by Katie French
He nods, his hair far too long now, brushing the bridge of his nose. He tosses his head to move it out of his eyes. “All the other supplies are in the van.”
Ethan and I walk out to the church’s dusty front lawn. Rayburn loads the gasoline he purchased in the closest town over. He won’t stop belly-aching about the sores on his heels from the six-mile walk, but I think he’s pleased with himself. He should be. It’s no slouch bartering in town when you look like a pudgy seventeen-year-old with glasses and loafers.
I toss the heavy bag in the back of the van. Gentle footsteps tread up the gravel. I can tell it’s my mama without turning around. She walks up, folding a blanket in her arms. She wears a hospital gown, which she’s stitched to make it snug and a pair of scrub pants we found in the van. She looks solid, more like the mother I knew every day. I note the slight swell of her tummy as she pads toward me. We haven’t talked about what Dr. Vandewater said about the mutated fetus she’s carrying. That’ll wait until the time comes. For now, I try not to think how hard it’ll be for her to be pregnant on the run. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. She’s tough. And, so it turns out, am I.
I walk up the path and lean in for a hug. I’ve been doing this all too often. I wake each morning in a panic that she’s gone. Only when I roll over and see her sleeping on the floor beside me does my heart slow its patter.
“Are we ready, darlings?” she says, as I release her. Ethan comes over and slips his hands around her waist. She rests her hand on his shoulder.
“All set, except Clay.” My eyes trace back to the open door. It takes him longer to do most things now, though he doesn’t complain.
My mother pats my cheek. “Go get him, my love.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice.
I stride through the open archway and into the interior of the church. The wooden floors creak under my footsteps. My eyes trace past the little enclaves in the wall where decaying saints watch. I pass a giant wooden cross, tilted to one side. For a moment I wonder if these relics are why we’ve been so lucky, left alone here in the desert for so long. I touch the rough wooden cross. It’s about time we had some damn luck.
I stop at the entryway to the sanctuary and take a deep breath. Even though Clay and I have been boyfriend and girlfriend for the last three weeks, I still get butterflies every time I stand here.
I rap my knuckles twice on the ancient wood as I enter. I hear a shuffling in the shadows beyond but can’t see him until he steps into the streamers of light from the busted window. Dimples form in the corners of his cheeks as he smiles. “Come in, madam.” He gives a mock bow. “You’ll have to excuse the mess. It’s the maid’s day off.”
I stride down the aisle and into his arms. The stubble on his cheek rubs deliciously against mine as he nuzzles my neck.
I run a hand over his cheek. “No shave?”
He leans into my touch. “Can’t manage without slicing my own throat. Gonna need some help ’til I work out being a lefty.”
He holds up his bandaged hand to illustrate. It’s wrapped in gauze, but I know what’s underneath: a ragged bullet hole straight through his palm. He’s got all his fingers, but right now they’re useless. Rayburn says he might be able to get some function back, but it’ll be slow. The pain is nothing compared to the ache of knowing he’ll never draw from that hip again. He looks down at his hand, frowns and then uses it to pull me to him.
His breath is hot and sweet on my neck. “Do we got a sec for that sympathy lovin’ you promised me?” He runs his nose along my jaw. I shiver as fire surges through me.
Everyone else is outside. Being alone with him sends tingles to all the right parts of my body. His arms slide around my waist and pull me to his chest. The heat from his body burns against mine. I look up into this eyes, steel blue with flecks of gray. He runs his hand through my hair, traces the pads of his fingers down my neck, across my collarbone. I’m breathless. My head’s spinning.
“Everybody’s outside, right?” he asks, leaning in to kiss the hollow of my throat.
Blood is rushing to my head. “Mmm hmm.”
“Good,” he says, letting his lips trail up my neck to my chin. My heart’s thrumming like an electrical wire. His left hand grips the back of my head.
He pulls me closer. I smell the sweetness of his breath on my mouth. My heart pounds a crazy rhythm in my chest when our lips meet.
Kissing him is letting cool water slip over your body on a scorching day. Like the charge that crackles in the air after a lightning storm. Like the eating the last chocolate on earth, the sweetness melting on your tongue. I don’t have words for this feeling. I forget comparisons. I lean into his chest and wrap myself around him.
Outside the horn beeps. We pull apart, breathless. He kisses me on the forehead and then takes my hand. “Time to go.”
So much of me wants to stay here in this room with him and let the hours and days spin out around us. We’re heading back into dangerous country where every day something will threaten to pull us apart. I lace my fingers through his but don’t take a step forward. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to face what awaits.
He tugs on my arm. “You ready?” His understanding eyes seem to realize what he’s asking.
I shake my head.
He nods and pulls me to him. I rest my head on his chest. His voice is low and reassuring. “Riley, I’m going to protect you.”
“I know,” I whisper into the fabric of his shirt.
“We’ll be okay,” he says, pulling back so he can look into my eyes. “We will.”
“How can you be so sure?” I glance out his little window to the dusty landscape. It looks extra harsh and uninviting now.
He takes my hand and pulls forward. “Because,” he says smiling, “we’ll be together.”
A ghost of a smile touches my lips. I follow Clay out the door. I don’t know what troubles lay in wait like hungry animals, ready to claw us to pieces. I don’t know if we’ll be safe from the forces that will threaten us. But I know we’ll be together. I grip his hand tighter as we step into the sunshine. Right now, being together is enough.
Part Two
The Believers
Chapter 1
Five of us duck behind a boulder scorched by the day's heat as the approaching car's headlights pierce the night.
“Get down,” Clay whispers, drawing up his revolver. The steeliness of his voice sends gooseflesh galloping over my arms.
