The Breeders Series: The Complete Box Set

by Katie French

As the sun marks four o’clock, a dark brown slash appears on the horizon. The town’s outer wall blocks the road ahead. Arn’s told me the battered wooden barricade is heavily guarded. I’ll have to talk to a man and surrender my weapons before I can enter. If they’re feeling generous, they’ll give my gun back when I leave. If they’re having a bad day, well, I might not make it out alive.

  I pull up to the gate and squeeze the brake. The wall itself is enough to make me want to give up this whole plan. The thick wooden beams are topped with rusty nails, coils of razor-sharp barbed wire and broken glass that winks in the sunlight. The guard tower is a twenty-foot wooden enclosure with a platform at the top. As I kill the engine, a burly man leans out of the tower and aims an assault rifle at my head. I throw my hands up.

  “State your business!” he yells.

  My voice catches in my throat and nothing comes out but a muted squeak.

  The man shouts out again, his tone dangerous. “State your business or I’ll blow off that foot!”

  In the last second before I speak, I remember I’m supposed to be a man. My voice comes out choked and artificial. “I … I’m looking for someone.”

  The guard keeps the barrel aimed at my chest. Nervous sweat soaks my undershirt.

  “Who you looking for?” he growls.

  “My, uh, business associate,” I yell up in my fake male voice. “Arn Meemick. Left three days ago with most of our supplies. Never returned.”

  “You here to shoot him?”

  “No, sir. Just wonder what happened to my supplies.” I blink the sweat out of my eyes and try to keep my breathing level.

  The guard pulls his gun back and disappears below the tower wall. The gate creaks open.

  As I hop back on the quad, I fight the urge to turn and drive in the opposite direction. Arn, Arn. I drive through the two massive wooden doors, big and scary as the gates of hell.

  The guard blocks the road with his massive body. He’s six-foot-four and muscled in areas I didn’t even know possible, his arm awash in scrawling blue tattoos. Only someone brave or crazy would puncture their skin and risk infection for decoration. He’s wearing cowhide boots and vest tied together with bits of electrical cord, the frayed ends splayed out like whiskers. And on his face—a grimace so unwelcome he could stop a stampede. He waves me over to where a dozen other vehicles sit inside the wall. I park the quad in between a rusted motorcycle and a truck with no doors. As I step off, he comes up.

  The long barrel of his rifle is aimed at my chest when I turn. I throw my hands up. “I … I thought I was okay.”

  The guard spits a bit of wood he was gnawing at my feet. “Spread ’em.”

  This is it. He’ll feel my breasts and it’ll be all over. I could run or reach for the rifle strapped to my back, but he’s already got the drop on me. I hold my arms up and try to quell their trembling. Stupid. I was so stupid.

  He stands so close I feel puffs of his labored breathing hot in my ear. He smells of tobacco smoke and old leather as he invades my space. His big hands paw at my thighs. I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my lip. What will he do once he knows?

  I keep waiting for him run his paws over my chest, but his hands slip off before progressing upward. I open my eyes.

  He isn’t looking at me. His eyes are fixed on the porch of the old Victorian house on the corner. Or rather, the fifty-something woman with shaggy gray-brown hair wearing a skimpy, black negligee. In her lacy underwear, she’s nearly naked. White flesh spills out above the push-up bra, the tattered thigh-high stockings. Her lips are splashed red and dark bruises circle her flat, dead eyes. We watch as she begins a jerky dance. I turn away as she thrusts her hips back and forth, showing off the goods.

  She’s a sex slave. That house with the barred windows up top must be the brothel. When the Breeders have used up the women—the ones who survive—they ship them to their enforcers. Men like the Sheriff use them as sex slaves and pocket the money. A horrible life. Mine if I mess up here.

  “Surrender your weapons,” the guard murmurs. He holds out his hand, but his eyes stay on the woman. He licks his lips and I want to sock him, but at least he’s not paying me any mind. I drop my rifle in his outstretched hand. He takes my gun, carries it back to the tower and comes out with a crinkled piece of paper. He pushes it into my palm.

  “Lose your slip, lose your gun.”

  I tuck the paper, smudged with dirty fingerprints, in my pocket. “Thanks,” I mutter reflexively, yet it’s my own female voice. I freeze and shoot my eyes up to his face.

