Rust and Ruin

The alternator was shot. I knew it the second the lights dimmed in the east wing, a flicker that crawled across the compound like a dying man's pulse. By the time I got to the generator room, the whole place smelled like burnt copper and bad decisions.

"Don't touch anything," I said, not looking up from the panel I was wrist-deep in. "Unless you want to explain to Doc why the infirmary's running on candlelight."

Logan leaned against the doorframe. He had a way of occupying space without filling it, like smoke. "Wouldn't be the first time."

I pulled my hand out, wiped grease on my thigh. The alternator was cooked, coils blackened and fused. Rust Haven had maybe three spares left, all of them salvaged from wrecks that predated the Collapse, and none of them rated for the load we were pulling. I'd been telling the council that for months. They'd nodded and done nothing, because nothing is what people do when the problem belongs to someone else.

"Hand me the wrench," I said.

He didn't move. "Which one."

"The one that looks like a wrench."

Logan pushed off the frame, crossed the room, and picked up the adjustable spanner from the bench. He held it out, handle first. His knuckles caught the light. The tattoo there was old, faded to a blue smear, some symbol I didn't recognize. I took the wrench and got back to work.

"You're the new fixer," I said.

"I'm a fixer."

"That's what I said."

He didn't answer. That was fine. I wasn't hiring him.

The generator room was the size of a closet and twice as hot. Pipes ran along the ceiling, sweating condensation onto my shoulders. I'd been in here since dawn, and my back had settled into a permanent ache somewhere around hour three. The council had sent him down without asking me, which meant either they were desperate or they thought I needed help. Both options annoyed me.

"I heard you're good with locks," I said.

"I'm good with people who have locks."

I laughed. It came out short and sharp, more like a cough. "That's a no, then."

"That's a maybe." He pulled out a silver lighter, flipped it open, closed it. Open, close. The click was steady, rhythmic, almost hypnotic. I wanted to tell him to stop, but I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. "Depends on what's behind the door."

I set the wrench down and turned to face him. Up close, he was leaner than he'd looked in the doorway, the kind of lean that came from not eating enough and walking too far. The scar over his brow cut through his left eyebrow, a pale line against weathered skin. His eyes were gray, the color of old ash. He looked like a man who'd been through things and didn't plan to talk about them.

"The door's not the problem," I said. "The problem's the alternator. Which is also my problem, not yours. So unless you know how to rebuild a pre-Collapse coil from scrap, you're just taking up space."

"I know a guy in the Tunnels who's got a working unit. Pre-Collapse. Rated for triple our load."

I stared at him. "The Tunnels are a death trap."

"Only if you go in blind."

"And you're not blind."

"I've been blind," he said. "Didn't care for it."

The lighter clicked shut. He pocketed it and folded his arms, waiting. I hated waiting. I hated people who made me wait. But I also hated the idea of the infirmary running on candlelight, of Doc stitching wounds by hand while the machines that kept people alive sputtered and died. Three spares. Maybe six months if we were lucky. Less if we weren't.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Room and board. A cut of salvage. And I don't answer to the council."

"You'll answer to me."

He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Will I."

I turned back to the alternator, mostly so I wouldn't have to look at him. The coils were beyond saving. I'd known that before I started. Sometimes I took things apart just to have something to do with my hands, something to fix that wasn't the whole damn world.

"Fine," I said. "You get me the unit. You don't get a cut until I verify it works. And if you try to screw me, I'll leave you in the Tunnels for the scavs."

"Fair."

"It's not fair. It's practical."

"Same thing, out here."

I wiped my hands on a rag that was already filthy, then tossed it at him. He caught it one-handed, didn't flinch. I grabbed my jacket off the hook by the door. The leather was cracked at the elbows, soft everywhere else, the way old things get when you wear them long enough. I'd had it since before the Collapse. It was the only thing I owned that still smelled like the world before.

"Come on," I said. "If we're doing this, we're doing it now. I want to be back before dark."

Logan followed me out. The corridor was narrow and dim, lit by strips of bioluminescent fungus that grew along the ceiling in pale green veins. Someone had tried to scrape it off last year. It grew back thicker. Rust Haven had a way of reclaiming everything you tried to kill.

"You always this friendly?" he asked.

"You always this chatty?"

"Only when I'm nervous."

I glanced back at him. He didn't look nervous. He looked like a man walking toward something he'd been walking toward for a long time, steady and unhurried, like the destination didn't matter as much as the motion.

"The Tunnels are two hours out," I said. "We'll take the north gate. If anyone asks, you're a contractor."

"And if anyone asks what I'm contracting?"

"Nothing. You're just a guy with a lighter and a bad attitude."

He laughed. It was a real laugh, rough at the edges, like he'd forgotten how to do it and was surprised it still worked. I didn't laugh with him. But I didn't tell him to shut up, either.

The north gate was a slab of welded steel that took two people to open. I grunted, shoved, and Logan put his shoulder into it without being asked. The hinges screamed. Outside, the sky was the color of a bruise, low clouds pressing down on the ruins like a held breath. The road stretched ahead, cracked and weed-choked, leading into the dead zone where the city used to be.

I pulled my multi-tool off my belt, checked the blade, snapped it shut. Habit. The weight of it against my palm was the only thing that felt solid.

"Last chance to back out," I said.

Logan lit a cigarette. The smoke curled up and vanished into the gray. "I don't back out."

"Everyone backs out eventually."

"Not me."

I looked at him. He looked back. Neither of us blinked.

"Fine," I said, and started walking.

He followed. The gate clanged shut behind us, and the sound echoed off the empty buildings, a hollow ring that faded into nothing. Ahead, the Tunnels waited, dark and patient, and somewhere inside them was the thing that would keep Rust Haven alive for another six months. Maybe. If we didn't die first.

I didn't look back. Looking back was for people who had somewhere to return to.