Holding Their Own: The Toymaker (26 page)

“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.

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.

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 of 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.

There was something troubling about the robotic spy. It violated a core instinct and yielded to some primal fear of someone… or something being able to see you – when you can’t see them.

“Gotcha,” he whispered, trying not to stare or gawk.
Just act normal
, he thought, forcing himself to calm down. “Terri’s going to love this.”

Now, really feeling the role of an actor on the stage, Bishop turned and began hiking back up the trail. He tried to be carefree and confident, but it was extremely difficult. The hills had eyes.

He arrived back at the camp to find Terri feeding Hunter small bits of bread while holding his sippy cup. The moment she looked at Bishop’s face, she could tell something was wrong.

“Shhhh,” he hissed in as low a volume as possible, pretending to move close in order to help with Hunter. “They know we’re here,” he said into his wife’s ear. “Don’t look, but I saw the drone just to the south.”

Despite his warning, Terri couldn’t help herself and started to turn and look. “Don’t!” Bishop snapped. “In a minute, we’ll walk to the edge and look down. I’ll point out some bird, and you can see it then.”

“Okay… sorry… this all so weird. Really weird.”

Pulling Hunter into his arms, Bishop did as promised, guiding his wife to a spot where they could oversee the valley below.

“Off my left shoulder,” he whispered, pretending to point at the trail. “Just about 200 meters above the trees, straight above that outcropping of rock. It’s red, a little bigger than a bird.”

“I see it!” she announced.

“Don’t stare.”

“Okay… but… it’s tiny. I was thinking of those great big things, like they used in the wars. I could swat that little pest with a broom.”

“Or throw rocks at it,” Bishop grinned, trying to lighten the stress. “Now, let’s just act normal, and go back and get our stuff. I want to have tonight’s camp set up early, well before it gets dark.”

They proceeded down the mountain, the trip much longer than it had appeared from above. A few hours later, they came to a paved road, where Bishop spied a small gravel parking area.

They found a trail leading into a narrow gorge, a 10-foot wide stream running through the middle. It was stunningly beautiful.