Chapter 82: Flamethrower [3]

Several hours later after helping around, when I returned to Mark’s workshop, the scene that greeted me was equal parts impressive and terrifying. The former planning office had been transformed into what looked like a weapons manufacturing facility, complete with scattered components, technical diagrams sketched on scraps of paper, and the acrid smell of welding work that made my eyes water.

Mark stood hunched over a workbench, a welding mask pushed up onto his forehead as he examined what appeared to be a modified propane torch. His cigarette dangled precariously from the corner of his mouth, seemingly immune to the various flammable materials scattered around his workspace. The man’s disregard for basic safety protocols was both admirable and absolutely insane.

Regardless....at what freaking speed this old man was working actually? I couldn’t b believe he was already nearly done...

Was he some kind of real life Tony Stark maybe? This wasn’t the first time but this time it was even more amazing...

Or maybe I was just that ass in this domain...

"Ah, there he is," Mark said without looking up from his work. "Just in time to see the fruits of genuine engineering brilliance."

Christopher was crouched beside a second workbench, his face a mask of concentration as he assembled what looked like a sophisticated fuel delivery system under Mark’s occasionally barked instructions. Elena sat nearby, methodically organizing small components into neat piles, her blue eyes fixed on the work with the intensity of someone who understood that lives would depend on these devices functioning properly.

"How’s it coming along?" I asked, approaching slowly. The heat radiating from Mark’s work area was already noticeable, and I could hear the steady hiss of a small pilot flame that he was using for testing.

"Better than expected, worse than I’d like," Mark replied, finally setting down his tools and turning to face me. "The good news is that building portable flame units isn’t actually that complicated if you don’t care about safety regulations, environmental impact, or long-term reliability."

"And the bad news?" Sydney asked from her position near the window, where she’d been keeping watch on the courtyard outside.

Mark’s grin was equal parts pride and malicious satisfaction. "The bad news is that these things are going to be hot, heavy, dangerous to the operator, and they’ll go through fuel faster than a race car. Plus, if anything goes wrong—if a fuel line ruptures, if the ignition system fails, if someone drops one of these beauties—you’ll be dealing with consequences that range from severe burns to spectacular explosions."

He gestured toward the two partially assembled devices on his workbenches. Even incomplete, they looked formidable. Each unit consisted of a backpack-style fuel tank connected by reinforced hoses to a handheld nozzle assembly that was considerably more substantial than anything I’d expected. The fuel tanks were clearly repurposed from industrial equipment, painted military green and marked with warning labels that left no doubt about their hazardous contents.

"The design is based on military flamethrowers from back when governments still cared about having those kinds of weapons," Mark continued, picking up one of the nozzle assemblies and examining it critically. "Fuel mixture is gasoline and motor oil—not as sophisticated as napalm, but it’ll stick to whatever you hit and burn for a good long time."

Rachel moved closer to examine the equipment, her face showing the kind of professional interest that suggested she was already thinking through tactical applications. "What’s the effective range?"

"Fifteen to twenty feet for concentrated flame," Mark replied. "Maybe thirty feet if you’re willing to sacrifice intensity for distance. Each tank holds enough fuel for about two minutes of continuous operation, though I wouldn’t recommend using them continuously for more than fifteen or twenty seconds at a time."

"Why not?" Elena asked, though from her tone I could tell she already suspected the answer wouldn’t be encouraging.

Mark’s expression grew serious. "Because prolonged operation generates enough heat to potentially damage the equipment, and because the fuel consumption rate means you’ll be empty faster than you think. In combat conditions, you want to use these in short, controlled bursts. Light up your target, move to cover while it burns, then engage again if necessary."

Christopher stood up from his work, wiping grease from his hands with a rag that had seen better days. "What about reliability? Are these going to work when we need them, or are we going to trigger the ignition and get nothing but a face full of fuel vapor?"

"That’s the million-dollar question," Mark admitted. "I’ve tested the ignition systems on both units, and they’re working perfectly under laboratory conditions. But combat isn’t a laboratory, and these are jury-rigged devices built from salvaged components. I can’t guarantee they’ll function properly under stress, and I definitely can’t guarantee they won’t malfunction in ways that could be dangerous to the operator."

The workshop fell silent as everyone digested this information. The flamethrowers represented our best hope for dealing with something that could freeze anything it touched, but they were also untested weapons that could potentially kill us as easily as our intended target.

"We’ll take that risk," I said finally, and I saw nods of agreement from the others.

Mark studied my face for a moment, then shrugged with the resigned air of someone who’d spent a lifetime watching people make dangerous decisions. "Your funeral. Let me show you how to operate these things without immediately setting yourselves on fire."

