He blinked a few times, calling himself back to reality. He paced around his modest office, and thought to himself as he picked up a small wooden carved box, a gift from a fellow diplomat from a smaller faction that had formed near Dayton, OH. He was deciding what he would say when he addressed the Roadhouse in only a few moments. His thought was interrupted by a short tap on the door. “Come in” Nick said mono-tonally.
The wooden door creaked open, and revealed Nick’s good friends and associates, DPM and Kevin.
“Y’ready?” asked DPM.
Nick sighed, “Yea… I’m ready. Any other news come in that we should know?” DPM and Kevin shook their heads. “Alright then.”
+ + +
Hundreds had convened on the old baseball field. Once reserved for little league games with cheering parents and Big League chewing gum, this had become a makeshift amphitheater that provided a venue to address some of the central members of the Roadhouse. Usually, a weekly address was given, sometimes by Skip, sometimes by his associates, and sometimes by one of the third-in-commands who drew the short straw. It would have been uncommon to see more than 50 people show up for the weekly addresses, as news still traveled remarkably fast, and was usually largely uninteresting. However, on this day, over 600 members of their faction had shown up on the ball field. People were packed into the infield, fighting for a seat to hear the address. Word of such an important address had brought the faction out of the woodwork.
Several months before, they had fashioned a makeshift stage on top of the batting cage using plywood and nails. They were still worried it would topple and send them for a 20 foot fall to the infield dirt. As DPM, Kevin and Nick climbed to the stage, Skip was already standing on top of the plywood, inserting the precious D-cell batteries into the megaphone they looted from a high school football locker room months after The Crossing. Such a commodity heralded an important address. When Skip was done tinkering with the bullhorn, he raised his stocky, muscular right hand into the air. Those who had gathered quickly fell silent. It was remarkable how much respect Skip commanded. The silence lasted for a few seconds, only broken by an infant wailing somewhere in right field.
Skip used his finger to push his thick glasses back on top of the bridge of his nose, gracefully swung the large bullhorn to his mouth and spoke: “Thanks a lot for coming, y’guys. We’re glad to have ‘yinz support.” He paused. “We have been getting some news that there’s been a problem out East. One of our Roadhouse farming camps has been a bit bruised up. Nick, come here and tell ‘em what ya know.”
Nick obliged, and received the bullhorn from Skip. “Hullo everyone. One of our horsemen just came back in to town with a message from Mike Skvarla and Adam Mason. They were on their way out east to handle some unrelated business with a Hub affiliate in Philadelphia, and stumbled upon one of our outskirt farming camps which had been mostly destroyed. The camp was the 34G Corn Farm, they had called their satellite community the Willows Farm. It’s out by Somerset.” A few of the men in the crowd who knew where Somerset used to be, nodded in confirmation.
A voice in the crowd questioned: “What exactly happened?”
“All that we have heard from Adam and Mike was that there are survivors, we don’t know if or how many people got killed.” A woman around third base gasped at this news. “They passed the town on their way east, can saw that there was still smoke coming from a few of the building, so it was very recent, probably within 12 hours of that report. They dated their post July 8 at 7:48am. For those of you without a calendar, that was only 6 days ago.” He paused, and then turned to Kevin. “Kevin, would you please brief them on counter measures.”
Nick handed the bullhorn to Kevin and returned to his seat. Kevin looked at Nick, then Skip, nodded to each of them, and addressed the crowd: “While we do not know who launched this attack, there will be retaliation. We are going to spend the necessary time investigating the roots of this attack, and swiftly so. Adam and Mike, as you know, cannot delay their mission for very long to investigate the situation, so myself and Nick will take a few others out to the Willows Farm. We will speak with survivors and escort them to a safer location. If we can find out who launched the attack, we will likely be diverted for a few days to have a…” he paused to find the proper word “a… conversation… with those responsible.”
A man shouted from the front row: “Who do you think attacked us?”
“We have very little information to go on, but it was likely one of the Scranton Bandit groups. It seems as most of the corn has been stolen, and we know on good authority that they are having a difficult time growing food this year. “
Skip lightly grabbed the bullhorn from Kevin and assured the crowd: “We’ll figure it all out, don’t worry. Please be safe in your daily activities. If anything seems peculiar, send word out.”
+ + +
Sawdust snowed to the ground as Nick applied the sandpaper to the wood in careful, calculated strokes. He polished the seams between strips of wood, giving the outer shell of the Rider a smooth, even appearance. He was hurriedly completing the Rider, he had perfect conditions outside. In this age in limited petroleum availability, any alternative means of transportation was much pursued.
Nick, who was an engineering student before The Crossing, took special interest in the development of new, old technologies. He treated the craft as an art, and his workshop was his sanctuary. Between his diplomatic requirements, he spent most of his time in the shop. Housed in an abandoned auto mechanic’s building, he had acquired a slew of wood and metal working tools. This acquisition, both through some legitimate trades and some outright theft, allowed Nick to work on developing some very handy contraptions that speckled the Roadhouse. Fundamentally, he was only a hobbyist, and couldn’t compete with some of the more advanced post-scientist’s doing their work rebuilding the world, but he certainly used his tools to advance the Roadhouse in innovative ways.
The project he was finishing now began on the back of an envelope 2 years before. In Pennsylvania, long stretches of major highways, now abandoned, could allow for easy passage across the state, provided there was a means to travel them. The Rider was fundamentally a cart, a contoured surface with three wheels that looked like a cross between a row-boat and a tricycle. On top of the Rider was a mast and sail. The wheels were outfitted with brakes from an old bicycle. Somerset was along the turnpike, almost a direct route, and there was a storm coming from the east that would provide some good wind.
Kevin’s footsteps on the gravel outside alerted Nick to his presence. He looked up, sweat beading from his forehead, brought on by the intense sanding he had just finished. Kevin delicately ran his finger across the smooth oak as if it were a woman’s hip. He looked up and said to Nick “You ready?” Nick nodded.
Kevin had brought two of his most skilled marksman along, hoping he would not have to use deadly force. Nick was more of a diplomat than gunman, but he still had his sidearm holstered under his left arm. Kevin and his cronies had brought a few semi-automatic rifles, which were rolled up in a duffle bag. Kevin examined the Rider and asked Nick: “So, how exactly does this work.”
“It’s a little easier than walking. We’ll still have to push it up hills, but it will glide downhill like a bicycle, and hopefully, if I can figure out just how to use the sail to our advantage, we can get some propulsion on the flat areas.” Kevin didn’t seem like he liked the idea of sailing down the turnpike, but Nick’s words echoed in his head: ‘easier than walking’.
The men stepped in to the cart perched at the top of the garages driveway. Nick looked at Kevin, struck a match to light his cigar, nodded his head, and released the brakes.
No comments:
Post a Comment