Holding Their Own: The Toymaker

by Joe Nobody

  But what if the Pecos was damned and its flow diverted into the Rio Grande’s channel? There would be plenty of water to turn the entire valley green with crops. There would be more than enough food to feed the tribes.

  He’d presented his idea gradually, talking with a governor here, an elder there. Would the Nations buy into such a project?

  “We can establish one of the most productive, fertile regions in the world,” he explained at one council meeting. “We’ve all been living for years off the corn and wheat production from the Midwest. Since the collapse, that source is no longer available. Those fields may never be planted again.”

  At one of the powwows, a group of dignitaries from the Hopi tribe was visiting. After the presentation, one of the foreign chiefs approached Hack and asked, “Do you have the tablet?”

  “Sir? Do you mean a tablet computer?”

  “No, I’m speaking of the tablet of prophecy. Are you the elder brother?”

  Hack was puzzled, his bewildered expression answering the chief’s question. The old man was polite enough to explain, “My people were led into this world by two brothers. The younger, and his followers, stayed here in what is now called the Southwest. The older brother traveled east, into the morning sun. We believe that when it looks like our world is about to end, the older brother will return and save our people.”

  Hack shook his head, “I’m just a man, sir. I may have a bit more knowledge than some other men, but I am flesh and blood, just like you.”

  The chief was skeptical, giving Hack a slow look-over from head to toe, his eyes seemingly drawn to the inventor’s long white hair. Finally, in a low voice, he expanded, “Our prophecy calls the elder brother the ‘True White Brother.’ And you are very white.”

  The old man then turned and pointed to the bright red drone Hack had brought along for a demonstration. “Our legend also states that the True White Brother’s followers will be red.”

  “That’s just a coincidence,” Hack said, waving off the observation with a friendly gesture. “Red is my favorite color, so I paint many of my toys with the same pigment.”

  “I see,” nodded the chief. “Thank you for your honesty, and thank you for helping the people. The lands of the Hopi are some distance away, but I will pledge our resources to this project if the local leadership decides to pursue your ideas.”

  The chief started to turn away but then paused. Turning back he said, “Would several, hefty bulldozers and other earthmoving machines help?”

  Hack’s eyes grew wide. “Yes, yes, they would help immensely.”

  “Before the lights flickered out for the last time, our tribe was clearing land for a new construction project. The workers never returned for their machines, and they’ve been sitting still ever since. Some of our men wanted to take the fuel truck that sits at the location, but the council wouldn’t let them. I suppose, after all this time, we could make a claim and use it for such a grand purpose.”

  The toymaker’s mind immediately began racing with options. Would the engines start? Would the diesel fuel be usable after sitting for months and months? Did he know enough to make them function?

  A month later, work crews started showing up, surveying, placing stakes in the ground, and assigning local volunteers to various tasks.

  As it turned out, the Hopi’s diesel fuel was worthless, nothing more than a tank full of lime green algae.

  But Hack had another solution – wood gas.

  The surrounding mountains were thick with forests. Wood was in plentiful supply. In less than a week, he had the first refinery producing fuel. A month later, using his model and scavenged parts, the methane-based gas was being produced in nearly every pueblo.

  Soon there were giant bulldozers working alongside the legions of laborers. Shovels were in short supply, the demand forcing two raiding parties to enter the ashes of Santa Fe and Albuquerque to pillage hardware stores and warehouses for anything that would move dirt.

  Hack was using every ancient engineering trick in the book to help move earth and build the infrastructure required to irrigate the valley. Water wheels, rail cars similar to those used in the early days of underground mines, and even homemade explosives were now common sights in the desert.

  Everyone began calling the project “Valley Green,” and the name was apt. They truly were going to turn the basin the color of emeralds.

  Only once did Hack think about the impact on those downstream. If his scheme worked, both the Rio Grande and the Pecos rivers would cease to exist outside of New Mexico. One of the elders had family in Texas and voiced concern over their wellbeing if the river dried up completely.

