Smith

by Wade Adrian

  Smith shrugged. “Right, fair enough. Not my department anyway. Just pondering if we can run some other pipes around here. Not sure how we’d pressurize them, though. Not without using a water tower and gravity.”

  Bishop smiled. “Buckets work fine for now, though we’ll entertain suggestions at a later date. We have our construction project for today.”

  “And I appreciate it, by the way. I know a few days ago nobody thought they’d be doing this.”

  “Having met Rawlins and seen his pet project, I’m sure you understand that we’re usually okay with letting useful people in.”

  “Well, glad I’m useful, then.”

  Bishop frowned a bit. “Didn’t mean it that way, though I admit we don’t let everyone in. Some people are just too far gone. I’m sure you’ve seen a few given how long you were out there.”

  Smith nodded. The yellow man fresh in his memory. “Yeah.”

  “So we’re a little picky, I admit. We also can’t allow divisive elements in. People who think they’re going to take over, or start trying to split us into different groups fighting over a few inches of dirt.”

  “That one sounds a bit specific. When did that go down?”

  “Three years ago, give or take. We let in a small group of people at once. Traveling traders, but this was to be their home. That lasted… oh, about two weeks. They were already trying to turn the ranch on the farm, as if there wasn’t water for both. Playing on fears of possible future shortages they had no way of anticipating. Just fear mongering. Then trying to claim they could do a better job than the council.” Bishop scoffed. “Took another two weeks to get people’s heads on straight enough to see what was happening and oust them. Believe me, they did not want to go.” He shook his head. “And I didn’t want to turn them out to twist in the wind, but they left us no choice.”

  “How did you get rid of them? Didn’t they just come back?”

  “Two have, and they have become productive members of our society. Three others have not. As to how, we had them blindfolded, tied, and lead two days out with their cart of goods. They were released and observed for a week. It was almost a year later when the two returned alone.”

  “Seems kind of harsh.”

  Bishop shook his head. “It’s a harsh world these days, Smith.” He reached into his pocket. “You were out there a long time, so I’m sure you know that.” His hand returned holding a small .38 special revolver. “There used to be two kinds of people in this world. Those afraid to live, and those afraid to die. The ones afraid to live hid away, did their jobs, kept their heads down, paid their bills on time, and avoided notice as best they could. Those afraid to die struggled every day to make more of themselves, painfully aware there was a clock running down. These days, there's only one kind left. Those afraid to die. All those who could embrace death have done so. Far easier to eat a bullet than to carry on when everything is gone. But you know that. You're still here." Bishop reached into his pocket again. His fingers returned clutching a single bullet. He gently placed it into the revolver, the round ready to fire on the next pull, and held it out to Smith. "But maybe you never got that chance, so here. Here's your chance, if you want it. No one would think less of you. You got by for a long time. That’s certainly accomplishment enough.”

  Smith frowned at the gun in Bishop’s hands. He wasn’t wrong. There hadn’t been a round in the cylinder for years.

  But he’d never considered the notion anyway. He’d held other guns. That was never an answer. Never even an option.

  But it must have been to some, or he wouldn’t bring it up.

  Bishop nodded a bit. “I had a feeling you wouldn't want to. You're a survivor. You know you're useful. You still have a purpose. You know you can make something of yourself. I think you understand this world better than most. How things need to be now." He set the gun down. “That’s yours. Always was. Wear it if you like. It might not have been much use before, but it is now.”

  Smith grunted. “Not really a big fan of guns.”

  Bishop smiled. It looked… bitter. “I hate them. But I don’t live in a world where that’s an opinion that I can hold. I’d just get killed.” He stood up and wandered a few steps away. “I didn’t want to turn those people out, Smith. It felt like cutting off a limb. But it was important. It was something we needed to do because it was something we needed to learn. We need to be strong to survive, and we proved that we are.”

