Holding Their Own: The Toymaker

by Joe Nobody

  Indians, he believed, weren’t all wrapped up in material possessions, greed, corruption, politics, or many of the negative aspects of western society. He anticipated a refreshing change from the rat race that had been his life in L.A. He hoped for neighbors more accepting of his exotic appearance and behavior.

  What he found were third-world economic conditions, mismanagement of resources, and many of the locals living in absolute squalor.

  His first reaction had been to shrug it off, justifying the tribe’s conditions with the typical list of excuses and stereotypes. The Indians didn’t care about earthly wealth or possessions. They were lazy. They were caught in a cycle of generational poverty and now suffered from an addiction to government handouts and support. Drug and alcohol abuse, inspired by low levels of self-esteem, were to blame.

  Always a keen observer, Hack had watched, read, and listened to the local news and gossip. He’d visited ceremonial dances, powwows, and other local events. He’d tried his best to integrate into his surroundings.

  The first hint that he, as well as most of American society, had it all wrong occurred while he’d been on a rare road trip to Albuquerque. A shipment of parts for his toys had arrived, but the parcel delivery truck had been unable to locate his cabin.

  It was an especially hot day, the temperature rising as Hack wound his way down the mountain and into the lower altitudes of the desert. He passed a car that was pulled to the side of the road, one of the tires shredded beyond repair.

  A short distance later, he spotted a woman walking, a toddler on her arm and another small child at her side. There wasn’t a town or pueblo for miles, and the radio had warned of a 100 degree plus day. Hack pulled up next to her.

  “Do you need a ride?” he asked, trying to smile nicely.

  Despite the heavy-looking child and long walk ahead of her, the already-perspiring Native didn’t immediately accept. Without a word, she studied him for several moments before nodding. “If you would be so kind,” she answered, reaching for the door handle.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “I’m going to visit my aunt,” she replied. “It’s her birthday.”

  After a quick exchange, the traveler provided Hack an idea where the relative lived, and he was happy to deliver her. “Well, hop in. I’m going that direction and can swing by to drop you off.”

  A few times during the drive, Hack tried to strike up a conversation to pass the time. His efforts were met with polite, but short answers. He wrote it off to the woman being upset about her car and wary of a stranger.

  Turning into the pueblo, Hack noticed every residence had an identical cardboard and wood crate sitting at the curb. There were dozens and dozens of the containers, all of them covered with dust and road grime. Weeds grew around the eyesores, some of the sides and fronts eaten with insect holes.

  “What’s up with the big boxes?” he inquired, winding his way through the narrow, dirt streets.

  Her initial response was a grunt, followed by a vague and sketchy explanation, “The BIA (Bureau of Indian Affairs) sent each resident a clothes dryer. A big truck came and dropped one off at each house.”

  “Really?” Hack replied, thinking such an event would be welcome and not understanding her negative tone.

  “The people don’t know what to do with them. The trash haulers can’t take them away, so they just sit in their yards.”

  “Why not use them?” he asked innocently.

  “They’re gas powered, and the pueblo has never been plumbed for natural gas.”

  Hack could believe it. He’d spent his entire career working with government contracts. Sometimes the bureaucracy simply messed up.

  “Why didn’t the tribe’s governor ask the BIA to swap them out with electric dryers?”

  She frowned, obviously frustrated by the entire affair. “Because the tribe requested them.”

  Hack shook his head, clearly not understanding. “The tribe requested gas dryers? Why would they do that?”

  “Well, not exactly. A government man from Housing and Urban Development visited the pueblo. He wrote a letter to the governor suggesting that the local businesses would attract more tourists if the area’s visual appeal was improved. One of the items he pointed out was the fact that the residents dry their clothes outside in the sun. When there was grant money available at the BIA, the tribe asked for a way to dry the laundry inside. They sent the dryers.”

  “So, why not just swap them out?”

