Holding Their Own: The Toymaker

by Joe Nobody

  But why?

  Hack had heard the stories, too. With the exception of a few large cities under the military’s control, the United States of America didn’t exist anymore. So why would Washington, or anybody else for that matter, care?

  There had been rumors of a few regional governments being formed. There was the Alliance down in Texas, the Co-op in the Midwest, and the Mountaineers up in Wyoming and Idaho. Hack had his doubts about any of them actually being as organized or well-run as what some of the nomads had claimed.

  So why would Washington send in military assets to check on his project? It didn’t make any sense.

  What did resonate with the ex-engineer was negotiating from a position of strength. All of the old sayings rotated through Hack’s mind, such as, “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

  His brother’s favorite had been, “It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

  But the adage that really best described his thinking was, “Possession is 9/10s of the law.”

  Hack knew their best defense was to finish the project. After that, as soon as possible, they needed to start raising crops. That’s when they’d be in the strongest posture to ward off any potential outside influences.

  He mentally checked off the options such progress would allow. They could barter with food and water. The local tribes would gain confidence and swagger. The nearly worthless desert would become the new breadbasket of the region. People would flock to the territory. They would attract professional, hardworking people with the skills necessary to improve their society and raise the standard of living. People who could help them build a new country… and do it right this time.

  “Maybe Washington realizes this,” he considered. “Maybe they don’t want any competition. Maybe they have some vision of keeping the Union whole?”

  Hack was finally ready, walking outside to see his Apache friend waiting next to an idling dump truck, six men with rifles climbing into the bed.

  Looking at the sky, the Native observed, “Looks like an excellent day for a road trip, Grandfather.”

  Bishop torqued on the bolt, his arms knotted from strain and slick with sweat.

  It didn’t move.

  “You scum-sucking, bag of ass dander, I’m going to fix you, once and for all,” he growled at the rusted connector.

  The wannabe repairman climbed down the windmill’s tower, pausing at the bottom rung, using his shirt to wipe the perspiration from his brow.

  Grumbling all the way to the pickup, he ignored Terri and Hunter, his family resting on the tailgate, legs swinging in the air.

  First, he swallowed a quick drink of water, the cold liquid doing little to improve his mood.

  “What’s wrong, Bishop?” Terri asked, already knowing the answer, but hopeful that giving her husband a chance to talk about it would make him feel better.

  “Nothing,” he mumbled, distracted as he dug in the truck’s bed, looking for a particular tool.

  Producing a 5-foot length of steel pipe, the Texan snarled, “This will fix your sorry ass,” and proceeded back toward the malfunctioning water pump.

  He ascended again, the fourth such trip just this morning, Terri and Hunter watching from the “box seats” below.

  Bishop first connected the end wrench to the offending bolt and then gingerly slid the pipe over the tool’s handle for leverage.

  Again, the sinew and cords rose across his back as the Texan tried to break loose the stubborn bolt using the leverage provided by the extension.

  Without warning, the pipe surrendered all its resistance, and Bishop lost his balance. He started to fall, his right hand making a desperate grab for the tower’s cross member. He caught it, swaying in the air while the pipe banged and pinged its way down the steel rungs and then thudded onto the desert sand below.

  Using the momentum of the fall to his advantage, Bishop grabbed hold with both hands and performed a chin-up, swinging his leg over the ladder’s rung while scrambling to a safe perch.

  “Are you okay?” Terri yelled from the truck, already moving toward the windmill with Hunter in the crook of her arm.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” sounded Bishop, his tone indicating a barely contained rage.

  Retreating down the steps again, Bishop recovered the pipe and took a few, deep breaths. Back up he climbed, a look of determination dominating the rancher’s face.

  An inspection of the stubborn bolt elicited another grimace.

  Without a word, Bishop descended the ladder yet again. He skipped the bottom two rungs, his boots kicking up a small puff of sand as he landed hard on the surface.

  Then without warning, he raised the pipe and swung it at the tower’s support like a baseball slugger trying to knock one out of the park.

  Terri began retreating with her child, backing away as Bishop began a tirade of low, menacing curses and strikes.

  “You oozing sack of whore pus!”

  Whack!

  “You worthless, maggot-sucking dickwhistle!”

  Thwack!

  So animated was Bishop’s attack, the third strike actually missed the tower, the pipe flying from his hands and soaring across the desert floor.

  Terri had never seen such fury in her husband’s eyes when he pivoted and began marching back toward the truck. Definitely wanting to stay out of his way, she and a concerned-looking Hunter backed off to give him space.

  A moment later, he was pulling the “big rifle” from the cab and glaring at the windmill with murder in his eye.

  “What are you doing?” she yelled, pulling Hunter close and covering the child’s ears.

  “I’m going to put that son of a bitch out of its misery, that’s what!”

  “Bishop! Stop! It’s just a machine. You can’t kill it.”

  “Oh yeah? Watch me.”

  Terri, mumbling something about Don Quixote, scurried toward the far side of the truck as Bishop raised the .308 to his shoulder and took aim at the doomed pump. But then he hesitated.

