The vectors don't change much as you move through the farmhouse. The Plexpo occurred several districts away from Denshin Labs and your apartment so your things will be a fair distance away. One of the vectors points east towards the swamp south of the city, one points more or less south, and the last is towards the west where you came from yesterday.
Daisy is in the kitchen. She is cooking pancakes. There is sugar but no cream for the coffee. You notice Jim-Bob still unconscious in the dining room. You can hear Uncle Jesse, Bo and Luke outside talking and laughing, followed by another shotgun blast.
"Well, good mornin' to ya, Emma-J!" says Daisy brightly.
I mask my surprise at seeing Daisy so bright and chipper after her drinking contest the night before. I remember the accent (but if you'll forgive me I'm not going to type in it tonight).
"Good morning Daisy. It is fine to see you this morning; you brighten the day at least as much as the sun. There wouldn't be any cream or milk or anything like that for the coffee, would there?"
I remind myself to pack a care package of such things when I get the chance.
"That breakfast smells right fine. How long before it's served, and where should I sit?"
--M. J. Young
"Cream and milk? Ah honestly don' know what yer talking about, Emma-J! The breakfast should be ready inna jiff. Sit yerself right down an' Ah'll fix ya up."
She calls in the men and Jim-Bob gets a firm nudge in the ribs with her foot. He groans and crawls to the table and nurses a black coffee.
Uncle Jesse says (quietly, he's not looking tit-top shape this morning), "Me 'n th' boys are headin' inta Newark fer the grain auction. You stayin' here, comin' along, or goin' wit Jim-Bob?"
"Oh, well--ah'd lahk to lurn wat ah can whall ah'm heah, an' be as much help, too. Ya'll ah the hosts. Ah'm not much at cleanin', though ah kin cook an' wash dishes, an' ah'm interested in how Jim-Bob is gonna make that beer buggy work, but ah ain' neveh been to a grain auction, an' if ah kin be useful theya, take me along.
"Ah know, ah din't ansa the question. Whoeveh wants me kin have me, unless ya'll ah gonna faht about it."
--M. J. Young
"Grain auctions happen awl th' tahm. Best stick wit Jim-Bob afore he fo'gets all 'bout that thar beer buggy."
With that, Uncle Jesse and the Duke boys head out and begin hauling and pushing a wheeled cart full of grain towards the city.
Jim-Bob sits hunched over his coffee. He is in a dark, grumpy mood brought on by his hangover. "Waht's this 'bout a beer buggy?" he asks.
"Oh," I begin, "we wuz talkin' las' naht, an' you wuz sayin' as how you needed sumpm that'd make your machines go. Ah suggested that wit' a bit a better brewin, you maht be able te make beer potent 'nuf to do the job, an' you gits all exahted-lahk, ravin' about how you could make it run on beer. So Ah asked if'n Ah maht come along an' larn a bit o' how te do it, seein' as it wuz mah idea.
"'Sumin' tha's awraht, how do we git te work?"
--M. J. Young
He squints, trying to remember the night before, and the fog clears slightly. He gets up and retrieves his drunken scribbling from the night before and brings it to the breakfast table.
Daisy serves up breakfast - eggs, bacon, and flapjacks with syrup. Ketchup is also available.
Jim-Bob is pouring over the drawings while he eats (getting coffee stains and grease on the paper) making excited noises as if he's never seen them before. "This'll work!" he announces with his mouth full, spraying bits of egg.
After breakfast he's acting much more of himself. "Let's git owselves back t' RBDubya and git t' work!"
Getting yourself to RBW seems to be walking. Daisy comes out to see you off.
"Ah love eggs, bacon, and flapjacks with syrp. Daisy, Ah jes maht have te marry you, if you keep cookin' lahk this."
I eat my fill of breakfast, and then walk with him to Ahbeedubya, trying again to remember what it stands for. I'm more interested, though, in finding out if he really can build a car, or whatever these war machines should be called, that runs on beer. It strikes me as one more reason not to drink the stuff, if it's that potent.
