“Don’t be,” a boy named Evan said. “All of us know what it feels like to be hungry. Real hungry.”
Lora wanted to cry but managed to force a smile instead. “Thank you . . . That means a lot.”
The rest of the evening was a blur. All Lora wanted to do was sleep, but there were boring speeches to sit through, a silly “get acquainted” game to participate in, and a dessert she was too full to eat. Eventually Lora got to slip into her sleeping bag, where she fell instantly asleep. She woke to the sound of someone speaking her name. It was her father. “Time to wake up, hon . . . All of us have chores to do, and you’re working in the dairy.”
After a hearty breakfast, Lora went looking for the dairy. It wasn’t hard to find, thanks to the presence of some cows and the odor of the dung pile located nearby. Being from an agricultural community herself, Lora knew that the cow manure would make excellent fertilizer, which would be especially important given how short the local growing season was.
As Lora entered the barn, she saw that the black-and-white cows were slotted into stalls along both walls—and people were already hard at work preparing to milk them. Then, before she could go looking for the person in charge, he came to her. He was wearing a hat with ear flaps, was in need of a shave, and had bad breath. “Well, look what we have here . . . fresh as a prairie breeze and pretty as a flower. What’s your name, honey?”
“Lora.”
“Well, Lora, my name’s Pruett, Larry Pruett . . . and I’m in charge here. That means I can put you on the cleaning crew, the milking crew, or the poo crew. It all depends on how hard you work—and whether you’re a team player. And you are a team player . . . right, Lora?”
It didn’t sound right somehow, but Lora couldn’t say no, not on her first day, so she said yes.
“Good,” Pruett said, as if an important deal had been struck. “I’m sure you and I will get along just fine. Have you milked a cow before?”
Lora said that she hadn’t and soon found herself being trained to wash udders, an important step in making sure that the milk would be free of contaminants. Then came a lesson in milking, followed by a midday cleanup and a second milking right after dinner. Of course the cows had to be fed as well, checked for physical abnormalities, and given whatever treatments were necessary, all of which was hard work.
So by the time Lora left the dairy and made her way to the dorm where single females lived, she was exhausted. But that was when she found out that a “get out of quarantine” celebration was about to begin, and according to Arletta Ash, the event was too important to miss.
So Lora accompanied Arletta to the social center, where all the leavers were gathered. And there, sitting on a table, were the packages of seeds the group had worked so hard to bring south. Strangely enough, Lora had nearly forgotten about them in the day-to-day struggle to stay alive. Now, after sacrificing so much, the leavers were about to give them away.
Lora had no way to know what sort of agreement had been struck but assumed that barring some sort of unforeseen difficulty, the leavers would be granted permission to stay after the ninety-day trial period was over.
There was a clinking sound as someone tapped a glass with a spoon, and Nix cleared his throat. “This is a special moment. And here to help commemorate the occasion are all three of the commune’s governing council, including Jon Frenchy, Marla Howar, and Roy Gibbs. Marla has agreed to say a few words.”
Howar was a short, plainly dressed woman with black bowl-cut hair, button eyes, and a snub nose. She welcomed the newcomers to the Morningstar commune and said all the things Lora expected her to say, including words of appreciation where the seeds were concerned. “On behalf of all our members, I would like to thank you for bringing these precious seeds to us. I promise you that we will treasure them, produce more, and find ways to share them with others.”
The statement was met with enthusiastic applause. Once it faded away, Harvey Nix stepped forward. There was a big smile on his face. “And there’s more good news! George? Would you care to say a few words?“
Lora felt an emptiness at the pit of her stomach as her father rose and urged Cassie to join him. “Thank you, Harvey. Yes, it’s my pleasure to announce that Cassie and I are going to be married.”
Lora heard the sound of muted applause as the door to the social center closed behind her. There were hundreds of people in the buildings around her, but as Lora made her way across the compound, she was all alone. There was no way for the others to know she hadn’t been told beforehand. Maybe her father assumed she knew. Whatever the reason, it hurt.
