by Katie French
Doc takes his place in the backseat, his gun aimed at Bran. But Bran’s being a model prisoner now. I get in the driver’s seat and glance back in my rearview. There he is, right where he’s been for the past twenty minutes, sitting awkwardly close to the post, tied hands in his lap, his eyes on the back of my auntie’s head.
“So, I head south?” I call over my shoulder, glancing back to see Bran’s reaction.
“South,” he says as if he’s just woken up.
“How do I know when we’re close?”
Bran clears his throat. “I’ll tell ya. Either that or they’ll start shootin’. That’ll tip ya off.”
Doc leans forward. “Just head south? It sounds like he’s giving us no direction at all.”
I glance back into Doc’s worried eyes. “Bran is going to help us. Right, Bran?”
Bran nods.
Doc folds back into the backseat, grumbling. It’s one of the things I like about Doc—he knows when to shut up.
I grip the steering wheel and start the engine, fitting the bandana over my mouth and road goggles over my eyes. Auntie and Doc do the same. We pull out of Kirtland without a glance back. I think of the men and the knife we gave them to cut out of their bonds just before we left. They should be okay with what we left them. Hell, we’re on the road. Nothing more dangerous than that.
With the wind drowning out my voice, I finally lean over and get my aunt’s attention.
She puckers her lips. “Nuh-uh. I got nothing to say.”
“Spill, Auntie. I saw the way Bran looked at you. He’s docile as a baby now that he’s seen you. And a woman doesn’t slap a man unless love’s involved.”
Auntie rolls the eye I can see, sighing. “The story’s not worth wastin’ my breath, precious little of it I have left.”
“Well, I need to know,” I say, “if we’re going to add him to our team.”
She lets out another big sigh. “It’s rude to stick your nose in other people’s business.” But she glances back to make sure he can’t hear and starts talking. “Knew Bran when I was a little older than you. He was head of security for our town mayor.” When I look confused, she adds, “A mayor was like a sheriff, but more law abiding. At least, ours was at first, the ass. Anyway, I used to work at the drugstore on the weekends and when there wasn’t enough power to run our school. I caught Bran’s eye.” She pauses. “I had quite the rack.” Arching her back, she shimmies her shoulders.
“Auntie!”
She cackles. “What? I was a fox. Is that so hard to believe?”
“Of course not,” I say, though it’s hard to imagine her as anything but ancient.
“Bran started hanging out at the drugstore, buying gum and sweets, little things, just to see me. I knew he was doing it, too, but I didn’t mind. He was handsome and connected. He had this uniform…” Auntie sucks in, making a wet smacking sound with her toothless gums.
“Oh geez,” I say, glancing in the rearview to make sure they aren’t hearing us.
She gives me a sharp look. “You wanted to hear the story.”
“I did. Just keep it clean.”
“You’ll take it the way I tell it.” But she continues. “The mayor didn’t like Bran being distracted from his post. He told Bran not to talk to me anymore. Bran quit the mayor’s service that day.”
“Then what?” I ask.
Auntie cocks her head and looks at me with her good eye, the patch over her other flapping in the wind. “Then we ran away together.”
“You ran away? With Bran?” I ask, picturing his tattooed body, his long beard.
She shrugs. “People do crazy things for love. You’d know better than most.”
I tighten my jaw. Just thinking about Clay hurts. The picture I grabbed from Nessa’s house brushes against my skin, and I fight the urge to take it out and gaze at it.
“It was a crazy month,” Auntie says, continuing. Her eye travels up to the blue sky, but I can tell she’s seeing into the past.
I give her a quiet moment, and then say, “But you slapped him.”
Auntie’s eye trails down to her lap. “Didn’t end well.”
“What happened?”
Auntie begins picking at her tattered hem. “We were gonna get hitched. The situation was getting bad—mass power outages, riots, and violence. The system was breaking down. We’d heard that things were better in Mexico.”
“Mexico?”