  “That was considered, but electric dryers require 240-volt electrical outlets. Most of these homes are older, and barely support 120 volt, so it wouldn’t have done any good.”

  Hack pulled up in front of the aunt’s house, his passenger thanking him graciously for the ride.

  “Before you go, I’m curious about the dryers. So why didn’t someone send them back and reallocate the funds for some other improvements?”

  “It was too late,” she said sadly. “The crates had been sitting outside for several weeks, and the manufacturer refused to take them back.”

  Hack could understand her bitterness. “And let me guess. The local trash trucks can’t haul them away?”

  She nodded and then proceeded to thicken the plot even further. “You got it,” she answered, “so some of the people got together and contacted a scrap dealer in Santa Fe, just to get the ugly boxes out of the pueblo. But the BIA said we couldn’t do that. They said that the dryers were government property, and the equipment had something called a ‘five-year depreciation schedule.’”

  “I’m sorry,” Hack said. “I hate stories like that. Maybe the people could convert them to bookshelves or coffee tables,” he added, trying to lighten her mood.

  She looked at him with sad eyes. “There’s no room inside anymore. As part of the grant money, the tribe agreed to pass a rule eliminating clotheslines and outside drying. My aunt’s home is already quite small. Now it is full of wet clothing.”

  Hack didn’t know what to say.

  His passenger gathered her well-behaved children, thanked him for the ride, and proceeded to walk toward the modest home. Almost as an afterthought, she returned to the car window, asking, “Would you like some bread? My aunt has made bread in her oven since I was a little girl. Every weekend, she would sit outside on her porch and sell the loaves to tourists. But now, not many tourists come because of the ugly boxes, and she always has more than we can eat.”

  Smiling, Hack said, “I’d love to buy some bread. How much is it?”

  “No money,” she replied, a flash of insult behind her eyes. “You were kind to my children and me. I don’t have any money, but I can repay you with bread.”

  His experience that day had stuck with Hack. As he began to sell his toys in Santa Fe, he became friends with the other artists and craftsmen, most of whom were Natives. Tragedies, such as the gas dryers, were common.

  Over time, he came to accept that the locals were a people out of sync with their surroundings, being squeezed from all directions by the overwhelming force of society as a whole.

  Hack thought about the Apache’s suggestion for a moment, finally shaking his head. “Go check them out. If they resist at all, then do what you think is necessary. If you detect any hint of foul play, bring them to me. With the funerals, additional security, and extra patrols, the project is falling behind schedule. Not everyone passing through Native lands is up to no good. Don’t invest a lot of manpower in this. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.”

  Hack watched his bodyguard head off to issue orders, and then turned back to the video monitor. His attention, however, was elsewhere.

  Chapter 12

  Terri was never so happy to see flat terrain in her life.

  The climb up the mountain would have been bad enough on its own, but Hunter’s makeshift pouch wasn’t exactly a product of scientific design and years of field testing. It was off balance, ate into her shoulders, and her child hated the contraption.

&nbs
p; Soaked in sweat, legs burning with fire, and with a fussy, constantly wiggling boy riding poorly on her back, Terri finally gave in to her body’s protests and conceded that she needed a break. “Bishop,” she panted, “Sacagawea, I’m not. I need a break. A good, long one. Hunter is in agreement, which means you’re out-voted.”

  Her husband nodded, indicating a strand of trees just ahead. “The sun’s getting hot, even at this altitude. The shade will feel good.”

  They found the cluster of pines surrounded with a nice, soft carpet of old needles. Interspaced between the trunks were table-sized rocks, a few covered with a plush layer of cushy moss. It was truly an oasis for Terri’s tortured body.

  After helping her unload Hunter, the Texan began a routine Terri had watched him perform a hundred times. He scouted their surroundings, watching and listening with an intensity that reminded her of a wild animal stalking prey.

