by Katie French
She chuckles. Her teeth are straight and incredibly white. “Do you blame me?”
I shrug. “What now?”
Her eyes lift to the horizon. “Normally, we’d release you and send you on your way. But you’re all too banged up. So…” She blows out a breath. “We’re gonna do something we don’t normally do. How’s about a hot meal and a soft bed?” Her full red lips twitch in a broad smile.
I narrow my eyes. “What if I say no? We have somewhere to be.”
She purses her lips. Is she flirting with me? I can’t tell. “What’s your name?”
I pause for a long time and finally decide there’s no reason to lie. “Riley.”
“Riley, if we leave you out here, you’re buzzard food in two days. There’s no water for miles. No town. Plus, people around here don’t take kindly to benders.” With her free hand, she taps her chest.
She thinks I’m like her. Doc and me are her people, and she wants to help us. I nod solemnly, falling into the act. “I hear they’re rounding us up for factory work. Pure slavery is what it is.”
She frowns. “Someone put an end to whoever was enslaving benders, but it’s still dangerous. There’s a turf war going on between Kirtland and White Sands. A lot of people have been caught in the crossfire.”
I try to look surprised. “We don’t wanna get hurt, but we lost people. We need to find ’em.”
She winks at me, flirting again. “Don’t worry. We have ways of finding people.”
When she puts on her helmet, she turns back into the insect-like creature. She pushes two glowing buttons on the vehicle’s console. “Buckle up.”
I manage to get the buckle snapped before she peels out, leaving a trail of dust.
When I look back, the two other vehicles carrying Doc, Bran, and Auntie follow us single file. Nervously, I clutch the seat and keep my eyes open. I check out the solar car’s interior. The molded plastic runs in sleek lines that make everything seem aerodynamic and futuristic. Even the stitched leather seat beneath me looks like new. Small, circular vents blow cool air toward us, wicking sweat from my face and neck. The steering wheel isn’t round, but more bowtie shaped with places for Corra’s gloved hands to grip. A readout screen shows the outside temperature, the car’s tire pressure, solar battery levels, terrain—everything. Every vehicle I’ve ever driven had its screens smashed to pieces long ago. How in the world did a bender get her hands on a car like this? Things like this don’t get made anymore. Very little gets made anymore, except recycled junk and Breeder babies.
“What’re you and your crew doing out here in the middle of the desert?” I ask, trying to sound causal.
“Research, mostly.”
I probe harder. “You guys scientists?”
She nods. “You could say that.”
“Have you always lived here?” I run a finger along the leather seat’s stitching, trying to appear disinterested.
She looks at me again and then back to the road. It’s an extremely well cared for piece of pavement. They must maintain it. “Look. I can’t tell you a lot. But you’ll see enough for yourself when you get to the compound.”
My ears perk up. “The compound?”
She doesn’t answer.
The road we’re on dips down, sandy walls rising up on either side. This path was dug down into the earth, and it soon becomes clear why. Up ahead, nestled into the hillside, is a large, semicircular cement opening sealed off by huge concrete doors. An underground compound. You’d never find an entrance like this unless you knew it was here, and it’s completely defensible from nearly everything except a nuclear warhead.
What the hell is going on?
“I can’t believe it,” I say
She chuckles from inside her helmet. “We don’t mess around here.”
A beep sounds from the car’s dash. Corra reaches to the car’s ceiling and presses a glowing blue button.
“Go for Washington,” she says.
“Dr. Washington, you have visitors in your car. Is everything okay?” a voice from the speaker says.
She’s Dr. Washington? A big name for a little bender.
“We have some guests. Have a team meet me at the entrance.”
I whip my head toward her. “A team?”
Batting my question away like it’s nothing, she talks into the ceiling speaker again. “Moore, has Beetle returned?”
There’s a pause. “No. No sign.”
