The Seeds of Man

by William C. Dietz

  “A hundred and fifty?” Charlie exclaimed. “You’re out of your mind. I’ll give you fifty.”

  “A hundred and that’s final. And the ride.”

  Charlie looked at him. “How old are you anyway?”

  “Twenty.”

  Charlie laughed. “You’re full of it, son. But you have a deal.”

  “I want the ammo up front.”

  “Of course you do,” Charlie replied as he tied his horse to a tree. “I’ll be right back.”

  As Charlie climbed up onto his wagon, Tre moved next to the fire. He hadn’t been there for more than a minute when the dogs returned. They came silently this time, flowing through the trees like water between stones. As they entered the circle of firelight, Tre saw that all of them had bloody muzzles. What had they been eating—the horse or the man?

  Tre placed a hand on the .410 and began to back away. “Stay where you are,” Charlie ordered from up on the wagon. “Don’t look them in the eye.”

  A big husky seemed to be in charge of the pack. He looked as if he might be part wolf and growled menacingly as he came forward. Charlie was on the ground by then. “That’s Blue,” he said. “I call him that because he has blue eyes. Hey, Blue, this is Tre . . . He’s a good human. Don’t buy a horse from him, though, ‘cause you’ll come up short.”

  Tre figured that was Charlie’s way of soothing the dog, and he realized something else as well. Had he wanted to, Charlie could have ordered the dogs to tear him apart. Then the old man could have kept all the loot. He looked at Charlie and saw him smile. “That’s right, son . . . You’re smart, but you missed something. But you don’t need to worry, ‘cause I’m a man of my word.”

  Blue sniffed Tre’s left hand, and he was shocked to discover that the animal came up to his waist. “Don’t touch his head,” Charlie advised. “Not till he gets to know you. But go ahead and pat him on the back.”

  Tre followed the other man’s instructions to the letter and felt a sense of relief as Blue ambled away. But he was replaced by another dog, and another, until every member of the pack had his scent. Then they went to lie, sit, and nose around the fire. “There,” Charlie said as he gave Tre two boxes of ammo. “You’re a member of the family now . . . and truth is that it will be good to have someone riding shotgun. And I mean a real shotgun. Not the .410.”

  That was how Tre came to know Charlie Winthrop and was able to ride all the way to Alpine. They traveled during the day because, as Charlie put it, “most of my customers are holed up at night, and I like to see ‘em coming.”

  The product, which Charlie referred to as “medicine,” consisted of various plant extracts, secret flavorings, and a high alcohol content. About twenty percent, to be precise. The latter was what Charlie called “the active ingredient.” All made in a distillery “up north.”

  Tre tried some of the brown liquid and spit it out. Charlie laughed. “It takes some getting used to. Plus Mother Hubbard’s Blood Tonic and Painkiller is meant for grown-ups.”

  So with two horses pulling the wagon, two following behind, and more than a dozen dogs ranging along both sides of the highway, the four-wheeled conveyance rattled along. The weather was relatively good for once, and riding on the wagon made for a pleasant break, especially given the weight of Tre’s pack.

  Every now and then they would come to a hamlet, and when they did, Charlie would pull over. If it was lunchtime they would eat. If it wasn’t they would start a fire and wait. During such interludes, Charlie would deploy a long length of chain and fasten most of the dogs to it. Blue and a couple of others were spared that indignity and allowed to roam free. It was an effective deterrent.

  Then in ones, twos, and threes the customers would appear, seemingly out of nowhere. Typically they paid with .22s, .38s, or whatever they had. Sometimes they offered a dozen eggs, part of a smoked ham, or a hunk of jerky. And when they did, Charlie generally took them up on it, because that was how he got his food. And Tre, who was armed with a twelve gauge, stood guard.

  It was during one such stop that Tre managed to trade the .30-30 for a loaf of freshly baked bread. He split it with Charlie and they ate it in a single sitting with generous dollops of strawberry jam from the old man’s larder. It was the best meal Tre had eaten in a long time.

