The Seeds of Man

by William C. Dietz

  Tre forced a smile. “I don’t have much to say.”

  Bob seemed to consider that. “Most people talk too much. Not me, though. I’m a listener.” Tre nodded and pretended to sip his drink.

  “You’re black,” Bob said accusingly, as if Tre had done something wrong.

  “Brown.”

  “Black, brown, it’s the same thing.”

  Tre shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “I do. Black people caused the war.”

  “India attacked Pakistan, they responded, and China got involved.”

  “And all of them people are black, right?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  The old man considered that. “Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? You weren’t round then. I was, but I don’t remember it. How old are you anyway?”

  Tre was seventeen but knew that divulging his actual age might put him at a disadvantage. “I’m twenty.”

  “I envy you,” Bob said feelingly. “I’m sixty-seven, near as I can make out, and everything hurts.” Tre couldn’t think of anything to say. Most lives were shorter now. Very few people made it to sixty, much less sixty-seven.

  “Enough talking,” Bob said. “Time to eat.” And with that he went over to pull an improvised swing arm out into the open. A fire-blackened cast-iron pot was dangling from it, and as Bob removed the lid, a mouthwatering odor wafted into the air. Tre took the opportunity to pour his drink into what had been a planter.

  “I use chopped elk, onions, tomato sauce, kidney beans, chili powder, and brown sugar,” Bob said. “I used to add cumin but ran out. There you go,” the old man said as he ladled some brown brew into a plastic bowl. “Tuck into that.”

  Tre accepted the bowl and a dirty spoon. The chili smelled delicious, but his mother had taught him not to eat until she sat down. And she taught him something else, too, what she called street smarts, even if he didn’t spend much time on the streets. “Be careful what you eat, son . . . and always think about who’s giving it to you. We live in troubled times.”

  That’s why Tre waited to make sure that Bob was going to eat from the same pot. Once he did, Tre figured the chili was safe to eat. And it was good. Very good. The bowl was empty three minutes later. Bob smiled knowingly. “Good, huh?”

  “Very.”

  “Would you like some more?”

  Tre extended his bowl. “Yes, please.”

  Bob served up a refill, and as Tre went to work on his second helping of chili, the older man peppered him with questions. Where was he from? Where was he headed? And what had he seen along the way?

  Tre answered the first two questions with lies but tried to answer the third as honestly as he could. That was the least he could do to repay Bob’s openhanded generosity. “There isn’t much to see. I try to avoid people. But I did talk to a couple near Hoback Junction. They think the weather is getting better.”

  Bob produced a resonant belch, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and nodded sagely. “That’s true. Or so it seems to me. But the change is so gradual I’ll be dead by the time things really improve. How about the food lords? What are they up to?”

  Tre knew Bob was referring to the scattering of individuals who, for one reason or another, controlled large amounts of food—or the means to produce it. They lived like the feudal lords he’d read about in a book called Agincourt by Bernard Cornwell. Some people willingly surrendered themselves to the lords in return for food and a place on one of their sprawling estates. Others were forced into lives of slavery. “I try to steer clear of them,” Tre answered, “but they continue to fight each other.”

  Of course Bob knew that. So by the time the dinner was over, he hadn’t gained much. But Tre got the impression that the other man was satisfied with his end of the bargain. “You can bed down next to the fire if you want to,” Bob offered.

  “Thanks,” Tre replied, “but I’m used to sleeping alone.”

  If Bob was offended, there was no sign of it on his weathered face. “Okay, there’s plenty of room. Pick a spot and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Tre thanked his host, took his gear, and left. With the aid of the squeeze light, he was able to find a spot directly across the corridor from the bookstore. It had been a travel agency, and by moving some furniture, he was able to clear a spot large enough to lie down in. Then, after getting ready for bed, he let the light run down. The result was total darkness. There were sounds, though, including the rattle of a tin can as something nosed it, an occasional groan from the building itself, and the distant tinkle of breaking glass, all of which seemed harmless enough. Still, it was Tre’s intention to stay awake until he was well clear of the town. Then and only then could he hole up and rest.

