Nomad Omnibus 01_A Kurtherian Gambit Series

by Craig Martelle

  “You know what this means?” Terry asked. No one moved.

  “That means the beer is ready now!” He grabbed Pepe by the shoulders and shook him joyously, then turned to Char. “Get me a beer, woman!” Char’s fist shot out at the speed of thought, crunching into Terry’s cheek, sending him staggering.

  To his credit, he didn’t fall. Pepe watched, wide-eyed.

  “Holy fuck, Char! What the hell?” Terry grumbled, working his jaw to make sure nothing was broken. He checked his teeth with his tongue, searching for anything loose.

  Char smiled pleasantly, then wrapped an arm in Pepe’s. “Show me this magical elixir known as beer, so I can see why it turns grown men into little boys.”

  James was more confused than ever. “Are they married?” he asked. Maria shrugged. The rest watched the antics and ate in silence.

  * * *

  Billy Spires had to run wherever he went because he had more to do than time in which to do it. Felicity had no interest in running and reminded Billy that he promised her a ride. He couldn’t deliver, but he had an idea where to start.

  He left Felicity at the greenhouse working with a group of new people as he ran back past his house and to the power plant. With the arrival of the cooler weather, Billy didn’t even break a sweat as he journeyed from one place to the next.

  As he passed the streetlights, he admired them, knowing that they would be lit come nightfall. The power was already surging through the lines, one house at a time getting added to the burgeoning electrical grid. Some of the newcomers were given homes that would soon have power. All the people had to do was repair the house, fix some things, and do it in their spare time after splitting a full day’s work between the fields and cutting firewood.

  None of the newcomers complained. They were able to eat and no one was beaten. Terry and the FDG weren’t too keen on people using violence to get what they wanted. Some of the new men quickly learned that Sawyer’s way of getting what he wanted was the wrong way. Anyone trying to emulate it received a harsh lesson in new world peacekeeping.

  Although Terry believed that it took violence to stop violence, he also believed that a pat on the back and a friendly helping hand needed to be given first and often. Only after that did he dispense justice, and Terry gave those beat-downs all by himself. He didn’t want any of the others to think they were better than the newcomers. Terry hated doing it, but preferred that over the Force getting a reputation as goons.

  He couldn’t have that.

  So Terry Henry Walton, security chief for New Boulder, kept the peace, while also seeking to grow the Force de Guerre. He wanted new recruits to double the size of his unit, and then he’d keep doubling it until he had an entire army.

  Because that was what it would take to tame the Wastelands. Billy Spires considered himself a benevolent dictator, and the more Terry thought about it, the land required a strongman, not a democracy. You could only have that level of freedom once your security was guaranteed. Terry didn’t want to be the benevolent dictator, but he embraced his role as the honest broker. He’d let the dictator be benevolent, but if Billy went too far, Terry would pull him back in.

  TH’s mission was to bring civilization back to humanity. He’d do what he had to until the people had a say in their future and free elections supported them in that.

  * * *

  Terry looked at Char as she dug through refuse they found in one of the homes destined for the newcomers. Doubling and tripling up was useful only until they had space and supplies for people to have their own homes. They were trying to build a civilization, not a place where they stacked people up like cordwood.

  Members of the FDG were conducting surveys, marking a map as they went.

  “Would you look at this!” Char exclaimed, removing clothing from a sealed plastic bag. She shook it out and held the jacket up to herself. It was a military uniform that someone had probably sealed as a keepsake. It was much too large for her. She handed it over, and Terry held it up.

  “With a little of Margie Rose’s fancy needlework, I think I might have something more fitting my station, don’t you think?” Terry looked at the silver oak leaf insignia of a lieutenant colonel. He was good with that, even though it didn’t really matter.

  No one in this new world cared about that rank. They only knew that Terry Henry brought them peace of mind. Not silver leaves on a collar. Maybe someday people would equate those with a person of integrity. Not today, though.

