It soon became apparent that two of the leavers knew how to drive the machines, because they were quick to open doors, climb aboard, and start the engines. They pulled out onto the circular road, where they paused to let the rest of the group board. Suddenly, a phalanx of protectors surged into sight with weapons at the ready. One of them shouted, “Stop!” and fired a warning shot. There was a clang as the bullet hit metal and ricocheted away.
And there, at the very front of the group, was council member Hal Mackey, Matt’s father. That was when Lora knew the horrible truth. The entire group had been betrayed. And it was her fault.
Chapter Two
Jackson, Wyoming, USA
Except for the yellow bruise off to the west, the rest of the sky was gray. And according to the tiny gauge clipped to his ragged parka, the temperature was thirty-eight degrees, a warm spring day.
Tre was lying on his stomach under an old tarp. It was a standard part of his kit and could be used as a shelter or, in this case, a hide. And hiding was an important skill in a world ruled by predators. Tre had spent the last day and a half watching the town of Jackson, Wyoming, through a pair of highly prized Nikon binoculars. They were small and light and had been found lying next to a skeleton. Two skeletons, actually, an adult and a child, spooned together in the stained remains of a cheap sleeping bag. Had they been sick? Or died of starvation? Either was possible in post apocalyptic America.
Tre pushed the memory aside in order to scan the town below. He had a good vantage point about halfway up Snow King Mountain, just off what had been the path of a chair lift. Some of the cables were down now, as was one of the towers, and trees were repopulating the former ski runs.
The downtown area was laid out in a grid pattern that made it easy to draw on the notebook near his right hand. Because while Tre had a much-creased map of Wyoming, he didn’t have a map of Jackson.
It looked as though half the town had been ravaged by fire at some point, and it was safe to assume that it had been looted as well, but there were very few tracks in the snow-covered streets. Tre figured that three, maybe four people lived in Jackson now, each of whom was probably aware of the others. Did they get along? Or were they trying to kill one another? There was no way to tell. But Tre hadn’t seen any signs that gangs roamed the ruins below, and that was important, because while he could handle one or two assailants if necessary, a group could take him down. That’s why more than a day had been spent watching the town from afar.
Satisfied that he knew as much about Jackson as he was likely to learn from the mountainside, Tre put the binoculars away and began to make the necessary preparations. The plan was to go down, find a hidey-hole, and fort up. Then he’d get up early and go looking for tech, books, and food, in that order—not because he didn’t need food but because he was very unlikely to find any in a town that had been picked over by thousands of people for a period of fifty years.
But tech? Lots of people lacked the knowledge required to use or repair it. And books, well, that was where Tre’s knowledge of technology had been acquired.
So Tre folded the tarp into thirds and rolled it into a tight tube, which he attached to the bottom of his aluminum pack frame just above the precious mummy bag. The Whittaker Marmot sack was filthy, and home to a rank smell, but it could keep Tre warm down to forty below, a very important asset found in a compartment under the floor of a wrecked van. It was why Tre always looked inside vehicles—even if there was every reason to believe that countless other people had already done so. All it took was one Marmot bag to make hundreds of such investigations worthwhile.
Tre strapped the aluminum snowshoes onto his boots, struggled to stand, and bent to retrieve his pack. It felt lighter than it had when he set out from home. But if luck was with him, it would soon be heavy again.
The last step was to open his Savage model 311-A double-barreled shotgun and check to make sure that it was loaded. The weapon was, like everything else, a compromise. Being a .410, it didn’t pack the punch that a twelve-gauge would. On the other hand, the ammo was lighter, and Tre could fire the sawed off weapon one-handed and was likely to hit something if he did. Then he could fire again or run, the second option being the one he favored most.
There was a comforting click as he closed the gun and returned it to the holster strapped to his right thigh. That left Tre’s hands free to use the hand-carved trekker poles. They helped Tre maintain his footing as he made his way down through a scattering of evergreens toward the flatland below. The widely spaced trees weren’t much; however, some cover was better than none.
There were tracks, but not many, since it was hard for animals to find enough food. Tre saw some elk scat, what might have been raccoon prints, and the kind of scratch marks that birds make, but nothing human. And that was the main concern as Tre arrived at the tree line, where he paused to look around. There were no pillars of smoke to be seen, which was a good thing. It was important to cross the open area as quickly as possible.
Except for the occasional caw of a crow, the crunching sound the snowshoes made as they broke through the crusty snow, and the rasp of his own breathing, there was nothing but silence. Having crossed the open area, Tre removed his snowshoes prior to entering a half-burned house. Some partially charred stairs up to the second floor where he took a look around.
After watching for a while, he concluded that if the local residents were aware of his presence, they were content to wait for him rather than come out and do battle. Of course, if they were up high, in a church tower, for example, a single rifle shot could take him out.
For one brief moment Tre wished that he had brought a rifle instead of the sawed-off shotgun. But he dismissed the thought a second later, knowing that while it would be nice out in the open, a long-barreled weapon would be a disadvantage inside buildings. And that was where the good stuff was likely to be located.
