The Seeds of Man (26 page)

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 handkerchiefs 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 . . .”

“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.”