The Colony: 1. Two Meetings
The Colony: 1. Two Meetings
An Off World Story
Wilson G. Bear
I love my job. I've gotten good at it too; I've been doing it for thirteen years. That said, it's a little hard to explain to friends exactly what it is I do. I work for a contract security company. We supply guards and watchmen, mostly for manufacturing and retail, and employ a number of people to secure our clients. I worked as a watchman, an armed guard and a supervisor, but now I'm on the sales end. If you need to secure your facility, the company sends me to work out the details and provide an estimate.
Part of my job is making cold calls to businesses, but sometimes, prospective clients contact us first. That's how it was with Gary Berglund. Wednesday seems to be a slow day in my industry, and this Wednesday morning the phone rang in the broom closet I laughingly call an office. It was Sharon, our Administrative Assistant and general lifesaver.
"Bernie, we have a gentleman on the line who says he needs an old factory secured for insurance purposes."
insurance companies. Half our business is referrals from insurers. "Patch him through and I'll see if we can help." Sharon sent me the call, and within ten minutes I had a lunch meeting set up at my favorite greasy spoon diner, Chuck and Patsy's, or as I call it, Cheap and Tasty's.
I hadn't sat in my favorite booth ninety seconds when the client came in. I like punctual people, but early is even better. He introduced himself, and I made a quick note of his appearance. He was young, late twenties, maybe thirty, medium height, washed-out blond hair, pale brown eyes, black suit jacket with navy slacks. His shirt was pastel yellow with a red, blue and silver rep tie. Not dressed for success, but we take all kinds. And yes, I notice details. That made me very good at what I did, and it still serves me well. Mr. Berglund did not look like a business owner. In fact, he barely looked like a businessman of any sort, just a low-end salary earner, an office suit.
I made small talk until our orders arrived. Berglund had the BLT on an onion roll -- that's kind of odd, but it sounded good -- I had my usual grilled chicken on a garden salad. I'm not walking six miles a night anymore; got to watch my weight.
Berglund told me he had bought the property from a county tax auction. The price was good -- real good -- so he couldn't let it pass without making a bid. He ended up the second and highest bid, and was the proud owner of a factory. His only problem was, the county required that he insure the place. Then the insurance company required him to get minimal security. As I mentioned, I love insurance companies.
"Mr. Berglund, what sort of products does your company make?"
"What? I work for an accounting firm."
"I meant your factory. What do you make there?"
"I don't make anything there. The place has been abandoned for almost thirty years."
That took me a second to process. "So, what are your plans for the place? Are you going to knock it down, improve the property and restart it, convert it to condominiums...?"
"I... I hadn't thought about it. It seemed like a good investment at the time, but now I have no idea what to do with it..."
~ * ~
Berglund couldn't get free that afternoon to go look at the place, so I made arrangements to meet him there on Saturday afternoon. The building was on Route 168 in the Old German Colony section of Potterville. Faded lettering on the brick part of the front of the building read Colony Woolens. Most of the main structure was huge blocks of cut stone, with brick in the refined places like the offices and some of the façade. The date 1888 was engraved in the cornerstone. Two loading doors faced the road far off on the right end, but the wooden loading docks seemed to have rotted out and collapsed beneath them. Nice.
We unlocked the door in the office area with the keys Berglund received with the deed. We started on the ground floor and worked our way up reassuringly solid wooden stairs to two more floors built of tough, heavy, hardwood beams. The factory was in remarkable condition for its 130 years, save for the corner by the loading docks, where the roof had been leaking. Even there, the floors seemed in good shape, if discolored, except just inside the bays. Aside from some evidence of squatters, the place appeared deserted as advertised. A few rows of large looms and knitting machines graced the second and third floors.
Three stories with a tower, a tall, conical chimney, two doors in front, one on the side and two more as fire escapes in the back. A concrete walk against the back of the building left only ten feet of scrub growth before you got to a stone retaining wall, and the river. The remains of a hydro powerhouse sat near a dam in need of attention -- or dynamite. One hundred feet wide, forty front to back. Twelve thousand square feet, plus whatever was in the basement (memories if Stephen King stories). That's one guard, twenty-four-seven.
