“This is awful.”
Those were the first words out of my mouth when I laid eyes on the chaotic mess.
“How did you let it get this bad?”
The man lifted an eyebrow. Then, apparently deciding that wasn’t enough, he gave a snort before answering.
“I’m a mechanic. I ain’t no chef, maid, or housewife. Kitchen’s got nowt to do with me.”
“You should at least put away the plates you’ve used.”
“Right, I’ve been usin’ scraps of wood instead. I just chuck ’em when I’m done.”
“What do you usually eat?” I asked hesitantly.
“Whatever, so long as it’s edible.”
With that, he left the room, leaving me behind.
Hands on my hips, I looked over what I had to work with. It was a kitchen—or, more accurately, it had been a kitchen once upon a time. I could make out hints of a sink, stove, and general work area, but with the dirty crockery and empty cans piled all over them, along with sheets of some kind of metal, they were practically unusable. I’d offered to make lunch, but I suddenly found myself regretting it.
Heaving a sigh, I surveyed the room again and caught sight of a sturdy door. Tugging it open released a chill breeze into the room, and I’d cheered up before I even knew it. The place must have had its own generator; it had been quite a long time since I’d seen a fridge actually running.
The cold air rushing over my face made my skin tingle. The fridge’s interior was about the size of a small room, and shelves lined both the walls and the walkways. Neatly arranged ingredients sat on top of every shelf. It did feel somewhat bland, but the phrase “a lifetime’s supply” struck me as perfectly valid given how much there was.
I noticed a small lever on the right as I entered. Lifting it lit several lights in the ceiling, bathing the room in a soft yellow glow. Time to look over the shelves. There were huge jars of pickled vegetables—they’d take both arms to carry—piles of cans, bags of corn, and dried olives, along with wooden crates the contents of which were impossible to tell just by looking.
When I got farther in, I found another door. It took lifting a leather-wrapped lever to open it, and what I saw on the other side took my breath away.
“No way...” I managed, bringing my hand up over my mouth.
Is this... Is this even possible?
I couldn’t believe it.
“It’s meat! So much meat...!”
This area was the freezer. Cut-up joints of meat were crammed inside. For someone who hadn’t had anything but canned food for months, it was a gloriously vivid sight. I swallowed. Now that I’d seen it, a temptation that had thus far been hidden welled up inside of me: a craving for meat.
I let the freezer door swing closed. An urge to sprint out rushed over me, but I kept it under control and walked through a corridor out of the kitchen, going right out of the house.
A large warehouse greeted me as I stepped out. It was made up of a towering frame of light-brown metal, with a huge crane and chains hanging down here and there. Several steam-powered vehicles littered the ground floor, and the doors to the warehouse looked like they belonged in a hangar bay. Those doors had been left open, giving me a clear view of the scenery outside. When he’d brought us here, the mechanic had called this his workshop: a steam workshop.
That wasn’t important right at the moment though. I just ran up to the man, calling for him. He had been peering under the hood of the Kettle, but looked at me with a resigned expression.
“What? I’m busy.”
“You know the stuff in the freezer? The meat?”
“What about the meat?”
“C-Can I use it?”
The man frowned at me.
“Do what you like. Keep out of my hair with that crap,” he said, shooing me off as he got back to work.
Harsh as he may have been, it didn’t bother me at all. After all, I had permission now. Meat’s back on the menu! I thought with a fist pump as I turned on my heel to leave.
The first item on the agenda once I’d skipped back to the kitchen was—of course—cleaning up. I stuffed all the trash into sacks and washed the piles of dishes. When the drainer filled up, I’d dry whatever was there and put it all away, then get back to washing the rest. Fortunately, there was no detritus from cooking either in the sink or on the stove, and there wasn’t food or oil all over the floors and walls, so a basic cleaning had me ready to start cooking.
I put a thick wooden chopping board onto the work surface and picked up a knife. While its blade was worn from long use, someone had kept the knife fastidiously sharpened. It probably wasn’t the mechanic; the kitchen was nothing to do with him, after all.
Still holding the knife, I looked around again. Now that it was back to rights, without the dirty things in the way, the kitchen had faintly recovered some of its usual atmosphere. There was a tall, narrow window to one side, and a blue lace curtain hung across it. Since I’d opened it, the window let in a breeze which made the curtain flutter and cast dappled shadows across the floor. Through the window, I could see the distant figure of the mechanic as he worked on the Kettle.
I turned back to look at the kitchen. A rack on the wall held little bottles of spices, each with a handwritten label on it. A vibrant tapestry hung to the side of the rack, and faded clippings were stuck to the wall.
A moment ago it had all been meaningless—just random objects you’d never give a second glance—but now I could see vestiges of something more.
There had obviously been someone that used the room: the man’s wife, his mother, or maybe even a daughter. It could have even been his father or son. Standing there as I was, I could understand whoever it had been, just a little. They had treated their knife well, labeled their spices to tell them apart, and made sure everything in the fridge had its place. They’d liked the color blue, and they had cooked each day while watching the mechanic work.
I put the knife down on the chopping board and left the kitchen. As I got closer to the Kettle, the man frowned at me again.
“What now?” he demanded.
“Sorry, I just need to get some tools to cook with.”
“Huh? There’s stuff in the kitchen.”
“Familiar ones work best,” I told him.
The man looked at the tool in his own hand and nodded.
“You ain’t wrong there.”
It wasn’t intentional, but I suppose I’d managed to build a little understanding between us.
The cooking utensils were in a box on the back seat, and once I’d retrieved it I shouldered my backpack. I made sure not to forget the groundsheet either. I moved back to the front of the house and deposited my load, spreading the sheet out and sitting down cross-legged as I started to riffle through my things.
I was more at ease doing it like this. I’d just rely on him for the ingredients, and deal with the rest myself.