you.” He nodded and re-shouldered his bag, then with pitcher and glass in hand, he went up the stairs. As soon as he was gone a fevered conversation broke out.
Relief sagged through his muscles as he left the locals behind. Seconds after his foot reached the second storey he heard a loud guffaw burst out. Anger tensed across his face. He dropped his duffel by the stairs, looking around for a place to sit.
The upstairs was divided off into two rooms; there was a pool room in the back, and an unmanned bar in the front. Along with the bar were a number of chairs and ‘couches’ recovered from the backseats of ancient minivans. On the building’s front wall was large bay window with cracked glass just barely staying in the frame. Wentworth took the seat nearest to it, setting down his pitcher on the nearby table. From his seat he could see out the window, and keep his eyes on the stairwell. He poured a beer, lit a cigarette, and put his feet up.
He felt as if every blood vessel in his body had relaxed, and now the blood was rushing to his lower half. He was tempted to remove his boots but resisted the urge. He might need them. The muscles of his back began un- knotting and his legs throbbed. He put his jacket on the couch next to him, ignored the smell from his armpits, and for half the pitcher just sat there watching the sun go down.
It was some time before he remembered to take off his helmet.
Raxx flickered the flame of the acetylene torch along the broken axle. With quick strokes he sealed the two pieces together, leaving hardly a mark. He took a cigar from the pack sitting on a nearby table, and ran it under the jet. He killed the torch, and lifted his welding mask, blowing on the cigar to kill the flame. Putting down the face shield, he smoked, admiring his work. It wasn’t perfect, but it was damn good — elegant.
He nodded, satisfied. It wasn’t the owner’s standards he was trying to live up to, but his own — Thomas could care less about how his donkey cart looked, but he imagined that his craft could reach tool-and-die perfection one day, if he was attentive. He left the garage and sat on his barrel, leaning back against the wall to smoke his cigar and watch the sunset. Yeah, he’d earned this rest.
Through the gaps between the buildings he could see into the soya fields west of the city. The farmers were finishing work for the day and heading back into town along the dirt tracks separating the different crops. He waited until he saw Thomas then stood and waved his hand back and forth high above his head.
“Thomas! She’s good to go! Grab one of the donkeys!” he shouted.
The farmer waved back, and turned back towards the animal pens. A while later he came around a corner leading an old mare on a rope.
“Ai Raxx, you got my cart working now?” he squinted at Raxx under his baseball cap.
“The joint and axle’s fixed. I just need to set it back into the joint. It should’ve cooled off by now, just give me a sec.” Raxx went into his workshop to get the axle and, and brought it to the cart that had been sitting there since the morning. He and Thomas small talked while he slid the splined ends together, and tightened the bolts holding it in place. “That’ll do her; good as new!”
“Thanks lad, you always do good work.” Thomas shook Raxx’s hand and began strapping the donkey to the front of the cart.
“Say,” said Raxx, “Did you see Connie working the fields today? I’m wondering how she’s feeling.”
“Ai, I didn’t see her out in the north field, so I guess no. Give her a couple days; I’m sure she’ll be better. Her Mam’s looking after her, so you shouldn’t worry. Anywho, Gertrude and I better get this cart put away. My bones are about ready for a lie-down. You have a good night, Raxx.”
“Yeah, you too, Thomas.”
They made their farewells and the farmer left. With the day’s work done, and Connie still sick, Raxx had nothing else to do. He reached up and grabbed the handle of the garage door, pulling it down harder than was necessary. He watched it slide to the ground, listening to the sound of it and wondering if he ought to apply some more grease. He shook his head, consigning the problem to another day.
The wooden trim along the building’s main entrance was cracking. It wouldn’t affect the insulation, but it looked like shit. Not that it mattered anymore. He shook his head — to hell with that problem and to hell with the cleanup — he was heading down to Landfall’s for a pint.