  17

  Bishop tilted his head a bit when voices outside caught his ear. “Well, enough dour talk. You’ll get plenty of that at council meetings. Seems like the work crew has arrived.”

  Smith gingerly picked up the gun and removed the round. He placed that into his pocket and the gun back into its holster at his side. He really wasn’t big on guns, but this one had sentimental value. His father had given it to him, and he was glad to have it back as a keepsake if nothing else.

  Stevens lead a small group into view just outside. About ten that Smith could see. He waved to Bishop. “What’s the plan here?”

  Bishop turned to Smith. “Don't know. What’s the plan here?”

  Smith tugged on his beard. “Well… I have some ideas, but it would be easier to get across if you’ve got some paper and a pen. And a measuring tape, since using my feet to measure is inconvenient if I’m doing something else.”

  A small hand appeared off to Smith’s left holding a plastic box. He glanced over at it.

  The label was gone, but it was clearly a tape measurer. Huh.

  Mary smiled a bit as he took it with a nod.

  “Thanks. Big help.”

  She moved her hands around a bit, but it was way too fast for him to even guess at.

  Bishop nodded. “Ah. She says her father has lent it to the project, though she’s rather sure it came from this shop in the first place.”

  Smith chuckled. “Well, it’s still his then. Grateful for the loan. Let him know, yeah?”

  She nodded and pulled the pad and pencil from from her pocket. He was expecting her to write something, but she held them out to him.

  Oh, right. He had asked for that. “Thanks again. Wait, I mean…” He tried to mimic the gesture she had shown him, his fingers in front of his mouth and then sweeping forward and down.

  She smiled and gave him a thumbs up.

  He flipped to the last page of the notebook and started scribbling up the plans he had worked on so far. “Alright, so here’s what I’m thinking…”

  With some input from Bishop and a few of the others, the place was measured out and the design jotted down on paper and then into the dirt floor life sized where possible. It served as a good reminder.

  Step one was cleaning the place out. There was a concrete slab at the back that Smith hadn’t even realized was there. It was buried under a lot of junk and some very industrious weeds.

  The building looked quite a bit bigger when it was empty. They stopped for lunch once everything that needed to move was outside. It wasn’t quite noon, but Smith was happy to let them take off early. He didn’t have much to give, so he could at least be a nice foreman.

  He stood staring at the corner he planned to put the forge in. Bishop said bricks and mortar were available, though in limited supply. Nowhere near enough to make a house, or even a shed. Given that, he was willing to part with them for this cause. No one had disagreed.

  Why would they? The unfortunate truth of the matter was that gasoline wouldn’t last forever. It was already getting pretty scarce and what was left was barely fit to use. It made engines sputter and shake if they turned over at all. Might as well pour alcohol in there.

  But a forge? That didn’t need any gas. It didn’t need any propane or acetylene. All it needed was wood turned to coals, and Smith could do that himself. More of his useless archaic knowledge. It wouldn’t remain a secret for long once he started, but unless someone in the kitchens wanted to have a barbecue there wasn’t much use for it elsewhere.

  He paced a bit as he tr
ied to figure out what would be ideal given the space. While the doors were good, he’d still need a way to feed air into the fire, so that would be a hassle. Some sort of bellows or other means of directing air on demand. A chimney would also be a good idea, as the doors would need to be closed some days. It got cold around here and he’d probably need all his fingers and toes to keep working.

  He jumped at a gentle tap on his shoulder.

  Mary was fighting back a grin as she held out a plate.

  Smith narrowed his eyes at her. “Rude.” His eyes fell on the plate. “And very kind. So I guess that’s a wash.”

  She pointed at the workbench. So far there wasn’t really any place to sit, and it had served well enough.

  He followed her over, still pondering the room as she hopped up and sat on the bench. He leaned against it and she handed over the plate. Meat, vegetables, bread. Very consistent. Maybe a trader would come by with a cookbook.

  “You guys seem very intent on food. Get the impression you’re trying to fatten me up and eat me.”

