Chapter 28: The Winter Trade

The screech of shearing metal was a sound Arthur hadn’t heard in five years, mostly because there wasn't enough speed or torque left in Cypress Bend to tear a steel gear into confetti. He stood paralyzed over the open transmission housing of the 1974 John Deere, his grease-stained hands still gripping a socket wrench that had suddenly become a useless piece of iron. The smell was the worst part—burnt hydraulic fluid and the ozone stink of a machine overtaxing itself until it simply surrendered.

"Don't look at it like it's a corpse, Artie," David said, leaning against the barn door frame. He was wiping a bloodied skinning knife on a piece of burlap, the copper scent of fresh pork clinging to his heavy flannel coat. "It’s just a puzzle. A loud, expensive, poorly timed puzzle."

Arthur didn’t look up. He traced the jagged edge of the main drive gear with a blackened fingernail. "It’s not just a puzzle, David. It’s the wood for the Church. It’s the winter clearing for the south perimeter. Without this PTO, we’re back to hand saws and hauling by mule. We don’t have the calories to spare for that kind of manual labor this year. Not with the extra mouths from the valley."

The community had grown. What started as a desperate cluster of survivors had solidified into a village of forty souls, some of whom had arrived with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a haunting fear of the bushwhackers patrolling the lower ridges. The expansion meant more security, but it also meant the margin for error had vanished. The "Winter Trade" wasn't a metaphor; it was the brutal, physical negotiation they performed every November to ensure no one froze by February.

"The bushwhackers aren't going to wait for us to fix a tractor," Arthur muttered, finally dropping the wrench. It hit the concrete floor with a hollow *clack* that echoed up into the rafters. "They’re getting bolder. If we don’t get that north fence line cleared and the sightlines opened, we’re sitting ducks."

David stepped into the dim light of the barn, his boots crunching on stray gravel. "Then we don't use cash. We don't use the 'old' way. We do it our way."

"The gear is sheared, David. You can't barer-trade for a custom-machined drive gear in the middle of a collapse."

"Maybe not for the gear," David said, a slow, calculated grin spreading across his face. "But for the heat to make one."

***

The negotiation began three hours later in the center of the yard, under a sky the color of a bruised plum. This was the economy of the new world: no ledgers, no banks, only the immediate, desperate needs of the living. 

Elena arrived last, her boots caked in the red clay of the solar array hill. She looked tired—the kind of tiredness that lived in the marrow of the bone—but her eyes remained sharp, darting between the broken tractor and the three-hundred-pound hog carcass David had swung onto the cooling rack. 

"I heard the scream of that metal all the way up the ridge," Elena said, peeling off her work gloves. "Sounded like a dying animal."

"It's the heart of our winter prep, Elena," Arthur said, pacing a tight circle around the anvil. "I can fabricate a replacement if I can get the forge hot enough and the heavy welder energized. But the welder pulls more amps than your battery bank has seen in a year. If I use it, you’re looking at dark houses for a week."

Elena looked at the hog, then at Arthur, then at the darkening woods where the bushwhackers were surely watching for the flicker of lights. "A week of darkness means the electrified perimeter goes down. It means we rely on manual watches. It’s a risk."

David stepped forward, his voice low and steady. "The hog is dressed and ready for the smokehouse. That’s two thousand pounds of calculated fat and protein. It’s the difference between the new families making it to spring or starving in January. I’ll commit the whole animal to the trade. Arthur gets the fuel for his work, and the Church kitchen gets the meat to distribute."

"And what do I get for the wattage?" Elena asked. "I can't eat the risk of a dark perimeter."

"You get the tractor," David countered. "When Artie fixes that gear, the first thing he does is haul those fallen oaks from the creek bed to your array. We’ll build a permanent windbreak for your panels so you stop losing efficiency every time a northerner blows through. And," he glanced at Arthur, "Artie will forge those reinforced brackets you’ve been asking for to mount the new batteries."

Arthur stopped pacing. He looked at the heavy steel blank sitting on his workbench. It was raw, ugly, and required hours of precision grinding and high-heat welding. "I’ll work through the night. If Elena gives me the juice, I’ll have the PTO spinning by sunrise. But David, you have to handle the butchery solo. I won't have the hands to help you."

David nodded, his jaw set. "Deal. I’ll have the chops and the salt-pork ready for the communal larder. But Elena, if those lights go out, I want your word the watch will be doubled. I don’t want a bushwhacker sneaking in because we were too busy playing blacksmith."

Elena looked at the tractor, then back at the men. She reached out and slapped her hand against the cold, orange hood of the John Deere. "Turn the breakers on at 1800 hours. You have until midnight before I cut the feed to preserve the base load. Don't waste a single spark, Arthur."

***

The work was a violent symphony of sparks and sweat. While the rest of Cypress Bend retreated into their homes to conserve what little candle-light they had, Arthur stood in the middle of the forge’s glow. 

The heavy welder moaned as it drew power from the ridge, a hungry, electrical hum that vibrated in Arthur's teeth. He lowered his mask, the world turning a deep, electric blue. He wasn't just fixing a machine; he was welding the community together. Every bead of molten metal he laid down was a promise. 

Across the yard, visible through the barn's open doors, David worked under a single, dim LED lantern. His arms were slick with grease and blood as he worked the hog, his movements rhythmic and practiced. He was the provider, turning a life into the fuel that would keep forty people moving. He didn't look up when the welder hissed; he didn't flinch when the grinder sent a plume of orange fire into the dark. They were two sides of the same coin—the maker and the harvester.