I tell him that I'm familiar with the theories behind a few different engine designs, including some of the old steam engines, the internal combustion engine, maybe the deisel, and something called a Wankel rotary engine, but I'm an amateur at best, so I'm hoping he can explain it to me simply. I'm also hoping that I can develop some skill at engine design from working with him on this.
--M. J. Young
"Man, Ah love dem Wankel rotary engines! Ah wish ah could find more o' dem! Less movin' pahts, movin' slower - Sweet!"
As you head down the road that the Duke boys took towards Newark, Jim-Bob chats with you about different engine types. He enjoys kicking cans along the side of the road and there are plenty of them - the road maintains the look of being bulldozed through a city dump that you noticed near the Duke farm and trash of all sorts poke through the weeds everywhere.
Eventually, you take a fork in the road and as it's nearing noon you come across a compound surrounded by a high wooden fence with patchy barbed wire along the top. Painted on the fence in white paint is Really Big Weapons, Inc. Jim-Bob greets the guy in coveralls staffing the gate armed with a large hunting rifle. Inside are several somewhat dilapidated shacks made of a patchwork of wood, corrugated iron, sheet metal and tarps. Beyond the cluster of buildings is some kind of weapons range with black man-shaped targets and the more traditional concentric ring targets. They are all very badly damaged with bullet holes.
There is a bunch of guys in dirty coveralls clustered around a large warehouse building eating lunch. Jim-Bob waves to them but goes into another building. There are 3 guys and a woman sitting around a table eating. Some are reading. The table is covered with a large sheet of hex paper with various scribbles marked on it. They look up to greet Jim-Bob and you are introduced to Sammy, Desi, The Dark Lord, and Bea.
I greet the guard cordially, maintaining my accent.
As I see the targets, an odd thought occurs to me, because they are black targets. Of course, I've seen those black human silhouettes more times than I can count, with the thin white rings around the central chest cavity--but I suddenly wonder whether the fact that they are black is significant.
I'm keeping alert to whether these people are all white. That's not necessarily significant. It's entirely possible, I remind myself, that everyone in this entire world is white. It's also possible that this is a white-against-black race war, and I've stumbled on the white side. I remember, though, that the question that really concerned Jesse when he found me was whether I was a Ford or Chevy man, and it's unlikely that the world would be divided black and white and Ford and Chevy. I still think I would find it reassuring to see someone here who was black, and preferably someone who was black and not mopping floors or something.
As I'm introduced to the others, I say, "It's a pleazha te make yaw aquaintence. Ah was chattin' wit' Jim-Bob las' naht, an' Ah axed him wa he din't, an' he says he din't know wa he din't, 'cuz it'd weuk quaht nahce-like, so we come te see if'n we cain't build sumpin what runs on--well, Ah'll let him tell yeh, Ah knows he's purdy excahted 'bout it. Jim-Bob?"
--M. J. Young
White people certainly dominate the populations you've seen but there were a couple of black men in the group of men in coveralls outside, and Sammy's complexion suggests he is of some kind of mixed blood.
"BEER!" shouts Jim-Bob. "We's gonna build an en-jyne dat runs on beer."
"But we build weapons," says The Dark Lord.
"We'll put de en-jyine inna war-machine dat will carry owah weapons inta battle!"
"I don't like beer," says Desi.
Everyone falls very silent and stares at Desi, who shifts uncomfortably under their collective gazes. Jim-Bob says, "It will run on Vodka, too!" Desi is visibly relieved.
"Is this sorta lahk what they do in Twah-laht Two Thousand?" asks Sammy.
"Yes! Exactly!" says Jim-Bob.
"Awesome!" they all shout.
Jim-Bob plops his rough sketches down on the lunch table and they all pour over them. Sammy is obviously a much better draughtsperson and begins doodling some very cool looking armed, walking robots while they talk.
Jim-Bob asks, "Do we's got any scrap engines lyin' aroun'?" They all shake their heads.
