by Katie French
My eyes trace Clay’s body, begging him to wake up. “Clay’ll find us,” I say, my voice breaking. I won’t cry, though. I bite my cheek until I can taste blood. “He’ll kill you.”
Bennett looks down at me as if surprised I’m still here. “We’ll have our dough and be halfway to Jacksonville by the time those tranqs wear off. He can tackle the Riders if you’re really the treasure ya think ya are.”
“The Riders?”
Bennett nods. “Riders pay decent money for benders, but better for boys. That sweet-faced brother of your’n out to fetch us a nice price.”
I tuck my head into the dirty mattress as tears well up. I’ve heard of gangs like the Riders. They buy boys and use them for … disgusting things. I glance at Ethan’s fragile frame and then back up at Bennett, hoping to see a glimmer of human compassion behind his eyes. Bennett’s eyes are like dry pebbles. He won’t look at me.
“Why’re you doing this?” A sob wavers at the back of my throat.
“Money’s all. Gotta get out of this God-forsaken hole.” Bennett takes a dirty bandanna from his pocket and brings it over to my face. “Shut up, now.” He gags me and slips a burlap sack over my head.
I let the tears come. They soak into the rough burlap pressed against my cheeks. Bennett lifts me. I struggle, but his farmer’s hands are strong. He limps outside, his uneven gait rocking me back and forth. Then he tosses me onto a hard surface. I shift around until I get the feel of it with my arms and back. It’s the trunk of our Jeep. A few moments later, a body slides in next to mine. Ethan. I curl myself around him as Bennett closes us in and the engine flares to life. We bump down the road, toward unknown horrors and all I can do is close my eyes.
Shards of light press at my eyelids. I moan, blink and squint into the brightness. A shadow slides in and blocks out the sun. My eyes adjust and find Bennett’s hooked nose, sunken cheeks, and pocked skin. I search his face for compassion and find none.
During the night, the gag has worked its way out of my mouth. My tongue tastes like a sweaty sock, but I’m able to speak again. “If you let us go,” I croak, “I’ll give you all our supplies.”
Bennett shrugs. “Already got those.”
He grabs my lapels and hauls me to a sitting position. From the back of the Jeep, I can see we’re parked on the shoulder at the crossroads of two well-driven highways. There’s nothing in sight but hardpan, scrub brush and a few buttes off in the distance. A vulture circles around a blazing noon sun. I’ve been out for hours. We could be anywhere.
Bennett’s my only hope. I think of Ethan and a pathetic quality seeps into my voice. “You can’t do this. Do you know what they’ll do to us?”
Bennett doesn’t meet my gaze. He offers a plastic jug of muddy water.
I shake my head, thinking of the tranquilizers.
“It’s clean,” he says and he takes a swig. A large gulp spills out of the corners of his mouth and into his dirty hair. He flings the water off with a shake of his head. He offers the jug back to me.
It’s hardly clean, but must not be drugged. I’m so thirsty I can’t turn it down. Bennett pours the musty water in my mouth. It washes away some of the stickiness in my throat but leaves a foul aftertaste.
He starts to walk away.
“Bennett, let the boy go. Just him. He’s too young for this.”
Bennett glances at Ethan, still unconscious on the bed of the Jeep beside me. “He’s worth double what you are.” Then he walks around the Jeep and out of my view.
If only he knew what I was worth. Then it hits me.
“Bennett,” I shout as he’s walking away. I can’t think about what I’m about to do or I might not do it. “I’m a girl.”
The silence around the Jeep presses down on me until I can’t breathe. What have I done? It doesn’t matter. If it will save Ethan, nothing else matters.
He stops dead in his tracks. Then he swivels on his heel and marches back.
I’m trembling a little when he steps up and peers at my face. I bite my lip and let him look.
“Prove it,” he says slowly. The old man wanders up behind him, glaring at me with beady eyes. They both stare at me like I’m some sort of new, exotic monster.
“I’ll prove it. Just let him go,” I say, a lump forming in my throat.
Bennett reaches for me and I flinch. He runs a hand over my damp shirt. My stomach lurches at his touch. I want to bite the hand that runs over my chest. Instead, I close my eyes and wait for it to be over.
“Breasts,” he says as he fondles mine. I see his face turn up with sick glee.