Auntie nods. “Americans looked down on the country to the south, but what we didn’t realize was they were more used to living without than we were. Losing technology and electricity didn’t affect their day-to-day living like it did ours. They coped. We didn’t.
“We were staying in some two-bit hotel on the border, living off what little pay he had saved up. On the day before we were supposed to go to the church, I woke up and he wasn’t there.” Her eyes trail out to the desert landscape. Her expression hardens. “Bastard jilted me. Left me with no money, no way to get home. I had to use my body to pay off our room bill.” She puckers her lips. “I should cut his goddamn balls off.”
“Wow,” I say, gripping the steering wheel. “No wonder you slapped him. How long ago was that?”
Auntie screws up the side of her mouth, thinking. “Damn near forty years ago.”
“And you recognized him with that beard, all filthy like he is?” I ask.
“Never would forget his face.” Her voice is soft again and far away.
We go quiet, thinking about the men who have come and gone. This stretch of pavement is quiet, and I lose myself in driving, the desert wind blowing over my short hair, the sun on my shoulders. We’re driving in daytime, another thing that makes Doc nervous. But we’ve got more guns and ammo than any road gang out there. And any gang that might have been out here was probably scared away by the Breeders or Free Colonies long ago. Ain’t no use for little dogs in big dogs’ territory. And we are sure as shit in big-dog territory.
The road is blown over with sand. The Jeep tires do okay in small drifts, but the drifts keep getting bigger. Doc leans over the seat back and peers at the road. “Deep sand out here,” he says with concern in his voice.
I narrow my eyes, glancing around. To my right across the sea of tan scrub, brush, and dirt, a wide ridge of mountains angles up into the blue sky. To my left, a dry riverbed snakes away from us. Tumbleweeds roll across the road in big tufts, and with them, large, brown sand dunes blow from the shoulder and blanket the road in several spots.
I grip the steering wheel and lean forward to show Doc I’m in control. “Lotta wind, but the Jeep can handle it.”
“Big one there,” Doc says, pointing to a very large, brown drift.
I flex my hands on the wheel. “Strap in. I’ll try to go around it.”
The sand drift covers both my lane and half of the opposing one, so I veer into the far lane. That way, half my tires will be on pavement and the other half should be fine chugging through sand. But the minute my tires hit the patch, I know something is wrong. There’s a series of small pops below me on the right side. The tires rumble over something beneath the drift.
“What was that?” Auntie says, sitting up.
Doc leans forward. “Riley?”
We all hear the hissing. The Jeep starts to wobble.
Bran shouts from the back. “Drive. Drive!”
Something’s wrong. Panicked, I punch my foot onto the gas. The car begins so shake as it tries to plow forward on two good tires.
Up ahead, three vehicles peel out from behind a debris pile that used to be a gas station. They’re like no vehicles I’ve ever seen—small and sleek like Breeders’ cars, sheathed in black solar panels, but with hefty, all-terrain tires and tough metal grilles. They’re newer than anything I’ve ever seen, with clean lines and shiny black paint jobs. Their tires seem to have no trouble handling the sand, which makes me think they were built to ambush. Each has a single driver. And each driver is aiming a gun at us.
“Who’re they?” I screa
m, trying to keep the Jeep on the road. The Jeep’s right rims grind on the pavement with an awful screeching, and sparks flying up on either side. I can barely keep us moving and won’t be able to much longer. Doc leans out one door and aims his pistol. Auntie hauls the shotgun from her lap.
Bran screams over the racket. “Keep driving!”
The vehicles form a V ahead, blocking the road. They don’t fire, though they could. I’m sure they’re saving bullets, waiting for my Jeep to die.
We’re dead.
“Hold on!” I scream and swerve.
The Jeep jerks right, skirting the cars and hitting the shoulder hard. Gravel spews out and pelts the Jeep’s undersides. I’m thrown back and forth, my teeth rattling, but I try to hold on. A thorny bush eight feet high rears up in front of me and I yank the wheel left, hitting the gravel and then the shoulder. I feel the Jeep lurch sideways. My head whips to the side, connecting with the door’s frame.
