Chapter 11 Robco Industries

John involuntarily stopped as he came upon the workshop. The bright lights from the open wooden building illuminated the wolf like dog just as its head reared up. Pointed ears in a state of alert.

Not a wolf, it’s a dog, like people, it has a name, it’s not a wolf, wolves aren’t real, it’s a dog. John repeated Robco’s instructions to himself. Brown black fur disappeared into shadow and the creature padded almost silently towards him. Don’t ask them, tell them.

With one final remembered instruction, John snapped his fingers and issued a command in the sternest tone he could muster. Which wasn’t very stern at all. “Sit.” The wolf like dog did. His confidence rising John tried another command. “Shake.” The creature became less terrifying almost instantly. It raised a powerful paw, unable to hold it in the air for very long making it look like it was waving.

John took the paw in his hand. Its coarse pads transferring soft earth. He stroked the dog’s head, hearing its tail swish along the ground.

A little courage and two words had changed the mythical beast from his childhood nightmares into an affectionate companion. He started to see why there were at least three of them around.

A sharp whistle drew the gentle creature to the workshop. John followed, wiping his hand clean on his chest. Only to realise he Just wiped damp earth onto the borrowed shirt, staining it. Unlike the dirt repellent fabric of his vault-suit. Something told him it wouldn’t be the last time he’d have to change a reflexive habit.

The workshop had been built on the same type of concrete foundation as the house and about two thirds as big. Three wooden sides and a split gate. Enough remaining concrete to accommodate the salvaged truck. Currently occupied by cushioned, leather furniture. Similar to inside, arranged around a fire pit. Simple. That however was where the simplicity ended.

Inside had been outfitted with four workbenches. Separated by red storage units. Metal shelving lined the walls with well organised, neatly labelled containers. Filled with everything from bolts to bullets. All manner of tools hung in their proper place.

Each of the workbenches were outfitted for and by its intended user. Wallace’s being the most obvious from the various bits of old terminals hard wired to a pair of active screens. His back to John, the boy was busy working on something. The vault-suit that fit John like a glove, hung massively over his shoulders. He unrolled pre-war wallpaper and used the back to sketch on. He had a clear talent for it. The wall above his bench covered in sketches that looked exactly like the antique comic book. Depicting vividly coloured, fantastical characters in strange outfits.

Judging by the tight boots and form fitting shirt Louisa wore, the bench next to Wallace’s belonged to her. A strange fly wheel driven machine John couldn’t fathom the purpose of on one side. A collection of frankly vicious looking punches one the other. Repurposed screwdrivers ground to a sharp point. Curved blades with wooden handles, rolls of various string and fabric.

John tried to ignore the bench next to that. Empty tool racks. The surface recently cleaned, but the stool and crates underneath were dusty and unused. More negative space speaking louder than things around it.

By far the most impressive bench, unsurprisingly, belonged to Robco. It took up an entire wall. Equipment the unearned knowledge told John could make bullets. Precisely drawn wiring diagrams hung above. Meticulously organised tools, collected over a lifetime picking clean the bones of the old world to build the new.

The older man’s bench incorporated robotic arms, three of them. Remotely operated by buttons on the side so they could use the vast array of neatly hung attachments. Grindstones, cutting discs, spotlights and a black plastic ring. Holding a wide lens that looked like it had once glowed red as part of a long scrapped robotic weapon of the old world.

It put the Vault repair shop to shame, and not just on a technical level. There was real creativity here, minds held back only by what they could get their hands on.

“What can I do?” John asked, wanting to help, but wanting to be included more. Robco smiled as he turned from his work.

“There’s a box with a blue lid full of wood, out back in the lean to, you can make a fire.” The older man raised his voice slightly, his tone playful. “Without help…Junior.”

John found the box quick enough and headed back. Trying not to focus on the clothing, backpacks and other items they’d taken from the raiders. No, he thought, taken from the people those animals killed then dumped. The animals he killed in return.

Uninvited, the image of a sawn off shotgun going off at point blank range under a man’s jaw flashed into his mind. With the good food, better company, and unburdening met with acceptance of the last few hours, John had nearly forgotten he killed four people today. Not people, he told himself again, animals.

John set about the menial, to everyone but him, task of building a fire. He did as the boy had done. Starting with sticks laid flat then stacking twigs and branches in a triangle shape, starting small.

Wallace threw something tiny at his back to get his attention. He turned to see the boy miming instructions to him. Gesturing to move this piece or that. Quickly returning to his projects, as he called them, when he felt his grandfather was on to him.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

John had built, then rebuilt the fire. At the directions of the fake yawns, stretches, and scratches of the boy.

He sat back to begin shaving down the smaller gnarled branches so they would catch light easily. As he did the gentle dog began pawing at a loose stick, jumping up and bringing both strong legs down on it. In a manner that John would have found aggressive, were it not for the ludicrous expression on the dog’s face. Giddy, pink tongue lolling out of its mouth.

For a brief moment he thought the dog might be helping him like the boy was. Then he felt utterly foolish the moment the older man spoke. “Throw the stick John.” Robco said in a tone that suggested he should’ve really figured that out a lot sooner. He threw the stick a short distance, still not entirely sure why. He watched as the dog sped after it, bringing it back and dropping it next to him as he knelt.

“It just brought the stick back.” He said, knowing he was about to make a fool of himself, and not really caring.

