Holding Their Own: The Toymaker (2 page)

He let it go, always reconciling his passive stance by remembering what he’d encountered before occupying the Oval Office. Back when everyone still called him “The Colonel,” he had toured the country multiple times. He’d observed the suffering, smelled the rotting flesh, and stared into the hollow, nearly lifeless eyes of his countrymen. Images of skeleton-like bodies waiting in line for meager rations still occupied his dreams.

He’d witnessed the trenches being excavated outside Chicago, a series of six-foot deep ditches over a mile long and the width of a football field. Graves. Mass graves, stretching to the distant horizon… and being filled by the only available hearses that could handle the tons of dead human flesh – Cook County garbage trucks.

On and on they plodded, rumbling across the frozen cornfield south of Gary, Indiana. A parade of horror that seemed to never end. The Colonel remembered the limbs protruding from the tops and backs of the metal beds. Some had flesh, others mere bone, and with many, it was impossible to tell. The corpses vibrated and jiggled with a sickening limpness as the heavy transports rolled across the plowed rows of unharvested crops.

In a morbid way, The Colonel wished he’d had a camera that day. It was a scene that described the apocalypse far better than any sequence of words his mind could form. The unpicked maize was lifeless and brown, drawn and wrinkled like the face of the old man that was humanity. The light dusting of dirty, gray snow was the dying soul’s uncombed beard. The somber, steely sky a harbinger of the fading winter of life.

The irony of so much food rotting away wasn’t lost on anyone who was there. He watched as load after load of cadavers was dumped unceremoniously into the trenches. There hadn’t been any fuel for the farmer’s tractors and combines. No one had possessed the foresight to realize the diesel hoarded for the sanitation trucks wouldn’t be necessary today if someone had simply reallocated it to harvest the crops when they had been fresh in the field.

And that was the crux of the issue. America, the land of plenty, home of immense wealth and natural resources, hadn’t fallen from a lack of assets or the ignorance of her people. The greatest society on earth had succumbed to panic, a lack of leadership, and bitter infighting.

The Colonel, now the leader of a not-so-free world, was bound and determined to reverse the suffering and get things back on track. If that meant a temporary suspension of the values he held dear, then so be it. Liberty would be returned once the recovery had achieved momentum. He’d sanction the Constitution he so loved once the people were fed.

On the other hand, the Alliance had been founded on self-reliance. Early on, their leaders had pushed hard for every family to grow gardens, police their own areas, and improve their quality of life without some government entity coming in and taking charge. And that model of recovery was apparently working as well.

The president recalled a conversation with Bishop’s wife, Terri, in which they had debated the value of each strategy. Lying in the Texans’ rock room with a shank of aircraft frame protruding from his chest, the two of them has passed the time with such philosophical ramblings. He could just hear her words, “But Colonel, wasn’t dependency on the government a big part of why the collapse occurred?”

And her point would be difficult to argue.

The president knew the dichotomy between the two approaches wasn’t anything new. It was an age-old debate that had divided the American population since the founders had first met to frame the Constitution. Texas, as the Alliance, had manifested itself into the vision of those that supported local governance and a limited federal government.

The United States, on the other hand, was quickly becoming the poster child for those that believed a strong, centralized bureaucrac
y
was the best way to captain the ship.

While the chief executive’s brain was in Washington, his heart resided in Texas.

Sighing, the president turned and faced his subordinate. “General, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. While I have personal friends and close ties in the Lone Star State, I will not let those relationships cloud my judgment about what’s best for our people and nation. I recited an oath when I took this office, and I fully intend to honor it to the best of my ability.”

“I didn’t mean to imply anything, sir.”

The president waved off the backpedaling with a dismissive motion of his hand. “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered, and then redirected the meeting back to its original topic of discussion. “I can’t believe Diana and the Alliance leaders would go off the reservation like that, especially without having a single conversation with us. They’ve never expressed any desire or intent to expand their territory.”

“Sir, those people down there in Texas should be united with the rest of the country, joining the fight for recovery. We’ve always banded together as a nation when faced with a threat. Time and again we’ve pushed aside our petty, regional differences for a greater good. What would have happened if Texas had decided it didn’t want to fight in World War II or Korea?”

