The Seeds of Man

by William C. Dietz

  The next two days passed without incident. Then, on the morning of the third day, they came for her. She was cleaning one of the guest rooms when the door opened and a man entered. A second merc stood in the hall. “Are you Lora Larsy?”

  “Y-y-yes, master.”

  “Come with me . . . Lord Voss wants to speak with you.”

  Lord Voss? Lora couldn’t imagine why Voss would want to speak with her. Had she done something wrong? No, she couldn’t think of anything. And that made the summons even more frightening.

  The mercenaries escorted her down the main staircase to the entry area and from there into Voss’s office. The food lord was present, as was Mr. Trenton and a raggedy-looking Larry Pruett. Voss was seated behind a large desk, and his piercing blue eyes seemed to look right through her. He nodded to Pruett. “Do you know this man?”

  Lora could feel some sort of trap closing around her but didn’t know what it was. “Y-y-yes, master.”

  “Good. Now, Pruett claims that you belonged to the same commune that he did before the Crusaders raided it. And that’s how you wound up here. Correct?”

  Lora was mystified. Why would Voss care? There was no way to know. “Y-y-yes, master.”

  “But before that, before you arrived at the commune, you were part of another community. Something called the Sanctuary. A place that, according to Pruett here, houses a secret depository of seeds. Precious seeds representing plant species from all over the world. In fact, he claims the Sanctuary is an underground city powered by a nuclear reactor. Is that true?”

  Lora felt something verging on panic. Pruett knew about the Sanctuary because the leavers had spoken of it when they used the seeds to buy a place in the commune. Now she found herself in the peculiar position of having to decide the fate of people who hated her. People like Matt, Becky, and Kristy. But there were others too . . . Innocents like Cory, Mr. Wilkes, and Mrs. Olson. If she said yes, Voss would go to the Sanctuary, where he would enslave or kill the entire population. So there was only one thing she could say. “No.”

  A thunderous look appeared on Voss’s face. “No? So Pruett is lying?”

  That was when Pruett produced a horrible screeching sound and took two steps forward. A merc drew his revolver with lightning speed and fired. A .45-caliber bullet struck the back of Pruett’s left leg and pulverized his knee joint. He screamed, fell, and clutched the wound. “Oh, my God . . . Oh, my God . . . It hurts!”

  “Yes, I’ll bet it does,” Voss said as he circled the desk. “Now, tell me the truth. Does the Sanctuary exist?”

  “Yes!” Pruett insisted. “She’s lying. Please . . . help me.”

  “I will,” Voss promised as he pulled the hammer of his pistol back. Lora closed her eyes, heard a loud boom, and opened them. Pruett was dead.

  Voss lowered the .45 and turned to look at her. “Listen carefully . . . You could be an overseer. You could live a life of luxury. All you have to do is tell me where the Sanctuary is.”

  A layer of gun smoke hung in the air. Lora could taste it. She struggled to swallow the lump in her throat. “No.”

  “Throw her into the hole,” Voss ordered. “Oh, and send a message to Mrs. Winters . . . We’re going to need a maid over here. There’s blood on the floor.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Near Afton, Wyoming, USA

  Most of the gang were still asleep when Tre rolled out of bed, got dressed, and went looking for something to eat. Spartan though the hideout was, it felt good to be back, especially with about four tons of newly acquired weaponry stashed deep in the main mine shaft.

  Now, looking back on it, Tre figured that finding the container had been the easy part. Then came the task of finding and buying the animals and wagons required to move eight tons of arms and equipment, a process that took the better part of two weeks. But that wasn’t all. Once under way, Crow’s bandits had to protect their wealth from other bandits—like the band of wild men who attacked the wagon train west of Soda Springs.

  The men were mounted on good horses and naked to their waists, so as to show off the intricate tattoos that covered their arms and torsos. There was nothing subtle about the attack. Just wild screams followed by an all-out charge as groups of riders tried to surround individual wagons and cut them off from the rest.