  Maintaining his icy stare at the offending device, he lowered the rifle. “You’re not worth the ammo,” he spat. “I’ll have to think of some nice, slow, painful way to bleed you.”

  Bishop spun, returning the firearm to the truck. Terri stayed back until she was positive the storm was over. She waited while he’d downed another guzzle of water, and then approached cautiously.

  “What just happened, Bishop?”

  “The bolt holding the sucker rod was rusted through. I sheared off the nut, clean as a whistle,” he answered calmly.

  “No, that’s not what I’m talking about. I meant what happened after you came down the ladder… and began whipping and thrashing an inanimate object.”

  He smiled, a wee touch of guilt evident around his eyes. “I was just relieving a little frustration is all. Why?”

  “You’ve been nothing but an old grouch since I got back from Alpha,” Terri proclaimed defiantly, fists flying to her hipbones, signaling her displeasure and concern. “I know you’re upset over the garden and the cows, but we’ve survived a lot, lot worse.”

  Bishop stared down at the ground, guilty as charged. “Sorry,” he mumbled, hoping to avoid further scolding. “If I was taking it out on you, I didn’t mean to.”

  She stepped close, reaching up to touch his face. Softer this time, “What’s the matter, Bishop? This isn’t like you to get down in the dumps or lose your temper like that.”

  The Texan made eye contact with his wife – but only for a moment before his gaze returned to his boots. “I don’t know… I guess… I just feel like a failure,” he stammered. “I put a lot of pressure on you to resign from the council so we could be together here at the ranch. I wanted that so badly. Now, I can’t seem to make a go of it. Everything I touch turns to shit.”

  Brushing his cheek gently, she responded, “It will work out, I promise. It’s not like you’re a lazy bones. You’re working hard every day. Things will come around. They always do.”

 
Her words put a smile on his face, but it was short-lived. “I appreciate your faith in me. I truly do. But my hard work and your optimism aren’t going to put food on the table. We went hungry for a long time, and I don’t intend on letting that happen again.”

  Terri grinned, determined to cheer up her husband. She stepped back and then performed a perfect pirouette, gracefully extending her arms wide. “I don’t know. Without all that sugar and carbs in our diet, I’m pretty happy with my girlish figure. It’s one of the few post-apocalyptic benefits I can brag about.”

  “You’ve always had a great shape,” Bishop replied. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Despite his words, it was obvious from the expression on her husband’s face that her approach didn't have the desired effect.

  Upping the ante, she again moved close, tracing her fingers across his chest in a seductive manner. “And a certain Texan I’m rather fond of isn’t looking too bad either,” she cooed.

  Bishop took her hand, squeezing gently and looking deep into her eyes. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do. Really, I do. My issue isn’t with you… or Hunter… or our lives together. No man could ask for more. My problem is with me and my ability to provide for my family.”

  Terri hesitated, trying to decide how best to address her husband’s fears. Finally, she said, “There are other ways to earn a living besides ranching, my love. Meraton and Alpha are full of men who don’t raise cattle or gardens.”

  “But they have skills… or know a trade or craft. The only way I’ve ever earned money is with a firearm or a branding iron. I think I’ve pressed my luck living by the gun. By my way of thinking, I’ve done enough fighting for any two lifetimes. I’m sick of the killing and violence and risk, besides being damn lucky to be standing here with a beautiful woman who loves me. It’s my turn to chill and live an ordinary life.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean you need to learn all the verses to Home on the Range,” Terri said. “You’ve got a bat cave full of ammo in there. Why don’t you start seriously reloading and take the bullets to the Meraton market to sell? Or you could work on repairing guns for people. There’s more than one way to earn a buck.”

  “Sell my ammo?” Bishop replied, his expression suddenly resembling that of a scolded puppy. “Umm… err… I don’t know things had gotten that bad.”

  Terri shook her head in frustration, tempted to launch into her own temper fit. Instead, she brightened and said, “I’ve got an idea. You need a new part for your windmill and a break from your chores. Why don’t we drive into Meraton tonight and stay at the Manor? You know how calming the garden… err… the grounds are there, and we can visit with Pete and our other friends. It’ll make you feel better. What do you say?”

  Bishop rubbed his chin, not sure about his wife’s suggestion.

  Terri pressed, “I picked up a new bathing suit in Alpha.” Then, with her eyebrows moving up and down, she added, “It’s white. It’s sheer. The pool will be nice and cool, and then later I can show you a few other articles of clothing I found while I was in town. They’re even more revealing.”

  The Texan grinned, bending down to kiss her forehead. “You’re rewarding bad behavior, you know. I’m not sure we’re setting a good example for Hunter.”

  “Well… if you don’t want to see my new swimwear and pajamas, we don’t have to go.”

  “Oh, no,” Bishop answered quickly, trying to recover. “I think you’re right. An evening out on the town might just help my grouchy, old self.”

  “Then it’s a date,” Terri cheered. “Let’s head to the camper and get packed up.”

  The first thing Bishop noted as they entered Meraton was the number of cars and pickups. “Is the market still open this late?” he asked Terri, glancing at the sunset in the rearview mirror.

  “No, I don’t think so. But it’s been quite a while since we were here. Maybe they’re having some sort of celebration or holiday?”

