The Seeds of Man

Chapter Four

After hiding the cache of weapons upslope from the cell site and napping through the day, Tre faced an important decision. Should he stay in the metal shed that night or hit the road in spite of the attendant dangers? A wan, barely seen moon helped make up his mind. There wasn’t a lot of light, but the snow seemed to amplify what there was, making it possible to travel, and it would be good to put some distance between himself and the highly visible shed.

So Tre hurried to prepare a hot meal, ate it, and put all his belongings in the pack. Then, with the .410 in its holster, snowshoes on his feet, and a trekking pole in each hand, he set out. Traveling was easier now thanks to the downhill slope and the fact that he wasn’t burdened with the heavy gun case. But with a pack full of books and canned goods, Tre knew he would soon start to feel the strain. He wasn’t about to jettison anything, however, so all he could do was tough it out.

Once on the highway, Tre turned south. The tracks he had seen earlier were still visible and could serve as a guide. The only sounds were the crunch of his footsteps, the swish of fabric as he moved, and the rasp of his own breath. He had a companion, though, and that was fear. Anything could be hiding along the side of the road waiting to attack, and bandits were as common as fleas. But, Tre reminded himself, waiting next to a highway hoping someone would come along in the middle of the night wasn’t much of a strategy. So why was he scared? Tre smiled grimly, paused to listen, and couldn’t hear a thing. The march continued.

The next hour passed without incident, but as Tre arrived at the top of a long slope and paused to rest, he heard a primal howl. Seconds later it was echoed by more howls and he felt his blood run cold. Wolves? They were common and could be dangerous. But Tre feared a pack of feral dogs even more. Unlike wolves, they knew all about humans and were attracted to them.

Tre looked up at the sky. Scattered clouds were drifting across the moon, which would set soon. That, plus the possibility of a run-in with a pack of dogs, suggested that he hole up till morning. But where? Someplace with a door would be nice. All he could do was push on and keep his eyes peeled.

So as Tre made his way down a gentle slope onto a flat stretch, the quickness of his movements reflected a new sense of urgency. Slide-step, slide-step, slide-step. All the while wondering if he would see the sudden rush of furry bodies and hear a chorus of deep-throated growls before the dogs attacked. He would fire the .410 and the revolver as well, but there would be too many of them and he would go down. Tre remembered the shed, cursed his decision to travel at night, and eyed the road ahead.

That was when his nostrils detected the scent of wood smoke and the situation became even worse. Humans were in the area, so there was another type of predator to worry about.

Tre continued to advance but more slowly now. What lay ahead? The bandits he had dismissed earlier? That would serve him right. Then he heard a snorting sound, followed by a muffled voice, and threw himself off the highway. There was no time to do anything more, so he lay perfectly still as three men on horseback rode past. Surely they would see Tre, stop, and blow his brains out. But no, they passed him by.

Once the riders were gone, Tre stood. Moving quietly, he left the verge of the road for the trees. Maybe more riders were on the way and maybe they weren’t, but he didn’t plan to hang around to find out.

The trees took Tre in, and he was looking for a place to hole up when he saw a flicker of light. A campfire, probably, and a dozen steps confirmed it. A crackling fire was visible in the middle of the clearing, and a large wagon could be seen in the background. A man was seated by the fire taking occasional sips from a mug.

Tre looked around. Where were the horsemen? Had they continued south or were they closing in? It doesn’t make any difference, Tre told himself. The first rule of survival is to mind your own business.

Tre heard a horse nicker and shouted, “Behind you!” That was stupid, of course. But a smart person would have been back in the shed.

To his credit, the would-be victim threw himself to the right as a shotgun blast blew his chair to splinters. Tre fired the .410’s right barrel at the spot where the bandit should be and heard him swear. What with the spread and the long range, it was likely that only a few pellets had found their target. But the man on the ground pulled a pistol and got off three shots. They went home and a body fell into the firelight.

