Read Online Full Ratchet: A Silas Cade Thriller Hardcover by Mike Cooper - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mike Cooper
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our mother,” he said.
“Uh.” I looked over at him.
The change of topic was abrupt. Or maybe hearing it like that—
our
mother—threw me.
Of course I’d thought about doing the same when I was young. The middle years were rough. I got a new family every year or two—some of it my fault, but mostly it was the adults’ bad luck and money problems. I imagined the same thing I figure all foster kids do, the ones who were put up as infants:
They’re European royalty. Or supersecret spies. Or Bill Gates!—he wants me to grow up normal before he gives me a billion dollars.
My last folks were okay, though. They stuck with me all through high school. After that I was in the world, and my origins were ancient history. The desire to go back faded away, not worth it.
“That’s what got me started, right?” Dave looked out his window. “Never imagined I’d find a brother. I just wanted to know who my mother and father were.”
“Yeah.”
“Or really just mother. My family, as I got older they said things once or twice—not meaning to, just little things that slipped out. But you know how it is. You pay attention.”
Yes, you
do
pay attention. Growing up like Dave or me, you’re never on sure ground. Every clue, every hint matters, trying to figure it out.
If you don’t know where you came from, it’s so much harder to know where you’re going.
“They didn’t like our father. Or had heard bad things about him. I don’t know what, exactly, but I just picked up the idea he was worthless.”
“He gave us away,” I said.
Surprising myself. Some buried emotion had surfaced there, just for a moment.
“That’s right.” Dave was silent. “Anyway, I thought maybe I could find Mother. The adoption registries, sometimes they’ll let you send a letter or something. But it didn’t work.”
A small puzzle. “This was all in New Hampshire?”
“Only a year. My adoption family moved here when I was two. The old man was following steel work, can you believe it? I don’t know what he was thinking, like they were knocking down all the mills just so they could put up new ones.”
“I thought everybody went bankrupt in the eighties.”
“A few hung on.” Dave yawned. “Not forever, though. In fact, that’s what we’re doing today.”
“What?”
“Helping take down the last blast furnace in Pittsburgh.” He laughed. “In
America,
for all I know. Some shit, huh?”
The mill was a small one. That’s what Dave said, but it was hard to believe, looking at the huge complex of towers and ironwork and massive buildings. A bright sign at the entrance had a swoosh logo and “FerroCorp” in a modern, purple font, but everything else looked like 1935. Rusty train tracks switched in amid heaps of clinker and slag. A vast parking lot, mostly deserted, just a handful of vehicles up by the main gate.
The gloomy drizzle didn’t help.
I parked next to a Ford 350 with a bed hitch and an empty gun rack in the cab window. Dave was on his phone—“Yeah, sorry, got held up this morning, where are you?” He clicked off and pointed at the largest tower. “Over there. We have to walk in.”
He carried the bucket of tools. A guard in a dark blue jacket nodded us past the gate.
“Sad day,” he said.
“Guess so,” Dave said. “You work here long?”
“Ten years.” He looked beyond retirement age. “In the cast house mostly. That furnace was hot for eighty years, until just a month ago.”
“Bet it’s
still
hot.”
The man grimaced. “Damn sure.”
Inside, the natural world disappeared. No trees, no hills visible, no birds, just cracked paving in a landscape of rust and broken metal.
Like every postapocalyptic video game brought to life.
We found a half-dozen men in flannel and Carhartt standing at the base of the cylindrical furnace. It was a broad chimney, fifty feet high, made of oversized, black-glazed refractory brick. A low, dark building grew from one side; a conveyor slanted up the
“Uh.” I looked over at him.
The change of topic was abrupt. Or maybe hearing it like that—
our
mother—threw me.
Of course I’d thought about doing the same when I was young. The middle years were rough. I got a new family every year or two—some of it my fault, but mostly it was the adults’ bad luck and money problems. I imagined the same thing I figure all foster kids do, the ones who were put up as infants:
They’re European royalty. Or supersecret spies. Or Bill Gates!—he wants me to grow up normal before he gives me a billion dollars.
My last folks were okay, though. They stuck with me all through high school. After that I was in the world, and my origins were ancient history. The desire to go back faded away, not worth it.
“That’s what got me started, right?” Dave looked out his window. “Never imagined I’d find a brother. I just wanted to know who my mother and father were.”
“Yeah.”
“Or really just mother. My family, as I got older they said things once or twice—not meaning to, just little things that slipped out. But you know how it is. You pay attention.”
Yes, you
do
pay attention. Growing up like Dave or me, you’re never on sure ground. Every clue, every hint matters, trying to figure it out.
If you don’t know where you came from, it’s so much harder to know where you’re going.
“They didn’t like our father. Or had heard bad things about him. I don’t know what, exactly, but I just picked up the idea he was worthless.”
“He gave us away,” I said.
Surprising myself. Some buried emotion had surfaced there, just for a moment.
“That’s right.” Dave was silent. “Anyway, I thought maybe I could find Mother. The adoption registries, sometimes they’ll let you send a letter or something. But it didn’t work.”
A small puzzle. “This was all in New Hampshire?”
“Only a year. My adoption family moved here when I was two. The old man was following steel work, can you believe it? I don’t know what he was thinking, like they were knocking down all the mills just so they could put up new ones.”
“I thought everybody went bankrupt in the eighties.”
“A few hung on.” Dave yawned. “Not forever, though. In fact, that’s what we’re doing today.”
“What?”
“Helping take down the last blast furnace in Pittsburgh.” He laughed. “In
America,
for all I know. Some shit, huh?”
The mill was a small one. That’s what Dave said, but it was hard to believe, looking at the huge complex of towers and ironwork and massive buildings. A bright sign at the entrance had a swoosh logo and “FerroCorp” in a modern, purple font, but everything else looked like 1935. Rusty train tracks switched in amid heaps of clinker and slag. A vast parking lot, mostly deserted, just a handful of vehicles up by the main gate.
The gloomy drizzle didn’t help.
I parked next to a Ford 350 with a bed hitch and an empty gun rack in the cab window. Dave was on his phone—“Yeah, sorry, got held up this morning, where are you?” He clicked off and pointed at the largest tower. “Over there. We have to walk in.”
He carried the bucket of tools. A guard in a dark blue jacket nodded us past the gate.
“Sad day,” he said.
“Guess so,” Dave said. “You work here long?”
“Ten years.” He looked beyond retirement age. “In the cast house mostly. That furnace was hot for eighty years, until just a month ago.”
“Bet it’s
still
hot.”
The man grimaced. “Damn sure.”
Inside, the natural world disappeared. No trees, no hills visible, no birds, just cracked paving in a landscape of rust and broken metal.
Like every postapocalyptic video game brought to life.
We found a half-dozen men in flannel and Carhartt standing at the base of the cylindrical furnace. It was a broad chimney, fifty feet high, made of oversized, black-glazed refractory brick. A low, dark building grew from one side; a conveyor slanted up the
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