What followed was the most terrifying educational experience of my life. Mark walked us through every component of the flamethrower systems with methodical precision, explaining fuel flow rates, ignition sequences, emergency shutdown procedures, and a dozen different ways the equipment could malfunction. He demonstrated proper handling techniques, showed us how to identify potential problems before they became catastrophic failures, and made us practice the start-up and shutdown sequences until we could perform them without conscious thought.

"The most important thing to remember," he said, adjusting the straps on one of the fuel tanks, "is that you’re carrying enough incendiary material to turn everything in a twenty-foot radius into a crematorium. These aren’t toys, they’re not movie props, and they sure as hell aren’t forgiving of mistakes. You treat them with respect, you follow proper procedures, and you pray to whatever deity you believe in that you never actually have to use them."

The first practical test came when Martin appeared in the workshop doorway, drawn by curiosity and the increasingly obvious smell of fuel and burning metal.

"What in God’s name are you building in here?" He asked, his eyes widening as he took in the assembled flamethrowers and the various warning labels Mark had attached to every component.

"Pest control equipment," Mark replied without missing a beat.

Martin raised an eyebrow. "What kind of pests require military-grade flame units?"

"The kind that don’t respond to conventional extermination methods," Sydney answered with a perfectly straight face.

I caught the way Elena bit her lip to suppress a smile, and even Christopher seemed to be fighting back laughter. Only Rachel managed to maintain a completely serious expression, though I suspected that was more due to her natural composure than any lack of appreciation for the absurdity of our situation.

Martin studied the flamethrowers for another moment, then shook his head with the kind of resigned bewilderment that had become his default response to our increasingly unusual requests.

"I don’t want to know," he said finally. "Whatever you’re planning to do with those things, I don’t want to know about it. Just... try not to burn down the entire township while you’re at it."

"We’ll do our best," I assured him, though the promise felt hollow even as I made it. If our plan went wrong, fire damage to Jackson Township would be the least of our worries.

After Martin left, Mark insisted on conducting a full field test of both flamethrowers. This involved moving to the rear courtyard of the municipal building, where a safe testing area had been established using metal sheeting and fire-resistant barriers. Margaret had been consulted about the test, though Mark had described it as "routine equipment verification" rather than "making sure our homemade weapons of mass destruction don’t explode and kill everyone."

The first test firing was both exhilarating and absolutely terrifying. Christopher volunteered to operate the first unit, strapping on the fuel tank with the kind of nervous determination that suggested he was trying very hard not to think about the potential consequences. Mark had set up a target—an old metal trash can filled with debris—about fifteen feet away from the firing position.

"Remember," Mark called out as Christopher took position, "short bursts, controlled movement, and for the love of all that’s holy, keep the nozzle pointed downrange."

Christopher nodded, raised the nozzle, and triggered the ignition sequence.

The result was spectacular. A stream of burning fuel erupted from the nozzle with a whooshing sound that was felt as much as heard, creating a lance of flame that reached across the courtyard like the breath of an angry dragon. The target trash can disappeared instantly in a ball of fire and black smoke, the metal glowing cherry red within seconds of contact.

"Holy Moly," Sydney breathed, and I couldn’t have agreed more.

The flame lasted only three seconds—Christopher had followed Mark’s instructions about short bursts—but the effect was devastating. The trash can and its contents continued to burn for several minutes after the initial burst, filling the air with thick smoke and the acrid smell of burning metal and plastic.

"How do you feel?" I asked Christopher as he set down the flamethrower and began removing the fuel tank harness.

"Like I’m holding a controlled explosion on my back," he replied, but his grin suggested that the raw power of the weapon had impressed him despite the obvious risks. "This thing is going to absolutely devastate anything organic that gets in its way."

The second test, conducted by Elena, was equally successful and equally terrifying. She handled the equipment with the kind of precise, methodical approach that suggested she’d been paying close attention during Mark’s safety briefing, but even her careful technique couldn’t disguise the fact that we were dealing with weapons that pushed the boundaries of safety and sanity.

"Both units are fully functional," Mark declared after we’d completed the testing and begun the process of cleaning and securing the equipment. "Fuel consumption is within expected parameters, ignition systems are reliable, and the flame pattern is consistent and controllable. As far as jury-rigged death machines go, these are about as good as you’re going to get."

"Thank you," Rachel said, and I could hear genuine gratitude in her voice. "This gives us options we wouldn’t have had otherwise."

Mark waved off her thanks with a dismissive gesture. "Just try not to get yourselves killed with them. I’d hate to think I spent all this time and effort building weapons for people who were going to die because they didn’t follow proper safety procedures."

As we began the process of preparing the flamethrowers for transport, I became aware that our activities had attracted attention from other members of the Jackson Township community. Clara appeared with fresh coffee and sandwiches, her usual maternal efficiency apparently extending to ensuring that people building dangerous weapons were properly fed. Margaret made a brief appearance to confirm that our "equipment testing" hadn’t caused any damage to municipal property. Even Brad showed up, though his contribution was limited to suspicious glares and muttered comments about "outsiders with too many secrets."

