The Seeds of Man

Chapter Ten

There were rules. Lots of rules. The most important of which was, “Do what you’re told.” The corollary being, “Don’t ask questions.” Both of which were difficult for a person like Lora to follow. Especially when stupid people were doing stupid things. And that was how she got into trouble.

Lora had been at Station 2 for a week by then. Both she and Sissy had been ordered to work in Greenhouse 7. And, being new, they were assigned to pull weeds, an activity that was not only boring but largely unnecessary. Or that’s how Lora saw it. The problem was that each “house” was controlled by an overseer. And in their case that person was a dullard named Ponty. Word had it that he’d been a slave himself and had risen to his present rank by dint of hard work, stoic suffering, and unquestioning obedience. And that included an acceptance of the methodologies in place when he took over. Even if they were stupid. So when Lora suggested ways in which the operation could be improved, they fell on deaf ears. Safety, for Ponty at least, lay in keeping everything exactly the way it was.

The obvious solution was to go over Ponty’s head to Slave Master Rahman, a stern disciplinarian who liked to tour the houses immediately after lunch. Knowing that, Lora kept an eye on the door as she worked, and sure enough, Rahman arrived about ten minutes after work began. Ponty was there to greet him.

The slave master stood well over six feet tall. He had a shaved head, eyebrows so bushy they looked like caterpillars, and sensuous lips. Unlike the overseers, who typically wore bib overalls, Rahman affected a white suit.

Lora worked up her courage as Rahman and Ponty made their way down the main aisle. Then, as the men drew abreast of her, she stood. “Permission to speak, master.”

Ponty looked alarmed and was about to object when Rahman raised an imperious hand. “Permission granted.”

Lora felt light-headed. All the surrounding slaves were staring at her. The decision to speak had been a mistake. She knew that now, but it was too late. “W-w-weeding,” she stuttered. “There is n-n-o need to do so much of it.”

Ponty’s face turned white. The statement was tantamount to rebellion. The slave would be punished and so would he. Perhaps he could silence her and save himself. Ponty drew his arm back and was about to flick the whip forward when Rahman stopped him. His voice was stern. “What do you mean?”

Lora had seen the interplay between the men and felt a little more confident. “I mean that weeds are allowed to grow around the greenhouses. They produce seeds, which we bring inside on our clothes and shoes.”

Rahman stared at her. “That is a very interesting observation. Where did you learn that?”

Lora couldn’t tell the truth. Not without mentioning the Sanctuary. “I lived at the Morningstar commune before the Crusaders destroyed it.”

Rahman nodded. “You may return to your work.”

Lora knelt on the edge of the raised planter box and went back to pulling weeds. Nothing was likely to change. She knew that. But trying made her feel better.

The rest of the day was a long, dreary affair capped off by the one thing Lora looked forward to, and that was dinner. Not because of the way the food was prepared but because there were plenty of fresh vegetables. And after weeks on the road, she was hungry for them.

Nights were spent in a locked dormitory with the women who worked in Greenhouses 6, 7, and 8. There were forty-five of them, and Lora was still in the process of putting names with faces. A strict curfew was enforced by an overseer whom everyone referred to as “the Hag.” Fortunately the Hag had three dorms to monitor and was absent two-thirds of the time.

Lora slipped between the thin cotton sheets, pulled the wool blanket up around her neck, and waited for the lanterns to go out. The building was wired for electricity but didn’t have any. According to the rumors Lora had heard, the lack of power had something to do with a war between Voss and a tech lord named Hashi. Finally the lights went off one by one. That was followed by the familiar clomp, clomp, clomp of the Hag’s footsteps and the sound of a door closing.

Then Lora had to listen to the usual coughing fits, prayers that never produced results, and the sound of a crying child. In addition to Sissy’s daughter, Cristi, the dorm was home to two other children, both under the age of six. Once their sixth birthdays arrived, they would be taken from their mothers to be sold or raised separately, a prospect that haunted Sissy’s every waking hour.

As the coughing stopped and the prayers came to an end, some of the women began to snore. That was when Lora drifted off to sleep. But not for long. Suddenly a heavy weight fell across Lora’s thighs, a hand covered her mouth, and a voice whispered in her ear. “Good morning, suck-up. Time to rise and shine.”