  Eventually the Palisades Reservoir appeared off to the right side of the road. Tre knew that it was the result of a large dam a few miles to the south. There was a power plant there, or the remains of one, since it had gone offline before he was born.

  Sunlight sparkled on the water, and a scattering of fishing boats could be seen out on the reservoir as the wagon rattled along. Not long thereafter, the partnership with Charlie came to an end when the wagon crossed the bridge into Alpine and paused to pay a three-bullet toll. Unlike so many places Tre had seen, Alpine could still claim an identity thanks to the presence of the palisade-style fort the citizens had built there. It was big enough to house all the locals in an emergency, strong enough to withstand small-arms fire, and surrounded by all sorts of obstacles. That was the good news. The bad news was that residents had to join the militia, had to tithe a month’s labor each year, and were beholden to Buck Benton. He was the son of Brett Benton, who was widely credited with fortifying the town thirty years earlier, all of which explained why Tre hadn’t applied for citizenship. He liked being free even if freedom came with a lot of risks.

  All the dogs were chained up in accordance with Alpine’s rules, and they weren’t happy about it as the two men parted company. “You could come to work for me,” Charlie offered as Tre shouldered his pack. “Once I sell out, I’ll head north and take two months off. You could do the same.”

  It was a generous offer, but Tre was looking forward to going home. “Thanks, but no thanks. Take care, Charlie. You’re okay for an old man.”

  Charlie grinned. “And you’re okay for a fifteen-year-old punk.” Both laughed.

  Tre turned his back and made his way down the busy street. He saw people bringing their produce into town—rarely more than a basket or two. Just what they could grow in a makeshift hothouse. There were predators too. They stood alone or in small groups, scanning those who passed by. Looking for what? A wealthy target? A potential client? Tre was careful to give them a wide berth.

  Girls could be seen as well, always with someone else, because it would be dangerous to venture out alone. And Tre couldn’t help but wonder about them, even though he knew they were forever out of reach. The mere thought of trying to talk to such a creature was terrifying.

  Tre followed old Highway 89 out of town and headed south. His plan was to pass through the hamlet of Freedom and follow 34 into Idaho. His home, which he called the Tangle, was a few miles south of Wayan, a community in name only. The hike would take the better part of two days. But thanks to the mild weather, Tre could strap the snowshoes to his pack, and that allowed him to move more freely.

  A good deal of commerce flowed through Star Valley, so Tre saw people coming and going. Some rode horses, but most were on foot, and it was necessary to keep an eye on them lest he fall victim to a quick stab and grab. To that end, Tre was careful to check his back trail frequently—and to leave the highway when people threatened to overtake him. The key was to wait until a curve hid him from view. Then he would make for a grove of trees and stay there until the other travelers passed him.

  Even with such interruptions, Tre made good progress and passed through Freedom just before sunset. There was a fortified inn, but he had no desire to sleep on a bedbug-infested mattress so he passed it by. Tre had traveled the route many times and usually spent the night at the edge of a fallow field not far from a small stream. A thicket of trees helped screen him from the highway and made a good windbreak.

  It took less than fifteen minutes to start a fire, put a can of stew on to heat, and pitch his tent. After a hot dinner, it was time to clean up, brush his teeth, and hit the sack. The rain began with a gentle tap, tap, tap, and soon escalated into a gentle roar
. And that was fine with Tre, since foul weather was likely to keep the bad guys at home. So with one hand on the .410 he drifted off to sleep.

  After a relatively good night’s rest, meaning one in which he allowed himself to sleep two hours at a time, Tre rose to discover that the sun was out. It went a long way toward lifting his spirits as he rekindled the fire, boiled a large quantity of oatmeal, and sprinkled some of Bob’s brown sugar on it.

  Once breakfast was over, Tre broke camp and began the last leg of his journey. Highway 34 ran between the Caribou and Webster mountain ranges. Some of the hillsides were bare, while others were forested. The road snaked back and forth between them as it crossed rivers, curved around lakes, and led him steadily upward. But the scenery was gorgeous and even the weight of Tre’s pack couldn’t stop him from enjoying it.

