“No, nothing else, thank you for the update. And good work on the armory.”
Riley nodded, drained the last of his whiskey, and rose from the chair.
“Thanks for the drink, Cap.”
Riley stepped through the hatch to the top of the ladder. He took the ladder facing outwards, sliding down the railings on his braced forearms. He hit the passageway with the same brisk stride, boots squeaking against the painted deck.
Chapter 10
Steampunks
“Okay folks, let’s get this thing started. I know everyone has work to do.”
The din of multiple conversations fell to a low hum. A circle of mismatched chairs all but filled the former living room. Faces turned toward a bearded man in a plaid shirt. The buzz of voices died away as he counted with a raised finger.
“Twenty-one, twenty-two, right, looks like everyone is here except the folks on guard. Welcome to the weekly community meeting. I’m Roger, as everyone knows. It’s my first time to chair, so hopefully you will all bear with me. We’ve got a few things to talk about, so let’s get to it.”
“First item, and always important, is the perimeter defense. Joe, Kev, what’s the latest?”
A lanky, younger man sat upright, his legs sticking well out in front of a low chair. There was dirt caked in the welts of his heavy workbooks.
“Hey Roger. Things are moving along pretty well. The fencing along Boston is solid, so our south perimeter is good. Same with the west side on Second Ave. All the chain-link sections have been welded together, thanks to Joe, nice and solid. The Third Avenue side is in progress, totally fenced, but the welding is still going on.”
“Sounds good Kev. What about the bracing idea?”
“We’re working on that. Basically, the plan is to angle sections of pipe from the top of the fence to the ground on the inside of the perimeter. The pipe will be welded to the top of the fence, and to steel stakes driven into the ground. That way the fence can’t be knocked over, and it can’t be pulled down. There is a lot of work to be done, so any of you guys that know how to swing a double-jack, this is a good way to earn some work credits.”
“There you go folks, get your John Henry on; go pound some steel. What about the north end, up around the greenbelt under McGraw?”
Kevin pulled his legs in, leaned forward, all elbows and knees.
“That’s the weakest point, for sure. The fence is in place, no problem, and the welding will be done before the next meeting. The weakness is all the trees and bushes in the gulch and the greenbelt. It’s too easy to sneak up on the perimeter. The fence is good, no doubt, but we may have to come up with some added security on that north side.”
A bearded man raised a hand.
“Yeah, Jack, what have you got?”
“What about some pitfall traps, something like that? We build them outside the fence line, between the fence and the trees. Sort of a first line of defense.”
“That’s an awesome idea. Kev, Joe, what do you think?”
“Sure, that sounds simple enough.”
“Jack, you up for taking this on, working with Kevin and Joe?”
The bearded man nodded with more than a little enthusiasm.
“Sure, I’m in. Dig some holes, set some spikes, nice and mediaeval.”
“Great, then let’s move on to food. Beth, what have you got for the hungry crew?”
A thin woman in black leaned forward in her chair. Her short, spiky hair was a faded purple. A huge grin was plastered across her lean face.
“I hope everyone likes turkey chili.”
There were groans and laughter around the circle of chairs.
“I know, I know. So right now, food is good, and yeah, a little boring. The scavenger crew did a great job hitting the canned goods at Trader Joes. There’s plenty to eat, but hey, it’s wintertime. Once the garden is up and running, we should be better off. For right now, get used to canned stuff. Things are getting better though. The chickens are laying eggs, which is good, but we want more, and we want to protect what we have. Scavengers, keep your eyes and ears open for stray chickens. Hunters, here’s your chance to practice your bow and arrow skills. It’s open season on possums and raccoons, just don’t shoot the chickens, right? Kill a varmint and I’ll cook you up a nice stew. On another positive note, the sourdough starter seems to be working, so we can look forward to some sourdough pancakes. We’ve had some, ah, setbacks on the baking front. The current oven setup is just not working. I want to try building a new oven, something out of brick, but I need some help. Anybody got any experience with masonry-type work?”
A burly young man in overalls spoke up.
