Holding Their Own: The Toymaker (3 page)

The people of Santa Fe were scared of him, or more accurately, his drones. Questions about privacy… the legality and the morality of his winged robots dominated the public discourse. Rumors spread, most greatly exaggerated tales about the capabilities of his tiny flyers. Some people thought the machines could see through walls, others whispering that the mad scientist up on the mountain was listening in on every conversation in the county. Others flagged the old man as a pervert, claiming they’d seen his copters peeking in through the windows of their homes.

Only the Native Americans seemed to smile at him when he made his mandatory visits to town for groceries and supplies. He’d found their reaction odd at the time; now it all made sense.

Hack was more than happy to be out of the limelight, even if the exile was forced. He’d moved to New Mexico for the weather and isolation, not for the area’s social life. Still, he could not deny his innate need to make a positive contribution to mankind… somehow, somewhere.

The reaction from the local tribes wasn’t lost on the toymaker. When the occasional need to leave his retreat did occur, he found the Native American culture an interesting diversion.

The area was thick with reservations and pueblos, some dating back to before the time of Christopher Columbus and his famous voyage. In addition to ancient ruins and abandoned cities, there always seemed to be dances, powwows, and mystical ceremonies taking place. The toymaker found a sort of kinship with the Natives’ way of interacting with the world.

When society had fallen off a cliff, that bond was made stronger by the dichotomy of reactions Hack watched unfold.

In regular terms, the general population seemed to go crazy. They had been addicted to modern conveniences delivered by electrical power, automobiles that practically drove themselves, and meals they obtained via a drive-thru sack. When all of those “modern conveniences” evaporated, anger and desperation began to surface. Most of Santa Fe was burned to the ground in the riots, neighbor against neighbor violence taking almost as many lives as hunger and diseases.

The reservations and pueblos, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be affected at all. The Native Americans had never grown accustomed to the convenience of a local Walmart and so never had to suffer withdrawal from its closing. Additionally, ‘the people,’ as they called themselves, were accustomed to a life of scarcity, shortage… even poverty. They had never been spoiled by the digital age. When cell phones stopped working, the Natives who had owned them set them aside and shrugged. Mainstream Americans would fight, scream, weep, and yell when they could not command four bars of signal.

Most of the tribes had made considerable efforts to educate their youth in the “old ways.” Hunting for survival was still common, as were homesteading skills like making candles, growing maize, and weaving on a loom.

The collapse resulted in shock and trauma for everyone, but it was obvious to Hack that
the people
weathered the storm far better than their white neighbors.

While his cabin was off the grid by geographic necessity, Hack still needed supplies. He was too old to hike the mountains in order to hunt and gather. His solar panels, water well, and in-ground septic covered the basic necessities of shelter, but he still had to eat.

Like everyone else, the speed of the downfall had taken him by surprise. With the cupboard nearly barren, he’d decided to approach one of the friendlier tribes and see if he could strike a barter arrangement. The relationship had prospered from there.

Despite the two Cochiti boys riding their horses at a half gallop, their progress was still painful.
A sign of the times
, Hack thought.
What once took a few minutes now takes so much longer. Time used to be money; now it is life or death.

Turning again to his passenger, Hack asked, “What is your name? You’ve been camped out, guarding my place for months, and I still don’t know your name.”

The Apache smirked, “I don’t think you can pronounce my Indian name, but there is an interesting story behind it if you would care to hear?”

“Of course,” the inventor replied, always eager to learn new things.

“I asked my mother about my name when I was much younger, and she told me that when my older sister was born, the first thing my father saw when he went outside was the sunrise, so her name is Warming Sky. And then my brother came along, and the first thing my father saw was a soaring hawk, so he was named Wind Rider.”

“Okay,” Hack replied, “I’m following you so far. What’s your name?”

“Two Dogs Fucking.”

The inventor’s eyes grew wide, his jaw physically dropping. For an uncomfortable moment, Hack didn’t know what to do or say, scared any reaction would give insult.

The storyteller bailed him out, breaking into a wide grin, and then letting loose with a belly-deep laugh. Hack knew he’d been had.

“Very funny,” the toymaker replied after his passenger’s humor had subsided. “You had me there for a minute.”

“White people love that joke,” the Native American added. “In reality, my name is Jack Smith.”

Again, Hack did a double take, not sure if his passenger was pulling his leg once more. “Seriously?”

“Yes, I know it’s not all Native-sounding and steeped in tradition, but it
is
the truth.”

“And what did you do before the collapse, Mr. Smith?”

“I was a high school PE teacher and baseball coach. I graduated with a degree in education from New Mexico State,” the Apache explained.

“Baseball?”

“Love the game for its strategy and pace,” Jack responded enthusiastically. “I made it into the Dodgers’ minor league system, but just didn’t have enough movement on my fastball to make the Bigs. So I went on to teaching and coaching. We went 16 and 5 the last year before it all went to hell.”

“That’s very interesting, Mr. Smith,” Hack noted. “Now that I think about it, I guess a lot of the local folks were into baseball.”

The Native waved his hand through the air, “Please, Grandfather, my friends call me Apache Jack, or just Jack, or asshole. I don’t like Mr. Smith, it makes me sound like that nerdy guy from that old movie… you know,
Mr. Smith Goes to the Senate…
or something like that?”

Nodding, Hack did indeed remember the movie. “Okay, Apache Jack it is.”

“So now it’s my turn. What is your story?”

“I am actually part Native American as well,” Hack replied, “Although I didn’t even know until my mother was on her deathbed. She was a full-blooded Lakota Sioux who married a shopkeeper from Minnesota. They moved to California shortly after I was born. Until the very end, she never breathed a word about her heritage.”

