by Katie French
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Good grimey,” Bran says, running a hand over his hair. “Bella?”
Auntie Bell seems frozen. Then, before I can stop her, she strides to the bars, reaches through them, and slaps Bran hard on the cheek.
CHAPTER SIX
Ethan
I run as fast as I can back to the auto parts store. I’m a mess and my clothes stink, but I gotta tell Clay and Betsy the news. I found water!
The stars are scattered across the sky when I run back to the dumpy brick building with the four letters “A-U-T-O” hanging loosely from the building’s front. This is the fifth night in the auto parts store. The fifth night we’re hoping Nessa and her men don’t find us and drag us back to her base. Sometimes, I hate this no-nothing town. But sometimes, like tonight, I think we could stay here until Riley finds us. If there’s water at the windmill, we could live here a while. Maybe Clay would remember. Maybe then, he’d know what to do.
I tear through the front doorframe, crunching over the glass and trash into the storeroom.
Nobody’s here.
Something doesn’t feel right. And I lost my damn screwdriver.
“Clay?”
I tiptoe through the storeroom, toward the back where the garage is. The garage is dusty and smells like motor oil. It’s probably more defensible if someone attacks, but it’s dark and creepy, too. I don’t like it.
I walk past our bedding—old tarps, canvas sheets torn nearly to shreds, and some old clothes that smell like gasoline. We sleep like animals, curled up in a nest. That is, until Betsy started making me sleep alone.
I wonder if I can get Clay away and take him to the windmill, just us two. Maybe I shouldn’t tell Betsy about the water. It’d be wrong, leaving her to die, even if she’s awful. And what would Mama say? It ain’t right to wish someone dead, even if that someone is dumb, idiot Betsy.
But still.
I creep to the dark doorway and wait, tryin’ not to breathe hard, but my chest is pounding. Did they leave me? I’m more afraid of being left behind than any awful critter or deranged lunatic that might be hiding in here. I run inside.
When I spot them, I’m happy and then mad. She’s pulled Clay into the back—the dim garage filled with smelly cans, tipped-over metal shelves, and an oil-stained concrete floor. In a dark corner, they’re lying down, Betsy on top, rubbing her hands on his body like he’s a piece of meat and she’s starving. She’s all excited, but they’ve both got their clothes on. Clay just lays there, looking dazed, his eyes far away. It doesn’t seem to bother Betsy. She’s moaning and carrying on like a dog in heat.
“Oh, Clay,” she says, gripping his shirt. “Call me Riley.”
I honest to God lose it, running at her, fists ready. “You stupid idiot bitch!” I throw a punch, but she dodges at the last second. My fist misses, and my body tumbles over. I crash into a shelf full of cans that clatter to the floor. Tangled up and confused, I stagger to my feet, coming face to face with a knife blade.
Betsy snarls at me. “Now you’ve done it, Ethan. You’ve been a bad boy. A very bad boy.”
Her wig is knocked sideways, showing her ruined head. Her eyes are popped wide like a lunatic, and there’s white spittle in the corners of her mouth. The hand that holds the knife is trembling. She’s threatened me lots, but she’s never looked this furious.
“You leave Clay alone!” I turn to Clay, who is still on his back, eyes to the ceiling. “Clay, listen! We gotta go. You gotta remember!”
Slowly turning his head, he looks at me. He talks like he’s drunk. “Who are you?”
“It’s me, Clay.” Tears pool in my eyes. “It’s Ethan.”
He shakes his head as if he’s trying to wriggle out a memory. Face contorting with pain, he clutches his head and drops it back onto the tarp.
Betsy, who’s been watching, turns to me. “See! He doesn’t care about a bad boy. You have to go to time-out.” She points her knife until it’s inches from my throat.
“Don’t kill me.” Dumb baby tears pool in my eyes. I don’t even care about the water or the windmill. Right now, I just hate Betsy. Hate her.
Betsy points with the hand not gripping the knife. “Go! Get in time-out!”
“I d-don’t know w-what that is,” I say through my tears.
She jabs the knife in the air. “Go!”