He’s reaching in to pull off my shirt when his father elbows him and points to the horizon.
A dust cloud boils up over a dry hill. The Riders, whoever they are, will be here in minutes. And I’ve just told my captors my secret.
Bennett runs around to the front of the Jeep and pulls out his gun.
I struggle forward, the ropes on my wrists digging roughly into my skin. “Let the boy go! All you need is me. Let him go!”
Bennett never looks at me. His face is lit with joy like discovering a wad of silver buried in his backyard. I’ve made a mistake. He won’t free Ethan. He’ll make a fortune off both of us. And I’m running out of time. I scoot over to Ethan and nudge him with my foot. “Wake up! Ethan, get up!” He moans, but I can’t wake him.
I tug on the cord at my wrist. It’s tight, but if I have time to work on it, I could probably wiggle it loose. I pull until my skin’s raw, but I’m nowhere close to free.
Then a truck, welded together from pieces of others, chugs toward us. In its wake are two skinny tan horses, with a rider each. I count my adversaries—two in the cab, two on horseback. Four men. Even with free hands, my odds aren’t good against four armed men. I work on the twine at my wrists as the men jump out, slam doors, or sling their legs over their horses.
The Riders are the strangest group of men I’ve ever seen. They’re clad in animal-hide loincloths and shapeless moccasins. They have dark brown braids adorned with feathers or with bones coiling down their backs. Their arms, chests, and faces are streaked with stripes of ashy gray, brown and dried blood in alternating patterns. A phrase flashes through my head—war paint—though I’ve no idea where it came from. The two on horseback could be twins, though one’s taller than the other. One Rider, emerging from the truck, has a thin bone—a coyote rib perhaps—shoved through his nostrils. Another wears a necklace of white squares. The closer he strides, the surer I am they’re human teeth.
In contrast to their basic dress, they could be an armory ad. The squat leader with a small belly sagging over his loincloth has an antique shotgun slung over his bare back. The second man, with a network of slashing scars running the length of his chest, carries a bulky semi-automatic rifle in his bear-like hands. I haven’t seen one of those in a long time. The twins each hold wooden spears.
They’re men gone wild. One of the primitive cultures that slunk off into the desert and stayed there with their sick religions and rituals. Some believe in human sacrifice, but not before raping and torturing their victims as much as they like. My eyes trace over the fine points of their spears, the necklace of teeth that are too small to be adult. I pull furiously at my bonds until my skin shreds.
The Riders approach warily, sniffing the air, heads cocked, like a pack of animals ready to attack at any sudden movement. I half expect them to curl their lips up and growl. The leader lets his eyes slip over Ethan and I. Luckily my chest is still covered.
“I’ve got a girl,” Bennett says, nearly jumping up and down with glee.
Every eye turns to me. I try to shrink into my surroundings and focus on freeing my hands. My wrists are raw now, bleeding.
The leader sniffs toward me as if he could pick up my scent. He turns to Bennett, his voice rolling out slowly like he hasn’t used it in a while. “The Good Mother frowns on lies.” He glares at Bennett. His eyes trace over the delicate face of my baby brother. His lips curl up. “We’ll ta
ke the boy.” He waves his hand dismissively at me. “Bender, you keep. Bender’s pleas do not appease the Good Mother.”
What does he mean appease the Good Mother? Is that their god? The leader walks up to my brother and lifts up his sleeping head. “Yes,” he moans in pleasure, his brown body rocking against the Jeep. “This one’s cries will wake Good Mother to our troubles. She will bless us.”
His cries? This is not happening. I want that man’s soiled hands off my brother. I got to get my hands free. Got to.
“I ain’t kidding,” Bennett says, a frenzied look creeping up in his eyes. He points at me. “See for yourself.”
The leader draws back his hand from where it cupped Ethan’s face. He looks as if he’ll scold Bennett again, but he turns slowly. Three lines of ash mar each cheek, and a pink scar slashes through his upper lip, a sore festering in the corner of his mouth.
My heartbeat picks up at every step he takes. The others come now too, crowding behind their leader, leering with brown, cracked teeth, their painted faces. Behind me, the rope around my hands twangs loose a notch. It’ll be wide enough to pull free any minute. The leader’s rifle hangs loosely on his back like a child’s forgotten toy. If he’s got ammo in that gun, I might have a chance.
