A whining sound breaks the moment of silence.
Nettie’s eyes zero in. “What’ve you got there?”
I press my hands against the pack, soothing what’s inside.
“Don’t hold out on me, Jessie. Your people dealing livestock now?”
“No.” I back away.
Nettie frowns, disbelieving. “Did they fix my ballerina?”
“Nearly. Just a few more days. I’ll bring it as soon as it’s done,” I promise.
Nettie lifts the bag of potatoes. It’s enough to distract her from what’s in my bag.
“Better be on your way, kid.”
I turn and head for the shops.
The door groans, wood on wood hinges that swelled with the last rain season, then dried, cracked, the empty space filled with sand and lament.
“You’re back.” A cloud of smoke surrounds the shopkeeper.
I close the door, lock it.
“Straight to business.”
“Yes.”
Walking past frayed clothing, hats that have lost their form, glass plates and ceramic teacups, I stop. The teacups are like nothing I’ve seen before. The mountain doesn’t have teacups like this—solid porcelain, chipped, filled with shiny glue. Cups that echo of life. I select a pale blue one, start walking again. I make it to the wooden countertop, set the teacup down, adjust my pack.
“Did you get what I asked for?”
The shopkeeper crouches behind the counter. When he stands again he places the pieces of metal that I requested in front of me.
“I’d like to add the cup.”
“Bring what I asked?” He sets his cigarette in the can of ash.
I swing my pack to the front, unzip it, use two hands to pull out the wolf pup.
The shopkeeper barely moves.
“That’s not a German Shepard.”
“Don’t make German Shepards anymore.” I set the pup on the counter. “At least not in these parts.”
Sharp nails scrabble until the pup gets a grip in the deep scars of the countertop.
The shopkeeper looks indecisive. He eyes the pup.
“What if that thing eats my face in the night?”
“Better one night with a friend than a lifetime alone.” Picking up the cigarette, I take a drag.
The wolf pup whines. I set my free hand on the back of its neck, feel the warmth, the softness of its fur, the bones of a spine that tell me all I need to know about how the pack treated the runt of the litter. It stops whining, settles on its belly, rests its chin on the counter.
I take another drag of the cigarette. Let whatever the shopkeeper rolled up in there give me strength.
“The cup will cost you.”
I jam the cigarette into the can of ash, unzip my pack and pull out a box, slide it across the counter.
“What’s in that?” he asks.
“Open it.”
Stained fingers, nails blackened and skin scarred, the shopkeeper rips the top of the box off. “Sweet lord.” He pinches the stem between two fingers, lifts. “Where did you get this?”
“The mountain.”
While he’s distracted, I grab the metal and the teacup, shove it in my bag and back away.
“Last time I tasted one of these… was younger than you.” He glances up, doesn’t seem to care that I’ve made it halfway to the door.
The shopkeeper lifts the fruit to his nose, closes his eyes and inhales. The pup stands, sniffs at his arm.
My back is against the door.
The shopkeeper licks the fruit, settles his lips against it and sucks. Seems he’s unsure of what to do. The fruit couldn’t last more that a bite, or a mouthful. The label said Roma, took less than a heartbeat to rehydrate.
I run out of the shop with my bounty. Drones are off in the distance, headed this way. I run past Nettie’s potato stand. I run past Mister’s creepy shadows. Don’t have time to stop and chat. Need to get this stash underground.
Sentinels are getting closer, faster. It’s like they know I’ve got a pack full of metal. They want it.
Behind an outcropping of rocks, I drop to my knees at the Joshua tree, dig and dig and dig.
The earth dances under the pulse of the Sentinel scanners.
Boom.
Fifty feet.
Boom.
Forty feet.
Boom.
Pull the trap door, slide and scramble.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The drone’s scanner picked up the hint of metal. Now it wants in.
Rocks and dust fill the narrow hole. I slide, spin, push off with my heels to go faster. Pebbles slide down with me. Cool air hits my back. The change in angle, a flat floor. I’m going too fast to stop. Head over heels, pebbles blast my face, the sheet of stainless stabs me in the side as I roll. The drone is still trying to pound its way in. I scramble to my feet, hear the familiar sound of Samson in the hall on his way to greet me.
“Go to sleep,” I shout to the robotic dog.
Silence.
I slap the red button near the door. The mountain pulses, a slab of iron slams down to block the tunnel. I am tossed to the side as the mountain blows the access tunnel.
There goes my fastest route to town.
Drones will be digging for days, won’t find a thing but rock before they give up. They won’t dig deep enough to find the blocked access.
I roll, limp to my feet, find Samson in the dim illumination.
“Wake up.” The dog comes to life, barks, wheels around me. “Good boy.”
Warmth oozes down my side. I shrug off my pack. The stainless steel edge ripped through the burlap and stabbed me in the ribs. I can sew the pack. I lift my shirt, skin flaps with the movement revealing a gaping hole. Guess I could stitch up myself as well.
Samson’s head tics to the side, he whines.
“I’m fine.”
I empty the bag.
The teacup shattered. Nothing but chips and shards of porcelain. That’s disappointing. I planned on imitating a picture from a book, drinking tea with my pinkie-finger extended just-so.
“Get the med kit.”
Samson goes, squeaking away down a dark hallway.
I peel off my shirt, walk to the kitchen and clean the wound. A mountain education got me a few things, including basic medical training. I drop the shirt on the floor. Samson returns, spitting a med kit at my feet. He collects the torn shirt and takes it away. I’m not sure where he takes it. I just know it will be returned, cleaned and folded. I don’t know everything about the mountain and how it works. Ginger went dark before I learned those details.
After dousing my wound with antibiotic powder, I think better of the stitches and decide on a pressure dressing.
I get a fresh shirt, return to the workbench and get to work, fixing Ginger.
Ginger is a leftover from early twenty-first century engineers, prewar, of course. Buried in the mountain by the people before, to help. Buried with a mountain full of junk, enough food to last a lifetime and… me.
Blue lights and decorative paint give Ginger a human-like appearance. Loose in the joints, a bit shabby, scraped and marred. He is not human, earned his name from the bright orange paint job, but he’s real to me.
Samson got in the way, Ginger tipped over and smashed his case. There isn’t too much broken inside, just the bolts that held certain things in place.
I reach for my tools, scoot closer in my chair. Holding a flashlight in my mouth, I grip the bolt and twist the nut securing the projector in place until it’s tight. Something’s not right, too much tension on the other side of the support. Another bolt head snaps. Rust clouds the air as the bolt head bounces off of the inner chest plate, ricochets, hits me just below the eye.
I mutter words learned at the shops, throw the wrench across the room.
Samson spins after the tool, sweeps it up in his collection chamber and returns, spitting it out at my feet.