“You’re jumping to conclusions, General. We don’t know that the Alliance has anything to do with Los Alamos or these earthworks. Don’t let what you hear around Washington cloud your opinion of those people in Texas. They just have a different way of doing things. So far, they’re guilty of nothing more than stepping up to fill a vacuum of leadership,” the president advised.

“Yes, sir. Still, their involvement is the only plausible explanation I’ve heard so far.”

“Well, send in a team, and let’s get to the bottom of this little mystery. But… and I can’t stress this enough, retrieving the weapon-grade nuclear materials is the first priority. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

The president made for his desk, thinking to continue studying the endless mountains of reports that required his attention. He was surprised to glance up and see the officer still standing in the room. “Is there something else, General?”

“Well… sir…. Yes, there is.”

“Go on.”

“It’s your son, sir. He’s a member of the team that is slated to go into New Mexico. I thought you’d want to know.”

The president shrugged his shoulders, “My son is a Special Forces operator and a fully coherent adult. He makes his own decisions, and as I stated a dozen times before, he is to receive no special consideration just because I’m presiding over this rambling shit wagon we call a government.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed, General.”

“How long has she been missing?”

“About two hours, Grandfather. She, and two other girls were collecting food in the foothills. They heard men approaching and tried to hide. Cover was sparse, and she was separated from the other teens. She has not returned to the village even though she should be able to find her way. My father fears the worse and sent my brother and me to beg your help.”

Hack Schneider stroked his bleach-white beard, studying the two teenage Cochiti boys standing in front of his cabin. Flanking the two nervous youth were three Jicarilla Apache warriors, guardians of the old gent. As always, they were on alert, distrustful of anyone approaching his property.

Tall, wiry men, the Apache’s faces were painted in streaks of white as if their skeletons were located outside their skin. In addition to the haunting pigment, each bodyguard was adorned with a black leather hood and kilt. The first time Hack had seen them, he’d shuddered at the image. If good, old Mr. Webster had added a picture to his dictionary for the word “fierce,” no doubt this is the image he would have chosen. But it was more than that. There was a primordial evil, a particular visual effect that had been intentionally designed hundreds of years ago to incite terror in an enemy’s soul. And it worked – even today.

Hack wasn’t sure why he warranted 24x7 bodyguards, but someone from their clan was always on duty, rarely spoke, and wouldn’t accept any form of payment. There had been more than one occasion that he was glad they had been around.

“What do
you
think?” he inquired of the ferocious-looking gent who was obviously in charge of the security detail today.

The bodyguard shifted his AR15 rifle from one shoulder to the other and replied, “This is up to you, Grandfather. The Cochiti are good neighbors… most of the time.” 

Nodding his agreement, Hack addressed the two visitors, “Stay here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Without another word, he turned and entered the modest cottage, walking straight through to the covered back porch. From there, it was another ten paces to his workshop. While no one had ever seen or heard of the toymaker having family or friends visit his remote, log-sided home, any such guest would have had difficulty identifying the difference between the residence and workshop.

In fact, Hack had designed his “tinkering palace” to be almost twice the square footage of his abode. “I spend far more time there. Why shouldn’t it be larger?” he’d informed the perplexed builder.

Unlocking the heavy metal door, Hack flipped on the LED overhead lights and proceeded inside the place where he spent the vast majority of his time. No one was allowed in here. It was strictly off-limits, and even the Apaches respected that rule.

The first notable feature of the sanctum was a montage of pictures and awards practically covering one wall. There were images of a powerful-looking rocket plane, the F-117 Nighthawk Stealth Fighter, a Boeing B-1B bomber, and a host of other exotic aircraft.

Interspaced among the expensively framed photographs was an impressive assortment of certifications, awards, and diplomas. Many of these honors were accompanied by smaller depictions of a younger Hack Schneider, usually perched behind a podium or lectern… or his hand being pumped by a business executive or a Class A uniformed officer.  

As he passed, Hack paid no attention to the “wall of fame,” his life as an engineer at Lockheed’s famous Skunk Works now nothing more than a distant memory.