So Tre left the house and followed one side of an arrow-straight street to the center of town. Where possible, Tre minimized his exposure to structures taller than two stories. He was leaving tracks, but that couldn’t be helped. All he could do was pause frequently, check his back trail, and stay alert.
Eventually Tre arrived at what a lopsided sign said was Central Square Park—and paused to look at an arch made out of elk antlers. At first he thought the structure was associated with one of the new religions, some of which involved animal worship, but then he concluded that the structure was too old for that. A prewar tourist attraction perhaps, although he couldn’t imagine going very far to see it.
The snowshoes would be a problem once he began to search buildings, so Tre took them off and strapped them to the pack frame. He was wearing a pair of old Itasca Winter Pac boots. They were one size too large, but a pair of bulky wool socks made up for that. They left enormous footprints as he made his way down the street.
There were lots of stores. Most had broken windows and doors that hung askew. Trash lay strewn all over the floors, and the walls were covered with graffiti. Tre noticed that spray paint had been used to create the first layers of words and images. Then, as spray paint became increasingly difficult to find, graffiti had been added using other substances, some of which could have been blood. Equally noteworthy was the fact that what looked like the most recent additions included a lot of misspelled words. Literacy was fading fast.
Store after store had been stripped of everything useful—or obviously useful, since Tre knew that many of the things that looters left behind could be repurposed. But he couldn’t carry display racks, electrical fixtures, or electric motors home with him. There were some trivial finds, however, including a candle that had rolled into a kick space, a scattering of pennies, which could melted down for the copper they contained, and a brand-new ballpoint pen, all of which went into his pack.
After he’d entered and exited two dozen stores, a sign caught Tre’s attention. It was faded but still legible: “JACKSON UNDERGROUND.” That suggested a subterranean shopping area—a
nd there was a flight of stairs that led down to double doors. But they were blocked by a pile of debris that included a metal desk, a rolling garbage bin, and all sorts of other trash, not the sort of stuff that was likely to wind up there by accident.
No, what Tre was looking at was someone’s attempt to seal off the underground area. Because they were living there? Probably. But when? If recently, Tre would be well-advised to steer clear. But if the people who were responsible for the barricade were gone, it would be safe to enter.
Tre was interested and, more than that, determined to find another way in. The next fifteen minutes were spent casting about. Eventually he found a second entrance down the street, but that was blocked as well. So Tre began to search the surrounding stores, and it wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for.
It was inside a place called the Cowboy Bar, where saddles served as stools. And there, behind the counter, Tre found a trapdoor, one that had been used recently, judging from the fresh scuff marks around it.
Rather than lift the door and peer inside, Tre took a moment to shed his pack and hide his trekking poles under the bar. Then he removed a length of cord from a pocket and tied one end to the trapdoor. Would the door open when he pulled on the rope? And if it did, would someone fire up at him? Or worse yet, would a bomb explode? He’d triggered one six months earlier and had been lucky to escape with only minor injuries.
There was only one way to find out. Tre jerked on the cord. Nothing happened. Maybe the hatch was secured from below or maybe it was stuck. Tre placed the remains of a wooden chair under the rope to act as a fulcrum and tried again. This time it worked. The door came up and flopped onto the floor. There were no gunshots or explosions. So far, so good.
After removing a much-treasured squeeze light from a cargo pocket, Tre approached the opening with the .410 out and ready. The flashlight made a gentle wheezing sound as he squeezed the handle. Then, as he thumbed the switch, a blob of light slid across the floor and into the hole. Slowly, weapon at the ready, Tre looked down through the hatch.
The first thing he saw was bright metal. An aluminum ladder was positioned directly under the opening, a clear confirmation that he was on the right track. But what, if anything, waited below?
Tre looked around, spotted one of the few beer mugs that hadn’t been broken, and dropped it through the hole. He heard it shatter and braced himself for a burst of gunfire. There wasn’t any.
Relieved but still wary, Tre considered his options. The opening was too small to pass through while wearing his pack. Should he drop it down—only to have someone snatch it? Or leave it up top, where the same thing could occur?
After giving the matter some thought, Tre tied the cord to the pack and positioned it right next to the hatch. Then, with shotgun in hand, he descended the ladder. There was some light from above but not enough, so Tre felt for the flashlight. Three strong squeezes brought the device to life. What he saw was a corridor with storefronts on both sides. All sorts of garbage littered the floor, including a scattering of what might have been human bones. But he was used to that. Millions of people had died in the United States and very few of the bodies had been buried.
There was a rustling noise from the left, and Tre’s heart jumped as he brought the light around. Red rat eyes glared at him before disappearing into a nearby hole. He was surprised to find that he had been holding his breath, and let it out. Then he felt for the cord, gave a sharp jerk, and managed to catch the pack as it fell. All that remained was to climb up and close the trapdoor. It was always a good idea to conceal his presence to whatever extent possible.
Down below again, Tre shouldered his pack and set off to explore the underground mall. If he found things to scavenge, then well and good—but he was also in need of a place to fort up. He entered a souvenir shop only to discover that while there were still plenty of coasters, elk horns, and wind chimes to be had, all the good stuff was gone. That included sweatshirts, T-shirts, and every single item in a case labeled “POCKETKNIVES.” But that was to be expected.
