William Dietz - The Seeds of Man

Unfortunately there was no way to hide and feed the horses that Tre and Knife were riding—which was why second-rate mounts had been chosen for the trip. So once a hiding place had been chosen and Smoke’s supplies were offloaded, Tre and Knife said good-bye and rode down Highway 26. The sky was gray, it was raining, and water was dripping off the brim of Tre’s hat. He was looking for the Hemmert Avenue exit, and as luck would have it, the lopsided sign could still be read. The moment they turned off the freeway, they were in Kimble’s territory—a fact that quickly became evident.

The techies came swarming up out of basements, storm drains, and bomb craters. There were dozens of them, all clad in soiled coveralls and wearing half-mask respirators. It was possible to see their eyes but not their noses or mouths as they closed in. “Stop!” one of them ordered, his voice partially muffled. “Put your hands up.”

Tre pulled back on the reins, looped them around the saddle horn, and raised his hands. Knife did likewise. That was the signal for the strange-looking soldiers to close in. They took control of the horses, confiscated the sacrificial third-rate rifles that both men were carrying, and ordered the prisoners to dismount. Tre had been expecting the trap, had knowingly walked into it, but was frightened nevertheless. He let that show. “ Please ,” he said, “don’t hurt us.”

“Don’t worry, boyo,” a voice said as Tre’s feet hit the ground. “We’ll be real gentle. Ain’t that right, Jack?”

“Oh, yeah,” a burly figure replied. “We’ll tuck you in every night.” That produced a chorus of guffaws.

“Put your hands on top of your head,” a third techie said. “Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

Rough hands patted both men down and located their knives. Tre was carrying a few matches, a snare, and a toy compass. That was all. “The rifles are worthless,” one of the men concluded. “They have sixteen rounds of ammo between them, and the paring knives are a joke. Not much of a haul.”

“Plus the horses,” a hopeful voice said.

“We can eat ‘em,” the techie behind Tre put in. “That’s all they’re good for.” And with that, he gave Tre a shove. “Start walkin’, boyo… The pit boss is waitin’ to see you.”

Tre stumbled forward. One boot landed in a puddle and water splashed. Everything seemed hyper-real: the raindrops on his face, the cloud of seagulls that rose from somewhere up ahead, and the sickly sweet smell of rotting garbage.

They came to a cyclone fence and a gate that swung open to let them pass. Tre saw rows of truck trailers off to his right and wondered what they were for. But his thoughts were cut short when one of the men shoved a gun barrel into his back.

The path was paved with objects that had been smashed down into the mud to form a mosaic of metal, plastic, and glass. Piles of reclaimed objects could be seen all around. Tre saw hills made out of electric toasters, metal chairs, and plastic toys. The latter came in a rainbow of primary colors and had survived more than fifty years in the ground without any signs of decay.

Then came an open area, more screaming gulls, and a sight unlike anything Tre had seen before. The pit was circular, thousands of yards across, and hundreds of feet deep. A blue flame was burning at the center of the open pit mine. It wavered as a breeze struck it, and Tre knew he was looking at methane gas being vented from deep below.

Farther out, around the perimeter of the pit, tiny humans could be seen. They were hard at work digging objects out of the matrix. Other slaves, men with baskets of junk on their backs, formed a line that snaked up the spiral road to a point off to Tre’s left. As they arrived, other people rushed forward to grab their baskets and carry them to a screening table. It was a vast enterprise, and Tre was impressed. “That’s far enough,” a techie said, and jerked Tre to a stop. “Wait here.”

So they stood in the pouring rain, taking all of it in, until a man without a respirator rounded a pile of scrap metal and limped their way. Damp hair grew in patches on his scabrous scalp, and an open sore was visible high on his left cheek. But perhaps the most noticeable thing about his appearance was the prosthetic leg strapped to his right thigh. There was no way to know for sure, but Tre figured that it, too, had been recovered from the dump.

“I’m the pit boss,” the man said. “Welcome to Kimble Enterprises. At least you look healthy. Not like the animated skeletons they bring me most of the time. In fact, given a bit of luck, you could last five or six months.”

At that point, the pit boss looked expectant, as if his cheerful assessment might be sufficient to produce some smiles, but none were forthcoming. “Okay,” the pit boss continued. “Our work force consists of diggers, sorters, haulers, and techs. Most people start out as diggers, and you’re most people, so that’s what you’re gonna do. There’s a lot of ways to get killed in the pit—so pay attention to what the other scabs tell you. Take ‘em away.”

As Tre and Knife were led down the spiral road, heavily laden haulers were traveling in the opposite direction with loads of artifacts on their backs. Most of the items were carried in baskets, but some were tied to pack boards. And the people hauling these loads were so tired, or so beaten down, that none bothered to look at the newcomers. Could they be transformed into an army? Not based on appearances. Tre felt his spirits sink further.

As the pit walls rose around them, plastic bags could be seen hanging like limp handkerchiefs from the dirt walls. The matrix around them consisted of partially visible bits and pieces, which, if excavated, might turn out to be something useful: a sled or a door or any of thousands of other items. Anything and everything that a throwaway society had chosen to discard because it cost less to buy something new than to repair an item that was broken. And for Tre, that was tantamount to a crime because it was his belief that whatever could be repaired should be.

Once at the bottom of the hole, Tre and Knife were given over to a section boss who was standing on a pair of thirty-inch-high drywall stilts. That gave him the techie a height advantage that allowed him to see what all his slaves were doing at any given moment. The boss was wearing a bush hat, a water-slicked poncho, and knee-length cutoffs. “My name is Sir,” he said importantly. “And you will do what I say. If you fail to do so, the penalty is death—and if you succeed, the reward is death. The difference being that the first will be more painful than the second. Do we understand each other?”

Both men mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Off to my left you will find a pile of picks. Choose one and use it on the matrix. Our goal is to recover objects, repair them if necessary, and sell them. So if you damage an artifact, I will administer a unit of pain. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Select a pick and go to work on the section of wall between the red flags. That is my section, which is to say the best section of the mine, so treat it with respect. Go.”

Tre traded sidelong glances with Knife as they made their way over to the pile of picks. They came in all sorts of styles and sizes. Tre assumed that most of the tools had been salvaged from the dump. He chose one that had what looked like a new handle. Then, conscious of the fact that Sir was watching, he followed Knife to the wall. Other slaves, about a hundred in all, were working in the area between the red flags. And some had things to say.

“All right. Some new meat…”

“Welcome to hell.”

And the ever popular, “Where you from?”