  Primitive though the strategy was, it might have worked had it not been for the fact that Crow’s gang was better armed. And they had learned something from the defeat in they’d suffered weeks earlier. Two of the wagons were armed with light machine guns, and once the tarps were removed, the wild men began to die. Horses screamed as they went down. Some of the riders jumped free but were torn apart as they tried to run. “Kill them!” Crow shouted. “Kill them or they will bring more bandits down on us.”

  Horrible though it was, everyone knew Crow was correct. So Tre, Knife, and the scouts rode the fugitives down. Finally, when the bloody business was finished, all the attackers were dead. It would have been nice to bury the bodies and thereby erase all signs that a battle had taken place, but they lacked the time and manpower necessary to do so.

  The final leg of the journey was arduous as well. After crossing the Caribou Mountains at night, they’d had to hide the cargo for three days while selling the wagons and buying mules. Once that task was accomplished, they still had to complete the trip to the mine, a nerve-wracking journey that left everyone exhausted.

  That’s why Hog was the only other person present as Tre entered the so-called cafeteria. “Morning,” the cook said cheerfully. “The larder’s kinda low until we buy more food. But I can offer you some fresh cornbread and hot water for tea.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Tre replied. “Thank you.” After collecting his breakfast, Tre sat down at one of the wooden tables and opened a copy of The Three Musketeers.

  Crow arrived three minutes later. That was a surprise since he rarely made an appearance before ten o’clock. His hair was tousled and the bandit leader was dressed in a tattered bathrobe and cowboy boots. “There you are,” Crow said as he dropped onto a chair. Then, having eyed the book, he nodded. “My favorite character is Aramis.”

  “I like d’Artagnan,” Tre replied.

  “Of course you do,” Crow said indulgently. “But you’ll have to put him on hold.”

  “Why?”

  “Remember the plan? The one you never stop needling me about?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now we have the weapons required to fight Voss. What we lack is the manpower. And for an effort like ours, we can’t hire people. Not if we want real change.”

  “So we’ll recruit people.”

  “That could work,” Crow agreed. “But it would take a lot of time. So I have something else in mind. An approach that will strike a blow for freedom, build our reputation, and provide us with the army we need.”

  Tre slipped a scrap of paper into the book and put it down. If Crow was going to get up off his butt, that was a good thing. “Okay, what’s the plan?”

  “There’s a tech lord named Jeremy Kimble,” Crow replied. “He runs a garbage mine in what used to be Idaho Falls. And from what I hear it’s very profitable. So much so that he has a hundreds of slaves digging the stuff out of the ground while more people work to clean and refurbish anything that still has value.”

  “So?”

  “So we could raid the place, free the slaves, and turn some of them into soldiers.”

  Tre looked at Crow with a renewed sense of respect. “That’s why you hid half the weapons on the west side of the Caribou Mountains. Closer to Idaho Falls.”

  Crow nodded. “That and the fact that it would be stupid to keep our arsenal in one place.”

  “Okay,” Tre said. “That makes sense. We free and arm them. When do we leave?”

  “Not so fast,” Crow replied. “Kimble will have plenty of mercs. You can count on that. And remember . . . Our army, if any, is off in the future. We’ll be outnumbered when we attack. Yes, our weapons will help to even the odds,
but it will still be difficult.”

  Crow smiled. “Unless the slaves revolt at the same time we attack, that is . . . Then things will be different. That would require putting someone on the inside, of course. A person who could lead the revolt.”

  Tre looked around and realized that Hog was out of earshot and had been throughout. Crow had chosen to speak solely to him. Why? The answer scared him. “Why me?” Tre demanded. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

  “No,” Crow replied gravely. “You’re my conscience. I need you. But you’re also the best man for the job. You’re smart, tech savvy, and people like you. Besides, I plan to send Knife as well. It will be his job to keep you alive.”

  Tre noticed the use of the word “man” and wondered if Crow was pandering. If so, there was no sign of it in his eyes. “And the rest of the gang?”

  “I’ll tell them when they need to know.”

  Tre nodded. The security measure made sense.

