Holding Their Own: The Toymaker

by Joe Nobody

  Again, the PJ cursed his throbbing head. Apparently, he wasn’t thinking clearly, and it was getting him in trouble. The man interrogating him was no fool. He needed to be careful, yet silence wasn’t an option. “What do you mean the wrong side of the valley? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You were on the western rim of the valley. On the Los Alamos…” Hack stopped mid-sentence, his eyes growing wide. “You were in Los Alamos with a Geiger counter. There are nuclear materials at the lab… and when the military used a drone to scout the area, they spotted our project. Now this all makes sense.”

  Grissom was amazed at how quickly his captor had put two and two together. But Hack wasn’t done.

  Pacing now, the toymaker continued to mumble his rambling logic as he talked aloud, sorting out the explanation to the puzzle. “There must be a problem with the nuclear materials at the lab. The Pentagon is worried about it, or at least concerned enough to dedicate vital resources like a Special Forces team. A radiation leak? No, you didn’t have any protective suits or breathers. There must be something valuable there….”

  Hack abruptly stopped, turning to Apache Jack. “We are going to Los Alamos. We will need some additional men.”

  “Yes, Grandfather,” came the reply. “I’ll see to it.”

  Turning back to face his prisoner, Hack’s smirk was brimming with confidence. “Thank you, Sergeant. I think you’ve just provided me with a solution that will protect our little irrigation project. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go and research the hazardous materials storage units at Los Alamos. ”

  Grissom knew immediately where Hack’s mind was going, and it made him ill.

  They looked like a wagon train from a B-grade Western, straining teams of horses pulling dilapidated, weathered wagons through the scenic valley.

  Surrounding the rusty wheels and horseflesh were the mounted scouts and warriors. With rifles pointed skyward and resting on saddle leather, some were Santa Domingo, others Cochiti. The toymaker’s Apache escorts made up the rest.

  Hack had instructed the elders to prepare enough food and supplies for a three-day excursion. Not knowing what to expect, he’d also suggested a significant amount of ammunition be added to the manifest. That had taken the entire cargo area of one of the wagons.

  And then there was the anticipated looting.

  Everyone around the Caldera knew Los Alamos had been abandoned less than a year after the electricity had vanished. The mountain town’s unmaintained sewers had bled into the water supply after a heavy spring rain. Disease had racked the population in a matter of days. The survivors had fled in droves.

  Since then, the larger and closer cities of Santa Fe and Albuquerque had been more accessible targets for the tribe’s scavenging parties to plunder. Los Alamos, at its peak, had attracted only about 12,000 residents, and many had survived and consumed supplies for months after the collapse. Early scouting expeditions had found the town nearly void of items high on the looters’ priority lists.

  But that didn’t mean that the entire area was void of valuable assets. Since Hack and his party were going to be making the difficult trip anyway, why not bring along an extra wagon or two to fill with anything useful?

  The highest priority, however, wasn’t batteries, medical supplies, foodstuffs, or weapons. Hack wanted to harvest the nuclear materials from the lab. With those in his possession, he could protect the tribes and the Valley Green project. Thus, the extra wagons.

  The ex-engineer had no illusions of converting his small patch of New Mexico into a global nuclear power. He knew enough to realize that building a fission bomb required extensive capabilities and knowledge that were beyond his grasp.

  But radioactive materials had more than one use.

  For years at the Skunk Works, the threat of a terrorist’s dirty bomb had been a perplexing problem for those who earned their living protecting the USA. Hack had worked on aircraft-mounted sensors and early detection devices more than once in his career.

  There had also been a project that revolved around performing damage assessment if a U.S. city ever experienced the horror of a dirty bomb detonation.

  The toymaker knew that the concept struck fear into the hearts of the bravest of men. He fully understood how political leaders reacted to the ramifications of the threat.

  If he could safely capture whatever the Los Alamos labs held in their vaults, it would be a potent deterrent for anyone trying to interfere with their project… or the tribes in general.

  The chiefs and governors had grasped this immediately. “If we had commanded this capability three hundred years ago,” remarked one of the council elders, “the whites would be the ones relegated to life on reservations.”

  The constant plodding of hooves on pavement was causing Hack to grow drowsy. He was fighting a nearly constant stream of yawning when the outline of Los Alamos appeared over the crest of a rise.

  From a distance, the mountain city looked like any other town bathed in the afternoon sun. With beautiful vistas and diverse surroundings, Hack had to admit that the government had made a wise decision back in the 40s when they had established the Manhattan Project at the remote locale.

  An hour later, the entourage was entering the outskirts, bumping along at the horse’s uphill pace.

  Up close, the appearance of the berg was completely different.

  Weeds and vines had taken root in practically every crack and crevice. In some areas, piles of windblown debris had accumulated as high as a man’s waist.

  Dust covered surfaces that the human mind was accustomed to seeing clean. What windows were still intact were darkened by a disturbingly thick layer of grime. The few automobiles they passed were coated in the same filth. Many of the tires were flat, some displaying unmistakable signs of dry rot.