She hits the dash with her gloved palm and mumbles something. “Never mind,” she says. “Just get the processing team to the entrance.” Hitting the blue button in the ceiling, she focuses on pulling up.
She parks on a cement pad beside the two huge blast doors that seal the entrance. Caution symbols and warnings are written on signs near the doors in faded yellow and red. Corra seems nonchalant as she presses the button to turn her car off, reaches back, and unhooks her mask. When it separates into halves, she removes it and shakes out her hair.
“They’ll bitch at me for taking this off before you’re processed, but you all look healthy.” She looks over at me, smiling again.
Her words are starting to worry me. “I don’t know what processing is, but—”
She holds up a hand. “It’s nothing, Riley. Just to make sure you don’t have rancher’s flu or anything equally icky. Can’t have contamination coming in from outside. You understand.” She sets her helmet on the dash and opens her car door.
Unbuckling, I open my car door and jump out, making my ankle flare up again. I jog back to where the other cars are parking. Finding Auntie, I yank on the door handle, but it won’t open. Her head is pressed to the glass like she’s passed out, and when I tap on it, she doesn’t stir. Panicked, I yank the handle again. The other driver, with his mask still on, steps out his door.
“Don’t do that,” he says in a robot voice. “We’ll take care of her.”
“I’ll take care of her.” I don’t where this is going. “Let me in.”
He gets out and shuts his door. Auntie’s door does not unlock.
I glare at him and jog over to the car behind his with Doc and Bran inside. Doc looks up at me with wide, frightened eyes. His handle doesn’t budge, either. I bang on the window at the driver who is still inside. “Open up!”
He shakes his masked head at me.
I whirl around, looking for Corra, but I don’t see her. What I do see is a team of people, five or so, in suits like the ones the drivers are wearing, headed my way. The one in front holds something menacing.
“Where’s Corra?” My heart is pounding. “Where is she? She said she would take care of us.”
“Hold still,” the leader says, coming toward me with a slim black box that looks like it might be a torture device. Two more people in black suits and insect-like masks come around him and block any escape.
I bolt.
Hands grab me and drag me back as I lurch and fight. “Where’s Corra?” I pull against their hands. All I can see are black suits and black masks.
They drag me in, kicking and screaming.
Chapter 11
Clay
My head is an explodin’ star.
No.
My head is a watermelon hacked in half with a dull blade.
My head is my head is my head.
I force myself to fight against the darkness that holds me down like a lead blanket. Blinking through the searin’ pain, I open one eye and peer around.
When the room stops blurrin’ and blendin’, I see a small, eight-by-ten room that seems to be all there is to this dwelling. Below me is a wooden floor constructed of pallets nailed together in any way that’ll fit. Cracks in the planks show the sifting sand several feet below. The walls are similar—mismatched planks nailed or screwed to form mostly solid walls with small cracks lettin’ in needles of light. Across from me is a scrap wood door, though it looks sturdy enough. There’s a lock, too. I’m pretty sure if I were in my right mind, I’d bust out easy enough.
If I were in my
right mind.
But my wrists are bound behind me, ankles too. And my boots are gone. Least they didn’t gag me. I open my mouth and clear my throat.
“Hello?” I croak.
Outside, people talk and a dog yaps. My memory won’t offer any clues as to where I am, but judgin’ by the fact I’m bound up, it ain’t good. I remember somethin’ about a hill and a windmill, but there ain’t nothin’ after that.
Wait, that ain’t true, neither. There’s a name. One that has gravity, a weight to it like a solid gold ball in my throat.
“Riley,” I say out loud. There’s a flash of memory, of hands, delicate ones with short fingernails and small, perfect knuckles. Closing my eyes, I feel her touch on my cheek.
I shiver despite the heat.
I came here lookin’ for her, whoever she is. Riley. She’s my due north.
The door scrapes open and a little kid comes in, dark hair and eyes, thick eyebrows that V down angrily. All of him seems angry, from his posture to the set of his thin lips. He sees I’m awake and trots over like a male dog sensin’ another in his territory.
