Smith

by Wade Adrian

  Bishop gave Cooper a hard look. “Let the man work.”

  Smith gave him a nod and held up the torch. “This is a bit heavy now, but it’s quite possible I’ll use it all, and maybe not even finish a blade if it burns too fast. You okay with losing it?”

  Bishop shrugged a bit. “We have a few more.”

  “Cool. But regardless, if you want more metal worked, we’ll need to build a forge.”

  Cooper chuckled. “Suppose you can do that, too.”

  “It’s not that complicated.” Smith shrugged. There was an old striker in the toolbox. It took some effort, but it made a few sparks. “No need to get elaborate. A pit and some coal would get work going. Blower to feed air in. I’ve helped rig a few up.”

  “Oh, yeah. We’ve got a coal mine out back.”

  “You kinda do. Only need trees and some mud.” Some of the people he had studied under were all about being authentic, trying to recreate old methods. He had always found it easier to just buy coal. At least it had been easier.

  “This guy is full of shit, man.”

  Bishop smacked Cooper in the back of the head. “Outside. You’re not helping.”

  “But-”

  “Out. Side.”

  Cooper grumbled as he wandered past Crowbar. He bashed his shoulder against the smaller man’s as he walked on by. Crowbar turned to follow him, but glanced back at Bishop.

  The graying man shook his head.

  Smith waved Crowbar over. “Give me a hand?”

  “Why?” The young man crossed his arms. “This is your thing.”

  “True, but I’ve only got two hands and you don’t have a forge. So I need you to hold this.” He held up the torch. “Turn it on when I say, with this.” He held up the striker, cranking the handle to make a few sparks. “We’ll leave it off when I’m hammering to save the fuel.”

  Crowbar tilted his head, then glanced at Bishop.

  He nodded.

  Definitely the guy in charge.

  4

  “Try to keep the sparks in the center of the room. It looks to be pretty safe there.” Smith swept his eyes across the floor and shrugged out of the blankets hanging from his shoulders. He draped them over the tool chest. “Dirt doesn’t care. Get too close to some weeds or old rags and we’ll have a problem.”

  “I’m not stupid.” Crowbar looked over the torch and the striker.

  “Cool. Just trying to explaining the process a bit.”

  He drug the “anvil” across the floor, because why make a stand for it? That would make too much sense. He stopped near the middle of the room, setting the heavy hammer on top of it and standing back up.

  “Okay, need a quench tank…” He wandered a few steps around the room. “A metal bucket will do. Plastic one might not survive…” He shifted a few of the discarded bits around.

  Bishop raised his chin at hatchet. “Go fetch a couple buckets of rain water.”

  He left without arguing. Good man, or he had learned from Cooper’s example.

  Smith tugged on his beard. “People don’t usually like to part with water.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I know it’s a tool in the process.”

  “Appreciated.”

  Crowbar poked at something in the piles of junk with the toe of his boot. “Hey, how about this?” He set the torch and striker down in the dirt and started moving stuff.

  Smith reached him just as the young man yanked a metal washtub out of the junk pile. “Huh. That’s great.” He helped him get it loose of the last few bits. “If it’s water tight, we’ll be in business.” He couldn’t see any holes in it… of course, that didn’t mean much until water was in the thing. Bad seams had a way of hiding cracks.

  Hatchet returned a few minutes later with two buckets of water. He set one down and hefted the other towards the washtub when he noticed it.

  Smith waved his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Slowly, if you don’t mind. Checking for leaks.”

  The young man rolled his eyes, but he did as he was told. He didn’t even look at Bishop this time.

  The tub was a bit dented, but it proved sound.

  Once he had a quench tank, of sorts, an anvil, of sorts, and a forge, of sorts, he was ready to begin. “Don’t usually do this so close to the ground, but no time to build something to keep the anvil sturdy.” He nodded to Crowbar. “Ready when you are.”

  The young man turned on the torch and fired it up with the striker.