Lora struggled as what seemed like a multitude of hands lifted her out of bed, jerked the covers off, and carried her to the bathroom, the only place where there was any privacy. Lora waited for some sort of reaction. Surely the other slaves could see what was happening. Then it came to her… Most if not all of them were in on it. Her feet hit the cold floor as a couple of women took hold of her arms.

A match flared, a lantern was lit, and Lora was forced to squint. That was when a woman named Vicki slapped Lora across the face. Vicki was thirtysomething, stocky, and clearly angry. “The bosses have their rules,” she began, “and we have ours. The first one is, ‘Do enough but no more.’ And you broke that rule. What? You think we’re stupid? You think we don’t know where seeds come from? Use your head. If we help Voss to grow more food, he will sell it, buy more slaves, and make them suffer. So we do enough to survive but no more. Got it?” The question was punctuated with a slap that caused Lora’s head to jerk sideways. She nodded.

“Good,” Vicki said. “This is your one and only warning. If you step out of line again, the Hag will find you hanging from a pipe in the showers. We’ll cry and say how sad we are. And Ponty will put it down as a suicide.”

“Time to break it off,” a voice whispered. “The Hag is on her way back by now.”

Strong hands lifted Lora and half carried her back to bed. She hid under the covers as the Hag reentered the dorm. Lora slept very little that night. A wild mishmash of emotions kept her awake. Embarrassment for being so stupid. Fear of what the other slaves might do to her in the future. And something akin to respect when she realized that the women around her were fighting back to the extent they could.

Lora knew all eyes were on her the next morning. That stemmed from simple curiosity in part, but there was a more serious aspect to it as well. Would she look scared? Would she try to talk to Ponty? The only person who knew for sure was Lora, and she hid her emotions as she joined the chow line. Sissy was there with Cristi on her hip. She looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Lora. They said they would hurt me if I told you. And I have Cristi to think of.”

Lora understood but couldn’t forgive her. A friend was someone you could count on no matter what, and Sissy had failed that test. Lora wasn’t surprised, however. One of the things she had learned over the last few months was that a person like Matt could be an enemy and an individual like Cassie could be a friend. So she told Sissy to forget it, made a note that the woman couldn’t be trusted, and elected to eat by herself.

Once breakfast was over, Ponty was there to lead them to Greenhouse 7. But instead of sending them inside the way he usually did, Ponty pointed to a pile of tools. His voice was even, but Lora could tell he was angry. “You’ll start by working outside,” he said. “And from now on, you will brush all foreign matter off your clothes before entering the greenhouse.”

Lora knew the slaves were looking at her, hating her, as she went to collect a tool. The tip of the whip stung as it found her back. “Pick up the pace,” Ponty said. “You have a lot of work to do.”

The next couple of days were very unpleasant. Except for Sissy, none of the other slaves were willing to speak with her, and Ponty rarely missed an opportunity to whip Lora. But then, three days after the short interaction with Rahman, an overseer named Nichols came to collect her. She was eating breakfast at the time and the buzz of conversation ceased as he entered, spoke to the nearest slave, and made his way over to where Lora was seated. The overseer was small, wiry, and dressed in bib overalls. “Are you Larsy?”

Lora stood. “Yes, master.”

“My name is Nichols. Follow me.” Every eye in the cafeteria tracked Lora as she was led out into the bright sunshine. She felt a sudden stab of fear. Where was Nichols taking her? The answer was to a horse-drawn wagon that was waiting about fifty yards away. The back was loaded with boxes of fresh produce. “Hop up next to the driver’s seat,” Nichols said, and pointed forward.

Once Lora was seated next to Nichols and the vehicle was under way, she felt a sense of relief. She wasn’t on her way to some sort of punishment. So where was the wagon going? Lora turned toward Nichols. “Permission to speak?”

“Shoot,” Nichols said laconically as the reins slapped the horses.

“Where are we going?”

Nichols looked surprised. “No one told you?”

“No, master.”

“You were selected to work in the big house.”

“The big house?”