“Hell yeah, Beth, if it means fresh bread, I’ll build whatever you want.”
Roger jotted some notes on a pad held in his lap.
“Great, Scott’s on oven-building, and Jake’s got the booby-trap project. Way to go, people, this is how we get it done. The good news is, we’re not going to starve. Better news is that the food is going to get better. Let’s see, Doc, what do you have for us?”
Everyone’s eyes turned to a lean, brown-skinned man with a short, black beard. He raised a long, thin hand in greeting.
“Good Morning, everyone. I’m happy to report that I don’t have anything serious to report. Everyone seems pretty healthy at the moment. That said, there are some things we have to be aware of if we want to keep it that way. If anyone has health issues going on, I want to know about it right away. Sniffles, signs of cold or flu, I need to hear about it. The same goes for any sign of gastrointestinal issues. We are a small community, living at close quarters. We can’t afford to let some nasty bug get out of hand, right? Which leads me to my second point: Those of you who are engaged in hetero-sex, and you know who you are, let’s make damn sure that it stays on a recreational level. There is no way we are equipped for a pregnancy. The same goes for non-breeders: safe sex on all levels. We’ve got plenty of condoms in the infirmary, so get them, and use them. And, speaking of the infirmary, you all know that the pharmacies got hit hard after the die-off. The scavenger crew has done a great job, but our med supplies are still very lean. The surest medicine we have is prevention. Think before you act. If there is a chance of injury, or sickness, talk to someone before you go ahead.”
“Thanks, Doc. You all heard the man, so let’s be careful out there. I guess that brings us to water. Jamie, what’s the scoop?”
A stout woman leaned forward in her chair, pushing the bill of her cap back onto a tangle of dreadlocks.
“Hey Roger, morning everyone. The water is good so far, but that’s the thing, we don’t know for how long. We made a reconnaissance run to the reservoir, and, for now, it looks good. The fence is intact, which means, hopefully, that nothing nasty can get into the water. The system is gravity fed, so right now we have water in the taps. Still, we can’t count on that. The water crew has gathered up every rain barrel we can find. The barrels are getting hooked up to the gutters on the buildings. The scavenger crew is bringing in storage barrels as they find them, and those are getting filled as well. We’re also looking at filtration options for the future. Doc is helping us with that project. For now, I’d say enjoy those showers while we have them, cold or not. That’s about all I’ve got right now.”
“Alright, big thanks to Jamie and the water crew. While we are on the subject of water, we still have the same bathing schedule. Cold showers are as ofter as you can stand them. Warm shower once every four days up at the bathhouse. Now, on to our favorite topic, the recreation crew.”
The circle broke into cheers.
“The James Brothers! Let’s hear it Boyos!”
Two men acknowledged the cheers, smiling and nodding. Black James was a lean man with beaded braids under a leather cap. White James was small and wiry. A sloppy man-bun was perched atop his sandy hair. Black James slapped White James on the shoulder.
“Sisters and Brothers, the recreational crew is on the job. We have the good news, and we h
ave the better news. The good news is that the alcohol ration is solid. Everyone knows the drill on that. If you want to barter off your ration, that’s your business, but please, keep it straight, yah? Brother James and I, we are the party crew, not the accounting crew.”
There were smiles and laughter around the circle.
“For those of you into the Ganga, same deal. Stocks are pretty good, and the rationing is the same. The better news is that the first batch of tasty, malted beverages is cooking away in the brewhouse. We are hoping for a palatable first run. Y’all going to be the beer tasters, yah? How about that? And we are not forgetting those who love the spirits. The shiny, new still is dripping away, thanks to the genius of Brother James. We should have some lovely samples of moonshine to make the holidays mellower. The Friday community drink is still the same; open bar until the ration runs out. Be there, or be square y’all.”
“Thanks, Brothers. Since James mentioned rations, let’s talk about work credits. You are all responsible for keeping track of your own work credits. You all know the drill. You don’t work, you don’t eat, you don’t party. There hasn’t been any issue with this, but we keep everything on the up-and-up, okay? And hey, huge thanks to the James brothers for keeping things happy. How about keeping things running? Gil, what’s the fuel situation?”