By 10:00 PM, the temperature dropped significantly. Arthur’s breath cast thick clouds into the air, illuminated by the cherry-red glow of the cooling gear. His muscles screamed. Every time he lifted the heavy grinding wheel, his shoulders cramped, a reminder that he wasn't as young as he was when the world ended. 

He thought of the bushwhackers. Rumors had reached them of a camp less than five miles away—men who didn't trade, who only took. They lived on the legacy of the old world, scavenging what remained until there was nothing left but bones. Cypress Bend was different. They were creating a new legacy, one built on the "Winter Trade," on the understanding that no one was an island. 

"How's it looking?" 

Arthur jumped, nearly dropping the gear into the oil bath. Elena stood in the shadows, her face obscured by a heavy hood. 

"Don't sneak up on a man with a torch," Arthur grunted, his voice hoarse. "It's done. Or it will be, once it tempers. The teeth are true. It’s not factory grade, but it’ll pull a plow."

Elena stepped closer, looking at the glowing metal. "The batteries are at forty percent. I had to cut the lights to the kitchen to keep your welder humming."

"David's working in the dark?"

"He told me he could butcher a hog by scent alone if he had to," Elena said with a faint smile. "He’s a stubborn man, Arthur."

"He has to be. We all do." Arthur picked up a pair of tongs and moved the gear toward the vat of recycled motor oil. "Is it worth it? The risk?"

Elena looked out toward the dark perimeter, where the silent guards paced the fence line with crossbows and old bolt-action rifles. "It has to be. If we stop trusting the trade—if we stop believing that your labor is worth my power and his food—then we’re just another gang of scavengers waiting for the end. This tractor is more than a machine. It's proof that we can still build things."

Arthur plunged the gear into the oil. A violent plume of black smoke erupted, accompanied by a ferocious hiss that drowned out the wind. He held it steady, his arms shaking from the effort, until the bubbling died down. 

"Check the clock," Arthur said, pulling the gear out. It was a dull, sinister black now, hardened and ready for the brutal torque of the tractor’s engine. 

"11:45," Elena replied. "You made it with fifteen minutes to spare."

***

The sun rose over Cypress Bend with a deceptive, cold beauty. The frost lay thick on the fields, turning the world into a landscape of shattered glass. 

The entire community gathered in the yard—an unofficial holiday they hadn't planned but everyone felt. The new families stood at the back, their eyes wide and hollow, watching the three leaders of the Bend. 

David was there, his face washed clean but his cuticles stained permanently dark. He stood next to three large crates of salt-cured meat, the tangible result of his night’s labor. Elena stood by the power junction, her hand on the lever that would restore life to the village. 

Arthur sat in the high seat of the John Deere. He felt like a king on a throne of rusted iron. He bled the fuel lines, prayed a silent prayer to whatever gods of mechanics still listened, and turned the key.

The engine groaned. It coughed a cloud of blue-black smoke that smelled like salvation. Then, with a roar that shook the frost from the barn’s eaves, it caught. 

Arthur engaged the PTO. 

The heavy shaft at the rear of the tractor began to spin—slowly at first, then with a blurred, terrifying power. There was no screeching. No shearing metal. There was only the rhythmic, mechanical heartbeat of a community that refused to die.

David cheered, a raw, guttural sound that was picked up by the others. Elena leaned against the barn door, her shoulders finally dropping an inch as the tension left her. 

Arthur hopped down from the tractor, leaving it idling. The vibration felt like a pulse beneath his boots. He walked over to David and Elena, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. 

"The north fence line gets cleared today," Arthur said, loud enough for the assembly to hear. "The wood goes to the Church for the communal hearth. The meat goes to the larder. We have power, we have food, and we have the means to defend ourselves."

One of the new men, a gaunt fellow named Miller who had lost his wife to the fever two months prior, stepped forward. He looked at the tractor, then at the crates of meat. "I don't have anything to trade," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I don't have tools. I don't have seeds."

David stepped forward, clapping a heavy hand on Miller’s shoulder. "You have a back, don't you? And a pair of hands?"

Miller nodded slowly.

"Then you trade your labor," David said, gesturing to the idling tractor. "Artie needs someone to haul the brush while he clears the fence. You do that, and you eat at the communal table tonight. That’s the trade. That’s how we survive."

As the crowd began to disperse, falling into the roles they had carved out of the wilderness, the three leaders remained in the center of the yard. The "Winter Trade" was complete, but the season was only beginning. 

"We need to talk about the Church," Elena said, her voice dropping so only the three of them could hear. "The bushwhackers... I saw smoke on the horizon this morning. Not north. West. They’re circling."

Arthur looked at his blackened hands, then at the sturdy, thrumming machine he had spent his life’s energy repairing. The tractor wouldn't be enough to stop a bullet, but it would give them the strength to build walls that could.

"Let them circle," David said, his eyes hardening as he looked toward the ridge. "We’re not the same people they saw last winter. We’re a system now. And a system is a hell of a lot harder to kill than a person."

Arthur climbed back into the tractor, the engine’s heat warming his legs. He looked at the long, grueling months ahead and felt a strange, flickering spark of something he hadn't felt in a long time. 

It wasn't just hope. It was the cold, hard certainty of a man who knew exactly what his life was worth in trade. 

He shifted the John Deere into gear, the new metal teeth biting deep and sure, and headed toward the dark line of the woods.

The first shot rang out from the ridgeline just as the tractor reached the perimeter gate.