by Katie French
A man breaks off from the crowd and brings me a large leather belt. He begins securing it around my waist with calloused fingers. On the belt hang several large, metal wrenches, with more tools in the large, open pockets. It reminds me of Daddy’s tool belt and a bit of sadness sticks in my throat, but I swallow it down. In one pocket, I spy a small, plastic oil jug. The man pulls the belt tight around my waist, but it’s still pretty loose.
“Wish I could make this tighter for you,” he grumbles as he fidgets with the latch. He’s got a nice face, soft in the cheeks and chin, with a lined forehead and blue eyes like my daddy’s. His dirty fingers tug at the last belt loops, and he frowns. “Too loose. It’s gonna trip you up.”
“Hurry up, Saul,” Hank says. “Get his ass up the ladder.”
Saul glares in Hank’s direction and gives the belt one more tug. “Sorry, kid. Smallest belt I got. Might wanna keep one hand on it if you can. Don’t want to slip out of it.” He looks into my eyes to see if I’m paying attention, and I nod. He nods back. “The wrenches are for the bolts. Hopefully, they’ll turn easy for you, but if they give you any trouble, use a little of the oil to loosen ’em up.” He holds up a wrench to make sure I understand. Then he points up at the windmill’s head. “When you get the outer casing off, you’ll see the gears. Give ‘em a good soak with the oil. Use the whole bottle. But whatever you do, don’t get any on your hands.” He holds calloused hands up and looks into my eyes again. “And watch out for the blades. A strong gust can whip that head around and knock you clean off. I don’t gotta tell ya what a three-story fall does to ya.”
I shake my head.
He gently pats my shoulder. “Good luck, kid. Remember what I said.”
“Hurry up!” Hank complains, stomping a foot.
Saul backs away, and that squishy feeling returns to my guts. The men watch me now like I’m the best show they’ve seen all year. All but Saul. He stands at the back of the crowd with his head down.
Mike, hands in his armpits, nods at me like I should get on with it.
“Go!” Hank yells. “What’re you waiting for, idiot? Climb!”
I let myself glare at him just for a second. Then I turn and grab a ladder rung. It’s hot in my palm. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want—
I feel a kick in the seat of my pants. When I turn around, Hank is behind me. “Climb, you bastard, or I’ll go get the dogs.”
I want to punch him. Instead, I climb.
The rungs burn the palms of my hands, so I move up quickly. Climbing’s not so bad. I lift one foot, then one hand, and up I go. But when I look down to see how far I’ve come, the ground looks real far, and I’m only halfway up. The people are insects, staring up at me. I clutch the rung between my chest and elbow and try to breathe. Hank would want me to freak out and fall. He’d laugh at my pancake body as my guts oozed into the ground. I need to make it to the top just to wipe that stupid grin off his face.
When my stomach isn’t a jumpy frog anymore, I climb again. Hand, then foot, and then hand again. The higher up I go, the skinnier the ladder becomes. The frame shakes with the breeze, making the knots in my chest tighten. Above, the windmill’s giant head spins lazily in the wind. Luckily, the breeze is calm, or I got no idea how I’d do this. We had a water-pumping windmill at our house before Daddy and Mama died, and one time I helped Daddy fix a gear inside its head. But that was on the ground, I was six, and all I did was hand Daddy his wrenches. This time, I’m alone, up in the sky, and being watched by a bunch of awful men.
Somehow, I make it to the top. The ladder runs through a wooden platform built around the windmill’s frame. I’ll have to climb through the hole in the center, and then stand on the platform to work on the casing. Then I’ll have to undo the bolts.
Climbing through the wide hole and up to the very top isn’t hard. And having the platform below me makes me feel more stable. It’s about four-foot square around the narrow base of the windmill’s structure and made of wooden planks. I don’t want to step off the ladder and onto the platform. Who knows how sturdy it is? And I sure as heck don’t want to let go of the ladder. I hold on to the last tiny rung, only as wide as my chest, and pretend Riley, Clay, Auntie, and even Mama are down there cheering me on. And it helps a little. It’s cooler here, too, and the breeze has dried the sweat on my back.