  Flames burst forth. It took a few moments of adjusting to get it to a useful heat. “Keep it about there, and try to get back to around that color next time, yeah?” Smith held the old file in the emerging flame.

  It might have actually been too hot… but that was a problem he could deal with. He moved the file around in the fire, trying to make all the metal he intended to shape around the same temperature. It took some time, but it went from black to a dim orange, to blue, to red, to cherry red, to orange, and finally to a bright yellow. He kept the metal moving while Crowbar did his best to keep the fire still.

  “You know…” Crowbar’s voice was a little uneven. “If you were just trying to find a creative and painful way to kill me… this would be a good one. Heh.”

  Smith gave him a level look as he kept the metal moving. “I hadn’t considered that.”

  “Oh. Uh. Good?”

  He stared at the young man for another few uncomfortable seconds as his helper shifted about on nervous feet.

  One had to find amusement where they could in these trying times.

  He chuckled as he placed the heated metal on the anvil.

  The hammer passed its first test when he struck the glowing steel. It didn’t break. Good. It survived the second hit, too. Also good.

  He doubted the propane tank had long, even though Crowbar had remembered to cut the gas. He needed to get this done even if it wasn’t going to be pretty.

  The metal hammered out well enough. He drew the edge out, flipped it over to make sure it was even time and again, working as fast as he dared to and a bit after the metal was probably too cool. He didn’t want to waste any of his limited fuel.

  The second heating was a shorter, more precise chunk. He cleaned up the shape. It was still more or less file shaped, though it had an edge on one side now. It would end up being a heavy chopping… thing. But as long as it proved he knew what he was doing, that was all that mattered. They knew he had inferior tools and inferior stock.

  His stomach grumbled again as he worked. He ignored it. No time for its complaints. And yet, in truth he was lucky. Another few days eating like he had been, he wouldn’t have had the strength for this.

  Fears that the torch would run out faded as he grew more satisfied with the shape. The blade was longer and wider than the file had been, and it was a serviceable tool all on its own now. Not for anything fancy or intricate, but it was certainly a worthy chopper. Probably split kindling like a dream.

  The quench tank hissed as he submerged the steel. It was going to be a hard sell, but… the truth was the truth. “As it stands, this will work. But it won’t work for long. If you really want to see this be something, I need time to anneal it. Heat it up to red, when it stops being magnetic, then let it cool down on its own. At least three times.” He pulled the blade out and held it up in the light coming in through the open door. There were no cracks he could see. “All metal is technically crystalline in structure. What I’ve done here is get it just hot enough to force it to change shape. Regardless of skill level or time, that creates internal stress in the metal which might be okay, or might cause it to fracture. Luck of the draw. Annealing will let it fix itself on a microscopic level, letting that stress out.” It was… good enough. Pretty damned good considering its origins and his tools. He handed the cold metal to Bishop. “Annealing also makes it soft so its easy to grind out the forge marks. Makes it pretty, but also means it cuts cleaner and makes it easier to keep an edge on it. Then tempering. Heating and forcing a fast cool makes the metal hard again. Get i
t right and it’s just this side of unbreakable for normal usage. Get that one wrong and your outcome varies from soft enough to bend to swinging a piece of glass.”

  Bishop held the blade up himself. He turned it over a few times before chopping at one of the wooden pillars of the workshop. It took a chunk out of the beam. “So… that’s why we could never make blades worth a damn.” He shook his head. “And your half made imperfect thing still puts our attempts to shame. Heh.”

  Smith shrugged. “It’s more complicated than most people think.”

  Bishop nodded. “Oh, I know. Mason thought he could do it just because he’d seen some smithing done a long time ago. Back when he was a kid, and the guy was pushing seventy when he was with us. The man he knew was only making horseshoes.” He shook his head. “Nothing like this.” He held the blade out to Smith.

  Smith’s stomach grumbled again.

