The Seeds of Man (4 page)

After watching for a while, he concluded that if the local residents were aware of his presence, they were content to wait for him rather than come out and do battle. Of course, if they were up high, in a church tower, for example, a single rifle shot could take him out.

For one brief moment Tre wished that he had brought a rifle instead of the sawed-off shotgun. But he dismissed the thought a second later, knowing that while it would be nice out in the open, a long-barreled weapon would be a disadvantage inside buildings. And that was where the good stuff was likely to be located.

So Tre left the house and followed one side of an arrow-straight street to the center of town. Where possible, Tre minimized his exposure to structures taller than two stories. He was leaving tracks, but that couldn’t be helped. All he could do was pause frequently, check his back trail, and stay alert.

Eventually Tre arrived at what a lopsided sign said was Central Square Park—and paused to look at an arch made out of elk antlers. At first he thought the structure was associated with one of the new religions, some of which involved animal worship, but then he concluded that the structure was too old for that. A prewar tourist attraction perhaps, although he couldn’t imagine going very far to see it.

The snowshoes would be a problem once he began to search buildings, so Tre took them off and strapped them to the pack frame. He was wearing a pair of old Itasca Winter Pac boots. They were one size too large, but a pair of bulky wool socks made up for that. They left enormous footprints as he made his way down the street.

There were lots of stores. Most had broken windows and doors that hung askew. Trash lay strewn all over the floors, and the walls were covered with graffiti. Tre noticed that spray paint had been used to create the first layers of words and images. Then, as spray paint became increasingly difficult to find, graffiti had been added using other substances, some of which could have been blood. Equally noteworthy was the fact that what looked like the most recent additions included a lot of misspelled words. Literacy was fading fast.

Store after store had been stripped of everything useful—or
obviously
useful, since Tre knew that many of the things that looters left behind could be repurposed. But he couldn’t carry display racks, electrical fixtures, or electric motors home with him. There were some trivial finds, however, including a candle that had rolled into a kick space, a scattering of pennies, which could melted down for the copper they contained, and a brand-new ballpoint pen, all of which went into his pack.

After he’d entered and exited two dozen stores, a sign caught Tre’s attention. It was faded but still legible: “JACKSON UNDERGROUND.” That suggested a subterranean shopping area—and there was a flight of stairs that led down to double doors. But they were blocked by a pile of debris that included a metal desk, a rolling garbage bin, and all sorts of other trash, not the sort of stuff that was likely to wind up there by accident.

No, what Tre was looking at was someone’s attempt to seal off the underground area. Because they were living there? Probably. But
when
? If recently, Tre would be well-advised to steer clear. But if the people who were responsible for the barricade were gone, it would be safe to enter.

Tre was interested and, more than that, determined to find another way in. The next fifteen minutes were spent casting about. Eventually he found a second entrance down the street, but that was blocked as well. So Tre began to search the surrounding stores, and it wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for.

It was inside a place called the Cowboy Bar, where saddles served as stools. And there, behind the counter, Tre found a trapdoor, one that had been used recently, judging from the fresh scuff marks around it.

Rather than lift the door and peer inside, Tre took a moment to shed his pack and hide his trekking poles under the bar. Then he removed a length of cord from a pocket and tied one end to the trapdoor. Would the door open when he pulled on the rope? And if it did, would someone fire up at him? Or worse yet, would a bomb explode? He’d triggered one six months earlier and had been lucky to escape with only minor injuries.

There was only one way to find out. Tre jerked on the cord. Nothing happened. Maybe the hatch was secured from below or maybe it was stuck. Tre placed the remains of a wooden chair under the rope to act as a fulcrum and tried again. This time it worked. The door came up and flopped onto the floor. There were no gunshots or explosions. So far, so good.

After removing a much-treasured squeeze light from a cargo pocket, Tre approached the opening with the .410 out and ready. The flashlight made a gentle wheezing sound as he squeezed the handle. Then, as he thumbed the switch, a blob of light slid across the floor and into the hole. Slowly, weapon at the ready, Tre looked down through the hatch.

