Chapter 14: Workshop of the Wasteland, Part 2
Adam slung the seed packs into his pack and straightened, pausing to glance back at the newly primed grow trays. The foot-pedal driven pump was breathing life into the dying hydroponics bay—but without bulk storage, every drop was borrowed from their precious canteens. To sustain growth over days, weeks, they needed a reservoir. Something large. Something leak-tight. Something that could feed the hydro system even when they slept.
His torch beam drifted across the corner of the bay, picking up a faint glint beneath layers of grime and rupture. He strode over, brushing away silt and broken glass to expose a faded, rust-eaten label: H₂O STORAGE – 2,000 L.
"I think we hit the jackpot," he called back to Nia, who was crouched near a shattered grow tray, scanning seed vials with a clipboard.
She joined him, skepticism in her posture. The tank's hull was mottled with corrosion. "Looks rusted inside," she said.
Adam knelt and pried open the access hatch—wedged tight, resistant—but he forced it nevertheless. Dark sludge pooled at the bottom. He frowned, but the discovery was too rare to dismiss. "Give me ten minutes," he said. "We flush, filter, patch. It'll work."
He returned to his pack and extracted lengths of tubing, a small hand-crank mixer (salvaged from the vault's water treatment unit), clamps, and filter materials. Nia fetched several empty canteens of distilled water from the med bay. Each clinked in the dim corridor.
Adam fed a steady stream into the tank's inlet while sweeping the mixer through sludge, stirring water and sediment into murky slurry. Every few minutes, he cracked open a drain valve at the base, letting the tainted water flush out into a secondary trough for disposal. The first cycles yielded dark, brown-tinged effluent—gross, but expected. Gradually, layers dissolved, sediment loosened. After three cycles, the outflow ran pale amber, then nearly clear. He rigged strips of torn tarpaulin inside the hatch opening, layered with charcoal from their solar still, as rudimentary filters to trap fine particles. Finally, he cut a makeshift gasket from an old conveyor belt, pressed it over the hatch rim, and tightened the rusted clamps with his wrench set.
He clipped the intake line from the actuator pump to the tank's outlet, tightened the coupling, and cautiously twisted the valve. Water gurgled, then surged into the piping, filling the pump's reservoir. Nia dropped a hand to test the pedal. The piston engaged smoothly; water poured over the roots.
Adam exhaled, the weight of success softening his features. "That should keep the farm running without touching our canteens."
Nia gave a rare grin. "You really can build anything out here."
He patted the tank affectionately. "Anything that stands still long enough."
They stepped back as the hydroponics bay settled into its new rhythm. The reclaimed water tank hummed quietly to itself—a silent promise that life, even in a vault's shadow, could take root and grow.
A full day's worth of filtered water dripped steadily through the nutrient loops. The rhythmic hiss of solution flowing, faint green sprouts unfurling beneath overhead light, marked a small but essential victory. Adam wiped sweat from his brow and exchanged a tired but satisfied smile with Nia, who was now cataloguing seed packs and powdered nutrients on the battered clipboard.
"Come dawn, this place will be bursting with life," he had told her the previous night, voice soft but confident, even as sleep threatened to drag them under. They had stretched thin blankets over broken trays, slept among cracked beds, with the tank's drip serving as lullaby.
Now, at mid-morning, tiny shoots poked through soil in several trays. He drained his canteen and refilled it from the outlet of the storage tank, nodding with satisfaction. Nia, energy renewed, slung the clipboard onto her back.
"What's next?" she asked, cracking her neck.
Adam tapped his gauntlet — energy reserves still solid — then pointed at his holotable map. "Forge. We need defenses now that we're drawing power."
She followed him down the corridor, past the sealed med bay where Alicia lay asleep, recovering. The vault's corridors were quieter today: the occasional drip of brine-tainted water, the distant hum of the patched reactor, footsteps echoing against concrete and steel.
They arrived before a pair of heavy vault doors embossed with a faded emblem: a crossed hammer and sword encircled by a gear. The metal was hammered, pitted, torn—age and neglect had carved away meaning, but the symbol still spoke: forge, armory, weaponry.
Adam knelt before the lock mechanism—a solid tension bar designed to resist intrusion. He produced a slim steel rivet from his tool pouch and slid it into the keyway, twisting carefully, leveraging tension. With a muted groan, the bar's catch clicked open. "Got it," he muttered, pulling the doors inward.
Inside, stale air and decades of solder smoke clung to every surface. Racks of pre-Fall steel rods leaned against walls. In a corner stood a battered 3D printer frame, its wiring stripped but extrusion nozzle intact. Workbenches around the perimeter bore scorch scars and tool marks. Some drawers hung open, empty; others held bits of wiring, screws, mechanisms.
