by Katie French
I give her a quiet moment, and then say, “But you slapped him.”
Auntie’s eye trails down to her lap. “Didn’t end well.”
“What happened?”
Auntie begins picking at her tattered hem. “We were gonna get hitched. The situation was getting bad—mass power outages, riots, and violence. The system was breaking down. We’d heard that things were better in Mexico.”
“Mexico?”
Auntie nods. “Americans looked down on the country to the south, but what we didn’t realize was they were more used to living without than we were. Losing technology and electricity didn’t affect their day-to-day living like it did ours. They coped. We didn’t.
“We were staying in some two-bit hotel on the border, living off what little pay he had saved up. On the day before we were supposed to go to the church, I woke up and he wasn’t there.” Her eyes trail out to the desert landscape. Her expression hardens. “Bastard jilted me. Left me with no money, no way to get home. I had to use my body to pay off our room bill.” She puckers her lips. “I should cut his goddamn balls off.”
“Wow,” I say, gripping the steering wheel. “No wonder you slapped him. How long ago was that?”
Auntie screws up the side of her mouth, thinking. “Damn near forty years ago.”
“And you recognized him with that beard, all filthy like he is?” I ask.
“Never would forget his face.” Her voice is soft again and far away.
We go quiet, thinking about the men who have come and gone. This stretch of pavement is quiet, and I lose myself in driving, the desert wind blowing over my short hair, the sun on my shoulders. We’re driving in daytime, another thing that makes Doc nervous. But we’ve got more guns and ammo than any road gang out there. And any gang that might have been out here was probably scared away by the Breeders or Free Colonies long ago. Ain’t no use for little dogs in big dogs’ territory. And we are sure as shit in big-dog territory.
The road is blown over with sand. The Jeep tires do okay in small drifts, but the drifts keep getting bigger. Doc leans over the seat back and peers at the road. “Deep sand out here,” he says with concern in his voice.
I narrow my eyes, glancing around. To my right across the sea of tan scrub, brush, and dirt, a wide ridge of mountains angles up into the blue sky. To my left, a dry riverbed snakes away from us. Tumbleweeds roll across the road in big tufts, and with them, large, brown sand dunes blow from the shoulder and blanket the road in several spots.
I grip the steering wheel and lean forward to show Doc I’m in control. “Lotta wind, but the Jeep can handle it.”
“Big one there,” Doc says, pointing to a very large, brown drift.
I flex my hands on the wheel. “Strap in. I’ll try to go around it.”
The sand drift covers both my lane and half of the opposing one, so I veer into the far lane. That way, half my tires will be on pavement and the other half should be fine chugging through sand. But the minute my tires hit the patch, I know something is wrong. There’s a series of small pops below me on the right side. The tires rumble over something beneath the drift.
“What was that?” Auntie says, sitting up.
Doc leans forward. “Riley?”
We all hear the hissing. The Jeep starts to wobble.
Bran shouts from the back. “Drive. Drive!”
Something’s wrong. Panicked, I punch my foot onto the gas. The car begins so shake as it tries to plow forward on two good tires.
Up ahead, three vehicles peel out from behind a debris pile that used to be a gas station. They’re like no vehicles I’ve ever seen—small and sleek like Breeders’ cars, sheathed in black solar panels, but with hefty, all-terrain tires and tough metal grilles. They’re newer than anything I’ve ever seen, with clean lines and shiny black paint jobs. Their tires seem to have no trouble handling the sand, which makes me think they were built to ambush. Each has a single driver. And each driver is aiming a gun at us.
“Who’re they?” I scream, trying to keep the Jeep on the road. The Jeep’s right rims grind on the pavement with an awful screeching, and sparks flying up on either side. I can barely keep us moving and won’t be able to much longer. Doc leans out one door and aims his pistol. Auntie hauls the shotgun from her lap.
Bran screams over the racket. “Keep driving!”
The vehicles form a V ahead, blocking the road. They don’t fire, though they could. I’m sure they’re saving bullets, waiting for my Jeep to die.
We’re dead.
“Hold on!” I scream and swerve.