We’re in the air—the Jeep spinning, everything spinning. Trees whirl past. The ground blurs by. My arms float up over my head, but the seat belt keeps me in my chair. It’s a dream. I’ll wake up before we land.
Then we crash.
My seatbelt jars hard into my chest, knocking the wind away. The airbag smashes into my cheek, sending my head back with a snap. A horrible screeching sound floods my senses.
I taste blood, smell smoke.
Everything is dim and far away.
When I come to, the world is sideways. I’m up in the air, suspended by my seatbelt and the airbag. The sky is to my left, and the Jeep is on its side. I bat the airbag away, sending a white, powdery cloud into my face. I can’t… hear. Everything hurts. Where’s Auntie? Where’s Doc? Bran?
Craning my head as far as I can, I see that, beneath me, Auntie is still buckled into her seat. I can’t see much of her because of the airbag, but her left arm curves around the airbag’s pillow, blood meandering down one elbow.
“Auntie,” I croak.
She doesn’t stir.
Footsteps. I look up through the Jeep’s open roof. Three people stare in at us. Their faces are covered with black mesh masks that make them look like huge insects. One cocks his head at me.
“You sons of bitches.” I fumble for my seatbelt, but my shaking hands can’t find the latch.
One steps forward. He reaches for Doc, who seems knocked out like everyone else.
“Stop!” I finally find the latch, press it, and fall sideways on top of Auntie. Scrambling over her, I trip over the Jeep’s frame and spill into the dust. My body is a wreck, pain everywhere, but I slowly stand. And look into the muzzle of some futuristic gun.
It looks more like a Taser than a gun, but the masked man definitely has his finger on the trigger.
“Stay where you are.” His voice, filtered through his mask, sounds robotic. “The pulse from this thing will ruin your afternoon.”
I look down at the barrel aimed at my chest and then back at the two men slowly pulling Doc from the crumpled Jeep.
“Leave him alone!” I watch, feeling helpless as they examine Doc.
The man with the Taser shoves me back with it. “I mean it. I swear to God—”
“It’s a bender,” a masked men says, tilting Doc’s head to the light.
One of the two tending to Doc comes forward and pulls at my bandanna. I tug away, but the Taser man grabs my arm. The other pulls the bandanna off my face.
A moan comes from the Jeep. Auntie. Thank God.
“Bender,” the man holding me says. At least he doesn’t suspect I’m a girl.
“So what? It’s not a crime,” I say. I can talk tough even if my hands won’t stop shaking.
The trio chuckles, their voices robotic through their masks.
“What’s so goddamned funny?” I ask, glaring.
The man holding me lets go of my arm, flips a lock at his mask’s sides, and pulls it from his head.
Fine features, short, dark blonde hair shaved on one side, left long on the other, full lips, and piercing brown eyes—she’s a bender. I must be staring because the corner of her mouth quirks up.
“Being a bender’s not a crime.” She winks. “Bring them.”
Chapter 8
Clay
Once Betsy was asleep, I didn’t think—I just ran. I had to get away from her sweaty body and searchin’ mouth, whisperin’ things to me when she thought I was knocked out. Things about how in love we were and how I wanted her body. About how I should put a baby in her. All of that seemed ’bout as wrong as balls on a mare, but when she leaned over me and said, “Call me Riley,” a firework went off in my chest.
Riley, Riley, Riley. Her name is a lyric to a song stuck in my head. I roll it around over and over, prayin’ not to forget this time.
Riley, Riley, Riley.
After I snuck out of the shop, I ran. I thought I’d feel somethin’, remorse, regret, but no. It feels right to be away from her gropin’ hands, her shit-eatin’ breath. I run and my legs feel strong. My lungs take in deep pockets of night air. Even my head feels clear. Here, under the stars with night bugs buzzin’ and the coyotes callin’ across the dense blue night, I feel like myself. Like a man. I beat my fists against my chest. And it feels all right. I feel better than I’ve felt for a long time. At least, for as long as I can remember, which ain’t saying much.