"Well, Emm-J, we's gotsta go scroungin'!"
"Desi, I don' much lahk beir I-thuh; but yeh don' haf teh drink it, yeh only haf te' put it in the fuel tank."
"Scroungin, yeh say? Well, leed th' way."
--M. J. Young
Jim-Bob brings you outside again and gathers up 4 other guys who are armed with shotguns and rifles. The whole team heads out of the compound and back on the road.
You walk for about an hour on the road, passing the odd ramshackle hut or farm. People wave when they see you. Leaving the road, you pass through a sickly wood on a hill then look down into a marshy valley. A massive garbage dump looms up out of the swamp.
Jim-Bob give some commands to the armed men to check out the perimeter and waits for them to return. To you he says, "This heya dump is pretty safe. It's bin pretty well picked clean bah the various clans and de HOWards don nomly come south o' Newark. But Ah happen t' know where a few old wrecks are sunk in de mud."
"Sounz lahk a plan. Lead th' way."
I'm thinking that there's more to this than he's saying, as he's brought armed men but not shovels. I'm also starting to wonder whether I'm in over my head.
While I'm here, I'll check the vectors to my stuff, to see if this new information gives me any better idea of where and how far everything might be.
--M. J. Young
The other guys return and give the all-clear. You pick your way down through discarded plastic laundry soap bottles and diaper bags and along the edge of the swamp until you come to a tiny overgrown shack. It is deserted.
"This is mah fishin' hole! Welcome!" says Jim-Bob. He invites everyone inside the one-room hut. Some of the other men have obviously been here before and they make themselves at home. One goes over to the stove (made out of an old 50 gallon steel drum), straightens the wobbly stovepipe and proceeds to light the fire inside. He throws on a few used oil filters and slams the door. One of the other men has filled a kettle with water and produces a few cans of beans that he puts on the stove.
Meanwhile, Jim-Bob has been rummaging around in a messy closet and comes up with a couple of coils of rope and a block and tackle (wound liberally with duct tape).
I watch with fascination.
After a while, I say, "Ennithin' ah kin do te help?"
I'm really hoping the answer is no, but it seemed like I had to offer.
--M. J. Young
"Shooya!" says Jim-Bob as he walks outside, "Ye can hold onta this end." He hands one end of the rope.
He walks down to the shore of the swamp where an orange milk crate acts as a stool at the base of a tree. A simple fishing pole is stuck in the ground. He points out at the cab and hood of a pickup truck poking up out of the water.
"We need that end tied t' that truck!"
I'm personally kind of hoping that "this end" is not "that end". He told me I should hold "this end", and then said that "that end" had to be tied to the truck, and I can see where he might have meant I was supposed to tie my end to the truck, or where he might have meant that I should hold the end they didn't want to lose while the other end was connected to the truck.
So I'm hoping it's obvious what he meant, say from where he was pointing and such.
--M. J. Young
He wants you to tie your end to the truck, but you certainly have a case if you want to argue.
"O.K.," I say, pretending that I completely misunderstood him. "Ah'll hold on te this end, so's it don't fall in that muck, an' since ah'z nevva done nuttin' quat lahk this afaw, ahm gonna watch an' see howz ya'll do it."
If he protests this, I'll say, "Oh, ah think that whoeva 'taches the rope t'the truck should know what he's doin', raht? That'd be one of ya'll. Ah've neva trahd ennythin' quat lahk this, an' it woulnt be good if't ah broke sumpin' cuzn ah din't know what ah wuz doin."
--M. J. Young
"Ya'll's kwaht raht dere!," says Jim-Bob. "Bobby-Jim! Take this-here end o' th' rope an' tie it t' th' truck. You help 'him, Robby."
Two of the men put down their shotguns and wade out into the swamp with the rope. The mud is black and oily and clings to them like tar. They make their way out to the truck while the others rig up the block and tackle to a tree. You hold your end of the rope securely and Jim-Bob gives you the thumbs up for a job well-done. Bobby-Jim and Robby come back to shore, completely black except for some patches around their face. They futilely try to wipe off some of muck while Jim-Bob organizes everyone else to pull. Your end of the rope is threaded through the block and everyone gets ready to heave.
