The Butchers

by Katie French

“Why would I want to stay here?” She flaps thin arms around, making her big bellowing army shirt billow. “There’s no food. No TV.” Her eyes glaze over as she’s talking, and I know she’s thinking about the Breeders’ hospital. There were some perks if you were willing to put up with torturous doctors and the occasional threat of rape.

  Yeah, great place.

  “We’re back to help Mo,” Ethan ads, looking back at the sleeping form in Doc’s arms.

  Doc holds her close. “Her breathing seems more stable.” He looks at me and then Betsy. “She got very sick.”

  “Because she was taking care of her,” Betsy says, waving her arms at me and knocking her wig askew. Before she fixes it, I catch a glimpse of her stitched-up scalp, so many surgeries gone wrong.

  “Look. I don’t want to fight with you. I’m sorry things are shit here. We came here to eat. Is there food?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Wait ’til you see.”

  Flomping away from us and into the dim interior of the cafeteria, she heads to the back. When she’s out of sight, we all exchange looks. Betsy’s crazy, and maybe this place is making her worse, but there’s no way I want to bring her with us when we go. That’s just what I need, one more person to take care of.

  Quietly we make our way into what’s left of the cafeteria. When I was here last it was neat and orderly with rows of rectangular benches and tables. Now, half the room is collapsed in piles of rubble, and only two tables are left, snuggled close to the kitchen entrance doors and off kilter.

  The kitchen behind looks grimy and dark. I expect to smell cooking as I walk toward it, or at least the aroma of something having been cooked, but there’s nothing but the same musty, dusty smell as the hallway.

  Betsy walks out holding four bowls, all balanced on each other. So it’ll be cold food. I’ve dealt with worse.

  She plops them down on the table as we gather around. Then grins in a way I find very strange.

  When I look in the bowls, I know why. Dead bugs fill each halfway to the brim. I recognize larva, beetles, grasshoppers, and more. Legs and shells and antennas sticking out at odd angles like a cereal of nightmares.

  “There’s spiders in there too,” she says, her top teeth clamping onto her lip in a look of glee. “And that’s all we’ve got. Gross, right?”

  She’s happy. Happy in our misery.

  “Oh, yuck!” Ethan exclaims. “No way am I eating that!”

  Doc gulps. “Bugs?”

  “She’s kidding,” I say, looking Betsy over.

  “No, she’s not,” says a voice from the doorway.

  Corra leans against the far wall. When we notice her, she strides toward us and inspects the bowls.

  “Animalia arthropoda insecta. Protein, vitamins, and minerals. A very suitable food and one easily renewable.”

  “You breed bugs?” I ask, trying not to gag at the thought.

  “We do what we have to for survival. You of all people should know about that.” Corra fixes me with that pointed look of hers.

  “It’s clever, really,” Doc says, looking at Corra.

  She smiles in approval, grabs a grasshopper, and chomps down. The crunch is unmistakable and stomach churning.

  Doc, watching, does the same, plopping a small black beetle in his mouth and slowly chewing.

  The look on his face when he swallows is priceless.

  Ethan gags. “I’m still not eating them.”

  Corra shrugs. “You get used to the texture and how they stick between your teeth.” She picks at hers with a fingernail. “Either way, I didn’t come here to chat about the food. I came to tell you we have movement. The Butchers are headed back this way. Right toward Clay.”

  Clay

  “What kind of bullshit is this?” Auntie asks as we ride to the coordinates Riley gave us.

  I scan the site, agreein’ with her assessment of the situation. Riley told me I was takin’ Auntie to a safe place, one with water and shelter from these so-called Butchers. What she’s directed us to is some godforsaken amusement park gone mad.

  As the road dips down, we can see from our vantage point on horseback all that waits for us in the valley. My eyes drift from the tipped-over Ferris wheel, to the busted and faded sign that reads “Funhouse,” to some rusted mechanical contraption with arms and cars shaped like apples long past its last rotation.

  “A goddamned fairgrounds?” Auntie asks, spitting into the dust. “She sent us to a goddamned fairgrounds?”

  “Looks like,” I answer, still eyin’ it all. “Might as well paint a sign on our backs that says, ‘Murder us.’”