  The lead rider reigned his horse to stop at the intersection of two main streets. All eyes turned back to Hack’s wagon, eager for his instructions.

  The toymaker had memorized the town’s street grid and layout. Motioning for a few of the leaders to gather around, he began issuing instructions.

  The Natives had taken to calling them Locusts, and Hack thought the description was apt.

  According to the tribe’s recently minted lore, the first few attempts at scavenging had failed miserably. It had taken some time and experience to refine the art of looting.

  The first issue had been security. In the early days of the apocalypse, it was often difficult to tell when a town or city was unoccupied. Regardless of the current census, electric lights didn’t shine at night. Lawn mowers didn’t hum as they trimmed yards. Children didn’t run laughing and shouting in the yard.

  The Locusts, after being ambushed and shot up on more than one occasion, had learned to apply the same skills used in tracking wild game. Their first sign always involved water.

  Humans had taken to mimicking deer and elk, requiring a visit to the local watering hole one or more times per day. A home or building with buckets outside was a sure sign of a resident. A worn path to the nearest creek or lake was another telling indication of human habitation.

  Scat was an obvious clue. Like all members of the animal kingdom, people produced waste and often weren’t very clever about hiding the evidence of their deeds. And it was more than just the presence of bodily byproducts that gave them away.

  People, even after the collapse, produced garbage. Hack had heard of the Locusts avoiding potential trouble spots after finding skinned animal hides, piles of rotting intestines, and other signs of hunter/gathers.

  Clothing wore out and was discarded. Stashes of food were still being discovered, producing wrappers and packaging. One popular campfire story related the tale of a Locust discovering a can of soda outside of a warehouse in Santa Fe. Common houseflies were swarming the empty container, a sure sign that it still held the residue of sugar. Three heavily armed rogues were seen leaving the building just a few minutes later. A firefight had been avoided.

&n
bsp; Eventually, Hack and his flying cameras were employed in the effort to avoid confrontation. The drones could more easily identify occupying humans and surveil their activity, but even that method wasn’t foolproof.

  Over time, the Natives began to map out the pockets of surviving humanity that still existed throughout the area. The elders decreed it law that the Locusts were not to take from others. If valuables were found abandoned, then they were fair game. Stealing was forbidden.

  While the intent of such a rule was noble, the practical application was not. What if two independent parties happened upon a cache at the same time? After numerous such violent encounters, it soon became clear that combat skills were a high priority for any person wanting to be a Locust.

  Protocols had developed. Scouting, stalking, and other tactical methods became common practice. Like any other occupation in the post-apocalyptic world, there were masters and apprentices, managers and worker bees.

  And what to scavenge? Often, when a new, untouched location was found, there were more goods than could be carried off by a small team of individuals. Which items were the most valuable? Just like every other aspect of an economy, supply was soon driven by demand.

  Brokerages quickly appeared, each pueblo supporting its own branch office. Residents would visit the local broker and place an order for needed supplies. Haggling would ensue. Eventually a “procurement ticket” would be generated and a wish list formed from the collective supply needs of the community. When the Locusts went hunting, they carried a list of priorities.

  Over time, the scavengers refined their production capabilities to include what everyone called “mining.” If a team of Locusts uncovered a particularly large trove of treasures, they would stake a claim and then spread the word. Like ants ravaging a picnic pie, the gatherers would travel from far and wide, carrying off the goods until nothing was left, paying a percentage to the original prospectors.

  It was a team of Locusts that Hack addressed first.

  “The primary business district is located in that direction,” he indicated, pointing down the street. “Less than a mile further is where the neighborhoods of upscale homes begin. Take two wagons and your shopping list. We’ll meet you back at this intersection in four hours.”

  Without any comment, the Locusts separated and began moving toward the primary scavenging area.

  As Hack watched them go, the remaining members of the expedition drew closer, waiting for his guidance.

  This group was comprised mostly of armed males. Hack hoped their firepower wouldn’t be necessary, but in the days of anarchy, one never knew.

  “We will travel to the laboratory’s main complex,” he began. “We’re looking for a building that will most likely have radiation warning signs that look like this,” he said, holding up a tablet computer with an image on the screen.

  “Inside one of these structures is a vault, not unlike what we’ve all seen inside of a bank. That’s where our prize will be located.”

  The onlookers all acknowledged their understanding, many heads nodding up and down.

  “Once we locate the vault, I’ll take over from there. I’m probably going to have to use explosives to breach the door. And there’s a risk in that. If I compromise the nuclear material’s storage containers, then anyone close by will get sick… probably die. So I need everyone to stay back until I signal the ‘all clear.’ Is that understood?”

  Again, the throng expressed comprehension.

  Hack was about to continue when a distant thumping noise sounded over the mountain. Pausing to listen, the toymaker realized instantly what it was.

  With wide, excited eyes, he turned back to his followers and said, “There’s a helicopter coming in. It’s probably the U.S. Army searching for the same prize we’re after. Everyone get out of sight! Quickly!”