Having revealed himself, Tre had gone from observer to target. He heard a branch break to his left, swiveled in that direction, and fired the left barrel. The bandit burst out of the brush just in time to take a full charge in the chest. This time the target was close enough to kill, and the man went down in a heap.

Tre was fumbling reloads into the shotgun when the man in the clearing shouted at him. “Climb a tree! Do it now!”

Climb a tree? What for? Tre was going to ignore the instruction when the man blew on a horn. The sound prompted a chorus of howls and sent a chill up Tre’s spine. He dumped the pack and was in the process of shedding the snowshoes when the first animals came ghosting through the trees on the far side of the clearing.

His heart was in his mouth as he climbed a ponDerosa and the dogs caught his scent. They surged his way, and it was only a matter of seconds before they were jumping high into the air, jaws snapping, as they tried to bring him down. Fortunately he was too high for them to reach.

The attack came to an end as a shrill whistle sounded and the dogs turned away. That was when he heard the man say, “Find them! Kill them!”

Tre remembered the third rider at that point and wondered where he was. The dogs began to sniff around the edges of the clearing. Then one of them produced a joyous bark and took off. The rest followed, howling as they ran.

“How many?” the man shouted.

“One left,” Tre replied. “He may be on horseback.”

“The dogs will get him,” the man said confidently. “Come on over.”

Tre dropped to the ground, paused to retrieve his empty brass, and slipped two fresh shells into the .410. Then it was time to pick up his gear and carry it to the fire. He was only a few feet away when a chorus of howls was heard, followed by the screams of a horse.

The man who stood waiting for him was dressed in a grubby business suit and a pair of high-heeled cowboy boots. The jacket was brushed back to expose a Colt .44 Magnum revolver. His right hand was dangling near the butt.

Both men turned to look as three shots were heard. They were followed by a scream. Tre thought it was from the horse but couldn’t be certain. “They’re after the horse’s legs,” the man explained. “Then, once they bring it down, they’ll kill the rider.”

Based on the man’s matter-of-fact statement, Tre got the impression that this wasn’t the first time the dogs had been sent to kill a horseman. “And then?”

“And then they’ll have dinner,” the man said. “My name’s Charlie. Charlie Winthrop. And you are?”

“Tre Ocho.”

“Glad to meet you, Tre. Real glad. The dogs were out hunting when you showed up. And a good thing too—since they would have torn into you otherwise. How did you wind up next to the clearing anyway?”

Tre knew what was going through the other man’s mind. Maybe Tre had been with the bandits and turned on them, or maybe he’d been planning an attack of his own. So Tre told him how he’d been overtaken on the highway, entered the woods, and happened across the clearing.

Charlie listened intently as he stared into Tre’s eyes. “Sounds like both of us were lucky. It could have gone differently. I figure they followed the wagon tracks down from Jackson. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Then why travel with a wagon?”

“’Cause I haul my medicine on it,” Charlie said. “Now, let’s tidy up. I reckon the body in the bushes belongs to you—and the other one is mine. Course, you winged him, so maybe you see things differently.”

Even though Tre knew that stripping bodies was necessary in order to survive, Charlie’s emotion-free pragmatism bothered him. His mother was right. Bit by bit, humans were losing their humanity. “No, he’s yours. Like you said, I winged him, but that’s all.”

Charlie nodded approvingly. “Good. Then we need to find the horses. There should be two of them, right?”

There it was again. A hint of doubt. If there were three horses, that would indicate that Tre was one of the bandits. He nodded. “Yes, two horses.”

So they parted company long enough to take what they wanted from the dead bodies. Tre wound up with an ancient lever-action .30-30, a handful of ammo, and a hand-forged Bowie knife. Not much of a haul. Charlie didn’t say what his pickings were like, but Tre figured they weren’t much better.

The moon was long gone, so Tre produced the flashlight he had taken from Bob. As expected, the horses were tethered a few hundred yards away next to the highway and according to Charlie were in bad shape. Tre didn’t know much about horses, having never owned one, but suspected that Charlie was laying the groundwork for an advantageous deal. That theory was confirmed as they led the animals into the firelit clearing. “Tell you what,” Charlie said. “I’ll buy your animal if you’re willing.”

