by Katie French
Clay watches me drag myself into the room. He’s being careful, I can tell. Setting the chipped mug of tea down beside the cast-iron kettle, his eyes trace my movements.
“How are you feelin’ today?” he asks.
I sip the hot tea. It burns the top of my mouth and tongue. “Fine.”
“Fine,” he repeats. “And the ceremony?”
“I’m going to go,” I say into my mug.
He nods, looking relieved. “Good, because I didn’t know what I was gonna tell Doc. He kept askin’ me and askin’ me. I said, ‘You know, Riley.’ Not that you don’t have good reason.” He puts a hand on my back. “You do.”
“I’m going to go.” I stand up and walk back into our room and start to dress. Jeans, T-shirt, jacket, gun.
When I look up, Clay’s in the doorway looking at me. “Ready?”
I follow him out, the knot in my stomach twisting until it’s hard to breathe. When we get out to the main walkway, he slips his arm around me. “You know, it’s okay not to be okay.”
“You’re a poet,” I say, leaning into his embrace.
“That I am,” he jokes. “But seriously, you don’t gotta always be strong. You’re human. It’s okay to have bad days. Especially today.”
I roll his words over in my mind. What am I if not strong? Clay and I are the city patrol. We fight the bad guys. We keep the peace. No one wants to see their law enforcement cry. No one wants them to be weak. And if being tough keeps me alive, and, more importantly, keeps those that I love alive, tough wins every time.
“I’m fine,” I say, pulling away and straightening my jacket. “Let’s get this over with.”
We walk down the slope to the main gathering area, a place at Shiprock’s lowest level and big enough to hold all of us. At last count, there were forty-seven people living in the shadow of the great rock. Forty-seven people I need to keep safe. Forty-seven and counting.
Some of the doctors chose to stay on here, which was a relief to some and a burden to others. Imagine how the nannies feel waking up and going down to market only to see the doctors that used to torment them. But their medical knowledge has been important in saving many lives. So the nannies and Breeders’ girls swallow their hurts, and the doctors make up for past wrongs by helping whenever they can. As Doc would say, it’s a tentative peace, but if it’s peace, I’ll take it.
They are all gathered in the square when we arrive. Dozens of faces look at Clay and I as we enter the stone basin where Barrage once kept his prisoners. This is the same area where I threw open the doors and released everyone. Now it is festive, with brightly colored flags ripped from found fabric fluttering in the breeze. A tarp has been erected to shade everyone from the sun. A hand-painted banner reads, “Welcome, baby Elizabeth!” in sloping scrawl. Someone has fashioned baby bonnets and booties out of string, and they hang above a table of handmade gifts. I see a wooden crib, a set of stitched-together blankets, a found baby doll with most of its arms and legs.
Ashki gives me a nod from his chair. He was wounded badly during our escape that fateful day, but with the doctor’s help he survived. I am glad to know the last living Navajo did not die on my account. Broken Arrow did not fair as well, nor Sissy. They were killed when Barrage sent his men to collect Mo. The guilt I felt for their deaths still hang around me when I pause long enough to think about it, so I try not to think about it. Nor, how glad I was that Auntie, Ethan and Betsy were out checking traps at that time. They would have died because I told Barrage where to find them.
I replay those moments of torture and confession at my weakest points. If only I could go back, but I can’t.
But the faces around us are smiling. I find the happy couple at the back center—Betsy and Farouk, one of the guards that surrendered after Barrage and his men were killed. She looks reborn, her short blond hair styled in spikey waves, the baby she so desperately wanted wrapped in a blanket in her arms.
Auntie sidles through the crowd with Ethan in tow. She greets me with a nod. “Didn’t think you’d make it, and no one would blame ya.”
“We don’t need to talk about it,” I say, giving her a forced smile. I look down at Ethan in his deputy outfit. He was so proud when Auntie sewed him a jacket and pants to match mine and Clay’s. “How’s the deputy?”
