The Seeds of Man

by William C. Dietz

  Tre had been through the process before and understood the necessity. The citizens of Afton were willing to let visitors carry knives and clubs, but they weren’t allowed to have guns—and for good reason. Had it been otherwise, fifty bandits could have entered Afton separately, come together, and taken control.

  “No, sir. I don’t have any firearms.”

  “Can you read?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Check the blackboard, choose a form of payment, and push it through the opening.”

  Tre looked at the chalkboard, where all the possible combinations were written out, and chose to pay the city’s admission tax with a .410 shotgun shell and two .45-caliber slugs. The clerk accepted them, chose to weigh the shotgun shell, and pointed to a bottle of ink to Tre’s right. “Stick your right index finger in the bottle.”

  Tre did as he was told. When he pulled his finger out, it was black. “Can’t hardly tell the difference,” the clerk said. “We need white ink for your kind.”

  The guards had heard the joke before but laughed anyway as Tre struggled to control the anger that boiled up inside. He forced himself to remain silent as he turned left. Both guards were dressed western-style and armed with pistols. “Pass the pole to me,” the taller one ordered, and Tre had no choice but to comply.

  “Lock your hands behind your neck,” the other cowboy said, “and spread your feet.”

  As the short man gave Tre a professional pat down, his partner was busy examining the pole. “It ain’t much,” he said, “but I guess you could whack someone with it.”

  Tre had a book called Stick Fighting: Techniques of Self-Defense and had been studying the contents for more than a year. Could he beat the cowboy to death? Yes, he thought he could, even though he had yet to use his skills. “Yes, sir,” Tre replied. “I use it to keep the dogs off me.”

  Feral dogs were everywhere and the guard nodded. “Makes sense, but get a gun when you can.”

  “He’s clean,” the short guard said. “Next.”

  Tre felt a sense of relief as he left the customs station and entered Afton. Most of the towns Tre had been to were considerably smaller than they had been before the war, but Afton was an exception. Thanks to its location and to decisions made by its citizens, the community was not only larger but relatively prosperous. As Tre walked the streets, he saw signs advertising a candle maker, a dentist, a gunsmith, a tailor, a barber, a blacksmith, and more. But what he didn’t see was a grocery store.

  Due to climate change, it was very difficult to grow crops anywhere except inside the huge greenhouses owned by a class of people called food lords. And that was why some of Afton’s citizens were fat. They could afford to buy what thousands of other people had to steal or endure slavery to obtain, the latter being something that his mother refused to consider. “All of us are going to die,” she liked to say, “but while we’re here, you and I are going to live free.”

  Important though food was, Tre was after a set of magnets, and he knew where to find them. The Geek Shop was located on a side street and specialized in selling reconditioned objects brought in by scroungers or recovered from one of the garbage mines.

  Tre felt a visceral sense of excitement as he entered the store and looked around. The walls were obscured by shelves loaded with fantastical prewar machines. Toasters, hair dryers, music players, fans, tools, toys, and countless other objects all battled for Tre’s attention. So the tendency was to linger. But Tre wanted to begin the trip home as soon as possible, so he went straight to the back counter, waited for Tommy to finish waiting on another customer, and made his request. “I’m looking for some magnets. Strong ones.”

  Tommy was thirtysomething and had beady eyes, a five o’clock shadow, and stringy hair. “You again.”

  “You remember me?”

  “You’re the only kid who buys things here.”

  “I’m not a kid.”

  “Sure. What are you building?”

  Tre looked away. It was difficult for him to meet a stranger’s eyes, but he forced himself to turn his head back. “A small hydroelectric generator.”

  Tommy’s face lit up. “Sweet! How many magnets do you need?”

  “Four.”

  “Wait here.” The proprietor was back a couple of minutes later with four magnets and a piece of steel. “Here you go . . . Test ‘em.”

  Tre did. The magnets were so strong it was difficult to pry them off the strip of metal. “I’ll take them. How much?”

  “Half a box of .45s or the equivalent thereof.”