Hands up, I shuffle to where she’s pointing. The garage is so dark. I step over oil jugs, rusty tools, and drop cloths. A truck carcass sits up on risers. Underneath is a pit. This open section is where guys must’ve gone to work on the cars’ undersides. It’s too dark to see what’s down there.
When I shuffle up to the pit, she says, “Stop.”
I stop, wiping snot on my sleeve. I’m done blubbering. Maybe she’ll just make me sit in the corner for a bit. It’ll be babyish and humiliating, but I’ll do it. When she falls asleep, I’ll get Clay up, and we’ll get away from her. She won’t be able to follow because she’s a girl, and she’ll get sent back to Miss Nessa, who will cut up her head some more.
Betsy points with the knife. “Get in.”
“Get in the truck?” I point up to the vehicle on risers.
“No. Get in there.” She nods toward the dark pit.
I look down at the blackness. Anything could be in there—rats, scorpions, or snakes. I shake my head. “Betsy, don’t.”
“Get in!” She points the knife at me.
Tears start again. “P-please.”
She jabs the blade toward my face too fast for me to dodge it. Pain springs up on my cheek. Trembling, I touch my skin. My fingertips come away bloody.
She cut me. She’s threatened, but she never really hurt me before. I look up at her with tear-filled eyes.
“I mean it, Ethan.” She grits her teeth.
“Please, d-don’t.” Snot runs down my lip. It tastes salty and bitter.
She narrows her eyes.
Crying, shaking, I crouch at the pit’s edge. I look back one more time, and she waves the knife.
I drop in.
It’s so dark. It smells like oil and rot. I swear something scurries away as I look up at Betsy. “How long?” I ask, sniffling.
Betsy’s face is blank. When she looks at me, she might as well be looking at a bug. She disappears. I hear a dragging sound.
I walk to the side and try to peer up, but it’s too high. Something begins to slide over the opening above me. It’s a piece of plywood. She’s covering the pit with me in it.
Panicked, I claw at the walls, but I’m too short. “Don’t! Don’t!” I yell as she heaves and pushes, my light disappearing. Soon, it’ll be pitch black. “Betsy, don’t. Please, don’t!”
She doesn’t answer.
One last heave and all the light disappears.
She’s closed me in.
So dark.
My head snaps around, but I can’t see anything. Not even my hand in front of my face.
I’m not afraid of the dark. I’m not.
I’m afraid of the things skittering around in the corners. I’m afraid of being bitten, crawled on. Mostly, I’m afraid Betsy will leave me down here to die.
I hear her dragging things and thunking them down on top. To hold me in.
“Mama,” I sob. Then, “Clay, wake up!”
I claw the walls until I find a ladder, climb up, and push against the board. It pops up a little, just enough for me to see her fat, stupid ankles as she drags a box of tools and drops it on the board over my head, knocking me off the ladder and onto the ground.
It sends the things in the dark skittering around like mad.
Scurrying up so the things don’t touch me, I push up the board again, but she has all the corners pinned down.
I scream, but no one answers.
Smearing tears around, I cling to the ladder until my arms ache. I can’t stay up here forever, but I know there are things down there. Things I can’t see.
Jumping down, I find something to sit on. I c
url my legs up and cry into my knees.
Dear God, send Riley. Send Auntie. Send Clay’s memories back. Send an angel. Send anything.
I don’t know if I believe, but I want to. I want someone to save me.
***
Hours pass. Betsy doesn’t come. I go past hunger into that sick feeling that means your stomach is eating itself. My throat is a desert. I think about eating the crawly things, but I can’t make myself. What if it’s a snake or a scorpion? What would I do if I caught a live rat or lizard?
Time passes like molasses. I start seeing things—dark shapes, visions. My ears become sharp. I hear every scrape of the crawly things as they forget about me and go about their business. Finally, I get up just so I don’t go nuts. My hands trace along the walls, feeling in the dark. The walls are rough and cool. The pit isn’t actually as big as I thought, just about ten feet long and only four or five feet wide. I find a set of shelves in the wall. When I knock over bottles, something slick spills over my fingers as an oily smell fills the air.