A man with grimy hands and a thick beard raised his head.
“Yeah, hey Roger, hey gang, the fuel thing is, you know, ongoing. Me and Joey, we’ve tapped the vehicles closest to the perimeter, siphoning as we go. Course, we’re having to widen that out a bit as we do. The problem is the neighborhood. You know, this is a great spot for us, quiet and all, up on the hill, but Queen Anne ain’t exactly overflowing with gas stations. The nearest one is down on Valley. That’s a full twenty blocks from here, and smack in the middle of the No-Go zone. You got Hunters, but worse, it’s wide open for cowboys with guns. And fuel, it draws the cowboys like shit draws flies. If we’re going to go down there, it’s going to have to be a full convoy, heavily armed. I’m coordinating that with Simon, but we haven’t set a time yet. That’s what I’ve got, folks.”
“Right, well we know it’s tough, Gil. Thanks for all of your hard work, and Joey too. Since you mentioned Simon, let’s move on to safety and security. Simon, how are we doing?”
A lean man sat upright in his chair, hands on his knees. Heavily-tattooed forearms bulged from the rolled up sleeves of a tattered sweater. Sharp, dark eyes peered from under shaggy brows.
“Roger, everyone, good morning. We have a few things to talk about. First, the same rules are in effect: No one goes outside the perimeter alone, period. The reasons are obvious. The Hunters are becoming more of a problem. The biggest concentrations seem to be west of Queen Anne Avenue, and all along the base of the hill. Anywhere east of Aurora is a no-go zone, you all know that. There were lots of bodies in the traffic snarl, which served as an attraction. Also, the Hunters seem to be getting more dangerous, not less. They are faster now, for one thing, and we have killed a few that seemed to be learning some rudimentary ambush techniques. Scavengers, I need you to hear that, okay?”
A voice spoke up from the circle.
“What about survivors, Simon?”
“Right, I was getting to that. We’ve had two interactions in the past week. The first one was up on Queen Anne Avenue. The scavenger crew ran into a loner up there. Based on what they are telling me, it’s a miracle this guy survived at all. He’s wandering around with no weapons, half out of his head. Why some Hunter hasn’t picked him off, I have no earthly idea. The crew said he did not try to follow them, did not ask for help, and that he wandered off under his own steam. I don’t think this guy is anyone to worry about, but it’s good for everyone to know he’s out there. The second guy, that’s a whole different story. I was on the front gate when this one showed up. Strange cat, to be sure.”
“Strange how?”
“How he was dressed for one thing, and the way he spoke for another. And that’s just for starters. I’m on the lower gate, middle of the day, and I see this tall guy walking up Boston. He’s just walking up the center of the street like he’s out for a Sunday stroll. When he gets as close as I’m willing to allow, I yell at him to stop. The guy does, too, but not acting surprised. He just stands there, calm as hell, and he’s smiling at me. Says, “Hello, Neighbor,” as if he’s coming over to borrow a cup of sugar. All dressed up, nice slacks, tweed jacket, matching tweed cap, white guy, maybe just south of sixty. He looked like an English gentleman, if you know what I mean. Sticking up by his fancy cap, I can see the hilt of a sword, some Japanese looking thing. We exchanged a few words, with me mostly telling him to get the fuck out of here and not come back. The whole time, this character is speaking the King’s English, formal as all get out. He didn’t seem the least bit afraid, more like he was amused with the whole thing.”
“So what happened, Simon?”
“Yeah, well, like I said, this guy was a character. He wants to talk, that’s for sure. Not so much asking questions, but just sort of trying to pass the time of day, as if everything were hunky-dory. I told him to fuck off back down the hill, and that if I saw him again there wouldn’t be a second warning. He didn’t even get mad, just wished me a good day, thanked me for the conversation, and then strolled back the way he came.”
The room was silent, all eyes on Simon. Gil finally broke the silence.