“Oh she did, that’s strange. Throw it again, maybe that’ll work.” John knew the older man was about to laugh at him, he could practically hear Wallace already, he didn’t care. He threw the stick harder this time, almost hitting the front of the half built house nearby. Again the dog returned the stick almost alarmingly quickly. Then he understood.

“It, she’s playing isn’t she.” The boy and his grandfather laughed. Robco kind enough to soothe his comically dinged pride by pouring him another whiskey. John threw the stick again. Even harder this time, to give her more of a challenge. He sent it clattering through the open door frame of the half built house.

Playing with a wolf, he thought to himself. It didn’t even feel like the strangest thing he’d done today, but it might have been one of the best.

“You didn’t have dogs down there either huh.” Wallace sounded sad, but not nearly as sad as he would have been if he saw one of these playful creatures cooped up in the same corridors over and over again.

John built his first ever fire and now he had to light it. The boy excitedly working at his bench pretended to yawn, stretching his small arms to hide the signal he was giving, pointing at the blue lid.

Attached to the underside were two purposely shaped branches. One shorter, one slightly curved. Along with square flat pieces about the size of the palm of John’s hand. He’d burned himself enough times on a hot drill bit to understand what to do next.

He took the shorter stick and pressed it firmly between his flattened hands, rolling it to generate friction of the flat piece below. Heat began to build quickly so it took John a little off guard when Wallace spoke.

“Hey John, you want to split a cold one?” The boy nodded his head, urging John to say yes.

“Sure.” John sounded anything but. The boy jumped from his seat. In seconds he’d attached the string John had overlooked to the curved branch. Twisted the branch he was holding into it, and handed it back to him.

“No John I won’t help you, stop asking, jeez.” The boy had a tone that didn’t quite match his words. “Don’t look at my bench, I’m not finished.” John glanced over to the boy’s bench, and would have ignored it, but saw his multi-tool and water cans.

The crude belt the boy made earlier already disassembled completely. Wallace used the plain back of the old world wallpaper to trace the outline of the multi-tool and cans repeatedly. Then used that to sketch his ideas on. Clasps, catches, attachments that looked more like weapons than tools.

Further down the bright boy had sketched a rough person outline. It had more than a little resemblance to the barbarian in the comic. Were it not for the box shape on his left arm with roughly the same dimensions as a pipboy.

John wanted to study the designs in detail. Ask Wallace about them, ask about the patterns, shapes and symbols that covered each person outline. Most of which seemed to be focused around protecting the device, but he stopped himself, just as Robco stopped him too.

“Fire ain’t gonna light itself John.” The older man spoke without turning, his own project underway. “Avoid using your hands to light fires, you’ll get blisters, then have to light a fire again with blisters, not fun. Use the bow like the boy showed you, and if you have to make one out there, use your bootlaces.” Robco hadn’t missed a thing, despite not turning round.

John wrapped the bow string around the shorter stick, using it like a hacksaw. The boy returned with an ice cold Nuka Cola for them to share. Faint traces of smoke and heat were emanating from the flat, notched wood. The faster John drove the simple fire lighting apparatus, the more friction he generated. The more heat formed. And the more the borrowed shirt scraped at his neck and wrists, but he pressed on determined to light a fire.

“Quick, tip the embers into the shavings!” Wallace dropped all pretence of not helping in his excitement. John tipped the fresh embers into the base of the fire. “Now blow, very gently.” John did as the boy said, blowing very softly.

He watched as the finer shavings caught light, bringing others with them. Bursting into open flame that licked at the finer twigs, igniting them as well. Still not feeling like he could celebrate, John began selecting larger gnarled branches to feed the fire.

“Not too big, it’ll go out and you’ll have to start over.” Robco said between tapping away with hand tools at his bench. John gathered some well selected branches and added them carefully to the burgeoning flames. Eager to not smother it. He wasn’t concerned about the physical work, but disappointing his new teachers.

He knelt by the smoking wood, summoning flames up from his hopeful breath. Softly blown in at a low angle until all at once it erupted in a glorious burst of heat, light, and energy. The only thing John felt more than the warmth on his face was the confidence building in his mind. Pushing against the conditioned fear of the outside the Vault drilled into him. He jumped to his feet, more excited than he'd felt all day at achieving this simple, yet vital goal.

John waited for the amusement of his teachers. Instead the older man finally turned from his bench, smiling. Something small and silver in his hands. Without warning Robco threw the silver object less to John and more at him. With nearly no conscious thought his arm plucked it from the air in mid-flight. The look on Robco’s face suggested he expected that to happen. John began to suspect the older man had been thinking about something for a while.

He flicked open the hinged lid of the silver object, turned the small wheel and a single flame rose from it. John laughed, but he felt thankful the older man kept it from him till now. “Don’t lose that John, otherwise you’ll get cold.” Behind Robco’s joke laid truth, and recognition that he’d taken one step closer to being ready.

“What should I do now?” John asked, eager for another mundane task to challenge himself with. Robco didn’t ask him, he told him.

“Now you sit by the fire and enjoy your drink, you earned it.” It felt wrong to sit back while others worked. John saw little point in ignoring his teachers now. So there he sat, cold sweetness mixed with warming whiskey in one hand, stroking a wolf with the other. Thankful for his gracious hosts. Beginning to envision a life without dull steel walls.