  “I sure hope there’s a room at the inn. I hate sleeping on straw with the horses.”

  The next surprise came in finding a parking space.

  The lot behind the Manor was full of carriages, horse teams, wagons, and motor vehicles. “This reminds me of the pre-collapse days,” Bishop complained. “I wonder what’s going on?”

  There was a handful of people in the Manor’s lobby, many of them seeming to know Terri. While the small crowd gathered to “Oooh,” and “Aww,” at Hunter, Bishop made his way to the front desk.

  “I’d like a room, please,” the Texan announced. “With a king bed over in the new section.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” responded the woman behind the counter with a name tag identifying her as Wauneta. “All of those are occupied. I can give you a double or two twins.”

  “Fine. I’ll take the double.”

  “Sure enough, Mr. Bishop,” Wauneta replied. “That will be $10, per night. How many nights will you be staying?”

  “What?” Bishop replied, surprised that there was a fee. “Did you say ten bucks per night?”

  “Yes, sir,” came the pleasant response. “I’m giving you the Alliance government discount, even though your wife no longer is formally part of the council.”

  “But… but when did the rooms start costing anything?” Bishop asked, digging for his wallet.

  A look of understanding came over the new proprietor’s face. “We have expenses, sir. It’s all part and parcel of the recovery, I suppose. I’m trying to keep the price low, but the cleaning ladies just asked for a raise, and the cost of pool supplies, gardener, detergent for the linens, and everything else just keeps going up and up.”

  “I suppose,” Bishop replied, digging a Hamilton from his billfold. With a grimace, he noted there were only a few green bills left.

  Next came the registration form – another surprise.

  “I guess the world is recovering,” he mumbled, reaching for a pencil.

  Terri appeared at his side, “Whatcha doing?”

  “Did you know they’re charging for rooms now? We have to pay $10 per night.”

  Shrugging, Terri responded, “Makes sense. I saw a lot of this in Alpha during my last visit. There is less and less barter, and more folks wanting currency. People have to make a living. It’s progress, I suppose.”

  “I should’ve held onto the bank robber’s gold,” Bishop grunted. “I wonder what Nick did with it anyway?” he queried, only half teasing.

  “They moved it to Austin a long time ago. They’re using it... and other unclaimed treasure… to back the Alliance’s new currency.”

  Bishop frowned while they waited for a key. “But we’re using the old U.S. currency. I don’t understand?”

  Terri grinned, “Paper money wears out pretty quickly. Diana showed me some designs for the Alliance’s bills that they’ll start minting in a few months. They need the gold to give people faith in the new currency.”

  “Speaking of new money, I’m going to have to sell some of my ammo tomorrow in the market. The only bills I had were what we brought with us when we bugged out from Houston, and that wasn’t much.”

  Terri, worried the topic would lower Bishop’s spirits again, quickly changed the subject. “I’ve arranged for a babysitter to watch Hunter once he’s asleep. He’s pretty pumped up seeing all these new faces, so it will be a bit. Why don’t you go visit Pete while I give him a bath and put him down. I’ll come get you when it’s time to go swimming,” she said with a wink.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “And no carousing, hard liquor, or brawling,” she teased.

  “And no wearing a thin, white bikini to Pete’s,” he responded with a grin.

  After carrying their bags to the room and making sure Terri had everything she needed, Bishop strolled through the gardens, making his way to Main Street for the short walk to Pete’s Place.

  The next thing that struck the Texan as odd was the lack of firearms. Six months ago, it would have been unusual to
see a man walking down the street without some sort of long gun. Now, the M4 slung over his shoulder seemed out of place.

  As he progressed the few blocks to the berg’s famous watering hole, the Texan noted that all of the storefronts seemed occupied and sported goods in the windows. That hadn’t been the case just a short time ago. There was even new construction going on, some of the market’s booths being converted to more permanent structures, complete with pergolas and neatly lettered signs.

  Bicycles and pedestrians were everywhere, people out and about despite the market having been closed hours ago.

  And there were cops.

  At the next corner, Bishop observed a police car, complete with two uniformed deputies idling nearby. It appeared as though the law enforcement presence was welcome, many of the pedestrians exchanging friendly nods and greetings with the officers.

  They, however, didn’t smile when they spied Bishop’s rifle.

  “Good afternoon,” one of the deputies said, stepping purposely into Bishop’s path.

  “And to you, deputy,” the Texan replied, not really sure why he’d drawn their attention.

  “What brings you to Meraton, this evening, sir?” asked the second lawman, now joining his partner.

  For a split-second, Bishop started to tell the man it was none of his business, but he reconsidered. “My wife and I are in town for the market and a little relaxation.”

  “In town from where?”

  The question hit Bishop the wrong way, but again he checked his temper. They’re only doing their jobs, he thought.

  “I’ve got a small place south and west of here,” Bishop responded nicely.

  The fact that Bishop claimed to be a citizen of the Alliance seemed to help with the two officers’ attitude, but only a little. “While it’s technically not illegal, there’s no need for that weapon, sir. Meraton has law and order, and we’re trying to discourage citizens from openly displaying their firearms in public.”