“Shit Simon, sounds like a looney to me. You think we’re going to see him again?”
“Hell if I know, Gil. You won’t mistake him for anyone else, that’s for sure.”
Roger frowned at his notepad, tapping a pen again the paper.
“Simon, you think this guy is a threat?”
“Honestly, I don’t know what to make of this cat. Strange indeed, no doubt, but my gut tells me he’s one of the good guys. Still, if I see him again, I’m going to put a warning shot past his head. He might move off a little quicker after that.”
Chapter 11
Conversations
Pat O’Shea squatted under the eaves of the open courtyard, calculating a problem. Hope was steering his calculations; the wild hope of a hot shower. A jumble of plumbing parts lay across the cracked concrete floor at his feet; every single hose and pipe connection that he could find on the shelves of the shop. Lucky that one of these old boys was a hoarder. Blessed is the memory of the Parks Department workers, and all the boxes of junk they left behind. Standing upright, he stretched out the kink in his lower back, looking up at the weak, grey sky. Damp, cool, and gloomy; a perfect hypothermia day in the Great Northwest.
He dropped his gaze back to the project, examining his recent work with a critical eye. The shower wasn’t the problem. The shower worked just fine, as long as a man didn’t mind a spray of icy cold water. But he did mind, and Liz minded a lot more. Cold showers in December were just not cutting it. They had resorted to taking sponge baths in the galley, using water heated on the camp stoves. It was slow, inefficient, and a less than satisfying experience.
No one thought to build a shower into the original building. The building was never meant to be a residence. The one small bathroom was equipped with a toilet, a urinal, and a sink. Below the city streets, the sewage pumping stations died along with everything else. When the sewers backed up into the Fort, Pat plugged the sewer lines. Concrete, mixed from bags in the shop, sealed the lines forever. Now they used the outhouse Pat dug in the corner of the courtyard. Scavenged bags of lime kept the smell bearable.
The splash shower was a simple affair. Heavy steel racks supported shelving on one side of the courtyard. The racks of shelves were tucked under the overhang of the flat roof above. A bulky plastic water tank sat atop one of the racks. It had taken ingenuity, and long strings of profanity, to get the thing up there. After that, the rest of the project was easy. A water hose ran to the tank, a pipe ran out of the tank to a watering wand repurposed into a shower nozzle. One pull on the release rope, and icy water fell from the nozzle
onto the shrieking bather.
Things were going to be different now. A modified section of the steel shelving stood next to the shower stall. A metal storage box was mounted to the upper section of the rack, high enough that Pat could walk under it. Underneath the metal box was a propane weed burner. C’mon, Boyo, you can make this work. Just a few more plumbing connections, and then we can test it out. The theory is good, if nothing else. Water flows into the box, the weed burner heats the water in the box, then the heated water provides a lovely warm shower. Unless the weed burner sets the whole place on fire. Or the hot water scalds the bather to death. Or these jury-rigged plumbing connections fail. The sound of an opening door distracted Pat from further thoughts of possible disasters.
Liz was walking across the courtyard. She wore a black fleece jacket zipped tight to her neck, her dark brunette hair cascading to her shoulders. And she had that walk, that tom-boy strut that captured Pat’s eye the first time he saw her. It was at a moving party for a mutual friend, Liz carrying boxes with that confident stride. Lucky he owned a truck, lucky he’d been begged to help. Lucky he met Elizabeth Walker. Six months, you’ve only known this woman six months. Yeah, and it has been the best six months of my life. Except for the bit about the world dying.
As Liz drew closer, he could see the storm in her sea-grey eyes, the look that usually meant something difficult was about to happen. Then she was standing in front of him.
“How goes the project, Mister Plumber?”
“I haven’t burned the place down yet, or flooded it, so I guess so far, so good.”
She raised a finger, pointing to his waist.
“Aren’t you supposed to have your jeans at half-mast, you know, so I can see the crack of your ass?”
“I think it’s a bit chilly for plumber’s butt. How’s it going in there?”
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