As Wentworth watched the sun pass the horizon he heard the music go on downstairs. It was soft, but he could still make out the lyrics. He knew them. The prewar music was a nice addition to the beer and tobacco. He didn’t realize it, but his toes were tapping.
He heard somebody moving up the stairwell, and looked over expecting to see the bartender come up and offer another round. Instead it was another patron, somebody new. He was tall and lanky, with a pint of beer in one hand, and a solid expression on his face. He’d shaved his head recently and was spotting a goatee, as well as several facial piercings, but didn’t wear the facial tattoos of the others. His black jeans and blue-plaid vest clashed with the tool belt he was wearing — and Wentworth’s eyes picked out the revolver strapped subtlely under the belt. The man sat down at a table kitty-corner from him, and nodded.
“Hey,” his body was turned slightly away, “how’s it going?”
“Not too bad. Just finished a long hike, and figured I deserved a drink to relax with. That music downstairs is helping. Gotta say, I’m pretty impressed with the tech you guys got going in this burg.”
“Heh, glad you like it.” He put his hands behind his head and stretched dramatically. “Yup, yup, a bit of ole’ Raxx’s handiwork!”
“Oh yeah?” said Wentworth, perking up, “The music or the generator?”
“Well, both, really, but don’t say that to Bill. He’s the guy that runs the feed store.” He sipped his beer, “The generator was easy, I designed my first one years ago. There’re a couple parts you’ve got to scavenge, but they’re easy to find. The rest’s pretty simple if you know what you’re doing.” He paused to pull out a cigar and light it.
“What about the sound system?”
He got a serious look on his face and focused on the table in front of him. ”Bill managed to find an old music player and some speakers, but it didn’t work at first. I’ve never played around with anything like that before, but Bill was pestering me so I took a look to see what I could do.
“Well, it turned out that the only problem was that the speakers’ internal power supply had gone dead way back — the chemical rig had rotted. You needed it to even out the sine wave. I tried reconditioning it, but that didn’t work, so I just rigged a new one with some copper and citric acid. Heh, she’s an ugly beast — but it works, and now we’ve got all this old-time music!
“But, see, here’s the thing—” he smirked conspiratorially, “Since Bill found the thing, I’m letting him have the all the credit — except when people ask. So there you got it — music a la Raxx!”
Wentworth nodded, “That’s pretty impressive. There aren’t many guys left who know how to handle the old tech — say, I don’t suppose you know anything about mechanics?”
“Hmm, I might know a thing or two. I’m the general fix-it guy here in Blackstock and I’ve dealt with internal combustion before—” He tilted his head, “Are you saying you’ve got something for me to work on?”
“Yeah. Motorcycle — she broke down on the way into town — the chain snapped while I was riding. So that needs fixing, the wheels probably need realignment, and one of the cylinder heads might need replacing — she’s been sounding funny for the past couple of days. Does that sound like something you could fix?”
“Yeah… yeah, I should be able to help — but what about you? Are you okay man?”
“Mostly,” Wentworth rubbed the back of his right calf, “the chain whipped around and hit my leg when it broke, but these chaps took most of brunt. My leg was numb for a while there, but now it’s just bruised. I didn’t wipe out or anything and I can still walk — so yeah, I’m okay.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Yeah, so am I. The trek here was bad enough without a broken leg.”
“How far out were you?”
“About twenty klicks. That’ll be a problem.”
“Hmm,” Raxx thought for a minute, “It’s doable. Come by my workshop tomorrow morning and we’ll talk. Don’t worry, I won’t overcharge you. But I’m off the clock right now, so I don’t want to talk business,” he smiled, “I haven’t even said welcome to Blackstock. The name’s Raxx, by the way, like I said earlier.”
“Pleased to meet you, Raxx. People call me Wentworth.” They got up to shake hands and Raxx relocated to a couch near the window — his larger frame made him lurch in the seats. “I’ve gotta say,” said Wentworth, “this