The first thing he saw was bright metal. An aluminum ladder was positioned directly under the opening, a clear confirmation that he was on the right track. But what, if anything, waited below?

Tre looked around, spotted one of the few beer mugs that hadn’t been broken, and dropped it through the hole. He heard it shatter and braced himself for a burst of gunfire. There wasn’t any.

Relieved but still wary, Tre considered his options. The opening was too small to pass through while wearing his pack. Should he drop it down—only to have someone snatch it? Or leave it up top, where the same thing could occur?

After giving the matter some thought, Tre tied the cord to the pack and positioned it right next to the hatch. Then, with shotgun in hand, he descended the ladder. There was some light from above but not enough, so Tre felt for the flashlight. Three strong squeezes brought the device to life. What he saw was a corridor with storefronts on both sides. All sorts of garbage littered the floor, including a scattering of what might have been human bones. But he was used to that. Millions of people had died in the United States and very few of the bodies had been buried.

There was a rustling noise from the left, and Tre’s heart jumped as he brought the light around. Red rat eyes glared at him before disappearing into a nearby hole. He was surprised to find that he had been holding his breath, and let it out. Then he felt for the cord, gave a sharp jerk, and managed to catch the pack as it fell. All that remained was to climb up and close the trapdoor. It was always a good idea to conceal his presence to whatever extent possible.

Down below again, Tre shouldered his pack and set off to explore the underground mall. If he found things to scavenge, then well and good—but he was also in need of a place to fort up. He entered a souvenir shop only to discover that while there were still plenty of coasters, elk horns, and wind chimes to be had, all the good stuff was gone. That included sweatshirts, T-shirts, and every single item in a case labeled “POCKETKNIVES.” But that was to be expected.

The same was true of the women’s clothing store next door, the Ski Chalet down from that, and the completely empty Wine Rack, all viewed via the fluctuating illumination provided by the squeeze light. After a long series of disappointments, Tre found himself standing in front of a store called Book Ends. That made his heart beat just a little bit faster. What, if anything, waited inside? Unfortunately, as both the temperature and the literacy rate fell, entire libraries had gone up in flames as people burned books in return for a few moments of transitory warmth. So it was with a feeling of trepidation that he entered the store.

Predictably enough, it had been ransacked. And while Tre had no way to know what the stock had been like the day the first wave of looters had entered the mall, he guessed that hundreds of books had been taken. But hundreds were left! Some were on shelves, but many were on the floor, where they had been trampled.

Still, just the sight of them was sufficient to fill Tre’s heart with something akin to lust. Who knew what wonders lay before him! History, science, and entertainment, and new friends to see him through the long, lonely evenings at home.

The voice came from behind him. “This is
my
mall—and this is
my
store.”

Tre whirled to find himself face-to-face with an old man. He had a bald pate, hair that hung like a stringy curtain around his head, and eyes that looked like chips of coal. He was dressed in a plaid shirt, khaki-colored bib overalls, and a pair of mukluks, footgear that was just right for sneaking around. And one more thing, a fact that spoke volumes: the apparition was well fed. The .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol was very steady. But so was the .410.

It was a standoff. Or was it? The old man had been in a position to shoot Tre between the shoulder blades. So why hadn’t he? Because, Tre reasoned, the man wanted to talk. “My name is Tre.”

The old man nodded. “I’m Bob. You holster your weapon and I’ll holster mine.”

“You first.”

Bob smiled and two rows of yellow teeth appeared. “We’ll do it on three. One, two, three.” As the old man lowered his weapon, Tre did likewise. Both guns slid into their respective holsters, or in Bob’s case into a pocket. “So,” he said. “You can stay the night—but it will cost you.”

Tre was willing to consider that. He preferred to avoid violence when possible and wanted access to the bookstore. “Okay . . . I’ll give you three rounds for your .45 and I get all the books I can carry.” It was the longest speech he’d made in months.

Bob blinked as he stared into the fluctuating light. “Make it ten rounds.”

“Five.”

