Chapter 80: Flamethrower [1]

The morning air carried a bite that seemed to seep through the windows of Sydney’s car as we pulled into the familiar courtyard of Jackson Township’s Municipal Office.

Putting aside, Liu Mei, and Ivy, Rebecca had not come with us.

The confrontation had started at breakfast when Rachel had mentioned we needed to make another trip to Jackson Township for "supply consultation." It was a carefully neutral way of describing our actual mission—hunting down a creature that could freeze anything it touched—but Rebecca had seen right through the diplomatic language.

"Supply consultation?" she’d repeated, her fork hovering over her scrambled eggs. "What kind of supplies require Rachel and Ryan to go together? Again?"

The emphasis on ’together’ had been loaded with weeks of accumulated frustration and suspicion. Rebecca had been watching the growing closeness between Rachel and me with the sharp-eyed vigilance of someone who sensed her world shifting in ways she couldn’t control.

"The kind that require both of our perspectives," Rachel had replied carefully, but her sister wasn’t buying the deflection.

"Your perspectives on what?" Rebecca’s voice had risen slightly, drawing the attention of others around the breakfast table. "What’s so important that it can’t wait, or can’t be handled by someone else?"

I’d tried to intervene. "Rebecca, we’re just—"

"I wasn’t talking to you," she’d snapped, her green eyes flashing with anger that was becoming increasingly difficult to contain. "I was talking to my sister. You know, the person who used to tell me things before making major decisions that could get her killed."

"Becca, it’s not like that," she’d said softly.

"Isn’t it?" Rebecca had stood from the table, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Because from where I’m sitting, it looks exactly like that. It looks like you’ve decided that whatever’s happening between you two is more important than your younger sister.

"That’s not fair," Rachel had protested.

"Fair?" Rebecca’s laugh had been bitter. "What’s not fair is watching my sister turn into someone I don’t recognize. What’s not fair is being kept in the dark about decisions that affect both of our lives. What’s not fair is being treated like a child when I’m the one who’s been acting like an adult while you chase after some fantasy about being a hero."

Rachel’s face had crumpled, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.

"I’m not chasing fantasies," she’d whispered. "I’m trying to keep us all alive."

"By doing what? By following him into God knows what kind of danger?" Rebecca had pointed at me with an accusatory finger. "By keeping secrets and making plans that you won’t even discuss with the person who’s supposed to matter most in your life?"

"You do matter—"

"No, I don’t. Not anymore." Rebecca’s voice had broken slightly on the words. "He matters more. Whatever this is—" she’d gestured between Rachel and me "—it matters more. And I’m supposed to just sit here and pretend that doesn’t hurt."

She’d left after that, retreating to her room and refusing to come out even when Rachel had knocked softly on the door, pleading for a chance to explain things she couldn’t actually explain.

I’d found Rachel an hour later, sitting on the front steps with her head in her hands, the weight of her sister’s accusations clearly eating at her.

"She’s not wrong," Rachel had said without looking up. "I am different. I am keeping secrets. And I am putting you first in ways that must feel like abandonment to her."

"She’s scared," I’d replied, settling beside her but leaving careful space between us. "You have been protecting her all this time after all and she feels like you are leaving her..."

"But I am not leaving her..."

That was briefly the cinversatin we had.

Now, as we approached the Municipal Office with our reduced group—myself, Rachel, Sydney, Christopher, Cindy, Elena, and Alisha—I pushed those troubling thoughts aside. Rebecca’s anger was a problem for later. Right now, we had a Frost Walker to prepare for, and that meant convincing Mark to help us build weapons that could generate enough heat to fight a creature that could freeze anything it touched.

The challenge was doing it without revealing the true nature of what we were hunting.

Martin was the first to greet us, emerging from the main building with his characteristic warm smile despite the early hour. His weathered face showed genuine pleasure at seeing us, though I caught a flicker of concern when he noticed our reduced numbers.

"Back again so soon?" He said, approaching with his hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets against the morning chill. "Not that I’m complaining, but you folks were just here two days ago. I see that Elena and Alisha decided to finally come. And where’s young Rebecca? She feeling alright?"

"She’s fine," Rachel replied quickly, though I could hear the strain in her voice. "Just... needed some time to herself today."

Martin’s expression suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced by the explanation, but he was too polite to press. "Well, what brings you back? Another supply run, or are you here for Margaret’s famous coffee and Clara’s even more famous gossip?"

Sydney laughed. "Tempting as that sounds, we actually need to consult with Mark about some technical issues."

"Mark?" Martin’s eyebrows rose slightly. "What kind of technical issues? That old coot’s got more electronics knowledge than the rest of us combined, but he’s not exactly known for his people skills, especially this early in the morning."

"Electrical equipment," Christopher said carefully. "Some things that need... modification."

"Modification," he repeated. "What kind of modification?"

"The kind that requires someone with Mark’s expertise," Elena said diplomatically.

Martin studied our faces for a moment, clearly weighing whether to push for more details. Finally, he shrugged with the resignation of someone who’d learned that some questions were better left unasked in the current world.

