Seeds

by Chris Mandeville

  “Do you think they have cars that work?” he asked.

  “They haven’t come north to where we live, so it seems unlikely they have the means. But you never know. Either way, I’m anxious to see their faces when they get a load of us.”

  “Maybe they have contact with other groups of people. Maybe they know where to find grown food, even though it doesn’t look like they grow it themselves.”

  “We can hope.” Tinker put the binocs on the dash. “I got to whiz again. Can you believe it? The joys of getting old. Be right back.”

  “I don’t think so, old-timer.” A brown-skinned man inserted the muzzle of a shotgun through Tinker’s window.

  Reid felt the blood drain from his face. A similar man was outside his window with a revolver.

  “Is this always how you welcome visitors?” Tinker asked, holding his hands up by his shoulders.

  “Get out of the car. Slowly,” the first man said.

  Reid glanced at Tinker. “No,” he mouthed. “Drive.”

  Tinker shook his head.

  “No talking! Hurry up!” the second man shouted, gesturing with the revolver.

  Reid’s hand shook as he opened his door. The man grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him out of the car.

  “Check him over good, Mario,” the first man said.

  Mario patted every inch of Reid with his free hand.

  “We’re friendly,” Reid said, feeling ridiculous as soon as he said it.

  “Found this.” Mario pulled the Swiss Army knife from Reid’s front pocket. “Other than that, he’s clean.”

  “We didn’t come to fight you,” Reid said, hating the quiver in his voice.

  “Shut up.” Mario pointed his gun again. “Move.”

  Reid followed Tinker to the church, their hands atop their heads as instructed. Reid wasn’t about to argue. He and Tinker sat on the crumbling cement steps. Mario and two other men held guns on them, while the first guy and several others swarmed over the Hummer.

  “It’ll be all right, son,” Tinker said in a low voice.

  “No talking! Shove over. Not so close,” Mario said.

  Reid met his grandpa’s eyes then scooted a couple feet away. Were they going to kill them? His heart was beating fast, and sweat ran down his back and forehead. He wiped his face on his shoulder and tried to slow his pulse. They’d get out of this. They had to.

  While Mario and his compatriots kept watch over them, the others pulled the supplies out of the Hummer. They found the pistols and rifles under the seats, and the extra ammo and shotguns in the back. They were already hauling the drums of water into the church.

  “Let’s talk about this,” Tinker shouted toward the car. “I want to speak to whoever’s in charge.”

  “Shut your hole.” A man swung the butt of his shotgun into Tinker’s face.

  “Pops!”

  Tinker fell back, blood pouring from his mouth. He tried to sit up, but he was dazed.

  “Let me help him.” Reid scrambled toward Tinker, but Mario’s boot blocked his way. “Pops, stay still. Put pressure on your lip.”

  “Why can’t you people shut up?” Mario’s face was red, tendons bulging in his neck. He sounded on edge, like he’d love an excuse to pull the trigger.

  Reid clamped his mouth shut, silently urging Tinker to do the same.

  “Take the rest of the stuff inside,” a man called, obviously an authority. “Bring the prisoners around back. We’ll finish dealing with them there.”

  Reid’s heart raced as he scanned for some way to escape. He tried to think like a soldier, like a Remote. What would Kayla do? There had to be a way out of this mess, but he couldn’t see it.

  Thirty-Three

  Lost Angeles, Pascal’s private dining room

  “Father, you should have seen it.” Linus ate the meat from the back of the fork without putting down his knife or repositioning the fork to his other hand. He continued to talk while he chewed. “My Blades swooped in and grabbed the thief so fast he didn’t even yell. His basket tipped over and cans went everywhere, but my men didn’t stumble. The guy didn’t know what hit him.” He added another forkful of meat to the half-pulverized chunks still in his mouth.

  Pascal didn’t correct the boy. Why should he? Linus didn’t need table manners to lead. He’d never need them to win a woman or an election. He would take his rightful office and ensure his position through his actions and prowess in the field. He need not ever worry about such petty things as etiquette. “They took the thief to the Tank?”