My daddy would know what to do. He always smelled like oil, grease, and wood glue. Daddy knew how to do everything. He was teaching me, too—like how to change a car’s spark plug or how to hot wire, how to whittle, and how to find water just about anywhere. But he died. Then Mama died. And now Riley’s gone. It’s like someone is hacking away bits of me. I’m like a tree whose branches are being cut off one by one. A tree can live with most of its branches gone, but is it still a tree? Is it worth anything to anyone?
I stumble through the dark, fall onto the bench, and hold my knees again. Hold myself like my mama used to. I just keep holding and holding like my own arms can save me when everybody knows no one ever saves themselves. Not really.
***
I wake to scraping. Confused, I stand up. My head spins. Dizzy, I try to get my bearings and not puke as a crack of light appears overhead. Slowly, the board scrapes back by inches and more light spills in. Clay must’ve remembered me!
But then I see Betsy’s stupid face. She looks like she’s been crying.
“What do you want?” I say as mean as I can, but my throat is so dry I can barely croak out words.
She keeps peering down at me, her blonde curls like dirty curtains on either side of her face. Her skin is dirtier than I’ve ever seen it.
“Where’s Clay?” I say, climbing up the ladder.
She wipes a hand across her nose, trailing a slick string of snot over one cheek. “Quit being so lazy and get up. It’s morning.”
I stand, wobbling a little. “I’m being lazy? You locked me in here.” I want to slap her.
She ignores me. “I need you. Come on.”
I give her my worst dead-eye glare. “You need me? You should’ve thought of that before you locked me in here to die!”
Once again, my words skip over her head like stones over smooth water. “Your time-out is over. Now you have to do something for me.”
“Do something for you?” I scream. “Bite my ass!”
She shakes her head as if that could deflect my anger.
My arms and legs shake as I climb up the ladder. I don’t care how weak I am. When I get up to the top, I’m going to slap her silly.
She backs away as I climb out. I stand, wobbling a little, but I’m so glad to be away from those crawly things. Away from the dark. When I’m solid on my feet, I cross my arms over my chest and glare at Betsy. She’s a mess. Her cotton dress is covered in dirt. “Where is Cl—?”
She puts her hand up to stop me. “That’s what I came here to tell you. Clay’s gone.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Riley
Auntie just slapped the scariest man I know.
When my wits return, I grab her dress and yank her back from the cell. She stumbles into me, cursing. Before I can get any answers, she’s lurching up the stairs, leaving a trail of four-letter words behind her. Doc looks to me for answers, but I shake my head. When I look at Bran, he’s angling his neck, trying to see my aunt’s retreat.
“What the hell was that?” I ask him.
He looks pale and sunken, like the old man he is. “Bella.”
“How do you know my aunt?”
But he’s staring down at his tattooed knuckles—one hand says “war” and one says “peace.”
“I’ll come. I’ll willingly come with you.”
I look at Bran’s stooped posture and offered wrists. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No joke.” He shakes his head, his brittle gray hair covering his face again.
I nod to Doc, and he aims his gun at Bran. Taking keys in my trembling fingers, I undo the lock on the cell. I’m wary when the door creaks open, but he stands cowed. Quickly, I holster my gun and tie Bran’s wrists. He doesn’t move an inch.
“Let’s go,” I say, stepping out of his cell to give myself a safe distance from him. He walks out and stands on the food-smattered concrete, awaiting orders, so I give them. “Up the stairs. We have a Jeep.”
He heads up. When Doc can get close to me, he whispers in my ear, “What was that?”
I shake my head. “I have no goddamned idea.”
We walk Bran out and strap him to the Jeep’s back roll bar. While we’re tying him down, Auntie appears wearing men’s slacks and a button-down shirt in desert khaki we got from some of the soldiers’ footlockers. She gets in the front without looking at Bran or us. As I load the Jeep, I keep shooting her glances, but her face is stone, her frown a craggy depression in the landscape of her face. Every so often, she works her jaw around as if she’s chewing on a bit of the past. I know I can’t ask her, not with him in hearing distance, but I wanna know what this is about so bad.
