“Welcome to hell.”
And the ever popular, “Where you from?”
Tre figured the best thing to do was keep his mouth shut and get to work. So he watched to see how the others attacked the wall, saw that most of them hit high, and understood why. Were the slaves to undercut the wall, it would cave in on them. So the key was to spot a likely-looking object, sink the pointy end of the pick into the space between it and a neighboring item, and loosen both. Then, after a sufficient number of blows, he could pull the artifact loose. With that accomplished, it was time to throw the trophy toward the center of the pit, where the sorters would deal with it. Most of the sorters were women and children, all of whom were soaked to the skin and ankle deep in mud.
The work was interesting at first because Tre had never done it before. But it wasn’t long before the novelty wore off and the pick grew heavier. So time seemed to slow, and Tre was thinking about the cold rain when a bullet hit a scab working a few feet away. Blood splattered the side of Tre’s face as the body fell. The report was like an afterthought as a burst of maniacal laughter came over the speakers mounted all around the pit. “Oops,” the pit boss said. “The rifle was loaded. Silly me.” More laughter followed.
Tre looked up from the body to where another slave was standing. Their eyes met. “One per day,” the other man said. “At random. To keep us worried.”
Tre peered up through the rain. He couldn’t see the pit boss, but he could imagine the ugly piece of crap. What happened next was pure improvisation. “The Crow will kill him.”
The man frowned. “What?”
“Haven’t you heard? The Crow is coming,” Tre said mysteriously. “And he’s going to free us. So we can fight evil. Pass the word.”
And with that he turned away. Meanwhile, on orders from Sir, a team of four children had taken the body under tow and were dragging it toward the flickering methane torch.
What Tre estimated to be another hour passed before the sun descended below the edge of the crater and a klaxon sounded. That was the signal for the diggers to return their pickaxes, grab a basket loaded with artifacts, and haul it upward. Now that’s efficient, Tre thought. The diggers have to climb up out of the pit, so make the trip pay.
Once Tre and Knife reached the top and got rid of their baskets, they followed the stream of humanity through a maze of sorting tables to a primitive eating area. It was covered with a metal roof but had no walls. That meant it would be freezing cold during the winter.
The slaves were funneled past a table where hundreds of mismatched plates were stacked. The one Tre took was decorated with pictures of red peppers and a glob of dried food. He got most of it off with a ragged thumbnail.
Then it was on to waist-high metal troughs. Food, which had been transported in steaming wheelbarrows, was literally shoveled into the troughs from one side while the slaves passed down the other. There were no utensils, so the only way to obtain some food was to scoop it up with the plate. As Tre watched those in line ahead of him, he saw that some were very skilled at it. By using both hands and sliding their plates in under the gooey mess, they were able to maximize the size of their serving.
So Tre followed suit, was satisfied with the results, and followed Knife into an area furnished with crudely constructed wooden tables and matching benches. Then, having secured seats in a far corner of the area, Tre had the first opportunity to inspect the meal. He decided that the stuff on his plate could best be described as a sort of porridge. Eighty percent of it was oatmeal. But chunks of unidentifiable meat had been added, along with pieces of carrot, onion, and a scattering of peas, all of which tasted better than he thought possible. Maybe that was because he was so hungry. Having licked the plate clean, Tre went to work on his fingers. That was when Knife spoke. “So here we are.”
“Yeah, lucky us.”
“What now?”
Knife was older than Tre, so it felt strange to be in charge. But that was the way Tre wanted it. And if Knife had any qualms about the situation, he hid them well. “I stumbled onto something,” Tre said. “A technique we can use to stir things up.”
Knife listened as Tre told him about the conversation with the other digger. “So,” he added, “let’s talk Crow up. He’s all knowing, all seeing, and on the way. But here’s the key . . . We aren’t the source of this stuff. We heard it from someone else. Make sense?”
“Sounds like a plan,” Knife responded levelly. “I’ll talk it up.”
After returning their plates, they made it a point to mingle with the other prisoners. During one conversation, Tre asked another slave if the stories about Crow were true. That generated the inevitable response, “Who’s Crow?”