  The horses sensed the sudden surge of stress that shot through their human masters. That, and the abrupt, harsh commands made the animals jumpy and difficult to control. But the Natives were excellent riders, and soon the caravan was moving away from the open pavement and seeking shelter wherever it could be found.

  “Shit,” Hack confided to his Apache friend and caretaker, “The soldiers on our ridge must have gotten a message out before they were killed.”

  “Should we leave, Grandfather?”

  Stroking his beard, Hack thought about their options. Finally brightening, he answered, “No. This might actually be a positive development. Gather all of the men who can fight. Tell them to pack all of the ammunition they can carry. We can make this work to our advantage.”

  While the warrior scurried off to do as the toymaker commanded, Hack ventured to the back of his wagon and uncovered one of his drones. The sound of the approaching machines now made it clear that more than one bird was inbound, and the whirlybirds were getting close.

  With his fingers flying over the tablet’s controls, Hack quickly programmed instructions for his flying robot. The first helicopter zoomed over the town just as he’d finished.

  All in all, four helicopters passed overhead, their destination being the laboratory’s massive complex of structures. “You’re going to lead me right to the goodies,” Hack whispered, making the final preparations to launch his machine.

  With a smile, he hit the command on his computer and then stood back as the small flyer shot skyward. A few moments later, with several of the Apache watching the computer’s display over his shoulder, Hack began to receive images from the aerial camera.

  The helicopters were easy enough to spot, having landed in the lab’s main parking lot. Evidently, the visitors didn’t expect to stay long, the main rotors still spinning at an idle speed.

  Hack could see three or four men exiting each bird. Some were armed with battle rifles, others carrying suitcase-like packs and boxes.

  The toymaker guided his drone higher, wanting to make sure he didn’t lose sight of the location where the government’s men were going. It then occurred to him that their destination didn’t matter. They would open the vault. They would prepare the nuclear materials for safe transport and then return to the copters.

  Motioning for his bodyguard to come closer, Hack explained his reasoning in a few sentences. With a nod and a smile, the Apache said, “We can make sure those whirlybirds don’t leave.”

  “Do you see how their security men have fanned out?”

  “Yes. I would do the same. This won’t be difficult, Grandfather. We are many. They are few, and we have surprise on our side.”

  “Okay, but don’t attack until you see the others returning with the goods. And exercise great caution. We must not shoot up whatever cases they are carrying.”

  “And what about the aircraft? Do you want them destroyed?”

  Again, Hack had to think it through. “No,” he responded. “Try to leave them airworthy, and don’t kill more than is necessary. The men who entered the buildings are probably scientists, not military. We want our friends in Washington to know we have their property. This will send an unmistakable message.”

  Nodding, the Apache turned to his men and began barking orders. A few moments later, the war party was stalking through the streets, moving swiftly toward the lab’s parking lot.

  Hack lingered back for a bit, observing the proceedings from his airborne toy. Better an old man like me lend moral support than get in the way, he mused.

  Twenty minutes passed quickly, the drone’s battery level falling to a critical level. Shaking his head in disgust, he ordered the flyer home.

  Despite his age and lack of fighting skills, Hack still wanted to see what was happening. After his pet had landed securely by the wagons, he began making his way toward the labs and the waiting Apache.

  He was trying to stay low and quiet, slithering slowly from building to tree in order to remain unobserved. Out of nowhere a young warrior appeared at his side, scaring the hell out of Hack.

  Without a word, the younger man began hustling Hack through a series of side streets
and ravines. Three minutes later, the toymaker found himself beside a rather annoyed looking Apache Jack. “What are you doing, Grandfather? Do you want to get yourself killed?”

  “I wanted to see. I need to see.”

  Shaking his head in disgust, the Native returned to his primary objective, watching the armed men surrounding the still-running helicopters.

  Hack was not sure how much time passed before the retrieval teams reappeared from the lab’s complex of structures. The first hint of the pending arrival had been one of the perimeter defenders holding his hand up to an earpiece and listening. The guards became very alert after that.

  Movement appeared between the buildings, a short procession of men parading back toward the lot, several carrying what appeared to be a set of common beer coolers. They strolled out of the lab’s main gate like they were on the way to a football tailgating party with an ice chest full of brewskis.

  Hack exchanged looks with the Apache and nodded. “That’s what we’re after. That’s the prize in those chests.”

  The Indians waited until the goods were halfway back to the helicopters. Hack heard the man next to him unsafe his weapon, and then all hell erupted in Los Alamos.

  The Natives sprang their trap with deft skill and unquestionable bravery. Gunshots rang out all around the perimeter, most of the security force falling in the first few seconds.

  Hack saw another group of his friends rise from a row of overgrown shrubbery not far from the men carrying the nuclear containers. Anyone who didn’t hit the ground immediately was shot.

  One of the helicopter pilots must have decided on an escape, the sound of his engine making it clear he intended to take off. In seconds, he was looking at three rifles pointed at his bubble canopy. Wisely, he changed his mind.

  And then it was over, the victorious Natives yelling and whooping in celebration.