  Only after he was sure their location was safe did he unload his own heavy pack, stretching and rolling his shoulders. “Now that was a hike,” he proclaimed with a cheery voice. “Can you believe people actually did this shit for fun and recreation before the collapse?”

  “They must have been sadistic,” Terri replied, rubbing her sore legs. “Either that, or I’m completely out of shape. That was painful. Are we done climbing?”

  “Yup. It’s downhill from here. I’m going to poke around ahead for a bit. Do you have your pistol handy?”

  “Yes,” she replied, patting the fanny pack across her stomach.

  “Don’t drink too much, and don’t let Hunter have more than a cup, okay?”

  “How far are you going?”

  “Not so far,” he answered, digging into his pocket and extracting a small, skin-colored device. “After talking with Nick, I thought I would try this. It’s called a hunter’s ear. It amplifies sound so you can hear animals at a greater distance. The SAINT team told me that when Nick shot the second drone, it made a distinct buzzing noise. I want to see if we’re being watched.”

  “If someone comes along, will you be able to hear me?”

  Bishop nodded. “Yup. Yell like crazy, and I’ll come running. Or, you can just fire off a shot… like the last time you had trouble in New Mexico.”

  Terri automatically checked again for a snake. While she’d thoroughly searched the area before sitting down, her husband’s remark brought back memories of a very close call. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about any of those little reptilian bastards getting close to me. I learned my lesson.”

  Nodding toward the device, she said, “I thought Nick was adamant about your not bringing any of your high-tech toys. Is it a good idea to have that… just in case we get surprised?”

  “I can ditch this little thing pretty quickly. And it is not expensive or rare, so it wouldn’t be completely out of character to have one.”

  “Yeah. I heard you try that same logic when Nick found out you planned on packing your night vision. I thought you were going to cry like a little boy when he said you couldn’t bring along your favorite plaything,” she teased.

  Bishop, still fiddling with the tiny sensor, didn’t react to her jab. “You know, this thing weighs about the same as a roll of toilet paper. I sure hope I made the right choice,” he said with a perfectly innocent deadpan expression.

  Growling a throaty, “Ohhhh… youuuuu… pigheaded…,” Terri tried to stand, but her aching legs quickly discouraged a full frontal assault. She then looked around for anything to throw at her husband, but only pine needles were within reach.

  Grinning like the cat who just swallowed the canary, Bishop said, “I’ll be back in 10 minutes. Please don’t shoot me on the way in.”

  As he turned to leave, she could only think of an old, childish insult. “Smell ya later.”

  Grinning at the witticism, he countered, “Sure enough, my little desert flower.”

  Terri watched him move away, inserting the electric doodad in his ear and then making adjustments to the device as he walked. Waiting until he was several steps away, she covered her mouth and started giggling.

  Bishop quickly discovered his toy was worthless unless he stood very still and held his breath. Slightly larger than a common hearing aid, the operating principle was similar, but far more acute. His boots sounded like thunder rolling across the mountainside with each step. He extracted the device, deeming it more important to identify the easiest route down.

  He had sensed Terri was struggling with the climb, shocked she had endured for so long. Even his own legs were aching, muscles tight and joints complaining of abuse. Her grit was amazing.

  He continued down what was some sort of game trail or wash, the path zigzagging through the rocks and trees, leading into what appeared to be a lush valley below. We’ll camp there tonight, he thought. The hard part is over.

  As he tried to detect any observers, Bishop longed for his regular equipment. A thermal imager would spot someone hiding in the rocks, a good scope on his rifle would make him feel better about walking into an ambush.

  Even a simple red dot optic would be an advantage. Nick’s argument had been sage. “They’re smart, organized, and somewhat skilled. Don’t give them even a hint of what you really are. Make mistakes, make noise, pretend to be unaware and stroll into their territory like any old Joe Nobody on the run. It’s the only way to get inside their walls… alive, anyway.”