The whole structure shakes much worse up high. It’s like the whole thing is about to blow over and take me with it. I can’t stop looking out over the desert. The dusty ground is so far. Big bushes and trees look tiny. I look down through the hole in the wooden platform, and my eyes lock on Hank standing at the base. Maybe it’s my imagination, but he looks like he’s grinning, wanting my guts to splatter all over the ground down below me.
I hug the vibrating rung and tuck my head down. I’m gonna die. Gonna splat and watch my guts spread out beneath me before I stop breathing.
But I can’t let Hank win. I wanna see the look on that dumb bastard’s face when I climb down triumphant. Slowly, I lift my head, reach down into my belt, and find the wrench Saul gave me. With one arm lashed around the rung, I reach one leg out until my foot finds the platform. It feels solid. Putting my weight on that foot, I slowly step back with the other. The platform holds. So I stand up, keeping one hand on the rung.
I can do this. I can do this.
Shuffling around the platform, boards creaking under my feet, I inch away from the hole and toward the mill’s head. The head of the windmill is as large as a truck engine, but smooth. The top of the gearbox has a curved panel about two feet square. There are the four large bolts Saul mentioned, securing a panel of metal as big as my chest. With the wrench in my fist, I lean up and fit the wrench head on the first bolt, making sure my free hand holds onto the frame. Slowly, I turn the wrench. Surprisingly, they’re pretty loose and the wrench cranks easily. I get all four off in a few minutes, careful to put the bolts in a pocket on my tool belt. Sweat streams down my face, dripping off my chin and soaking my shirt. I lift the last nut off and slide the hot steel panel away, burning the pads of my fingers. Setting the panel carefully on the platform with one hand, I hold on with the other. Dropping the gearbox lid would be bad. Falling off would be worse.
Inside, the gears are big and grimy. I reach in my belt for the small, plastic oil jug. I’m almost done.
Take that, Hank, you stupid idiot. I look down to spot him. As I do, the oil jug slips out of my hand. I lurch forward, both hands out, trying to catch it. It tumbles down. I lean out. I feel it slip through my fingers. My arms wheel. I reach for the rung in front of me, but it’s slick with oil.
I’m falling.
Chapter 14
Clay
I’m nearly asleep when I hear it—a cry that startles me upright, my heart thumpin’. My brother. My Cole.
Ignoring a headache, I scramble to the door and jiggle the lock. The plywood is bolted from the outside. Without a thought, I run at it, smashin’ my shoulder into the wood. Hinges creak and the wood buckles, but the door doesn’t open. My shoulder is throbbin’ along with my head.
“Help!” Cole calls from somewhere far away.
I’d know that voice anywhere.
I run to the back of the shack, turn, and sprint at the door, my shoulder thrust forward like a battering ram.
The sound of splinterin’ wood fills my ears as I crash through, fallin’ a few feet and spillin’ into the sand. I’m outside.
Men stand fifty yards away around the water tower, gaping up at the windmill’s blades. No… not the blades, at the person danglin’ from the wooden platform just below the blades. He holds onto the platform with both hands, but his feet swing wildly, tryin’ to find a foothold that isn’t there. He’ll fall any minute. The three stories will kill him.
Then I realize the body danglin’ is my little brother.
“Oh God, Cole!” I cry, already runnin’. My feet kick up trails of sand as I race toward him, my panic like a noose at my neck. How did he get up there? Why’s
no one helpin’, goddamn it?
When I race through the crowd, most step aside, throwin’ me looks like I’ve grown horns, but a bulky bastard steps in front of me, muscles poppin’ out of his ratty tank top.
I don’t stop. Leaning left, I plow my elbow up into his jaw as hard as I can. There’s a loud pop and his head snaps back. I don’t watch, but I hear him hit the dirt like a sack of potatoes behind me.
My eyes are on Cole. His legs flail as his fingers keep him connected to the wood.
He’s got no time.
As I’m almost to the ladder, someone calls, “Stop!” From the corner of my eye, I see a man run after me, but I don’t stop. I find the ladder and climb like a monkey with his ass on fire. Hand, foot, hand, foot. Up like crazy.
