Smith

by Wade Adrian

  He chuckled.

  In his own past, before things changed, people had often said his collection of eclectic knowledge was useless. Just a head full of old junk.

  Well, it had kept him warm. Kept him fed. Kept him moving.

  He just needed to find people who knew how much they didn’t know. Unfortunately Socrates was long dead and most people thought they knew everything. He still hoped to find people who realized times would have to change, rather than clinging to the scraps they still had. Hard to come by.

  This place might be a good candidate. And if not, he’d keep walking.

  Assuming they didn’t kill him.

  He dropped his hood and rearranged the blankets a bit. There was a nip in the air, but it was generally considered rude to approach a gate with your face hidden. At least in his experience. A friend should have nothing to hide.

  Given the recent example of Yellow man, he didn’t question the custom. That, and a lot of the gangs out in the wild world liked to use tattoos and brands as identifying marks for the same reason cattle ranchers did: ownership. The face was a common place. Hard to hide, which made people less likely to leave. No one else would let you in, thinking you a threat, and those you ran from could find you easily enough even if those actually chasing you had never met you.

  There was good reason for all the security. Places like this with their walls and safety? They were scarce now. Less and less of those left thought about the future when they were still struggling to get through today. It made them reckless. Violent. What did they have to lose?

  He stumbled a half step. Tired. Hungry. Climbing trees wasn’t the best idea given the conditions but it had been necessary. Might have been the fault of his shoes. They had a few worn out bits, but they were holding up. This world wasn’t exactly what people had had in mind when they designed cross trainers.

  The middle of the dirt road was well worn, a little deeper than the edges. He followed it openly. No sneaking. No subterfuge. First impressions mattered now more than ever.

  A guard above the gate called for him to halt when he was only a few yards out from the tree line. The guard’s face was shadowed by a wide brimmed hat. Fair enough, not the stranger here.

  He stopped.

  “State your business.”

  “House hunting.”

  The guard on the wall scoffed. “Okay, smartass. Ten paces closer, hands where I can see them.”

  He complied, holding his hands out and up, carefully counting his steps. Most people willing to point a gun were also willing to shoot one. He was a bit of an exception.

  The gate opened a crack before his feet settled. He waited as requested. Three armed men approached as the gate was shut again behind them.

  No real uniform to speak of, just mismatched leather jackets and simple weapons. A crowbar, a hatchet, and a baseball bat. The man with the bat had a decade on the two young men that followed.

  He nodded at them. “Morning.”

  “What do you want?” Baseball bat stood in the center.

  “Food. Shelter, maybe.”

  “Tch.”

  Well, it wasn’t looking terribly likely but they hadn’t kicked him back up the road yet. Or shot him. Or beaten him with a baseball bat. All these things were still possible, though.

  “You can plead your case at the gate, but we’re going to search you first. Anything to declare?”

  “Knife on my left hip, empty gun on my right.”

  Baseball bat nodded to hatchet, who stepped closer.

  “You can keep them, if it gets me a night out of the rain and a warm meal.”

  The man searching him took the revolver, a tiny .38 special, and tucked it into his jacket pocket. His eyes widened a bit when he drew the knife. “Knife, huh?”

  The heavy bladed kukri had a foot of forward curved blade after half a foot of handle. “Saves me carrying an axe, too.”

  Hatchet handed the knife off to baseball bat. He looked it over. “Where’d you get this?”

  “I made it.”

  Baseball bat seemed rather skeptical, one eyebrow crawling up toward his hairline. “You made it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned to crowbar and whispered a few words before handing over the knife and inclining his head toward the gate. Crowbar took off at a solid jog. It opened just wide enough to let him in before snapping shut again.

  “Really should be more careful. Could trip and hurt himself. Should have taken the sheathe.”

  “He knows what he’s doing.” Baseball bat started for the gate himself, waving for the man to follow. “Cut the chatter. Speak when spoken to. Better for you.”

