The instant nature of the system meant he’d have to attach the power leads, then scurry to the spout and keep an eye on the flow, especially since there wasn’t a gauge on the pump indicating how much fuel had been delivered. Overflow conditions had a mind of their own, sending fuel everywhere. He couldn’t afford to waste a single drop.
The Nomad held the power connectors an inch from the battery terminals and took an extra breath, making sure he was ready.
Before he could make electrical contact, Four flew into him and knocked him over, sending the connectors out of his hands and into the dirt.
He rolled to his knees and peered at her. “What the hell are you doing?”
She kicked the cables, sending them skidding through the dirt in a tumble.
“Stop it!” he snapped, trying to understand her actions.
She grunted and pointed back at the drum, hopping on her toes in the process.
“What’s gotten into you? You know I have to fuel the truck. We do this every time.”
She leaned forward and snatched his hands, pulling him to his feet with a firm tug.
He pulled free of her grip, throwing his hands up with his eyes wide. “Okay, what the hell’s going on?”
She led him to the drum and put her face down to the opening, then spun her neck and shook her head in a disgusted look, as if she’d just gotten a whiff of rotten eggs.
He wasn’t sure what to do, watching her antics continue.
She pointed a few times, aiming her finger down the hole, then started a rant of grunts unlike anything he’d heard before.
“Okay, I get it. You don’t like it. But that’s how it smells.”
She hopped again with flailing arms, then ran to the truck and yanked the fuel spout free, sending it flopping to the ground.
“Hey, what did I tell you about putting stuff in the dirt?”
She sprinted back to the drum and tore the hose from the opening, also tossing it airborne.
“Now you’re starting to piss me off.”
Four zipped past him and opened the door to the truck. Her hand went inside and came out with one of his swords.
The Nomad took a step back when she held it up.
After she stuck the tip of the blade into the drum and pulled it out, several drips of diesel ran from the metal.
When she shook her head again, he was slammed with a sudden wave of understanding. “Oh shit. They did something to the fuel,” he said, holding back the urge to punch the side of the truck.
She grunted twice, her eyes telling him he was spot-on.
“That fucking Fletcher. I should have known by the way he was acting.”
She held the sword out in a sideways spin, as if she were waiting for him to take it to end the charade.
“Yes, yes, yes. Your sense of smell is much better than mine,” he said in a mutter, taking the blade from her. “What did they taint the fuel with? Can you tell?”
She hung in place for a moment, her arms and legs frozen until she brought her hands up and made a drinking motion with a cup of her hands.
“Water?”
Four grunted twice, confirming his guess.
The Nomad ran the scenario through in his head, crunching the facts and calculating the possible outcomes. “Water certainly wasn’t their best choice, but it would work assuming I was low on fuel and filled both tanks—which, of course, I always do.”
Four didn’t respond, her eyes focused on him.
Nomad put the locking cap back into place and secured it with a twist of the screwdriver. “Fetch me the toolbox from the truck.”
Four did as he asked, buzzing to the storage compartment along the side of the transport. Sometimes she walked erect and with perfect form. Other times, like this one, she moved more like a primate, tilting and rolling her shoulders with bent knees and exaggerated steps.
He never understood why she had two distinct styles, but it may have had something to do with her mood at the time. Perhaps all humans do that subconsciously—changing body language and strides depending on the emotions swirling within. Granted, Four seemed to be embellishing her movements, but his theory may have been valid.
He’d seen much the same thing on the battlefield, with bullets whizzing overhead and blood spraying all around. Of course, the stride in play at the time wasn’t that of a primate—more of a fight-or-flight panic state, taking over and governing the troops around him.
Regardless, it was all about emotions in control. And experience, something all creatures learn to value.
The Nomad continued working through his theories as he lowered the drum on its side, keeping the twist cap’s side pointing up.
Four snatched the handle of the metal box, then leaned to one side as she carried it to his position, using unbalanced steps to support the weight. She put the box at his feet, then took a hop back with her face energized in red.
“What we need is,” he said, unhooking the latches on the box and flipping open the lid, “something to make a hole.”
He dug through the scattering of tools and past a spool of duct tape before moving a coil of bare copper wire out of the way. A center punch sat beneath it, its wooden handle and a stout tip lying horizontal.
“This ought to work,” he told Four, taking it out and putting it aside.
When his hand went back into the box, he wrapped his fingers around the rubber grip of a four-pound sledge and held it up, making sure Four had her attention focused.
“A man can accomplish a lot with a hammer and duct tape. Remember that, Four. It’s the same advice my old man gave to me. God rest his soul.”
She must have understood the death reference, her eyes losing their intensity an instant later. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn he saw a welling of tears—something a cannibal never does.
But then again, Four wasn’t the same meat eater he’d first rescued from The Factory. She’d evolved, like they all had in varying degrees, beginning to find their natural right of humanity. He gave her a nod, appreciating her compassion and how far she’d come.
The Nomad crouched to one knee, then took the punch and pointed its end against the drum on the same side as the twist lock cap. The tip was about an inch from what would have been the bottom of the drum, if it were standing upright. “The key here is to keep the hole small.”
He brought the hammer up and slammed its head against the handle of the punch, using what he considered medium force. A loud clang ensued, but the tip never penetrated, only making a dent.
“Okay, now a little harder,” he said, doubling the force of the next strike.
When the metal gave way, the punch sank deep inside, smashing his fingers against the side of the drum. He pulled the implement free, shaking his hand in the process. “Yeeeoow, that hurt.”
Four kept a close watch, never flinching after his sudden outburst.
Nomad put the tools aside and stood, his fingers still throbbing. “Now for the moment of truth.”
He bent down and leveraged his hands under the drum, using the strength in his thighs to tilt the container upright, keeping his movement slow and measured. “Fuel is lighter than water, so they don’t mix. If we go slow, we should see the water running out first.”
The hole along the bottom did its job, releasing a stream of clear fluid. He smiled at her. “Nice catch, Four.” He continued tilting the drum higher until the liquid turned a darker color.
He lowered the barrel back to the dirt with the punched hole angled up. “That’s it. Simple, really. All thanks to you.”
She spun around in a circle, grunting over and over.
“Now we need to see if we can pump this shit into the tank without it leaking everywhere.”