The Breeding Tree

by J. Andersen

  “Look, I know you probably don’t believe me. You probably think this is a trap.”

  Yep, pretty much.

  His back is to me now. He’s searching the brush surrounding the clearing looking for me. He knows I’m near. “To prove it to you, I’m going to tell you something about me. Something no one else in our society knows.”

  No one else in our society? What does that mean? I move the branches to the side a little so I can see his face more clearly as he circles around toward where I’m hiding.

  “I’m a Womber.”

  The words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut, and I let go of the thorn covered twigs I’d just peeled back. They smack my face as they fling back, scratching a deep gouge down my cheek. “Oww!” I gasp, raising my fingers to the wound. It’s sticky and hot, and as I pull my hand away, I see the blood on my fingertips.

  Micah whips his head around toward the sound. “Kate, is that you? Did you hear what I said? I’m a Womber, a Natural Born.”

  “I know what a Womber is,” I say, still hidden in the underbrush.

  He steps toward my voice. “Of course you do. Your great-grandmother—”

  “Don’t come any closer,” I say. “I still don’t trust you.”

  I’ve wrestled out of the brush, grab another large rock as my only protection, and am standing a few yards from Micah. He’s tattered and scratched, and the lump on his head from where I whacked him with that rock is swollen and dripping blood onto his shirt. This is not how I envisioned our time together. It was supposed to end differently, with me in his arms listening to his heartbeat.

  “But I just told you I’m a Natural Born.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. You also told me you were sent to capture me, so your word doesn’t really mean much right now. Besides, there are other Natural Borns.”

  “Think about it, Kate. The only other Natural Borns are your great-grandmother’s age, and soon they’ll all be gone. None like me. And none that have infiltrated the society in order to filter information to our underground network.” He lifts his hand to his head, which is still bleeding and pulls it away, examining the blood on his fingers, like this sort of thing happens every day. “I’m telling you secrets that could get me killed, Kate. You’ve got to believe me.”

  Okay, so what he says about the only Wombers being old is true, but that doesn’t mean he’s telling the truth. He could be making the whole thing up. This could still be a trap.

  He tries to explain further. “My superiors are constantly looking for ways to infiltrate The Institute. Sometimes that means replacing one of theirs with one of ours. You were chosen to be replaced. I was the one who was supposed to get you out of the way so the other could take your place.”

  “So, what? You take me hostage then kill me?”

  “No. No, we don’t do that. Killing would make us just as bad as The Institute.”

  “We? Who’s we?”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “So what was the plan then?”

  “Prison.”

  “Not sure rotting in a prison is any better than being dead.”

  Despite the tension, a tiny smile appears on his lips before disappearing into the pain radiating from his head. “I refused to do it, you know. Told them there had to be another way. No need to get rid of someone just to bring one of ours in. But you know as well as I that no one moves to Sector 4 without insane levels of security checks. My superiors insisted I go through with … things. We can’t always wait for the right opportunity. Sometimes we have to create it ourselves. Counting on the sympathizers isn’t enough anymore. I told them we had to find another way, but they didn’t respond. Didn’t get my message, so I had to go through with it. I thought I could bring you there and then convince them to let you go.”

  “What happened to, ‘you always have a choice no matter what other people do?’”

  His head drops, and he kicks at the ground. “I know. I’m sorry. I screwed up.”

  Screwed up doesn’t even begin to cover it.

  “Why me? Why do they want me? I’m just a student.”

  He tries to take another step closer, but my raised hand still clenching the rock stops him. “Because you’re on your way up. We’ve been watching you for a while. It won’t be long before you’re a Creation Specialist, and we wanted to get to you before it was too late. We need someone in the creation department. With your mother as a Criminal Interpreter, we couldn’t take our chances to convince you to become a sympathizer. There wasn’t any other way.”

  They’ve been watching me. Following me. It’s all falling into place now. Ugh, how stupid I’ve been.

