Scrapyard Chapter 3: Things Get a Little Better (Patreon)

A third installment of the Scrapyard dungeon. A bit raw, and needs proofreading. Creating NPC's, setting up backstory, and the little bits and pieces that might become important later.

The sound of movement in the kitchen woke Huck from his dream of furtive black shapes that wanted his school lunch. He looked around, seeing nothing in the early morning gloom. The sun was up, but it took longer to reach Rust Town, down by the river with higher ground all around. Huck got up as quietly as he could, forgetting about the crowbar on his lap which clattered to the floor. He cursed and grabbed the frying pan, ready to hit a boggle in the head. Instead, and even less expected, came Uncle Charlie's voice from the kitchen, "You up Huck? Do you know if we have any coffee? I can't find it."

Feeling foolish and confused, he set the pan down on the dining room table and went to see what mess Charlie had made. Surprisingly, nothing was a mess, and Charlie was drying dishes and putting them away. Huck wasn't good at that. There was always a pile of dirty dishes on one side of the sink and some clean pots on the other. He tried to get to them, but with everything else going on, dirty dishes was last place. They had less and less to clean as time went on. The last year had been hard on their kitchenware. Huck had found dishes and mugs dropped and broken on the floor, and he had destroyed his own share of thing in the kitchen, burning the bottom off two pots when he forgot to turn off the electric stove, and breaking things when his piles slid to the floor. It was about time to go look for new stuff in the basement. Aunt Ginny had picked up a lot of 'bargains' over the years, including sets of china and used cookware. It was just a matter of finding it.

"There's some up here, Unc, on the top shelf." Charlie was semi-dressed today in pajama bottoms and a grey sweatshirt. That was better than most days. And doing dishes? "Feeling good today, Charlie?"

"Better. A little better. I slept well. I never seem to really sleep anymore. Just one weird dream after another, and I can never remember them in the morning. Doing the dishes tired me out, though. Do you mind cooking some eggs? I'm hungry." Huck got Charlie seated at the table and gave him last week's newspaper to read. Lots of newspapers got tossed on porches where no one lived anymore and Huck grabbed them when he wanted to read the comics.

He didn't drink coffee much, just too much work to make. But he put the old percolator on the stove and made a pot for Charlie. His Uncle liked it black, hot, and strong. 'Cop Coffee', he always called it. Then he retrieved the frying pan and fried up the last of the eggs. Charlie actually had an appetite for once. He ate his eggs, looked at the paper, and sipped his coffee. Things seemed pretty normal. Then he saw the piles of bills.

"Huck? Why all the mail? Are those bills? Why are there so many of them?"

The bills had rolled in, and Huck had just been stacking them up in one pile and the junk mail in the other. A lot of them were from the hospital. Ginny had spent a lot of time there, and the hospital sent a lot of bills. They called sometimes too, and twice people had knocked on the door and asked questions that Huck couldn't answer. The only bill Huck knew how to pay was for the electric. Charlie had made him go by the PPL office and pay it in cash each month, to make sure the lights and heat stayed on. The woman at the desk always made a thing out of it, lecturing him on paying on time and pointing out how behind they were. The last time he was in, he lost his temper when she asked when he would be catching up on the balance. "How the hell do I know, lady? I'm 16." That had gotten him a lecture from one person and an apology from another. Mr. Wilson had suggested that Huck come to see him the next time.

"Get my checkbook, Huck. We need to pay some of these, and you'll have to go to the bank." Huck spent the morning learning how to fill out a bank deposit. It took several tries. His hands were large and the area to put the numbers was small. But he finally got it done, listing half a year's worth of social security and pension checks that had been sitting on the table. Charlie wrote out checks for a few of the bills, paying the water and sewer bills, putting some toward the back debt on the electric bill, and sending a payment to the cemetery where Aunt Ginny was buried.

Charlie was tired after that and sat unmoving in his chair. Several letters from the mortgage company he folded and stuffed into a junk mail envelope, to take with him upstairs.

"I need to go lie down Huck. I'm tired again. Can you help me up the stairs? Then you need to get to the bank, and mail those letters. Do it at the post office. That's important, Huck." Charlie seemed to deflate after that, all of the morning's energy was gone.

Once he got Charlie upstairs in bed, and the TV turned on to his favorite soap opera station, Huck made a tour of the house, checking everywhere. He wanted to look in the basement, but put it off to do his chores first. He felt happy to have an excuse not to go into the basement filled with stacks of yard sale gleanings and way too many places that a boggle could hide. And if something did happen, he'd rather have a little more protection than last time. The armguard he used with Bruno would be helpful. Let the damned boggles try to chew through that! His arm itched a little where he'd got bit, but there was no wound there, just a small scratch, mostly healed. Last night seemed unreal. But he had forty dollars in coins and those three grey pyramids as proof that it had happened.