  He walked all day, pausing only for lunch before starting downhill. He saw very few people, only one of whom was worth taking note of. He was riding a large tricycle with a cargo area in back, and that was intriguing. Tre figured he could build one, and unlike a horse, it wouldn’t have to be fed! There was a downside, however, as such a vehicle could attract the wrong sort of attention.

  Finally, just short of Wayan, Tre turned onto a dirt track that led south. Five minutes later he left the path for a copse of trees. Tre was pretty confident that he hadn’t been followed but forced himself to check anyway.

  After watching the area for fifteen minutes, he left the hiding spot and returned to the path. It led through an old homestead, past an empty-eyed house, and onto a trail so faint it was difficult to tell that it had once been a driveway. Then he veered off the trail in order to climb a lightly treed slope. A couple of scrawny pines and a clutch of boulders marked the point where he could look down on his home.

  He ‘d come across the property not long after his mother’s death and decided to camp there. It had been a horse farm once, with a house, barn, and corral, but at some point the house caught fire and burned to the ground. Then, over the intervening years, blackberry vines grew up around the ruins to create a thick tangle.

  If it hadn’t been for the comings and goings of a feral cat, Tre would never have thought to look farther. But the animal clearly had a home inside the briar patch, which raised the possibility that there were hidden nooks and crannies within the ruins, places that might be home to items he could use or trade.

  After battling his way into the center of the stickers, and suffering a dozen scratches in the process, Tre found charred wood, a concrete foundation, and a set of rubble-strewn stairs that led down into a generously proportioned basement. Tre saw the possibilities right away and went to work perfecting his new home that very afternoon.

  Now, as he scanned the site with the Nikon binoculars, Tre was searching for any sign that his sanctuary had been compromised—a tendril of smoke, boot prints on a patch of snow, or a newly cut path through the stickers, any of which could spell trouble. But no, as far as Tre could tell, everything was exactly as he had left it.

  The next step was to circle wide, retrieve the rubber boots hidden upstream from the Tangle, and walk down the creek, a strategy calculated to avoid footprints and the possibility of a new trail—the sort of wear pattern that could lead bandits straight to his hidey-hole.

  Calf-deep water splashed away from his boots as Tre made his way downstream and entered a shallow pool. There had been some vegetation on the north bank but Tre had planted more to camouflage the main entrance, which consisted of a sturdy door that could be barred from within. Beyond that was a carefully engineered tunnel reinforced with lumber scavenged from the remains of the tumbledown barn. It slanted up to a hole in the concrete floor. After closing the door behind him, Tre shoved the pack uphill into the room above.

  It was pitch-black inside, so Tre lit a match and went around the room lighting candles. They were the cheapest, most dependable source of light he had. He had lanterns too, but they required fuel that was not only expensive, but heavy. A solar panel was hidden up in the tangle above, but it was difficult for sunlight to reach it, and when it did, only a fraction of what went in could be retrieved from the system’s ancient battery.

  Once all the candles were aglow, the room was suffused with a soft flickering glow and the shadows were forced back to reveal Tre’s one-room world. There was storage in the back, a bed against one wall, and a working commode opposite that. The toilet had been there from the beginning and emptied into an underground septic tank.

  A small Jøtul wood-burning stove was located in one corner of the space, with a reading nook on one side and the kitchen counter on the other. It featured a sink that Tre could fill with water pumped up from the creek. That drained into a five-gallon bucket that supplied the water he used to flush the toilet.

  Tre heard a noise followed by a strident meow as a sleek-looking cat slipped into the room via a two-by-four ramp constructed for his convenience. He was black with white markings, and very independent. “Hey, Ninja,” Tre said. “Did you miss me? No, of course you didn’t. I brought you a present, though . . . It’s from a man named Bob.”

  Ninja was the one who had unintentionally revealed the basement to Tre and, though entirely self-sufficient, continued to sleep there and kept the space free of pests. His big yellow eyes watched Tre as he opened the pack and produced a can of condensed milk. Once the treat had been poured into a bowl, Ninja went over to check it out. Three seconds later he was lapping away. Tre smiled. It was good to be home.