  Until then, Terry was the pillar of virtue, the Marine’s Marine. The bringer of light.

  When he looked up, Char was naked and trying to wriggle into a pair of jeans. She jumped up and down a couple times to get them over her hips. She shouted in joy as she fastened them, turning left and right to admire them. They were skin tight, but a little loose around the waist.

  “What do you think?” she asked. Terry didn’t answer, wondering why her shirt was off while trying on jeans. That question was answered when she pulled a fluorescent orange bikini top out of the same bag. She adjusted the straps in the back and tried it on, took it off and made a couple other adjustments until it mostly fit. “And now?”

  “I think you still need to wear your shirt,” Terry said flatly. She smirked and put her flannel shirt back on, but didn’t button it, only tied the lower ends around her waist. Terry knew that she wasn’t affected by the cold like humans, but didn’t want her to flaunt it.

  Then again, she didn’t know that he knew.

  “Structurally sound? It could use a new roof, just like every home nowadays, but people could live here. It has a fireplace and an area to dig an outhouse. What else do they need?” Terry said to himself as he returned his focus to the survey. When he looked up, he found himself alone. He heard Char rummaging in a closet down the hallway.

  Terry wondered why this home had not been pillaged over the years. He left Char to her search and went outside. Painted on the front and back doors was the bio-hazard symbol, almost faded to nothing. Would anything survive after twenty years?

  He hoped not, but would encourage a full scrubbing with some of the homemade vinegar that seemed prevalent in New Boulder. Vinegar was every bit as hard to make as beer, maybe more so until the base cultures were sound. After that, the batch sizes could grow. It was a foul-smelling process, but the end result was worth the effort, giving them anything from a cleaning solution to salad dressing.

  A skeleton sprawled on the back porch. Terry thought that was a nice touch to keep the weaker people away, especially in the first year after the World’s Worst Day Ever. He kicked it into a bush, then checked the house for any structural shortcomings, like a cracked foundation or a bowed load-bearing wall. He didn’t find anything that suggested the house would fall on its inhabitants.

  When he returned inside, Char was barely able to peer above an armload of material and yarn. “Let’s get this back to Margie Rose. We have some work to do!” she exclaimed. Terry looked at the fatigues he’d been absentmindedly carrying.

  “Sounds good. Let’s ditch this stuff and get back out here, finish our survey. The people need to know where they can live before winter hits us in the face,” Terry answered.

  “Don’t we have enough places scoped out? There probably isn’t enough firewood to go around as it is. Maybe we shouldn’t give them so many choices?” She raised her eyebrows to emphasize her point since she couldn’t use her hands. Her purple eyes seemed to glow in the faint indoor light.

  “Because it’s just what we need to do. We’ll probably take the FDG out with the first snowfall. It’ll be easier to see where other survivors are holed up. I want to make sure that we’ve settled things here, that’s all.”

  Char didn’t seem convinced. He didn’t know werewolves had clothing fetishes. He wondered if she had been equally addicted to shoe shopping when there was such a thing.

  “Where are you from, Char? I mean really from, like where did you grow up, before the fall, that is?” he asked, more pointedly th
an he’d ever asked before.

  “I’m not that old!” she attempted to dodge.

  “You’re like me, good genes. You had a life in the before time. You were somebody and now you’re somebody again. I’m sure a little different than before, just like we all are,” he countered.

  “Fine, how about this?” she said, slipping into a hard New York accent. “Can you guess where I’m from now, Terry Henry Walton?”

  “The city. When’s the last time you were there? Is it still standing? Do you know anything about Chicago?” TH pried with rapid-fire questions, wanting more information. He hadn’t left the western plains, and wanted to know.