Pushing up a hat very similar to Clay’s, he gives me a look. “Why does it always sound like you are teasing when you say deputy?”
Clay claps a hand on his shoulder. He’s too tall, my Ethan. “She’s not, bud. She’s seen you shoot. Knows you’re a chip off the ol’ block.”
“Just remember, you’re ten,” I say. “You can’t be officially named to the guard until you’re fourteen.”
He frowns. “Doc said maybe in a year or two—”
I cut him off with a look.
Auntie changes the subject. “Look, here’s our illustrious leader now.”
We turn to see Doc walking in, his secretary and girlfriend, Teresa a former Breeders’ girl and rescuee, at his side. He looks every bit the part of major in his bright blue blazer, matching pants, and crisp white shirt. How he keeps his clothes so clean in this climate will be one of life’s great mysteries.
As he walks in, people quiet. He was elected leader soon after we took over the city. It was a clear choice. I was in no state, and Clay was taking care of me. And there were few others who wanted the job. But it fits Doc perfectly. And it makes me happy to see him happy.
He smiles at me before addressing the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I know you all want to get to the food and drink provided by our party committee and that my comments should be short, so I will make sure not to ramble on. But we wanted to take a moment to acknowledge the first homegrown birth of our new colony.”
He raises his hand and gestures to Betsy and Farouk, both smiling broadly. “To little Elizabeth. We wish her all the best. We don’t know why God has blessed our happy couple with a girl. We don’t know if it’s a fluke or a sign that things are starting to turn around. What we do know is we are so happy she is here. May she be happy and healthy. And may she have many, many playmates to come.”
The people look to the group of half a dozen pregnant women sitting in the shade. Hope beams from their faces.
Doc says a few more words and then walks over to kiss the baby and pat the parents on the back and give his gift. The rest of the group starts talking among themselves, and then they begin to dive into the food. As the flow of people moves that way, I start to head in the opposite direction. I’m not hungry.
I hear Clay follow me out. It makes me grateful to know he’s right there.
As we’re leaving the party, Desi runs up the slope, bow in her hand. She a guard and a damn fine one. And she did find her mother among the women Barrage was keeping. Right now, she looks concerned. My pulse picks up. “Riley, Clay, we need you down below. Someone’s spotted dust on the horizon. It could be friendlies, or . . .”
“Or not,” I say, my blood picking up. My mood shifting from something dark to something charged. My hand finds my gun. I look at Clay. His eyes have already gone steely.
“We’re ready,” he says. “Show us what you saw.”
As we head down to face whatever is headed our way, I look at this man at my side, and I’m so grateful. Grateful we are doing this together. Grateful we’ve found our purpose. Grateful to be alive when so many are not.
I’m not a mother. I never will be.
But I’m something else. Something I was meant to be.
Epilogue
There’s a city on the hill.
It may be a small city, but the people inside it are big in spirit, big in heart.
They’ve lived through a lot—murderous sheriffs, crazy doctors, brutal gangs. They’ve seen death and new life. They know what’s at risk, so they’re careful. Very careful.
They are careful to love hard. To never take a moment for granted. If they love someone, they love with their whole heart. If they need something, they ask. I
f they fear something, then, together, they tackle it head on.
And in this community, a woman loves a man very much. And he loves her just as fiercely back. They’ve lost a lot, but not each other. Together, they protect that which is theirs. They know what is worth fighting for.
These two have seen that, though the world may be broken, the human spirit isn’t.
It rises like the phoenix.
It flies.
The Breeders Stories
A Collection of Four Stories Set in the Breeders Universe
Nessa
A Breeders Story
Chapter One
Now
The dust cloud churned in the distance as the trucks sped closer. The Breeders were coming for Nessa.
Between the buttes and the miles of scrub land, she watched her impending doom with the baby hugged to her chest. They would take her and life as she knew it would be over.