  “They can move here and enjoy a full stomach every day,” one of the governors responded. “They can come home.”

  Bishop’s hand was reaching for the bedside rifle before his mind could climb from the depths of REM-sleep. With a racing heart and unsure legs, Bishop swung his feet over the edge of the mattress, eyes probing the darkness, scanning for the threat.

  “The camper is under attack!” his foggy mind was screaming.

  But it didn’t make any sense. What kind of attack made such a roar? What kind of weapon sounded like a jet engine on the roof?

  With rifle high and sweeping, he negotiated the narrow passage to the main salon. He was alone. There weren’t any bullets tearing through the trailer’s thin, aluminized skin. No explosions rocked his world.

  “Is some piss midget landing an airliner on my RV?” was his next thought.

  Padding to the door, Bishop cracked it open and had his answer. Hail.

  Gusting wind was driving the marble-sized chunks of ice nearly horizontal, pelting both the RV’s top and sides. Relieved that he wasn’t facing armed vagabonds with some sort of heavy weapon, Bishop exhaled and studied the storm through the door’s narrow opening. So rare was the weather phenomena, he stuck a bare arm out the narrow opening without thinking.

  Pulling back the stinging limb, Bishop set the rifle down and rubbed his skin. His first thought was of the cattle, but he quickly dismissed any worry there. Their thick hide would withstand the assaulting ice.

  The camper would be okay as long as the hail didn’t break a window. His beloved pickup was with Terri in Alpha. The bat cave was a fortress.

  The garden!

  “Shit!” he snapped, rushing back to the bedroom for his boots. He emerged a few moments later, leather slicker pulled over his head, flashlight in hand.

  The ground was already covered with an inch of white, the Texan’s boots making crunching noises as he rushed toward the garden. The canyon looked surreal, the snow-like layer reflecting the beam of his torch as he fought to protect his face from the biting balls of pain.

  Before the garden plot came into view, he had suspected what he would find. For a moment, he considered turning back for shelter. “There’s nothing you can do about it anyway,” he chided himself. But he had to know… had to see.

  Bare stalks appeared in the flashlight’s pool of illumination, soon followed by stripped vines, shredded leaves, and green debris scattered on the ground.

  “No,” Bishop whispered, his agony bleeding through in that one word. His chin dropped low to his chest, the raging storm distant and forgotten. He had to take his eyes away from the disaster. “I worked so hard… all that time… babied every single seed, celebrated every sprout,” he mumbled.

  Dejected, the Texan merely turned and headed back for the camper. There wasn’t anything he could do.

  Sergeant Grissom’s face brightened as he scanned the valley with his night vision. The dark world of greens and blacks displayed through the device were showing him a different pattern of shape and contour. It came to him in a rush - he knew the purpose of the activities in the valley.

  Someone was building irrigation channels… and a bunch of them at that.

  It was so obvious through the NVD. He was sure that’s what all the fuss had been about.

  Pulling a map from his chest rig, he
ducked low behind an outcropping in order to shine his flashlight on the chart. Yes, there it was; the Rio Grande River was less than a kilometer away. Now, the development all made sense.

  But who could have possibly organized such a massive project? That mystery wouldn’t be solved until they could see the workers and equipment, hopefully in the morning.

  Grissom was so excited by his discovery, he thought to wake the other team members and announce his sleuthy prowess. “I’ll be rousting them soon enough,” he whispered. “Let ’em sleep. They’re Army after all and need all the rest they can muster.”

  Re-folding his map, the PJ decided he couldn’t wait to share his discovery. As he climbed back to the overlook, the sergeant connected his night vision to the Panther Sat-Phone using a cord from his load vest. After double-checking the connection, he punched a sequence of numbers into the small com-unit’s keypad.

  Just like placing a cell call before the collapse, Grissom heard a ringing on the other end. A voice answered, “CONUS CIC (continental US combat information center), state your business.”

  “This is Rat-pack 3. Repeat, this is Rat-pack 3. SITREP (situation report) and upload to follow.”

