The Seeds of Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

around.
    After watching for a while, he concluded that if the local residents were aware of his presence, they were content to wait for him rather than come out and do battle. Of course, if they were up high, in a church tower, for example, a single rifle shot could take him out.
    For one brief moment Tre wished that he had brought a rifle instead of the sawed-off shotgun. But he dismissed the thought a second later, knowing that while it would be nice out in the open, a long-barreled weapon would be a disadvantage inside buildings. And that was where the good stuff was likely to be located.
    So Tre left the house and followed one side of an arrow-straight street to the center of town. Where possible, Tre minimized his exposure to structures taller than two stories. He was leaving tracks, but that couldn’t be helped. All he could do was pause frequently, check his back trail, and stay alert.
    Eventually Tre arrived at what a lopsided sign said was Central Square Park—and paused to look at an arch made out of elk antlers. At first he thought the structure was associated with one of the new religions, some of which involved animal worship, but then he concluded that the structure was too old for that. A prewar tourist attraction perhaps, although he couldn’t imagine going very far to see it.
    The snowshoes would be a problem once he began to search buildings, so Tre took them off and strapped them to the pack frame. He was wearing a pair of old Itasca Winter Pac boots. They were one size too large, but a pair of bulky wool socks made up for that. They left enormous footprints as he made his way down the street.
    There were lots of stores. Most had broken windows and doors that hung askew. Trash lay strewn all over the floors, and the walls were covered with graffiti. Tre noticed that spray paint had been used to create the first layers of words and images. Then, as spray paint became increasingly difficult to find, graffiti had been added using other substances, some of which could have been blood. Equally noteworthy was the fact that what looked like the most recent additions included a lot of misspelled words. Literacy was fading fast.
    Store after store had been stripped of everything useful—or
obviously
useful, since Tre knew that many of the things that looters left behind could be repurposed. But he couldn’t carry display racks, electrical fixtures, or electric motors home with him. There were some trivial finds, however, including a candle that had rolled into a kick space, a scattering of pennies, which could melted down for the copper they contained, and a brand-new ballpoint pen, all of which went into his pack.
    After he’d entered and exited two dozen stores, a sign caught Tre’s attention. It was faded but still legible: “JACKSON UNDERGROUND.” That suggested a subterranean shopping area—and there was a flight of stairs that led down to double doors. But they were blocked by a pile of debris that included a metal desk, a rolling garbage bin, and all sorts of other trash, not the sort of stuff that was likely to wind up there by accident.
    No, what Tre was looking at was someone’s attempt to seal off the underground area. Because they were living there? Probably. But
when
? If recently, Tre would be well-advised to steer clear. But if the people who were responsible for the barricade were gone, it would be safe to enter.
    Tre was interested and, more than that, determined to find another way in. The next fifteen minutes were spent casting about. Eventually he found a second entrance down the street, but that was blocked as well. So Tre began to search the surrounding stores, and it wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for.
    It was inside a place called the Cowboy Bar, where saddles served as stools. And there, behind the counter, Tre found a trapdoor, one that had been used recently, judging from the fresh scuff marks around it.
    Rather than lift the door and peer inside, Tre took a