  Bishop smiled a bit. “Breakfast, right.” He pointed at hatchet. “Go find something, would you? Something good.” He turned back to Smith before the other man had even cleared the building. “Given free reign, how long do you think it would take to get this place up and running?”

  Smith rubbed at his neck as he glanced at the beams overhead and the junk lying about. “Probably a few days of digging around just to see what’s here. Wouldn’t want to rush that, since I sort of doubt you have any tetanus boosters on hand. Then maybe some special requests. Bricks, wood, different metals. Maybe I can give them some pointers on what to look for.”

  “I’ll see if I can get people to bring some of the tools back.”

  Smith shook his head. “If they want to, sure. But given what’s here… I think most of what I’ll use will need to be built. Doubt much of it walked out the door.”

  “Probably true.” Bishop nodded as he looked around himself. “Look, Smith, people are going to talk. Maybe resent you, you’re new and different after all. But the truth is… this is something we need. Something we’ve needed for awhile. They’re going to be edgy around you, and don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ll have eyes on you for awhile. Weeks. Maybe months. It takes them some time to get used to new folks. Most think everyone outside that gate is a monster. They barely tolerate traders that never make it this far inside. Some even hold low opinions of our hunters and scouts.” He gave a small shrug. “But you pull your weight, you show them you’re nothing to be afraid of? They’ll warm up. Just don’t take it personally in the meantime.”

  “I understand. I’ve seen a few monsters out there myself.”

  “That’s why I’m pretty sure you’re not going to be a problem.” He pulled Smith’s kukri from his belt and held it out. “Just in case you find another snake while cleaning this place up.”

  Smith returned the large knife to the scabbard on his left hip. He didn’t ask about the gun, despite wearing the empty holster on his other hip. They hadn’t simply forgotten it. It would come back, or it wouldn’t. Wasn’t worth losing what was on the table here. “Don’t say that. It’s just about how my luck has been running.”

  “Our luck.” Bishop corrected. “Personally I’m hoping you end up doing great things. We could use some more skilled labor around here.”

  Smith chuckled a bit as he shifted some of the junk lying around.

  This was going to take forever. A few days was a very conservative estimate.

  Chunks of white plastic standing in the corner caught his eye. It looked like someone had been planning to run water out here or something. He pulled some scraps of wood out of the way and stepped over a few larger bits lying on the ground.

  There was a stack of PVC pipes lying on the ground against the wall. They’d been covered up, and inside the shed. At the least, the pipes at the center of the stack had been safe from the weather. Huh.

  He pulled one from the pile and out into the room. It wiggled as it moved. A good sign. Given too much time and sun exposure the stuff tended to get brittle. Brittle meant useless in this case.

  Bishop raised an eyebrow at him. “Going to do some plumbing? Don’t think you can make a knife out of that.”

  “No. Plumbing is something I don’t really know how to do. But I have made bows from this stuff before.”

  “Wait… bows? Like, bow-and-arrow bows?”

  Smith nodded. “Kind of like making a knife. Heat, reshape. Some two by fours, a few clamps, a pair of gloves, and I can make a bow. Think I have some of that here already, if the wood isn’t too warped.”

  “You’re going to make a bow. From that.”

  He shrugged. “I can. That’s not the same as saying I will. Got to have heat I can control, and come up with a decent bowstring.”

  “What about arrows?”

  “Wood is simple enough, though you need to be a bit picky. Arrow heads are good, but a sharpened wooden point will do in a pinch. I’ve used stainless steel spoons before. Good size, minimal shaping, and it can be shaped cold. Cutting feathers is a messy job, but a guy I met a few years back taught me a way to make simple flights without cutting the feathers. Better for throwing them together in the field. Just need three about the same size, string, and some patience. None of that, ‘gathering flight feathers from the same wing’ nonsense. I mean, it’s not the proper way, but the proper way is pretty much the impossible way to do anything anymore. Not quite as reliable at extreme distances, but still good.”

  Bishop tilted his head a bit. “How exactly do you know all of this stuff?”