  He only nodded in response.

  Hatchet fell in behind them as they walked.

  The guard on the wall kept his rifle pointed down at them all the while.

  Not the least welcoming place he had been to… but it was close. Oddly enough the worst places on the inside usually had the most friendly faces outside.

  The guard relaxed a bit once they were standing just outside, his eyes moving back to the road leading out through the trees.

  Baseball bat leaned against the heavy fence posts beside the gate.

  Hatchet wasn’t far. “I don’t like this. Guy looks shady.”

  His superior shook his head. “Not our call.”

  “When was the last time you had a shave, guy?”

  The man shrugged. “Straight razor is a bit of a luxury. Besides, beards are warm.”

  Baseball bat shook his head and poked at the dirt with his bat. “So, you made the knife, huh? I have a hard time believing that. Made it how?”

  “I used some en45 stock steel, bit springy. Edge holding is… okay, but it’s tough stuff for day to day use. I like it for that. Heated it up, hammered it out, annealed it, cleaned it up with a grinder, tempered it, and sharpened it. Put on the handle later. Two blocks of wood, some glue, sanded it to shape.”

  Baseball bat tilted his head a bit. “Huh.”

  Hatchet was still standing just behind him, trying not to look like he could swing on him at a moments notice. “Where’d you get the gun?”

  “That old thing? My father gave it to me. Hasn’t had a round in it in ages. I just point it at people trying to make trouble on the road now and then.”

  “Tch.” Baseball bat shook his head.

  There was a noise at the gate. Rattling for a couple seconds before it rolled open a few feet.

  The man standing there had several years on everyone else. Gray was already crawling up into his temples and sprouting randomly everywhere else. He didn’t seem to feel the need to dress for a fight, only sporting a simple pair of jeans and a t-shirt. “What’s your name, stranger?”

  It had been awhile since the last camp had fallen apart, but the world was a lot smaller than it used to be. No reason to risk it. “Smith.”

  He smiled a bit. “Smith, huh? A blacksmith named Smith.”

  “When I picked up the hobby, my father thought it was funny too.”

  The man wandered outside the gate, nodding a bit to himself. “So you knew how to make knives before?”

  Smith nodded. “I’m afraid en45 doesn’t mean much these days, unless you can find a work order or a stamp somewhere on it. I mean, I can test it… but it’s better to know going in. Saves time.”

  “Can you make things with other metals? Other materials?”

  “Depends on what you want to make. Some things just won’t hold an edge, or be sturdy enough. It’s not all the same. Stainless is pretty common to scrounge, and it’s okay for short knives, but the longer the piece the more brittle. Aluminum doesn’t have a chance in hell of holding a decent edge but people like to ask because it’s light and easy to carry. Copper is too weak for much at all, unless you wants some plates or something. Bronze would be better, but then we’re getting into alloys and good luck finding tin. Or a foundry.”

  The man watched Smith as he spoke. Weighing him with his eyes. He nodded after a few quie
t moments. “Don’t suppose you’ll argue with a simple test then, eh?”

  “Not if you throw in breakfast. Working for free sets a bad precedent.”

  Baseball bat picked up his bat as a he pushed away from the fence. Hatchet likewise moved a few steps closer… nonchalantly.

  Smith supposed he had said something wrong then.

  Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  The graying man’s expression hadn’t changed. Neutral. Watching. Weighing. But a moment later his face cracked into a small smile. “It does at that. Lets head inside.”

  3

  Smith hadn’t been able to see much of the interior from outside. The land didn’t slope up enough and the trees inside seemed to have been left to strengthen defense by keeping prying eyes out.

  The gate clanging shut behind him was a tad ominous. The locks that clattered and clacked shut were quite a bit more ominous.

  He was surrounded by a ten foot fence topped with razor wire, and the inside was lined with plywood which was sure to be lousy footing. If he wanted out, he’d have to make for the guard platform over the gate, which the armed men stationed there would probably not be too happy about.

