wood gas through a filter of some kind. I kinda forgot that part. Then they piped it to their generator. At first it didn’t work, but they fiddled with it, then it did. I figured I could use this can for my fire can, and this one for my wood chunks can. I could use hunks of these exhaust pipe sections to route the gas to the generator and run it without using any gasoline and…”
“Wait. Where did all this junk come from? I don’t remember all this stuff.”
“Oh, well, I sorta snuck into the transfer station and picked through the big metals dumpster. I kinda ripped my pants on the barbed wire fence, but…”
“That’s why I couldn’t find the wagon, isn’t it?”
Dustin hung his head. “I didn’t know you were going to be looking for it.”
“Never mind. Turned out I didn’t need it. Go on. How’s this gasifier thing supposed to work?”
“Oh, well, you fill up the chunks-can and set it on the fire-can. The fire cooks the wood chunks. Since they don’t have enough oxygen or a flame to ignite their gasses, the wood gas just cooks off, so you pipe that to an engine and it burns like…well, gas…which it is…in a different way.”
“What happens when the chunks are all cooked out?” Martin was trying to get his head around the concept.
“The people on the show would let it cool down, dump out the charred bits and refill it.”
“So you could only run it for a little while before having to refuel?”
“I guess so. Why?”
Martin’s wheels were turning as he slowly paced around Dustin’s pile of metal scraps. “Wouldn’t it be better if you could open the top and add in new chunks without having to stop and let it cool down?”
“I suppose, but you’d be letting your gas get out. The engine would stop anyhow.”
“Maybe not, maybe not.” Martin squatted down to poke through the junk. “To get the gasses out of the chunk
s-can and into their engine, there had to be a way for air to get in, right?”
“Yeah, they punched some holes.”
“Okay, so what if the air intake was smallish and was also the refueling hatch at the top? Air was flowing in anyway, right? Might alter the fuel-air mix, but it wouldn’t stop the flow.”
“Oh, oh, I see what you mean. If the chunks can was tall enough and you pulled the wood-gas from the bottom…”
“Hmmm.” Martin frowned in concentration. “The wood you burn in the bottom can, it just burns up, right?”
“Well, yeah. That’s where you get the heat to cook the chunks.”
“Okay, but think about our wood stove in the house. For a long slow fire, we get a good bed of coals then carefully arrange the logs on that. The heat cooks off the gasses in the logs, which burns all blue up near the top.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, the top logs eventually fall down onto the coals and become fuel for the fire too. We add more logs on top and the cycle repeats. What if the wood chunks making the gas become fuel for the fire?” Martin sketched an idea in the dirt. Dustin stacked up the various metal cans that he brought home. None of it looked right. They agreed to move their design-committee meeting to the dining room table where it was warmer. They scribbled over several sheets of paper, but had to evacuate the table. Lunch was ready.
“Man, all that carrying of firewood really made me hungry,” said Adam as he took his seat.
“Me too,” added Trish. “That water is heavy, and doing laundry in that tub takes a lot of water.”
Everyone devoured their meager portion of carrots, rice and beans. Martin quietly pocketed half of his flatbread.
“Could I have some more?” Adam asked. “I’m still hungry.”
“I’m afraid that’s it for this meal, Adam, sorry,” said Margaret.
“But…why? Those selectmen dudes gave you those two big boxes of food.”
“Yes, but to make it last, we need to limit ourselves to 1,800 calories a day. You got half of that just now. Hungry will be the new normal around here until something improves. The alternative is full-today, starve tomorrow.”
Adam did not like that answer, but had no credible protest. A sullen frown was the best he could muster. Martin was glad it did not escalate to another food tantrum like it did with Ruby.
The rest of the meal was quiet. Somehow, knowing that portions were limited made the food on the plate less filling.
“You’d best get a nap in, Adam.” Martin broke the veil of silence. “You’ll have the first dark watch tonight.”
Martin and Dustin had metal scraps, pipes, cans and sheet-metal scattered over the driveway. They lined up their power tool requirements — cutting, drilling, grinding — until they had a critical mass sufficient to warrant running the generator for the power tools.
Once the major elements were cut, fitted and assembled, the contraption needed time for various JB Weld seams set up. The two men set to creating fuel for their gasifier. Dustin chipped at some logs with a hatchet. Martin used brush clippers to make breakfast-link-sized chunks of branches from their brush pile. He was glad he had procrastinated the usual burn-the-brush day chore.
It took longer than they thought to fill two five-gallon buckets with chips and chunks.
“Well, the goop is hard on the seams,” Dustin declared. “Let’s fire it up.”
“Okay,” said Martin. “A small fire at first, just to season it and check for leaks.”