“Hold on, Cole!” I call.
He looks down, and his eyes grow wide. “Clay!” He tries once more to hook a foot around the ladder behind him, misses, and his feet swing out into the open.
His cry of terror cuts right through me.
“Hold on!” I climb like mad.
A hand grabs my pant leg and yanks me to a stop. The thug I cracked in the jaw is on the ladder below me, snarlin’ mad. He tugs on my jeans, tryin’ to pull me back down. Holdin’ on to the ladder with just my arms, I take the foot he hasn’t pinned and kick his hand hard. He swears and lets go.
As soon as my leg is free, I’m up the ladder again as fast as my body will allow.
When I get to Cole, he’s barely hanging on. Veins pop from his neck and arms as he strains to keep hold of the platform. Sweat soaks his head and T-shirt. And he looks terrified. It’s so goddamned windy up here, and the whole structure is shaking. It’s amazin’ he’s held on as long as he has. One of the rungs near him seems to be dripping with something. Oil? Comin’ up behind him, I try to keep all panic out of my voice.
“It’s okay, bud. I gotcha. I’m gonna come up behind and then you can grab onto me. We’ll climb down together.”
“Clay.” His eyes swim with unshed tears. He sounds so grateful I’m here.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “You’re gonna be okay.”
Avoiding the oily rung, I maneuver up so my body is parallel to his, just under the platform. I reach out with one hand and grab his shirt. His whole body trembles with the strain of holdin’ on for his life. “Let go with one hand and grab onto me.”
He squeezes his eye shut, a tear dripping down his cheek, and then he grabs for me.
His hand closes around my shirt and then his other hand lets go.
I feel him fall. As I yank him to me, I’m only holding his shirt. I hear it tear. But then his weight falls onto me. Small arms grab my waist and cling.
“Shit,” I breathe, clutching his ripped shirt for dear life. I feel him gaspin’ for breath. “It’s okay. Can you climb up here?”
Slowly, he does, using my body and the ladder until he’s able to loop his arms around my neck and then his legs around my waist. I pull him to me, feeling his weight transfer onto me as he lets go with his other hand. His heart flutters against my chest. His dark head smells like sweat and dirt.
I breathe it in. Feel his heart. Thank God I was here before somethin’ awful happened.
Images flashes in my head—Cole in my arms, his face pale, blood flecked onto his cheek, lifeless eyes. Dead. I shake it away. He’s here, pressed against my chest, his hands clinging to my neck. He’s not hurt. He’s right here.
It’s awkward climbing down without banging him against the rungs, but I somehow manage. When we get close to the base of the windmill, Muscle Man is there, starin’ up at us with contempt on his bruised face. I’ll have to deal with him when I get down. For now, I focus on not dropping Cole.
As soon as our feet hit the ground, the men jump on me, pin my arms, and wrestle me to the dirt.
“Easy now, fellas,” I say. Someone cuffs me in the mouth. Tastin’ blood, I spit. “You shouldn’t have done that, pal.”
I fight, but it ain’t no good. There’s too many, and someone’s grindin’ my face into the sand with a boot on my right shoulder. They bind my hands behind with covered wire. I’m hoisted up to face their leader. His neck looks like it escaped the hangman’s noose at least twice. He leans in close, studyin’ my face like he knows me.
“Let the boy go,” I say to him, “and I won’t havta kill ya.”
The big man chuckles soundlessly, a shakin’ of shoulders and an amused grin. What he doesn’t realize is that if someone hurts Cole, I’ll split that neck scar wide open, finish the job for whoever started it.
The kid I head-butted a while ago bounces into view, waggling his dirty finger in my face. “You did it now! Mike is so mad at you. Gonna tie you up and set you out for the crows. Gonna grease you up and let the coyotes have ya.” The awful glee in his voice makes me want to backhand him.
“Where’s the boy?” I ask, cranin’ my neck toward the scufflin’ sound behind me. “Where’s my brother?”
“Mike’s gonna gut you. He’s gonna roast you,” the kid continues. Suddenly, Mike grabs him by the shirt and hauls him back. Everyone watches as Mike whispers in the boy’s ear. I take way too much satisfaction from watchin’ the nasty smile slide off the kid’s face.