  “So, what? You have a look-a-like of me somewhere or something?”

  “Something like that.”

  I don’t believe him. And I don’t understand all of this, but maybe there’s a chance he’s telling the truth. “Fine, if you’re really who you say you are, then you’re going to let me go without following me. I’m going to run out of here, and you are going to stay put.”

  He’s lost a lot of blood, and his shirt is soaked with crimson. He looks directly at me and says, “Fine, go. I won’t follow.” He wobbles toward a tree and puts his hand out to steady himself. “Go quickly.”

  He’s letting me go without a fight. I dash away, but after a few steps, the curiosity in me wins out, and I glance over my shoulder to see if he’s keeping his word.

  That’s when I see him collapse.

  TWENTY

  LOVE THINE ENEMIES

  A THOUGHT FLASHES THROUGH my mind. I could leave him here, and no one would know. But that nagging feeling that maybe he actually cared what happened to me won’t let me do it. “Micah! Micah.” I drop the rock and run to his side. When I reach him, his face is pale. He’s lost so much blood. It’s everywhere. On his shirt, matting his hair to his face, covering the ground. Head wounds bleed like hell. I wipe it away from his eyes and pull him into my lap. “Micah, can you hear me?”

  Ripping two scraps from my shirt, I fold one and press it to his wound. Taking the other, I wrap it around his head tightly and tie it over the bleeding gash.

  “I’m so sorry, Micah! Please don’t die.” His eyes flutter open, and he blinks.

  “Come on,” I say, pulling him into a half stance. “You have to walk. I can’t carry you by myself, and you need help.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but his feet move in an attempt to step. His arm around my neck, he leans over me and the blood from his wound drips onto my cheek.

  “We have to get you to a hospital,” I say.

  A moan escapes his lips, but I can’t understand what he says.

  “Pocket,” he croaks.

  “Pocket? You have something in your pocket?”

  He nods.

  I reach for his pants pocket, but the shift of my body causes him to tumble to the ground. I’m under him.

  “Micah. Are you okay?” I slither out from underneath his limp body and cradle his face in my hands. The blood has soaked through my makeshift bandage. His eyes flutter for a moment then close.

  “Micah! Micah, wake up! Please. I can’t leave you here.” I look around, hoping that by some small miracle, someone will be walking this way. But I know better. We came out here specifically because no one ever walks through this area. Now it’s all up to me.

  I scream at the top of my lungs. The tears flood my cheeks as I attempt to pull myself together. There are too many emotions to sort through, but I push them all down in an attempt to save Micah. I must have hit him harder than I thought to cause this amount of bleeding.

  Pocket. There’s something in his pocket. I pat his leg. Nothing. Must be in the other one. The one trapped under the weight of his body. I push on his shoulders with all my strength and roll him onto his back. Plunging my hand into his pocket, I pull out something square.

  It looks like a miniature s
peaker. I flip it over a few times and find a tiny button on one side. I push it, not knowing what will happen. Expecting an explosion of some sort, I cringe and toss it into the weeds, just in case.

  The tiny thing vibrates and speaks. “Code?” a woman’s voice asks.

  Not expecting the voice, I scream.

  “Code!” The woman’s voice is harsh and demanding this time.

  Rushing toward where I threw the device, I fumble through the brambles and weeds trying to find it, but it’s disappeared in the foliage.

  There’s a crackling before the woman says, “Micah? Speak the code, or I’ll detonate the memory chip in your brain.”

  Crap. That doesn’t sound good.

  Scrambling, I brush the leaves away, frantic that Micah could die any minute. I have to find the device.

  “Detonation activated in five, four, three …”

  My hand brushes something hard, and I clench my fingers around it and hold it to my lips.

  “Wait! Don’t! I don’t know who you are, but I’m with Micah Pennington. We’re in the woods outside of River Trail. He’s hurt. His head. There’s blood everywhere, and he’s passed out. Please, I can’t get him out of here by myself.”