“Yeah, you know. The house where Mr. Voss lives.”

Lora didn’t know—but it made sense. Voss had to live somewhere. She had other questions but didn’t dare ask them. She could think about the situation and draw her own conclusions, however. It seemed that the ill-considered interaction with Rahman had resulted in a promotion of sorts, since everyone knew that house slaves lived better than field slaves did. But a slave is a slave.

Still, she was happy to escape the people who hated her and get a fresh start. But play it smart this time, Lora admonished herself. Keep your mouth shut.

It felt good to have a plan, no matter how superficial it might be, and Lora allowed herself to relax as the wagon passed through a checkpoint and rattled onto the road. The first thing she noticed was the fact that there was quite a bit of traffic. And even though free people went armed, there was no sense of impending doom. Which made sense. Who would dare attack? Of course, safety came at a price. The locals had to pay the taxes Voss levied.

The scenery was pleasantly pastoral. There were neatly kept “stations,” all belonging to Voss, and some independently run farms as well, the latter being under contract to Voss. That’s what Nichols said. In addition to the greenhouses used to grow most of the food, Lora could see cows grazing in pastures and plots of healthy-looking corn.

Eventually they came to Afton, where, instead of being forced to wait in line, the wagon was ushered through a special gate. Such were the privileges associated with the Voss name.

Their destination appeared half an hour later. There was no need for Nichols to point it out. The fortified manor house was impossible to miss. It sat atop a hill, and as they passed through a heavily guarded gate, Lora saw the weapons emplacements located all around.

A twisting, turning road led up through landscaped slopes to a Y. One branch of the driveway veered right, but Nichols kept the wagon to the left. Then, as he rounded the house, the overseer brought the conveyance to a stop under the portico that connected the main structure to the building behind it. “See the door over there?” Nichols inquired. “That’s the entrance to the servants’ quarters. Go inside and report to Mrs. Winters.”

Lora said, “Yes, master,” and jumped to the ground. She paused to let a couple of women pass. They were headed for the big house and were carrying piles of fresh linen. Both were dressed in identical gray dresses. A man with a box full of boots was headed the other way. To polish them? Yes, Lora thought so. His uniform consisted of a white shirt, dark jacket, and matching trousers.

Lora followed the male servant through the door and entered a Spartan reception area. That’s where the overseer was. A sign that said, “Mrs. Winters,” was sitting on the wooden desk. The woman behind it had a doughy face and a red nose and wore her hair in a bun. But the most notable thing about her was the fact that she was very obese. Some of the people who lived in the Sanctuary had been overweight. But this woman was truly fat in a time when most people were malnourished or starving. “Permission to speak, ma’am.”

The woman looked Lora up and down in much the same way that a butcher might inspect a side of beef. “Granted.”

“I was told to report to you. My name is Lora Larsy.”

Winters shuffled some papers, found the sheet she was searching for, and squinted at it. “Hmm. It appears that Slave Master Rahman thinks you have the makings of a house slave. Maybe he’s right and maybe he isn’t. Time will tell.

“I’m going to assign you to the housekeeping staff. You’ll work side by side with another girl for a week. Then, if your performance is up to standards, you’ll be on your own.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A cord and wooden handle dangled next to Winters. She gave it a tug. A girl appeared thirty seconds later. She had a round face, big eyes, and rosy cheeks. “Yes, ma’am?”

“This is Lora. Show her around. Make sure she has a bed and uniforms.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Lora will shadow you for the next week or so. Teach her the rules. And if she breaks one of them, I will punish both of you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Dismissed.”

The girl led Lora through a door and glanced back over her shoulder. “What a cow… My name’s Clara. Welcome to the big house. Come on. The female dorm is up on the third floor. And stay away from the men… Winters will whip you if you don’t. And me too.”

Lora followed Clara up a flight of stairs, past a shared bathroom, and into a dormitory. It was furnished with twenty neatly made single beds. A chest was located at the foot of each. “This one is available,” Clara said as they paused by bed 12. “It belonged to Nan until she spilled a tray of drinks on Mr. Voss.”

Lora looked from the empty bed to Clara. “What happened to her?”

