The Seeds of Man

The Seeds of Man by William C. Dietz

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Authors: William C. Dietz
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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.

Chapter Five
    South of Afton, Wyoming, USA
    T he sky was the color of old pewter as Luther Voss climbed the stairs that led up to the crudely made gallows and looked out over the slum called Shantytown, a tawdry settlement that abutted the southernmost portion of his land—”his land” being defined as whatever real estate Voss could take and hold. Because in post apocalyptic America there were no elected governments, legal documents, or courts to enforce them. Justice, as the dead thief had learned, was defined by the people with the most guns. The rope made a creaking sound as a cold wind pushed against the body. “Cut him down,” Voss ordered, and stood to one side.
    The food lord’s second in command was a man named Hawkins. Like all the members of Voss’s private army, Hawkins was dressed cowboy-style in a long duster, jeans, and high-heeled boots. His coat was open so that he could access the weapons he wore, one of which was a very sharp knife. It made short work of the rope, and there was a thump as the body landed on the wooden platform.
    With that out of the way, Voss stepped forward. A breeze caught his long, mostly brown hair and whipped it around. He could feel the wind pressing against his back and see the way it ripped and tore at the fragile shacks arrayed in front of him. Having started at the south end of the settlement, his “boys,” as Voss referred to them, had driven hundreds of squatters into the area in front of the gallows.
    As Voss looked down at them, he saw haunted eyes, drawn faces, and ragged clothes.

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