The Seeds of Man (7 page)

“Fine,” Lora replied, “but I think some people are struggling.”

George nodded. “You’re right. We’re out of shape.”

“That’s true,” Lora agreed, “but it’s more than that. The seed boxes are hard to carry.”

George frowned. “We aren’t going to dump the seeds, Lora . . . not after all we sacrificed to get here.”

“That isn’t what I have in mind,” Lora replied. “My pack is half-empty. So is yours. Why not divvy the seeds up between everyone in the group? Give the men more, younger women a little less, and old people a minimal amount. That would be fair and make it easier to walk through the snow.”

Cassie smiled. “I think Lora’s plan is absolutely brilliant.”

George nodded. “You’re right. She should take the idea to Harvey Nix.”

“No,”
Lora said emphatically. “You tell him. He’ll listen to you.”

“She’s right,” Cassie put in. “People will get over the Mackey thing—but it’s still fresh in their minds.”

So George went to see Nix, and after a fifteen-minute discussion, the decision was made. All the leavers were told to empty their packs so that a package of seeds could be placed in the bottom of each. Lora wouldn’t get credit for the idea but didn’t care. It was going to make the trip easier for everyone concerned, and that was the main thing.

Just as the rest of the group finished the process of dividing the seeds, Beck appeared with an armful of poles. While some were made from aluminum tubing and some had been cut from dowels, all had been found in the piles of junk out back. There was a clatter as they spilled onto the ground. “There aren’t enough for everyone,” Beck announced, “but it’s a start. I cut them long so people can whittle them down to the length they need.”

Lora made no attempt to acquire poles for herself, knowing others needed them more, but made a note to keep her eyes peeled. In her opinion, the aluminum tubing looked like the way to go.

By the time it was over, the break had consumed two hours rather than the half hour Nix had envisioned. But having rid themselves of the boxes, and having acquired trekking poles for half the group, the leavers were able to move more quickly than before. The highway wasn’t what it had been fifty years earlier, yet thanks to the fact that the section they were on was flat and straight, it was easy to circumvent the few obstacles they encountered.

It wasn’t long before the group established a regular rhythm in which people went forward to learn about the firearms some of them had been issued, stayed for a while, and were rotated to the back of the column. Lora knew it was important to learn everything she could, so she forced herself into the rotation and was pleased to find that no one objected. Fry had the instructions down by the time she reached him, so it wasn’t long before she understood the difference between a rifle and a shotgun, the advantages of each, and the basics of gun safety.

At about three in the afternoon, they arrived at an intersection where roads came in from the east and west. There were some run-down buildings, some snow-humped cars, and a lot of tracks, all headed south. “It looks as if people are coming together for some reason,” Ed Dero observed. “I wonder what it is?”

Lora and Dero were walking side by side at that point, talking about his favorite subject, hydroponics. As the rest of the group came to a halt, they did too. A leadership conference followed but soon came to the obvious conclusion. The leavers couldn’t go back and didn’t have enough provisions to stay where they were, so all they could do was keep going and hope for the best.

As the group followed the tracks south, Lora was stunned by the vast sweep of the cloud-strewn sky, the snow-covered fields that seemed to stretch forever, and the arrow-straight road that ran all the way to the southern horizon. There was comfort in knowing that they could see trouble coming from a long way off. The final hours of the afternoon passed pleasantly, and by the time they arrived in what had once been a small hamlet, the dimly seen sun was low in the western sky. Nix called a halt, and after a quick look around, it was agreed that they would hole up in what had once been a post office.

The concrete-block building had been occupied recently, judging from the hot embers in the old-fashioned potbellied stove, an amenity that was too heavy to steal. It sat in the corner of a large room with a counter and storage area in the back.

As darkness fell, the leavers settled in, made their meals, and prepared for bed. Once Lora’s sleeping bag was laid out, she made a mug of hot tea and took it out back, where a semicircle of plastic chairs was waiting. The fact that no one had bothered to take them was a testimonial to how common lawn furniture was—and how many people had perished since the war.