  She gave a small shrug and a nod.

  “Knew it. Crafty.” He gnawed on the bread for a moment. “Thanks for helping, by the way. I know this is a volunteer racket.”

  She pulled out her little pad. “You already thanked everyone.”

  “True, but I meant you in particular. I know you already have a job, so this isn’t exactly a vacation.”

  She smiled a bit and scribbled on the pad. “Happy to help.” He ate in silence for a few moments before she scribbled another note. “They bug you about Rawlins’ ledger yet?”

  His shoulders slumped a bit. “Yep. Can’t say I care for the idea of it being so… I dunno, scientific, I guess. I like the concept of choice.”

  She nodded a bit and picked up one of the bows still lying on the table.

  He snatched up the roll of tape Bishop had brought and held it out to her. “Mind wrapping the siyahs? One time around will do, just trying to keep the paint from rubbing off.”

  She tilted her head a bit as she took the roll of tape.

  He went back to his lunch before a note appeared in front of his face.

  “Say uh?”

  He smiled a bit as she set his plate down. “Siyah.” He wrote it down. “The end of the bow’s limbs, when set up like these, are called siyahs. Western bows weren’t big on that sort of thing. The design was more common in the east. Mongols were big of them.” He pointed. “See, it keeps the bow long enough to allow for a full draw, while limiting how much of it actually bends.” He pointed at the tapered length above the handle but before the siyah. “This means more power in a compact package.”

  She looked the bow over for a moment before nodding and fiddling with the roll of cloth tape.

  Bishop’s leaned into the open doorway door. “Wow.” He walked inside, shaking his head. “You need to get out more, Smith.”

  “Why? Work to do.”

  “There will always be work to do. Pace yourself. You’re no good to anyone if you keel over from a heart attack.” He tilted his head as he noticed Mary. “Or, wait, did you actually start delegating?”

  Smith glanced over. She was doing a… decent job. “She’s just polite enough to lend a hand.”

  Mary ignored them as she tried to line up the winding tape perfectly. An overlap would be better… but taking it off would remove paint at this point. He’d overlap the next one.

  “Pity. I’m sure some simple things can be taught while your time is better spent on more complex issues.” Bishop glanced around the empty room. “Wheelbarrows in route. Bricks, bags of cement, and buckets of water. I think the forge is the real priority, but only so many hands can work on it and yours will be needed to guide them. Everyone else can start figuring out the elevated living space.”

  Mary held out the siyah she had wrapped in front of Smith. Part of it had ended up overlapped despite her efforts. He looked it over and nodded. “Good. This bit here is preferable, the slight overlap. Just to help protect it. This one is fine as is, though.”

  She nodded and spun the bow around, pulling at the roll of tape as she started the second siyah. Now she was overlapping a bit too much, but it was better than not enough.

  Bishop smiled. “You know, we’ve got plenty of farm hands. If you’d like, maybe we can assign her to work here full time.”

  She blinked up at Bishop, then glanced aside to Smith.

  He knew exactly what Bishop was doing. This was his subtle way to try and continue his and Rawlins’ efforts with the ledger. Smith got along with Mary, an “unpaired” female, so keeping her in the building would probably build on that. Or at least they hoped it would.

  But he wasn’t about to agree for their reasons. It still seemed just… too removed from what people were supposed to do. It felt artificial.

  One the other hand, she was willing to take direction and adjust what she was doing instead of stubbornly doing things wrong. That was more or less all that was required to learn. She didn’t have the arms for swinging a hammer, but he could do that for now while she worked up to it. All in all, there was plenty she could do.

  He shrugged. “I don’t disagree, but it’s up to her. And I don’t need an answer any time soon. Place won’t be ready to have me working, let alone an apprentice, for a few days at least. Probably weeks.”

  Bishop nodded. “True. But I still believe you’d get more done with some help.”