  As Tre waited for the night to pass, he told himself stories, invented new machines, and thought about girls—mysterious creatures he knew next to nothing about but felt drawn to. At some point he drifted off to sleep, because he awoke with a jerk and didn’t know why.

  It was still dark, too dark to see. But Tre thought he could detect some movement, and hear it too, even if the sound was nothing more than the swish of fabric on fabric, and what might have been a metallic click. That was followed by a pause and a sudden shaft of light as a battery-powered light came on. It swept left, then right, and settled on the tarp-draped pile of trash. Then Tre saw a series of bright flashes as old Bob fired the .45. Blam! Blam! Blam!

  The empty casings were still bouncing off the floor when Tre fired from the corner. The Tarus revolver was unique in that it could handle either .45 rounds or .410 shotgun shells, and that was why Tre carried it. Having a pistol that could eat the same ammo as the shotgun was a definite plus. At the moment, all five of the weapon’s chambers were loaded with .45 hollow points. Tre fired four of them into the spot where Bob should be. He heard a grunt as the light clattered to the floor and lay aimed at a wall. Next came a soft thump.

  But was Bob dead, wounded, or faking it? Tre slid the revolver back into its shoulder holster and took hold of the .410. Then, with his heart beating wildly, he went to retrieve the light. As the beam swept across the floor, Tre saw that three of the four shots had hit their target. That didn’t make him happy or sad. It simply was. Perhaps it was because old Bob wasn’t the first man he had killed.

  Two years earlier he had returned from a hunting trip to discover that his mother had been murdered and their food stolen. So after burying his mother, he took his scope-mounted .22 rifle and went hunting—not for rabbits, but for men. There were two sets of tracks. After following them for two days, fifteen-year-old Tre caught up with the killers near Etna, Wyoming. It was dark and they were sitting around a campfire. Tre put them down with one bullet apiece. Then he stripped the bandits of everything useful and left their bodies for the coyotes.

  And there had been a man roughly twelve months after that, a half-crazy scarecrow who dropped on Tre from a tree and tried to cut his throat. Fortunately, by pointing the .410 back over his shoulder, Tre had been able to blow the creature away. A second shot finished the job.

  Still, Tre had never reconciled himself to violence, and he blamed himself for remaining in the underground mall even though he could sense that Bob wasn’t trustworthy. His hunger for books had overridden his common sense.

  Unfortunately, Bob had not only shot holes in the multipurpose tarp but fallen on it as well, so Tre elected to leave it. The .45 would come in handy, though, as would the extra magazine Tre found in a pocket, and the Gerber folding knife on Bob’s belt. Having collected those items, Tre took a moment to recharge the Tarus with alternating .410 and .45 rounds before restoring the weapon to its holster.

  Then, with his pack on his back and Bob’s flashlight to show the way, Tre left the travel agency. He could feel the pull the bookstore exerted on him but refused to give in. The first priority was to search for Bob’s hoard. And there was bound to be one.

  Upon returning to the fire pit, Tre saw that a
small blaze was still burning. He had no interest in most of Bob’s personal items. He did take a pair of reading glasses, however, which might come in handy someday, or could be traded for something else.

  Then, as he swept the beam of light back and forth across the floor, Tre saw a clear wear pattern in the filth. The trail led down the corridor to a door labeled “MAINTENANCE.” Tre saw that a new hasp and a heavy-duty padlock had been added to the barrier. I missed the key, he thought, and knew he would have to return to the travel agency.

  Tre retraced his steps, entered the office, and knelt next to the body. Now that he knew what to look for, the chain was obvious. After pulling it free, he saw the key. Rather than wrestle the chain off over Bob’s head, Tre cut it free with the Leatherman tool he carried on his belt.

  With key in hand, he went straight back to the door. The lock opened easily, as did the door. Tre found himself standing at the entrance of what amounted to a vault.

  Shelves lined the left wall, and large pieces of smoked meat hung from hooks on the right. That was when Tre realized that one of them was shaped like a human leg. He remembered the chili, felt the contents of his stomach rise, and threw up on the floor. After a series of convulsive heaves, Tre stumbled away to vomit in the hall.

