by Katie French
I’m thrown back. My head thunks against the wall. Air huffs out of my lungs. The animal stink is everywhere. I can’t see. My screwdriver’s gone. I don’t even know where the door is.
It’s gonna eat me.
“Mama! Riley! Help!” Tears wet my face. I can’t stop crying. I remember the coyote that bit me. How its fangs looked. How I felt when its teeth tore my skin. If it doesn’t rip my throat out and I manage to get away, the bite will get infected. It’ll fester. I’ll die either way.
But whatever it is doesn’t attack. It whimpers in a corner. Maybe my screwdriver did some work. I run my hands along the wall until my fingers snag on something. A door handle! I yank back and tear out as I hear the thing take one last lunge.
Spilling into the hallway, I spot the back door and scramble to my feet. The dog, or whatever it is, begins butting the door.
I run.
As I stumble down three concrete steps and up a dusty hill, I don’t look back. I keep going even when my legs burn. My boots kick up dust until a cloud churns around me, but I don’t stop until I crest the hill.
At the top, I hold my knees and suck air like I’m drowning. Nothing has followed me. Hopefully, the animal is stuck in the bathroom. I put my hands on my head to open up my ribcage like Mama taught me and look around.
I’ve never seen this view before. The west is dirt and scrubland, pocked with burned-down buildings as far as the eye can see, like a fire ate a whole town without stopping to catch its breath. Past the fire-eaten structures, manmade shanties rise up. And in their center sits the biggest windmill I’ve ever seen. It spins in the desert twilight breeze. Pumping, pumping.
A turning windmill means one thing—water.
CHAPTER THREE
Riley
Part of me hopes this Bran character puts up a fight.
I stalk toward the building, my chest still burning with rage. Twilight deepens around the base, lengthening shadows. Above me, the stars are just beginning to shine. Soon, it’ll be full dark. Luckily, some parts of the base that haven’t been blown to oblivion still have solar power.
The rest of the base is a testament to the savagery of the Free Colonies. Across from me, a two-story brick building is pitted with bullet holes. The upstairs windows are all blasted out, leaving behind empty eye sockets of a dead building. Across from that, another building has been leveled, leaving a heap of rubble. Every other building is burnt or Swiss cheese. I don’t see birds or hear insects. Everything here is dead and gone except a handful of scared boys and this Bran.
I yank open a shattered glass door, stepping over the shards and crunching my way into the lobby. This room, like the others I’ve seen, is pared down to only useful items—a few metal chairs with their cracked leather seats spilling foam stuffing, a few tarnished plaques, and a bronze eagle with wings stretched above an empty display case. Hallways lead to dark places with dark rooms I don’t care to explore. The gray laminate floor is covered with a thin layer of dust, and I see boot prints leading me to where I need to go. I find the stairs and step down lightly, careful not to make noise. At the base of the stairs is another open door with words that take me a while to sound out. “Die, baby killers!” is written in drippy red scrawl.
The Free Colonies don’t waste words.
I don’t know much about the Free Colonies, and I suspect no one else does, either. For a long time, no one was sure they existed, but they’ve become bolder, striking out at the Breeders with quick but amazing shows of force. From what I’ve seen here, they’re brutal and heartless warriors. But any enemy of the Breeders is a friend of mine. At least, that’s what I hope.
At the base of the steps, I pause. My heart is hammering. In the open air with fresh adrenaline pumping through my veins, my fear was quiet, but now it’s a blaring siren. Whoever this guy Bran is, he made those guards tremble just thinking about him. But I’ve got the gun. I’m on this side of the bars. And I’ve got enough fury to deal with whatever kind of bastard awaits.
I step off the last tread and into the basement.
The ceilings are low with sagging, water-stained tiles and blank holes where they’ve fallen and been swept to the side in clumpy piles. The only sound is a slow drip somewhere in the back corner. Orange-hued fluorescent lights flicker above, making the place feel artificial and off-kilter. The hallway is narrow—one side’s a plain white wall, the other holds what must be jail cells, though I can’t see how many because of the concrete wall that marks the first cell. As I take a few steps in, the first jail cells become visible—ten-by-ten spaces with one wooden bench and a bucket toilet, solid steel bars with a barred door in the center. The jail cells I’m used to are crudely made, temporary, and used to hold people who’ve already been beaten so badly, there’s no chance they’ll escape. The men who built these knew what they were doing. Then again, everything’s easy when you’ve got supplies and starving teens to do the work.
