I pull my little red wagon along behind me. Its lumpy wheels, as ancient as I am, bump over cracks in the decaying concrete ramp that leads to the below-grade train station that’s become home, unconcerned that precious bits I’ve gathered from Above might spill out despite the bungeed tarp covering. I pass curtained tents lit from within by rush lights that send up dirty smoke, painting the ceiling black. Every so often, hanging between the hovels, there’s a grimy, unlit light fixture patiently waiting for its electrical circuit to open again. They sway gently in the breeze blowing in through the cracks of Columbia Station’s patched over roof.
When I reach the end of the block, I turn left and head for my workshop, past carefully angled mirrors that amplify and direct light down to the subterranean grow spaces. I pass huddled figures of beggar children, orphans of people dead of disease or squabble. Their eyes, too big in gaunt faces, track my movement as unerringly as the cats that keep the rats at bay.
“What d’ya do wid all dat, Grandma?” A face appears at my elbow, gaze curious on my haul.
“Make stuff,” I grumble. Maybe it’ll take the hint.
No such luck. The kid, maybe twelve years old, follows me, poking at the wagon’s tarp.
“Don’t touch that.” Last thing I need is some urchin buggering off with the alternator I’ve spent days searching for, diligently ignoring the armed escort Zelwicki had insisted I take with me. There’s only so far the boss is willing to go to indulge my foibles, and risking her only engineer isn’t on her map.
The kid turns big black eyes on me, matted and scraggly black hair hiding much of its features.
“What d’ya make, Grandma?”
“Stuff.” Clearly the kid didn’t get the memo. But then, the kid has no idea what a memo is. Hell, even I barely remember what they look like. No one wastes paper for reading or writing anymore, not when it’s the best way to turn a spark into a cook fire.
“Beforetimes things? Can I see?” the kid asks, still on my heels when I get to my shop door.
“No, you can’t. Go on with ya, I’ve got work to do. Stop bothering me.” I make shooing motions at the kid. I don’t want it shedding head lice in my space.
I open the door. A rustle in the racking over my workbench warns me I’ve got four-legged company. Hopefully, it’s the grey tabby tom that’s taken a shine to me, rather than the rats he’s meant to hunt.
Filthy creatures, rats. Almost as dirty as the kid gawping at the pegboard above my bench. Every tool gleams, each hanging below precisely lettered labels. I swing the magnifying glass away from the bench’s wall, working the articulated arm until it’s aimed at the wagon. I flick on its florescent light.
“I mean it, kid. Git. I have work to do.”
“I want to help,” it says, wide eyes fixated on the lamp.
“Help? Know anything about turbines?” I fix the kid with a beady glare.
“I could learn.”
“Ha,” I say with a snort. “You can’t even read.” I take a single, menacing step in the kid’s direction. “GIT!”
The only heads up I get is the rattle of loose parts colliding. By the time I look, it’s already too late. The cat leaps from overhead, a bin of junk motors tumbling down in his wake. I would’ve forgiven him for everything but the one sound that makes my throat seize up: the crash of steel on glass. The lamp light blinks out.
I stare at the carnage, motionless.
“Is that bad?” the kid asks from my elbow, making me jump out of my skin.
I’m too aghast to protest the kid’s encroachment into my space. “Yeah.” I reach for the lamp’s head, hoping against hope that all I need do is wiggle the circular bulb a bit. “I can’t see to solder circuit boards without the light.” Not all the wiggling in the world brings the light back on. At least the thick glass weathered the impact without damage.
“Could I help? Hold a candle for you, maybe?”
Impotent anger boils up. “I already told you to git gone,” I say through clenched teeth. “You didn’t listen and now lookit. If you don’t scram this minute, I’m gonna beat you into next week. You hear?”
There’s a quiet slap of bare feet on concrete, then I’m alone. I ease my old bones onto the stool, slumping in defeat. Now what?
A rap on the door frame draws my attention. “Heard you’re back,” Zelwicki says. Greying blonde hair peeks out from under a faded bandanna. Lines framing pale blue eyes deepen when she makes eye contact. “What happened?”
I wave wordlessly at the mess on my bench and the floor around my feet.
“Damage?”
A sob hitches in my throat. I tap the dark magnifying glass. I’m so tired. Trying to keep our little community’s power functioning is exhausting. And it just got immeasurably harder.
Dammit.
Zelwicki inspects the lamp. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare?” She winces when I shake my head, then sighs. “Well, you’ll have to take on an apprentice now.” She wags her finger at me. “I’ve been telling you that for too long already, Sue. What happens to us if you get hit by a bus?”
I snort at the ritual joke. “It’s job security,” I answer, though mostly out of habit rather than humor.
Zelwicki’s face turns serious. “All kidding aside, you and I aren’t going to be around forever. You have to pass on what you know. Before it’s lost.”
I mumble something vague. She gives me a look, but drops it. “Good luck,” she says, patting my shoulder.
Zelwicki leaves and I sit, stewing, until the sun goes down and the mirrors outside my shop go dark. Distant murmurs of conversation float in with the aromas of cook fires. Either I get that turbine up and running, or cook fires will be a permanent feature.
I slap my thighs and grimace. Time to grow up, I guess. Zelwicki’s right. I’m not going to be around forever. With a resigned sigh, I heave myself off the stool and shuffle out of my shop. Most of the orphans have disappeared, likely scrounging for scraps. My kid is still there, though, watching me warily as I draw near.
“You’re going to have to shave off that hair if you want to learn from me,” I say to her, keeping my face stern.
The kid’s smile lights up the whole station.
Charlotte H. Lee’s current home base is British Columbia’s Lower Mainland, where she now gleefully hides from Canadian winters. Her stories have appeared in Little Blue Marble, Metaphorosis, The Overcast, and others. You can find links to her published work at www.charlottehlee.com.