  “I ordered them to.” Linus took his last bite of meat and moved on to a large bowl of fruit.

  “And?” Pascal added salt and pepper to his vegetables.

  “They obeyed my command, of course. The sergeant, what’s-his-name, he said ‘yes, sir’ and tied the guy’s hands. Made him run all the way.”

  “You should know the names of your soldiers,” Pascal admonished gently.

  “It was . . . it was Navens. No, Nathans. Definitely Nathans. Sorry, I won’t forget again.”

  “Good.” Pascal took a long pull from his glass. Linus probably assumed it was water like his own, though Pascal would tell him the truth if he asked. He wondered when it would be time to introduce him to something stronger than wine. Better sooner than later so he’d gain a mastery over it rather than risking the other way around. The same was true for women, now that Linus was showing an interest. “What are your plans for tomorrow?”

  “I wanted to take Mother for a carriage ride and show her what my platoon can do, but she’s sick again.”

  “That’s what I hear.” Pascal chewed slowly. “With your mother indisposed, what will you do instead?”

  “Why? Do you have a mission for me? My team is well-trained, I can tell already. We can do whatever you need.”

  “There is something . . . but I don’t know if you’re ready,” Pascal said, baiting the hook. “It’s more complicated than bringing in a thief.”

  “I’m ready. Give me the chance and I’ll show you. My men and I can handle anything.”

  “This particular mission would be for you alone, and it requires guile and finesse. There is more to leading men than brute strength and barking orders.”

  “I know, Father. I can handle it.”

  Pascal took another slow drink, drawing the moment out as he gauged whether his son was as ready for the mission as he was eager. “Linus, this is a surveillance and information-gathering mission, and frankly, I was thinking about assigning someone a bit older, more seasoned.”

  “A person’s age is not a good measure of his worth. I command Blades who are twice my age.”

  You’ve commanded them for a day, Pascal thought. Instead he said, “This is true. But the subject in question is closer to my age. A man of position.”

  “Who is he? Tell me the man and the mission, and I’ll judge if I can handle it. You know I can keep a secret, so what harm is it to tell me?”

  “That’s a good answer.” Pascal smiled, and Linus beamed back at him. “Come, we’ll discuss it over a drink.”

  Linus followed him to the veranda, wisely holding his tongue until he had a drink in hand, though Pascal could sense his impatience bubbling beneath the surface.

  “This isn’t wine,” Linus said, holding his snifter up to the sunset.

  “It’s cognac. What do you think?”

  Linus smelled the cognac then tipped his glass to his lips. He held the liquid in his mouth a moment before swallowing, as he’d been taught to do with wine, then he tipped his head, looking thoughtful. “It’s like wine, but stronger.”

  “Very perceptive. Keep that in mind when you enjoy brandy and other spirits. You must learn to gauge its effect and not let it get the better of you. A momentary lapse in judgment with a bottle, or a woman, can be more dangerous than a momentary lapse of attention in a fight with a skilled adversary.”

  “Yes, Father.” Linus placed his glass on the patio table and sat on one of a pair of wooden slat rocke
rs, looking at him expectantly.

  Pascal sat in the other chair. He cradled his snifter in both hands, bringing it to his nose and appreciating the bouquet, then taking a slow sip. Linus had been patient long enough. “The mission is of the utmost importance, Linus. It concerns your mother.”

  “Mother? Why, what’s wrong?” Linus came forward on his chair, his brow drawn in concern.

  “I’m hoping you can shed some light on that. When you were at the coast, did she seem in good health to you?”

  “She was fine.”

  “As I suspected. This is what’s troubling. Does it concern you that when she’s away she’s well, and then immediately upon her return she becomes ill? Didn’t the same thing happen when she returned from your excursion last month?”

  “Now that you mention it. But what does this have to do with the mission?”

