The Breeders Series: The Complete Box Set

by Katie French

  She waves my talk away with a swish of her hand, hikes up her shapeless dress—that she still insists on wearing even though I’ve found her a male uniform in one of the abandoned housing units—and shambles up the stairs. Her long, gray hair is braided neatly down her back. She must’ve washed her face in one of the washhouses because she looks fresh and clean. I, on the other hand, must look like the dregs in the bottom of a barrel. I wonder if I can keep my body going long enough to wash up.

  Auntie limps over and puts a hand on my cheek. “I don’t envy you. This is a hard life, puddin’. A hard life. I wanted to shield you from it. Your ma, too.” Her eyes stare past me, into the distance. She’s thinking of Mama. We all think of Mama in quiet moments.

  “I’m fine.” It’s like a mantra. If I keep saying it, it’ll be true.

  She shakes her head, still not looking at me. “I never thought we’d lose Ethan.”

  “He’s not lost.”

  “Riley, you need to be prepared—”

  “No.” I take a step back. “Don’t.”

  She purses her thin lips. With her toothless gums, her mouth becomes one big pucker. “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is,” I say curtly.

  “Get some rest, puddin’,” she says, limping past me.

  I watch her go. My auntie. The only family I have here. She’s said good-bye to more people than I have, and she’s still standing. But then she’s made of bedrock and I’m loose sand.

  I turn and head out of the office building in search of the washhouse. When I see Ethan and Clay again, I’ll be darned if I’ll do it smelling like this.

  Before bed, I wander down the deserted street toward the storage shed-turned-jail. With the sun down, Kirtland doesn’t look like a deserted crater like it does in the daylight. Maybe it’s the cool breeze on my arms or the smattering of stars. Whatever it is, the rage has left my body. Tomorrow’ll be rough. Maybe the roughest day yet, but if there’s anything I’ve learned in the last few months, it’s that, come hell or high water, I’ll keep chugging forward.

  Doc chose to secure the boys in a shed close to where we’re bedding down and close to the washroom, too. Looks like the solar at Kirtland didn’t have enough juice to run the whole place, just pockets of it, so they built themselves a washhouse with outdoor showers, separated by plywood nailed on posts barely chest height. I strip down anyway, do a whole wash in cold water, and even find a scrap of soap. No one out here to see, but I keep my pistol within arm’s reach.

  Afterward, I fill buckets for the men. The water sloshes in my tired fists and dribbles onto my boots, sending streaks of dirt running to the broken pavement. Not sure what we’ll do with our prisoners when we leave tomorrow. Probably take their guns and vehicles and leave ’em behind. I doubt they’d even care to follow us. They’ll barely make it in this dump, poor kids.

  The storage shed is quiet when I approach. The rakes, shovels, pickaxes, a wheelbarrow, and a string trimmer are scattered outside where Doc tossed them. When I unlock the door, the boys, sitting back to back on the floor, shuffle around.

  “Brought water,” I say, standing in the doorway. They can only see my silhouette, so I fumble for the light. When it flicks on, they cower and huddle together like pups without their mother. Some of ’em look not much older than Ethan, though I know they gotta be at least my age. They’re a mess, these boys in matching sand-colored uniforms—thin, with waxy skin and sunken eyes that watch me like I’m the executioner.

  I try to soften my posture. “Who’s thirsty?”

  They eye the buckets sloshing with cool water and then look up at me. I should’ve sent Doc. They’d trust him, but I’m here now, goddamn it. I bring the buckets in and plop them in the center of the room.

  They look at the rippling water and then at me. I wait expectantly and then realize their hands are tied behind their backs, so unless I want them to lap like a dog, I’ll have to serve them. I’ve made peace with the fact that they probably didn’t try to kill my boyfriend or my brother, but serve these men? Nessa’s men? I should probably go wake up Doc.

  I whirl around to go when one of the boys leans forward and sticks his head into the bucket to drink.

  I step forward. “Hey, hey. Listen, don’t do that. I’ll… I’ll get a cup.”