  “Wait one,” replied the voice.

  Another voice came on the line a few seconds later, “Go, Rat-pack 3.”

  “This is Grissom. We’ve obtained eyes on the earthworks, and I believe I know what they are. Someone is preparing to dam the Rio Grande River and channel the flow through a series of irrigation channels. Video to follow.”

  Turning on his night vision device, Grissom acted like he was any old vacationer filming a tourist attraction. He scanned the valley below with his NVD, all the while whispering a commentary through the Satphone. “These are the entry channels here at the north end of the valley. They branch out approximately every point-five click into the retaining pools over there. If you check the topography of my AO (area of operations), you’ll see this all fits.”

  He continued his report for almost two minutes.

  “Wait one while I verify the video was received,” the hollow voice from space responded.

  Grissom unplugged his NVD and was returning it to his weapon when the sound of a human whimper made him freeze. It was close… damn close.

  Whispering and going to an alert crouch at the same time, he said, “Contact. Wait one,” into the Satphone. He tucked the still connected device into his vest in order to have both hands free for his weapon.

  Some intuition told Grissom that the source of the noise was not a threat, but his grip never relaxed on the carbine on his shoulder. He progressed slowly, without a sound, his eyes desperately scanning the rocky surroundings for the source.

  The night vision found her, balled up in an indentation of rock and covered with dead scrub. “What are you doing here?” were Grissom’s first words, quickly followed by, “I won’t hurt you. Come on out.”

  But she didn’t move.

  Chancing his flashlight again, the PJ’s beam illuminated a young girl, eyes wide with terror, face covered with tears, dirt, and mucus. “Come on out,” he coaxed softly. “You’re okay. I won’t hurt you.”

  Shivering with fear and squinting from his light, she refused to move.

  Grissom took a step toward her, thinking to offer the girl a drink and tempt her out of the narrow nook.

  Taking a deep breath, she screamed with lungs full of horror.

  At that moment, all hell broke loose on the ridge.

  The hunting party hadn’t been in position just yet, dividing their number and moving slowly to encircle the camp. Prompted by the girl’s cry of terror, they had been forced to launch the attack early.

  Grissom heard a shot from below at the same moment a shadow came flying over the rock formation, the leaping attacker catching him full on. The two combatants hit the ground hard, rolling into a desperate struggle.

  Surprise was with the hunters. Weapons, skills, and conditioning with the soldiers. Around the dying fire, Jones was out of his sleeping bag first, managing to kill a charging man with a shot from his sidearm. The LT soon joined the fray, bringing his M4 to bear and spraying at the shadows.

  No soldier likes to fight at night, the lack of perception afforded by the human eye serving to handicap the brain’s ability in executing the skills necessary for battle. Close quarters, hand-to-hand fighting without light was a nightmare.

  In they came, shooting, screaming war cries, and wielding edged weapons. The Green Berets were savvy, hardened men, and gave back all they could.

  Shots, rifle butt-strokes, and finally landing fists sounded from the camp. The grunts of straining men pushing their adrenaline-charged bodies to the limit of physical strength and mental endurance.

  Grissom had his own struggle, three of the hunters determined to kill the PJ by any means. Just as he managed to dispose of the flying attacker with a series of blows to the head, two others were there, one wielding a tomahawk, the second bringing his rifle to bear.

  The first shot hit the PJ in the shoulder, his body armor stopping the round from penetrating, but doing little to thwart the numbing impact of the bullet’s energy.

  Sidestepping the downward arch of the hatchet, Grissom shot the wielder in the chest with a short burst as the man with the rifle worked the bolt for a second attempt.

  The sergeant was bringing his weapon around to address the remaining assaulter when the Cochiti warrior made the decision he wasn’t going to be able to cycle his weapon in time. With a battle cry brimming with bloodlust, he threw his rifle at Grissom and charged low, the shining steel of a long knife appearing in his hand.