  Mary looked back and forth between them before returning her attention to the siyah. Her head tilted this way and that as she worked on it. Smith could only assume she was rolling the idea around.

  Well, seed planted. He could certainly use the help. Miles and Stevens seemed to prefer their normal work, but Mary might not.

  The wheelbarrows arrived a few moments later. They seemed intent on mixing cement in a wheelbarrow, which seemed ridiculous to Smith, but it was theirs so whatever. Thing was going to weigh a ton when they were done unless they rinsed it out immediately, and that was unlikely. Maybe they could knock some hardened cement loose, but it would be tricky. Any attempt to spare the thing would limited their actual working time.

  He drew in the dirt with an old screwdriver, lining where he wanted things. “We’re pretty much building this corner in with brickwork. It doesn’t need to touch the floor, but we’ll need some to support the flat bed about… here or so.” He made a scratch on the wall. “Then continuing up against the back walls but leaving these two outer sides open until… here.” He made another line. “At that point we narrow it up and make a chimney that feeds outside.” He glanced around. “Think we’ve got enough for that?”

  Bishop rubbed at his chin. “Maybe? Let’s start up, and see how high we get. Sure we can make a chimney out of something else if needs be.”

  Smith helped line it all up. The base didn’t need to be solid brick, though that would have been nice. Instead it ended up being a square brick base to the height he wanted filled in with dirt and stones a layer at a time as it was built.

  Meanwhile, the other team was putting up beams. The center point of the shop got a beam, and a few more stretched from there back to the far wall. They dug holes and used some of the cement to fill them in again while the dirt was hauled over to fill the forge base.

  In all, it was actually rather efficient. Smith was impressed. If these people could figure this sort of thing out, it wouldn’t be very long before they didn’t need him at all.

  18

  The day’s work ended with beams in place, a few high cross beams lashed and nailed together to ensure weight was evenly distributed, and the forge built up to the height of the fire. The rest would have to come tomorrow as the sun had called it quits on them.

  That was only going to get worse. Fall had been going for some time now. The days were getting shorter and the nights colder.

  Smith prodded the brick structure a bit as he imagined working there. It seemed like a good height, and it would end up being a bit taller once the coals were i
n. He had no idea how he was going to raise the anvil to the correct height. He’d always seen people use big logs, practically stumps, or weld together supports. He didn’t have a lot of resources for either option. Maybe if he made a solid workbench…

  He didn’t jump at the shoulder tap this time. He expected it would happen eventually.

  Mary was holding a… thermos? Huh.

  He took hold of it. “Hey. Thanks. What’s this?”

  She scribbled up a note. She was pretty quick about it, and they were always neat.Even doctors would probably found his handwriting appalling. “Bishop said not to bring you anything from the kitchens. Wants you to go there. This is from home. Vegetable soup.”

  He smiled. “Well, thank you very much.”

  She nodded before her eyes drifted to the forge. He leaned against the door jamb. The soup was still hot. Almost painfully hot. But it was good, and a nice change of pace.

  Mary turned her eyes up to him. She pointed at herself, then the forge, and mimed swinging a hammer.

  Well, seemed like she had made up her mind. “You want to work here, huh?”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against the idea, but why?”

  She rolled her head around her shoulders a bit before shrugging. Then she shook her head. Seemed like the equivalent of a frustrated, “I don’t know.” She whipped out her notepad and scribbled a few things, but tore the page out and shoved it in her pocket before starting again.

  Smith sipped at his soup. He’d learned a long time ago not to rush people. Especially frustrated people.

  She let out a breath before holding out the pad. “There are lots of farm hands. This is more interesting, and more important.”

  He shrugged a bit. “I wouldn’t say that for sure. Food is always going to be an issue around here. Everywhere really.”

  Her shoulders slumped a bit.

  “But… they’ll always need tools, won’t they? Which is where this place comes in. It may not be an essential skill set, I mean you guys were getting by without it, but a good smith or two will definitely make life easier around here.”