"Mr. Berglund, I see no reason to have more than one guard on a shift."
"Shift?"
"Right. Three eight-hour shifts a day, Monday through Sunday. 168 hours at $25 per hour..."
"You're talking $4,200 a week!"
Bingo, bean-counter. "That's the best rate we can offer. Nobody in the state will give you a better rate, but you're free to get another estimate."
"That's more than four times what I paid for the place!"
"Right. Wait, what?"
"I only paid a little more than a grand for the place. The only other bid was a thousand, so I bid $1,025."
"You had... no idea what you were getting into. What did you think you were going to do with the place?"
"No, I guess not. I don't know. It just seemed like too good a deal to pass up, at the time. What am I going to do with it?"
"That was my question." I gave it some thought. I had some money -- quite a bit of money, in fact -- from the liquidation of my grandfather's estate. My father was ineligible to inherit it, with a life sentence... never mind. We sat in the dusty office while I weighed options. I knew what I wanted to do, and I had a better handle on it than Berglund did. "I have a proposition for you." His head came up and he met my gaze for the first time that day. "What would you take for the place?"
"I don't know," he paused for a moment, "A hundred grand?"
"Don't be greedy. It's going to cost you at least five a month to keep the town from taking it back. Try again."
"Twenty?"
"I'll give you back your investment, with whatever expenses you've incurred."
"Well, there's the ten-twenty-five, and about three-seventy-five for the attorney fees. Another hundred and a quarter for the town paperwork."
"Sounds like $1,525, all in." I pulled my checkbook out of my jacket pocket and opened it on the grimy desk.
Berglund looked at the checkbook as a drowning man looks at a life preserver. "I... I'll take it."
"The Potterville Town Hall is open late on Tuesday." I wrote out the check. "I'll meet you there. The company has its own lawyer on retainer; I can get her to rubber stamp it."
"I'll see you there just after five on Tuesday." He looked like a guy who had just had the weight of the world taken off his shoulders. He stuck out his hand as he stood up. "Here, take the keys."
~ * ~
Sunday was my only real day off, and I could kiss that goodbye if too many guards booked-off over the weekend. I drove back to Colony Woolens in jeans, a chambray shirt and a lightweight jacket to examine my new property. As I pulled into the parking lot, I thought I saw a face disappear from a second story-window. My senses were right and this wasn't my first rodeo. I had seen sleeping bags and blankets hung from the rafters by ropes and tied off unobtrusively to pipes and machinery. I opened the trunk and pulled out my extended-magazine 12-Gauge -- just in case. I snapped off the safety. It was time to clean house.
I didn't bother with the first floor much after clearing the lobby. I moved up the stairs as quietly as years of training and practice allowed, and peered through the window into the mostly open floor. I turned the handle and started to push the door open. Years of neglect and dry dust screamed from the hinges. Well, they already knew I was there, now they knew exactly where I was. A flash of motion to my left, then nothing. I jumped across the hall and scanned the floor again. A pistol aimed right at my face from a column ten feet away. I ducked back and brought up the shotgun. One smooth arc: three fingers of my right hand clasped around the wrist of my gun, index next to the trigger. My left hand caught the fore-end and cycled the action, chambering a double-ought shot shell. "Game's over, I win!" I bellowed, "Drop the gun!" I heard the pistol hit the floor, then another one.
An odd-sounding voice came from near the floor behind the column. "Disarm! He has a scatter gun!" A third weapon hit the hardwood.
"Come out with your hands up!" I was on a roll; figured I'd whack it again as long as I was ahead.
With a grunt, the figure behind the column stood up and showed itself. Suddenly, the odd voice made perfect sense. The speaker wasn't Human. He wasn't even from my world. I found myself facing a huge Cougar, paws above his head. He glared at me from green-gold eyes. A moment later, a smallish, Weasel-looking Fur appeared, also with his paws raised. The Cougar looked from side to side and sighed. "Larna!" he called, his voice resonating in his broad chest and short muzzle. A female Wolf stepped out from behind another column, also glaring peevishly.
