The Breeders Series: The Complete Box Set

by Katie French

  My reason for moving on sits several tables down, waving for me. Them and Mama and Auntie. We can't stay here. No matter the cost, family is the foundation I've built my life on, and I'm not about to let them be killed by these monsters.

  I slump down in a plastic chair beside Clay and Ethan. They're deep in some serious conversation and I lean in to hear it over the din.

  “Just go up to her,” Clay says, smirking, “and say, 'Hey pretty lady, wanna take a walk?'”

  Ethan blushes. “I can't do that.”

  “Well then, I dunno. Figure out how to make one of them paper animals and give it to her. Or a flower or somethin'.” Clay's eyes trail over to where Mage plays with the other children.

  I clear my throat. “What're we talking about exactly?” I look at Ethan. “You ask him for girl advice?”

  Ethan drops his head, letting his bangs hide his eyes. He shrugs his shoulders as his answer.

  Clay throws an arm around me. “Old hoss has himself a crush. Perfectly natural. We was just having a man-to-man. I told him how I stole yer heart.” He tries to plant a kiss, but I dodge it.

  “I don't think it's good advice for him to get tangled up with Mage.” I lean forward to get Ethan's attention. “Remember what I said? What good is it to get involved when we're just gonna leave?” I cross my arms over my chest. “Besides, you're only eight. Too young.”

  Clay barks a laugh. “Eight's a fine age for yer first crush. 'Sides, where else is he gonna see girls? Not on the road, that's for damn sure.”

  Ethan pushes back from the table. “I don't wanna talk about this.”

  “Munchkin,” I say, reaching for him, but he turns and runs off. I sigh in frustration.

  “You baby him, you know.” Clay's voice is matter-of-fact, and it bugs the hell out of me.

  “You think he's just one of the boys, huh? Having a man-to-man. Well, he's not a man, Clay. He's eight.” I gesture toward the kids on the play structure to make my point.

  His eyes travel there. “I was riding on raids at 'bout that age,” he says flatly.

  “Well, I certainly don't want him raised like you were.”

  He shoots me a look. “Me neither.” He frowns, leaning forward on his elbows. “I wasn't tellin' him to shoot up a road gang. I was tellin’ him it’s okay to talk to a girl.” Then he looks me over. “What’s wrong with you today?”

  Should I tell him about the barrel? What would I say? That I found some caustic fluid that I think might kill us, but I can’t be sure? Clay won’t believe me and I just don’t have the strength left to try to convince someone else. Plus, if I’m honest, I’m starting to doubt myself. Maybe I always do jump to conclusions.

  I look up at him and try a smile. “I've been fighting against the world for my whole life.” I pause and take a breath. “Sometimes I forget I don't have to fight you too.”

  He caresses my cheek. “The fight in you is one of the things I love.”

  Before I go to bed, I walk down to the infirmary. The guard at his stool doesn't even stand up. He frowns at me, waving me on with his yellowing paperback. As I walk the infirmary hallway, the cots and mattresses are quiet. Patients lay still with their eyes closed. It's creepy here at night. I wish Mama was well enough to come back to our room and lay beside me.

  An older man with yellow, cat-like eyes watches as I slip by. He sits up and continues to watch me.

  “Revelations...” He trails off, his voice dying in his throat. “Revelations 14:13.”

  The black scrawled numbers on the barrel, 14:13! I turn toward him, senses alert. “What did you say?”

  He reminds me of an old tortoise, his neck stretching like he could slip it back in his shell if he was spooked. I took him to be ancient, but as I get closer, I can see he isn't as old as I thought. It's just his puckered body, his yellow eyes, and thin hair that makes him look that way. Did the water do this to him? Fear scrambles up my spine as his eyes lock onto mine.

  “What did you say?” I ask again, hardly breathing.

  “The end... is nigh.” His eyes pop open until they're nearly lidless. He leans forward, stretching his long neck. “Revelations 14:13. ‘Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth.’” He coughs and a glob of blood and saliva splatters his palm. He looks at it for a moment and then begins smearing it on his cheeks. “’Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them.’”