The Jeep jerks right, skirting the cars and hitting the shoulder hard. Gravel spews out and pelts the Jeep’s undersides. I’m thrown back and forth, my teeth rattling, but I try to hold on. A thorny bush eight feet high rears up in front of me and I yank the wheel left, hitting the gravel and then the shoulder. I feel the Jeep lurch sideways. My head whips to the side, connecting with the door’s frame.
We’re in the air—the Jeep spinning, everything spinning. Trees whirl past. The ground blurs by. My arms float up over my head, but the seat belt keeps me in my chair. It’s a dream. I’ll wake up before we land.
Then we crash.
My seatbelt jars hard into my chest, knocking the wind away. The airbag smashes into my cheek, sending my head back with a snap. A horrible screeching sound floods my senses.
I taste blood, smell smoke.
Everything is dim and far away.
When I come to, the world is sideways. I’m up in the air, suspended by my seatbelt and the airbag. The sky is to my left, and the Jeep is on its side. I bat the airbag away, sending a white, powdery cloud into my face. I can’t… hear. Everything hurts. Where’s Auntie? Where’s Doc? Bran?
Craning my head as far as I can, I see that, beneath me, Auntie is still buckled into her seat. I can’t see much of her because of the airbag, but her left arm curves around the airbag’s pillow, blood meandering down one elbow.
“Auntie,” I croak.
She doesn’t stir.
Footsteps. I look up through the Jeep’s open roof. Three people stare in at us. Their faces are covered with black mesh masks that make them look like huge insects. One cocks his head at me.
“You sons of bitches.” I fumble for my seatbelt, but my shaking hands can’t find the latch.
One steps forward. He reaches for Doc, who seems knocked out like everyone else.
“Stop!” I finally find the latch, press it, and fall sideways on top of Auntie. Scrambling over her, I trip over the Jeep’s frame and spill into the dust. My body is a wreck, pain everywhere, but I slowly stand. And look into the muzzle of some futuristic gun.
It looks more like a Taser than a gun, but the masked man definitely has his finger on the trigger.
“Stay where you are.” His voice, filtered through his mask, sounds robotic. “The pulse from this thing will ruin your afternoon.”
I look down at the barrel aimed at my chest and then back at the two men slowly pulling Doc from the crumpled Jeep.
“Leave him alone!” I watch, feeling helpless as they examine Doc.
The man with the Taser shoves me back with it. “I mean it. I swear to God—”
“It’s a bender,” a masked men says, tilting Doc’s head to the light.
One of the two tending to Doc comes forward and pulls at my bandanna. I tug away, but the Taser man grabs my arm. The other pulls the bandanna off my face.
A moan comes from the Jeep. Auntie. Thank God.
“Bender,” the man holding me says. At least he doesn’t suspect I’m a girl.
“So what? It’s not a crime,” I say. I can talk tough even if my hands won’t stop shaking.
The trio chuckles, their voices robotic through their masks.
“What’s so goddamned funny?” I ask, glaring.
The man holding me lets go of my arm, flips a lock at his mask’s sides, and pulls it from his head.
Fine features, short, dark blonde hair shaved on one s
ide, left long on the other, full lips, and piercing brown eyes—she’s a bender. I must be staring because the corner of her mouth quirks up.
“Being a bender’s not a crime.” She winks. “Bring them.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Clay
Once Betsy was asleep, I didn’t think—I just ran. I had to get away from her sweaty body and searchin’ mouth, whisperin’ things to me when she thought I was knocked out. Things about how in love we were and how I wanted her body. About how I should put a baby in her. All of that seemed ’bout as wrong as balls on a mare, but when she leaned over me and said, “Call me Riley,” a firework went off in my chest.
Riley, Riley, Riley. Her name is a lyric to a song stuck in my head. I roll it around over and over, prayin’ not to forget this time.
Riley, Riley, Riley.
