Holding Their Own: The Toymaker (4 page)

The pounding of several horses sounded in the square, a party of 15 riders galloping around the corner and pulling up in front of the crowd. They were all men, all brandishing rifles, all wearing paint on their faces and arms.

“I formed a party of our best hunters,” the uncle informed the toymaker. “If your metal hawk spots my niece, these men will ride to find her.”

All eyes returned to the small screen, several of the men pointing as the drone passed over familiar landmarks. “Look, there’s so and so’s house,” came one comment, another man noting a nearby bridge and a pool of water beneath. “That looks like we might have a beaver damming up the creek,” he remarked, impressed with the detail of the video.

“Approaching the search area,” Hack announced, hoping to soothe some of the local nerves.

For the first two waypoints, only two rabbits and a groundhog town showed hot on the display. Hack could sense a hopelessness building in the surrounding men.

The flyer was readying to begin its third turn when a group of white spots appeared in the distance. “What the hell?” Hack whispered, his fingers working to change the drone’s direction and altitude.

A group of men slowly came into focus, at least three bodies surrounding the pulsating white of a campfire.

Ordering the drone to approach slowly, the image began to show more and more detail as the camera moved closer.

The strangers were armed… heavily armed. Hack could make out load vests, military grade weapons, helmets and other equipment that identified the trespassers as military or law enforcement. “I don’t know who these interlopers are, but they have come prepared for a war,” the toymaker mused.

And then a fourth hotspot showed on the screen, this one smaller, just outside the camp.

“There she is,” Hack declared, pointing at the clear outline of a small female in a crouched position. “She’s right next to their camp…. What is she doing?”

One of the men examining the screen from the edge of the crowd shouted, “They’ve taken her prisoner!” 

Another spectator had a different point of view, countering with, “No, it looks like she hid from them and has gotten trapped. They’re too close for her to escape!”

A din arose from the gathered throng, all of the combatants competing to voice their opinions at once. It was the uncle’s words that rose above the clamor and then silenced the crowd. “None of this matters!” he shouted. “They are trespassers on our land and armed for battle. For many years, white men have used their weapons to snatch food from the very mouths of our children. How can we trust them now? Did these travelers come to the pueblo and announce their arrival? No, they hide in the mountains and wait for their opportunity to pillage our settlements and make slaves of our people,” the uncle paused to make sure his audience was considering his words before continuing his soliloquy. “And already they have taken their first captive.”

Hack scanned the mass, seeing several heads nodding in agreement. Before he could make an observation, the uncle turned to the gathered hunting party and implored, “You have the information you need. Will you not go now and rescue my niece?”

“Hold on,” Hack barked, “Wait just a minute. Before you go rushing off, you need to understand those three men aren’t the typical Raiders. They look like U.S. military to me… maybe cops or deputies. Whoever they are, you need to be extra careful. They’re armed to the teeth, and the girl is very close to their camp.”

“Show us where they are, Grandfather, and we’ll bring her back… along with their heads,” spouted the lead hunter.

Hack didn’t like it but could sense the determination of the men surrounding him. Nodding, his eyes returned to the tablet where he began to manipulate the software.

A frown formed on the toymaker’s face when he realized the girl’s location. Looking up with concern, he announced, “They’re right on the southern edge of the project. Directly above where the men have been digging for the last few days.”

Before he could form any other words, a chorus of hoots, whoops, and blood-curdling screams rose up from the riders. With a wave of his arm signaling for the others to follow, the leader spurred his mount, and the hunting party was storming out of the square accompanied by the rolling thunder of hooves.

The wind had been kicking up dust devils all afternoon. By the time Bishop was ready to turn in, he knew a storm was on the way. He could smell the moisture in the air, a rarity for the arid environment.

“Good… we need rain,” the Texan observed.

Scanning his small patch of West Texas dirt one last time before entering the RV, he noticed flashes of lightning to the west, their strobes illuminating the majestic outline of the Chisos Mountains in the distance. “A storm at that. I wonder if the thunder will frighten Hunter?” he worried.

Terri was in Alpha with their son, visiting Diana and finalizing wedding plans. No doubt there was a hefty dose of girl stuff involved as well. She’d begged him to come along and be around people for a change, but there were too many chores on his list. Always too many. Besides, Terri was more akin to the city life, and he’d just dampen the mood worrying about this, that, or the other back at the ranch.

The harsh
Chihuahuan
Desert had been contrary as of late, the land making it difficult to feed his family and make an honest living. That, and a streak of bad luck weighed on Bishop’s mind every night and day.