Tre replied that Crow was a freedom fighter, a man dedicated to freeing slaves and restoring the old constitution. It was impossible to know if the man would pass it along to others, or, if he did, how the story would evolve. All Tre could do was try.
Thirty minutes later, the klaxon sounded once more and a gate opened. That was the signal for the slaves to leave the eating enclosure and spill out into the area Tre had seen earlier. Judging from the barely visible yellow lines, it had been a parking lot once, and as people began to enter them, it became obvious that the long, narrow truck trailers had been converted into makeshift barracks.
Tre paused to look around. Surely someone was in control. There were techies up in the guard towers. But, while they were watching, there was no effort to direct traffic. So Tre stopped a man. “Excuse me . . . I’m new here. How does one know which trailer to sleep in?”
“You don’t,” the man answered succinctly. “Some people like to stay in the same trailer every night. Others prefer to rotate. And that’s fine, assuming people are willing to take them in. It can be difficult, though. Lots of trailers are open to members only.”
“Can I sleep outside?”
“Yes, but you wouldn’t want to. They turn the dogs loose at night.” And with that the man turned away.
It seemed that Kimble preferred to abrogate control wherever he could. The slaves weren’t wearing numbers, didn’t eat in shifts, and were free to sleep in any trailer willing to take them. But when dawn came they would still be slaves. It was an interesting system. “Come on,” Knife said. “We need a place to sleep.”
“Yeah, but I’m going to take a pee first and brush my teeth,” Tre replied. He couldn’t brush his teeth. Not really. But he could scrub them with a finger, which he did at one of the communal sinks. Then he followed Knife from trailer to trailer. The slaves in the third one agreed to take them in.
The interior was lit by a single lightbulb. And that meant Kimble had a source of electricity. The glow illuminated a long rectangular space with a narrow aisle down the center. It was six bunk beds long, which meant the trailer could house twenty-four people. Each bed was equipped with a thin pallet, a lumpy pillow, and two blankets. Were they infested with bedbugs? Tre figured they were but had no way to avoid them. Why didn’t the techies insist on a minimal level of cleanliness? As Tre rolled into an upper bunk, the pit boss’s words came back to him. “Given a bit of luck, you could last five or six months.”
That was the key, Tre decided. Rather than spend gold to care for his slaves, Kimble preferred to use and then dispose of them, much like the artifacts being mined from the dump.
It was a very different approach from the one Voss favored. Which economic model was superior? That would depend on the supply of slaves. When they were plentiful, and therefore cheap, Kimble would come out ahead. But when slaves were hard to come by, Voss would profit. That was what Tre was thinking about when sleep pulled him down.
The rain stopped during the night, a klaxon was heard, and the slaves had no choice but to roll out of their bunks. Then it was time to visit one of the latrines and shuffle off to breakfast. It was, Tre discovered, exactly like the dinner he had eaten the evening before. But the mixture was hot, filling, and reasonably nutritious.
Once the meal was over, T
re and Knife followed the rest down the spiral road to the bottom of the pit. The methane flame made a roaring sound as they selected their picks and went to work. Sir was a constant presence. And anytime he felt one of the slaves was slacking, his twelve-foot-long bullwhip would reach out to nip a neck, arm, or leg. That was nasty, but even worse was the knowledge that the pit boss was going to murder someone that day.
There were other hazards as well. Just before what Tre estimated to be noon, the people in the green sector broke into a pocket of gas. It had a rotten egg smell and was clearly flammable, because something set it off. The explosion killed two slaves.
Their fire-blackened bodies were still in the process of being hauled away when the survivors were forced to resume working. “It’s over,” one of the techies told them. “Get back to work.”
Later, at about one or two o’clock, Tre heard the gunshot that everyone had been waiting for. This time it was one of the sorters, a sickly girl of ten or twelve who had been coughing up blood. That was when Tre realized the truth. In addition to intimidating the slaves, the pit boss was culling the herd, killing those who were too sick to be effective. That meant it was important to look strong no matter what the truth of the matter might be.