  The 30-06 deer rifle impacted on the sergeant’s forearm with enough force to foul his aim, throwing his burst wide. There wasn’t time to correct, the howling attacker bowling into Grissom’s chest before he could adjust.

  Slashing, sharp steel flashed brightly in the quarter moon, the screaming warrior’s arm a streaking mirage of death. Again, the PJ’s equipment saved his life, the knife’s blow bouncing harmlessly off his Kevlar helmet. He managed to grasp the foe’s wrist with both hands, twisting with every ounce of force his muscular arms could leverage.

  Something on the warrior’s arm gave way, unable to withstand the torque Grissom was applying. With his throat growling a howl of pain, he rolled off of the PJ and scrambled to regain his feet.

  Grissom did the same, struggling to stand while his numb hand tried to grip the carbine still strapped to his chest.

  Again came a charge and flashing blade, this time in the opposite hand. The sergeant easily blocked the knife with his rifle and then shoved his attacker back in order to gain the space for a shot.

  A lightning bolt of pain roared through Grissom’s shoulder before he could dispose of the man with the knife. With a look of shock and surprise, he half turned to see the young girl behind him, raising her own blade, readying to stab him again.

  In a flash of desperation, the PJ grabbed her descending wrist and spun her lightweight body around, using her as a shield to stop the larger male’s charge. It was a momentary standoff.

  Grissom was having trouble thinking clearly, unable to lift his weapon while holding onto the squirming girl. Both his enemy and he slowly circled each other low, in combat crouches, waiting for any opening.

  Below, Jones went down with a well-thrown tomahawk buried in his throat. He fell on the dead bodies of three foe littering the forest floor at his feet.

  The LT had managed to maneuver to a position where his back was against the trunk of a large pine, but the officer didn’t last long. He’d been sleeping without his armor and finally slumped to the ground after taking a third bullet to the chest.

  As suddenly as it had started, the fight was over, only the moans of the wounded filling the New Mexico night.

  Grissom sensed his comrades below had fallen. Using words the PJ didn’t understand, his antagonist yelled to his mates. The sound of numerous footfalls climbing up the ridge made the meaning all too cle
ar – help was on the way, and they weren’t coming to rescue the sergeant.

  The PJ shoved the girl toward his attacker, following her flying body to get in close. A brutal thrust of his rifle butt sent the knife wielder to his knees.

  Grissom turned to run, the sound of a snapping branch telling him the reinforcements had arrived.

  He pivoted to spray where he sensed they were. A brilliant white light blinded the sergeant as a bolt of pain shot through his skull.

  He saw the ground rising toward his face. With the earth spinning out of control, his life force was being pulled away. A glow of twin orbs appeared, two faces showing in the distorted light. One was David, his son, the other Samantha, his beloved daughter. “I love you,” his heart proclaimed. “I’ll miss you.”

  And then the world went black.

  Chapter 4

  It was much later than he’d anticipated before the hunting party returned. Hack knew instantly that things had not gone according to plan.

  Rather than entering the pueblo with thundering hooves and shouts of victory, the caravan of horseflesh plodded in at a snail’s pace. Even in the dim light, it was clear that several of the riders were returning draped over their saddles.

  Mothers and fathers streamed in from nowhere, most of them scooting close to see if their sons were among the dead. Out of the 20 men who’d left on a mission of rescue and vengeance, only 11 returned upright in the saddle.

  It was with some relief that the girl, the catalyst of the entire affair, was unharmed. Riding in front of one of the men, her uncle helped the young lady down.

  And then the wailing started.

  Hack stayed back, letting the village deal with its reaction of remorse and disgust. He’d tried to warn the rescuers before they had ridden out.

  Mothers screamed their sons’ names, fathers and uncles trying to comfort the hysterical, grieving women.

  Hack watched as three bodies were unceremoniously pushed from one saddle, their limp forms slamming to the ground in a heap.

  He approached the corpses, compelled by the need for answers to the hundred questions that were surging through his mind.