  He’s already walking back to his guard stand, one hand scratching his butt through his jeans. His eyes lock on the woman who’s doing a strange jig. Her fearful eyes remind me of a jackrabbit caught in a snare.

  I shake my head and focus on the plan. I remove my goggles and helmet in exchange for one of Arn’s fraying straw Stetsons. I pull the brown bandanna to my chin. Peering at my reflection in a couple of truck doors, I figure I look as good as can be expected. Yet, when I step away from my quad, I feel buck naked.

  I scan the parked cars for Arn’s Jeep. The busted wrecks people call vehicles always amaze me. Most trucks or SUVs got no windows. Some got no doors. I spot a pick-up truck with the bed sheared off behind the back tires. I’m looking in wonder at a burnt-out car frame with new tires—when I see it. There, a few rows over, sits our Jeep. I almost clap at the sight of it. I run over and peer in. No blood splashes the torn and dusty upholstery. No signs of a struggle. No signs of Arn, either, but if the Jeep’s here, Arn’s here. For the first time since Arn’s disappeared, I feel a little lighter.

  The gate creaks closed behind me, slamming together with a decisive thud. I’m locked in. The fear falls back on me like a wet blanket. I’ve made it into town. That completes the only plan I had. As I swivel to take in the town, my stomach knots. Men. Everywhere I look are men—men on dusty sidewalks on either side of the main street, men going in and out of stores, men carrying brown packages or greasy car parts. Men linger outside the brothel to ogle the dancing woman. Every single one will attack if they know my secret. I’m a mouse in a basket of snakes. I shouldn’t have come.

  A gunshot cracks down Main Street. I throw my hands over my ears. But when I look, everyone is going about their business. I stand up, straighten my coat and pray my beating heart doesn’t show through my jacket.

  When I was little and the coyotes used to prowl around our shack, my mama used to whisper a saying in my ear. It comes back to me now. “Fear makes the coyote bigger than he is.” Right now the coyote’s pretty damn big, but I gotta do what I gotta do. I stick my chest out and strut like a man down the street.

  A sassy piano tune starts up in the brothel. The off-key notes form into a song my mama used to hum under her breath at dishes or while mending. Behind the dancing prostitute on the porch, someone sings along real mournful and slow. Are you lonesome tonight? Do you miss me tonight? Are you sorry we drifted apart?

  Arn loved that song. I bite down the jolt of raw pain, straighten my jacket.

  When I pass the brothel’s open door, I spy a half-dozen men lounging around the parlor in beat up recliners, sipping house gin. Three sad-eyed women in undergarments carry drinks on trays. One is missing an arm past the elbow. The other has a red, puckered scar that travels from her eyebrow to the corner of her down-turned mouth. In the corner, a woman about sixty straddles a man’s lap. Her breasts are bare, white, puckered and resting on her narrow stomach. Her sad, tired eyes meet mine as the man cups them in his calloused hands. I tuck my chin into my bandana. As I walk away, I send messages to her in my head. I’m sorry about your life. Sorry, so sorry.

  My head down, I bump into a skinny man in a moth-eaten shirt. His gray hair straggles down his face in greasy strands. I smell the homemade liqueur on his breath. “Watch your strut, pard, or I’ll cut ya a new grin.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble. I race away before he can respond.

  The town must’ve been a bustling main street before the wor
ld fell apart. I try to imagine it in its heyday, back when the cobblestone sidewalks lined the street like even teeth. The electrical cords overhead, long and black as snakes, used to pump light to the leaning streetlamps. The benches, now rusted iron frames, used to hold people eating flavored ice, laughing. The glass-front windows held shiny goods fresh off the factory line. I picture a red bicycle and a ruffled pink dress. Must’ve been real nice.

  When I open my eyes I see it how it is now: everything is broken, bent, brown. Half the storefronts are just crumbled piles of bricks. The other half still stand, but have boarded-up windows, graffiti splashed on the walls. One little shop’s got a coat of dried blood splattered on the wall. Nothing new, shiny or nice to see here. I tuck my eyes and head forward.

  I stumble up to the next building—a general store judging by the hand-painted sign reading Stor in sloppy red letters. The steps lie in a crumbled mess of broken concrete, so a plank serves as the ramp up to the hole in the brick they’re using as a door. The clerk behind the counter looks up as I enter. He’s narrow and wiry in his stained apron and cotton shirt. I cringe as he scans me. I find the first aisle and pretend to be fascinated by a dented metal teapot.