They scooped in a small load of chips. Martin opened the little hatch in the paint can at the bottom. The lighter started eager yellow licks amid the crumpled paper. A few long breaths blown on the flames had the chips and chunks raging. He locked the hatch. “Okay, start the fan. The fire needs a draft now.”
Dustin began spinning a spoked pulley that he had fastened to the end of a squirrel-cage blower. It was both hand wheel and flywheel. He had to keep giving it periodic strokes to keep the speed up. Eventually, white smoke began to puff out of the flattened copper pipe — the “jet”.
“How long do we let it burn?” Dustin asked.
“This is mostly to cook off the volatiles in the seam goop, which really stink right now, but hey, try and light the smoke.” Martin said.
The white smoke would not ignite, even with a flame held within it. “This is what happened to the people on The Colony too.”
“So, what did they do to fix it?”
“I don’t know. The cameras never really showed.”
“Well, let’s let it burn out. This was enough for the first burn.” The flywheel slowed to a stop. The white smoke faded away.
“What is that?” asked Susan in the way someone might while pointing to a platypus.
“It’s a gasifier,” beamed Dustin. “At least, it’s supposed to be.”
“A what?”
“A gasifier. It’s supposed to make combustible gasses…” Martin paused. He did it again. He wondered if he had some bizarre variety of Tourettes. Instead of spontaneous curse words, he would say ‘combustible gasses’ whenever Susan was nearby. She noticed too, and smiled. “…anyhow, it makes gasses out of wood that we can use to make the generator run.” She looked unimpressed, as if there ought to be more. “Hopefully. That’s the theory anyhow.”
She studied the ad hoc assembly of scrap metals with her hands on her hips. She tilted her head one way and then the other, like a dog trying to understand its master. “You know,” she said at last. It looks kinda like the tin man, from the Wizard of Oz.”
“What?” said Dustin. “No. I was thinking something more NASA-like. Sort of a tall Mars lander thing.”
“No. Don’t you see? This big can part is his chest. This littler can below is his waist. You gave him two little legs below that. Never mind the third leg in the back, that would be like a tail and the Tin Man didn’t have a tail, but look here, this big pipe on one side is like one arm. This tall cylinder thing on the other side…”
“That’s the vortex filter,” interrupted Dustin.
“Whatever. It looks like his other arm. See? A body, legs, arms. What he’s missing is a head.” Susan rummaged through the unused scrap. “Aha.” She set a quart paint can on top with a little giggle. “There’s his little head. See? The Tin Man.”
Martin had to agree. And so, Tin Man was born.
Glimpses
Martin took a last deep breath of warm air before slipping out beneath the blanket and out the back door. The midnight air had a sharp crispness to it that stung inside his nostrils. He walked slowly around the back of the house, trying to be silent enough to hear whatever other sounds the night might have for him.
The house had been dark inside since supper, so he already had some night vision. Being familiar with the house and yard made what little he could see, just enough to navigate without a flashlight. He moved in slow increments around the back corner of the house, practicing seeing ‘slices of pie’ before exposing himself. There was nothing there. There never was anything there, for which he was very thankful. But, practicing such things gave him something to keep his mind occupied. On the midnight to 4 a.m. watch, that was important.
Martin wondered where Adam set himself up for his watch. Martin came to relieve him, but had to find him first. He was not on the front porch. Nor was he in the hidey-hole. Martin wondered if Adam had gotten clever and set himself up in a tree stand, or something.
A faint scraping sound perked up his ears. Was it an animal — or a person — dragging something? It was coming from the road. At least it seemed like it was until Martin passed the shed. It was coming from the shed.
There was no way to open the shed’s creaky hasp quietly, so Martin counted on the element of surprise. He had his mag-light and 9mm ready. He yanked open the door. Dunan sat up quickly, startled, and blinded by the flashlight.
“You were sleeping on a pile of tarps?” Martin tried not to sound as angry as he was.
“Oh, hey, sorry about that. I just got re
ally tired…towards the end. I was wide awake and watching and listening the whole time, or nearly the whole time. It was just near the end…that I was…checking out the shed and…just stopped to rest. I didn’t think I’d fall asleep. I’m really sorry, man. It won’t happen again.”
Martin wanted to shake Adam by the collar, he was so angry. Through clenched teeth, he said, “This better not happen again. Everyone in that house was counting on YOU to watch for trouble and YOU were sleeping. The next time you think you can’t stay awake, you come back in and get relieved early. Sleeping on watch is never acceptable.”
“I know. I know. I’m really sorry. It’ll never happen again. I promise. Always awake. Always watching.”
Martin growled. “Now get in the house. Put the revolver in the box.” Martin flung the shed door wide so Adam could pass.