"Heave!" shouts Jim-Bob.
(Persuasion check=20, very strong success.)
Bobby Jim? Robby? We've got enough Bobs around here for an entire apple harvest.
I'll pick up one of the shotguns, but hold it by the barrel, pointed up and away from everyone. I'm no professional, but I've done some skeet shooting so I know which end is which and how much kick one of these should have. I'm figuring they wouldn't have brought them if there wasn't a chance we'd need them, so I should hold on to one.
Having gotten this far, I'll lend a hand with the heaving (after returning the shotgun to its owner).
"Ah gots te git me one o' those," I say, with reference to the shotgun. "Whar d'you recommmen'?"
Here's hoping we get the truck out as intact as it needs to be, and another muttered prayer of thanks that I did not have to crawl into that muck.
--M. J. Young
Hauling on the rope is gruelling. The truck is really stuck and it barely moves for a long time. The rope becomes slick with mud and the ground becomes wet and hard to get traction.
Eventually, however, the truck is pulled to the shore, but it's dark by this time. Everyone retires to the shack to sleep.
"Ah gathah thea's some reezahn we ain't headed back fo' dinnah. Is thea somethin' ah oughta know about the swamp?"
--M. J. Young
Sorry, of course they will eat before sleeping.
"Naw, but we gots t' somehow drag this here pickup all de way back to RBDubya. Best t' do dat in th' daytime. Gots any idees how we's gonna do that?"
Yes, but the important thing is that I don't get to enjoy Daisy's cooking.
How big a truck am I looking at, here? Is this like a small or full-sized pickup, a panel truck, a tractor-trailer?
"Um--lemme sleep on that. You baws ah the expuhts, o'coss, but ah maht think o' sumpm. Mebbe we should lahtna up a bit--afta all, we don' need nuthin' but the engine, so if we stripped huh down t' engine an' wheels, she'd be a lot lahta, mebbe. But then, y'all have done this afoh; ahm the new kid."
--M. J. Young
It's a full-sized pickup.
"Well, afore gas gots scarce, we's hauled 'em out wit a fowa-bah-fowa. Lahtnin' it uppa bit sounds good. First ting tomorrah we'll strip it down!"
Although I miss Daisy's cooking somethin' fierce, I'll settle down for as good a rest as I can manage.
I'm here for my second night now, and still haven't gathered my gear; I am going to have to find time to break away tomorrow and track down the stuff, before someone else does. On the other hand, I've never been bad at taking things apart, even with whatever tools we have at hand, so once this thing has drip-dried a bit (or even better if an overnight shower cleans it up) I'll help with that, and with rolling it back to RBW--although breakfast might be nice, and I don't suppose there's a latrine in the neighborhood?
--M. J. Young
No actual latrines - just trees and a shovel.
In the morning everyone helps strip down the pickup. There isn't much to salvage because of the swamp-water but some things they stack in Jim-Bob's cabin. One tyre is flat but it rolls relatively well regardless. It proves to be a brutal day pushing and pulling the thing up out of the valley to the road. Jim-Bob makes good use of his rope and pulley.
It is long dark by the time you finally pull the wreck through the gates of RBDubya.
You are given a room in one of the dorms in the compound. There is a common washroom with hot water from a methane-fired heater. Jim-Bob tells you that he'll show you how to convert the gas engine to alcohol the next day.
I certainly will take the shower, and eat whatever we can find that's edible, and crash for the night.
Methane? They have methane? Why are we trying to make a car run on beer when we have methane?
Well, that's all right, really. Beer is probably as renewable as methane, and if they can put the beer in the engines it will reduce the rate of alcohol consumption around here significantly, I expect. I could be wrong. Anyway, I make a note to ask about methane-powered engines after we've worked out the conversion to alcohol.