  When I’m safely hidden behind the shelves, I scan the store. Four-foot high metal shelves runs in three rows. They’re covered in a vast array of goods. Piles of scrawny carrots, potatoes, and a single orange sit on a produce table. The factory-made goods are pricey and the clerks always keep them close by. The one or two factories that still operate are attacked with such frequency that nothing really gets made. Those dented cans and rectangular boxes with pictures of happy children were likely stolen from abandoned grocery stores. I stare at the smiling children on the boxes and my stomach grumbles. I wonder what those cheesy noodles would taste like.

  I walk down an aisle of used household goods: cracked porcelain plates, tattered bed sheets, a stereo with a tin foil antenna. An elderly man with skin like leather lifts a pair of patched overalls to his skeleton frame. A man with a cowboy hat pulled low peruses the loose hardware aisle, sifting through bins of assorted nuts and bolts. No Arn.

  I suck in a hot breath and approach the counter. The clerk’s glasses, taped together at the center, slump down his nose. He pushes them up with a dirty finger and looks up from his ledger.

  “Can I help you?” His eyes show no desire to help me.

  I pull up my male voice. “I’m looking for a man. Name’s Arn Meemick. He’s five-ten, 140 pounds. Brown hair and brown eyes—”

  He cuts me off with a wave of his palm. “Listen, son, every dirt farmer, and cattle rancher from here to Tahoe fit that look-a-like. You here to buy somethin’?”

  I knit my brows. “I’m sure you’d know him if I just describe ’im better. He was wearing jeans, a wide-brimmed hat—”

  He slams both palms on plank counter. “This ain’t the lost’n found. If you ain’t gonna buy something, git.” He thumbs toward the open doorway and goes back to digging his nubby pencil into his ledger.

  I stand, my mouth open. I’ve heard the Sheriff and his boys were rough and ruthless, but it’d never crossed my mind that common folk would be this heartless. When I tromp out, I pause once more at the door to shoot him a dirty look.

  The man from the nuts-and-bolts aisle has his eyes on me. He looks away, but his eyes leave a burn on my skin. I tuck my head down and hurry out of the store. I gotta get Arn and get out fast.

  I pass the doctor’s where a man painted with blood writhes on an exam table. Two others sit in various states of messy disorder. No Arn. It’s the same story in the armory, the livery stable, and the inn. When I come to the end of the shops and the beginning of the houses, my heart sinks. I can’t go knocking on doors.

  A lump wells up in my throat. I can’t leave without Arn and even if I could, I’m out of gas. I’d cry if I didn’t think it’d get me killed. I rub my hand over my sweaty forehead and sniff back the tears. This was a stupid idea in the first place.

  I look up at the one final building I haven’t checked. It’s the last place I want to look, but I take a deep breath and peer in. The building’s a cement square with three barred cells lining the inside. The first cell’s empty, but the second is occupied. A man leans lifelessly against the bars. Egg-sized welts decorate his face. His left eye is a swollen purple-blue lump. A dark trickle of blood meanders down his chin.

  Even with his mangled appearance, I recognize him—Arn.

  Chapter Four

  I run up the steps and barrel through the jail door. I tear past the guard, who’s sitting at a desk with his boots up. I skid to a halt at Arn’s cell, drop to my knees and wrap my hands around the bars.

  “Arn!” I yell. “Arn, wake up!”

  Boots step up behind me. A giant hand yanks me backward. I fly through the air, my arms wheeling. I hit the concrete hard. My head bangs on the far wall and pinpricks of light burst before my eyes. As I’m shaking my head, trying to clear my vision, a shadow looms. The sound of a shotgun being cocked echoes around the room.

  I throw my hands over my face. The world’s fuzzy and far away, and when I look, the guard aims both barrels at my chest.

  A voice from the other side of the room. “Don’ shoot.”

  It takes me a moment to place the weak, garbled voice. Arn’s struggling to sit up. He’s alive. Thank god.

  The guard doesn’t lower his shotgun, but his finger inches off the trigger. With it still trained on me, he looks over his shoulder to where Arn pulls himself up the metal bars. The more I can see of him, the worse he looks.

  “None o’ your business, old man,” the guard says to my stepfather. He turns back to me and nudges my leg with his steel-toed boot. “What the hell ya think you doin’ barging in here? Want me to blow yer everlovin’ head off?”