The leader leans in until I can smell the animal fat in his greasy, black braid. His calloused fingers reach for me and I cringe. He grips my chin and wrenches my head from side to side. If my mouth weren’t so dry, I’d spit on him. I grit my teeth and keep working on the twine.
“No benders,” he says to Bennett.
“She’s got breasts,” Bennett says.
The leader pokes at the sore on his mouth with his tongue as he looks me over again. He grabs my shirt and pulls me to him.
“A woman would make the Good Mother pleased,” he says, nodding. “Oh yes. Very pleased indeed.”
My heart is thrumming in my chest. I can smell excitement on him like a thick musk. He tugs up my shirt, revealing the dirty cotton binding on my breasts. His fingers trace my skin. His panting pulses against my neck. The sick longing on his face is unmistakable.
My right wrist slips out of the twine. I’m free! I wait as the leader leans toward me, his fingers reaching for the cotton binding on my chest. I force myself to look away from the Rider’s spit-flecked tongue that circles his dark red lips. The shotgun, I think. In a minute it’ll be mine.
He flicks out a small knife of whittled bone and slips it under the binding on my breasts. I feel the coolness of the blade against my stomach. I turn my eyes skyward and wait to be exposed. The bottom of the bandage frays against the blade. I close my eyes.
A gun blast crashes through the desert.
As if in slow motion, a bullet removes half of the leader’s head.
Chapter Eleven
Warm blood splatters my face. The leader’s hair blows up as part of his scalp curls over his forehead. Blood spurts like a fountain, drenching his hair, his neck, pattering on the Jeep. And the grayish clumps that can only be … I squeeze my eyes shut. The leader falls like a sack of cement, sending a cloud of dust up around his twitching body. I stare at the blood that pours into the dirt.
The place breaks into chaos.
The horses bolt into the distance, kicking up dust. Three Riders swivel and draw weapons. The semi-automatic rifle strung across Bear Paws’s shoulders gets tossed to the dirt as he lunges for his leader’s rifle. Just as I thought, no bullets. I might have a chance to grab a gun with everyone’s eyes on the horizon, but that would mean coming out of cover. I can’t do that until I know who’s shooting.
The landscape falls dead silent as we wait. From where I lie in the Jeep trunk, I can see boulders, shrubs, and buttes off in the distance. Who is shooting? We wait, barely breathing.
Someone begins shuffling quietly through the dirt. We turn to see Bennett and his father backing up. If they wanted to make a quiet break for it, they’re too late.
“The Good Mother will destroy those that harm her people,” Bear Paws says in a low rumbling voice. Bennett raises his hands and starts to explain while his pop pulls his rifle around. Bear Paws is faster on the draw. He aims his antique rifle.
A gun explodes. I throw myself to the Jeep floor. Bullets ping the side of the Jeep and rattle over us. I curl myself around Ethan until the firing stops. There’s a watery moan. Then silence.
I raise my head until I can see the bodies. Bennett and his father lie on the ground. The dust beneath them puddles with blood. Before I can process this, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. I swivel toward it and see our unknown shooter. Clay, his cowboy hat tucked so low that his face is all shadow, pads toward us. The silver revolvers in his hands glint in the sun. His face is a mask of deadly calm.
I’ve never been so happy to see him.
He steps into the clearing between the vehicles, completely uncovered. What is he doing? They’ll see him and he got nowhere to hide. The Riders are busy turning out Bennett’s pockets, but they’ll look up soon enough. Clay doesn’t wait for them to turn. He calls out.
“Heard you slimy bastards like making boys cry.” He thumbs down his safeties with a decisive click. “Let’s see how you like me.”
Three Riders snap around, raising their weapons, but their movements are slow like they were moving underwater. Clay fires so fast, his hands are a silver blur. The dual shots crack through the canyon like twin smacks of a bullwhip.
A bullet sinks into the taller twin’s neck with a thud. He lurches back, eyes wide. He gurgles, clutches his throat and falls to his knees. His clawing hands can’t stop the blood pouring through his fingers, splattering the side of our Jeep, coating his chest. He falls into the sand, in a red, muddy puddle.
