“The city. When’s the last time you were there? Is it still standing? Do you know anything about Chicago?” TH pried with rapid-fire questions, wanting more information. He hadn’t left the western plains, and wanted to know.
“The city survived the fall of mankind, but not well. Too many people in too small a space. They ran out of food quickly and resorted to cannibalism. A few us went north, into Canada, and then worked our way west. Over the years we tried settling, but we’d always run out of food and then had to move on. When we hit the Rockies, we found the hunting was good and then moved south with the herds. That’s when I went out on my own. I hunted until I found you, TH. It was like I was magically drawn to you.” She blinked her eyes at him.
“You found Billy Spires, if I remember correctly,” Terry replied coolly, wondering what her angle was this time.
“He was just the first person I ran across, but I was coming for you,” she purred.
“Of course you were. I tell you what, why don’t you take your haul back to Margie Rose, and here, take these, too,” Terry said as he tossed the fatigues on top of her pile.
“See if Margie Rose can fit me into those. I’m going to the barracks and check on the boys. They might be back from work by now and we need to train and then do some recruiting. I want to double the size of the Force,” Terry stated firmly.
“Okay,” she replied happily and headed toward the front door. He opened it for her, and they walked down the steps together. She started running, and he watched her go.
“So that’s what you wanted, which is what you said in the first place…” Terry started talking to himself, then looked around quickly to make sure there was no one to notice his muttering, before continuing. “Fucking Werewolf, making me weird.”
CHAPTER THREE
James was elbow deep in the dirt, working the soil within the greenhouse for the next planting. The harvest had gone well, but they were cleaning up for the rotational crop that was heartier for the cool of the winter, like kale, kohlrabi, and Brussels sprouts. James wanted to prove himself to Terry Henry because of all the people in his life, that man had treated him the most fairly.
Terry treated everyone the same way. James didn’t know how to ask to join the Force, but that was what he wanted. He saw the other members, Mark and Devlin, work in the greenhouse, too. Everyone shared in the sacrifice to bring food to all, but then Terry would collect his men and they’d head out to train.
Train to be a real soldier! James thought, smiling inwardly. Sawyer Brown was just a bully, but he knew how to fight. Terry knew how to fight, too, better than Sawyer could have ever been. And Terry knew how to lead people. James decided that he’d follow that man anywhere.
James had skills, too. He was a new age mechanic, trained by his father as they tried to make a go of it themselves after the fall. Ten years they lasted, but then sickness took the rest of James’s family. He wandered until he ran into Sawyer Brown, and after that, he just did as he was told.
James was good with his hands and had a basic understanding of how things worked. He would love a shot at the power plant, working with a real mechanic, but he hadn’t told anyone because he didn’t want to get stuck there. He wanted to be a soldier under Terry’s command.
James watched the other people working the dirt. They looked happy. As was the case, each time the helpers showed up, the farmers fed them a light meal and after getting general guidance on the day’s tasks, the workers were turned loose. They worked hard with little conversation, happy to be indoors and happy to be well fed.
Not everyone was happy, though.
James watched the farmer get more and more frustrated while working on the water pump. James finished his row, then hustled over to the man.
Stepping close, he said, “I have some experience working with these. Maybe I can help?” he offered. The farmer thrust an old wrench at James, throwing his hands up in disgust and storming away. James watched him go, “I’ll take that as a yes?” he shrugged his shoulders as the farmer disappeared into bushes toward the back of the greenhouse.
James looked at the rudimentary hand pump. It wouldn’t hold prime. James figured a gasket had gone bad or some bushings had failed. He tore it down, seeing how it had been roughly fixed over the years and amazed that it had worked at all. He cleaned off the previous repairs, determined that he needed to do some ad hoc welding to build up the metal and help create a new seal.
“Do you know where there’s any copper?” he asked, but the farmer’s wife didn’t hear him. James explored outside the greenhouse and found the shed that all farmers had--a shed filled with a pile of junk. Some would call it inventory, defending their inability to throw anything away.
James found a few pieces of heavy copper wire and a heavily rusted cast iron pan. He found metal BBs that he could use as bearings if he had to.
He deposited his supplies at the fire pit behind the greenhouse. He returned to the pump, picking up the pieces carefully and cradling them as he took them to the fire pit. He started a small fire, then built it up while making a rough bellows out of worn tarp and two-by-fours. He angled the cast iron into the fire, with the copper sitting inside. With his bellows, he drove the fire hotter and hotter. When the copper melted and rolled around inside the cast iron, James cheered for a minute, a smile lit up his face before it slowly receeded and he scratched his chin after a moment.
James realized he wasn’t sure how to deposit the copper one drip at a time on the worn internal structure of the pump. First, he tried a stick, but that added too much dirt. Then, he rolled his shirt so he could grip the pan’s handle and tried a careful effort to drip it out of the pan, but he dripped too much copper at one location. James used the wrench to get some of the copper into place, but it wouldn’t stick.
He put the pump case into the pan and put the whole thing in the fire. After two more logs and more furious bellows pumping, he found the copper stuck enough to build up the fitting, a little at a time, until both cooled too much to work with.