Mr. Beltran had advanced him six head of seed stock, the small herd of cattle comprised of an aging bull and five serviceable cows. One had fallen to her death, the victim of a rockslide and grazing too close to the steep ridge. Another had contracted disease and expired. Veterinarians were a luxury since the collapse. Even when an animal doc could be contacted in time, medications to treat sick stock were seldom available.

One calf was on the way, but even if she delivered without incident, the headcount was in decline. At this rate, it would be years before he could butcher for table beef. Initially disappointed in just the one pregnancy, an old-time rancher at the Meraton market had set Bishop straight. “Bovine are skittish creatures. You’ve introduced them to a new environment. You’re lucky to have one seed take root. Patience, my friend, patience.”

And then there was hunting, or more appropriately, the lack thereof.

The Texan had grown up in the area, scouted the surrounding mountains and valleys throughout his youth. Even after moving to Houston as a younger man, he’d returned to the ranch periodically, spending a week roaming the hills and harvesting the occasional deer. In all those years, he’d never seen such a lack of game.

He supposed it was due to people having to hunt for food. He’d read somewhere that during the Great Depression, a few species of White-tail deer had been hunted to extinctio
n
.
Folks had to eat.

Then there was the competition introduced by his herd. He’d observed both species grazing on the same plants. Even the local jackrabbits dined at the same green-counter. Perhaps his cattle were driving the other animals away to lusher pasture.

Bishop entered the RV, opening the fridge and pouring a cup of cold water. The drink reminded him of the need to repair the shaft on the windmill pump in the south canyon. He’d get on that in the morning.

A quick shower and scrub with homemade soap left him feeling a little better. He did have air conditioning. He didn’t have to carry a rifle with him every moment of the day. He wasn’t worried about Terri and Hunter’s safety. Things could be worse… things had been worse.

“After I fix the well pump, I’ll go higher into the mountains tomorrow afternoon. I bet the rain will bring the deer down, and maybe I’ll have some venison when Terri gets back,” he whispered to the empty camper.

He stretched out on the bed, forcing the worries of the day from his mind. Terri would be back in two days, and he’d welcome her home with fresh meat and a garden that was beginning to produce. It would all be okay.

Before sleep came, his mind drifted back to his childhood on the ranch. At the time, he’d thought his father had been a gruff, old worrier, never able to relax or enjoy life. The man had possessed little sense of humor, and even less tolerance for the “wasteful activities,” of recreation or fun. Bishop couldn’t remember his dad ever reading a book or going to see a movie at the Alpha Bijou
.
The demands of ranch life did not allow for vacations or frivolous trips out of town.

For years, Bishop had written off his father’s outlook as a product of scars from the Vietnam War, but now, older and wiser, the Texan had his doubts about that conclusion.

It seemed like every day his thoughts would drift back to old memories of the lessons that the father had tried to instill in the son. Work ethic, honesty, ability to get along with other men, how to fight, and knowing when it was better to run.

It seemed like there was always a conflict between the two of them. Bishop was adventurous, curious, and easily distracted. His father made every attempt to hammer home the skills and knowledge that could be used in the real world, often frustrated by his son’s interest in places and people far away from the desolate, West Texas ranch.

“You need to learn about livestock, the economics of ranching, and how the cost of feed makes the difference between beans for supper or steak,” his dad would preach. “You can’t call a vet for every sick animal – the bills would eat up a year’s profit in a month. Knowing how to run a fence can save a man hundreds in the cost of wire and posts. Learning when to sell and when to hold your stock means money in your pocket and food on the table. Get your head out of the clouds, boy. The only thing we know will be here tomorrow is the land. Learn to live off of it, and you’ll be a better man for the effort.”

It had all seemed so harsh to young Bishop. He saw magazines and pictures at school, images of cities and landscapes that seemed so different than his native Texas. Didn’t his father know there were other ways to make a living? Didn’t the old man realize there was another world out there?

Now, older and with experience under his belt, Bishop understood his father’s perspective. Given the responsibilities of trying to feed his own family, his father’s approach didn’t seem so harsh or outdated.

“I’d give my best rifle to spend a day with my dad,” Bishop whispered. “I wish I’d paid more attention. Those lessons would help me now. I could pass them onto Hunter. He might need them later.”

Despite the soft pillow and clean sheets, sleep proved difficult. Bishop’s mind eventually slowed, it’s whirling cycle surrendering to a body feeling the effects of a hard day’s toil.

“I’ll take the first watch,” Chief Master Sergeant Grissom announced, throwing the remainder of his coffee into the fire and watching the sparks and steam sizzle into the night. “I’ll wake you in three hours.”

“Be careful,” teased Sergeant Jones. “We’re in Indian country.”