  “I’ll give you four weeks,” Crow said. “Then we’ll attack. Finish your breakfast, though . . . You’re going to need your strength..”

  Tre, Knife, and Smoke left the next morning. The plan was for the men to leave their good weapons with Smoke once they reached the outskirts of Idaho Falls. Her job was to watch the mining operation from the outside and gather as much information as she could, intel she would pass to Crow when the rest of the gang arrived.

  After the threesome made their way down out of the mountains, they followed Highway 89 north to Alpine, where they turned onto Highway 26 westbound. During the next couple of days they passed through Palisades, Irwin, and Swan Valley all without incident. Except for some grenades, or “equalizers,” as Smoke referred to them, they weren’t carrying military-grade weapons, because to do so might attract the wrong sort of attention—which was to say any attention whatsoever.

  But they were still well armed, and that plus the way they carried themselves was sufficient to deter the drifters, highwaymen, and part-time bandits who made a living by preying on the weak. They arrived on the outskirts of Idaho Falls around noon on the third day. It wasn’t pretty. A firestorm had consumed the city at some point during the disastrous civil war. The result of a bombing mission, perhaps. Tre knew that both sides of the conflict had been guilty of targeting population centers. Not that it made any difference. What was, was.

  That didn’t mean the city was empty of human life. Tre suspected that there were plenty of people living in the ruins, a fact that would make the next few weeks challenging for Smoke. But the scout was very good at what she did—and as hard to capture as the substance she was named for.

  Unfortunately there was no way to hide and feed the horses that Tre and Knife were riding—which was why second-rate mounts had been chosen for the trip. So once a hiding place had been chosen and Smoke’s supplies were offloaded, Tre and Knife said good-bye and rode down Highway 26. The sky was gray, it was raining, and water was dripping off the brim of Tre’s hat. He was looking for the Hemmert Avenue exit, and as luck would have it, the lopsided sign could still be read. The moment they turned off the freeway, they were in Kimble’s territory—a fact that quickly became evident.

  The techies came swarming up out of basements, storm drains, and bomb craters. There were dozens of them, all clad in soiled coveralls and wearing half-mask respirators. It was possible to see their eyes but not their noses or mouths as they closed in. “Stop!” one of them ordered, his voice partially muffled. “Put your hands up.”

  Tre pulled back on the reins, looped them around the saddle horn, and raised his hands. Knife did likewise. That was the signal for the strange-looking soldiers to close in. They took control of the horses, confiscated the sacrificial third-rate rifles that both men were carrying, and ordered the prisoners to dismount. Tre had been expecting the trap, had knowingly walked into it, but was frightened nevertheless. He let that show. “Please,” he said, “don’t hurt us.”

  “Don’t worry, boyo,” a voice said as Tre’s feet hit the ground. “We’ll be real gentle. Ain’t that right, Jack?”

  “Oh, yeah,” a burly figure replied. “We’ll tuck you in every night.” That produced a chorus of guffaws.

  “Put your hands on top of your head,” a third techie said. “Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

  Rough hands patted both men down and located their knives. Tre was carrying a few matches, a snare, and a toy compass. That was all. “The rifles are worthless,” one of the men concluded. “They have sixteen rounds of ammo between them, and the paring knives are a joke. Not much of a haul.”

  “Plus the horses,” a hopeful voice said.

  “We can eat ‘em,” the techie behind Tre put in. “That’s all they’re good for.” And with that, he gave Tre a shove. “Start walkin’, boyo . . . The pit boss is waitin’ to see you.”

  Tre stumbled forward. One boot landed in a puddle and water splashed. Everything seemed hyper-real: the raindrops on his face, the cloud of seagulls that rose from somewhere up ahead, and the sickly sweet smell of rotting garbage.

  They came to a cyclone fence and a gate that swung open to let them pass. Tre saw rows of truck trailers off to his right and wondered what they were for. But his thoughts were cut short when one of the men shoved a gun barrel into his back.