  Auntie turns on her horse and fixes me with her one good eye. “You know Riley wouldn’t never put us in harm’s way if it weren’t for a good reason.”

  “Yeah, that baby of hers,” I say, unable to keep the contempt out of my voice. I like Mo and all, but this is goin’ too far. I hate us being separated again.

  “Well, you try having a baby ripped from your arms, and you see what kind of crazy it makes you do. Come on now. Let’s see what kind of situation we can fix up.”

  Auntie clicks and jabs a heel into her mare, causin’ it to surge forward, the other, tethered to the first horse’s back, following. I shrug, draw my gun, and go after her.

  We ride through the gate, keepin’ watch for marauders. If there’s any here, they got dozens of places to hide. My eyes light on the giant clown’s face, its open mouth forming the front of a tunnel leading into what the sign calls, “House of Mirrors.” The clown’s face seems melted and hauntin’, yellow teeth around the hole ready to bite, its eyes the type that watch no matter where you roam.

  Across the weed-choked yard, a rickety roller coaster stands like a dino skeleton in the background. Right in front of us is a multicolored carousel with most of the horses missing, bare poles leaning at odd angles. The only one left is missing three of its legs and half its face, leavin’ only its mouth open in a scream.

  My pulse goes up as we walk slowly past the carousel and come upon a food stand—a building about thirty feet square, covered in aging graffiti, windows boarded up and ripped open like old scabs. Another dark buildin’, another place to hide.

  “Creepy,” Auntie whispers, her eyes searching through shadows.

  “Damn near the worst place I’ve ever been.”

  Every step into this place gives me the willies, and we ain’t even halfway in. The next ride we come across looks like a rectangular ice rink with small cars on poles inside. The sign says “Bumper Cars,” but spray-painted over are the words, “Welcome to Zombie Land.”

  Auntie eyes it from her mare. “When I was a girl, I saw a movie about a clown who lured kids into the sewer to kill ’em. Scared me shitless for weeks.”

  “You watched that when you was a kid?”

  She turns her good eye on me. “There wasn’t but one movie playing in town for weeks. Whatever old reel they could get their hands on. You either saw it, or nothing. What would you have done?”

  “Watched it, I guess.” I look back at the clown face, still visible from where we are. “Why did you bring up the clown now?”

  “The movie was called It. Boy, I was scared shitless. Slept with my pa for three whole nights.” She shrugs. “This place gives me the same feeling as that movie. Don’t like it.”

  “Maybe we should turn around? Can, if you want.”

  “No. If there’s a safe place to stay with water, we need to stay here until Riley fixes her baby.”

  Her baby. There’s those words again.

  “Then let’s keep movin’. I want to find this shelter before dark.”

  The horses clomp slowly through the field, stepping over torn down awnings, the fabric long gone, more metal structures looking like bones. Hooves crunch over bits of glass and garbage. We’re makin’ a hell of a lot of noise.

  Then, on the ground, I see a red arrow spray-painted on the broken concrete. Sure it’s faded, but someone sure wanted to send a message—This way.

  G
ood or bad, we gotta see where it goes.

  I steer my horse toward the arrow, turning to Auntie. “Let me check it out first. I’ll report back.”

  She gives me a withered glance. “I go with you or stay alone, either way is about as safe as the other.”

  I smile at the tough old bird. She’s grown on me these last months. “Fine, but ride behind.”

  Then I urge my stallion forward. Time waits for no man.

  The arrow leads to a section of the park with an amphitheater on wheels, the band shell still upright but all the chairs tossed to either side like a tornado rode through. There’s a ride with gilded chairs hanging from chains. When it was operational, chairs would swing out orbiting the center cylinder. I bet this was fun once, and not the nightmare it is now.

  My eyes find the second red arrow spray-painted on the ground beside the swings. Onward we travel.

  The path leads to an open section, yellow weeds pushing through the concrete. In the center sits a water pump painted the same red and circled like a target.

  I slip off my horse, my eyes flicking left and right as my gun stays ready. If there’s an ambush waitin’, it’s here.