After I snuck out of the shop, I ran. I thought I’d feel somethin’, remorse, regret, but no. It feels right to be away from her gropin’ hands, her shit-eatin’ breath. I run and my legs feel strong. My lungs take in deep pockets of night air. Even my head feels clear. Here, under the stars with night bugs buzzin’ and the coyotes callin’ across the dense blue night, I feel like myself. Like a man. I beat my fists against my chest. And it feels all right. I feel better than I’ve felt for a long time. At least, for as long as I can remember, which ain’t saying much.
When I spot a windmill, I decide it’s where I need to go. In the moonlight, its blades are like shards of bone flashin’ dully as they twirl. Windmills mean water, and water means life. I ain’t crazy enough to think I can survive alone in the desert. But I shouldn’t wander up to strangers, neither.
As I skid down the ridge, keeping behind the bushes, I stay alert. I need a weapon. My hands fumble to my waist, looking for guns I know I used to have, but they’re as gone as my memory. Could I shoot from the hip if I had ’em? Who knows? There’s a big empty hole where that knowledge should be. Where everything should be.
And yet, somehow here, under the deep blue, I can think more clearly. Maybe it’s bein’ away from that girl’s lies or just seein’ the stars tossed across the sky, but my brain feels like it’s runnin’ on all cylinders for the first time in a long time. I close my eyes and try to remember.
It’s her voice that comes first, the warm, sultry sound of a woman sayin’ my name. Clay, she whispers, her lips brushing the skin of my ear. I want it to be like this forever.
In my mind, I see her, a silhouette against beams of light streamin’ in an open window. As the dust motes float past, I take in the perfect angle of her bare waist dipping down to her hip, and the way the shadows deepen at the base of her throat. Her skin is buttercream. I run my fingers along her smooth thigh. Dark hair falls across her brown eyes as she leans down to kiss me. Her full lips part. Clay.
“Riley,” I moan. But the spell is broken by my own voice. My eyes flicker open, and the memory is gone like smoke caught in a puff of wind.
I press my hands over my face. “Jesus. Riley.”
If I think about her too long, I’ll fold up and die. So I don’t. Now’s a time for action. I lift my eyes to the windmill blades. When the wind picks up, they become a moonlit blur that mesmerizes as they rotate. Now that I’m closer, I can see the shantytown circling the windmill like a bruise around an eye. These aren’t abandoned buildings; these are shacks built of recycled material, small and flimsy—corrugated roofs, aluminum siding, and wooden planks, stitched together like a quilt. Some look like they could withstand a few storms, and some look like they’d blow over if someone had a sneezin’ fit. I count about twenty. None look big enough to house more than one or two full-sized men.
A giant fence has been erected around the windmill’s base, and a few dark shapes that seem to be men stand near it. Guards, from the look of it. Of course there are guards. Whoever controls the water controls everythin’.
So guards, probably with guns, and twenty men who depend on that water and don’t wanna share. They won’t welcome an outsider if they don’t have to.
I sit and watch for a long time. In the distance, I hear livestock’s quiet lowin’ from hastily built barns. They must not have many animals, but havin’ livestock means they’ve been here a while. It means they plan to stay.
The windmill is a beacon. Any road gang or harrier for miles can see it. So these must be armed men. Brutal men.
Maybe I should go back and take my chances with that crazy girl.
“Don’t move,” the voice behind me says. A blade jabs hard between my shoulder blades, piercing my shirt and skin.
Shit.
I raise my hands up. “Just havin’ a look-see. Wasn’t hurtin’ nothin’.” I try to turn my head, but another hand clamps down on my shoulder and keeps me still.
“Let’s go see Mike,” the voice behind me says.
“Who’s Mike?”
He pushes the knife against my skin, and I arch away, but he grabs my arm and holds it tight. “Come on,” he says, jerkin’ me up. “We’ll let you see for yourself.”
CHAPTER NINE
Ethan
“What do you mean, Clay’s gone?” I shout into Betsy’s ugly face. “Where did he go?”
She pulls back, disgusted, and wipes my spit off her face. “You really are a bad boy.”
I grab her arm hard. “Where is he?”
“He… left me. He left.” She begins to sob.
I drag her through the garage and into the empty store. Pulling her all the way to the door, I point out into the bright morning sunshine. Already, the heat rolls through the open doors in waves.