  I pull back, horrified. And yet, what if he knows about the poison in the warehouse? “When is the end?” I kneel at the edge of his dirty mattress. He rolls toward me and I shrink back. I steel my will and look into his eyes. “What do you know about the end?”

  He blinks at me. “The temple was filled with smoke from the glory of the Gods.” He smacks his palm to his bloodied cheek with a sound like a snapping twig.

  “Stop,” I say, reaching for his hand as he pulls back to hit himself again. He smells like rot.

  “And no man was able to enter into the temple.” The volume of his voice rises as he slaps his cheek with his other hand. “Till the seven plagues of the seven angels were fulfilled!”

  “What's going on?” A Middie jogs up, holding her billowing skirt. “You!” She points at me. “You let him go this instant.”

  I drop the man's arm and he slaps himself again. The crack is loud and it rocks his body back, almost off the mattress.

  The Middie grabs me by the arm. “What have you done? Why did you make Brig so upset?”

  I look down at Brig, who hauls back and slaps himself so hard the sound echoes through the store. “Maybe you should stop yelling at me and worry about Brig knocking himself unconscious.” I point as he winds up again.

  “Oh, Gods help me,” she mutters, reaching down, trying to sooth him. She takes his hands and holds them to his chest. His head lurches back and forth in a tantrum. “Get out of here,” she says to me over her shoulder.

  I push up, my legs shaking. As I'm about to turn the corner, a slap echoes through the hallway. The Middie says, “Oh, Brig, Jesus.”

  Jesus is right. What was all that talk about the end and blessed are the dead? Was it a madman’s ramble or was he really communicating something to me? And what's revelation? As I walk back toward my mama, I try to pin down everything he said to me. It might be nothing or it might be the key to our survival.

  The fitting rooms are dim and silent. I slip down the dark hallway and push back her slatted door. It creaks on its hinges, and Mama stirs from her nest of blankets.

  “Riley?” she says, rubbing her eye with her fist like a child.

  I nod, squat down and fold myself into the corner beside her.

  “What's wrong?” she asks, her hand already on my back, stroking.

  I shake my head and lean into her. She smells like herself again, warm earth and clean linen.

  “You can tell me, you know.” She pets my hair in slow even stokes. “You're not too old to tell Mama what's wrong.”

  “You've got enough to worry about,” I whisper, letting my cheek rest on her shoulder.

  “What?” she asks, her voice rising. “I don't have anything to occupy my mind in here. A little worrying would do me good. Keep me from going batty.”

  When she says batty, the image of Auntie waving a butcher knife at a bat trapped in our cupboards floats to mind. Auntie. One more stake straight through my heart.

  “Have you ever heard of revelation?” I ask. Outside someone moans. I wonder if Brig is back to slapping himself.

  “Revelations?” she says, rolling the word over in her mouth. “You mean, like in the Bible?”

  I sit up and look at her. “Revelations is in the Bible?”

  She nods. “I think so. Bell would know. Your Auntie was quite religious when she was younger. Gave up reading the Bible when her eyes got bad.” Mama smiles sadly and goes back to petting my head. “I hope she's okay.”

  “Me too,” I say. “So, the Bible. Do you remember what it said about revelation?”r />
  She shifts, a musty smell puffing from the old blankets. “I think it was predictions for when God came back to earth. For the end of the world.”

  Gooseflesh breaks out over my arms. I press my hands to the carpet, thinking. “So this part in the Bible tells about the end of the world.” I pause, thinking. “Are all Bibles the same?”

  “Pretty much, I think,” she says, resting her head against the fitting room wall. “Why? Is this what's bothering you? Where did you hear about Revelations?”

  “Just some crazy guy out there.” I thumb toward the hallway. “Don't worry about it.”

  “Like I said,” she sinks down, her eyelids drooping, “I like to worry about you.”

  Soon her eyes are closed. A few more minutes and her breathing evens. I slip from under her thin arm and ease myself out of the fitting room. As I slink out of the infirmary, the Middie who helped Brig glares at me from behind a checkout counter. At least Brig has stopped smacking himself. I slip by his mattress. Just as I think I'm clear, I see his yellow eyes on me. I nearly run to the exit.