  “The city survived the fall of mankind, but not well. Too many people in too small a space. They ran out of food quickly and resorted to cannibalism. A few us went north, into Canada, and then worked our way west. Over the years we tried settling, but we’d always run out of food and then had to move on. When we hit the Rockies, we found the hunting was good and then moved south with the herds. That’s when I went out on my own. I hunted until I found you, TH. It was like I was magically drawn to you.” She blinked her eyes at him.

  “You found Billy Spires, if I remember correctly,” Terry replied coolly, wondering what her angle was this time.

  “He was just the first person I ran across, but I was coming for you,” she purred.

  “Of course you were. I tell you what, why don’t you take your haul back to Margie Rose, and here, take these, too,” Terry said as he tossed the fatigues on top of her pile.

  “See if Margie Rose can fit me into those. I’m going to the barracks and check on the boys. They might be back from work by now and we need to train and then do some recruiting. I want to double the size of the Force,” Terry stated firmly.

  “Okay,” she replied happily and headed toward the front door. He opened it for her, and they walked down the steps together. She started running, and he watched her go.

  “So that’s what you wanted, which is what you said in the first place…” Terry started talking to himself, then looked around quickly to make sure there was no one to notice his muttering, before continuing. “Fucking Werewolf, making me weird.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  James was elbow deep in the dirt, working the soil within the greenhouse for the next planting. The harvest had gone well, but they were cleaning up for the rotational crop that was heartier for the cool of the winter, like kale, kohlrabi, and Brussels sprouts. James wanted to prove himself to Terry Henry because of all the people in his life, that man had treated him the most fairly.

  Terry treated everyone the same way. James didn’t know how to ask to join the Force, but that was what he wanted. He saw the other members, Mark and Devlin, work in the greenhouse, too. Everyone shared in the sacrifice to bring food to all, but then Terry would collect his men and they’d head out to train.

  Train to be a real soldier! James thought, smiling inwardly. Sawyer Brown was just a bully, but he knew how to fight. Terry knew how to fight, too, better than Sawyer could have ever been. And Terry knew how to lead people. James decided that he’d follow that man anywhere.

  James had skills, too. He was a new age mechanic, trained by his father as they tried to make a go of it themselves after the fall. Ten years they lasted, but then sickness took the rest of James’s family. He wandered until he ran into Sawyer Brown, and after that, he just did as he was told.

  James was good with his hands and had a basic understanding of how things worked. He would love a shot at the power plant, working with a real mechanic, but he hadn’t told anyone because he didn’t want to get stuck there. He wanted to be a soldier under Terry’s command.

  James watched the other people working the dirt. They looked happy. As was the case, each time the helpers showed up, the farmers fed them a light meal and after getting general guidance on the day’s tasks, the workers were turned loose. They worked hard with little conversation, happy to be indoors and happy to be well fed.

  Not everyone was happy, though.

  James watched the farmer get more and more frustrated while working on the water pump. James finished his row, then hustled over to the man.

  Stepping close, he said, “I have some experience working with these. Maybe I can help?” he offered. The farmer thrust an old wrench at James, throwing his hands up in disgust and storming away. James watched him go, “I’ll take that as a yes?” he shrugged his shoulders as the farmer disappeared into bushes toward the back of the greenhouse.

  James looked at the rudimentary hand pump. It wouldn’t hold prime. James figured a gasket had gone bad or some bushings had failed. He tore it down, seeing how it had been roughly fixed over the years and amazed that it had worked at all. He cleaned off the previous repairs, determined that he needed to do some ad hoc welding to build up the metal and help create a new seal.

  “Do you know where there’s any copper?” he asked, but the farmer’s wife didn’t hear him. James explored outside the greenhouse and found the shed that all farmers had--a shed filled with a pile of junk. Some would call it inventory, defending their inability to throw anything away.

  James found a few pieces of heavy copper wire and a heavily rusted cast iron pan. He found metal BBs that he could use as bearings if he had to.