Tre took notice of the way in which Charlie had already assumed ownership of one horse but let it pass. The problem with owning a horse was that he would be forced to feed and defend it. But he didn’t want to give the animal away either. “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “I could sling my pack on it.”

That stimulated a litany of complaints about horses. “The only reason I have them is because of the wagon,” Charlie explained. “Otherwise I’d be happy to walk.”

“You make some good points,” Tre allowed. “I’ll tell you what… I’ll sell my horse for one hundred and fifty rounds of .45 ammo plus a ride to Alpine.”

“A hundred and fifty?” Charlie exclaimed. “You’re out of your mind. I’ll give you fifty.”

“A hundred and that’s final. And the ride.”

Charlie looked at him. “How old are you anyway?”

“Twenty.”

Charlie laughed. “You’re full of it, son. But you have a deal.”

“I want the ammo up front.”

“Of course you do,” Charlie replied as he tied his horse to a tree. “I’ll be right back.”

As Charlie climbed up onto his wagon, Tre moved next to the fire. He hadn’t been there for more than a minute when the dogs returned. They came silently this time, flowing through the trees like water between stones. As they entered the circle of firelight, Tre saw that all of them had bloody muzzles. What had they been eating—the horse or the man?

Tre placed a hand on the .410 and began to back away. “Stay where you are,” Charlie ordered from up on the wagon. “Don’t look them in the eye.”

A big husky seemed to be in charge of the pack. He looked as if he might be part wolf and growled menacingly as he came forward. Charlie was on the ground by then. “That’s Blue,” he said. “I call him that because he has blue eyes. Hey, Blue, this is Tre… He’s a good human. Don’t buy a horse from him, though, ’cause you’ll come up short.”

Tre figured that was Charlie’s way of soothing the dog, and he realized something else as well. Had he wanted to, Charlie could have ordered the dogs to tear him apart. Then the old man could have kept all the loot. He looked at Charlie and saw him smile. “That’s right, son… You’re smart, but you missed something. But you don’t need to worry, ’cause I’m a man of my word.”

Blue sniffed Tre’s left hand, and he was shocked to discover that the animal came up to his waist. “Don’t touch his head,” Charlie advised. “Not till he gets to know you. But go ahead and pat him on the back.”

Tre followed the other man’s instructions to the letter and felt a sense of relief as Blue ambled away. But he was replaced by another dog, and another, until every member of the pack had his scent. Then they went to lie, sit, and nose around the fire. “There,” Charlie said as he gave Tre two boxes of ammo. “You’re a member of the family now… and truth is that it will be good to have someone riding shotgun. And I mean a real shotgun. Not the .410.”

That was how Tre came to know Charlie Winthrop and was able to ride all the way to Alpine. They traveled during the day because, as Charlie put it, “most of my customers are holed up at night, and I like to see ‘em coming.”

The product, which Charlie referred to as “medicine,” consisted of various plant extracts, secret flavorings, and a high alcohol content. About twenty percent, to be precise. The latter was what Charlie called “the active ingredient.” All made in a distillery “up north.”

Tre tried some of the brown liquid and spit it out. Charlie laughed. “It takes some getting used to. Plus Mother Hubbard’s Blood Tonic and Painkiller is meant for grown-ups.”

So with two horses pulling the wagon, two following behind, and more than a dozen dogs ranging along both sides of the highway, the four-wheeled conveyance rattled along. The weather was relatively good for once, and riding on the wagon made for a pleasant break, especially given the weight of Tre’s pack.

Every now and then they would come to a hamlet, and when they did, Charlie would pull over. If it was lunchtime they would eat. If it wasn’t they would start a fire and wait. During such interludes, Charlie would deploy a long length of chain and fasten most of the dogs to it. Blue and a couple of others were spared that indignity and allowed to roam free. It was an effective deterrent.