The baby whimpered, a soft catlike mewing, a sound to which she’d already grown accustomed. A little fist waved up from the dirty t-shirt swaddled around him. She slipped her finger in his little palm and he clutched her like a lifeline. She leaned down and touched her lips to the soft crown of his head. His wispy dark blond hair fluttered against her chin and she focused on the softness of his skin, the smell of him. He was hers for only minutes more. Her heart cracked and fell in on itself. It wasn’t fair. Three days was not enough time as a mother. She needed three lifetimes.
Marlin clambered down from the top of the Ford, yelling something. He’d fought so hard for that truck, killing a man in cold blood when their horse had given out. Now with two flat tires and no fuel, it was a useless hunk of metal, another relic to wither and rust beneath the shifting sands that would soon swallow it whole. She shuddered. The Breeders would swallow her whole. Then, she would be what? A collectable? Another prize on these doctors’ shelves?
Marlin’s frantic face blocked her view of the cloud, his hand tightening around her bicep. His knuckles were still swollen from the fight two nights ago. She cringed as she thought about the men circling Marlin, their leering eyes as they flicked out switch blades and brass knuckles. He’d broken his hand and been cut in two places, but he’d gotten them out of there.
“We gotta run.” His voice was raspy from the dust, his eyes red-rimmed from the days of straight driving. Driving that, in the end, hadn’t mattered. The Breeders had found them anyway.
She stood cemented, her eyes on their approaching enemies. Sudden tears welled, blurring her vision. The tears surprised her. She’d thought the tender part of her had shorted out long ago. She pressed the baby to her chest and tried to inhale him so she might take some piece of him with her wherever she was going.
Above a vulture circled in lazy loops. Her ma would’ve said it was a bad omen, but her ma had been taken and sold to the Breeders five years ago.
“Nessa, we gotta move. Now!” Marlin pulled a revolver from his hip, his eyes slipping back to the road and the dust cloud. His face was stitched with the fear of losing her. God, she loved him then, a love so vast she could get lost in it. She turned away. Her love for Marlin would have to die. Love did not exist where they were taking her.
Three white trucks with black windows plowed towards them. Their dust blotted out the landscape like a storm cloud. She imagined herself sucked up in a sea of sand, drowning in grit that poured over her, pinning her body beneath its depths. No, she wouldn’t be buried. They wanted to use her.
Marlin paced back and forth and then stood in front of her. Frustrated, he grabbed both arms and shook her.
“What’re ya doin’?” he nearly screamed. “We gotta go!”
Marlin’s blue eyes crinkled in dismay as she stared at him. She took one hand and touched the bandage on his cheek, the jagged C-shaped cut that ran from cheek to ear. It was the price he’d paid for rescuing her. He would carry that reminder with him for the rest of his days.
She took in his face, the only man she’d ever loved. He’d grown a thin beard and his brown hair hung shaggily over his ears. Even at nineteen, only a year older, he was imposing: broad shoulders, thick arms and a solid gaze that could level a man at fifty paces. He looked so much older than nineteen. She knew she did, too. There was a time when kids their age went to school dances, college parties, danced and drank and reveled. That time was gone. It was a dream you clutched upon waking, only to find it slip through your fingers as you blink into the dawn. Nessa turned and faced the nightmare that barreled toward her. This was her life. No sense in pretending.
He shook her hard this time. Her head snapped back and the baby wailed. She opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off.
“If ya ain’t gonna run, least give me the child.”
She looked down at her baby. Suddenly running seemed like the best idea in the world.
Chapter Two
Then
The first time she saw Marlin, he’d just killed her captor.
Nessa cowered under the filthy blanket near the fire. Through the slit in the fabric, she watched him stride up, gun glinting in his fist. Slumped over his boulder beside her, Big Mike was now Dead Mike. Half his head was splattered on the dust behind him. His boot twitched, the last throes of life kicking through his swiftly cooling body. Yet his blood was warm and spreading under her elbow. Every ounce of her wanted to crawl away, but she also felt like living. If she moved, she might draw the shooter’s attention and then…. He might make Big Mike look like a Christ-man missionary.