“Awake, are ya? No moaning about home like you did while you were asleep?” He leans in my face, mockin’ me.
I feel the strong urge to punch this kid in the face. “Who’re you?”
The angry little kid dances from foot to foot like a fairy-tale demon. “Ooo, Mike didn’t like you trespassing. He was okay with the boy, that stupid, ugly boy…” He trails off, mutterin’ to himself as his hands work over each other. “Two trespassers in the same day. Well, three if you count the girl. He’s not gonna like this at—”
“Did you say a girl?”
He stops pacin’ and eyes me. “What’s it to you? You three together?”
I shake my head, but hell if I know. Still, I don’t want this nasty little prick to know anythin’ about me, true or no. “Who’s this Mike?”
He smiles—an evil clown grin that makes his face even nastier. “Oh, you’ll see. Once he’s done with the boy and that piggy girl, he’ll deal with you.” He jabs a finger in my chest at the last word and I lurch forward, smashin’ my head into his chest. He flies backward, into the open door, slammin’ it shut behind him.
Sure, my head’s poundin’ again, but it’s all worth it to see the stunned look on his face.
He scrambles to his feet, pawin’ for the now-closed door. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he shrieks. “You idiot pig bastard. You shit licker!”
In one move, he’s got the door open and tearin’ through it.
A few steps on the porch and he stops and turns around, seethin’. The look in his eyes says he’d kill me if he could figure a way how. He ain’t no little boy.
Through trembling lips, he hisses, “You’ll regret this. You’ll regret crossing me.”
I laugh, even though my head’s poundin’. “I regret nothin’.”
He swears at me one more time and then slams the door. When it locks, I sit back and close my eyes, tryin’ to clear my vision. I shouldn’t have done that, but it sure felt good.
With my eyes closed, I focus on the name. Riley, Riley, Riley. I need you, whoever you are. Where are you?
Chapter 12
Riley
When I wake up, my face is pressed against a hard cement floor. I snap upright, looking around. Then I remember my cell and the men dragging me into the compound. I don’t know what happened to Corra, Auntie, or Doc. All I know is she disappeared while men in military dress dragged me through a dark hallway, ignoring my screams, and tossed me in here.
The electric light above shows off the bareness of the room, a six-by-six cell with nothing except me and a pot to piss in. My eyes run over the giant, solid steel door, chipped gray paint with yellow and black stripes ringing the concrete around the entrance. I’ve tried the handle and banged on the metal until my hand hurt, but no one came. I’m a prisoner again. I should’ve attacked Corra when I had the chance.
My whole body protests when I stand up. Stiffness from sleep isn’t my only problem. My crash injuries make me feel like I’ve been through a meat grinder. I force myself up, make a fist, and pound it against the door. It makes a deep, resounding thud.
“Hey! Let me out!”
Of course, no one answers. I slide down to the cold concrete. Clay’s picture crinkles against my chest, but I won’t allow myself to look at it. If I look at Clay, if I even think about him too long, I’ll melt into a worthless puddle. And I can’t let that happen because nothing is going to stop me from getting out. From getting to them.
Standing back up, I pound again. I keep it up for several minutes until footsteps clack across the floor outside. As I step back, the lock clicks as it disengages.
Corra steps in, wearing slacks and a clean but worn black sweater. Her hair falls in a messy wave over one eye. Her lips and cheeks are so flushed I’d think she had makeup on if I didn’t know better. She’s really quite stunning.
Leaning one shoulder on the open doorframe, she smirks at me. “I turn around for one second and you go and get yourself locked up. I have a feeling that happens to you a lot.”
I shrug. “You have to fight for what you want.”
Her smile grows. “Damn right.” She steps back. “Come on out.”
I glance down the hall—more giant doors, more plain concrete walls—and then back at her. The men in military dress who tossed me in here aren't in sight. I see no one, in fact. “Where are we going?”