Then in ones, twos, and threes the customers would appear, seemingly out of nowhere. Typically they paid with .22s, .38s, or whatever they had. Sometimes they offered a dozen eggs, part of a smoked ham, or a hunk of jerky. And when they did, Charlie generally took them up on it, because that was how he got his food. And Tre, who was armed with a twelve gauge, stood guard.

It was during one such stop that Tre managed to trade the .30-30 for a loaf of freshly baked bread. He split it with Charlie and they ate it in a single sitting with generous dollops of strawberry jam from the old man’s larder. It was the best meal Tre had eaten in a long time.

Eventually the Palisades Reservoir appeared off to the right side of the road. Tre knew that it was the result of a large dam a few miles to the south. There was a power plant there, or the remains of one, since it had gone offline before he was born.

Sunlight sparkled on the water, and a scattering of fishing boats could be seen out on the reservoir as the wagon rattled along. Not long thereafter, the partnership with Charlie came to an end when the wagon crossed the bridge into Alpine and paused to pay a three-bullet toll. Unlike so many places Tre had seen, Alpine could still claim an identity thanks to the presence of the palisade-style fort the citizens had built there. It was big enough to house all the locals in an emergency, strong enough to withstand small-arms fire, and surrounded by all sorts of obstacles. That was the good news. The bad news was that residents had to join the militia, had to tithe a month’s labor each year, and were beholden to Buck Benton. He was the son of Brett Benton, who was widely credited with fortifying the town thirty years earlier, all of which explained why Tre hadn’t applied for citizenship. He liked being free even if freedom came with a lot of risks.

All the dogs were chained up in accordance with Alpine’s rules, and they weren’t happy about it as the two men parted company. “You could come to work for me,” Charlie offered as Tre shouldered his pack. “Once I sell out, I’ll head north and take two months off. You could do the same.”

It was a generous offer, but Tre was looking forward to going home. “Thanks, but no thanks. Take care, Charlie. You’re okay for an old man.”

Charlie grinned. “And you’re okay for a fifteen-year-old punk.” Both laughed.

Tre turned his back and made his way down the busy street. He saw people bringing their produce into town—rarely more than a basket or two. Just what they could grow in a makeshift hothouse. There were predators too. They stood alone or in small groups, scanning those who passed by. Looking for what? A wealthy target? A potential client? Tre was careful to give them a wide berth.

Girls could be seen as well, always with someone else, because it would be dangerous to venture out alone. And Tre couldn’t help but wonder about them, even though he knew they were forever out of reach. The mere thought of trying to talk to such a creature was terrifying.

Tre followed old Highway 89 out of town and headed south. His plan was to pass through the hamlet of Freedom and follow 34 into Idaho. His home, which he called the Tangle, was a few miles south of Wayan, a community in name only. The hike would take the better part of two days. But thanks to the mild weather, Tre could strap the snowshoes to his pack, and that allowed him to move more freely.

A good deal of commerce flowed through Star Valley, so Tre saw people coming and going. Some rode horses, but most were on foot, and it was necessary to keep an eye on them lest he fall victim to a quick stab and grab. To that end, Tre was careful to check his back trail frequently—and to leave the highway when people threatened to overtake him. The key was to wait until a curve hid him from view. Then he would make for a grove of trees and stay there until the other travelers passed him.

Even with such interruptions, Tre made good progress and passed through Freedom just before sunset. There was a fortified inn, but he had no desire to sleep on a bedbug-infested mattress so he passed it by. Tre had traveled the route many times and usually spent the night at the edge of a fallow field not far from a small stream. A thicket of trees helped screen him from the highway and made a good windbreak.

It took less than fifteen minutes to start a fire, put a can of stew on to heat, and pitch his tent. After a hot dinner, it was time to clean up, brush his teeth, and hit the sack. The rain began with a gentle tap, tap, tap, and soon escalated into a gentle roar. And that was fine with Tre, since foul weather was likely to keep the bad guys at home. So with one hand on the .410 he drifted off to sleep.