  But nothin’ stirs and I walk to the pump as Auntie watches. Grippin’ the handle with my bad hand, I go to work on the pump. Up and down the rusty, groaning mechanism moves.

  Nothing. And then . . .

  Water surges out, wetting the concrete. Fresh and clean, too.

  Putting my gun in the holster, I pull it to my mouth to taste. I hold a hand up to Auntie and smile. “Works.”

  “I got eyes. Well, eye.” She points to her patch, but she’s smiling. Water is life. And we got plenty.

  We suck down our fill and load up the jugs. It’s amazing having a pump that goes and goes. Sure, my arm starts to ache with so much pumpin’, but I could keep goin’ forever if I could never have that dry taste in my mouth again.

  Refreshed, we look beyond the parkin’ lot to the building behind it. This one isn’t some glammed-up carnival ride or graffiti-ridden snack shack. This is a small brick one-story, utilitarian-type building, squat and fat and ready to withstand the elements. Very little damage on the exterior. And with only small mesh-covered vents and no big windows, there’s hope that critters haven’t torn it to pieces.

  “That must be the building Riley mentioned.” I point with the hand not holdin’ a water jug.

  Auntie lashes her horse to the waterin’ post and gives its neck a rub as she walks toward me. All three horses drink thirstily as we walk.

  It’s a bathhouse with one side for men and the other for women. The metal signs still cling tightly to the brick beside the closed metal doors.

  Raising my gun, I grab the handle and look at Auntie. She watches from behind me, her mouth in a wrinkled pucker.

  Yanking open the door, I stride in.

  I see movement and swivel toward it only to be startled by my own reflection in sheets of polished metal used as mirrors above the sinks. A few of the porcelain bowls are cracked and lying in pieces on the tile floor, but a couple still hang. I want to try the faucets to see if there’s water inside, but before I do that, I sweep the stalls, now doorless and empty. They’re clear. The toilets are black and waterless, but at least there’s no human waste or stink to deal with. That’s all been baked away by decades of hot summers. If we’re gonna stay here, we’ll have to scrounge around some for bedding, but it ain’t the first time I’ve slept on a dirty floor. Certainly won’t be the last.

  “Clear?” Auntie calls from outside.

  I roll my eyes, stoppin’ myself from correcting a sixty-year-old woman about the rules of a good sweep. She wouldn’t listen anyway.

  I walk out to meet her. Taking my hat off, I snap the moisture from the sweatband, run my fingers through my hair, and put it back on. “I’ll check the other side, but it seems pretty well deserted. Corra wasn’t kiddin’. This place ain’t half-bad.”

  Auntie puckers her mouth again, and I can’t tell if that’s good or bad. Probably pissed she has to sleep in a toilet with her not-kin-but-beloved-niece’s-partner.

  I walk around the building’s side, feelin’ the heat still bakin’ off the brick. The good news is the interior is not too hot, thanks to the ventilation and a decent breeze that’s picked up since we arrived. And hopefully it’ll hold in heat once the sun sets and the temp drops. I’ll have to figure what to do with the horses, but that’ll come later. For now, I gotta do my due diligence and sweep the other side of the bathroom.

  Pullin’ open the handle, I step inside. Only to be bashed in the face.

  Startled, I tilt my head enough to let the blow graze down my cheek, the full weight of it thuddin’ into my shoulder. Ahead of me, a figure dressed all in tan raises a thick strip of wood.

  I aim and release the safety before he can think about swingin’ again. “Got bullets in the chamber and you in my sights. If you try to hit me again, you’ll have one less head.”

  The attacker freezes in midair. This kid must be young, with barely any skin on his bones. The outfit he’s wearing looks handmade, pieces of cloth stitched together and sandblasted so he can blend in with his surroundings. Perfect camouflage. He’s made a smart choice hidin’ out here. Water’ll keep you alive for quite some time, but I wonder what he does for food until I see that’s a bow in his hand, not a weapon. With his face and head covered, I can only guess where he’s from, but the skin around his eyes is dark brown. Maybe he’s the lone survivor of a raid. Either way, he needs to put down that bow. I can practically see him runnin’ escape and attack scenarios in his head.