Everyone estimated Hack to be in his late 60s, but no one knew for sure. With shoulder-length, pure white hair, a tall, wiry build, and upturned eyebrows, the toymaker resembled a storybook wizard. That’s where the comparison ended, however, as everyone knew the man possessed far more power than any mythical warlock or fairytale magician. 

Mr. Schneider’s background was also a mystery. Not a soul knew where he’d worked before retiring to the Caldera. And most were too polite to ask. Northern New Mexico was like much of the southwestern United States in that it was considered rude to question a man about his past unless the information was volunteered. To the best of any survivor’s knowledge, the toymaker never broached the subject.

What little was known from before the collapse provided no indication of the man’s eventual notoriety in the surrounding settlements. Hack had purchased a small, mountain cabin west of Santa Fe and basically minded his own affairs. A few times a month he’d show up at one of the many craft shows or exhibitions so common in the artsy town, setting up a booth or display to show off his wares.

And what wares they were.

Hack built toys, or more accurately, extremely sophisticated, high technology, well-crafted playthings. His customers knew no age range. Often, his creations were outrageously expensive.

According to local lore and speculation, the toymaker was most likely an engineer, definitely a craftsman, and obviously an artist. While known for his complex, functional robots, drones, radio controlled vehicles, and other mobile oddities, he also produced works of wooden art, crafted metal conversation pieces, and shaped the occasional item that defied categorization.

His Rube Goldberg machines were considered genius, finely crafted from a mixed bag of lumber leftovers, sculpted from metal remnants, or with repurposed scrap materials.

Once, Hack had pulled into Santa Fe with a scaled diesel-electric locomotive riding in the back of his old, blue Ford pickup. After soliciting a few men to help him unload the behemoth, he’d toured the square, tooting the whistle and offering free rides to the children.

It had been quite the spectacle, Mr. Schneider dressed in overalls, his long white hair flowing from beneath the classic engineer’s cap. Straddling the child-sized engine, his spindly knees protruded at an odd angle. He’d gathered onlookers from all over town. He sold the engine that day, pocketing over $3,000 after four train buffs entered into what amounted to a bidding war.

The toymaker’s talents were not lost on the local merchants either.

High-end specialty shops began offering his creations, some selling his productions on international auction sites for serious money. Other shopkeepers garnished their storefront displays with his lavish makings, his works drawing attention in the highly competitive tourist ecosystem that was Santa Fe.

But it was his drones that brought Mr. Schneider widespread local fame.

Proceeding into the main room of the extensive facility, he bypassed a hefty lathe and other machine shop-grade equipment, focused on a bench that consumed the entire length of one wall.

Flipping on an even brighter LED light, Hack moved to a small, remote controlled helicopter resting nearby.

Technically, the drone was considered a “quad-copter,” its main fuselage in the shape of an “X,” with four helicopter-like rotors at the end of each cross member. Built from carbon fiber and sporting a candy apple red paint job, the machine looked like a 2-foot square metallic insect.

Easily picking up the featherweight device, Hack unplugged the solar panels from the drone’s battery charger and turned back to his work surface. He began opening cabinets and drawers, using a variety of tools to assemble the desired package of cameras and navigation computer.

He returned to the front porch carrying the drone, noting the Natives’ reaction of awe when they spotted his toy.

“Gentlemen, I’ve configured this quad-copter with my best camera for searching at night. I hope it has enough battery life for what we want to accomplish. These things won’t fly forever, you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

Motioning for the still nervous brother to come closer, Hack produced a tablet computer, its brand and logo worn away, its skin marred by frequent use. After a few taps and swipes on the screen, a map of northern New Mexico appeared.

“Point to this map and show me the general area where the girls were foraging,” the toymaker directed.

The older brother did as instructed, and then Hack went to work.

It had been a stroke of pure luck that he’d downloaded mapping files before the collapse and the seemingly overnight disappearance of the internet. He often wondered how long the GPS satellites would function without ground control maintenance, but that was a problem for a different day.

Using his finger on the tablet computer’s map, the toymaker punched in a series of waypoints, providing a set of directions for his robotic flyer to follow.