  Well… his foot might be in the trap, but it hadn’t snapped shut yet. Given the world outside pretty much held starvation as the nicest way he would die, he could endure a bit of discomfort. Forward it was.

  The place was bigger than he would have thought. More people. More buildings. Walking the perimeter of the woods outside had given him an idea, but he’d assumed most of it was just empty farming land or something. There certainly was some, but the whole of it was more carefully laid out than he had expected. Or than he had hoped.

  He’d seen some other camps. A few tents and old wood sheds, practically leantos, and patches of earth sprouting twigs.

  Some people here definitely knew their crafts. Most of the buildings were old and probably predated the change over. Some were newer. They weren’t as clean and tidy but they were sturdy. The fields he could see were well kept, too. People were out there toiling even as they walked.

  There was a gentle nudge as Smith’s shoulder. A baseball bat. “Don’t get any ideas about counting heads or memorizing the layout. If you don’t stay, you probably still won’t leave.”

  Huh. Charming fellow.

  The graying man just smiled again. “Now, now. No need for harsh words. I was listening just inside, Cooper. It sounds like he knows his stuff.” He cut his eyes to Cooper, formerly baseball bat. “Useful stuff. Let’s play this like the audition it is and not the inquisition you’re looking for.”

  Cooper’s bat fell to his side, held limply. His eyes cut away as well.

  So, gray guy was in charge. No two ways about it.

  People watched as they passed. They looked out from windows, up from their work, and in from the fields. The gate must have gotten their attention, opening and closing again so swiftly. Or maybe it was Gray and his people escorting a stranger draped in blankets. That was bound to be novel.

  Smith would have sworn he even saw a few tiny pairs of eyes peeking out from behind grown people. He hadn’t seen a child in… a year, at least. People tended to keep them hidden away.

  “Not what you’re accustomed to?” Gray was waving at people as they passed.

  “Honestly? No.”

  “How long have you been wandering around out there?”

  “Well, I don’t have a calender, but going by the moon it’s been just under or over a year. I’m a little fuzzy on when exactly I started counting, and I lost a little time to being laid up with a fever.”

  Gray’s eyes shifted to him. “A year? Really? I’m surprised you’re sane.”

  “Jury’s still out.” Smith shrugged. “It wasn’t all spent on the road. I found places to hold up. Just no place like this. This is… impressive, to say the least. Almost like nothing happened.”

  Gray smiled again. “My understanding is that the first buildings here were set up by a group of weekend warrior outdoors men types. A few of us happened upon them early. Others happened upon us after. We called to more… though I’m sure you know that doesn’t always end well. We added to the fences with supplies left to repair the existing ones, then sent out people for more. We’d like to expand again, but…” He shrugged. “Safety first.”

  They walked out beyond the clump of buildings. Most seemed to be close to the gate. Beyond the little town were the fields and a few more utilitarian looking buildings. Beyond all of that, near the back corner, was a dilapidated barn looking building surrounded by various forms of wood and metal scrap.

  Gray waved, presenting the building. “This used to be quite the place… well, until Mason died.” His countenance sank a bit before his normal neutral expression returned. “He was quite the craftsman. If you can do half of what he could, you’ll be welcome here.”

  “How long has…” It might be a touchy subject, but probably still one worth breaching. “How long has this place been empty?”

  “Four years, at least. Probably a little longer. That was the last time we moved the fences out. He was in charge of that project.” He patted his hand against the wooden structure. “This workshop used to be on the outside. We built this way for convenience. Best laid plans don’t measure up to a snake in the woodpile.” He shook his head. “Plenty of time for a history lesson later.” He waved to Cooper and hatchet. “See if we can get the doors open, eh?”

  They moved away, though Cooper gave Smith a level look.