The afternoon sun was beginning to cast longer shadows across the courtyard when Mark finally declared the flamethrowers ready for transport. The two completed units lay side by side on padded blankets, their fuel tanks empty and their systems depressurized according to his strict safety protocols.

"Remember," Mark said as we began the careful process of loading the equipment into our vehicle, "these things are tools, not toys. Keep the fuel tanks separate during transport, never store them pressurized, and for God’s sake, don’t let anyone smoke within fifty feet of the fuel canisters."

Christopher nodded seriously as he helped lift one of the backpack units. "What about spare fuel? How much should we take with us?"

"I’m giving you four extra canisters," Mark replied, indicating a collection of clearly marked containers. "That should be enough for whatever you’re planning to do, assuming you’re not trying to burn down half the county."

"Just one very specific target," I assured him, though I could see from his expression that the vague answer wasn’t particularly reassuring.

Cindy watched the loading process with obvious concern, her arms crossed as she stood beside the vehicle. Since learning about our need to combat something that could freeze anything it touched, she’d been quieter than usual, clearly processing the implications of what Christopher would be facing.

"The safety gear," she said suddenly, turning to Mark. "What kind of protective equipment should they be wearing?"

Mark paused in his work, clearly appreciating that someone was asking the right questions. "Fire-resistant clothing is essential. Thick gloves, preferably leather. Eye protection. And if you can manage it, some kind of breathing apparatus—the smoke from these things can be toxic, especially in enclosed spaces."

"We’ll be fighting outdoors," Rachel said, then caught herself. "I mean, we’ll be using them outdoors."

It will depend but we will see...

"Good," Mark nodded. "But still, try not to breathe the smoke directly. And keep your escape routes clear—fire moves faster than you think."

Elena was carefully securing the fuel canisters in a separate compartment, following Mark’s detailed instructions about proper spacing and ventilation. "What’s the maximum safe transport distance?" She asked.

"As long as everything stays properly secured and you don’t drive like maniacs, you should be fine," Mark replied. "Just remember—no smoking, no open flames, and if you smell fuel vapors, stop immediately and check for leaks."

The loading process took nearly an hour, with Mark insisting on multiple safety checks and walking us through emergency procedures one more time. By the time everything was properly secured, the sun was noticeably lower in the sky, casting the municipal building’s courtyard in golden light that would have been peaceful under different circumstances.

Margaret appeared as we were completing our final preparations, her expression mixing maternal concern with administrative efficiency.

"I’ve prepared some additional supplies," she said, indicating a bag she carried. "First aid materials, water, energy bars. I know you said this would be a day trip, but..."

"But it’s better to be prepared," Rachel finished, accepting the bag with genuine gratitude. "Thank you, Margaret. This means a lot."

"Just come back safely," Margaret replied simply. "All of you...." She trailed off also not knowing what the hell we were going to do.

Martin emerged from the building as we were saying our farewells, carrying what appeared to be a small radio unit. "Emergency communicator," he explained, pressing it into my hands. "Limited range, but it should reach us from anywhere within twenty miles. If you need help, if things go sideways, use it."

Now, they were spoiling us...

"Thank you," I said, genuinely touched by the gesture. "Hopefully we won’t need it."

Actually I won’t drag these people in that mess at all.

"Hopefully," Martin agreed, but his expression suggested he understood we were walking into something considerably more dangerous than routine supply gathering.

As we climbed into the vehicle, I caught sight of several other community members gathered near the main building. Some waved, others simply watched with expressions that mixed curiosity with concern. These people had become more than just allies—they’d become extended family, and leaving them behind to face an unknown threat felt heavier than I’d expected.

Sydney started the engine, testing the car’s handling with the additional weight of our deadly cargo. The flamethrowers and fuel canisters had been distributed as evenly as possible, but the vehicle still felt different—heavier, more sluggish, with a subtle shift in balance that would affect our driving.

"Everyone ready?" Sydney asked, adjusting the rearview mirror to check that our equipment remained properly secured.

As we pulled away from Jackson Township, I found myself looking back at the municipal building one more time. Tomorrow, if everything went according to plan, we’d return with the second stone needed to complete the alien device. But plans had a way of falling apart when they encountered reality, and the reality we were about to face included a creature that could kill with a touch.

The drive back was quieter than usual, each of us lost in our own thoughts about what tomorrow would bring.

"You know," Sydney said as we turned onto the main road leading away from town, "six months ago, the most dangerous thing I had to worry about was whether I’d studied enough for my physics final. Now I’m driving home with a trunk full of military-grade incendiary weapons."

"Life has a funny way of changing your priorities," Rachel observed, though her smile was strained.

You couldn’t be more right Rachel...