When I spot a windmill, I decide it’s where I need to go. In the moonlight, its blades are like shards of bone flashin’ dully as they twirl. Windmills mean water, and water means life. I ain’t crazy enough to think I can survive alone in the desert. But I shouldn’t wander up to strangers, neither.
As I skid down the ridge, keeping behind the bushes, I stay alert. I need a weapon. My hands fumble to my waist, looking for guns I know I used to have, but they’re as gone as my memory. Could I shoot from the hip if I had ’em? Who knows? There’s a big empty hole where that knowledge should be. Where everything should be.
And yet, somehow here, under the deep blue, I can think more clearly. Maybe it’s bein’ away from that girl’s lies or just seein’ the stars tossed across the sky, but my brain feels like it’s runnin’ on all cylinders for the first time in a long time. I close my eyes and try to remember.
It’s her voice that comes first, the warm, sultry sound of a woman sayin’ my name. Clay, she whispers, her lips brushing the skin of my ear. I want it to be like this forever.
In my mind, I see her, a silhouette against beams of light streamin’ in an open window. As the dust motes float past, I take in the perfect angle of her bare waist dipping down to her hip, and the way the shadows deepen at the base of her throat. Her skin is buttercream. I run my fingers along her smooth thigh. Dark hair falls across her brown eyes as she leans down to kiss me. Her full lips part. Clay.
“Riley,” I moan. But the spell is broken by my own voice. My eyes flicker open, and the memory is gone like smoke caught in a puff of wind.
I press my hands over my face. “Jesus. Riley.”
If I think about her too long, I’ll fold up and die. So I don’t. Now’s a time for action. I lift my eyes to the windmill blades. When the wind picks up, they become a moonlit blur that mesmerizes as they rotate. Now that I’m closer, I can see the shantytown circling the windmill like a bruise around an eye. These aren’t abandoned buildings; these are shacks built of recycled material, small and flimsy—corrugated roofs, aluminum siding, and wooden planks, stitched together like a quilt. Some look like they could withstand a few storms, and some look like they’d blow over if someone had a sneezin’ fit. I count about twenty. None look big enough to house more than one or two full-sized men.
A giant fence has been erected around the windmill’s base, and a few dark shapes that seem to be men stand near it. Guards, from the look of it. Of course there are guards. Whoever controls the water controls everythin’.
So guards, probably with guns, and twenty men who depend on that water and don’t wanna share. They won’t welcome an outsider if they don’t
have to.
I sit and watch for a long time. In the distance, I hear livestock’s quiet lowin’ from hastily built barns. They must not have many animals, but havin’ livestock means they’ve been here a while. It means they plan to stay.
The windmill is a beacon. Any road gang or harrier for miles can see it. So these must be armed men. Brutal men.
Maybe I should go back and take my chances with that crazy girl.
“Don’t move,” the voice behind me says. A blade jabs hard between my shoulder blades, piercing my shirt and skin.
Shit.
I raise my hands up. “Just havin’ a look-see. Wasn’t hurtin’ nothin’.” I try to turn my head, but another hand clamps down on my shoulder and keeps me still.
“Let’s go see Mike,” the voice behind me says.
“Who’s Mike?”
He pushes the knife against my skin, and I arch away, but he grabs my arm and holds it tight. “Come on,” he says, jerkin’ me up. “We’ll let you see for yourself.”
Chapter 9
Ethan
“What do you mean, Clay’s gone?” I shout into Betsy’s ugly face. “Where did he go?”
She pulls back, disgusted, and wipes my spit off her face. “You really are a bad boy.”
I grab her arm hard. “Where is he?”
“He… left me. He left.” She begins to sob.
I drag her through the garage and into the empty store. Pulling her all the way to the door, I point out into the bright morning sunshine. Already, the heat rolls through the open doors in waves.
“Where did he go? Which way?” I sweep my hand around, my eyes searching outside—the street, the shops, and the dunes. Nothing seems out of place.