  He deposited his supplies at the fire pit behind the greenhouse. He returned to the pump, picking up the pieces carefully and cradling them as he took them to the fire pit. He started a small fire, then built it up while making a rough bellows out of worn tarp and two-by-fours. He angled the cast iron into the fire, with the copper sitting inside. With his bellows, he drove the fire hotter and hotter. When the copper melted and rolled around inside the cast iron, James cheered for a minute, a smile lit up his face before it slowly receded and he scratched his chin after a moment.

  James realized he wasn’t sure how to deposit the copper one drip at a time on the worn internal structure of the pump. First, he tried a stick, but that added too much dirt. Then, he rolled his shirt so he could grip the pan’s handle and tried a careful effort to drip it out of the pan, but he dripped too much copper at one location. James used the wrench to get some of the copper into place, but it wouldn’t stick.

  He put the pump case into the pan and put the whole thing in the fire. After two more logs and more furious bellows pumping, he found the copper stuck enough to build up the fitting, a little at a time, until both cooled too much to work with.

  James hoped it was enough. He had burns up and down his arms and across his bare chest where the copper had splattered.

  The tattoos of a blacksmith, he smirked.

  He ladled water onto the outside structure. He only wanted it cool enough to put the key pieces back together. The copper could pull free from the steel if he cooled both metals too quickly.

  He jammed it back together and turned the crank slowly in the hopes that the motion would help shape the moving parts against the fixed structure. He gave it fifteen more minutes before the metal was cool enough to touch.

  Then he waited fifteen more before he reinstalled the pump. As he was doing that, the Farmer came back and watched, quietly. James added a little pig fat that the farmer had been using as grease. When James finally turned the handle, he could hear the air being pushed through as the pump sought to prime itself and pull water from underground.

  When the water started to flow, the farmer howled in joy. The water volume was far greater than anything the man could remember. He clapped James on the back hard enough to drive the young man to his knees. The farmer took over and happily pumped away, filling the irrigation troughs with little effort. “You’re hired!” he bellowed as he called everyone over to look at the pump.

  James was slightly embarrassed, not used to being the center of attention, but proud to have made the farmer’s day.

  He looked around at all of the onlookers. If only Terry Henry was there to see.

  * * *

  After Terry rousted the boys for some impromp
tu calisthenics and a short, five-mile run, he turned them loose for weapons cleaning and maintenance, followed by horse grooming and stable cleaning. None of the men were happy about an endless list of chores, but none of them complained.

  He called them together for one last word.

  “Gentlemen, we need to be ready. When the first snow falls, we’re taking the show on the road.” They looked at him oddly. Even Mark hadn’t heard the expression before. “We’re going out to look for other survivors. They’ll be easier to find with the snow and the cold. That means you need to dig out your winter clothes and a good coat.”

  “Sir?” Mark asked. With a nod, he continued. “You’ve been out there. What do we expect to find?”

  Terry thought about it a moment before answering Mark’s question. “Stragglers, families, maybe even a small community. We want them to come here, and we’ll offer that option, but it’ll be up to them to accept. We’ll give them food, the option to join us, and then we’ll leave them to it. I think more will come than not, but that’s just my guess.”

  “The Force could use more people, a presence out in the Wasteland and one here,” Mark said, hands up as he held a defensive posture.

  “I’ve been thinking that same thing, Mark. We need to recruit some of Sawyer’s boys. I tell you what, let’s set up a little recruiting center for them and see what we get. We’ll spread the word tomorrow and then interview the volunteers the day after. Sound good, gentlemen?” Terry asked.

  They agreed, slapping each other on the back.

  “Don’t be afraid to share your ideas or ask a question. Think how smart we’ll be if we all use our minds at the same time,” Terry told them.

  He turned the Force over to Mark to complete the day’s tasks.

  Mark nodded, gave a rough salute, and turned to the men he had--Jim, Devlin, and Ivan.

  Terry left at a jog, deciding not to take a horse. The grazing behind Margie Rose’s house was bad, and he thought the horses deserved better.