  Finally, with nothing left to give, Tre fumbled for his water bottle. Having rinsed his mouth, he went back to where the flashlight lay and picked it up. Now he understood. The blocked entrances, trapdoor, and ladder were all part of an elaborate plan to lure scavengers into his underground kingdom. Then Bob would invite them to dinner, enjoy an evening of conversation, and kill the unsuspecting guest. If they were carrying something of value, that went into the vault. And after some butchery, the body parts were added to Bob’s larder. Had Tre been a drinker, or less vigilant, he would have been on a future menu.

  Tre forced himself to ignore the stench of his own vomit and go back in. He directed the light away from the meat and over to the shelves. There were at least fifty cans of food, a variety of ammo, and a collection of valuable spices. Further back, laid out on a shelf, a jumble of long guns could be seen. And there were all sorts of other items too . . . some valuable and some whimsical: a cell phone, a Barbie doll, a sphere-shaped puzzle. The puzzle looked interesting, so Tre took it.

  But he could only carry so much weight, so he was forced to make some tough decisions. Finally he chose to take ten cans of food, the spices, and the ammo home with him. A rifle, a shotgun, and Bob’s .45 would go into the Pelican rifle case that was stored in the back of the room. It was large enough to accommodate two boxes of bullets, cleaning kits, and some miscellaneous survival items. Once he was outside of Jackson, Tre would bury the case and everything in it, something he had done on previous occasions as well. Because home was only home so long as no one else discovered it. And if they did, Tre could use such a cache to make a fresh start.

  Finally, with the pack on his back and the Pelican case in hand, Tre went back to the bookstore. The next two hours were pleasurable as well as frustrating—pleasurable because there were books for the taking, but they were heavy, and difficult decisions had to be made. Finally he settled on 101 Science Projects, Electronics for Dummies, The Invisible Man, a children’s book about dinosaurs, and three novels by authors he had read before, stories he would ration by reading no more than one chapter per night.

  Then he had to break it off. He wanted to leave Jackson before the sun rose, and he was tired. Very tired. So Tre left the bookstore, climbed the aluminum ladder, and paused to retrieve his trekking poles. He couldn’t use them, not while carrying the gun case, so he tied them crosswise to the pack frame. After putting the snowshoes on, Tre clumped out onto the street. It was pitch-dark and Tre knew he would have to risk occasional blips from Bob’s flashlight in order to find his way. But it was extremely cold, and the chances were good that the rest of the town’s inhabitants were snug inside their various hidey-holes. Would one of them eventually take possession of Bob’s grubby kingdom and claim his supply of smoked meat? Tre shivered. He knew the answer was yes.

  After glancing at his compass, Tre set off in southerly direction. The pack was heavy, as was the gun case, so he had to switch hands every now and then. Once he was on old Highway 89, it turned southwest for a little bit before going south again. The trick was to avoid running into the wrecks and debris that littered the snow-crusted road. Tre knew there was a slope off to his right but couldn’t see it. He also knew he was too tired to go very far, so he felt grateful as the sky began to lighten in the east, making it possible to scan the countryside. He hadn’t seen any smoke, which was good, but he knew the area wasn’t as deserted as it looked. And if the locals spotted a lone hiker carrying a pack and a Pelican case, they would come after him.

  So it was with a sense of relief that he spotted a ridge on the left and the cell tower that was halfway up a steep slope. It would take all his remaining strength to reach it, and there was no guarantee that someone else hadn’t take up residence there, but based on previous experience, he didn’t think so. People knew they weren’t going to find anything they could use at a cell tower, so why climb up?

  Having made his decision, Tre turned off onto the maintenance road that led up to the site and wished that there was a way to conceal his tracks. But barring a storm, there wasn’t. All he could do was plod up the hill with eyes fixed on the tower, willing himself to make it. Finally, after a twenty-minute slog, Tre was close to the top. He hadn’t seen any signs of habitation on the way up but knew better than to assume anything. So he put the case down, shrugged the pack off, and went forward with the .410 at the ready.