“They put her in the hole.”

“The hole?”

“It’s a hole in the ground and it has a lid so you can’t get out. It’s freezing cold in the winter and boiling hot in the summer.”

“So they put her in the hole. Then what?“

“I don’t know. We haven’t seen her since.” The answer was given in a matter-of-fact manner, as if such occurrences were commonplace and to be expected.

“Come on,” Clara said. “We’ll get some clothes for you. I hope you like gray.”

Unlike Station 2, where workers were restricted to one shower per week, house slaves were expected to be clean lest they offend Mr. Voss or senior staff, a rule Lora heartily approved of. So she took a hot shower before donning a crisp gray uniform, black stockings, and square-toed shoes. After passing Clara’s inspection, it was time to make the scary journey from the servants’ quarters to the big house.

They entered through the back door, which was adjacent to a huge kitchen. “Lots of newcomers are assigned to the kitchen,” Clara said as they paused in the hall. “Mr. Oliver needs slaves to serve as dishwashers, pot scrubbers, and floor cleaners. It’s hot in there. And when he gets drunk, everybody suffers.”

Clara turned to point. “Those are the back stairs. Never use the front stairs.”

“Don’t tell me—let me guess. They’ll whip me if I do.”

Clara laughed. “That’s right. The first room on the right is the dining room. We’re going to clean it.”

“So we need to clean it every day?”

“No, we need to clean it three times a day. After breakfast, after lunch, and after dinner.”

“Why? Is Mr. Voss messy?”

“Oh, no… He’s quite tidy. And so is Miss Silverton.”

“Who is Miss Silverton?”

Clara glanced around. “Never stand still. Stay busy all the time. That’s the best way.”

Lora took note of the other girl’s reluctance to discuss Miss Silverton, wondered why, and followed her to a utility closet, where they armed themselves with dusters, brooms, and mops. As they stepped into the hall, Lora saw that a well-dressed man was coming their way. He had slicked-down hair and wore thick glasses. Clara curtseyed and Lora tried to imitate her. This, she assumed, was Lord Voss.

The man stopped. His eyes met Lora’s. “Are you new?”

“Yes, master.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lora Larsy, master.”

He nodded. “Welcome to the big house.” Then he was gone.

Lora turned to Clara. “Mr. Voss is nicer than I thought he would be.”

“That was Mr. Trenton,” Clara responded. “Mr. Voss’s assistant. He’s… well, you’ll find out soon enough.”

Lora sensed another mystery but could tell that Clara wasn’t ready to confide in her. They entered the dining room, which appeared to be clean, the single exception being a few bread crumbs under the chair at the head of the table.

But that didn’t matter. The entire room had to be cleaned all over again. Another waste of time. But Lora had learned her lesson back at Station 2 and didn’t say a word.

After they’d cleaned the already clean dining room, it was time to visit the beautifully furnished sitting room, the wood-paneled gun room, and the entry area just inside the front door. Due to all the foot traffic that passed through the area, the floor had to be scrubbed three and sometimes four times a day. “It’s worse in the winter,” Clara said. “Then we have to deal with mud, snow, and horse manure.”

Once they finished scrubbing and mopping the entryway, Clara announced that it was time to tackle the ground-floor bathrooms. “What about Lord Voss’s office?” Lora inquired, pointing at the closed door. “Shouldn’t we clean that?”

“We aren’t allowed to go in there while he’s working,” Clara explained. “So the night crew cleans the office. And Mr. Trenton’s too. But the bathrooms are our responsibility, and there are three of them.”

The next hour was spent cleaning the restrooms, the one used by staff being the worst. Once the cleaning supplies were put away, Clara announced that they were done. “It’s time to go to dinner. Follow me.”

Lora followed Clara to the back stairs and down into what must have been a huge basement—but it was hard to tell since most of it lay beyond locked doors. “That’s where they keep ammunition, emergency food supplies, and all the rest of it,” Clara explained. “We call it a house but it’s really a fort.”

And Lora believed it. By that time she had seen the neatly plugged gun ports, the firefighting equipment that was stored in key locations, and the first aid kits in every room. The implication was clear. Strong though he was, Voss had reason to worry.