Hack’s reminiscing was interrupted by their arrival at the pueblo.

The inventor didn’t know the age of this specific village, but he guessed it had been founded hundreds of years prior. Single-story adobe and straw brick structures dominated the landscape, most of the residences quite modest in size.

Only the church’s steeple and two large, round-topped kivas protruded from the low-rise skyline dominated by thatched roofs. Even the few trees scattered about seemed to prefer a low profile.

Other than the smattering of pickup trucks and cars parked here and there, it was a timeless community. Many of the homes were equipped with tie-up rails for horses; the streets were narrow, paved only with packed dirt.

Modern-day air conditioners were non-existent, the architecture boasting high ceilings and thick earthen walls that remained cool even in the brutal New Mexico sun. Corner fireplaces and their soot-blackened stacks dotted the landscape, but Hack knew these were mostly for cooking, not environmental control.

The toymaker was led directly to the main square, an expansive, open area used for communal activities and annual ceremonies. The inventor had been here before, one of thousands who attended a lavish dance hosted by the tribe each summer.

This was a different place now. The hundreds of Natives, sporting the full regalia complete with ornamental clothing and painted faces had been replaced by men and women who were clothed in casual blue jeans and western shirts. Instead of smiling faces and welcoming nods, Hack sensed concern and worry in the locals’ expressions. The thundering drums of the ceremonial mega-dances had been replaced by the anxious cadence of hushed voices. As soon as Hack exited his cart, everyone fell silent.

“Grandfather, thank you for coming,” greeted one elder, approaching with an extended hand.

Another gent came forward, Hack soon learning that the man was the missing girl’s uncle, a respected position in the Native American family hierarchy. “Did you bring one of your metal hawks, Grandfather?” the relative asked.

Yes, he’d brought a drone. No, Hack didn’t need anything. After a polite exchange, he went straight to work. Removing the flying machine from his cart, he strode briskly to the center of the square.  The residents gathered around, struggling to satisfy their curiosity while still trying to maintain a respectable distance.

He didn’t need to explain the drone, most of the villagers already having seen his toys in action.

While he ran through a short pre-flight checklist, Hack couldn’t help but note the surreal contradiction of the unfolding events.

Here he was, readying to deploy technology that hadn’t existed just a few years before. His “metal hawk,” as the older members of this tribe described it, was equipped with infrared sensors, proximity detectors, and state-of-the-art battery technology.

Yet, he was surrounded by an ancient society living in what many of his own race would describe as primitive conditions. The new was helping the old tonight.

But it wasn’t a one-way relationship.

When his supply of food had been running low, Hack approached a nearby pueblo and offered a trade. He would purpose one of his flying machines to locate game in the surrounding mountains, in exchange for a portion of the hunt.

The tribal leaders had been skeptical at first, but a quick demonstration had quickly brought them to an agreement.

With his flying eyes, Hack could pinpoint herds of elk, sheep, and deer. On a few occasions, he’d even identified roaming groups of cattle that had escaped their home range during the apocalypse. Cows meant milk
and
meat. With his toys scouting overhead, the hunters could save days and days of time wandering the mountains. The supply of meat doubled.

And then there were the Raiders.

New Mexico’s remote environment and hostile terrain didn’t grant immunity from vagabonds, wandering groups of desperate refugees, and nomadic, criminal gangs.

Some came from Santa Fe and Albuquerque, abandoning the larger cities that had become hellholes of strife and anarchy. Others had only been passing through on the interstate, suddenly finding themselves trapped without fuel or resources.

To the tribes, history was indeed repeating itself, many of the local nations finding their lands, animals, and gardens beset by hostile strangers roaming the countryside. Assault and murder against the Native Americans quickly became everyday events, reminiscent of abuses suffered as much as 400 years before. 

It was during one of those early “hunting flights,” that the toymaker’s screen revealed a group of armed men working their way toward a pueblo, their long guns clear on the computer’s display.

Given the early warning, the tribesmen had been waiting in ambush. The resulting gunfight had been brutal, one-sided, and necessary.

A murmur drifted through the crowd when the drone’s propellers began spinning, gasps sounding when the small robot shot skyward like a rocket.

The area where the girls had been harvesting was over a mile away from the square, well within the distance Hack’s radio could transmit and receive signals. He didn’t need the connection to fly the device, its route having been pre-programmed with waypoints and GPS coordinates back at the cabin. What Hack and the gathering elders waited to see was the video link.

With fingers tapping and swiping the tablet, Hack noted the men gathering to peer over his shoulders. He raised the small screen higher to improve their view.

The computer’s image changed, a live video feed now streaming from the drone’s camera. Again, a buzz of side conversations spread among the gathered men.

Adjusting a control, he ordered the hovering drone to point its gimbal-mounted camera downward, the square and gathered assembly below coming into view.

From 150 feet above their heads, most of the crowd was in focus. “We look like ghosts,” noted one of the tribesmen.

“Look at the heat escaping the kiva,” noted another. ”I told you we needed to fix that roof.”

“Hopefully, the missing girl’s body heat will stand out against the cooler background of the desert, and we can locate her quickly,” Hack explained for the benefit of anyone who hadn’t seen his machines function. “Just like when we hunt elk.”

Hack tapped the screen, and the drone increased its altitude to 500 feet and then zoomed away, flying rapidly toward its first waypoint. “It will be over the area in a few moments,” he informed the gathering. “I ordered the drone to fly a search pattern. All that we can do now is wait and watch.”