Oh, and assuming we're successful, I think I'll suggest that we start advertising that we can retrofit old gasoline powered engines to run on beer; that should bring in some business, because there must be a lot of machines out there that have ground to a halt for lack of fuel, and a lot of people who would be happy to have them running again.
--M. J. Young
In the morning, your car-pushing muscles are aching, but you don't feel too bad. The sun is just coming up and you can tell it's going to be another hot and humid day.
Everyone is converging on one of the buildings which has a large central chimney with smoke and the smells of cooking, particularly baking bread. It turns out to be a large cafeteria-like building with makeshift picnic tables. Jim-Bob finds you and after you get your breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast you settle at a table with Sammy, Desi, The Dark Lord, and Bea. They are all scrunched down behind worn and tattered books with homemade dust jackets while they eat. Only Desi joins in with your conversation with Jim-Bob concerning the day's activities.
Jim-Bob goes over the basics of Really Big Weapons, Inc. (They make weapons to supply the family feuds.) and the operation of the compound and where everything is. (It is walled for protection and they have pretty much everything they need, cookhouse, dorms, offices, workshops, warehouses, etc. They don't grow their own food, but they trade with local farmers - such as the Dukes - or go into Newark for supplies. It comes out that the currency is known as 'bottlecaps'.)
"So, Y'all hev any kweschuns or'n ya ready t' git t' work?"
"Oh," I say, for a moment forgetting the accent and then recovering it. "Ah have thouzens a queschins, but they ain't got nuttin' t'dew wit' the werk, so maht ezwell git stahted--soon ez ah have me a bit more o' dem eggs an bakin."
--M. J. Young
Jim-Bob, Desi and you head off to the workshop, where you meet a mechanic named Jeremiah. Jeremiah has already stripped the engine from the truck and has cleaned everything up some. The parts lay on the bench and Jeremiah is sipping at a can of beer.
Jim-Bob begins, "First off, ya haff t' think about yer fyool. D'ya want t' haff one tank with gas an' one tank with beer? When its cold owt it maht be hahd t' staht 'er up on beer. But it's nevahr cold heyah an' we don' have none gas 'sides! So, we jus' gotta clean owt alla gas and waht'r that maht be in th' tank."
The tank is disconnected and Jeremiah helps you unscrew the drain plug from the tank, flush it out and it gets set aside to dry.
"Next step is th' cahberetta. It feeds th' engine with air an fyool. This heyah engine is a V8 so it's got barrels for both sahds. See, it's got foah barrels, towah each sahd, one prahmry an' one lahger secundry. Th' secundrees stay closed until ya need a boost, then they open an' let in moah fyool."
"Now, ya see how the air goes in heyah and then it gets narrower? Ya see them three bitty pipes comin' out theyah? That's the fyool injecshun point. When th' barrel gits narrower it causes a vacyoom that sucks the fyool out. That small one is fer idle. Ya adjust that wit this heyah screw. Th' othah twoah are th' main jets, one fer drivin' an' one fer acselleratin'. This heyah rod closes them off at idle. Then th' barrel gits biggah agin, an' we haff dat flap thang. Thats called th' choke on account it chokes flow when th' engine first stahts up. Ya can't burn it all until th' engine heats up. Ya wit me?"
"Ovah hyah we haff th' fyool line comin' from th' fyool pump in th' tank. If we open this up we gots this resevwah wit a float ball. When it floats up ta this point heyah, it cuts offa th' flow of fyool from the tank."
"Test tahm! The truck needs an air t' fyool ratio of foahteen t' one but accordin' t' Jeremiah beer burns best at a ratio of nahn t' one. What d'ye think we gots t' do?"
"Well, the choke cuts off most a the aya, so ah'm thinkin' that te staht up we need a hiya fuel level; but then, tha's sumpn the cahbreta should do fo us. Ah think ah'd set the ratio aroun' 'leven awe twelve, an' tweak it from theah--maw fyool if it sputtas, moah aya if it chokes. But yaw th' enjneah--'sthat soun' raht t'you?"