Taking deliberate steps, I walk down the hall. The reek of human excrement grows stronger with every step. A shuffling from the last cell lets me know where I’m headed. I lock my hands around my gun and hold it out in front of me.
Steady. Steady.
I pass two empty cells. Three. Someone shifts in the last cell before stilling. He can hear me coming.
I get ready.
A few more steps and I can see the front section of his cell. It’s littered with garbage—food wrappers, bones, and dirty plates buzzing with flies. I spot some human waste smeared on the floor.
Something cinches around my ankle.
“What the—?”
I’m pulled sideways and down, my shoulder slamming into the cement, my head jarring. As I’m dragged toward the cell, I claw the cement floor, scrambling wildly, seeking a handhold, but finding none. My gun is gone. I have no idea where. Jesus.
I look over my shoulder and see a madman.
Long, gray hair hangs over his face like a tattered curtain. His clothes are filthy rags. Talon-like fingernails cut into my skin as he yanks me toward him with thin but muscular arms.
I kick at his hand with my free leg. He holds tight, pulling me toward him. The leg he holds slips through the bars past my knee. I brace my other foot against the cell bars and press hard to keep him from dragging me in any further.
“Let me go!” I shriek.
He says nothing. Tendons stand out on his bare neck beneath a patch of large, black tattoos.
I kick my pinned leg, but he holds on easily. Slipping one hand behind him, he brings out a shard of bone whittled to a point.
“Stop!” I scream, repeatedly kicking. I flip over and sit up. Grabbing the bars, I push away with both my arms and free leg. When his grip slips, he drops his makeshift knife and holds my leg with both hands.
Up close, I can see his eyes burn with insane hatred. His nostrils flare. He shows me gritted yellow teeth the color of vomit.
“Let me free, and I’ll let ya live.”
My muscles ache with the straining, but I don’t let my fear cross my face. I stare at him through the bars. “I was about to say the same to you.”
His lip curls into an amused smirk. “We know who’ll win this… girl.”
I suck in a breath. He knows I’m female. How? My hair is buzzed, and I wear men’s clothes. Even if people suspect, they always think bender.
He can’t know he’s got me. I jut my chin and lower my voice. “You need your eyes checked, old man.”
He laughs, a deep, craggy sound like rocks breaking. “That work on most folk? It must, or ya wouldn’t be here.”
I’m about to respond when he yanks me hard. My arms give way, and I lurch forward until my other knee smashes into the bars. His hand reaches down for the bone shiv.
I kick hard. His hand budges. I kick again, smashing my boot up under his jaw.
His head snaps back with a loud crack. He tumbles sideways, his body crashing into the trash in his cell.
I crab walk like mad to the far wall, panting and whe
ezing. My heart won’t stop racing. Where’s my gun? As he’s rubbing his jaw and spitting blood, I spot my weapon and scramble to grab it. I aim it at him, still trembling.
He stands up slowly, grips his cell bars, and smiles at me with bloody teeth. “Nicely played, lass.” He makes it sound like I’m his prodigy, not someone he was about to cut open with a bone shiv. His accent is strange and foreign.
“I should blow your head off! Give me one reason I shouldn’t.”
He leans a shoulder against the bars, watching me. His mood is casual, dismissive. “You can’t kill me because ya need me. That’s why you came down to this hole of shit.” He pushes long hair away from his eyes and regards me. “Breeders’ girl? What are ya doin’ here? T’ain’t nothing on this base a beour the likes of you wants.”
I lower my gun. “I want to go to the Free Colonies. I want you to take me.”
He cocks his head and sighs. “That, little lass, is the one thing I canna do.”
