William Dietz: The Seeds of Man

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.

“I use chopped elk, onions, tomato sauce, kidney beans, chili powder, and brown sugar,” Bob said. “I used to add cumin but ran out. There you go,” the old man said as he ladled some brown brew into a plastic bowl. “Tuck into that.”

Tre accepted the bowl and a dirty spoon. The chili smelled delicious, but his mother had taught him not to eat until she sat down. And she taught him something else, too, what she called street smarts, even if he didn’t spend much time on the streets. “Be careful what you eat, son… and always think about who’s giving it to you. We live in troubled times.”

That’s why Tre waited to make sure that Bob was going to eat from the same pot. Once he did, Tre figured the chili was safe to eat. And it was good. Very good. The bowl was empty three minutes later. Bob smiled knowingly. “Good, huh?”

“Very.”

“Would you like some more?”

Tre extended his bowl. “Yes, please.”

Bob served up a refill, and as Tre went to work on his second helping of chili, the older man peppered him with questions. Where was he from? Where was he headed? And what had he seen along the way?