  They look up at me, clearly confused, but I don’t have time to explain. I leave the light on, lock the door, and run. Where in God’s name will I find a cup? This section of the base is blown to bits and the other buildings look more like science labs or elementary schools. I might be able to find a cup in those, but it’ll take me hours. I don’t have that kind of time if I’m ever going to sleep tonight. I jog down a weed-choked drive until I spot the rows of houses.

  Down curving driveways, dozens of houses sit on dirt lawns that probably used to be grass at one time. Each nearly identical home faces the road with small front porches and two windows overlooking the street framed by different-colored shutters. Though some have lost windows or have shutters clinging at odd angles, others look okay. Livable. Like someone took care of them.

  I run up the steps of the first porch, but that door is bolted tight. So are the second and the third. I’m panting now and considering just using my hands to spoon water into the men’s mouths when I turn the knob on the fourth house, and it rotates in my palm. I wasn’t expecting it to open so easily. When the door cracks wide, fear trips up my spine. Why is this house open? Who’s in here?

  I slowly push the door open.

  Inside a dark and dusty entryway, a staircase and hallways greet me. Even in the dark, I can tell it was a nice house—is a nice house. Much nicer than it should be given that the people who originally lived in it died a hundred years ago. Someone was here recently. There’s a coat on the hook by the door and wilted flowers in a vase on a side table. In fact, someone could live in here now.

  A cup is not worth it. I’ll have to explain to the boys about not being able to find one. We’ll figure something out.

  Slowly, I draw the door shut, but my eyes lock on something that stops me cold.

  There, in the dark, I see a pair of boots. Kids’ boots. And they look way too familiar.

  Ethan had one pair of boots, and I could spot them anywhere. My heart pounding, I push the door back open and tiptoe inside.

  Scuffed toes, frayed laces. These work boots look so much like the ones I last saw Ethan wearing. Sticking one to my nose, I sniff. I swear they even smell like him. My chest expands with something like longing, something like hope. Could he still be here?

  No. By every account, he’s gone.

  Still.

  I set the boots down and turn to explore the house with a tingle of anticipation running up my spine.

  The moonlight guides me into an open kitchen that still smells like bacon. A dirty pan rests in the stainless-steel sink, a scrim of mold clinging to the bits of leftover food. The rest of the bright kitchen is pristine, a small wooden table and chairs in a nook by a bay window, matching white kitchen cupboards, and a bright red dish cloth on the stove’s handle.

  No trace of Ethan.

  I walk through the living room looking for clues that my brother was here. The room has antique furniture, even a baby grand piano, all well cared for and slightly dust covered. The only thing out of place is the rug kicked askew. I’m getting the feeling that whoever was here left fast. A cup of room-temperature tea on a coaster confirms it.

  I make my way up the stairs, my nerves bundling. If someone jumps out at me, can I make it out of here?

  At the top of the stairs are four doors. The first stands ajar. I go in, gun first. And stop in my tracks.

  There’s a picture of Clay, smashed to pieces.

  Chapter 4

  Clay

  My brain ain’t right.

  No. That’s not it.

  Everything ain’t right.

  This girl, this… Betsy who keeps cooin’ at me, ain’t who she pretends to be, though I got no godforsaken idea w
hy I know that. Everything’s scrambled in my head, like someone dropped a mouse in my skull and it ate its way around.

  Like, I know that truck parked up on risers is a Ford pickup. I know it probably has a busted alternator and corroded terminals. I know how to fix that shit, too. But ask me who this is kissin’ my face, and I couldn’t tell ya. I couldn’t tell ya where we are or what we’re doing here.

  She leans down, her yellow curls ticklin’ my cheek, and puckers her lips.

  I pull away. Her lips are cracked and dry like she hasn’t drank water in a while, and her skin is sallow. The dirt and grime under her fingernails and streakin’ her hair don’t bode well for how we’ve been livin’ as of late. And I can tell from my own cracked lips and parched throat, I ain’t been livin’ too high on the horse, neither.

  The last thing I feel like doin’ is kissin’ her.