A lot of what he says is stuff I do know, in theory--but that I wouldn't have been able to identify in the field. Thus I'm going to follow him, and confirm a few points along the way.
"Also, does the tahming and compression matta to what we'ah doin? Ah would think that if the spahk came a bit layta, awe a bit soonah, that maht make a dif'rence, accoddin t' how quick the fyool buhns. Ah've seen gasoline go up in a flash; alcohol seems to take a lot longa t' catch. But mebbe tha's wha y'do the cahb adjusmen, yeah? Mo aya in the fyool-aya mix makes it buhn fasta?"
--M. J. Young
"Naw, tahmin' gots nottin t' do wit it. Th' tahmin makes sure the sploshuns happ'n at th' raht tahm t' make th' crankshaft turn reg'lar-lahk. Whats we gots t' to heah is make shoah th' spark splodes the fyool-air mixture."
"Fiddlin' wit th' choke 's a good idee, but we don' wanna have th' choke always closed when we drahvin' round. We wants t' mod th' enjine t' git th' fyool mix t' be jus' raht. How d'ya think we do that?"
"Well, in mah deh, the fyool/aya mikstyeu was in th' cahbretuh, an' since the aya comes in throo that buttaflah valve atop as fas' as it kin be sucked in, that'd mean we gotta set the flow rate uv th' fyool. Ah'd think theah'd be a screw valve awe sumpn, open it up awe close it down, but ah neva did nothin lahk that. O cos, ifn this is one o' those fancy-fangled fyool injection systems, ah neva knowd quaht how those wuh s'posed t' weuk. But then, yoo said theah was a cahbretuh heah, an' as ah recall, a fyool injector system don't use a cahbretuh--an mebbe if that'd solve the problem, we maht think abou' whether to try to do sumpin' lahk that, although tha's way outta mah depth."
--M. J. Young
I knows its outta yore depth, that's why ah'm trahin' t' teech ya by axing yew these kweschuns! Ya'll on th' raht track wit settin' th' fyool rate. Now, do we open it up awe close it down?"
"Oh, well ah kin do math. If we needs to move it from fawteen pahts aya to 'leven pahts aya, we need t' open up the fyool lahns quaht a bit. Fac, inveut evathin an we gets a change from one fawteenth fyool t' one 'leventh fyool. A 'leventh is 'bout point oh-nahn-oh-nahn, if'n ah recall kreckly, an a fawteenth--'scuze me feh thinkin' out loud heah--is half a seventh, so weah lookin' at somethin' neah point oh-seven-sumpin, so we gots to increase the 'mount a fyool bah 'bout a kawtah to a theud. Dat what you gits?"
--M. J. Young.
And yes, I did that in my head while typing it.
"That's abowt raht, 'cept Ah said we need an aya t' fyool ratio of nahn t' wun. So, yeah, we drill owt th' fyool jets. I figger we enlahge 'em 40% jus' t' make shoya we don' burn th' valves wit an ovah-lean mixchoor. If it don' work, we kin change it next tahm."
Jeremiah helps get the carburator over to the drill press and choosing of the bits, etc.
"Next thang, is this heyah float ball. Beer is moah dense than gasoline. What we gotta do t' fix that problem?"
"Ahm sorreh--wut does the float ball dew? Ah think ah missed that paht. Best guess, it mus float--well, that paht's obvyus, but ah mean, mus be that when the fyool fills some paht o'the thin', the ball rahzez t'the top an' closes some inlet hole. 'Zat it? So if beah is mo dense than gasoleen, the ball will float too hah, an' we haf t'make it heaviah. If we node the diffrence, we could probly drill the bottom of the ball and melt a bit o lead in it, fishing sinkah style, although mebbe we'd do betta wit' steel, if the fyool maht dissolve the lead. Don' know 'bout that sorta thin'. Maht be a glass or ceremic plug would be betta, as theah's no chance of it contaminatin' the fyool none.
"Am ah on th'raht track?"
--M. J. Young