So much blood. My breathing hitches and my hands tremble. But Clay’s here. For a moment, I think it’ll be all right. Then Bear Paws raises his rifle to his shoulder and fires at Clay.
Everything seems to happen at the same time. My hands fly up to my mouth to stifle the scream. The bullet zings toward Clay, who snaps toward the sound, his eyes narrow, and his revolvers gleaming. The sleeve of Clay’s shirt ripples as the bullet zips past, fraying the fabric. Clay dives toward an outcropping of rock and disappears behind it. Bear Paws drops behind our Jeep and issues a string of foreign curse words below me. One of the twins gurgles his dying breath. Then silence descends, heavy like a blanket.
The only sound is my hot breath in and out in quick succession. No one moves. One of the Riders, the smaller twin perhaps, whines below. I slip a quick peek over the side of the Jeep and peer down on my enemies. Bear Paws hunches against a tire, his rifle clutched to his chest. He blinks sweat out of his eyes. His tongue darts out and licks his lip in nervous pulses. The smaller twin sponges clots of blood off his dead brother’s neck with part of his loincloth. He begins praying in a language I can’t understand. No one pays me any mind.
Clay’s crouched behind the boulder, still and silent. Why doesn’t he shoot? Maybe he’s worried he’ll hit us. Or maybe he only had two bullets.
Bear Paws takes a deep breath, heaves up and aims, squinting with one eye over the stock. The gun cracks. Clay’s rock cover explodes, sending pebbles and dust in all directions. No response from Clay. Bear Paws drops back down and reloads.
Silence. A crow caws from the ridge. Why won’t Clay fire?
Someone’s shuffling around at the base of the Jeep. My eyes flick to the ground where the smaller twin crawls forward on his hands and knees. Something in his hands glints in the sun— truck keys. His eyes flick between Clay’s rock cover and the truck. He’s going to run. I’m elated, but then it dawns on me—he knows my secret. If he leaves now, he’ll just be back with more guns and ammo.
With one more glance to his dead brother, he scrambles up and sprints to the truck. He throws his arms over his head like that one gesture will keep him from being shot up. I can’t let him escape, but I can’t run into the open without catching a bullet in the back.
Bear Paws yel
ls at him. “Juto, you bastard! Get back here.” But Juto isn’t stopping. He’ll soon be kicking up dust as he peels away.
I can’t think. I just act. I hurtle over the Jeep tailgate and jump into the dust. Bear Paws sees me and levels his gun in my direction. I scramble, choking on the dust I kick up. Behind me, a gun fires. I wait for the bullet that will punch through my guts, but nothing. Patting my body for holes, I look back over my shoulder.
It wasn’t Bear Paws’s rifle that went off. He clutches his shoulder, his mouth dropped open in surprise as blood blossoms under his hand. Clay stands behind his rock, smoke curling from the barrel of his gun. There’s a devilish gleam in his eye.
Bear Paws shrieks and shakes a fist at Clay. “You will be punished! No one harms the Mother’s children!” He drops down behind the Jeep again.
Twenty yards away the truck starts up with a grumble. I got to go.
I run up to the rust-eaten truck with no back windshield and mismatched panels welded together in lopsided squares. Juto sits on the cracked leather driver’s seat, looking small and out of place in his blood-splattered loincloth and smeared body paint. He’s swearing at the gearshift he grinds into first. The truck sputters and jumps forward. He doesn’t see me.
You have no weapon and this man has at least thirty pounds on you! It’s too late for plans. I yank the door open and stare up into Juto’s very surprised face.
“Wha—”
I grab his arm and drag him out.
Without time to brace himself, Juto tumbles out of the cab. I slide over as he falls with an oomph into the dust. The truck lurches forward. I climb into the driver’s seat and slam the door. It’s warped and won’t close properly.
Hands claw at my door. “Let me in, you dirty bitch,” Juto says, pulling at me through the open window.
I fight off his fingers and reach for the button to roll the window up, but it’s long gone. Juto leans through the open window, his dirt-flecked upper lip curling in rage. His fingers dig into the collar of my shirt and drag me toward him. I claw his face, racking my nails through the paint on his cheek. Lines of blood bubble up where I’ve scratched him. He shrieks, high-pitched and feminine, and pulls away. The truck bounces forward on its own while I dig around the cab for a weapon.