  The hallway back to my room is dim. Most have gone to bed. It seems ever since Stephen died and Clay joined the guard, no one is locking me in at night. No one seems to be paying attention to me. I might be able to get my hands on a Bible after all. Instead of heading to my room, I slip left down the hallway towards the Messiah's quarters. The question is, how do I get in?

  I stand in shadow and peer out toward the Messiah's chamber. A burly guard sits outside the main door in a plastic chair. His wide hands cup his knees. I watch for long minutes, waiting for his eyes to sag, but they don't. I slink back into my pocket of shadow and press my hands to my head. Who am I kidding? Even if I slipped past the guard, Andrew, the Messiah, and any number of his Brotherhood are probably inside. What'll I do, just slip in and say, Hey, can I borrow this?

  I hide and wait. The guard has a runny nose. He sniffles every ten seconds until the noise is so maddening I think about strangling him with my bare hands. I shift and something in my pocket digs against my hip. Reaching down, I draw out the mini-explosives I found in the warehouse today. I squint in the darkness and slowly read the word Firecrackers written along the side. Let's hope they do the trick.

  Glancing down the hallway, I look for my target. These firecrackers might not blow anything up, but I just need noise, not destruction. A few feet down the darkened hallway a glass partition still stands. Glass exploding would draw attention, but could poke a couple holes in me too. At the end of the hallway, about twenty feet from my corner and another ten feet from the guard, sits a large ceramic flower pot with a fake plastic tree inside. I slink over and examine it. If the firecrackers really do their work, they could shatter the vase and set the plastic tree on fire. That would keep the guard busy. Meanwhile, I could hide in the dark alcove near the corner. With the guard tending to the flaming plant, I can slip right by him into the Messiah's room. It's not a great plan, but it’s the only plan I got.

  I walk to the flowerpot and dig out the firecrackers. With the two books of matches in my other hand, I dangle the red explosives into the ceramic pot and drape one end over the side. When I pull out a match from the booklet, my heart sinks. It's flimsy to the touch. Soggy. Holding my breath, I pinch the match tip between both sides of the matchbook and drag it across. Nothing. No sulfuric hiss. No bright pop of flame. I toss the spent match into the flowerpot and pull out another. Nothing. I run through the whole book with no success and my heart starts hammering. If this doesn't work, I have no plan B.

  The second book seems more solid, but they're decades old and there's no guarantee they'll light. I pull out a match and examine the rounded red tip. Please, I think. I rip it and strike it against the matchbook.

  A blue spark turns into a yellow tongue of fire. I'm so excited that I touch the flame to the firecracker without thinking. The wick catches with another hiss. I stare at it dumbly for a beat. Then I dive for cover.

  Crouching in the dark alcove, I place my hands over my ears. How loud will it be?

  A series of pops like gunshots explode through the hallway. Then they're done. That's it? No fire? No shattering pot? That's all I get? It won't take the guard long to—

  “What the hell?” he shouts, from around the corner.

  I fold up into a ball back as far into the dark corner as I can. Maybe he won't see me. Maybe my plan is half baked.

  I hear the guard running toward me as the last of the firecrackers fizzle. His footsteps vibrate the floor until he's standing right next to me. I hold my breath. Any minute a big hand will reach down and drag me out of my hiding spot. Instead, he moves on.

  “Paul!” I recognize the Messiah's voice, deep and commanding. “What's happening?” He heads this way just as the smoke from the firecrackers tickles my throat, making me want to cough. I squeeze my lips shut and fight the urge.

  “Sir,” calls the guard from down the hall. “Please stay in your room. I'll check out the wing and let you know when it's all clear.”

  Fingers trail along the wall as the Messiah passes my hiding spot and moves past me. “Paul, was that gun shots?” The Messiah keeps going toward the guard. Soon I can hear them talking down the hallway. Soon I can't hear them at all.