  The price was steep—very steep—but if Tre wanted to build the generator, he had no choice. And Tommy knew that. “How ‘bout fifteen .45s, ten .22s, and a couple of .410s?”

  That was a slight discount, but not much of one. Tommy smiled. “Sure.”

  Tre took a leather pouch out of an inner pocket and counted the ammo onto the counter. “Okay,” Tommy said as he accepted the payment. “Good luck with the generator.”

  Tre thanked him and left. If anything, the streets were more crowded now, and the presence of so many people brought out street vendors, con men, and pickpockets. As Tre made for the north exit, he ran into a crowd. Judging from all the commotion up ahead, some sort of street performance was under way, and Tre hoped to catch a glimpse of it as he passed by.

  But after pushing his way to the front of the crowd, Tre found himself looking at something very different from what he had expected. There, within a circle of bystanders, was a ragged-looking youth. A group of toughs had ropes on the girl and were jerking her back and forth. She was speaking gibberish and drooling. The crowd laughed as she fell, and one of the hooligans kicked her.

  Mind your own business, the voice in Tre’s head told him. It isn’t your problem. Tre knew that was true, just as he knew he was going to take action anyway and that doing so would have negative consequences.

  He said, “Excuse me,” to the people in front of him and pushed between them. Then he was there, standing inside the circle, the staff held in both hands. He had to shout in order to be heard. “Let her go.”

  Suddenly the crowd noise all but disappeared as the youth in the center of the ring continued to gibber and managed to free herself from the rope. A dark-haired youth frowned as if unable to believe what he had heard. “What did you say?”

  All eyes that weren’t already on Tre went to him. “I said let her go.”

  “Or?”

  “Or you’ll regret it.”

  The dark-haired tough smiled. Here was a gift, another person to dominate, and another opportunity to instill fear. He pointed to a couple of toadies. “Miller, Baker, take him.”

  As the two toadies came rushing toward him, Tre brought the staff up across his chest. The one named Miller had long hair, a big jaw, and a powerful body. Had he been able to get his gigantic paws on Tre, the fight would have been over in no time. But a quick blow from the right end of the staff broke all his teeth and sent him reeling away with both hands clutching a bloody mouth.

  Meanwhile, the other end of the metal tube dipped, swiveled, and was waiting for Baker when he ran into it. He uttered a gasp of pain, grabbed his crotch, and fell to his knees.

  Like all crowds, this one was fickle. As the bystanders roared their approval, Tre saw a combination of shock and anger on the gang leader’s face. And he saw something else as well. The youth with the dark hair was wearing a pistol in a cross-draw holster. That meant he was a citizen and would have the local authorities on his side. “Okay,” the city boy said, “rope him.”

  Tre saw the loop of rope coming, sidestepped it, and twisted both halves of the rod in opposite directions. The center sleeve fell away and the staff was transformed into a pair of fighting sticks. Tre held them at the ready as he stepped forward. A tough rushed him, took a blow to the head, and fell. A second later, one of the gang members landed on Tre’s back and was trying to choke him when both rods struck his head. The weight fell away.

  Then, as if in slow mo
tion, Tre saw the gang leader go for his gun. He heard someone scream and sensed that people were trying to get clear of the area behind him, fearful that they would catch a bullet. The city boy’s decision to use the pistol left Tre with no choice but to bring the tubes up, press the buttons hidden beneath the remaining sleeves, and fire both weapons.

  The three-foot-long gun barrels were loaded with .410 shotgun shells, and at close range the effect was devastating. His opponent’s face disappeared in a spray of bone and blood.

  A second later Tre felt something hit his head, a hole seemed to open under his feet, and darkness pulled him down. The fight was over.

  Chapter Five

  South of Afton, Wyoming, USA

  The sky was the color of old pewter as Luther Voss climbed the stairs that led up to the crudely made gallows and looked out over the slum called Shantytown, a tawdry settlement that abutted the southernmost portion of his land—”his land” being defined as whatever real estate Voss could take and hold. Because in post apocalyptic America there were no elected governments, legal documents, or courts to enforce them. Justice, as the dead thief had learned, was defined by the people with the most guns. The rope made a creaking sound as a cold wind pushed against the body. “Cut him down,” Voss ordered, and stood to one side.