The “cafeteria” had a concrete floor, wooden tables, and hard benches. Unlike Station 2, the house still had electricity, so there was plenty of harsh light. Food was delivered and dirty dishes were removed via a large dumbwaiter that was lowered from and raised to the kitchen above. Dinner consisted of whatever Mr. Oliver chose to send down, and according to Clara, that varied wildly. Some meals were like feasts, while others were little more than a bowl of watery soup and a crust of bread.

The dinner on that particular evening consisted of a hodgepodge of leftovers and loaves of freshly baked bread. Some of the slaves complained, but Lora wasn’t one of them. The food tasted better than anything she had eaten since leaving the commune.

Clara introduced Lora to the people seated at their table. A couple were friendly, but the rest were distant. Lora understood the reason for that. There were a few people, like Clara, who were blessed with eternally sunny dispositions. But most, herself included, were more reserved. And for good reason. Friends could turn into enemies in a heartbeat—or be snatched away, never to be seen again.

Once dinner was over, they trooped back to the dorm. At that point they had about an hour in which to press uniforms and polish shoes. Then it was time to slip into bed and, once the lights were off, to think. There were two subjects to consider. The first was how to fit in—and the second was how to escape. A variety of wild schemes chased each other through her mind until sleep pulled her down.

A bell woke Lora in the morning. Then it was time to get up, make her bed, and take a shower. Breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs and toast. Then Lora followed Clara to the entry area, where they gave it the first cleaning of the day. Once that chore was complete, Clara led Lora up the back stairs to the floor above. “There are four bedrooms,” Clara said as they arrived on the landing that bordered the stairwell. Paintings hung on the walls, landscapes mostly, along with a few portraits.

“That’s the entrance to the master suite,” Clara said, pointing to a pair of double doors. “Mr. Trenton’s room is to the left of that, followed by two guest rooms, and Miss Silverton’s room to your right. Each suite has a bath, so the second floor will keep us busy all morning.”

They began by cleaning the empty rooms to give Voss, Trenton, and the mysterious Miss Silverton plenty of time to get up. Lora was quite curious about Silverton by then and hoped to catch a glimpse of her. “Okay,” Clara whispered, “I’ll knock on the door. Remember… Miss Silverton is one of us. So be nice to her and forget everything you see. Understood?”

Lora, who had no idea what she was agreeing to, nodded her head. Clara knocked and Lora heard a female voice say, “Come in.”

The door opened onto a large, well-furnished room. There were two tall windows opposite the entrance, both fitted with steel shutters. A large bed was positioned between them with tables to either side of it. A small sitting area occupied the left corner of the room and a dressing table was centered on the right wall. And there, seated on an upholstered bench, was Sara Silverton.

Lora could see the older woman’s face in the mirror and was struck by how beautiful she was. Silverton’s shoulder-length hair served to frame her heart-shaped face. Large luminous eyes looked back at her. “Good morning… I heard there was a new girl. What’s your name?”

“Lora Larsy, ma’am.”

“There’s no need to call me ma’am. I’m a slave too.”

“She tried to escape,” Clara put in. “Twice.”

Lora’s eyes widened. “Really? Did they punish you?”

“Lord Voss put these on me,” Silverton replied. Lora heard a rattling sound as Silverton stood and lifted the hem of her dressing gown. That was when Laura saw the ankle chain.

“But…”

“Why didn’t Lord Voss kill me? The answer’s simple. I have a talent. Something he values.”

Lora glanced at the bed and Silverton laughed. “No, not that. Although he’d like to.”

Silverton was so direct, so accessible, that Lora trusted her right away. “What, then?”

Silverton’s face suddenly went blank. “Do you know a person named George? Someone in the spirit world?”

A chill ran down Lora’s arms. “My father was named George.”

Silverton’s eyes rolled back into focus. “He says he’s sorry.”

Lora remembered her father’s final words and burst into tears. Somehow a cloud of perfume enveloped her and Lora found herself in Silverton’s arms. The older woman stroked her hair. “Don’t cry… He’s in a better place now. Which is to say anywhere but here.”