  Now's my chance. I'm up and running before I can think. I sprint down the carpeted hallway and nearly slide into the outer doors. Palming the handle, the door opens with a smooth click. I slip inside.

  Darkness. I fumble, hands outstretched through the antechamber, banging my shin on a plastic chair that scrapes across the floor. My hands find a smooth surface, another cool door. I take a deep breath and open it.

  Candlelight flickers from the corners. The same thick scent of incense wafts in the air. I head straight for the Messiah's desk. It's a large table constructed out of two surfaces butted into an L. Parchments, books, scissors and pots of sticky glue cover the table. His latest creation of lines cut from many books is spread out in pieces on the right-hand side of the desk. The books he's cut from are stacked on either side. I walk over and examine them, sounding out the titles, cursing at myself the whole time for how long it takes me to read each one. The Book of Mormon, The Qur’an, Torah, Dianetics, and Tao Te Ching. Each yellowing text has been dissected here and there with little rectangular holes. He must have Andrew help him since a blind man couldn't do this alone. Tingles creep up my arms as I touch one of the pages. It's like looking at some gutted animal, though I don't know why. Maybe it's the incense swirling around my head. Maybe it’s the fact that any minute the Messiah could burst back in and grab me. Forgetting his rambling cut-out text, I keep looking.

  My hands fumble over a worn leather-backed tome. Flipping it over, I slow read “The Bible” etched in flaking gold letters. Bingo. I clutch it to my chest and whirl around.

  “I thought I smelled you.”

  My blood freezes to ice. The Messiah stares at me with cold, milky eyes.

  Chapter 16

  “Drop it,” he says, pointing.

  I can't move. The Bible is clutched to my chest and my heart thuds against it. “Drop what?” I say, slipping the book around to my back. If only I could tuck it in the waistband of my pants.

  “Drop the book. The Bible, isn't it?” He sniffs, floating closer, bringing with him more incense. My head goes cloudy with it.

  “You can see, can't you?” I say, still clutching the Bible. If I'm ever going to uncover what he has planned in that rotting brain of his, I need this book.

  The Messiah's face hardens under his curly brown beard. “The cataracts make it nearly impossible to see anything but changes in light. But the Gods have given me sight in other ways.” He dons a look of calm clarity. “Just like how I smelled you in the hallway. How I knew you'd come in here.”

  “What're you gonna do with me?” My eyes trace my path to the door. He's blocking it, but he's blind and frail, despite his girth. So what if he can smell me coming? He won't be able to stop me.

  The Messiah
slides over and sits on one of his plush couches. I take a step toward the door.

  “Leave with that book and I'll have you all put out with nothing—no shoes, no water. Your mother, your brother, Clay.” He draws the last word out, his voice cold and final. “That book is more precious to me than you know.”

  Slowly, sadly, I place the Bible back on the stack.

  “Good,” he says when my hand has left its leather binding. “Why do you want it?” He pats the couch as if he means for me to sit beside him.

  “Just wanted some light reading.” I stand rigidly and eye the door. “I hear the Jesus story is a humdinger.”

  “Hmm,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Humor to lighten the mood. I find humor a waste of time.” The Messiah folds slender hands over his knee.

  “Yeah, well, we got nothing but time here, right?” I take a quiet step sideways.

  He frowns. “Oh no. You are mistaken, child. Time is precious. Time is not something we have in abundance.”

  I snort and take another tiny step sideways. “Seems like you got everything in abundance.”

  “You’re in such a hurry to leave,” he says sadly, shaking his head. He’s noticed my movements. How does he do it?

  I fake a yawn. “I’m pretty tuckered, working on your trucks and all.”

  “I've been meaning to talk to you alone, Riley,” he says, rising. “I'm glad your thievery afforded us this time.”

  “Happy to pilfer any time,” I say.

  “Stealing is a sin,” he says sharply. Beneath his flowing gown his veined biceps flex.

  “Okay. But what do you want with me?” My eyes trek through his apartment. A carved wooden pole with strange animal faces leers at me from one dark corner. In another corner a metal cross angles up to the ceiling. Is that blood or rust on its crossbeams?