  It wasn’t really necessary. His potential for trouble making was limited. There were people here with guns just waiting for an excuse. Besides, he wanted to stay. Walls, food, a roof? Compared to the world outside this was paradise, dirty looks and all.

  It took them a few moments to get the doors open. Apparently it had been locked up tight to keep the kids from playing inside.

  There wasn’t much light. A few more large doors could be opened, but there was no need for that today. There was, however, a ton of dust and the scrap yard outside extended well inside. Or vice versa.

  He had to navigate around some piles to get to a few old workbenches. Tools were in short supply, but there were some stragglers in the drawers. He glanced up, his eyes looking at the lofty open space overhead. The only thing up there was the metal roof and a few beams. No electric lights, despite them probably still being in use four years ago. Generators had been pretty normal at the time.

  Gray must have noticed Smith looking around. “If something was worth taking, it’s probably been taken. The rest was left just in case any of it was ever needed.” He picked up a hammer and hefted it. “Should be sufficient for a simple test, I would think.”

  Smith nodded as he took the place in. Several power tools, but good luck keeping any of those working these days. No question why they were left behind. An old stand up tool chest had some rusted out files and chisels. He might be able to clean them. It would take time and a lot of elbow grease. A few hammers, though none were intended for metal working. “Seems more like a handyman’s setup than a blacksmith’s.”

  “Undoubtedly. But, it’s what we have. And if you plan to work for your food and board, this is what you’ll have to do it with.”

  Well… super.

  Cooper scoffed. “A hammer’s a hammer.”

  Smith shook his head. “Not really. You’ve got your standard flat headed, domed, all the way to ball peen. Almost countless variations. Each has a purpose. A specific purpose. Using it for something else is hard on the hammer, the material, or just won’t work.”

  Hatchet leaned against one of the walls. Dust fell from the beams overhead. “So, we taking you back outside then?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Smith picked up the heaviest hammer he could find. It looked old. Just a hunk of iron with a wooden handle. The head was flat… enough. “What am I making?” He had to move some things around to find an ‘anvil,’ such as it was. A piece of railroad track. Eh, good enough. Little narrow, but
he could work with it.

  Gray held up Smith’s knife. “Something along these lines would be nice. Doesn’t have to be as pretty, of course. Doubt you have the specific stuff or the time.”

  He’d figured it would be something like that. It was all they had seen, and also suited to test his word in addition to his skills. He poked around a bit more. “Not going to get very far without a forge.”

  “We don’t have one of those on hand.”

  Footsteps approached from outside. “Bishop?” Crowbar appeared at the door.

  Gray gave him a nod. “In here. You get it?”

  Crowbar nodded as he walked inside holding up a little metal tank.

  Gray, Bishop, took it with a nod. “Good work.” He held it out. “This suffice?”

  He was holding a propane welding torch. A tank about the size of a two liter soda bottle.

  Smith tilted his head. “Huh. Maybe. Let’s see.” He’d heard of something like it being done, but never seen it in person. He took the torch and held it in the light falling in from the open doorway. Unfortunately the labels were long since rendered illegible. Most of them had simply worn away. “Well… one way to find out then.”

  He wandered back over to the toolbox and pulled out the worst looking old file. No way he could get it back into shape, but it was still good steel. It was already hardened, though it was going to lose that in the process, but it beat trying to pull out some random scrap from the junk lying about. He knew a file would work. Everything else would be guesswork.

  Besides, it already had a handle of sorts. To make it a real knife would require a new one, but it would be something to hold to test an edge. He popped that off and set it aside.

  Cooper was watching him closely. “Why take that off?”

  “Because it will burn.”

  “Tch. It’s wood. Just keep it away from the fire.”

  Smith gave the man a level look as he pulled on an old thick leather glove that barely moved. It was like a hand shaped piece of wood, but it was the only one he could find in the toolbox. He counted his blessings it wasn’t for a right hand. “It would burn the wood inside the handle and not fit anymore. Do you wanna do this?”