Lora sat down, took a sip of tea, and savored the peace and quiet. Earlier in the day she had been struck by how vast the world was. Now, as she began to contemplate the future, she wondered what it would hold. That was a new experience. Inside the Sanctuary children took tests, were told what they would be good at, and were assigned to those occupations. They claimed it was a scientific way to make sure that all the citizens were happy, but Lora had doubts. Were the people who held the most desirable jobs the best qualified to do so? Or had they been selected for political reasons? Take Matt, for example. He smoked weed and he was slated for an administrative post—or had been. Would his father’s death put an end to that?

Lora was considering that possibility when she heard the muted
pop-pop-pop
of what might have been gunfire. And she wasn’t the only one. Fry materialized out of the darkness. He was standing in the spill of light from the open door. “Did you hear that?”

Lora looked up at him. “It could have been gunfire. Off thata way.”

Fry nodded and disappeared inside. A bustle of activity followed as people with guns appeared and took up defensive positions around the building. All the leavers were on edge after that, but there were no further noises and the night passed without incident.

Once daylight came, Fry and two other men went out to take a look around. When they came back, it was with disturbing news. Judging from all the hoofprints, a party of up to thirty riders had circled the hamlet during the night. But why?

That question was the subject of considerable debate. Should they continue to travel south, which would take them in the direction of the gunfire heard the night before, or should they remain where they were? The problem was that they didn’t have enough food to hole up in the post office. After much dithering, the decision was made to resume the march, a course of action Lora understood but was worried about.

So they ate, packed, and hit the road. As they had the day before, they made good progress, but there were no lighthearted conversations or friendly snowball fights today. The air felt clammy, and a thick layer of mist clung to the ground, making it impossible to see for more than five hundred yards. Thirty minutes into the march, Lyn Cho pointed to the east. “Look! Riders!”

“And there are more to the west,” Hobbs added.

“Okay, close it up!” Fry ordered, and they did. Not that Lora thought it would do much good if the horsemen attacked them. They had the advantage, so why not use it? Were they friendly? No, it seemed logical to believe that friendly people would come over and identify themselves.

All the leavers had were questions with no answers—until they came to the steel bridge. There was nothing special about it except for the bodies hanging from the superstructure, two male and one female. It looked as though all three had been shot. And there, waiting at the other end of the span, were three riders. They were dressed in a combination of regular clothing and crudely sewn animal skins. All were heavily armed, and the one in the middle was wearing a football helmet decorated with a set of antlers.

“Look!” Dero exclaimed. “They’re closing in on us!” and Lora saw that he was correct. Both columns of outriders had turned in on them and were approaching the highway. There was no avenue of escape—or that was what Lora though until Fry raised his assault weapon and fired. The bullets hit horses and men alike. Animals screamed and fell in a welter of blood. They were still in the process of dying when Fry waved the others forward. “Follow me!”

They did, shuffling on snowshoes, as the man with the antlers tried to rise. Fry shot him again. “Take cover behind the horses!”

Most of the leavers did so as the horsemen at the north end of the bridge came together into a single mob and trotted onto the bridge. Tom Jager, though, was standing with his weapon raised. “Kill them!” he shouted, and fired his shotgun. It was the first time he had done so, but the enemy was so close he couldn’t miss. A charge of double-aught buck caught a horse in the face and neck. The animal screamed piteously and reared up. That was when the rest of the leavers fired a ragged volley, and bullets tore into the horse’s belly. It went down, taking its rider with it.

A member of the horde fired a pistol in response. The heavy slug hit Jager in the chest and threw him to the ground. Lora was frightened but knew the enemy had to be stopped. She elbowed her way over to the body, struggled to free Jager’s semiauto pistol, and held it in both hands. A man wearing a wolf skull on top of his head was hiding behind a dead horse. She aimed the weapon at him and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

The safety! The man with the wolf skull saw her and brought his rifle around. Lora felt a stab of fear as she thumbed the safety. Then she knew the pistol was ready to fire, so she did. Nine times.