The next few days were very similar. Get up, work all day, and go to bed exhausted. That would have been okay if it hadn’t been for Larry Pruett. He was still slimy, but worse than that, he sought every opportunity to touch Lora. It started with a hand on her shoulder. But it wasn’t long before he found an excuse to put an arm around her waist and hug her. Worse yet was his tendency to appear whenever she was alone. That was when he would ask questions about the Sanctuary, conditions there, and whether she kissed boys. Creepy stuff . . . especially from someone ten years older than she was. It got so bad that Lora didn’t want to go to work and had considered talking to her father about the situation.
But what would she say? That Pruett hugged her? That he asked her questions? Not only would that sound stupid, but it might put the entire group in jeopardy. What if they weren’t allowed to stay because of her? That on top of her past mistakes. Besides, her father was looking forward to the wedding, and she didn’t want to bother him.
So as Lora made her way toward the dairy, she was thinking of ways to avoid Pruett. The sun was just starting to rise in the east, she could see her own breath, and the commune had just begun to stir. Suddenly the peace was shattered by the unforgettable roar of a diesel engine starting up, followed by the insistent clang-clang-clang of the alarm bell and the staccato sound of gunfire. The community was under attack.
Lora was scheduled to receive military training but hadn’t had any yet and wasn’t sure what to do. So she was standing there, considering the possibilities, when she heard a loud crash. Then, to her horror, a fifteen-foot-long section of the defensive wall collapsed and a huge bulldozer lurched up over the remains of a Ford pickup and nosed its way into the compound.
Lora wasn’t familiar with that type of machine but didn’t need to be. She had ridden in a Sno-Cat and the similarities were obvious. The machine had a powerful engine, tracks to push it forward, and a huge blade mounted in front. The mystery was how the attackers had been able to move the dozer into position without being heard. On an ox-drawn wagon perhaps? Not that it mattered—the deed had been done.
As half-dressed people began to spill out of the surrounding buildings with weapons in hand, mounted horsemen poured through the newly created gap. Blood Kin? No, Lora could see that these riders were different. They wore sculpted helmets complete with face masks and white pullovers decorated with upside-down crosses, and they carried a wild variety of weapons. Crusaders? Yes, Lora thought so. She started to run.
There was nothing but chaos all around as even more Crusaders poured into the compound and the citizens fought back. Lora saw Larry Fry step out of a doorway, raise his assault rifle, and pick off three riders before being cut down.
Then, as she bent to retrieve the pistol lying next to Marla Howar’s body, she saw Ed Dero try to run from one building to another, only to be trampled by a charging horse. So she raised the Glock, held it with both hands, and shot the nearest Crusader in the back.
As the first rider tumbled out of the saddle, a horse brushed past and a second got hold of her hair. Lora felt a stab of pain as he jerked her feet up off the ground. She fired without aiming, and the bullet blew the bottom part of the Crusader’s jaw away. As he let go, Lora hit the ground and rolled to her feet. She heard someone call her name and turned to see her father running toward her. He had a gun and was coming to protect her, but looming behind him was a horse and a
Crusader armed with a long lance. The man shouted something incoherent as he spurred his mount forward.
Lora shouted “No!” but it did no good as the tip of the lance penetrated her father’s back and came out through his belly. Then, because of the downward angle, the weapon buried itself in the ground. George tried to stop himself, but his forward momentum was such that he slid down the shaft until his knees hit the dirt.
Meanwhile Lora stood with pistol raised and fired. The first bullet hit the horse as it passed her, the second blew a hole through the rider’s neck, and the third missed. The Crusader was falling as Lora ran forward to kneel next to her father. He was holding the bloodied lance with both hands. As he turned to look at her, Lora could see the pain in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Lora . . . so very, very sorry.” Then he gave what sounded like a sigh and slumped forward.
And that was where Lora was, sobbing next to her father’s body, when a blow sent her reeling. Seconds later she was on her feet and being hustled away. The journey to hell had begun.