  “Who are you?” the voice asks.

  “Kate. Katherine. Katherine Dennard.”

  “Stay with him. We’re sending someone to help.”

  Abductor or not, I can’t let him die out here. That’s my choice. I pull Micah’s head into my lap and wait.

  ***

  “You Kate?”

  “Oh!” I jump as two men approach from the side. I didn’t hear their footsteps. Silent. Stealth.

  “Yes. I’m Kate. Micah’s hurt.” I’m talking rapidly as the men lift Micah by his arms and legs.

  They look like government officials, dressed in the normal khaki pants and blue shirts common to workers of The Institute. But something’s off.

  “We can see that. How’d it happen?” the larger of the two asks. His eyes are light and his hair dark.

  I can’t tell them the truth. If they are government workers, both Micah and I will be in a heap of trouble. I suppose we already are for being out here alone, but how am I going to explain this one?

  With my free hand, I push the zip tie still dangling from my wrist up under my sleeve.

  “We were out here for research lab. He fell and hit his head on a rock,” I said, matter-of-factly. It was partially true. His head did connect with a rock. No need to mention I was the one who threw it at him.

  “We weren’t fast enough with the message.” The smaller man with light hair lets out a hearty laugh as they trudge along, balancing Micah’s limp body between them. Apparently, he doesn’t believe my explanation. I don’t see how this situation is even remotely funny.

  I trudge beside them across the forest floor until we reach a white truck parked off the trail. It has the forestry logo painted on the side, and there’s a fresh coat of paint covering the vehicle. It’s an older model. A cast off. If that’s the case, then who are these men, and where did they come from? Because this isn’t a truck driven by government officials.

  The men lift Micah’s body into the back. They both climb in the back, situating Micah’s now unconscious body so it won’t slide over the bed of the truck.

  “Where are you taking him?” I ask, almost afraid of what their answer might be.

  “Both of you. We’re taking both of you.”

  Here we go again. Didn’t I just escape one abductor? … Sort of.

  A burning sensation rises in the back of my throat.

  Not if I can help it.

  TWENTY ONE

  RIGHT AS RAIN

  “COME ON,” THE LARGER man says, offering me a hand.

  Let’s see. I can’t run because they’d surely catch me. And I can’t go with them because—well, because I don’t know what will happen, but what choice do I have?

  No time to sneak a spare rock into my pocket without him noticing, so I take his hand tentatively, and he yanks me up. His skin is warm and calloused. He seems calm, but I’m not taking any chances. I sit as far from the man as I can without looking suspicious, which in the back of a truck, isn’t far enough away.

  He pulls two blankets out of a toolbox and places one under Micah’s head and the other over his body. He adjusts the band on Micah’s wound, which is now seeping blood. Meanwhile, his partner takes to the driver’s seat and revs the engine, spitting a trail of rocks as we speed away through the trees.

  My body lurches forward as the truck takes off. Mr. Truck Bed Guy crouches next to Micah to make sure he is stabilized.

  “Rock, huh?” The man holds onto the edge of the cab and keeps another hand over Micah. Almost protective.

  His face is a mixture of concern and amusement, and I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me or not. It’s like he doesn’t believe my explanation. Not that he should. It is a total lie. But he doesn’t know that. And why would he be amused when his friend—if Micah really is his friend—is hurt and bleeding in the back of his truck bed?

  Does Micah even know this guy? Is he a Natural Born, too? Well, that is if what Micah told me is true, which I’m still not sure of. The mere thought of it blows my mind.

  No. No one would be able to hide here. Not in our society. It’s not possible. The Institute is too observant. Sure, there are a lot of kids who know a few hiding spots where they make out with their boyfriends or girlfriends, but that’s piddly next to actually conducting a life and job within the community with no one knowing. They wouldn’t get away with it. It’s one thing to sneak a few scones or talk to a perfectly lucid great grandmother, but quite another to infiltrate an entire community with innumerable spies who may or may not be trying to replace various community members. If The Institute found out—Yikes! Let’s just say I’d rather not be around if that’s the case.