  The food lord’s second in command was a man named Hawkins. Like all the members of Voss’s private army, Hawkins was dressed cowboy-style in a long duster, jeans, and high-heeled boots. His coat was open so that he could access the weapons he wore, one of which was a very sharp knife. It made short work of the rope, and there was a thump as the body landed on the wooden platform.

  With that out of the way, Voss stepped forward. A breeze caught his long, mostly brown hair and whipped it around. He could feel the wind pressing against his back and see the way it ripped and tore at the fragile shacks arrayed in front of him. Having started at the south end of the settlement, his “boys,” as Voss referred to them, had driven hundreds of squatters into the area in front of the gallows.

  As Voss looked down at them, he saw haunted eyes, drawn faces, and ragged clothes. There were children too. Most were smaller than they should have been, had runny noses, or were clearly ill. Malnutrition wasn’t the only enemy in Shantytown. There hadn’t been any inoculations in more than a generation, and sanitation was next to nonexistent. That meant the maze of shacks was a breeding ground for flu, cholera, and dysentery. Voss raised a bullhorn and turned it on. “I won’t say good morning because it sure as hell isn’t.” It was a joke, but none of the squatters laughed. They stared up at Voss with hollow eyes.

  “All right,” Voss said, “here’s the deal. My name is Luther Voss. I own the farms located to the north of this settlement and I need more land. That’s why you have to leave. Once you’re gone, my boys will burn these shacks to the ground. So don’t come back.”

  The crowd had been silent up to that point, but now they began to react. There was a rumble of protest as a man with a full beard stepped forward. He was dressed in filthy overalls and armed with a shotgun. “He’s right where we want him!” the man exclaimed loudly. “Let’s hang the bastard.”

  There was a flash of movement followed by a loud bang as Hawkins drew a pistol and shot the man in the forehead. He fell over backward and mud splashed as he hit. A woman and two children came forward to sob over the body. “Sorry about that,” Voss said mildly, “but he was stupid. Look at the wagons located to either side of the platform.”

  The squatters looked. What they saw were tarps, which when whipped aside revealed crew-served machine guns—both aimed at them. “That’s right,” Voss said. “You can swarm the platform, but most of you will die. And for what? A tar-paper shack? And a muddy grave? That would be stupid. So rather than commit suicide, come to work for me.”

  The crowd was silent and Voss could see the uncertainty on many of their faces. “Think about it,” Voss continued. “If you come to work for me, you will receive new clothes, a basic set of household items, and an apartment in a building that has electricity and running water. You will also receive medical care and a better life for your children.

  “In return,” Voss continued, “you will help me grow food. I will sell most of it, but there will be plenty left over for you and for your families. And, as a result of your efforts, other people will have more to eat as well, something you can feel good about when you put your head down at night.”

  Voss scanned the faces in front of him. He had them, or a lot of them at any rate, and it was time to close the sale. “You have thirty minutes in which to gather your belongings and leave. Those of you who want to work for me should line up on the highway for a two-mile walk to Farm 3. The rest of you can go where you will so long as it isn’t on my land. Any attempt to interfere with my employees will be met with deadly force. That will be all.”

  Having finished his presentation, Voss jumped to the ground. His horse, a gigantic mount named Odin, stood patiently while Voss put a foot in a stirrup and swung up into the saddle. Then, with Hawkins and two mercenaries to guard him, Voss rode out into the slum.

  The crowd had dispersed by then, and with only half an hour to work with, the residents of Shantytown were rushing to rescue their meager possessions before the entire community went up in flames. As Odin carried Voss through muddy streets, he was appalled by the squalid conditions. Most of the homes were little more than crude huts, but each had a small garden. Pitiful things, really . . . fenced off with whatever scraps of wood and wire the owners had been able to scavenge. Feces, offal, and garbage lay everywhere. Here, he thought, is proof of how base they are. If they had any initiative, if they were willing to work, they could live as I do. Instead they choose to dwell here like pigs in a sty.