The scrapyard smelled good that morning. Huck had tried to explain the smell to his mother, but she never understood. There was a tang of metal on his tongue and the smell like a big storm was rolling in. Winter smell was different from summer. Hot metal smelled different, as it waited to burn small hands that grabbed it. He'd always wore gloves in the scrapyard and pulled on a pair now as he headed to the garage to start up the '57. Huck loved the old dodge flatbed. He'd learned a lot fixing it up with Charlie. The yellow paint was more rust than color, but it was solid and could haul a lot of metal. He pulled it out of the garage and let it idle while he used the forklift to load pallets of copper pipe and aluminum cans. The pallets got tied down, then a heavy tarp over all of it. Losing scrap on a road lost money and could lead to a ticket, or worse. Huck had his license, and the truck wasn't big enough to need a commercial permit, but people could still get picky. Charlie had made him keep an old picture of him in his uniform next to his license. That helped sometimes if he got pulled over.

The trip to Bethlehem could be made in 25 minutes by car. Huck stayed off the highway and took the road that went through Rust Town and along the Lehigh River past the old factories and steel mills. The big stacks at Bethlehem Steel always awed him. Most of it was shut down now, an abandoned mountain of steel plates and rivets that no one knew what to do with. The recycler was a mile past the steel mill. They knew him as he drove up and waved him past a waiting line of trucks with smaller loads. He was unloaded and had his money in a half hour.

Surprisingly, Mr. Lansky came out of his office to talk to him. Huck barely knew him, just some old memories from when he came out here with his dad. He must have been six or eight then. He remembered his Dad telling him not to talk and be polite. Not that Huck ever wasn't polite around his Dad. Talking annoyed him and when he was annoyed he hurt people. Huck learned that early.
Huck was surprised when Mr. Lansky shook his hand. "Good to see you. It's been a while. You got a lot bigger. Nearly as tall as your Dad. How are things, Huck? Are you doing ok?"

"Good as they can be, sir. I keep things going and Charlie is getting a little better." Another lesson Huck had learned: No one really wanted to hear your problems.

"Good to hear. But if they get bad, you come talk to me. The metal business is booming and you're in a good spot down there. Maybe we can work something out. Tell your Uncle the deal is still on the table. He'll know what I mean." He handed Huck an envelope with his metal money. "There's a little extra in there. That's from me to you, Huck. Call it a dozen missed Christmas presents. Buy something you like with it, know what I mean? And talk to your Uncle. It's a good deal, and I don't often make an offer twice, but your father and I were close."

Huck nodded and thanked him, and then he was on the road back to Rust Town, a reminder written on scrap paper and tucked into his pocket to remind him to give Charlie the message. A quick look inside the envelope showed an extra hundred dollars! More money than Huck had ever had to himself. He knew what he wanted. He'd seen it at the Good Will store last week when he went by to look for socks. He pulled into the vacant lot next door on his way to the bank and was happy to see the jacket was still on display in the back. It was a vintage brown leather motorcycle jacket. It had some stains and scrapes, but had been taken care of well. They wanted fifty dollars for the jacket, and twenty five for the pants. The salesperson cut him a deal at sixty-five for both. Charlie had an old motorcycle that Huck road around the scrapyard. He had dreams of riding out on the highway in the summer and going somewhere. Anywhere. The jacket and pants put him a step closer, and his current jacket was so bad he didn't want to wear it in public.

At the bank, he waited until he could use the window where Mrs. Kyle was a teller. Her son, Joe, was part of Tim's group. She helped Huck with his deposits and then laughed when he brought out all his change. "I wish I could get my kids to save their money like you do. They get a dollar for mowing a lawn and it's spent by dinner." She sorted the coins but passed one back to him. "You keep that one Huck. It's special. That's a Morgan Dollar. Take it over to Koepanger's Coins. He can tell you what it's worth. We don't see them hardly ever. See the date and letter? 1921-S means it was minted in 1921 in San Francisco. This one is in nice shape, might be worth twenty dollars or more." Huck thanked her and pocketed the old silver dollar.

The rest of his afternoon went smoothly. Bills got mailed, the truck was filled with gas, and he picked up eggs, bread and milk on the way home. The electric company he saved for last. Mr. Wilson wasn't there, so he had to deal with the loud woman. She made her usual rude noises but seemed mollified when Huck handed her a check. He ignored her comment of "About time." He had just turned to walk away when the first explosion went off, preceded by an ominous humming and the smell of ozone. Behind the small office, one of the huge transformers sparked and exploded, followed by all the lights in the area going out. The loud woman glared at him as if it was his fault. "Third time this month. Maybe if everyone paid their bills on time this wouldn't happen."

Huck smiled at her. "Why pay the bills with the lights out?" He left before she could work up a suitable reply. The coin shop would wait for another day.