She cocks her head, her hair dangling to the side. “Thought you’d like a tour of the old place, but if you’d rather rot in a cell, I can arrange it.” Another smirk shows a dimple high on her cheek.
I shake my head, stepping forward. “Where are my aunt and the others?”
“The batty old broad is your aunt?” she asks, scooting over to make room for me in the narrow corridor.
“Not related by blood, but she might as well be. I need to see her.”
Corra leads us down the long hallway, her boots reverberating on the cement. “She was a little banged up in the crash, but a doctor is seeing to her. She’ll be fine.”
“She’s made of iron,” I say, though I wonder if I should be more worried. I never think about her age or how fragile she could be. She’s someone you picture living forever, making bread and teaching swear words to children.
Corra takes a right and leads us down another low-ceilinged hallway at a heavy clip.
“What about the other two, the bender and the old man? Where are they?” I ask.
“They’re resting,” she says, not slowing her pace. “I’ll take you to them in a little bit.”
I accept this answer because I have no other choice. I don’t have to trust her, but I’ve learned not to spit in the face of kindness on the rare occasion it shows up.
At the hallway’s end, we enter a large room with high, domed ceilings, studded with a band of lights that span every twenty feet or so. This room—bigger than the high school gymnasium Clay, Ethan, and I stumbled into—must be the hub of the much bigger structure. Neat hallways run off it like spokes on a wheel. How many rooms are down each hallway? How many people? We haven’t seen anyone yet, so I assume not many, but this place could be enormous.
The space is mostly empty, but we pass a drop cloth-covered vehicle that looks like an old military Jeep. On the olive-green tarp, I see a faded emblem—a circle with a golden eagle, wings at its sides and head cocked left on a blue background. There’s wording around the ring I don’t have time to read.
“How did you find this place?” I ask her.
She smiles thinly. “We had access to some of the remaining satellites back where we came from.”
I look at her. “And where was that?”
She winks at me. Again, I wonder if she’s flirting. Or is that just her personality? Either way, it’s to my advantage if she likes me.
We take another hallway that’s a twin to the one we came down, but this time, I hear voices and the clatter of dishes, sm
elling something that makes my stomach lurch.
“Food,” escapes my lips before I can stop it.
Corra nods, touching my arm. “Just you wait.”
We step through another concrete entryway, with a heavy door propped open, and into a small cafeteria with picnic benches, eight tables running in two rows of four. At the far end, three men look up from a conversation. A man with short black hair and brown skin stops with his spoon halfway to his mouth.
“Boys,” Corra says, her voice booming authoritatively into the space, “this is Riley. She’s hungry.”
I flinch a little at the female pronoun. Corra thinks I’m a bender, and it seems to be okay with these men, but I still don’t want anyone to know my secret. Being a fertile woman is dangerous no matter where you are.
One man gets up from his seat at the table, walks through an archway at the back, and returns with two soup bowls that match what they’re eating.
Corra sits with her bowl and nods for me to do the same. My stomach is seizing with the thought of food. When did I last eat? The protein bar this morning. And not much the day before that. Hungrily, I spoon the soup into my mouth. It’s bland and leafy, but warm. There are small, round grains that spring back to shape when I smash them between my teeth. In several fast spoonfuls, I inhale carrots, onions, and potatoes.
“Where do you get this?” I ask, pointing at the soup with my spoon.
Corra swallows her last bite and glances over her shoulder. “We have a greenhouse. Self-sustained. All we have to do is take care of it and keep the solar power system from crashing. The people who built this place really knew what they were doing.”
“The military?” I ask. “Is this theirs?”
She nods, licking soup from her lip. “I suppose it was, though they were long gone by the time we got here. Others have kept it running over the years.”
“And now you?” I say, gently prying.
Once again, she lets my question go unanswered. “Let me ask you something, Riley. What were you doing out in the desert? And why was that tattooed man tied to your Jeep?”