When the kid returns, his face is blank and all business. He looks almost normal missin’ his evil grin.
“Mike says you’re a good fighter. We need men like you. We’re about to attack our enemies. He wants you to join us.” He shoots a glance back at Mike, who nods.
I look at Mike, the kid, and the men standin’ around. I’d be a fool to think they’ll include me in their gang just like that, but this is the best chance we got to escape with our heads intact.
“I want my brother free, not a scratch on him.”
They release my shoulders but don’t untie my hands. I whip around, seeing a man straightening Cole’s shirt and slickin’ down his mussed-up hair.
“You okay?” I ask him.
He nods, rubbin’ at his neck, which is red like somebody’s had him in a chokehold. I glare at the man behind him, and he smiles innocently. I turn back to Mike. “What was he doin’ way up there anyway?” I point to the platform above us. “And why wasn’t anyone helpin’ him when he started to holler?”
The kid rolls his eyes, but Mike nudges him. “Your brother was participating in an initiation ritual, oiling our windmill. And he did a piss-poor job.” He mumbles the last part under his breath, but Mike doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, the big bald man pulls the kid back and begins whispering in his ear.
The kid sighs deeply and speaks. “Mike would like you to join him at his house for midday meal. He wants you and your brother to come.”
“Fine,” I say, eyin’ Cole. He sidles up to me and rubs his shoulder against my arm. As long as he’s close to me, I can handle what they throw at us. I turn to Mike. “Let’s go.”
He leads us toward his home.
Mike’s shack is the biggest here—a piecemeal building with a peaked roof made of real shingles and a solid white door with square glass insets in the top. The sides are mismatched—corrugated metal for one side, wood with aluminum siding in a stained white on another—but it’s the best material in the whole valley from what I’ve seen. Above the roof, an overhang of plywood shades the house from the worst of the sun. Mike tromps up three steps, shakin’ the frame as he goes, and looks over his shoulder to make sure we’re following. His sidekick opens the door and lets himself in like he lives here, too.
We follow up the stairs as the rest of the men gather around outside. I guess this goes for the best entertainment in town, some stranger going in to parlay with their leader. Maybe they’re hopin’ for bloodshed. Maybe they want my head on a spike.
We step inside the one-room shack. It’s hot and dry, but not as bad as the piece of shit I was locked in. It’s more spacious, too, about the size of my living room back in Pa’s house. Two mattresses, one big and one small, occupy a corner. A round metal table, decorated with ornate whorls o
n the legs and top, and four mismatched chairs fill up the other side of the room. A locked cabinet, big enough to shove the kid into, stands in another corner. The space is clean and neat. I wonder how long these men have been here. It takes some time to set up a place like this.
The kid walks to the back of the room and flops down on a mattress. But Mike waves him back to the table. Mike scrapes out a chair and gestures for Cole and me to sit down. The four of us sit in strained silence.
A man comes in with a food tray—fresh-cut prickly pear, raisins, figs, and a hunk of smoked meat that could be pig or goat. The smell clenches my stomach, but I keep my face neutral. Better not to look desperate. It’s best to seem like we need nothin’.
Mike nudges the kid. He gets up and returns with chipped china, blue-and-gold patterned, settin’ them out in front of each of us. Then he divides the meal, givin’ himself and Mike large portions and then actin’ surprised there isn’t enough for us. Mike clears his throat, and the kid scrapes food from his plate onto ours.
Mike watches it all like a regal leader, noddin’ at us to eat and smilin’ as we do so. When we’ve scarfed the food down, Mike opens his mouth. “Wel… come,” he manages in a thin, garbled voice. “Share… my… meal. My water.” Each syllable comes out like it’s hard labor.
“Thanks for havin’ us,” I say. “Quite the setup you have here.” I glance over at the two men fanning us with large, thin pieces of metal.
“Been… here… two years,” he says, strainin’ to speak. He holds up two fingers. “Most men… come like… you. Foundlings.” He takes a big drink of water from the china cup and then points to it. “Water.”