  “Perhaps it’s nothing, but . . .” Pascal savored his cognac, noting Linus’s rapt attention. “I know you are familiar with Dr. Van Hooten, your mother’s physician.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve noticed over the last several months that your mother has become ill after seeing the doctor. She had an appointment when you got back from the coast, correct?”

  “Yes. So you think it’s not a coincidence, that he’s causing Mother to be sick?” Linus scooted to the edge of his chair, leaning forward, cognac forgotten.

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “Have others become ill after seeing him? Or do you think it’s something specifically to do with my mother? Why would he do something like that? What would he have to gain?”

  “Those are good questions, and I don’t know the answers. Which is the very reason I need someone to check into this.”

  “If he’s making people sick on purpose, we have to stop him!”

  “Yes, and while I appreciate your enthusiasm, we can’t be too hasty. I don’t have to tell you how few doctors we have. This could be coincidence. There are germs in a doctor’s office. It’s reasonable that someone would become ill afterward.”

  “But Mother doesn’t go to his office. Dr. Van Hooten comes to her.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Of course, this was something Pascal was already well aware of, but he wanted Linus to put the pieces together himself.

  “Besides, he’s a doctor—he knows how to keep germs from spreading. I don’t think it’s a coincidence.” Linus straightened, a determined look on his face.

  “We can’t afford to jump to conclusions, son. This must be handled deftly, delicately.”

  “I can be very shrewd and calculating, Father. Van Hooten still thinks of me as a child. I can find out what he’s doing without him ever suspecting. I know I can. You have to give me this assignment. I said I’d tell you if I could handle it or not. There is no one better for this job.”

  “Linus.” Pascal paused until Linus stopped fidgeting. “If our suspicions prove true, this is a grave matter. How we handle it will have broad-reaching effects.”

  “I know.” The boy was impassioned, hands clenched, leaning forward in his chair.

  “Do you?” This was the critical part. Did Linus actually understand what measures might be needed?

  “Father, if it were revealed that a doctor was harming our citizens—especially my own mother—right under our noses, we’d have to respond with an iron fist. We would show the people that his actions did not go undetected and that no one can get away with such a heinous act.”

  “Yes.” Pascal nodded. Linus did indeed have a grasp on the implications, but was he ready to take the necessary action himself? “But consider this. How such a criminal is dealt with after being caught reflects directly on the man who apprehends him. If this man is you—you who are to govern this city one day—how you respond to such an extreme crime will demonstrate what kind of leader you are. I won’t put you in a position to appear weak before your people, so if you’re not ready to see this through to the end, you must not participate at all.”

  “Father, I can handle it.”

  “There is no shame if you’re not ready to mete out the necessary consequences.”

  “Let me do this. I promise, I won’t let you down.”

  “I know you won’t, son. The mission is yours.”

  And so it begins. Pascal leaned back and smiled to himself. Soon, he’d be able to savor a sunset and a cognac with his son, without interference from that bitch, Maybelline.

  Thirty-Four

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Acid pooled in Reid’s gut as he and Tinker were taken behind the church. They were outmanned twelve to one, and outgunned a hundred to nothing. There was no possibility of overpowering their captors, no way to escape. They’d have to talk, trick, or bargain their way out, or they were going to die just one day into their journey, before they’d really even begun.

  The wooden door to a small annex stood propped open with a brick. The men shoved them into the small room toward two metal chairs in the center of a cracked tile floor. Tinker stumbled forward and Reid caught his elbow.

  “Sit,” someone commanded.

  Reid tried to assess Tinker’s condition as he helped him to a chair. He’d taken a bad blow. He could have a concussion. Reid took the seat next to him, racking his brain for some way to convince the men to let them go.

  A hulking man crossed the room. His hands were empty, and there was no gun on him that Reid could see. Other men filed in, lining the perimeter of the room. They all had guns. Additional men were visible outside, and the occasional flash of sunlight on metal indicated they were armed, too.

  Mario sidled up to the big man and glared at Reid, fingering his shiny revolver.