Chapter Seven
Near Afton, Wyoming, USA
The dull ache refused to go away, so Tre sought refuge in the delicious darkness. But now, having released him, it refused to take Tre back. And the voice wouldn’t go away. “Hey, I know you’re in there. It’s time to rise and shine.”
Tre could see light through his eyelids—but a major effort was required to open them. Finally, once he did, Tre saw a young man with dark skin and a haystack of dreadlocked hair. The visage smiled. “That’s better . . . Freak is going to give you a pain pill and some water. Try not to choke.”
Suddenly the man was replaced by a girl with blue eyes and blond hair. It was ragged, as if she had cut it herself, and done so without using a mirror. Her lips were full but pursed as if in a perpetual pout. Suddenly Tre realized that he’d seen her before. But where?
Then he had it. Afton, the girl who had been roped, and the toughs . . . He was alive! The realization came as a pleasant surprise. Freak placed her left hand under his head and lifted. When her right hand appeared, she was holding a pill between her thumb and index finger. “Lollipop.”
The word made no sense, not in that context, but Tre understood. He opened his mouth and Freak placed the pill on his tongue. A canteen appeared and she held it to his lips. “Bubbles.”
Tre drank, sparingly at first, then greedily, as water trickled down his chin and onto his neck. “That’s enough,” the man said. “They call me Bones. What’s your name?”
Tre struggled to speak. The task was more difficult than he expected it to be. “Tre.”
“Well, Tre, you took a blow to the head and suffered a concussion. Do you remember the fight?”
Tre could see it, hear it, and feel it. The gang leader going for his gun, the recoil from the shotgun barrels, the spray of blood. He nodded.
“Good. No loss of memory, then . . . There could be lasting effects, though. Time will tell. In the meantime I’m going to make up a tonic of sage, nettle, and mugwort. That should put you right.”
Tre wanted to object, wanted to say that he had never heard of mugwort, but couldn’t find the strength. A great weakness came over him and sleep started to pull him down. Someone pulled a scratchy blanket up under his chin. Then she said, “Treetop,” and kissed him on the lips. Darkness fell.
There were dreams. Strange, twisted things that made no sense and woke him up. Sometimes there was light, and sometimes there wasn’t, and there was no way to gauge the passage of time.
Eventually the pain began to fade, his appetite returned, and Tre found the strength to sit. A day later he managed to stand. And then, with Bones guiding him about, Tre toured the hideout. It was located east of Afton, up in the Salt River Range, where steep terrain, forested slopes, and rushing rivers made the tunnel hard to find and easy to defend.
The hideout had been a coal mine once. That was obvious from the wooden timbers that supported the roof, the tool marks on the dimly lit walls, and the half-buried tracks that led deep into the mountain.
There were three “rooms,” including a stable large enough to accommodate twenty horses, a workshop complete with a forge, and a communal living area furnished with a variety of castoffs and warmed by a large coal-fed stove. That, plus the stream that ran along the east side of the main passageway, meant the residents had two very important luxuries: heat and water.
One by one, Tre met other members of the gang. The first was a young man named Knife, a sobriquet that fit perfectly given his appearance. Knife was at least six-two, with a saturnine face, and tattoos on his arms. When they met, Knife was working at a small forge. It was, according to Bones, one of the amenities the miners had left behind.
The coal-fed fire glowed and threw off waves of welcome heat as Knife used metal tongs to pull a long strip of glowing metal out of the flames. After folding the blank he positioned it on an anvil and began to pound on it with a hammer. A sweaty sheen appeared on his pale white skin, and droplets flew as he worked. “It’s going to be a sword,” Bones explained. “A katana.”
Tre had read about Samurai swords and looked on with considerable interest as Knife worked. “This is Tre,” Bones said. He had to speak loudly in order to be heard over the ring of steel on steel.
The response was little more than a grunt of acknowledgment as Knife plunged the steel into a bucket of gray water. That was followed by a loud hiss and an explosion of steam. “I read that Japanese sword makers fold their steel up to sixteen times,” Tre said. “How many folds are you going to make?”
Knife frowned as he turned to look at the newcomer. “What’s your name again?”
“Tre.”