“I like my scalp just the way it is,” added the lieutenant, unrolling his sleeping bag. “The women back at Fort Bragg would never forgive you if a savage’s tomahawk fucks up my rugged, but handsome profile. Now, Jones over there,” he continued, nodding toward the third man, “he could use a little cosmetic surgery. Boyish good looks have gone out of style.”

“Whatever,” Grissom grunted. “I guess I should consider it a privilege to stand guard over your beauty sleep, eh LT?”

“All of you ‘
Chair Force’
studs should be proud to serve with us Army men,” Jones countered. “It’ll enlarge your nut sack and grow chest hair. Make a man out of you.”

Rolling his eyes, Sergeant Grissom ignored the twin insults to his service and manhood. He’d long ago grown used to the bravado of the U.S. Army’s Special Forces operators. The banter was predictable. 

Grissom grunted, still shaking his head over the exchange. Bending to heft his rifle and night vision, he moved away from the fire and began thinking about the pattern he would follow during his stint on watch.

Being in the U.S. Air Force had been a deliberate choice. Signing up to be a Pararescue Specialist or PJ (abbreviated from the original Para Jumper) had been his ultimate goal. After almost two years of the most arduous training in the military, Grissom had graduated and joined the teams.

For those in the know, PJs commanded the same respect as Navy SEALS, Green Berets, and the CAG. In fact, most of Grissom’s deployments had been with integrated teams from those same units.

Grissom had wanted to serve with the PJs because their core objective was to save lives. Their primary mission was to rescue downed pilots from the most hostile territories and fight their way back to friendly lines if necessary.

He’d attended all of the elite schools, from Army Airborne training at Fort Benning to the combat diver course in Panama City, Florida.

After receiving the same level of combat instruction as any Special Forces operator, the PJs were only halfway through their curriculum. Next came nearly a year of specialized medical training, multiple survival courses, and a constant diet of refresher exercises. To be a PJ required heart
and
brains.

The sergeant meandered his way up the ridge from the bivouac, wanting to access the higher ground so he could gain a better perspective of their surroundings. In reality, he was still curious about their secondary objective, motivated to study the earth-moving activities in detail.

Despite the good-natured banter from the soldiers below, Grissom wasn’t really worried about being discovered. They were only going to be in the area for a short period of time – a quick insertion, reconnaissance, and then orderly egress.

Their primary objective, Los Alamos, had been a mixed bag. They had found the massive, steel vaults at the labs still intact, their Geiger counter detecting no evidence of any radiation leaks. Grissom had radioed in the report, including video images via the satellite phone’s datalink. The brass back at the base seemed pleased with the results. They could now safely send in another team of specialists for the preparation and transport of the nuclear materials.

But there was bad news as well. Large sections of the laboratory and its sophisticated array of equipment had been destroyed by fire. The undamaged parts had been thoroughly looted. Another national asset lost to the apocalypse.

The town surrounding the massive research facility was entirely abandoned, the team discovering only a few clean-picked skeletons and random piles of sun-bleached bones to account for the thousands of engineers and scientists that had once occupied the area. They had found most of the garages void of automobiles, a sure sign that the brain trust had bugged out when things had started getting bad.

Grissom hoped most of them had made it.

It was the secondary objective that now troubled the sergeant. He’d never seen anything like the activity they’d found in the valley below.

Vast sections of earth had been disturbed, evidence of excavation, movement, and grading throughout the valley. Massive berms had been raised, accompanying a complex system of what appeared to be locks and canals. It had all puzzled the analysts studying the aerial photographs, and now, despite his team’s close-up inspection, he still didn’t have a clue.

Grissom was nothing if not curious. This was normally a positive attribute, but occasionally could get him into hot water. He loved to solve mysteries, and that sometimes led to quandaries.

He reached the pinnacle of the rise, staying low for a moment as he scanned the horizon with his night vision. As expected, there wasn’t any movement or unusual shapes displayed in the green and black world created by the device’s light amplification tube.

Satisfied that his team was still undetected, Grissom stepped higher and began studying the valley below. He had to admit, it was all just plain weird.

In a way, the scene reminded the sergeant of old pictures he’d once seen, a series of photographs taken during the construction of the Panama Canal.

While the activity below was on a smaller scale, it was still a substantial undertaking, collapse of society or not. And it didn’t make one bit of sense. The nearest city was Santa Fe, but everyone knew that town had been mostly destroyed by fire and looting. Albuquerque was almost as bad, both metropolitan areas practically void of inhabitants.

The surrounding territory was desolate, sparsely populated, and mostly comprised of Native American reservations, tribal lands, and National Forests. Who was moving all that dirt down there… and why?

The project below would have represented a massive undertaking even before the loss of fuel, heavy equipment, and computer aided drafting. Now, without those capabilities, the scale and complexity of the operation just didn’t make any sense.