  She pouts when I don’t lean in, pushing out her lips like a cranky toddler. “What’s the matter? Do I have bad breath?” She breathes into a cupped hand. “Seems okay to me.” She leans in again.

  I scoot back farther, the tarp crinklin’ under my body. The dark room smells of motor oil and decay. It’s clearly a garage with tools lyin’ around and tool chests spilled open or tipped on their sides. One open doorway to my right leads to another room lit by the gathering twilight. From here, I see trash, tipped-over shelves, and an empty refrigerator case long busted. An old dry-goods store, maybe? “Where are we? What’re we doing here?”

  She sits back on her knees, huffy. “I keep telling you. I’m your girlfriend, and we like to kiss. A lot.” She talks like a kid one minute, and the next, she’s scolding me like I’m the kid. Even though my brain is broke, she’s a few hosannas short of a miracle her own self. “We’re in love,” she repeats.

  No. There was a girl I loved. I feel her somewhere buried deep in the folds of my brain, but I can’t find her. I can’t tell you what she looked like or how she smelled, but I can feel her like warm sunshine on my fingertips. She lingers. Whoever she is.

  Betsy repeats it again with more force. “We’re in love.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I say with a little more anger than I oughta. “Where in the hell are we? What’re we doin’ here?”

  She growls like a dog, pulling her lips back in a snarl. “You’re being a bad boy. I don’t like bad boys.” She balls her fists even though I’m a foot taller.

  “I don’t like gettin’ no answer,” I say, but I lower my voice. “I ain’t tryin’ to fight. I’m just… confused.”

  All the fight drains outta her, and she comes right back to cooin’ at me again. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I wanna help you. You need me.”

  I’m about to protest when I see it, the long, jagged knife in her pocket. And there’s no tellin’ what she’s got stored around this joint. I mighta known yesterday or the day before, but those memories are burnt up like dry twigs in a brush fire.

  When I start to scoot back from this lunatic, a blinding headache stabs through my skull like white lightnin’. I grab my head.

  It’s agony, and then darkness.

  Chapter 5

  Riley

  Chills run down my spine as I drop to my knees and stare at the shattered glass and the picture beneath. It’s Clay and his pa, Sheriff Marlin Tate. They’re much younger, leaning against a pickup truck with identical grins.

  “Oh, Clay.” With trembling hands, I brush away the glass and draw out the photo. I’ve almost forgotten what his smile looks like.

  I muffle the sob with my hand.

  Taking the photo and tucking it in my shirt next to the ring he gave me, I look around the room. A signed sports player’s photo is in a frame by the bed. Books are stacked by the nightstand. Did Nessa make Clay a room so he’d feel like he was home? Did he like it? Did he like her? If the Free Colonies hadn’t blown the place up, would Clay have wanted to stay?

  Would he have come looking for me?

  Maybe I’m overly emotional because I’m… I can’t say it. I can’t even think it. I haven’t bled in what? A month and a half? I don’t feel different, but every twinge, every ache, is making me wonder. How can I bring a baby into this world? How can I keep it alive when almost everyone who’s loved me has died?

  I wipe away tears with the back of my hand, the gun still clutched in my fist. More than anything, I want to smash this pistol into someone’s jaw. I want to shoot someone just to watch them bleed. I want to shoot Nessa. Nessa did this. The sadness and rage build until there’s a swirling tornado inside me. I fear that if I open my mouth, it’ll spin out and engulf everything.

  Trembling, I leave the room. I don’t like the echoes in there. Don’t like how small and insignificant it makes me feel. Wiping my face, I straighten my shoulders and lift my jaw. This is no time for tears. My boys are either alive, and I’ll scour the whole damn earth looking for them, or they’re dead, and I’ll take as many enemies as I can with me before I meet them wherever they’ve gone.

  The other rooms offer me nothing. I find a brush with Nessa’s damn auburn hair wrapped around the bristles. When I lift it, I have to fight the urge to smash it through the mirror.