The shooter stepped into the firelight and Nessa sunk deeper in/to the blanket, willing herself into the dust. A rock dug into her side, but she and pain were fast friends. Big Mike had hog-tied her hands and feet, the rough rope trailing over her calluses. After six months, the ropes no longer hurt. It was sad, really, how accustomed she’d grown to being his slave.
Now this stranger, with guns holding actual bullets, stepped into the firelight and her insides went cold. Big Mike may have been a foul-mouthed, smelly abuser, but he was familiar. He wouldn’t hit her if she cooked the rabbit crispy brown and rubbed his feet after a day’s worth of hiking. This stranger, with the fiery blue eyes and the dark slash of hair falling across his forehead, might like hearing a woman scream. She hunkered lower in the blanket and tried not to tremble.
His boots drummed the ground as he stalked her way. She held her breath, her bonds suddenly too tight. If her feet were free, she could bolt. She was fast and wily. She wasn’t afraid of dark crevasses. It was how she’d survived those three years before Big Mike.
The blanket ripped off and he stood above her. A shadow hid half his face, making him look monstrous. He grabbed her, hauling her upright.
“Who’re you?” he asked, tilting his head to get a better look.
She shook her head.
The muscles in his arms flared beneath his white t-shirt. He was strong, well-fed. A road gang member or one of the well-to-do in town. Big Mike had told her about the rich folk living in actual houses, having servants. Servants. She hadn’t owned shoes for seven years.
The gunman leaned her closer to the fire and looked her over. She clutched her arms to her chest and waited. Maybe he’d think she was a boy. That was only likely if he had the brains God gave a cockroach.
He touched the auburn hair that now lapped against her filthy shirt collar. Then his hands were on her chest, groping. She closed her eyes and pictured summer sunsets on her ma’s farm before the gangs took her. Finally, his hands fell away. When she looked again, he was staring. She recognized the look in his eyes. It was the one they all gave her when they realized. Goddamn idiots.
“A girl.” He shuffled back on his heels, fingered through his hair and looked at her. Without the anger, he was coolly handsome, his eyes a startling blue, his face well-proportioned and masculine. Nessa dropped her eyes and hoped he was kind. Kind or stupid.
He pointed to her bound hands. “If I undo those, will you behave?”
She nodded, offering her wrist
s. He dug a small folding knife from his jeans’ pocket and flicked it open. She froze, her eyes on the four inch piece of steel, but he sliced through the rope without a word. He sat back in the dust near the fire and looked at her again. She was used to this. After all, she was an endangered species.
Finally, his eyes found Big Mike, growing cold and stiff beside her. “Who’s this?” He walked over and nudged his toe under the body. Big Mike rocked back. The part of his head that was still intact stared up at the night sky, one round eye going glassy. His mouth was open, as if shocked he could really be dead. He smelled like clotting blood. She pressed her hand to her nose and focused on the one sliver of purple twilight in the west.
The stranger grabbed Mike by the ankles and dragged him into the darkness. The body made a shushing sound as it cut through the sand and scraggly underbrush. She eyed the blood trail and sighed. The seven months of Big Mike grunting and sweating on top of her were over. What was it her pa said before marauders killed him? Good riddance to bad rubbish.
The stranger returned and sat on Big Mike’s boulder, his elbows resting on his knees. With his eyes to the flickering flames, Nessa studied his profile: strong chin, a day’s worth of stubble, windblown hair as if he’d been riding. His look was neither kind, nor malicious. She couldn’t place his expression. The closest she could come was thoughtful. Well, that was a shame. She liked her men good and dumb.
He gave her a sidelong glance. “Got any grub?” His voice was low, smoky. It raised the hairs on her arms.