  Forty mounted mercenaries had gathered at the north end of the shantytown by that time. The torches they held shivered as a gust of wind attacked them, but they continued to burn and sent tendrils of smoke up into the cold air. Voss pulled Odin to a halt and took a look at his Rolex self-winding watch. Then, as the final seconds ticked away, he raised a gloved hand. As it came down, heavily burdened men and women were still scurrying for the highway with children, dogs, and farm animals in tow. Later, when they entered the induction center, their pets would be taken away to be slaughtered, and the goats, pigs, and chickens would be quarantined. Then, after being inspected for disease, they would go into the food supply. But there was no point in telling the squatters that ahead of time.

  At Voss’s signal, the riders spurred their horses into the maze. As they passed each dwelling, they leaned in to touch it, like priests blessing the homes, but with fire rather than holy water. Most went up in flames.

  Not all the huts surrendered so easily, however. Some were stubborn and refused to catch fire. Whenever that occurred, a mercenary would light a firebomb and toss it through an opening, resulting in a splash of fire. It rarely took two.

  Confident that the reclamation project was on track, Voss led his bodyguards north past the long line of people who were about to become his responsibility. Was this the way it felt to be a nobleman back in the Middle Ages? Yes, Voss thought it was, and remembered the saying “What’s old is new again.” Not only new, but to his mind exhilarating, because while much had been lost in the wake of the war, a great deal had been gained, primary among which was personal freedom. Voss smiled, urged Odin to a gallop, and took pleasure in the feel of it. The year was 2066. But it could have been 1266. And that was fine with him.

  The fortified manor house sat atop a hill and could be seen from the highway. That was no accident. Hills were easier to defend, and each passerby would not only see it, but also think of him. A twisting, turning road led up through beautifully landscaped slopes past artfully disguised machine-gun emplacements to a carefully groomed courtyard where uniformed slaves were waiting to receive him.

  It was important to maintain the right mix of workers and slaves. The advantage to using hired help was that they had a reason to gua
rd the status quo, to think of ways to improve things, and to come up with innovations. But slaves could produce food for less and, so long as they existed, gave the workers a reason to feel superior, all of which contributed to social stability and therefore to profits.

  Voss slid to the ground and gave the reins to a slave boy, knowing that the horse would be well taken care of. Spurs rattled as Voss crossed the well-packed gravel to the house. It consisted of a conical watchtower sited next to a two-story house with a multiplicity of chimneys and staggered roofs. The two-foot-thick walls were made of stone. They were pierced by windows and rifle slits, which were currently plugged against the cold.

  A massive metal-strapped door swung open before Voss could touch it. Once inside the huge entry hall, Voss went to sit on one of two throne-like chairs that were positioned to either side of a welcoming fireplace. A house slave hurried to remove his filthy boots while a second gave him a mug of coffee—a fantastically expensive brew derived from Mexican beans brought north by caravan. It was hot, slightly sweetened with sugar made from his own sugar beets, and diluted with a dollop of cream produced by a Voss-owned dairy farm.

  No sooner was the ritual completed than a small formally dressed man appeared. He had slicked-down hair, a pair of thick glasses, and a stern demeanor. His name was Elmer Trenton and he was many things, including Voss’s personal secretary, confidant, and adviser. “There you are,” Trenton said, exhibiting none of the deference that most people did. “Charlie Winthrop is waiting in your study.”

  “Excellent,” Voss replied, as a footman slid some handmade moccasins onto his feet. “It’s about time. Let’s see what the rascal has to say.”

  Voss led Trenton into the wood-paneled study. One wall was taken up with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Another was dedicated to a large fireplace, and a bay window looked southwest across tidy slopes to the highway below. Smoke could be seen in the distance as riders escorted a long line of men, women, and children north. Winthrop was seated next to the huge desk. He stood as Voss entered the room. “It’s good to see you,” Voss said as he shook the other man’s hand. “How’s Blue?”