  Brimming with anger and frustration, I nearly fly down the stairs. The boys are not here, just ripples of them. Ripples tainted by Nessa’s stink. I want out as soon as possible. Grabbing Ethan’s boots, I hug them to my chest. I’m about to leave when I stop myself and go back for the goddamned cup.

  I lurch out of sleep, arms flying.

  Doc backs away, shielding himself. “Whoa there, slugger,” he says with a half smile. “If I’d known we were sparring, I’d have snagged my gloves.”

  I rub sleep out of my eyes and sit up. A sunbeam angles in from an open window, lighting up a fog of dust moats. “I slept too late,” I say, stumbling up to my knees. “Where’s my boots?”

  Doc hands me boots and a crinkly, silver package.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Military-issue processed food. Try it.” He grins with big, straight teeth.

  I tear the package open and bite without hesitation. As soon as the food hits my tongue, I look up at Doc. “It’s so sweet.”

  He tears open one of his own. “We’re not used to the sugar.”

  It’s sweetness overload, and the texture is strange too, like a mud cake but better. The label says peanut butter chocolate, but it tastes artificial to me. Still, it’s thick and filling. I eat it in four bites.

  “Tell me you have more of those,” I say.

  His grin widens as he holds up a half-full box of bars. It’s the first thing on this whole trip that has made me smile.

  As I pull on my boots and lace them, I look around the small office we’ve made into our sleeping quarters. Dusty rolling chairs with cushions eaten by rodents line the wall. A cheap-looking wooden desk takes up half the right side, scattered with brittle paper, office supplies, and a cracked framed photo of somebody’s faded family. In one corner, a fake fern sags. This room hasn’t been touched like so many of the others. A lot of the base was spruced up when the Breeders installed their military. And then the Free Colonists destroyed half of what was here.

  We’re still finding bodies. Just last night after I got done giving the prisoners water, I found a boy in Breeders’ military garb lying in one of the bathroom stalls. The kid was slumped over the toilet, one lifeless hand resting over a gunshot wound, and the tile stained with his blood. I just shut the stall door and left. Sometimes, it worries me that seeing all this death has short-circuited a part of my brain. I should care that this kid is dead. But I just… don’t. Seeing a dead person sends the same signals to my brain as a dead coyote picked to bones on the side of the road.

  After a short breakfast, Doc and I stock the best-looking Jeep that still runs. We load guns and ammo, jugs of water, fuel, cases of those protein bars, utensils, knives, and rope. Soon, the back of the Jeep is bulging with our bounty. It’s weird to have so much and in such fine
condition, despite half the base being blown to smithereens. This must be what Nessa’s life is like every day. And she deserves none of it.

  We check on our prisoners, but Auntie has already taken care of feeding and watering them. One guard has pissed himself. He’s ashamed and won’t look us in the eyes. I look at the darkened stain on his uniform and then at the ceiling. Am I sorry? I don’t know. It was a necessity. Yet, I know what captivity is like. I know the fear that creeps up at you in the night.

  “We leave this morning,” I say, my voice cracking. I clear my throat and try again. “We’ll let you go before we leave, but you have to promise not to try to stop us. If you do, your life is forfeit.”

  The boys nod, cow-eyed and agreeable. I glance at Doc, and he’s nodding back. He thinks they’ll behave. If Clay were here, I don’t think he’d be so sure.

  I feel the crinkle of Clay’s photo, the one I took from his room last night, against my chest. The ghost of that house, his room, haunted my dreams. I dreamt I was walking around it, opening doors, yet every door led to another replica of the house, or maybe it was the same house spiraling in on itself, going around and around, me getting nowhere.

  I shake the dream away and step out the shed door. When I lock it, I hear the young men whispering between themselves. They don’t know if they should trust us. The feeling’s mutual.

  “One last thing to do.” A lump of dread sits at the base of my throat. I glance toward the brig.

  Doc’s eyes follow mine there. “We don’t have to do this, Ri. We can leave him in the care of these boys.”

  “And then we go where?” I ask, fingering the gun on my hip. “Do you know where White Sands and the Free Colonies are?”