The following day was punctuated by a cave-in that claimed a life in the yellow sector, and Tre’s team uncovered a cluster of fifty-gallon drums. They were oozing black goo, some of which was turning orange by the time a smoke-spewing tractor trundled down the spiral road and moved in to remove the containers.
But as the days passed, they began to blur and lost their individual identities, so that murders, explosions, and cave-ins no longer seemed unusual. Meanwhile, both Tre and Knife continued to spread rumors, or tried to, although it was difficult to tell if they were making progress.
After what might have been three weeks, Tre was working to recover a toaster oven when a rusty canister of spray paint came loose. Judging from the weight of it, the container was at least half-full, so Tre tucked the cylinder into the waistband of his pants and spent the rest of the day trying to keep it there.
Later, as the slaves were lining up for dinner, Tre found a dead spot. A place where the guards up in the towers couldn’t see him. That was when he spray-painted the words “Crow is coming” on a wall. There was no such thing as privacy, so other slaves saw him do it, and when one of them asked about Crow, Tre had a ready answer. “Crow is justice. Crow is freedom. Be ready.” During the days that followed, Tre continued to surreptiously spray paint walls and floors until the canister was empty.
Then came the moment he’d been waiting for, when a man with long, stringy hair confronted him in the pit. “Watch for the Crow,” the man said. “He’s a-coming, and when he gets here, he’ll be riding a horse that snorts fire.”
Tre battled to keep a straight face. “That’s right, brother. Watch the sky. And when Crow arrives, attack the guards.”
Tre returned to work after that and was still at it when the man with the stringy hair returned ten minutes later. He was accompanied by two techies. Both had guns drawn. “That’s the one,” Stringy Hair said as he pointed a filthy finger at Tre. “Take him into custody.”
That was the moment when Tre realized that the whisper campaign was not only working—but working so well that the people in charge knew about it. He made a conscious decision not to look at Knife. The other man was powerless to help him. All he could do was play dumb and hope for the best. “Why?” he demanded. “What did I do?”
None of the techies bothered to answer. They used a combination of shoves and proddings to direct him up the spiral road and past the shed where the pit boss sat on a stool. They ordered Tre to bear right. A path took them away from the pit and toward a concrete building. Guards stood to either side of the front doors and watched impassively as Stringy Hair led Tre inside.
Tre had never seen anything like the inside of the building. The lobby was two stories high and decorated with paintings, sculptures, and well-cared-for plants. Soft music filled the air and the concrete floor had been buffed to a soft glow. Stringy Hair paused to let the others catch up with him before leading them up a broad flight of stairs to the floor above. A hallway led through a gallery of black-and-white photos to a pair of wooden doors. Guards stood to either side of them, and one raised a hand.
That brought the entire group to a halt. Tre’s heart was beating like a trip-hammer by then, his palms were damp, and he felt light-headed. Stick to your story, Tre thought. That’s your only chance.
The waiting came to an end as the doors opened to allow a well-dressed woman to leave. She seemed to look through Tre as if he wasn’t there. One of the techies gave Tre a shove, and he stumbled forward. The office was huge, and an enormous window took up most of one wall. A man was standing in front of it with his back to the room. Judging from the way his arms were positioned, he was holding a pair of binoculars. Was he looking at the pit? Yes, that made sense.
Stringy Hair brought the party to a stop, where it was forced to wait until the man turned to look at them. He had short brown hair, a small, almost feminine nose, and even features. A pair of rectangular sunglasses hid his eyes. The frames were pink, while his clothing was unrelievedly black. Gold earrings dangled from both ears and his manner was unexpectedly polite. “My name is Jeremy Kimble. And you are?”
Tre saw no reason to lie. “Tre Ocho.”
“Okay, Tre,” Kimble said evenly. “Here’s the situation . . . Rumors about someone or something called the Crow are circulating among the slaves. And according to Ellis here, you know what’s going on. So who is the Crow?”