After a relatively good night’s rest, meaning one in which he allowed himself to sleep two hours at a time, Tre rose to discover that the sun was out. It went a long way toward lifting his spirits as he rekindled the fire, boiled a large quantity of oatmeal, and sprinkled some of Bob’s brown sugar on it.

Once breakfast was over, Tre broke camp and began the last leg of his journey. Highway 34 ran between the Caribou and Webster mountain ranges. Some of the hillsides were bare, while others were forested. The road snaked back and forth between them as it crossed rivers, curved around lakes, and led him steadily upward. But the scenery was gorgeous and even the weight of Tre’s pack couldn’t stop him from enjoying it.

He walked all day, pausing only for lunch before starting downhill. He saw very few people, only one of whom was worth taking note of. He was riding a large tricycle with a cargo area in back, and that was intriguing. Tre figured he could build one, and unlike a horse, it wouldn’t have to be fed! There was a downside, however, as such a vehicle could attract the wrong sort of attention.

Finally, just short of Wayan, Tre turned onto a dirt track that led south. Five minutes later he left the path for a copse of trees. Tre was pretty confident that he hadn’t been followed but forced himself to check anyway.

After watching the area for fifteen minutes, he left the hiding spot and returned to the path. It led through an old homestead, past an empty-eyed house, and onto a trail so faint it was difficult to tell that it had once been a driveway. Then he veered off the trail in order to climb a lightly treed slope. A couple of scrawny pines and a clutch of boulders marked the point where he could look down on his home.

He ‘d come across the property not long after his mother’s death and decided to camp there. It had been a horse farm once, with a house, barn, and corral, but at some point the house caught fire and burned to the ground. Then, over the intervening years, blackberry vines grew up around the ruins to create a thick tangle.

If it hadn’t been for the comings and goings of a feral cat, Tre would never have thought to look farther. But the animal clearly had a home inside the briar patch, which raised the possibility that there were hidden nooks and crannies within the ruins, places that might be home to items he could use or trade.

After battling his way into the center of the stickers, and suffering a dozen scratches in the process, Tre found charred wood, a concrete foundation, and a set of rubble-strewn stairs that led down into a generously proportioned basement. Tre saw the possibilities right away and went to work perfecting his new home that very afternoon.

Now, as he scanned the site with the Nikon binoculars, Tre was searching for any sign that his sanctuary had been compromised—a tendril of smoke, boot prints on a patch of snow, or a newly cut path through the stickers, any of which could spell trouble. But no, as far as Tre could tell, everything was exactly as he had left it.

The next step was to circle wide, retrieve the rubber boots hidden upstream from the Tangle, and walk down the creek, a strategy calculated to avoid footprints and the possibility of a new trail—the sort of wear pattern that could lead bandits straight to his hidey-hole.

Calf-deep water splashed away from his boots as Tre made his way downstream and entered a shallow pool. There had been some vegetation on the north bank but Tre had planted more to camouflage the main entrance, which consisted of a sturdy door that could be barred from within. Beyond that was a carefully engineered tunnel reinforced with lumber scavenged from the remains of the tumbledown barn. It slanted up to a hole in the concrete floor. After closing the door behind him, Tre shoved the pack uphill into the room above.

It was pitch-black inside, so Tre lit a match and went around the room lighting candles. They were the cheapest, most dependable source of light he had. He had lanterns too, but they required fuel that was not only expensive, but heavy. A solar panel was hidden up in the tangle above, but it was difficult for sunlight to reach it, and when it did, only a fraction of what went in could be retrieved from the system’s ancient battery.

Once all the candles were aglow, the room was suffused with a soft flickering glow and the shadows were forced back to reveal Tre’s one-room world. There was storage in the back, a bed against one wall, and a working commode opposite that. The toilet had been there from the beginning and emptied into an underground septic tank.

A small Jøtul wood-burning stove was located in one corner of the space, with a reading nook on one side and the kitchen counter on the other. It featured a sink that Tre could fill with water pumped up from the creek. That drained into a five-gallon bucket that supplied the water he used to flush the toilet.