His eyes lit on the steel rods. He yanked one free, handled it. "We'll start here." He placed it across a reinforced crate and began constructing a temporary smelting station: a hand crank drill anchored to the crate, its outboard shaft mated to a small bellows fashioned from a corrugated air filter housing. Charcoal from filtered residue lay nearby. Beneath a makeshift crucible (an overturned section of plating), he piled charcoal, fed air via the bellows as he spun the drill. Coals flared.
Nia watched across the bay, arms folded but alert. "You're turning scraps into gun barrels?" she asked with a skeptical half-smile.
Adam guided the rod into the furnace heat. It glowed cherry red. He pulled it free with tongs and hammered it gently across a curved piece of plating, using the damaged grow tray as an anvil. Under repeated strikes, the rod flattened, thinned, and eventually telescoped into a tubular shape. He then quenched it in a barrel of filtered brine, reheated and tempered with the bellows. Sparks flew; metal shrieked; the heart of the forge sang.
"Rifle barrel," he said finally, tapping the pipe's end. "Crude, but it can handle low-pressure rounds."
Next, he cut a scrap plate into a narrow, tapered strip. He filed the edge against a coarse grit wheel from the printer drive belt. Sparks flew. He blackened, heated, tempered the blade edge until it held a keen bite when tested on a wooden plank. "Blade," he announced, holding it aloft.
Nia stepped forward, examining the barrel. "Not bad." She reached to pick it up. Adam halted her with a hand on her wrist. "Test recoil first."
He chambered a single makeshift round—copper jacket, lead core—crude but functional. He braced the pipe barrel against a support beam. He signaled Nia to stand clear, took a breath, and fired. The shot echoed like thunder in the cavernous forge. Recoil jerked violently; the barrel slammed back, wrenching its mount loose. Nia reeled. Adam muttered under his breath.
"Recoil too heavy," he said, inspecting the crude stock (just a scrap leather strap wrapped around the barrel's midpoint). He bent the striker's tip inward by a hair's breadth, reducing impact force, slowing powder burn. He reloaded, handed the barrel to Nia. She shouldered it, fired again. This time, the report was softer, and the kick manageable.
She lowered the barrel, nodding. "That's… workable."
Adam turned to tool racks, pulling heavy leather rolls and belts. He cut reinforcement strips from dented brig plating, punched holes with a salvaged awl, riveted them onto leather backing, fashioning wrist guards—flexible but protective. He strapped them onto Nia. "Protection you won't feel until it stops you from dying," he said.
She flexed her hand, testing movement. "Feels… reassuring."
Surveying the armory, he considered what else they could salvage. Many racks were empty—looted long ago. But they had essentials: crude rifle, blade, wrist guards, wiring, small parts.
Nia slung the rifle over her shoulder, strapped the blade to her belt. "What's next?" she asked.
Adam glanced at his gauntlet clock. "We still need to explore that transit shaft again, and—" he paused, turning to look at Alicia through the corridor's open door, then added quietly, "—tend to Alicia's recovery."
She met his gaze with understanding. "One step at a time."
He nodded, pocketing his wrench. They stepped out of the weapons forge, the echo of hammer strikes and flaring coals receding behind them.
Three hours after leaving the forge, Adam and Nia stood before the transit hatch. Its circular steel surface bore scratches from prior attempts, accumulated grime, and the faint glow of the holotable's lines overhead. The network map had led them here—directly beneath the main chamber, where crates once shifted on motorized rails.
Adam crouched, brushed away debris, and inserted a slender pry bar into the hatch seam. The metal groaned, resisted, then with a decisive pop the rim lifted. A cool draft spilled upward, scented of grease, ancient residue, and stale air. Within, rails stretched into darkness, flanked by alcoves built for rail carts, some collapsed or derailed.
"Looks like it's been years," Nia murmured, stepping onto the rail bed.
Adam dropped in, shining his flashlight along the tracks. Crates lined both walls—metal, stamped with old insignias, sealed. He approached the nearest. The label read SOLAR CELLS. He pried it open: inside sat stacks of rectangular panels still wax-wrapped against corrosion. Under soft light they gleamed faintly. "High density cables…" he murmured, opening another crate. It held spools of coaxial cable rated for energy transmission.
Nia crouched beside a third crate labeled POWER CONVERTERS. "These we can use right away," she exclaimed. "Hook them into the auxiliary lines, boost efficiency."
Adam nodded, hoisting the crate on his shoulder. His beam caught a further crate: MRE – MILITARY RATIONS. He opened it. Inside: sealed pouches of protein bars, nutrient gels. Packaging had yellowed but remained intact.