  Reid took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, remembering his grandpa’s familiar admonition, “Never let ’em see you sweat.” Reid was determined to do Tinker proud, and tried his best to keep his terror from showing, even though the prospect of getting out of there alive was looking worse by the second.

  The man without the gun scrutinized them. Reid tried to calm himself by assessing him like a patient. His brown skin had a healthy tone, with the exception of sun damage and wrinkles around the eyes and across the forehead. Though the man’s hair and mustache were solid black, Reid placed him around fifty. His large hands were rough and calloused, and the back of his neck was darkened from hours under the sun. He was physically powerful, and obviously in charge. Reid didn’t read anger in the firm set of his mouth, but he could tell the man was no one he wanted to tangle with. One word from him, and the others would do his bidding, whether that was to shoot them or to let them go.

  Reid still didn’t have a plan, but he had to say something. He took a breath, hoping the words would come to him as he went along. “Sir? My name’s—”

  “You the boss here?” Tinker interrupted, his tone unapologetic.

  The unarmed man nodded. “My name is Manuel Garcia,” he said with the quiet assuredness of someone who did not need to raise his voice. “I have not seen you among McClellan’s men before.”

  “I don’t know a McClellan. I’m Tinker Landers, and this is my grandson, Reid. We’re from Cheyenne Mountain. Up north in Colorado Springs. We’re not your enemy. You have no cause to hold us prisoner.”

  “You entered our land armed, and you are not one of us,” Garcia said. “That makes you the enemy.”

  “Now what kind of enemy would drive up to your building and leave their weapons under the seat?” Tinker asked.

  “A pretty stupid one,” someone said. The remark was met by scattered laughter.

  “Pops.” Reid tried to get his attention, to warn him to tone it down, but Tinker forged ahead, one hundred percent focused on Garcia.

  “Listen to me,” Tinker said. “What did I do when your men came at me? I said hello. We didn’t attack, we didn’t even defend ourselves.”

  “Since they didn’t attack, I say that makes them spies,” the joker said. There was another smattering of laughter and some encouraging murmurs, but Garcia�
�s expression didn’t change.

  “We’re not spies, and we’re not your enemy,” Tinker continued. “We came from Colorado hoping to make contact with other human beings. From up on the ridge we saw smoke out at the air base. We stopped here to scope it out. We didn’t see this McClellan or anyone else, but I wish to God we had. They might have been a bit more hospitable.” Tinker thrust out his chin in a clear challenge.

  Garcia narrowed his eyes.

  The room was silent, like everyone was waiting for Garcia to rain down hell on the cocky intruders.

  Shit. Whatever Tinker’s plan was, it was backfiring.

  Garcia took a step closer to Tinker. Reid braced himself, ready to defend his grandfather.

  After a long pause, Garcia spoke. “Sir?” he asked Tinker, his tone deferential. “Are you a religious man?”

  Oh no. Don’t tell him how you really feel, Pops.

  “We come from a deeply Christian community where my son—his father,” Tinker pointed at Reid, “was the bishop. Why do you ask?”

  Reid exhaled, silently thanking Tinker for not telling the whole truth. He sensed that voicing his contempt for organized religion would have been the exact wrong thing to do.

  “I ask because,” Garcia said, dropping to one knee, “I want to believe your story. Before you arrived, I was in church praying for a way to defeat our enemy. Then you drove up in that vehicle full of weapons, but none aimed at us. Now I ask myself, how could that not be a sign?” He stared earnestly at Tinker, who looked as dumbfounded as Reid felt.

  “Father?” one of the armed men said, stepping forward.

  “Domingo,” Garcia said, standing. “I ask you, Domingo. Are these men, their weapons, and their vehicle not the answer to my prayers?”

  “I . . . it would appear so,” Domingo said.

  “Is this the way we treat a gift from God?” Garcia asked the armed men at large.

  The men looked at each other, seemingly as puzzled as Reid.