With his accent, “thing” comes out “ting” and “cannot” comes out “canna.” His tattoos are huge, swirling patterns with jagged points like curved blades running up his forearms and climbing up the collar of his shit-brown shirt. Behind his hair curtain, his features are big and dominant, a thick red nose, full lips, eyes that seem to see the flutter of my pulse beneath my shirt. I wonder where the hell he came from.
I clear my throat. “You don’t get to decide. Those toddlers up there”—I nod my head back toward the steps—“they say I can have you.”
“Oh, those gammy fools are givin’ me away that easy, eh? Hurts m’ feelings.” He rests his forearms on the cross section of the cell bars. “One question though, dove. How d’you intend on takin’ me with ya?”
I look down at my gun and back at him.
“Ah, see. So many thought they could tame me with lead.” He grips the bars hard, his face morphing from friendly to ferocious. “They’re dead. I ate ’em.”
He’s insane. Or he’s bluffing. But either way, he’s the only option I got.
“We ride in the morning. Get ready,” I say, lowering my gun and turning on my heel.
“Grand idea. I’ll be sure to pack!” He cackles like a madman.
I keep my cool until I reach the main floor. Then, slumping against the wall, I rub my trembling hands over my face. When I look up, my eyes lock on more spray-painted graffiti. I sound out the words written in big, red capitals across the drywall—All shall perish.
***
Doc waits for me outside the abandoned office we’ve set up for sleep tonight, one of the few buildings in this block that isn’t burnt or blown to pieces. Leaning against the open doorway at the top of the steps, he watches me stride down the sidewalk. I can see by the set of his frame that he’s ready to pry me apart, dissect me like one of his patients. Clenching my jaw, I prepare to be a wall against his needling questions. He can’t know what I suspect. If he thought I was pregnant, he’d treat me like an invalid, bar me from doing what I need to do.
As I walk up, he takes a step toward me. The twilight softens his already-feminine features, making him look more girl than man. As a bender with both male and female parts, Doc chose the male gender for himself, but it doesn’t always fit. Sometimes it does, like when he is striding around with a gun or snarling. But tonight, with the dying light playing over his features, he looks as tender as a desert rose. Pretty even. He’d hate it if I told him that, so I don’t.
I stand at the base of the steps and scuff my boots around in the dust. “You should get some sleep. We got a big day tomorrow.”
He twists his mouth to the side, looking down and examining me. I hate it when he does that. “You okay? You look… flustered.”
“Fine,” I say, running a hand over my short hair. Can he tell I was in a life-or-death brawl? I thought I pulled myself together. “The men secure?”
“If you can call them men,” he scoffs. “Bell helped me feed ’em, and we locked ’em in one of the storage sheds.”
I nod.
He purses his red lips like he’s still evaluating me. “What’s the prisoner like?”
“Crazy,” I say. “But he knows where we need to go to find Clay and Ethan.” Walking up the steps, I lean against the other side of the doorframe. Suddenly, I feel dead tired.
“So, how’re we going to get this guy to cooperate? If he’s crazy, what’s to say he won’t slit our throats the minute we take our eyes off him?” Doc watches me carefully.
I don’t want him to read the hesitation in my face. It’ll be bad enough when he sees Bran. “We can control him. We got the iron.” I nod down to my gun. “We’ll keep him chained.”
Doc frowns. “Even then, what’s to say he won’t direct us halfway across America? Or send us into enemy territory?”
I rub my brow. I’m too tired for this. “We got no choice.”
I push past Doc, but he grabs my arm and spins me around. “Riley, we can’t rush into this willy-nilly.”
I look down at his hand where he holds my arm, and he slowly withdraws. “You can go home, Doc. This isn’t your fight. Take one of their vehicles and drive back to Merek’s. No one will be mad.”
The hardness that had crept into his face crumbles. “Riley, I don’t want to go back. There’s nothing there. I’m…” He pauses and gazes into my face. “I’m here for you.”
I sigh, running a hand over my stubbled head. This again. “Listen, Doc, I—”
He cuts me off. “You don’t have to say it. But it doesn’t change anything.” Doc reaches out and brushes a finger against the back of my hand. It’s a sweet gesture. When I lift my eyes, trying to think of what to say, he’s already through the doorway and walking down the dusty hallway.
