The Seeds of Man (25 page)

Clara emerged from the bathroom, only to receive a flurry of blows. “I told you,” Winters said angrily. “I told you it was your job to watch the new bitch! Fail me again and I’ll have the skin off you.”

Then Winters left. Lora was devastated. “Clara . . . I’m so sorry. I was looking at the painting and she came up behind me.”

There was an angry welt on one of Clara’s otherwise flawless cheeks. Her fingers went to it and she flinched. “We’d better get to work.”

Lora could feel the sudden coolness and cursed her carelessness. She had learned one thing, though . . . and that was how quiet the fat woman could be.

After they finished the master bedroom, the girls returned to the entry hall. And it was there, while mopping the floor, that Lora heard a commotion out front. Orders were shouted, the door opened, and a man in western clothing entered the house. A footman said, “Welcome home, master,” and was ignored. Two men followed Voss into the office, the second being Mr. Trenton. It was the first time Lora had seen the food lord, which made the moment notable.

The rest of the day passed slowly, and when it came to an end, Lora was glad to slip into bed. Then, with the covers pulled up over her head, she could think about Miss Silverton and the message from her father. She sobbed and hoped no one would hear.

Once the training period was over, Clara was assigned to the sewing center, a job that represented a step up, and Lora was left to do the cleaning alone. The work was hard but the monotony was even worse. So she developed a routine, let habit take over, and sang to herself. The one bright spot in each day was the opportunity to spend a few minutes with Miss Silverton. And for her part, the other slave seemed to welcome such interactions, although it was easy to see that a great sadness hung over her.

Was that sadness any greater than Lora’s? Lora knew it wasn’t, but for some reason Miss Silverton’s emotional well-being seemed to be more important than her own. Perhaps that was a function of the other woman’s kindness, her beauty, and the aura of mystery that surrounded her. Whatever it was transmitted itself to everyone who came into contact with her. Everyone except Voss, that is . . . He kept her like a bird in a cage.

A number of days passed. Five. Or was it six? It was hard to keep track. In any case, Lora had finished cleaning Miss Silverton’s suite and was about to leave, when the other woman asked for some fresh flowers. Getting flowers wasn’t part of Lora’s official duties. And it wasn’t clear if the other slave could order her to do so. But Lora wanted to please Miss Silverton, and a chance to visit the garden was too good to resist.

So Lora said, “Yes,” placed her tools in a utility closet, and left the mansion through the back door. It was a beautiful day and Lora gloried in the feel of sunshine on her face, the pungent odors all around, and the sweep of the achingly beautiful blue sky.

The garden was located on the south side of the house and dedicated mostly to growing herbs, vegetables not cultivated on Voss’s farms, and flowers for the mansion. After rounding the corner of the house, Lora spotted Mr. Elkins, the overseer in charge of the grounds. He listened to her request, nodded, and went to cut the flowers himself, still another indication of the way people felt about Miss Silverton.

So Lora was standing there, waiting for the flowers, when a six-man work party appeared. They were dressed in grubby clothes and accompanied by an overseer Lora didn’t know. She heard chains rattle as they approached and began to pass by. Then, as one of the men looked her way, Lora experienced a moment of shock. It was Larry Pruett! The same Larry Pruett who had been in charge of the dairy operation at the commune and was constantly trying to touch her. The last time Lora had seen the man, he’d been running for his life. And now she knew his fate.

As their eyes made contact, Pruett opened his mouth. He yelled “Lora!” flinched as the tip of a whip caught his right ear, and brought a hand up to cup it. Then Elkins was there with flowers in hand, the work party disappeared, and the incident was over.

Lora thanked the overseer on behalf of Miss Silverton and beat a hasty retreat. She had work to do, and the encounter with Pruett left her feeling flustered. That was silly, of course, since the same rules that controlled her life controlled his and would keep him away from her. Still running into Pruett was unsettling somehow, and even Miss Silverton’s effusive thanks weren’t sufficient to make her feel better.

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.”

Near Afton, Wyoming, USA

M
ost 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.