William Dietz - The Seeds of Man

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.”