James hoped it was enough. He had burns up and down his arms and across his bare chest where the copper had splattered.
The tattoos of a blacksmith, he smirked.
He ladled water onto the outside structure. He only wanted it cool enough to put the key pieces back together. The copper could pull free from the steel if he cooled both metals too quickly.
He jammed it back together and turned the crank slowly in the hopes that the motion would help shape the moving parts against the fixed structure. He gave it fifteen more minutes before the metal was cool enough to touch.
Then he waited fifteen more before he reinstalled the pump. As he was doing that, the Farmer came back and watched, quietly. James added a little pig fat that the farmer had been using as grease. When James finally turned the handle, he could hear the air being pushed through as the pump sought to prime itself and pull water from underground.
When the water started to flow, the farmer howled in joy. The water volume was far greater than anything the man could remember. He clapped James on the back hard enough to drive the young man to his knees. The farmer took over and happily pumped away, filling the irrigation troughs with little effort. “You’re hired!” he bellowed as he called everyone over to look at the pump.
James was slightly embarrassed, not used to being the center of attention, but proud to have made the farmer’s day.
He looked around at all of the onlookers. If only Terry Henry was there to see.
* * *
After Terry rousted the boys for some impromptu calisthenics and a short, five-mile run, he turned them loose for weapons cleaning and maintenance, followed by horse grooming and stable cleaning. None of the men were happy about an endless list of chores, but none of them complained.
He called them together for one last word.
“Gentlemen, we need to be ready. When the first snow falls, we’re taking the show on the road.” They looked at him oddly. Even Mark hadn’t heard
the expression before. “We’re going out to look for other survivors. They’ll be easier to find with the snow and the cold. That means you need to dig out your winter clothes and a good coat.”
“Sir?” Mark asked. With a nod, he continued. “You’ve been out there. What do we expect to find?”
Terry thought about it a moment before answering Mark’s question. “Stragglers, families, maybe even a small community. We want them to come here, and we’ll offer that option, but it’ll be up to them to accept. We’ll give them food, the option to join us, and then we’ll leave them to it. I think more will come than not, but that’s just my guess.”
“The Force could use more people, a presence out in the Wasteland and one here,” Mark said, hands up as he held a defensive posture.
“I’ve been thinking that same thing, Mark. We need to recruit some of Sawyer’s boys. I tell you what, let’s set up a little recruiting center for them and see what we get. We’ll spread the word tomorrow and then interview the volunteers the day after. Sound good, gentlemen?” Terry asked.
They agreed, slapping each other on the back.
“Don’t be afraid to share your ideas or ask a question. Think how smart we’ll be if we all use our minds at the same time,” Terry told them.
He turned the Force over to Mark to complete the day’s tasks.
Mark nodded, gave a rough salute, and turned to the men he had--Jim, Devlin, and Ivan.
Terry left at a jog, deciding not to take a horse. The grazing behind Margie Rose’s house was bad, and he thought the horses deserved better.
Terry made quick work of the run, Clyde keeping up as he always did. They slowed to a walk a quarter-mile before the house so he could cool down. When he arrived, he found Char modeling a shirt that Margie Rose had sewn for her with a swath of the new material.
There was nothing on the stove and after his little run and cool down, he was hungry. Terry’s turn to cook was yesterday. Clyde was equally confused, so much so that the dog checked the stove and the counter before finding a place on the couch.
Char danced up to Terry and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “What do you think, TH?” She spun around for him to see the new outfit that Margie Rose had sewn from the material they’d found earlier in the day.
“What does it matter what I think?” Terry asked, coming across as an ass. Margie Rose was on him in an instant, waving her ever-present wooden spoon.
“You apologize right now, mister! Can’t you see two inches in front of your face? Can’t you see that this woman is head over heels in love with you, and then you say something like that! You’ll be sleeping outside, mister, if you don’t pull your head out of that place where the sun doesn’t shine!” That was as bold as Margie Rose would get in creative cursing.
“But she’s a…” Terry stopped himself from saying Werewolf, but that was what he was thinking. Why did a Werewolf care what the lowly Terry Henry Walton thought? Discretion was the better part of valor. This was not the right time for this battle. “I am so sorry, Char! You look magnificent. Let’s see the rest of you.”
Char looked skeptical at Terry’s sudden change of heart, but Margie Rose was sufficiently pleased to tuck her spoon back into its apron pocket.
“You look fine. It’s hard to complain about how those jeans look on you,” he added, eyeing Margie Rose carefully. She beamed, before turning and going into the kitchen.
“Ah, dinner,” he whispered to himself, but Char heard it clearly.
“I thought that was it. Maybe you’re thinking that your bitch can go get you a beer?” she asked, although it wasn’t a question.
Terry’s ears perked up, but he wouldn’t fall for it for two reasons. Firstly, he would never ask her to get him a beer again. The nanocytes took two days to repair the damage from the last time, and secondly, although she was a she-wolf, literally a bitch, he would never call her that.
“Absolutely not!” he answered. “But I will get you one if you like?”