"Fair enough," he said. "He’s in his usual spot—what used to be the planning office. Fair warning though, he’s been in a mood since yesterday. Something about running low on his preferred brand of cigarettes, and you know how that affects his temperament."

"We’ll take our chances," I said.

As we made our way toward the main building, other community members began to notice our arrival. I saw faces I recognized from previous visits—Clara waving from near what had once been the reception area, several of the younger men who helped with perimeter defense pausing in their morning routines to nod in acknowledgment.

The Municipal Office had taken on the character of a small village over the weeks since we’d first arrived. People had claimed spaces, established routines, created the kind of informal social structure that emerged naturally when groups of survivors were forced to live in close proximity. It was impressive how quickly they’d adapted to their circumstances, how efficiently they’d organized themselves for long-term survival.

We found Mark in what had once been the township’s planning office, now converted into a combination workshop and electronics laboratory. The transformation was remarkable—filing cabinets had been repurposed as parts storage, drafting tables had become workbenches, and the walls were lined with salvaged tools and components that Mark had organized with the methodical precision of someone who understood that order was the difference between success and catastrophic failure.

The acrid smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air like a permanent fog, and I could see at least three different ashtrays scattered around his work area, all of them well-used. Mark himself was hunched over what looked like a disassembled radio, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he prodded at the internal components with a small screwdriver. He looked up as we entered, his eyes immediately narrowing with the suspicion of someone who’d learned to be wary of groups bearing requests.

"Well, well," he said, not bothering with pleasantries. "The young pioneers return. Let me guess—you need something built, something that requires my particular expertise, and you need it built with materials we don’t have and a timeline that’s completely unrealistic."

Sydney grinned at his directness. "You’re good at this guessing game."

"Forty years of dealing with people who want the impossible will do that to you." Mark took a long drag from his cigarette, studying our faces through the smoke. "So what is it this time? Communication equipment? Defensive systems? Something that goes boom in the night?"

Christopher and I exchanged glances, both of us suddenly aware of how difficult this conversation was going to be. We needed Mark’s help to build portable heating elements—essentially weaponized flamethrowers—but we couldn’t explain what we intended to use them against without revealing information that would either get us laughed out of the room or cause widespread panic.

"Heating elements," Elena said carefully. "Portable ones. Something that can generate sustained, concentrated heat."

Mark’s eyebrows rose slightly. "Heating elements. For what purpose?"

"General survival applications," Rachel replied.

"General survival," Mark repeated, his tone suggesting he found the vagueness less than convincing. "In case you folks haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of June, not the middle of December. And this building has perfectly functional heating systems for when the weather actually turns cold."

"It’s for... outdoor use," Cindy added. "Emergency situations where normal heating wouldn’t be practical."

Mark leaned back in his chair, the springs creaking ominously under his weight. His eyes moved from face to face, clearly recognizing that he was being fed a carefully constructed half-truth.

"Outdoor emergency heating," he said slowly. "The kind of outdoor emergency heating that requires multiple portable units that can generate sustained, concentrated heat." He took another drag from his cigarette. "You know what that sounds like to me?"

None of us answered, waiting to see how far his deduction would go.

"That sounds like weapons," he said bluntly. "Specifically, it sounds like you want me to help you build flamethrowers."

The directness of his assessment caught us all off guard. That old man was very smart as expected but that’s exactly why we came to see him.

"Mark—" I started, but he held up a hand to stop me.

"I’m not stupid, and I’m not naive," he said. "Portable heating elements that can generate sustained, concentrated heat? There’s only a handful of legitimate uses for that kind of equipment, and most of them involve setting things on fire. So the question is: what exactly are you planning to burn, and why should I help you do it?"

The silence that followed was profound and uncomfortable. We’d prepared for skepticism about the technical feasibility of what we were requesting. We hadn’t prepared for someone to cut straight through our careful euphemisms and demand to know our actual intentions.

It was Sydney who broke the silence.

"We need to kill something that can freeze people solid with a touch," she said matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather.

The workshop went dead silent. I felt my blood turn to ice, staring at Sydney in horror. She’d just revealed exactly what we’d been trying to conceal, delivering the truth with the casual directness that was her trademark but which could destroy any chance we had of getting Mark’s help.

Christopher’s mouth hung open in shock. Elena and Alisha both looked as if they’d been physically struck. Even Rachel, who was usually prepared for Sydney’s unpredictability, stared at her with wide-eyed disbelief.

Mark blinked once, twice, then threw back his head and laughed—a deep, hearty sound that seemed to fill the entire workshop.

"Oh, that’s good," he said, wiping tears from his eyes. "That’s really good. Something that can freeze people solid with a touch. Like some kind of monster from a horror movie." He continued chuckling, shaking his head in apparent delight. "I have to hand it to you kids—most people who want weapons built try to come up with boring cover stories. Bandits, wild animals, maybe other survivor groups with hostile intentions. But you? You go straight for the science fiction approach."