“We have work to do,” Clara said gently. “Winters will make her rounds soon.”

So Lora dried her eyes, thanked Silverton, and entered the bath. “Mirror, sink, commode, and floor.” That was the sequence Clara insisted on, and Lora went to work. So it wasn’t until fifteen minutes later, while down on her knees scrubbing the floor, that Lora found the silver cufflink. There were no initials on it—so whom did the piece of jewelry belong to? Was Silverton lying about Voss?

As Lora placed the cufflink on the shelf under the mirror, she was reminded of what Clara had told her. “Forget everything you see.” That, Lora decided, was good advice.

Once Silverton’s suite was done, they moved to the end of the hall. Clara knocked and, having received no reply, opened one of the double doors. The master suite occupied the full width of the house and was decorated in a masculine style. Hunting trophies hung on the walls, animal skins were strewn on the floors, and a gun safe occupied one corner.

But the item that really captured Lora’s interest was the large oil painting that hung over the fireplace. The subjects were a man Lora had never seen before and a woman she recognized as a younger version of Mrs. Voss. She was perched on the arm of a large chair next to a handsome man with thick hair, icy blue eyes, and chiseled features.

Lora’s reverie came to an end as a long, thin cane whirred through the air and Lora felt a searing pain across the tops of her shoulders. She stumbled and turned to face her attacker. “Get to work!” Winters ordered irritably. “Clara? Where are you? Get out here.”

Clara emerged from the bathroom, only to receive a flurry of blows. “I told you,” Winters said angrily. “I told you it was your job to watch the new bitch! Fail me again and I’ll have the skin off you.”

Then Winters left. Lora was devastated. “Clara… I’m so sorry. I was looking at the painting and she came up behind me.”

There was an angry welt on one of Clara’s otherwise flawless cheeks. Her fingers went to it and she flinched. “We’d better get to work.”

Lora could feel the sudden coolness and cursed her carelessness. She had learned one thing, though… and that was how quiet the fat woman could be.

After they finished the master bedroom, the girls returned to the entry hall. And it was there, while mopping the floor, that Lora heard a commotion out front. Orders were shouted, the door opened, and a man in western clothing entered the house. A footman said, “Welcome home, master,” and was ignored. Two men followed Voss into the office, the second being Mr. Trenton. It was the first time Lora had seen the food lord, which made the moment notable.

The rest of the day passed slowly, and when it came to an end, Lora was glad to slip into bed. Then, with the covers pulled up over her head, she could think about Miss Silverton and the message from her father. She sobbed and hoped no one would hear.

Once the training period was over, Clara was assigned to the sewing center, a job that represented a step up, and Lora was left to do the cleaning alone. The work was hard but the monotony was even worse. So she developed a routine, let habit take over, and sang to herself. The one bright spot in each day was the opportunity to spend a few minutes with Miss Silverton. And for her part, the other slave seemed to welcome such interactions, although it was easy to see that a great sadness hung over her.

Was that sadness any greater than Lora’s? Lora knew it wasn’t, but for some reason Miss Silverton’s emotional well-being seemed to be more important than her own. Perhaps that was a function of the other woman’s kindness, her beauty, and the aura of mystery that surrounded her. Whatever it was transmitted itself to everyone who came into contact with her. Everyone except Voss, that is… He kept her like a bird in a cage.

A number of days passed. Five. Or was it six? It was hard to keep track. In any case, Lora had finished cleaning Miss Silverton’s suite and was about to leave, when the other woman asked for some fresh flowers. Getting flowers wasn’t part of Lora’s official duties. And it wasn’t clear if the other slave could order her to do so. But Lora wanted to please Miss Silverton, and a chance to visit the garden was too good to resist.

So Lora said, “Yes,” placed her tools in a utility closet, and left the mansion through the back door. It was a beautiful day and Lora gloried in the feel of sunshine on her face, the pungent odors all around, and the sweep of the achingly beautiful blue sky.

The garden was located on the south side of the house and dedicated mostly to growing herbs, vegetables not cultivated on Voss’s farms, and flowers for the mansion. After rounding the corner of the house, Lora spotted Mr. Elkins, the overseer in charge of the grounds. He listened to her request, nodded, and went to cut the flowers himself, still another indication of the way people felt about Miss Silverton.