  I brush the thought from my mind.

  “Yeah, he fell right onto it. Started bleeding all over. I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

  The man’s eyes crinkle into a tight smile, but he holds it from his lips. “I see.”

  The driver rounds a corner, and we lunge across the back of the truck. The man loses his grip, and Micah’s still-unconscious body slides toward the far side, bumping his already bruised face against the hub. I lose my balance and end up in a pile right next to him.

  Oh no. The bandage I wrapped around his head is soaked and sticky with blood and the skin around his eyes is a deep purple bruise.

  Don’t die. Please don’t die.

  “We’ve got to hurry; he’s bleeding a lot,” I manage to squeak through the tears I’m choking back.

  I can’t hide the horror on my face.

  “Don’t worry. He’s going to be just fine. Head wounds are always not as bad as they seem. Bleed like a bugger, though.” The man bends down and gazes into my eyes like a father reprimanding his little kid. “Those doctors will fix him up right as rain.”

  I cock one eyebrow and twist my head. Did I just hear him correctly? ‘Right as rain’? Only my gran uses those kinds of phrases. My gran and her friends.

  The Wombers.

  My eyes grow huge, and the shock I feel is sure to show. I search the man’s face.

  “You’re a—”

  “We’re here,” he interrupts, looking over his shoulder to the brick building behind him.

  In all the confusion, I didn’t notice we’d pulled out of the forest and neared the hospital of The Institute.

  He hops over the side of the truck bed, opens the tailgate, and offers me a hand. “Sorry we weren’t quicker.” The second my feet hit the ground, he merges into the crowd of medical professionals. In seconds, the sidewalk in the alcove is swarming with people in lab coats.

  The emergency bay.

  They yell out medical terms to the nurses and doctors who scurry to get Micah onto a gurney while I’m left standing in a daze. I scan the crowd, trying to find the man from the truck, but his face has melted i
nto the sea of faces. I have to find him so I can ask him about the piece of paper he left in my hand.

  I can’t look at it now—not with all these people around—so I tuck it into my pocket for now.

  In the distance, I see the older of the men from the forest pull a young doctor aside. He motions to me and whispers something I can’t hear. The doctor nods. Then he turns and heads toward me as the nurses work to strap Micah to the bed.

  I glance at his name tag. Dr. Drew Rosenberg.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  I try not to make eye contact. “He hit his head.”

  “I gathered that. How?” He’s curt, and the way his lips press together tells me he’s not believing a word I say.

  I’m in a daze, watching the chaos around me. Trying to keep my head together enough not to reveal anything I shouldn’t.

  “Miss?” His voice draws me back to reality. “How?” he repeats pointedly.

  I can’t tell him the truth. If I do, they’ll know something is wrong. I hold one elbow with my hand, feeling the zip tie still on my wrist under my shirt. “Um … rock,” I say. “We were doing research near the river. Wasn’t looking. Tripped over a tree root and landed head first on a boulder sticking out of the ground.” That sounds believable.

  “Must’ve fallen pretty hard to cause such a deep wound,” he replies.

  “Yeah.”

  “Miss—”

  I turn to him.

  He holds out his hand like he’s about to touch me, but I shrink into myself. His soft voice practically floats to my ears when he says, “I’m going to make sure Micah’s all right.” With that, he rushes toward Micah as they wheel him into the Emergency Center.

  I don’t know what to do. Stay? Go? I want to make sure Micah’s okay, that the doctors are doing everything they can to save him, but sticking around might beg more questions. Questions I’m unwilling to answer.

  In the distance are the two men who brought us here. They make eye contact with me before slamming the door to the truck and drive away, leaving me. Alone.