“I’ll get in my cart, and you can lead the way to the pueblo.  We can launch the drone from there. And if we find your sister, you can go and bring her back.”

“They are preparing a search party, Grandfather. Several men have volunteered. With your help, we’re sure we can find her.”

Nodding, Hack went about unplugging the golf cart from its charging station. Soon, the toymaker and one of his Apache shadows were trailing the two Cochiti youth as they rode their horses down the mountain and onto the paved, two-lane New Mexico highway.

Several times, they had to slow and detour around obstacles, the lack of maintenance crews resulting in two rock falls and one section of road that had crumbled after a flash flood. Hack wondered how long it would be before the road was completely impassable.

Glancing over at his passenger, Hack noticed the man’s scowl. “You think I’m being a soft hearted old fool going out like this to find the girl, don’t you?” 

“No, Grandfather, your kindness toward
the people
(
Native Americans
) is now tribal lore. If you hadn’t come to our aid, many of our clan would have starved long ago. More would have died from the Raiders. You’re known throughout the nations as our great defender. Why would you ever stop doing such things? It’s my job to worry whenever anything unusual occurs.”

It was rare for one of the Apache to speak more than a few words. Having little else to occupy his mind, Hack saw an opportunity for an interrogation. “Is that why the Apache send men to protect my home?”

“You don’t know?”

“No. Obviously, I do not.”

“The great forest fire before the electricity vanished – you saved those men.”

Hack remembered back to the time his fellow traveler referenced. Drought had plagued the area for several seasons, numerous forest fires raging across the heavily wooded national forests surrounding Santa Fe. One particularly fast-spreading blaze threatened the toymaker’s home and workshop.

It must have been quite the scene that day, the exhausted, dirty team of firefighters approached by the exotic citizen. In his hands was a device that appeared to be some sort of robotic-looking spider with propellers.

According to local legend, Schneider loomed over the area commander and announced, “You’re doing this all wrong. Your men are in the wrong place. Now quit fucking around, and get your teams over to Bald Ridge, or you’re going to lose control of this fire.”

“And just how would you know that, old man?” had come the obvious question.

“Because my little friend here has been flying over the fire with a thermal imaging device, and I’ve plotted the hotspots from the air. That information, combined with the prevailing wind and undergrowth density, made predicting the fire’s advancement child’s play. Here, let me show you.”

The toymaker had produced a map with numerous notations depicted.

“Fires don’t behave rationally or logically,” the pessimistic firefighter responded. “I can’t go redeploying my men just because some guy walks up and shows me a pretty plaything and a drawing.”

Disgusted, Mr. Schneider had given up trying to convince the hardheaded man. The next day proved the toymaker’s revelation had indeed been correct, but not one of the fire team remembered or acknowledged his prediction – they were too busy battling an out of control inferno.

It wasn’t until two days later that the same desperate chief knocked on the reclusive inventor’s door. “I’ve got a team that’s cut off. I’ve got eight men stranded. The wind changed direction, and now I can’t get them out. If I don’t do something, they’ll all be burned alive. Can your toy help save them?”

He’d been tempted to repeat the man’s dismissive words, “Fires don’t behave rationally or logically,” back to the commander, but thought better of it. Lives were at stake.

Four hours later, guided by the flying robot and the images transferred back to a ground control station, the stranded team reached safety.

“Yes, I remember saving that group of firefighters. What does that have to do with the Apache guarding my cabin?”

“One of those men you rescued was our governor’s son. The tribe owed you a debt, not something we take lightly. When the lights dimmed and the whites attacked each other like starving wolves, the council thought you might need protection.”

Hack shook his head, the irony of the warrior’s words awaking old memories. “I learned some valuable lessons from that day, my friend. ‘Always mind your own business.’ And ‘No good deed goes unpunished.’ You see, I thought I was going to be tarred and feathered and then run out of town on a rail for my involvement.”

Despite the evident heroic use of his “toy,” the local folk’s reaction wasn’t what Mr. Schneider had expected. Instead of smiling faces and thankful citizens, he’d been shunned at best, nearly assaulted at worst.