  “I ain’t here to hurt you,” I say, not lowerin’ the gun, “but I ain’t about to let you bash me again with that thing. Me and a friend are lookin’ for a place to stay. It seems you’ve claimed this one, but I wonder if we can work out some type of deal.” With my free hand, I reach slowly into my pocket, rummage around, and draw out the hunk of jerky that was meant to be my dinner.

  His eyes land on the meat and stare. Hungry. “There’s more where this came from.”

  Dark eyes float up to me. Slowly the bow lowers. I uncock my gun and hold out my hand with the jerky in my palm like an offering to a scared animal.

  The door bangs open behind me, and Auntie pushes in. “Clay, what’s takin’ so long?”

  “Don’t—” I start, but the boy raises his bow, smashin’ it down into my outstretched arm.

  I stagger into the wall as the boy blasts past me and through the open door, knockin’ Auntie to the ground as he goes.

  Grippin’ my injured arm, I stand up, fumblin’ for Auntie, flat on her back. “You okay?”

  “Who in hot Hades was that?”

  And when I look out at the remains of the carnival, the kid is gone.

  Riley

  My jaw drops as I realize what Corra is saying. When I don’t speak, she repeats herself. “Did you hear what I said, Riley? That group, they’re headed for Clay.”

  “I heard you,” I snap, standing up. “The question is, how do we get there to warn them?”

  “You wouldn’t be able to get there in time. Not with the solar cars in the shape they’re in.”

  Her even tone angers me. “So, then what do we do? And don’t say nothing unless you want a punch in the mouth.”

  “Riley, hang on,” Doc says, standing.

  At the table, Betsy giggles. Ethan watches with wide eyes.

  Slowly, Corra takes a cricket from the bowl on the table and crunches it between her teeth. She’s drawing things out, showing me who’s got all the power here. And it sure as hell ain’t me. “I do recall giving you a walkie-talkie, correct?”

  I’d almost forgot. Fumbling around, I realize that Doc’s been carrying it this whole time. He offers it to me. Grabbing it, I thumb the button and press it to my mouth. “Clay? Clay, are you there?”

  Static crackles over the line, but no one responds. I try again. Again, he isn’t there.

  “This is crap,” I say, setti
ng the walkie down on the table harder than I should. My eyes flash up to Corra, who is watching me carefully. “Did you give me faulty walkies on purpose?”

  “Now, hold on,” Corra says.

  “You hold on,” I say, feeling the strong urge to hit her. “You made them stay out there. You told us everything would be fine. Then, barely an hour in, they’re in big danger. What kind of game is this, Corra?”

  Corra’s eyes flash. When she smiles, it’s dangerous. “What exactly are you accusing me of, Riley?”

  Doc puts a hand on my arm. “Let’s all just calm down. Riley, Corra helped Mo. You want her to keep helping Mo, right?”

  Still breathing hard, I take in his words. “Yes,” I say through my teeth.

  “Okay, then let’s stop throwing accusations around. We’re all on the same side, right?”

  I don’t answer, but I’m pretty sure Corra is only on her own side.

  “Look,” Corra says, taking a step forward. “As a show of good faith, take the fastest solar car. I’ll even tell you what roads to take to avoid running into the Butchers on the way there. How does that sound?”

  “Like the least you could do. What about guns?” I say tersely.

  She shakes her head. “We have none to spare.”

  “Riiight. What about Mo?” I ask, looking down at her still sleeping form.

  “Do you really think you should take her into a war zone?” Corra asks.

  It’s like a slap to the face. Almost like she’s questioning what kind of mother I am. But it isn’t as simple as that. Leaving Mo here with Corra might be worse than driving her toward a band of known killers.

  Doc clears his throat. “I’ll stay with Mo and make sure nothing happens to her.”

  “Then I go alone,” I say. It’ll be safer that way.

  “No!” Ethan says, jumping up. He tugs on my arm frantically and talks in low tones. “Don’t leave me here with Betsy. Not again.”

  “I can hear you, crybaby Ethan,” Betsy mocks from where she sits still crunching on bugs. If I look hard, I can see legs stuck in her teeth.