“Where did he go? Which way?” I sweep my hand around, my eyes searching outside—the street, the shops, and the dunes. Nothing seems out of place.
She’s still sucking in big, loud sobs, so I grip her arm hard until she stops. “Ow. You’re hurting me.”
“Tell me what happened!”
“I went to sleep,” she says, wiping her eyes on her arm. “When I woke up, he was gone. I went out to see if I could find footprints, but it’s been too w-w-windy.” At the last word, her voice goes shrill and high-pitched.
“Stop crying,” I say, taking a step through the broken front doors. She’s right; the wind is wiping away any trace of where Clay might’ve gone. Or somebody took him. Miss Nessa could’ve snatched him, but she wouldn’t have left Betsy and me breathing. Betsy betrayed her, and Miss Nessa doesn’t seem like the forgiving type.
But then again, Miss Nessa might be dead. Clay shot her. He saved my life.
“If he’s out there, we have to find him,” I say, mostly to myself. I turn to Betsy. “I’m gonna look for him. Give me your knife.”
She narrows her eyes. “I’m coming with you. I’ll keep the knife.”
I shake my head and hold my hand out. “What do you think will happen if someone sees you?” I gesture to her dirty, pink-flowered dress, her blonde wig, and round body. “They’ll grab you up faster than coyote snatches a nest of bunnies.”
She doesn’t argue, but she doesn’t give me the knife.
I stomp my foot. “We don’t got much time. I gotta find Clay before someone bad does!”
Scowling, she digs around behind her. I realize she’s got her hand underneath her dress and is digging in her underwear.
Gross.
She hands me the knife, warm from her skin. I quickly pocket it. Turning away, I start outside.
“Wait!” she calls from the doorway. In the daylight, she looks grimy and her eyes are sunken and sad. I don’t want to feel sorry for Betsy, but she’s making it goddamned hard. “Ethan.” Her lip trembles. “Please don’t leave me alone here.”
I suck in a deep breath. “Betsy, I’m not gonna leave you.”
Am I lying? I don’t know.
Big tears roll down her dirty cheeks. “You are. I’ve been mean to you, and now you’re going to leave me here to die. Alone.” She puts her face in her hands.
Standing here watching her sob breaks something in me. It isn’t h
er fault Miss Nessa carved up her brain like a steak. She’s been awful to me, but she’s like a kid. Like a toddler almost. I walk over and pat her back.
“When I was a little kid, I used to cry when my daddy went into town to get supplies. I thought the bad men would get him, and he’d never come back,” I say close to her ear so she can hear me over her sobs.
She doesn’t look up, but she does cries quieter.
“He’d drive away, and my mama would have to rock me until I stopped bawlin’. She’d sing this song she loved. It made me feel better.”
Betsy sniffs and wipes at her eyes.
I take a breath and sing. “Dry your eyes, take your song out. It’s a newborn afternoon.”
When my voice cuts out, she looks up at me with tears clinging to her eyelashes. “Your mama must’ve been special.”
That’s when I feel like crying. I tuck my head down and swipe at my eyes. “She was.”
Betsy pats my back. “Go get Clay. Bring him home.”
Grabbing my greasy baseball cap and a bottle of water, I take off, running up the desert street, calling Clay’s name.
***
The town is as empty as it was yesterday. I check all the buildings again, even poking my head into that creepy church and calling for Clay. But then my nerves get the best of me, and I dart out again.
That’s when I remember the windmill from the day before. In all that’s happened, I plum forgot.
I hike up the ridge and lie flat on my belly. In the morning sunshine, it’s easy to see the big windmill and its turning blades. From here, I can see the little town that circles it, too. Small, dark shapes are men doing chores, tending to their homes. I even see a small green patch and realize they’re using the water from their windmill to grow crops. It’s clever what they’ve done. We’ve been praying there was water in the cities. They, on the other hand, went to the water and started a little city.
Did Clay go down there? Clay’s always been wary of strangers and rightfully so. Strangers killed his little brother—the boy he thinks I am sometimes.