"Where are the rest?" I gestured with the barrel to make the point that I was still in control of the situation.
"Up step," the Cougar tilted his head to the ceiling.
"How many?" I demanded.
"Two more," the Weasel offered.
"I counted six bedrolls. Where's the last one?"
The Wolf spoke at last. "He went to get food and supplies. We didn't know you would come back this day."
"Surprise." I motioned to the group. "Why don't you all move over to the windows so I can pick these up?" I stooped to retrieve the Cougar's weapon, still clutching the wrist of the shotgun, eyes on my prisoners. I didn't recognize the weapon at all; it must have been one they brought from home. The squatters lined up by the windows overlooking the river. The second pistol was as unfamiliar as the first, again of Fur manufacture. I reached for the gun the Weasel dropped. This one I knew well, a little Italian job made famous by a fictional Secret Agent. I shoved the guns into various jacket pockets and lowered the 12 Gauge. "I don't want to hurt anybody, but I own this building now. You're going to have to..." Two more. "Why don't you call your friends down here, so I don't have to repeat myself?"
The Wolf woman, Larna, snorted and spoke in a conversational tone, as if she was addressing someone at arm's length. "Janna. Coober. It is safe, now, join us."
I realized the Weasel was the only one with his paws still in the air. "You can put your hands down now. Just no sudden moves, okay?" Two very different sets of feet came down the old wooden stairs. First to come through the door was a Dog of some sort, loose flews like a scent hound, but upright, triangular ears like a German Shepherd. He wore short sneaker-looking shoes. He looked nervously around the space, then padded over to the window and took his place next to the Weasel. The next contestant was a Deer doe, her plastic hoof covers clomping across the floor as she walked. Her ears were enormous, easily the longest of the group. No wonder Larna didn't have to raise her voice. "Are either of you armed?" Both made negative noises and spread their hands in the Fur gesture for ungatz.
"Okay, listen up. I just bought this place, so there's a new Sheriff in town. I'm not going to let anyone freeload here. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. Do I make myself clear?"
The Weasel looked uneasy. "I, we can't go home."
"Why not?"
"We came here on work tickets. We lost employment and can't afford the portal passage." That made sense. Passage was cheap for a tourist visit, eight or ten dollars, twenty for a carload. A work pass was $1,250 USD, about eleven hundred Fur Bucks. If you were told Friday you were laid off, could you get your hands on that much cash on short notice? Most could, but a few were bound to slip through the cracks.
The doe's ears started swiveling around like crazy. "Darbo is back," she offered quietly.
"Our sixth player?" I had heard nothing. The doe nodded solemnly.
The big cat raised his voice. "Darbo, up step. Disarm if you will."
There was a clatter on the first floor, in the area of the ruined loading bays. A minute later, the sound of Dog sneakers mounting the stairs by the back wall. A large 9mm, made by the same company as the Weasel's pistol, appeared at the stair door, hanging by its trigger guard from the claw of a huge paw. I accepted it and the owner appeared. As tall as the Cougar and almost as wide, a male Wolf stepped into the area by the stairs.
"Is this everyone?" I motioned to the group.
"It is," the male Wolf agreed. He eyed my shotgun warily.
"Good. Last time I need to say this. I'm the new owner. I'm not going to tolerate freeloaders on my property."
The Weasel patted the side of his muzzle. Eventually all eyes were on him. "Interruption, what are 'freeloaders'?"
I hoped my smile translated across the cultural divide. "People living somewhere without paying rent. Squatters, bums, hoboes, beggars, homeless people."
The Weasel nodded, and then briefly squeezed his muzzle. I had two Furs working for me, but I hadn't spoken to either beyond their initial interviews. I had to amend that. The difference in our languages, our lives was too great to ignore.
"We need passage for the portal," Darbo remarked, but he hadn't been present the first time.