Tre heard a noise followed by a strident meow as a sleek-looking cat slipped into the room via a two-by-four ramp constructed for his convenience. He was black with white markings, and very independent. “Hey, Ninja,” Tre said. “Did you miss me? No, of course you didn’t. I brought you a present, though… It’s from a man named Bob.”

Ninja was the one who had unintentionally revealed the basement to Tre and, though entirely self-sufficient, continued to sleep there and kept the space free of pests. His big yellow eyes watched Tre as he opened the pack and produced a can of condensed milk. Once the treat had been poured into a bowl, Ninja went over to check it out. Three seconds later he was lapping away. Tre smiled. It was good to be home.

After a leisurely evening and an uninterrupted night of sleep, Tre arose ready to do what he enjoyed almost as much as reading, and that was building things, especially useful things, like the small hydro-generator described on page 63 of the book 101 Science Projects. If Tre could build one and install the turbine in the creek, he could power some electric lights, and that would replace the need to use candles, lanterns, and the iffy solar power system.

So Tre took the book back to his neatly organized storage area and began to run through the parts list. He was going to need some cardboard to cut templates from, copper wire for coils, eight spoons, which would serve as turbine blades, something to make a rotor out of, a plastic tank similar to the old weed sprayer he had, and four strong magnets. And that was where he came up short. Tre had some kitchen cabinet magnets but knew they wouldn’t be strong enough for the job. What to do?

The question continued to dog Tre after he put the book aside. He had a strong desire to go out and find the magnets, but every trip entailed risk, and the more trips he made, the more likely it was that something would go wrong.

Tre thought about it as he did his chores, dreamed about it that night, and awoke with the decision made. He would make the two-day trip to Afton. That was the town most likely to have what he needed—then he’d come straight back. The trip would take four days in all. To speed him on his way and reduce the chances of being robbed, he would wear his most ragged clothing and carry a minimum of gear.

After a quick breakfast and some careful preparations, Tre said good-bye to Ninja and left. Now it was time to walk upstream, hide the rubber boots, and circle around to a second viewpoint, where he spent ten minutes scanning the surrounding area before heading for the highway. He was dressed in an old parka over a hoodie and raggedy jeans, the knapsack was half the size of the pack he’d carried on the trip to Jackson, and his weapons consisted of the Bowie knife he had taken off the dead bandit and a six-foot-long metal tube. It was decorated with three leather sleeves, string windings, and touches of paint.

It was cold, the snow was crunchy, and Tre had the highway to himself as he walked east. He saw people as the day wore on, but not very many, and none of them showed any interest in the scarecrow with the tiny pack and the metal pole.

Rather than camp outside Freedom as he had before, Tre elected to turn south toward Afton. The night was spent in the mummy bag curled up in the trunk of a rusty Cadillac. Breakfast consisted of oatmeal cooked over a can of Sterno. Then it was off to Afton.

There was little to no traffic on Highway 89 at first, but by midmorning Tre was part of a parade that consisted of hikers, people on horseback, and donkey-drawn carts. About half were going south as he was, and the others were headed north, having already been to Afton.

Tre didn’t like having people all around him, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Besides, he told himself, there’s safety in numbers. There were no guarantees, but bandits were less likely to attack him in such a situation, since they had no way to know how the other travelers would respond. They might decide to mind their own business or they might open fire on the thieves. Very few bandits wanted to take that chance.

At about three p.m., Tre saw the haze of smoke that marked Afton in the distance and was soon lost in the mob of people who were lined up to pass through the town’s northern checkpoint. It consisted of two buildings: one for those who wanted to enter the city and one for those who were leaving.

There was no way to circumvent the so-called customs stations because of the six-foot-tall barbed-wire fence that ran all away around Afton. And the three-story watchtowers that guarded each corner of the perimeter made it impossible to climb the fence without being spotted. The fence had a secondary purpose as well, and that was to slow invaders down in the case of an all-out attack and give the citizens more time to respond.