  There were no tracks in the snow other than his own, and the door to the equipment shed at the base of the tower was open. Careful to expose as little of himself as possible, Tre took a look inside. About half of the interior was taken up with electronics, but there was an open area where he could lie down. Judging from the trash and scribblings on the wall, somebody had camped there before him. That was to be expected. All he cared about was the fact that no one had used the place recently.

  Tre holstered the shotgun, did what he could to clean the shed out, and went back for his gear. Before getting settled, he removed the Remington Model 700 XCRII stainless from the case and checked to see if it was loaded. It was. He had no intention of hauling the scope-mounted weapon home but knew the rifle would be ideal should someone try to approach the shack from below.

  After that, it was a relatively easy matter to unpack, heat some baked beans over a can of Sterno, and wash the meal down with melted snow. Then he went outside to scan his surroundings for any signs of trouble. There were none.

  Tre never felt entirely safe, regardless of where he was, even at home. But with a metal shed to protect him, he could take a nap, get up, take a look around, and take another nap—not the most restful way to sleep, but the safest way to do so. The floor was hard, but the bag was warm, and Tre fell asleep in a matter of seconds. Dreams were waiting, and so was Bob.

  Chapter Three

  Near Fort Vermillion, Alberta, Canada

  The leavers were gathered around the Sno-Cats, ready to board, when Hal Mackey and six protectors appeared. As the police charged out onto the perimeter road, Mackey shouted for the dissidents to surrender. But a man named Stan Valez had other ideas. He ran straight at Mackey, shouting obscenities. And that was when one of the police officers shot him.

  The bullet hit Valez in the chest, plucked him off his feet, and dumped him onto the ground. None of the protectors had killed a citizen before, so the death stunned everyone except former police officer Larry Fry, who opened fire with his assault weapon. The slugs were intentionally aimed low, so most of the protectors had their legs knocked out from under them. But automatic weapons have a tendency to rise as they’re fired—and as Lora looked on she saw a bullet smash into Hal Mackey’s face. As he fell, George grabbed her arm. “Get on the Sno-Cat—now!”

  Lora did as she was told, heard the d
oors slam, and felt the vehicle jerk into motion. As she looked out the window, she could see protectors sprawled in all sorts of positions. Most were out of action, but one fired a pistol. Fry shot her dead.

  Hatch 5 was open by that time, and snowflakes swirled around the Sno-Cat as the V-shaped blade mounted on the front of the vehicle pushed through a snowdrift. The headlights swung wildly and Lora got a glimpse of stunted trees as the driver turned onto an old access road. Lora heard someone say, “The second Cat is out,” and knew the group was in the clear—all except for Stan Valez. He was dead and she was to blame. Lora began to cry, and a woman named Cassie Elano tried to comfort her. “Everything will be okay,” Cassie said, but Lora knew better. Everything wouldn’t be okay, couldn’t be okay after what she’d done. The Cat bounced wildly as it passed over an obstacle, the headlights bored holes in the darkness, and the wilderness consumed them.

  Lora stopped crying after a while and sat with her eyes closed and listened to the adults talk. The majority believed there was very little chance that the council would send protectors after them. For one thing, the leavers had both Sno-Cats. Even so, the protectors could follow on snowmobiles if they chose to. But most thought they wouldn’t. The keepers feared the outer world and were unlikely to send protectors into it.

  Regardless, the leavers wanted to put some distance between themselves and the Sanctuary. The plan was to keep going. Eventually the voices started to fade, and the drone of the engine lulled Lora to sleep. When she awoke, it was to find that the Sno-Cat was stopped. It was dark outside and she could see snow falling through the beams from the headlights. “Where are we?”

  “About a hundred miles south of the Sanctuary,” Cassie replied. “There’s a restaurant off to our left. Fry took a couple of men to check it out. Assuming it’s clear, we’ll go in and take a break.”

  The all clear came a few minutes later, and both Snow-Cats pulled into the area behind the restaurant. Lora felt a blast of cold air as somebody opened a door. A man named Harvey Nix instructed them to bring all the packs inside, and so they did. The snow was about a foot deep, making it difficult to walk, and because Lora was wearing school shoes rather than boots, her feet were cold and wet by the time she entered the building.