  I raise my palms up in a show of surrender. “Sorry.” I point to Arn. “I … I’m here for him,”

  The guard relaxes his grip on the gun. “Ya got bail, pal?”

  I inch up on my elbows so my head’s upright. The goose egg where my head hit the concrete throbs. “What’s the charge?”

  The guard lets the gun barrel tilt to the floor and wipes a hand over the sweat dotting his bald head. “Owes for the goods he stole.”

  I glance at my stepfather, who’s upright but leaning against the wall for support. His left hand clutches his abdomen. There’s more wrong with him than a busted face.

  “Dat’s a lie,” Arn mumbles as if his mouth’s stuffed with rocks. He spits dark brown flecks of dried blood on the cell floor.

  The big guard, who reminds me of the bald guy from the cleaning bottles I saw in the general store, shrugs. “Don’t matter. Sheriff already done sentenced ya. Ya stay ’til ya pay as the Sheriff say.” He guffaws loudly at his rhyme, his big lips crinkling up into a grin. He looks at me, hoping I’m in on his joke. I’m not. The smile fades from his mouth, but he’s decided I’m not a threat, either. He lumbers to the desk near the door and plops down in the metal folding chair. He lays the shotgun across the desktop and wipes more sweat from his brow. “So, you got bail?”

  I ease up slow so not to disturb my pounding head. I give Arn a questioning look.

  “Git outta here.” Arn coughs and spits again. This time the floor is stained bright red.

  There’s no point in starting to obey Arn now. I pull myself up, walk over to the guard’s desk and dig out my gun slip. My fingers tremor as I lay the paper on his desk. “I got a gun to trade.”

  The guard shakes his head and beads of sweat fling off the bald surface. “Can’t make the deal, Neil,” a goofy smile touches his lips, “but I can tell ya that ain’t gonna be enough.”

  I put my hands on the chipped wood. “What about a four-wheeler in great condition?”

  The guard shrugs. “Maybe. You gonna have to wait at this rate ’cause he’s late.” He grins sloppily now, despite himself.

  “Huh?” I ask.

  The smile slips and he waves a dismissive hand at me. “Nev
er min’. Sit there ’til Warden comes.”

  “Warden?”

  “He’ll tell you yeah or nay on that quad. Should be back in tick.”

  I sit on one of the dented folding chairs that are strewn haphazardly next to the cells. Arn and I don’t speak, but he keeps nodding toward the door. I shake my head. He sighs and slides down to the floor, wincing and running a hand over his ribs.

  Seeing him like this kills me. Who hurt him? The only one around is the guard, though he doesn’t seem like the face-busting type. He’s too busy picking his nose and eating it.

  After about a half an hour, the guard stands up. He leans to one side, farts and then paws it away. He grabs a big key ring, the rifle and a tattered book with the picture of naked women inside the faded glossy pages. He points his finger at me as he heads toward the door.

  “Going ’round back to drop a load. Don’t try anything stupid or I’ll shoot ya.”

  As soon as he’s gone, I crouch down and grip the rusted rebar fixed unevenly in the concrete.

  “God, Arn. What happened to you? You alright?”

  Arn nods, though I see a wince of pain tighten his mouth before he covers it up. “Got some cuts and bruises. Couple busted ribs maybe.” He sounds like he’s got a mouth full of marbles. “Ri, you need to go. Don’t mess with the Warden.”

  “No way I’m leaving. How’d this happen?”

  Arn scrunches up the wall a little and winces again. “Made a fair trade. Got food, gas, odds, and ends.” He shifts and grimaces. “Turns out the shopkeeper and the Sheriff been running a scam. Shopkeeper takes your trade and then cries wolf. Sheriff’s thugs lock you up. They split the spoils. Least that’s what I reckon.”

  My knuckles go white around the bumpy bars. The injustice of this place and everyone in it makes my head swim.

  “Don’t worry. I’m gonna get you home. Mama will take care of you.”

  Sadness fills the eye not swollen shut. “Don’t let ’em hear you talk that way.”

  I lay my forehead against the bars, the coolness soothing to my feverish skin. A slick unease is settling over me, sending shivers up my spine. This is why my parents never let me come into town. It’s more horrible than I could’ve imagined. I open my mouth to apologize when a lean shadow darkens the doorway.