The first bullet struck sparks off the bridge deck. The second hit the horse. The third struck the man’s rifle, which spoiled his aim. He was in the process of recovering from the jolt when a slug nicked his left ear, another passed through his throat, and the rest went wide. His hands came up in a futile attempt to stop the blood, then fell away as he lost consciousness.

As Lora was just starting to process that when Lou Martinez shouted a warning. “They’re attacking from behind!”

She turned to look, saw that Martinez was correct, and wondered how many bullets she had left. A large group of horsemen was thundering in from the south, but as a leaver fired at them, Lora noticed that the men on the north side of the bridge were backing away. “Don’t shoot!” she shouted. “They’re friends.”

That wasn’t necessarily true, of course, but Lora figured it was, and she feared what would happen if the leavers attacked potential allies. Fortunately her father had reached the same conclusion and ordered the group to stop shooting—and a good thing too, because as the riders from the south arrived, they passed between the leavers and took off after the barbarians.

What ensued was not pleasant to watch. The pursuers uttered what might have been war cries and urged their horses forward. The barbarians split into small groups of two or three. Whether that was by design or the result of panic wasn’t clear. One thing was for sure, however: it was a bad strategy. The southerners rode them down. Some of the fugitives fought and some tried to surrender, but it made no difference. All of them went down, at which point riders went from body to body and shot the wounded. Lora heard a mournful voice and turned to look. “Oh, no! They killed Linda.”

Lora remembered Linda Lemo as one of the people who would barely speak to her, but she still felt sorry as Fry scooped her body up and carried it to the south end of the bridge. It took two men to do the same with Jager. The price of victory had been high.

One of the riders came back across the bridge. He was bareheaded in spite of the cold and dressed in beautifully crafted buckskins. His hair was long and worn in two braids, both of which were decorated with feathers, and when he slid down off his horse, Lora saw that he was well over six feet tall. She guessed he might be in his thirties, but it was impossible to be sure. “You are on Blackfoot land,” he said solemnly, “and you are welcome here. Please accept my condolences regarding the members of your party who were killed. As you saw, the Blood Kin murdered three of our people as well. They, like many others, were on their way to our annual powwow.”

“Blood Kin?” Nix inquired.

“Yes. That is what they call themselves,” the Blackfoot replied. “They drink the blood of animals as a way to acquire animal virtues. That’s nonsense, of course, but it binds them together, and that makes them even more dangerous.”

“I see,” Nix said. “My name is Harvey Nix. And you are?”

“My birth name is Luke Twolakes.”

Lora got the impression that Twolakes might have other names but preferred to keep them to himself. The two men shook hands. “Thank you,” Nix said sincerely. “I fear that if you and your men hadn’t arrived when you did, we would be dead.”

Twolakes nodded. “You are welcome. The Blood Kin know about our annual gathering and often prey on those headed to the powwow. Small groups are easy to attack and carry items they hope to trade. My war party was sent to secure this section of the highway. Where are you headed?”

“South,” Nix said. “We’re hoping to find an agricultural community that will take us in.” Lora took note of the fact that Nix had chosen to omit any mention of the Sanctuary or the seeds.

“I know of several,” Twolakes said, “and one that might be of particular interest. But first we must take care of our dead.”

Having stripped the Blood Kin of everything useful, members of the war party cut the bodies of their people down and laid them across empty saddles. The horses could smell the fresh blood and were skittish.

Lora noticed that the warriors were dressed in a mix of regular clothing and deerskin garments. Some of them were armed with guns and some carried high-tech bows.

After a short meeting, it was agreed that all five dead bodies would be taken out into an adjoining field where a huge oak tree stood. Its branches were spread like welcoming arms and ready to receive the freshly cut saplings that were laid across them. Then, once the Native American bodies had been wrapped in blankets and bound with cord, they were placed on the platform. It was, Twolakes explained, the Blackfoot way.

Meanwhile two graves had been dug twenty feet away from the tree. Once they were ready, Jager and Lemo were lowered into them. As dirt was shoveled in on top of them, Tim Hobbs said a few words. “Forasmuch as it hath pleased almighty God in his great mercy to take unto himself the souls of brother Jager and sister Lemo, we therefore commit their bodies to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.”