Nia's eyes lit. "Food! We can feed Alicia, ourselves, without tapping hydro."
He paused, shining light down the tunnel. At the far end, a heavy vault door loomed: GARAGE ACCESS, industrial grade, massive, untouched. The lock mechanism was forbidding. "Lock's huge," he said quietly.
Nia's flashlight jittered across it. "Should we try it?"
Adam shook his head. "Not yet. That door leads to the factory bay, maybe storerooms. But without cutting gear or safe bypass, it's too risky. We come back once we can bring cutting tools or rails online."
Nia's shoulders dropped slightly, but she nodded. Adam turned to a smaller cabinet labeled MOTIVE FUELS. With a screwdriver, he pried it open. Inside: rows of vials filled with amber bio-gel fuel. High energy, high potential.
"Fuel for high output motors, perhaps small generators or vehicles," he whispered, reverence in his voice.
Nia stepped forward, hands open. "Let's take it all."
Adam shook his head firmly. "If we haul everything now, we'll overload. We take what's critical—enough to keep momentum, leave the rest for a second run when we have transport." He shifted the converters crate in his arms. "We'll return for the rest."
Nia paused, conflicted, tension between greed and restraint hard in her features. She knelt, reopened the MRE crate, then looked at him. "You're right. We load what's essential now, come back for the rest."
He gave her a small encouraging smile. "Restraint now means fuller loads later."
Together, they loaded manageable crates—solar cells, converters, rations, a small stock of bio gel—into their packs and shoulders. The rest lay silent, untouched, waiting.
As they climbed back toward the main chamber, Adam cast a last glance at the locked garage door. A promise of greater resources, but also of challenge. For now, their haul was enough: energy, food, fuel, and ingenuity.
Back in the workshop, Adam set down their bounty on the steel workbench. The day's haul spread before them: two crude pipe rifles, blades, reinforced wrist guards, seed packs and nutrients, rolls of high density cable, solar cell panels, and vials of bio gel. He exhaled, arms crossing. For a moment, silence. Then a subtle hum from the reactor, the vault's heartbeat.
Nia unpacked the MRE pouches beside Alicia's medical bed. Green sprouts glowed from the hydro bay doorway as life bloomed behind them. Alicia, pale in blankets, stirred. Her eyes cracked open. She looked around, confusion in her gaze.
"Project Ark," she whispered, voice ghostly. The name came out trembling. Adam and Nia exchanged a glance—her words, loaded with significance, were not random.
Adam crouched beside her. "We'll get there," he promised. Voice low, with weight. "But first, food and defense."
He turned to the workbench. "Rations won't last forever. We need that pump running full bore. Hydroponics comes first." He tapped the actuator driven pump beneath the grow trays. "Once we refine the foot pump linkage, we can push water faster through nutrient loops."
Nia hefted the pipe rifle, inspecting its breech and stock. "Raiders will hear this hum. We need it reliable." She ran her fingers along the barrel. "I'll handle the firing pin tweaks and stock reinforcement."
Hope and caution wove through her tone. She laid the rifle next to the seed packs—a symbol that fight and life must grow side by side.
Alicia's eyes tracked them. "Project Ark was meant to preserve life… to seed worlds," she rasped. "This vault was its heart." Her voice cracked, but carried purpose.
Adam's jaw tightened. "Then we'll revive its heart." He rose, looked to Nia. "Let's make a list—hydroponics rebuild, rifle refinement, medical stabilization for Alicia."
Nia unrolled a scrap of paper across the bench, scribed tasks as he spoke: perfect pump, test barrel, fortify guards, check seed viability, ration bio gel. She set the pencil down. "We need people," she said quietly. "Hands to tend the farm, patrol corridors, guard the reactor."
Adam stared at the scrawled tasks. More survivors would ease their burden—but also introduce risk. Trust was scarce. Desperation invited betrayal.
He folded the list and tucked it under weight. "We'll build this first," he said. "Then pick who's worth bringing in."
Alicia closed her eyes. A faint, shaky smile curved her lips. "Project Ark depends on community."
Nia looked at Adam, wary but resolute. "Community—if we find one we trust."
Adam placed his hand firmly on the bench's cold edge. Overhead, the vault lights hummed in steady rhythm. He met both their gazes. "We start small. Two now. Then three. We'll earn trust—like everything else here."
They extinguished workshop torches. The vault settled into its quiet rhythm. Outside the sealed doors, the wasteland awaited—a harsh wilderness. Inside, life was budding: one invention, one rifle shot, one recovered soul at a time.