  It had been so long since Bishop had used iron sights on a rifle. He’d had only a few hours on Bliss’s range to zero his blaster, and he didn’t like the setup one bit. Halo optics were faster, and if lead was going to fly, he wanted his airborne first. “You’re not going in there to fight, dipshit,” Nick had countered. “You’re doing this to talk. The best possible outcome is if you never have to pull the trigger.”

  Even his selection of a weapon had been a point of contention. “You’ve got that fancy-smancy, piston-operated shooting iron. Not many guys carry those. You should leave that at home and carry a beat-up, old blaster like every other swinging dick who thinks he’s a bad ass.”

  But Bishop drew the line at leaving his best gun at home. There wasn’t any time to gain trust in a strange weapon. Hell, if it were up to Nick, I’d walk in there buck naked. Enough is enough, he determined. It’s not like I am going for an Academy Award here.

  Even his pack, armor, and load-vest had been left behind. “I can take one look at your rig and tell you’re a pro,” Nick had warned. “They’ll be able to do the same. You’re a vagabond, scavenging and clawing your way across a post-apocalyptic landscape, struggling to get your wife and kid to a better place. You’ll use piecemeal, jerry-rigged crap to carry your stuff. Get a civilian backpack of low quality, tear it here and there and then patch it with duct tape. Tie some of your gear onto your belt using twine. Ditch the Camelbak and carry old plastic jugs for water. No MREs. No fancy fire starters. Get a crappy tent and use plastic bags like they’re going out of style. Look the part,” Nick had advised.

  While all that sounded fine and good back at Fort Bliss, in reality, it sucked in the field.

  Unbalanced loads caused more wear and tear on the body. That led to less energy and stamina, which resulted in a lower state of awareness. Being unaware in enemy territory wasn’t a habit associated with long-term survival.

  Human beings were worse at practically everything when worn down. They couldn’t fight, hunt, reason, or react nearly as well or as quickly. Every step of the decision-making process was handicapped.

  With his typical rig, Bishop could easily make 10 miles a day carrying 65 pounds of weapons, ammo, and kit. He’d be hurting at the end of it, but it was doable.

  Now, with his hobo setup, he was barely toting 45 pounds, and only five miles had just about kicked his ass. And if they ran into trouble? Diplomatic mission or not, he was really fucked.

  He had one magazine in the rifle, another in his pants pocket rubbing a blister already. Less than 60 rounds. Not enough to even break contact, let alone fight his way out o
f a bad situation. He had no blow-out bag, or IFAK (Improved First Aid Kit) as the Army liked to call it. If they were hurt, even an accidental fall on the trail, they were in trouble.

  Continuing down the path, Bishop wondered how anyone managed to travel very far with equipment and limitations like Terri and he were using. Somehow they succeeded – the Alliance seeing a steady stream of “immigrants” every single day. Many arrived with far fewer possession than what he had brought along. Most looked worse for the wear.

  Satisfied he had ascertained the easiest route down, Bishop paused for a moment to study the surroundings. He decided to try the hunter’s ear again, just for shits and giggles.

  Holding his breath and remaining motionless, he repeated the process of adjusting the unit’s gain and volume controls and then listening intently.

  On the second such iteration, he found he could indeed hear a rather vocal songbird from somewhere down in the valley.

  On the third test, he was pretty sure there was running water beneath the canopy of trees below.

  It was after the next adjustment that he heard a mechanical buzzing noise in the background.

  Bishop then began adjusting his feet, turning his head, and thus changing the position of his ear, a few degrees at a time. All the while studying the Columbia blue sky.

  And then he saw it.

  Even though he’d been searching for a drone since they’d unpacked the truck, his heart froze at finally seeing the thing. It wasn’t large, maybe 20 to 30 inches across, he estimated.

  It didn’t seem to be armed or dangerous, nor did it act in any threatening way. But there it was, hovering maybe 200 meters above the ridge, some sort of camera or sensor hanging underneath. And it made his blood run cold.