"I know. I'm working on that." I realized that I hadn't introduced myself, beyond the statement of ownership, yet. That's bad form. "Okay, my name is Bernie Shields. I bought the building from Dennis Berglund yesterday. I'm going to have to ask all of you top move out, because I'm going to have some workers come in to work on the factory." The Dog, Coober, started patting his muzzle the same way the Weasel had. Excuse me, I have something to say. I can learn new things, too. "Coober?"
"Interrupt, I can do that."
"I'm... What? What can you do?
"Work on the factory."
"I appreciate that, but I have to have licensed contractors for what I need to do."
"Yes, I have licenses for that. I am a Journeyman millwright and Apprentice carpenter." Why didn't this man have a job?
"Do any of the rest of you have construction skills?"
Darbo, who had been standing with his paws clasped before him, raised one paw briefly. "I am an electrician, a Journeyman."
That's two professionals. "You've lived here long enough to earn a Journeyman's ticket? What's that, a four year apprenticeship?"
"I have lived with Humans for ten years. I was working toward my Master's license when the company was sold."
"Anyone else?" The weasel started patting his muzzle again. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"I am called Guillim. I have worked as a steamfitter and in HVAC."
"Why aren't you doing that now?"
He gaped for a moment, then, "I was laid off. The project was done and the Union..."
"They didn't like you, so you sat on the bench." It happens.
Guillim blinked. "As you say." He looked at the floor. "They called me a Weasel."
Uh, oh. "But... you're not a Weasel."
Fire flashed from his eyes. "No! I am a Stoat! I... I -- did not mean to speak loudly." He bowed his head.
"That's fine, you have every right to be upset. That wasn't fair. Larna? Do you have some specialty we can use?"
The She-Wolf looked up. "I was a student at the University. I worked as a Laborer over one summer. They made a mistake on my pass and I lost it."
"Good; we can probably find plenty for you to do. Janna?"
The doe looked flustered. "I was a researcher for the Ministry of Goods and Resources."
"A Ministry. That's like a part of the Fur government, isn't it?"
"It is. I left them to take a position with a Human company. They released me after three months; they said it was only a temporary position."
"Damn their fine print. You couldn't go back to the Ministry?"
"I haven't tried," she told the floor, confidentially.
"Well, what sort of research were you doing?"
Her left ear flicked. "Oh, engineering. Electrical, electronics, mechanical. History, development and implementation. Patents and theory. I decide what is useful and write up descriptions and plans."
"Wow. Color me impressed." I turned to the last member of the party.
"Call me Falcor," the tawny mountain-of-Lion rumbled. "I do what needs doing."
I should have been taking notes. "Could you be a bit more vague?"
"I have done many things. I can repair autos and other machines. I can make new parts if needed. There is a lathe and other metal tools in the basement. I worked in steel framework, too."
"Do you think you could help Coober with repairing the loading dock and whatever is going on with the roof?"
He calculated a moment. "The dock will need to be redesigned. The roof needs new decking and shingles. I can work with Coober to fix those."
"Well, that's that, then. I can't send any of you packing if you're all so valuable." Surprised looks all around. "Seriously, I can use all of you for what I have in mind."
Thursday_Prompt
Thursday Prompt 02-15-2018
Posted Feb 15th, 2018 07:51 AM
“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.” ― Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums
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This week’s prompt is given to us random word generator: hardship
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Category Story / Miscellaneous
Species Mammal (Other)
Gender Multiple characters
Size 600 x 600px
This story is the first chapter of, I think at this point, five. It's actually based on an event that occurred IRL, in which a small gang of squatters started repairs on an abandoned factory in which they were living. I had been wondering what would happen if Furs lived and worked in the Human world and got stuck here. Funny how those ideas worked together.
The character of 'Bernie Shields' appears with the enthusiastic approval of the author of the long-defunct comic Weekdays 3-11.
The character of 'Bernie Shields' appears with the enthusiastic approval of the author of the long-defunct comic Weekdays 3-11.
Thank you. This is one of those pieces that draws on bits from all over and finally comes together.
such things turn out brilliantly and I expect this one will too. *hugs*
Well, you've got my attention. Between the tense yet reasonable interactions between Bernie and his new employees (at least I hope they are employees) and the realistic narrative, I'm hooked. I'm really looking forward to wherever it is you intend to go with it.