“Eight.”

“Seven, and that’s final. A full magazine . . . not bad for a few books.”

Bob paused and delivered a nod. “Okay, seven it is. Four now and three in the morning.”

“Have you got a flashlight?”

Bob turned, went outside, and lit a lantern. Then he brought it in.

That allowed Tre to tuck the squeeze light away and slip his left hand into a pants pocket. He fingered the bullets there, chose four, and brought them out, all the while keeping his right hand free to draw the .410.

Bob examined each cartridge with great care, and that was wise. According to what Tre had read, there had been something like 350 million guns in America prior to the nuclear war, a number roughly equivalent to the population. But two-thirds of the people were dead now, and that meant there was no shortage of firearms in post apocalyptic America. But ammo? That was precious. Some people, Tre included, could make reloads for some of their weapons, but most couldn’t, and he figured Bob was one of them.

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” Bob said as the bullets disappeared into a pocket. “I’m going to serve you dinner, and no, you won’t have to pay. It will be nice to have some company for a change.”

Tre didn’t want to eat dinner with the old man but didn’t wish to offend him either, especially with a treasure trove of books at stake. “Okay, thanks.”

Bob lifted the lamp shoulder high and led Tre out into the passageway. The lantern threw grotesque shadows onto the walls as Tre followed the old man to a circular area that had once been at the center of a small food court. And there, surrounded by curved benches, was an open fireplace. It had once been a magnet for skiers and consisted of a fire pit, a sheet-metal hood, and a chimney. Hooks had been added under the hood so Bob could hang chunks of elk meat over the fire. The result was a primitive smoker, and Tre was impressed. “Have a seat,” Bob said, “and I’ll get things going.”

So Tre dumped his pack and sat on one of two mismatched chairs as Bob placed splinters of wood on the glowing coals. “I keep her tamped down during the day,” the old man said. “You didn’t see any smoke, did ya?”

“Nope,” Tre replied as the kindling burst into flames.

“Good, ‘cause I don’t need any trouble. I hope you like elk chili, ‘cause that’s what we’re having. We’ll have a drink first.”

Tre didn’t like the taste of alcohol and never used it for anything other than a disinfectant, but he could tell that the drink was important to Bob, so he let his host pour a dollop of amber liquid into a metal cup. “There you go,” Bob said as he handed it over. That’ll fix what ails ya.”

Tre forced a smile and pretended to take a sip. “So what do you think?” Bob demanded.

“It’s good,” Tre lied, “
real
good.”

The old man took a swig and grinned. “You got that right.”

The fire crackled as Bob threw some more wood on it. Tre saw that a makeshift mattress and sleeping bag were laid out on one of the benches that surrounded the fireplace. That made sense. Bob could keep a fire going during most of the night and let it die down at about three a.m. Having stoked the fire, Bob turned his attention back to Tre. “You don’t talk much, do ya?”

Tre forced a smile. “I don’t have much to say.”

Bob seemed to consider that. “Most people talk too much. Not me, though. I’m a listener.” Tre nodded and pretended to sip his drink.

“You’re black,” Bob said accusingly, as if Tre had done something wrong.

“Brown.”

“Black, brown, it’s the same thing.”

Tre shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I do. Black people caused the war.”

“India attacked Pakistan, they responded, and China got involved.”

“And all of them people are black, right?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

The old man considered that. “Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? You weren’t round then. I was, but I don’t remember it. How old are you anyway?”

Tre was seventeen but knew that divulging his actual age might put him at a disadvantage. “I’m twenty.”

“I envy you,” Bob said feelingly. “I’m sixty-seven, near as I can make out, and everything hurts.” Tre couldn’t think of anything to say. Most lives were shorter now. Very few people made it to sixty, much less sixty-seven.

“Enough talking,” Bob said. “Time to eat.” And with that he went over to pull an improvised swing arm out into the open. A fire-blackened cast-iron pot was dangling from it, and as Bob removed the lid, a mouthwatering odor wafted into the air. Tre took the opportunity to pour his drink into what had been a planter.