Tre was frightened and allowed it to show. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t believe you,” Kimble said evenly as he placed the binoculars on the desk next to a large bolt cutter. It had red handles and appeared to be new. “You told Ellis here to watch the sky—and attack the guards. Why would you say something like that if you don’t know the answer?”
“I h-h-heard it—that’s all. From another slave.”
“Who?” Kimble wanted to know. “Who told you such things? Tell me and spare yourself a great deal of pain.”
“A man,” Tre responded. “I d-d-don’t know his name.”
Kimble held the bolt cutter up for Tre to look at. “Have you seen one of these before?”
Tre’s mouth felt dry. It was difficult to speak. “Yes, yes I have.”
“Then you know what it can do. Grab his right arm.”
Tre tried to run, but the guards were ready. And judging from the speed with which they took control of him, Tre knew they’d done it before. “Now,” Kimble said, “tell me everything you know or I will remove one of your fingers.”
Tre thought about Crow, about Freak and all the others. He wanted to tell Kimble, but if he did, his friends would ride into a trap. Then they would die and any hope of something better would die with them. He felt light-headed, promised himself that he wouldn’t scream, and gave the only answer he could. “I don’t know.”
Ellis took hold of Tre’s little finger and pulled it straight out. Kimble opened the bolt cutters and took a step forward. Tre felt metal touch his skin. “Tell me.”
“I don’t know.”
There was a momentary pressure followed by a snapping sound as the tool cut through flesh and bone. Tre screamed, and screamed again as the finger hit the floor. Then he fainted.
The next few moments were spent in blissful darkness. Then the glass of water hit his face and he felt the deep throbbing ache where the finger had been. Kimble loomed in front of him. “That’s one,” the tech lord said. “So you have nine left. Who is Crow? When is he coming?”
Tre swayed, threw up on himself, and waited to die. “I don’t know.”
Kimble stared into Tre’s eyes, shook his head, and took a step back. “He doesn’t know. He’s like the rest of them. Put a tourniquet on the stump and send him back.” And that was when Tre fainted again.
When Tre awoke, he found hi
mself lying on the ground and staring up at the sky. His right hand was throbbing with pain, and when he brought it up into his field of vision, Tre saw that the stump had been bandaged. He was looking at it and remembering the way steel cut through bone, when Sir appeared. He was on stilts, which meant his face was a long way off. “Well, look at what we have here,” Sir said. “A slave who’s lying down on the job. Get up, scab. You have work to do.”
Tre rolled onto his knees, managed to avoid using his right hand, and tried to rise. A wave of dizziness overcame him. “So you have a boo-boo,” Sir said sarcastically. “Big deal. Stand up.”
Tre tried again, made it to his feet, and swayed uncertainly. Then he spotted the pile of picks and lurched over to it. It took all his powers of concentration to select a tool and pick it up. From there it was a long walk to the edge of the pit and a slot between Knife and a slave named Will. “It’s good to have you back,” Knife said. “What happened to your hand?”
Tre took a clumsy swing with his left hand. The pick made contact but had little effect. “They cut my little finger off.”
Will said, “My God, why?“
“They wanted to know about Crow.”
“Did you tell them?”
Tre remembered the man named Ellis. Was Will a spy too? There was no way to know, so he answered accordingly. “No, I don’t know anything, so how could I?” Will nodded and returned to work.
Tre did his best. And the knowledge that the pit boss was constantly scanning the area looking for people to cull helped to motivate him. But his hand ached and Tre was worried about the possibility of infection, so he didn’t want to let it get dirty. That made the work more difficult. So he was grateful when the klaxon sounded.
The basket of artifacts felt unusually heavy as Tre carried it up the road to the surface. Once that chore was accomplished and Tre had his plate, Knife took care of loading it up. Then they went off to sit with their backs to a cyclone fence. It was difficult to eat left-handed but Tre managed to do so. And much to his surprise, he was hungry. Once they were finished, Knife pulled a rusty can out of a pocket. “I have something for you.”
The Seeds of Man Page 21