Oh, they'll be employees, all right. And Bernie will get a lesson in loyalty he never expected.
I'm not sure exactly where that came from. I mentioned it in another Fur World short where I was being screamed at by a Seal Hunter (Polar Bear) trying to sell fish to hungry Humans. Transporting raw food through a Bellamy portal is a big no-no. Anyway, there are a couple of minor subordinate characters (and Fen, who is subordinate to no one!) and the whole muzzle-patting gesture came out of that.
It's frigging wonderful... you darned well better keep this one running...
V.
V.
Careful what you wish for -- I had some spare time this weekend. I think The Colony is going to turn into a novella.
Thanks! Chapter 2. According to Plan is kicking my butt, though. I need to pick up what I laid down here, build on it, and get ready for Chapter 3. Creature Comforts. I hope you aren't required to use a Mature filter; 3 is going to turn up the heat a little.
That wont be a problem on my end. Half my writing content is Mature or NSFW, so the filter is usually off.
Berglund is an amalgam of a number of hapless characters I've known over the years. He's they guy who bought an old factory for minimum a few towns over for peanuts, with no clue what he was going to do with it. He's that poor soul who gets in over his head and needs a bailout.
Bernie is actually cribbed from a comic strip a coworker wrote and I drew back in the late 1970s. He was a security guard in an amorphous factory who dealt with petty theft and even more petty employees. I took the comic with me when I changed jobs, and shelved the character when I quit working at the nuke plant. I've wanted to use him in another vehicle and The Colony coalesced around him. He's in his early thirties, now (meaning he's aged about ten or eleven years since 1977) and tall, roughly hewn, rather brusque, from dealing with idiots for years. He also has a background story involving his family which will unravel as the story progresses.
Janna is that timid, geeky girl every place seems to have, whether it's work or a neighborhood. Her personality is based a little on a girl I went to high school with, the sister of a classmate. Now I wish I'd gotten to know her better.
Larna is a girl I went out with briefly when I worked at the nuke. A strong personality with a brash front and a git-'r-done attitude. She and Janna are complete opposites, so of course they're the closest two of the gang. Janna is also close to Coober, the carpenter and Guillim, the steamfitter. Both of them are shy types, so Janna is a natural affinity. Coober is scared witless of Larna for reasons that will evolve later.
If I had to pick a favorite of this bunch it would have to be Falcor. I've already used him in another story, Blockhead. Darbo got his own story too, in Prejudice.
Bernie is actually cribbed from a comic strip a coworker wrote and I drew back in the late 1970s. He was a security guard in an amorphous factory who dealt with petty theft and even more petty employees. I took the comic with me when I changed jobs, and shelved the character when I quit working at the nuke plant. I've wanted to use him in another vehicle and The Colony coalesced around him. He's in his early thirties, now (meaning he's aged about ten or eleven years since 1977) and tall, roughly hewn, rather brusque, from dealing with idiots for years. He also has a background story involving his family which will unravel as the story progresses.
Janna is that timid, geeky girl every place seems to have, whether it's work or a neighborhood. Her personality is based a little on a girl I went to high school with, the sister of a classmate. Now I wish I'd gotten to know her better.
Larna is a girl I went out with briefly when I worked at the nuke. A strong personality with a brash front and a git-'r-done attitude. She and Janna are complete opposites, so of course they're the closest two of the gang. Janna is also close to Coober, the carpenter and Guillim, the steamfitter. Both of them are shy types, so Janna is a natural affinity. Coober is scared witless of Larna for reasons that will evolve later.
If I had to pick a favorite of this bunch it would have to be Falcor. I've already used him in another story, Blockhead. Darbo got his own story too, in Prejudice.
I hope you don't mind if I steal the phrase, "she told the floor, confidentially."
I was a supervisor in security off and on for about four years. I've had any number of people give me reports while counting tiles, check wood grain or even examining the duct work. Help yourself!
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