So Lora was standing there, waiting for the flowers, when a six-man work party appeared. They were dressed in grubby clothes and accompanied by an overseer Lora didn’t know. She heard chains rattle as they approached and began to pass by. Then, as one of the men looked her way, Lora experienced a moment of shock. It was Larry Pruett! The same Larry Pruett who had been in charge of the dairy operation at the commune and was constantly trying to touch her. The last time Lora had seen the man, he’d been running for his life. And now she knew his fate.

As their eyes made contact, Pruett opened his mouth. He yelled “Lora!” flinched as the tip of a whip caught his right ear, and brought a hand up to cup it. Then Elkins was there with flowers in hand, the work party disappeared, and the incident was over.

Lora thanked the overseer on behalf of Miss Silverton and beat a hasty retreat. She had work to do, and the encounter with Pruett left her feeling flustered. That was silly, of course, since the same rules that controlled her life controlled his and would keep him away from her. Still running into Pruett was unsettling somehow, and even Miss Silverton’s effusive thanks weren’t sufficient to make her feel better.

The next two days passed without incident. Then, on the morning of the third day, they came for her. She was cleaning one of the guest rooms when the door opened and a man entered. A second merc stood in the hall. “Are you Lora Larsy?”

“Y-y-yes, master.”

“Come with me… Lord Voss wants to speak with you.”

Lord Voss? Lora couldn’t imagine why Voss would want to speak with her. Had she done something wrong? No, she couldn’t think of anything. And that made the summons even more frightening.

The mercenaries escorted her down the main staircase to the entry area and from there into Voss’s office. The food lord was present, as was Mr. Trenton and a raggedy-looking Larry Pruett. Voss was seated behind a large desk, and his piercing blue eyes seemed to look right through her. He nodded to Pruett. “Do you know this man?”

Lora could feel some sort of trap closing around her but didn’t know what it was. “Y-y-yes, master.”

“Good. Now, Pruett claims that you belonged to the same commune that he did before the Crusaders raided it. And that’s how you wound up here. Correct?”

Lora was mystified. Why would Voss care? There was no way to know. “Y-y-yes, master.”

“But before that, before you arrived at the commune, you were part of another community. Something called the Sanctuary. A place that, according to Pruett here, houses a secret depository of seeds. Precious seeds representing plant species from all over the world. In fact, he claims the Sanctuary is an underground city powered by a nuclear reactor. Is that true?”

Lora felt something verging on panic. Pruett knew about the Sanctuary because the leavers had spoken of it when they used the seeds to buy a place in the commune. Now she found herself in the peculiar position of having to decide the fate of people who hated her. People like Matt, Becky, and Kristy. But there were others too… Innocents like Cory, Mr. Wilkes, and Mrs. Olson. If she said yes, Voss would go to the Sanctuary, where he would enslave or kill the entire population. So there was only one thing she could say. “No.”

A thunderous look appeared on Voss’s face. “No? So Pruett is lying?”

That was when Pruett produced a horrible screeching sound and took two steps forward. A merc drew his revolver with lightning speed and fired. A .45-caliber bullet struck the back of Pruett’s left leg and pulverized his knee joint. He screamed, fell, and clutched the wound. “Oh, my God… Oh, my God… It hurts!”

“Yes, I’ll bet it does,” Voss said as he circled the desk. “Now, tell me the truth. Does the Sanctuary exist?”

“Yes!” Pruett insisted. “She’s lying. Please… help me.”

“I will,” Voss promised as he pulled the hammer of his pistol back. Lora closed her eyes, heard a loud boom, and opened them. Pruett was dead.

Voss lowered the .45 and turned to look at her. “Listen carefully… You could be an overseer. You could live a life of luxury. All you have to do is tell me where the Sanctuary is.”

A layer of gun smoke hung in the air. Lora could taste it. She struggled to swallow the lump in her throat. “No.”

“Throw her into the hole,” Voss ordered. “Oh, and send a message to Mrs. Winters… We’re going to need a maid over here. There’s blood on the floor.”