“What? That is the most foul concoction I have ever smelled. I can’t imagine putting any of what is in those bottles in my mouth.” Her face contorted with the thought of the smell, which, not surprisingly, made him want one even worse.
He excused himself to go outside and pull one of his precious jars from the shaded crawl space of the house. It was cool enough outside that it was almost like drinking a cold beer, except for the fact that it was still too warm and Char was right. It was really foul-tasting.
But there had been no other beer for a lifetime. He wondered if he was mis-remembering the taste. He took another sip.
Nope. It was bad.
He put the jar up to his nose and inhaled deeply. The mash was too heavy. Cut the recipe in half or double the water, maybe prime it with a touch of cherry juice or something before bottling.
Terry was a fan of man-law that declared no fruit in beer, but twenty years after the fall of civilization, maybe the law was outdated. He brought his beer inside, sipping it slowly, trying not to gag, while making a show of smacking his lips and saying, “Ahhh.”
Clyde wouldn’t even drink the beer, and Terry had seen his dog eat a rat that had been dead for a week.
CHAPTER FOUR
Marcus sat on the same bluff where he’d last seen his mate. He could sense her in the town far below. He knew there were humans, too, more than before. He wanted to know what that was about. He expected he’d have to walk into the town and find out for himself, find her, and bring her home.
He crouched on a rock and watched while the rest of the pack spread out nearby, silent as they wondered about their next move.
Marcus continued to be angry about everything. The bitches hadn’t gone into heat, and he hated being wrong about things like that. He’d been posturing and baiting their mates, and despite some nibbles, he didn’t get the combat he craved with the spoils as were his due.
As the alpha, the others would submit, and that wasn’t combat. He wanted a real fight, and he suspected what he wanted was down there.
He watched as three hunters rode horses into the foothills and then turned north. Men with rifles. Men who would fight. The date with his mate would have to wait. He looked at the others, then changed into his werewolf form. They followed and soon, the pack was running freely through the woods, looking for a place where they could wait for the hunters.
* * *
James was staying in a house with three other men and one couple. Most of them were older. They seemed to have little ambition, but that was probably from the upheaval in their lives ever since they met Sawyer Brown. That man had darkened everyone’s hopes, but had allowed them to continue their existence. Now they had hope, although they hadn’t embraced it.
James had and felt like a new man. He was happy when he went to sleep, and still smiling when he woke up, having not been woken during the night by a madman, drunk with his own power.
The young man would keep working on them. There was nothing like being happy to improve the spirits of those around you.
With a quick breakfast of vegetables and venison sausage, the group headed for the greenhouses. On the way, they found four members from the Force waiting in the roadway. Mark, Devlin, Jim, and Ivan were armed with the AK-47s that they’d taken from Sawyer Brown’s people, from James himself.
The others cowered, instantly afraid. James approached Mark with his hands up. “Can I ask what this is about? We have nothing for you to take.”
“What?” Mark asked, then realized what it looked it. “No!” He went from person to person, shaking their hands, but they still wouldn’t look at him.
Mark was ashamed because not long ago, he would have reveled in that kind of response from the populace, but Terry Henry had shown him a better way. And if Terry got wind that they were trying to intimidate the population, he would have their asses.
Mark preferred a slap on the back to a punch in the face from the one they called “iron hands.” Getting hit by Terry or Char felt like getting hit by
sledgehammer.
Terry could have ruled through fear, but the lessons in pain that he delivered toughened the men, taught them a little at how to fight, and helped them better understand.
“We just want to pass the word that tomorrow, we’re going to interview people who would like to join the Force de Guerre, the FDG. If anyone is interested,” Mark pointed over to his left, “Terry will conduct the interviews in that small building right over there. We’d like four or five more people in the Force, that’s all. Think about it and if anyone is interested, be there tomorrow morning,” Mark concluded and wished them well as they shuffled past.
Mark had looked at James the whole time because the young man had nodded excessively during the short speech.
James committed to being the first one in line. He knew some others would be interested, but no one wanted it more than he did. Mark wished them well and sent them on their way.
When the small group arrived at the greenhouse, they were each given a warm breakfast roll topped with homemade jam. The others sat in silence, eating with dark expressions as they looked around the people.
That was when James snapped.
He pointed to the people and half hissed, half yelled. “Listen here, you dumb fucks! We’ve been given a new chance at life, a chance to actually make something of ourselves, and you sit there like you’re waiting for the gallows. Well, fuck off! Stop being idiots and try to do something nice for someone else. Look at everything they’re doing for us? Did Sawyer mother-fucking Brown ever give you a freshly baked roll? NO!” James finished by screaming the last word, incensed at their attitudes.
He kept going as he stood up at the table waving his roll at them. “No one is going to beat you! No one is going to take anything from you. Now stop moping and start living. Otherwise, why don’t you just march your happy asses into the Wastelands. What’s the sense in living if you’re only going to just exist? I want more, and they are making that possible. We are in a better place now, so act like it!” James stopped his tirade, looked down at his hand and stuffed the last of the roll in his mouth and stormed off.
Nomad Redeemed Page 3