The same was true of the women’s clothing store next door, the Ski Chalet down from that, and the completely empty Wine Rack, all viewed via the fluctuating illumination provided by the squeeze light. After a long series of disappointments, Tre found himself standing in front of a store called Book Ends. That made his heart beat just a little bit faster. What, if anything, waited inside? Unfortunately, as both the temperature and the literacy rate fell, entire libraries had gone up in flames as people burned books in return for a few moments of transitory warmth. So it was with a feeling of trepidation that he entered the store.
Predictably enough, it had been ransacked. And while Tre had no way to know what the stock had been like the day the first wave of looters had entered the mall, he guessed that hundreds of books had been taken. But hundreds were left! Some were on shelves, but many were on the floor, where they had been trampled.
Still, just the sight of them was sufficient to fill Tre’s heart with something akin to lust. Who knew what wonders lay before him! History, science, and entertainment, and new friends to see him through the long, lonely evenings at home.
The voice came from behind him. “This is my mall—and this is my store.”
Tre whirled to find himself face-to-face with an old man. He had a bald pate, hair that hung like a stringy curtain around his head, and eyes that looked like chips of coal. He was dressed in a plaid shirt, khaki-colored bib overalls, and a pair of mukluks, footgear that was just right for sneaking around. And one more thing, a fact that spoke volumes: the apparition was well fed. The .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol was very steady. But so was the .410.
It was a standoff. Or was it? The old man had been in a position to shoot Tre between the shoulder blades. So why hadn’t he? Because, Tre reasoned, the man wanted to talk. “My name is Tre.”
The old man nodded. “I’m Bob. You holster your weapon and I’ll holster mine.”
“You first.”
Bob smiled and two rows of yellow teeth appeared. “We’ll do it on three. One, two, three.” As the old man lowered his weapon, Tre did likewise. Both guns slid into their respective holsters, or in Bob’s case into a pocket. “So,” he said. “You can stay the night—but it will cost you.”
Tre was willing to consider that. He preferred to avoid violence when possible and wanted access to the bookstore. “Okay . . . I’ll give you three rounds for your .45 and I get all the books I can carry.” It was the longest speech he’d made in months.
Bob blinked as he stared into the fluctuating light. “Make it ten rounds.”
“Five.”
“Eight.”
“Seven, and that’s final. A full magazine . . . not bad for a few books.”
Bob paused and delivered a nod. “Okay, seven it is. Four now and three in the morning.”
“Have you got a flashlight?”
Bob turned, went outside, and lit a lantern. Then he brought it in.
That allowed Tre to tuck the squeeze light away and slip his left hand into a pants pocket. He fingered the bullets there, chose four, and brought them out, all the while keeping his right hand free to draw the .410.
Bob examined each cartridge with great care, and that was wise. According to what Tre had read, there had been something like 350 million guns in America prior to the nuclear war, a number roughly equivalent to the population. But two-thirds of the people were dead now, and that meant there was no shortage of firearms in post apocalyptic America. But ammo? That was precious. Some people, Tre included, could make reloads for some of their weapons, but most couldn’t, and he figured Bob was one of them.
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” Bob said as the bullets disappeared into a pocket. “I’m going to serve you dinner, and no, you won’t have to pay. It will be nice to have some company for a change.”
Tre didn’t want to eat dinner with the old man but didn’t wish to offend him either, especially with a treasure trove of boo
ks at stake. “Okay, thanks.”
Bob lifted the lamp shoulder high and led Tre out into the passageway. The lantern threw grotesque shadows onto the walls as Tre followed the old man to a circular area that had once been at the center of a small food court. And there, surrounded by curved benches, was an open fireplace. It had once been a magnet for skiers and consisted of a fire pit, a sheet-metal hood, and a chimney. Hooks had been added under the hood so Bob could hang chunks of elk meat over the fire. The result was a primitive smoker, and Tre was impressed. “Have a seat,” Bob said, “and I’ll get things going.”
So Tre dumped his pack and sat on one of two mismatched chairs as Bob placed splinters of wood on the glowing coals. “I keep her tamped down during the day,” the old man said. “You didn’t see any smoke, did ya?”
“Nope,” Tre replied as the kindling burst into flames.
“Good, ‘cause I don’t need any trouble. I hope you like elk chili, ‘cause that’s what we’re having. We’ll have a drink first.”
Tre didn’t like the taste of alcohol and never used it for anything other than a disinfectant, but he could tell that the drink was important to Bob, so he let his host pour a dollop of amber liquid into a metal cup. “There you go,” Bob said as he handed it over. That’ll fix what ails ya.”
Tre forced a smile and pretended to take a sip. “So what do you think?” Bob demanded.
“It’s good,” Tre lied, “real good.”
The old man took a swig and grinned. “You got that right.”
The fire crackled as Bob threw some more wood on it. Tre saw that a makeshift mattress and sleeping bag were laid out on one of the benches that surrounded the fireplace. That made sense. Bob could keep a fire going during most of the night and let it die down at about three a.m. Having stoked the fire, Bob turned his attention back to Tre. “You don’t talk much, do ya?”
The Seeds of Man Page 3