Tre understood the reason for the security measures but felt a rising sense of tension as he shuffled forward—not because of a specific threat, but because the citizens of Afton had all the power, and once he entered their town he would be subject to their rules, all of which were set up to benefit them.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it was Tre’s turn to enter the pedestrian pass-through, where a pair of guards blocked the way. There was a window on the right, and Tre turned to face it. The man behind the bars was going bald, had a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, and looked bored. “Are you carrying firearms? If so, slide them through the hole, butt first, and I’ll check them for you.”

Tre had been through the process before and understood the necessity. The citizens of Afton were willing to let visitors carry knives and clubs, but they weren’t allowed to have guns—and for good reason. Had it been otherwise, fifty bandits could have entered Afton separately, come together, and taken control.

“No, sir. I don’t have any firearms.”

“Can you read?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Check the blackboard, choose a form of payment, and push it through the opening.”

Tre looked at the chalkboard, where all the possible combinations were written out, and chose to pay the city’s admission tax with a .410 shotgun shell and two .45-caliber slugs. The clerk accepted them, chose to weigh the shotgun shell, and pointed to a bottle of ink to Tre’s right. “Stick your right index finger in the bottle.”

Tre did as he was told. When he pulled his finger out, it was black. “Can’t hardly tell the difference,” the clerk said. “We need white ink for your kind.”

The guards had heard the joke before but laughed anyway as Tre struggled to control the anger that boiled up inside. He forced himself to remain silent as he turned left. Both guards were dressed western-style and armed with pistols. “Pass the pole to me,” the taller one ordered, and Tre had no choice but to comply.

“Lock your hands behind your neck,” the other cowboy said, “and spread your feet.”

As the short man gave Tre a professional pat down, his partner was busy examining the pole. “It ain’t much,” he said, “but I guess you could whack someone with it.”

Tre had a book called Stick Fighting: Techniques of Self-Defense and had been studying the contents for more than a year. Could he beat the cowboy to death? Yes, he thought he could, even though he had yet to use his skills. “Yes, sir,” Tre replied. “I use it to keep the dogs off me.”

Feral dogs were everywhere and the guard nodded. “Makes sense, but get a gun when you can.”

“He’s clean,” the short guard said. “Next.”

Tre felt a sense of relief as he left the customs station and entered Afton. Most of the towns Tre had been to were considerably smaller than they had been before the war, but Afton was an exception. Thanks to its location and to decisions made by its citizens, the community was not only larger but relatively prosperous. As Tre walked the streets, he saw signs advertising a candle maker, a dentist, a gunsmith, a tailor, a barber, a blacksmith, and more. But what he didn’t see was a grocery store.

Due to climate change, it was very difficult to grow crops anywhere except inside the huge greenhouses owned by a class of people called food lords. And that was why some of Afton’s citizens were fat. They could afford to buy what thousands of other people had to steal or endure slavery to obtain, the latter being something that his mother refused to consider. “All of us are going to die,” she liked to say, “but while we’re here, you and I are going to live free.”

Important though food was, Tre was after a set of magnets, and he knew where to find them. The Geek Shop was located on a side street and specialized in selling reconditioned objects brought in by scroungers or recovered from one of the garbage mines.

Tre felt a visceral sense of excitement as he entered the store and looked around. The walls were obscured by shelves loaded with fantastical prewar machines. Toasters, hair dryers, music players, fans, tools, toys, and countless other objects all battled for Tre’s attention. So the tendency was to linger. But Tre wanted to begin the trip home as soon as possible, so he went straight to the back counter, waited for Tommy to finish waiting on another customer, and made his request. “I’m looking for some magnets. Strong ones.”

Tommy was thirtysomething and had beady eyes, a five o’clock shadow, and stringy hair. “You again.”

“You remember me?”

“You’re the only kid who buys things here.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“Sure. What are you building?”

Tre looked away. It was difficult for him to meet a stranger’s eyes, but he forced himself to turn his head back. “A small hydroelectric generator.”