"Mark—" I began, but he was still laughing.

"No, no, I appreciate the creativity. Really, I do. It shows imagination." He stubbed out his cigarette in the nearest ashtray, his expression still amused but his eyes sharpening with professional interest. "But here’s the thing—I don’t actually care what you want to use them for. You want portable flame units, I can build portable flame units; I got everything in my hands. Whether you’re planning to barbecue some imaginary ice monster or just want to be prepared for hostile humans who might threaten your group, that’s your business."

The casual dismissal of our truth as creative fiction was both a relief and a frustration. Mark didn’t believe us, but he also didn’t seem particularly concerned about our actual motivations.

"You’ll help us?" Rachel asked, her voice careful.

"Kid, I’ve been building things that burn, cut, shoot, and explode since before you were born. The world’s gone to hell, dangerous things are roaming around out there—infected, hostile survivors, maybe even some military units that have gone rogue—and you want to be prepared to defend yourselves with something more effective than baseball bats and kitchen knives." He shrugged. "Makes perfect sense to me."

Christopher found his voice. "So you don’t... you don’t think we’re crazy?"

"Oh, you’re definitely crazy," Mark replied cheerfully. "But crazy in the good way. The kind of crazy that keeps you alive when everything else is trying to kill you." He stood up, brushing ash from his work shirt. "Besides, building flame units sounds like a hell of a lot more interesting than fixing another broken radio."

As Mark began moving toward his collection of parts and components, I became aware of other voices in the hallway outside the workshop. Word of our arrival had clearly spread, and it sounded like several community members were gathering to see what we were up to.

Margaret appeared first in the doorway, her expression curious but not alarmed. She’d clearly learned to trust our judgment, even when she didn’t understand our requests.

"Is everything alright in here?" she asked. "Mark’s laughter was loud enough to wake the dead."

"Just discussing some technical specifications," Mark replied, already pulling components from various boxes and shelves. "These youngsters have some interesting engineering challenges they want me to solve."

"What kind of engineering challenges?" The question came from Brad, who pushed past Margaret with his usual complete lack of regard for personal space or social courtesy. His eyes swept across our group with obvious suspicion. "Let me guess—more mysterious equipment for your mysterious missions?"

"Something like that," I replied, trying to keep my tone neutral.

Brad’s expression shifted to his familiar sneer. "Right. Because that worked out so well last time." He gestured vaguely toward the window. "What was it you claimed you were doing when you disappeared for that whole night? Fighting some kind of weapon that shoots fireballs?"

I felt my temper flare, but before I could respond, Clara appeared with her usual impeccable timing, carrying a tray laden with coffee cups and what appeared to be fresh pastries.

"I thought you might need some caffeine if you’re going to be doing technical work," she said cheerfully, as if the construction of potentially dangerous equipment was a perfectly normal morning activity. "And these are the last of the apple turnovers I made yesterday—figured they shouldn’t go to waste."

The arrival of food and coffee had the immediate effect of defusing the tension in the room. Brad’s confrontational posture relaxed slightly in the face of Clara’s motherly efficiency, and even Mark paused his component gathering to accept a cup of coffee with genuine gratitude.

"Clara, you’re a saint," he said, taking a appreciative sip. "This is exactly what I needed to tackle some serious engineering problems."

As coffee was distributed and the morning pastries were shared around, I found myself approached by someone I hadn’t expected to see.

"Ryan?" Jasmine’s voice was tentative, uncertain. She stood in the doorway, clearly wanting to speak but hesitant to interrupt the group dynamic. "Could I... could I talk to you for a minute? When you have time?"

I glanced around the workshop, where Mark was already deep in explanation about fuel mixture ratios with Christopher and Elena, their heads bent over what appeared to be a technical manual. Sydney and Cindy were engaged in animated conversation with Clara about the relative merits of different pastry recipes, while Alisha listened to Margaret discuss the community’s recent improvements to their water purification system.

"Sure," I said, following Jasmine out into the hallway.

She led me to a small office that had been converted into a quiet meeting space—probably where the community handled disputes and personal issues that required privacy. She closed the door behind us, then turned to face me with an expression that mixed determination with profound anxiety.

"It’s about Jason," she said.

"What about him?" I asked, immediately feeling a spike of concern. Had something happened to him? Was he sick, injured, having some kind of breakdown from the trauma of Lexington Charter?

"He... confessed to me yesterday," she said, the words coming out in a rush as if she’d been rehearsing them but still couldn’t quite manage to deliver them smoothly.

I fell silent for a moment until my brain processed it fully. Jason confessed to Jasmine? The quiet, nervous Jason had finally worked up the courage to tell her how he felt?

"I... I see," I managed, though I wasn’t sure I actually did see. Jason and Jasmine had been spending time together, that was obvious. They seemed comfortable with each other, compatible in the way that two introverted, intellectual people often were. But why was she telling me this now? And why did she seem so concerned rather than happy? From what I’d observed, they got along very well. Wasn’t this good news?

"I rejected him," she said then.