Did they know each other? They must’ve. Why on Earth would he have come so willingly when before he wanted to fight me to the death? But where in the world would Auntie have met a guy who looks capable of organizing a mass murder? Did he work at the Breeders’ hospital while she was there? Did she meet him when she met my stepdaddy, Arn? Maybe they were lovers. I look at Bran—his filthy clothes and hair, his greasy beard, his network of black tattoos. I just can’t picture it. Then again, I can’t picture Auntie with any man.
Doc takes his place in the backseat, his gun aimed at Bran. But Bran’s being a model prisoner now. I get in the driver’s seat and glance back in my rearview. There he is, right where he’s been for the past twenty minutes, sitting awkwardly close to the post, tied hands in his lap, his eyes on the back of my auntie’s head.
“So, I head south?” I call over my shoulder, glancing back to see Bran’s reaction.
“South,” he says as if he’s just woken up.
“How do I know when we’re close?”
Bran clears his throat. “I’ll tell ya. Either that or they’ll start shootin’. That’ll tip ya off.”
Doc leans forward. “Just head south? It sounds like he’s giving us no direction at all.”
I glance back into Doc’s worried eyes. “Bran is going to help us. Right, Bran?”
Bran nods.
Doc folds back into the backseat, grumbling. It’s one of the things I like about Doc—he knows when to shut up.
I grip the steering wheel and start the engine, fitting the bandana over my mouth and road goggles over my eyes. Auntie and Doc do the same. We pull out of Kirtland without a glance back. I think of the men and the knife we gave them to cut out of their bonds just before we left. They should be okay with what we left them. Hell, we’re on the road. Nothing more dangerous than that.
With the wind drowning out my voice, I finally lean over and get my aunt’s attention.
She puckers her lips. “Nuh-uh. I got nothing to say.”
“Spill, Auntie. I saw the way Bran looked at you. He’s docile as a baby now that he’s seen you. And a woman doesn’t slap a man unless love’s involved.”
Auntie rolls the eye I can see, sighing. “The story’s not worth wastin’ my breath, precious little of it I have left.”
“Well, I need
to know,” I say, “if we’re going to add him to our team.”
She lets out another big sigh. “It’s rude to stick your nose in other people’s business.” But she glances back to make sure he can’t hear and starts talking. “Knew Bran when I was a little older than you. He was head of security for our town mayor.” When I look confused, she adds, “A mayor was like a sheriff, but more law abiding. At least, ours was at first, the ass. Anyway, I used to work at the drugstore on the weekends and when there wasn’t enough power to run our school. I caught Bran’s eye.” She pauses. “I had quite the rack.” Arching her back, she shimmies her shoulders.
“Auntie!”
She cackles. “What? I was a fox. Is that so hard to believe?”
“Of course not,” I say, though it’s hard to imagine her as anything but ancient.
“Bran started hanging out at the drugstore, buying gum and sweets, little things, just to see me. I knew he was doing it, too, but I didn’t mind. He was handsome and connected. He had this uniform…” Auntie sucks in, making a wet smacking sound with her toothless gums.
“Oh geez,” I say, glancing in the rearview to make sure they aren’t hearing us.
She gives me a sharp look. “You wanted to hear the story.”
“I did. Just keep it clean.”
“You’ll take it the way I tell it.” But she continues. “The mayor didn’t like Bran being distracted from his post. He told Bran not to talk to me anymore. Bran quit the mayor’s service that day.”
“Then what?” I ask.
Auntie cocks her head and looks at me with her good eye, the patch over her other flapping in the wind. “Then we ran away together.”
“You ran away? With Bran?” I ask, picturing his tattooed body, his long beard.
She shrugs. “People do crazy things for love. You’d know better than most.”
I tighten my jaw. Just thinking about Clay hurts. The picture I grabbed from Nessa’s house brushes against my skin, and I fight the urge to take it out and gaze at it.
“It was a crazy month,” Auntie says, continuing. Her eye travels up to the blue sky, but I can tell she’s seeing into the past.