“Fourteen. I plan to fold the steel fourteen times.”
Tre nodded. “Can I watch?”
Knife looked at Bones and back. “No. But you can help.” That said, he turned back to his work.
“He likes you,” Bones said. “That was a long speech by Knife’s standards.”
Then Tre was taken to meet Smoke and Fade. They were “a couple,” as Bones put it and shared an alcove. As Bones announced their presence and ushered Tre into the area, both women turned to look. “Good morning, ladies,” Bones said cheerfully. “The patient is up and around.”
One of the women had black hair, brown skin, and almond-shaped eyes. She was dressed in a shirt that was tied at the waist, buckskin trousers, and pull-on boots. Her eyebrows rose. “Look, Fade . . . one of Bone’s patients survived! It’s a miracle.”
The other woman had blond hair, wide-set eyes, and a generous mouth. Her outfit was similar to Smoke’s. “You’re right . . . This is a first. And he’s cute too.”
Tre felt blood rush to his cheeks and hoped the women wouldn’t notice. “Ignore them,” Bones advised. “They claim to be our scouts but spend most of their time lounging about.” Smoke winked and Fade smiled. Tre tried to think of something to say, came up empty, and was eager to escape as Bones led him away.
“Time for lunch, Tre . . . No offense, but you’re kind of scrawny. We need to fatten you up.”
The “cafeteria” consisted of three improvised tables in the middle of the common area. The kitchen was centered around a large coal-fed stove the miners had left behind. And there, hard at work, was the man everyone called Hog—not because he was fat or ugly, but because he had a fondness for bacon, or so Bones claimed.
When Hog turned to look at them, there was a big smile on his face. “You’re up and around! That’s good. I was running out of gruel. Sit down and prepare for a feast!”
And it was a feast by Tre’s standards. The meal included pieces of freshly baked bread, slices of canned corned beef, and a pot of mustard. That was followed by slices of apple dusted with cinnamon and mugs of hot tea. All of it was delicious.
It had been a long time since anyone had prepared a meal for Tre. The last one he could remember had been cooked by his mother the day before her death. He pushed the memory away as Fade and Smoke sauntered in. Freak arriv
ed shortly thereafter and made a point of sitting next to Tre. She looked at him and smiled. “Kneecap.”
Tre, who had no idea how to respond, shifted uneasily. Bones came to his rescue. “The best thing to do is assume that Freak is saying something appropriate. Like, ‘glad to see you.’”
Tre swallowed and looked at Freak. “You too.”
A teenager named Snake arrived at that point. He looked normal enough, and Tre was at a loss to understand the name, until the boy began to lick some mustard off his hand. That was when Tre saw Snake’s tongue. It was split at least halfway back and it appeared that both halves could move independently. Tre had never seen anything like that before and wondered if it was a birth defect.
As Tre listened to the gang members talk, he got the impression that there were others. Guards who would eat later, some “wranglers,” and a person named Crow—a man who, if Tre understood correctly, was the group’s leader.
Once Tre finished his meal, he felt unexpectedly tired, excused himself, and went back to the side gallery that Bones called “the dispensary.” He lay on a cot, pulled a blanket up under his chin, and let sleep carry him away.
Tre rose an hour later with plans to visit Knife and help with the sword, but just as he was about to leave the dispensary, Bones arrived. “There you are . . . How’s the head?”
“I feel better. Thanks.”
“Good. Crow wants to speak with you.”
Tre felt a sense of concern and wasn’t sure why. Because he didn’t like to talk to people that were in charge of things? Yes, but, like it or not, there was only one answer he could reasonably give. “Okay, when?”
“Right now,” Bones replied. “Come on.”
Tre followed Bones into the main tunnel, under a low arch, and into a chilly alcove. A wooden ladder led straight up. It creaked as Bones climbed and Tre followed.
Once on top, Tre stepped off into what might have been an exploratory tunnel. Bones led him down the passageway to a crude doorframe. “Go on in . . . Once you’re done, you know how to get down again.” And with that, he left.
The Seeds of Man Page 12