  After a leisurely evening and an uninterrupted night of sleep, Tre arose ready to do what he enjoyed almost as much as reading, and that was building things, especially useful things, like the small hydro-generator described on page 63 of the book 101 Science Projects. If Tre could build one and install the turbine in the creek, he could power some electric lights, and that would replace the need to use candles, lanterns, and the iffy solar power system.

  So Tre took the book back to his neatly organized storage area and began to run through the parts list. He was going to need some cardboard to cut templates from, copper wire for coils, eight spoons, which would serve as turbine blades, something to make a rotor out of, a plastic tank similar to the old weed sprayer he had, and four strong magnets. And that was where he came up short. Tre had some kitchen cabinet magnets but knew they wouldn’t be strong enough for the job. What to do?

  The question continued to dog Tre after he put the book aside. He had a strong desire to go out and find the magnets, but every trip entailed risk, and the more trips he made, the more likely it was that something would go wrong.

  Tre thought about it as he did his chores, dreamed about it that night, and awoke with the decision made. He would make the two-day trip to Afton. That was the town most likely to have what he needed—then he’d come straight back. The trip would take four days in all. To speed him on his way and reduce the chances of being robbed, he would wear his most ragged clothing and carry a minimum of gear.

  After a quick breakfast and some careful preparations, Tre said good-bye to Ninja and left. Now it was time to walk upstream, hide the rubber boots, and circle around to a second viewpoint, where he spent ten minutes scanning the surrounding area before heading for the highway. He was dressed in an old parka over a hoodie and raggedy jeans, the knapsack was half the size of the pack he’d carried on the trip to Jackson, and his weapons consisted of the Bowie knife he had taken off the dead bandit and a six-foot-long metal tube. It was decorated with three leather sleeves, string windings, and touches of paint.

  It was cold, the snow was crunchy, and Tre had the highway to himself as he walked east. He saw people as the day wore on, but not very many, and none of them showed any interest in the scarecrow with the tiny pack and the metal pole.

  Rather than camp outside Freedom as he had before, Tre elected to turn south toward Afton. The night was spent in the mummy bag curled up in the trunk of a rusty Cadillac. Breakfast consisted of oatmeal cooked over a can of Sterno. Then it was off to Afton
.

  There was little to no traffic on Highway 89 at first, but by midmorning Tre was part of a parade that consisted of hikers, people on horseback, and donkey-drawn carts. About half were going south as he was, and the others were headed north, having already been to Afton.

  Tre didn’t like having people all around him, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Besides, he told himself, there’s safety in numbers. There were no guarantees, but bandits were less likely to attack him in such a situation, since they had no way to know how the other travelers would respond. They might decide to mind their own business or they might open fire on the thieves. Very few bandits wanted to take that chance.

  At about three p.m., Tre saw the haze of smoke that marked Afton in the distance and was soon lost in the mob of people who were lined up to pass through the town’s northern checkpoint. It consisted of two buildings: one for those who wanted to enter the city and one for those who were leaving.

  There was no way to circumvent the so-called customs stations because of the six-foot-tall barbed-wire fence that ran all away around Afton. And the three-story watchtowers that guarded each corner of the perimeter made it impossible to climb the fence without being spotted. The fence had a secondary purpose as well, and that was to slow invaders down in the case of an all-out attack and give the citizens more time to respond.

  Tre understood the reason for the security measures but felt a rising sense of tension as he shuffled forward—not because of a specific threat, but because the citizens of Afton had all the power, and once he entered their town he would be subject to their rules, all of which were set up to benefit them.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it was Tre’s turn to enter the pedestrian pass-through, where a pair of guards blocked the way. There was a window on the right, and Tre turned to face it. The man behind the bars was going bald, had a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, and looked bored. “Are you carrying firearms? If so, slide them through the hole, butt first, and I’ll check them for you.”