  The path was paved with objects that had been smashed down into the mud to form a mosaic of metal, plastic, and glass. Piles of reclaimed objects could be seen all around. Tre saw hills made out of electric toasters, metal chairs, and plastic toys. The latter came in a rainbow of primary colors and had survived more than fifty years in the ground without any signs of decay.

  Then came an open area, more screaming gulls, and a sight unlike anything Tre had seen before. The pit was circular, thousands of yards across, and hundreds of feet deep. A blue flame was burning at the center of the open pit mine. It wavered as a breeze struck it, and Tre knew he was looking at methane gas being vented from deep below.

  Farther out, around the perimeter of the pit, tiny humans could be seen. They were hard at work digging objects out of the matrix. Other slaves, men with baskets of junk on their backs, formed a line that snaked up the spiral road to a point off to Tre’s left. As they arrived, other people rushed forward to grab their baskets and carry them to a screening table. It was a vast enterprise, and Tre was impressed. “That’s far enough,” a techie said, and jerked Tre to a stop. “Wait here.”

  So they stood in the pouring rain, taking all of it in, until a man without a respirator rounded a pile of scrap metal and limped their way. Damp hair grew in patches on his scabrous scalp, and an open sore was visible high on his left cheek. But perhaps the most noticeable thing about his appearance was the prosthetic leg strapped to his right thigh. There was no way to know for sure, but Tre figured that it, too, had been recovered from the dump.

  “I’m the pit boss,” the man said. “Welcome to Kimble Enterprises. At least you look healthy. Not like the animated skeletons they bring me most of the time. In fact, given a bit of luck, you could last five or six months.”

  At that point, the pit boss looked expectant, as if his cheerful assessment might be sufficient to produce some smiles, but none were forthcoming. “Okay,” the pit boss continued. “Our work force consists of diggers, sorters, haulers, and techs. Most people start out as diggers, and you’re most people, so that’s what you’re gonna do. There’s a lot of ways to get killed in the pit—so pay attention to what the other scabs tell you. Take ‘em away.”

  As Tre and Knife were led down the spiral road, heavily laden haulers were traveling in the opposite direction with loads of artifacts on their backs. Most of the items were carried in baskets, but some were tied to pack boards. And the people hauling these loads were so tired, or so beaten down, that none bothered to look at the newcomers. Could they be transformed into an army? Not based on appearances. Tre felt his spirits sink further.

  As the pit walls rose around them, plastic bags could be seen hanging like limp handk
erchiefs from the dirt walls. The matrix around them consisted of partially visible bits and pieces, which, if excavated, might turn out to be something useful: a sled or a door or any of thousands of other items. Anything and everything that a throwaway society had chosen to discard because it cost less to buy something new than to repair an item that was broken. And for Tre, that was tantamount to a crime because it was his belief that whatever could be repaired should be.

  Once at the bottom of the hole, Tre and Knife were given over to a section boss who was standing on a pair of thirty-inch-high drywall stilts. That gave him the techie a height advantage that allowed him to see what all his slaves were doing at any given moment. The boss was wearing a bush hat, a water-slicked poncho, and knee-length cutoffs. “My name is Sir,” he said importantly. “And you will do what I say. If you fail to do so, the penalty is death—and if you succeed, the reward is death. The difference being that the first will be more painful than the second. Do we understand each other?”

  Both men mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Off to my left you will find a pile of picks. Choose one and use it on the matrix. Our goal is to recover objects, repair them if necessary, and sell them. So if you damage an artifact, I will administer a unit of pain. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent. Select a pick and go to work on the section of wall between the red flags. That is my section, which is to say the best section of the mine, so treat it with respect. Go.”

  Tre traded sidelong glances with Knife as they made their way over to the pile of picks. They came in all sorts of styles and sizes. Tre assumed that most of the tools had been salvaged from the dump. He chose one that had what looked like a new handle. Then, conscious of the fact that Sir was watching, he followed Knife to the wall. Other slaves, about a hundred in all, were working in the area between the red flags. And some had things to say.

  “All right. Some new meat . . .”