I don’t call him back.
“Well, that’s somethin’.”
Auntie stands at the base of the steps, taking everything in with her good eye. I swear the woman sees more with one eye than the rest of the world does with two. Or maybe she doesn’t see exactly, but she knows. Seems like everyone around here is better at reading people than I am. Putting my hands on my hips, I face her. “Save the lectures. I told him over and over—”
She waves my talk away with a swish of her hand, hikes up her shapeless dress—that she still insists on wearing even though I’ve found her a male uniform in one of the abandoned housing units—and shambles up the stairs. Her long, gray hair is braided neatly down her back. She must’ve washed her face in one of the washhouses because she looks fresh and clean. I, on the other hand, must look like the dregs in the bottom of a barrel. I wonder if I can keep my body going long enough to wash up.
Auntie limps over and puts a hand on my cheek. “I don’t envy you. This is a hard life, puddin’. A hard life. I wanted to shield you from it. Your ma, too.” Her eyes stare past me, into the distance. She’s thinking of Mama. We all think of Mama in quiet moments.
“I’m fine.” It’s like a mantra. If I keep saying it, it’ll be true.
She shakes her head, still not looking at me. “I never thought we’d lose Ethan.”
“He’s not lost.”
“Riley, you need to be prepared—”
“No.” I take a step back. “Don’t.”
She purses her thin lips. With her toothless gums, her mouth becomes one big pucker. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is,” I say curtly.
“Get some rest, puddin’,” she says, limping past me.
I watch her go. My auntie. The only family I have here. She’s said good-bye to more people than I have, and she’s still standing. But then she’s made of bedrock and I’m loose sand.
I turn and head out of the office building in search of the washhouse. When I see Ethan and Clay again, I’ll be darned if I’ll do it smelling like this.
***
Before bed, I wander down the deserted street toward the storage shed-turned-jail. With the sun down, Kirtland doesn’t look like a deserted crater like it does in the daylight. Maybe it’
s the cool breeze on my arms or the smattering of stars. Whatever it is, the rage has left my body. Tomorrow’ll be rough. Maybe the roughest day yet, but if there’s anything I’ve learned in the last few months, it’s that, come hell or high water, I’ll keep chugging forward.
Doc chose to secure the boys in a shed close to where we’re bedding down and close to the washroom, too. Looks like the solar at Kirtland didn’t have enough juice to run the whole place, just pockets of it, so they built themselves a washhouse with outdoor showers, separated by plywood nailed on posts barely chest height. I strip down anyway, do a whole wash in cold water, and even find a scrap of soap. No one out here to see, but I keep my pistol within arm’s reach.
Afterward, I fill buckets for the men. The water sloshes in my tired fists and dribbles onto my boots, sending streaks of dirt running to the broken pavement. Not sure what we’ll do with our prisoners when we leave tomorrow. Probably take their guns and vehicles and leave ’em behind. I doubt they’d even care to follow us. They’ll barely make it in this dump, poor kids.
The storage shed is quiet when I approach. The rakes, shovels, pickaxes, a wheelbarrow, and a string trimmer are scattered outside where Doc tossed them. When I unlock the door, the boys, sitting back to back on the floor, shuffle around.
“Brought water,” I say, standing in the doorway. They can only see my silhouette, so I fumble for the light. When it flicks on, they cower and huddle together like pups without their mother. Some of ’em look not much older than Ethan, though I know they gotta be at least my age. They’re a mess, these boys in matching sand-colored uniforms—thin, with waxy skin and sunken eyes that watch me like I’m the executioner.
I try to soften my posture. “Who’s thirsty?”
They eye the buckets sloshing with cool water and then look up at me. I should’ve sent Doc. They’d trust him, but I’m here now, goddamn it. I bring the buckets in and plop them in the center of the room.
They look at the rippling water and then at me. I wait expectantly and then realize their hands are tied behind their backs, so unless I want them to lap like a dog, I’ll have to serve them. I’ve made peace with the fact that they probably didn’t try to kill my boyfriend or my brother, but serve these men? Nessa’s men? I should probably go wake up Doc.