Tommy’s face lit up. “Sweet! How many magnets do you need?”

“Four.”

“Wait here.” The proprietor was back a couple of minutes later with four magnets and a piece of steel. “Here you go… Test ‘em.”

Tre did. The magnets were so strong it was difficult to pry them off the strip of metal. “I’ll take them. How much?”

“Half a box of .45s or the equivalent thereof.”

The price was steep—very steep—but if Tre wanted to build the generator, he had no choice. And Tommy knew that. “How ‘bout fifteen .45s, ten .22s, and a couple of .410s?”

That was a slight discount, but not much of one. Tommy smiled. “Sure.”

Tre took a leather pouch out of an inner pocket and counted the ammo onto the counter. “Okay,” Tommy said as he accepted the payment. “Good luck with the generator.”

Tre thanked him and left. If anything, the streets were more crowded now, and the presence of so many people brought out street vendors, con men, and pickpockets. As Tre made for the north exit, he ran into a crowd. Judging from all the commotion up ahead, some sort of street performance was under way, and Tre hoped to catch a glimpse of it as he passed by.

But after pushing his way to the front of the crowd, Tre found himself looking at something very different from what he had expected. There, within a circle of bystanders, was a ragged-looking youth. A group of toughs had ropes on the girl and were jerking her back and forth. She was speaking gibberish and drooling. The crowd laughed as she fell, and one of the hooligans kicked her.

Mind your own business, the voice in Tre’s head told him. It isn’t your problem. Tre knew that was true, just as he knew he was going to take action anyway and that doing so would have negative consequences.

He said, “Excuse me,” to the people in front of him and pushed between them. Then he was there, standing inside the circle, the staff held in both hands. He had to shout in order to be heard. “Let her go.”

Suddenly the crowd noise all but disappeared as the youth in the center of the ring continued to gibber and managed to free herself from the rope. A dark-haired youth frowned as if unable to believe what he had heard. “What did you say?”

All eyes that weren’t already on Tre went to him. “I said let her go.”

“Or?”

“Or you’ll regret it.”

The dark-haired tough smiled. Here was a gift, another person to dominate, and another opportunity to instill fear. He pointed to a couple of toadies. “Miller, Baker, take him.”

As the two toadies came rushing toward him, Tre brought the staff up across his chest. The one named Miller had long hair, a big jaw, and a powerful body. Had he been able to get his gigantic paws on Tre, the fight would have been over in no time. But a quick blow from the right end of the staff broke all his teeth and sent him reeling away with both hands clutching a bloody mouth.

Meanwhile, the other end of the metal tube dipped, swiveled, and was waiting for Baker when he ran into it. He uttered a gasp of pain, grabbed his crotch, and fell to his knees.

Like all crowds, this one was fickle. As the bystanders roared their approval, Tre saw a combination of shock and anger on the gang leader’s face. And he saw something else as well. The youth with the dark hair was wearing a pistol in a cross-draw holster. That meant he was a citizen and would have the local authorities on his side. “Okay,” the city boy said, “rope him.”

Tre saw the loop of rope coming, sidestepped it, and twisted both halves of the rod in opposite directions. The center sleeve fell away and the staff was transformed into a pair of fighting sticks. Tre held them at the ready as he stepped forward. A tough rushed him, took a blow to the head, and fell. A second later, one of the gang members landed on Tre’s back and was trying to choke him when both rods struck his head. The weight fell away.

Then, as if in slow motion, Tre saw the gang leader go for his gun. He heard someone scream and sensed that people were trying to get clear of the area behind him, fearful that they would catch a bullet. The city boy’s decision to use the pistol left Tre with no choice but to bring the tubes up, press the buttons hidden beneath the remaining sleeves, and fire both weapons.

The three-foot-long gun barrels were loaded with .410 shotgun shells, and at close range the effect was devastating. His opponent’s face disappeared in a spray of bone and blood.

A second later Tre felt something hit his head, a hole seemed to open under his feet, and darkness pulled him down. The fight was over.