  Smith smiled a bit. “I’ve always loved making things. Back in the day, though, none of what I wanted to make was practical. I’m useless at fixing cars or running electricity. But these days those are not practical. Funny how time flipped that on its head.”

  “No doubt.”

  5

  His breakfast was a few strips of bacon and scrambled eggs. While he had heard a few distant roosters while he watched the place, he hadn’t actually seen any farm animals. They clearly kept some and someone around knew how to prepare them.

  It was easily the best thing he had eaten in months.

  Smith tried to keep a calm demeanor, but he must have failed. Bishop was smiling as he leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table. “None of that on the road, eh?”

  “Not much of anything on the road, really. I remember a time when people thought canned goods would last into the next millennium. Our entire civilization was supposed to be survived by twinkies and bags of chips. Well, and cockroaches. Those might still be around.”

  The older man nodded. “Those were the days. So many things to worry about and all of them far away. I admit, I was up in arms about getting preservatives out of food back then. Kind of kicking myself now.”

  “Hindsight, man.”

  They were sitting at a picnic table under a nice shady tree. The common smells of an active kitchen wafted from the nearest building. People were moving about the empty space in the center of the ‘town’ not far off. There were five more tables, but they were empty. Seemed like the breakfast rush was over.

  Cooper wasn’t far, leaning against one of the buildings and trying to look disinterested.

  So was his baseball bat.

  Hatchet and crowbar weren’t far either, but they were trying to blend in more. Talking to locals and trying to look interested in mundane things.

  Even if the welcome was a little superficial, it was still the best Smith had seen in some time. At least on this side of the gate.

  The day had grown warm enough that Smith had left his extra layers at the workshop and rolled his sleeves up. He looked more or less like everyone else, if a little unkempt.

  Maybe that was why he kept getting wry looks. He preferred to think so.

  One of the townsfolk, a woman a few years younger than Bishop with long dark hair and a green dress stopped at the table. She bowed her head a bit. “Good morning. You’re mister Smith, correct?”

  Smith nodded. “Nice to meet you, miss.”

  Bishop leaned back from the table. “Leave t
he man alone, Edna.”

  She ignored him entirely. “You know I never thought the day would come when hammering from that old shack was a sound I actually wanted to hear. But I must say, a number of us perked up when we heard those notes ring out.”

  Notes? Huh. Smith smiled a bit. “I’m sure you’ll get sick of it before long, assuming I pass my audition.”

  She sat at the table, still ignoring Bishop. “Oh, I’m sure you did fine.” She waved dismissively. “Tell me, you’ve been outside for awhile, right? What’s it like out there? How is the world faring? All the traders, hunters, and scouts are so tight lipped.”

  And for good reason.

  He tugged on his beard. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  Her smile faltered a bit.

  Bishop shook his head as he leaned forward again. “Edna, we’ve been over this before.”

  Her eyes turned to him, the first time she had acknowledge the man. “Hope springs eternal, dear.”

  Bishop rolled his eyes. “We have what we have. Safe and sound. We’ll expand again, take in some more ground we know is safe. What’s out there isn’t safe. Not until we’ve got a wall around it.”

  Smith nodded. “Afraid I’m inclined to agree.”

  She turned his eyes back to Smith now. “But you’ve been out there for weeks at least.”

  “Months.”

  Her left eyebrow climbed a bit. “Well then, surely you have run across other good people. Enough to stay alive. Lord knows we can’t make it alone anymore.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Some, yes. Few and far between. People outside are accustomed to giving each other a wide berth. Anyone that comes up on you in a hurry is looking for trouble.”

  She frowned. “I have no doubts those people are a tiny minority of the population.”

  “Maybe.” He nodded a bit. “I like to think so. But that would mean I’ve never seen the majority.”

  She was trying to hide it, but she looked downright crestfallen now. Her shoulders had slumped considerably.

  “But…” Smith tried to smile a bit. “This place is new to me. So I don’t see why there couldn’t be more towns like it hidden away, safe and sound.”