I curl up, my knees tucked into my chest, my back dug into the boulder's hard surface. Beside me, Ethan scrunches down until he's a little bit of a thing, a wiry jackrabbit of a kid with his bony arms around his knees. When I lay my hand on his shoulder, he’s trembling. Mama crouches on the other side of him, one hand wrapped around her pregnant belly, the other on Ethan’s arm. Even though we've cropped her hair short and she wears men’s clothing, it'll be easy to tell she's a woman. No man has a stomach that round unless he's got a belly full of tapeworm.
Rayburn, the Breeders' doctor who helped us escape, sits beside her, clutching one of Clay's revolvers to his chest. I roll my eyes. A gun in Rayburn’s fist is like a handsaw in the hands of a toddler: just as useless as it is dangerous. I heft the rifle. The warm stock fits snugly in my palm like it was made for me. I'm a decent shot, even in the dark, but I've got five shells left—maybe. Five precious shells. I try not to think about what will happen when the bullets are gone.
Clay shifts beside me, his thigh brushing against mine. I know this low crouch hurts his wounded leg. All night he's walked beside me without complaint, but he’s getting weaker. The speckle of sweat on his brow is unmistakable no matter how many times he wipes it away when he thinks I got my eyes on the horizon. He hasn't had time to heal, but how could he? We've been driving and starving for days. Then our truck ran out of gas yesterday. We knew it would happen. It didn't make it any less of a punch in the gut when it did.
The sound of a car motor reaches us, a wheezy, choking sound. Whatever appr
oaches is not some new, souped-up Breeders' vehicle, but that doesn't mean they’re friendly. Everyone on this road is our enemy the way I figure.
The chugging motor draws closer, the ground vibrating in anticipation. I press my back to the rock and look up at the sky, trying to slow the patter of my heart. I recognize a constellation amongst the splattered stars, but I can't remember the name. Cassiopeia? Andromeda? Six pinpricks of light in the shape of a W. My step-daddy, Arn, used to teach me stars’ names, pointing with his calloused fingers, drawing lines to connect them. Now Arn's a few months dead and my memories of him are fading. I look away and push the sadness down deep.
Then the car is upon us, headlights streaking everything into long, black shadows. We all crouch together and wait. Breathe. Pray. The car rumbles past, tires bumping down the pitted road. One red taillight glows as they continue along their way. I blow out a breath and wonder where they're headed. Hopefully to a town not far from here. We need food and a car if we're ever going to get back to Auntie.
A hand on my chest draws me out of my thoughts. Clay's tensed arm presses me back to the boulder. I open my mouth to protest, but then I hear it. The squeal of brakes. The slam of doors. They've stopped. They're getting out.
Mama's hand tightens around my arm. Rayburn looks at me through his greasy black curls, fear etched on every feature. He pushes up his glasses, the revolver wobbling in his hand. In the moonlight, I find Clay's face. Beneath his cowboy hat, his brow is folded, his lips a tight line. He's calculating. How many shots to take them out? What angle? I can see the discharge of his gun in my mind's eye. Hopefully it won't come to that. We can't waste bullets.
Footsteps head our direction, boots scraping the pavement, slow and steady. Two sets. Two men. Each step toward us makes my heart lurch. With my back to the boulder, I can't see them and it's making me crazy. There's only one reason they'd have stopped: they spotted us.
I shift and Clay's hand tightens. “Stay down,” he breathes in my ear. Then he stands.
What in God's name is he doing? I reach for him, my heart slamming in my chest. Is he trying to get himself killed?
“Ho there,” he shouts. He levels his revolver. “That's close enough.”
I rise up ever so slightly and peer over the boulder.
Two men stand in the middle of the busted two-lane highway. The first is tall and skinny with a wide-brimmed hat and a shaggy beard. His bug-eyes and long neck make him look like a lizard in a trench coat. I can't make out the rest of his features, but his clothes are worn and holey. Maybe he's a rancher or a lower-class road gang member. The man beside him is a little better dressed in patched jeans and a sleeveless leather jacket. His head is bare and the moon reflects off the bald surface. He's wearing cracked glasses that make him look owl-like.
“Whoa, friend,” owl man says, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. He's missing both pinkies. “That's quite a pistola you’ve got there. Give 'er a rest. We come in peace.”
Clay shakes his head, his aim never wavering. “Ain't nobody come in peace these days. Turn round and get back in yer dirt wagon.”
Lizard man chuckles behind his scraggly beard, his neck bobbing back and forth. He pushes back his hat and narrows his bug-eyes. “Well, now,” he drawls slowly, “that ain't too neighborly. We jist stepped out to take a piss. We ain't got guns.”
“You ain't got guns showing,” Clay says. “Doesn’t mean you ain't got guns. You can take a piss a couple miles down. Now get back in yer car or I'll stop asking nice.” He thumbs down the safety with a click that cuts through the desert.
The two men stand stock-still, hands at their sides. Lizard man tilts his head slightly, considering Clay. “Ain't nobody had bullets in these parts for months. What you so worried about us seeing behind that boulder?” He narrows his eyes and takes a step forward. “I know you ain't alone.” A smile curls on his mouth, slow and nasty.
Clay's jaw hardens. “I asked you nicely.” He takes a step forward, aiming. “This is how I ask now.”
The gun fires. The shot cracks through the night like a bomb. Mama gasps. The gunpowder spark lights up Clay's face: his eyes squinted, his jaw granite. Lizard man whirls sideways, left arm out like a sail. A spray of blood wets his partner's shirt. Lizard man staggers twice and falls to his knees, facing his friend. Bent over and clutching his wound, lizard man stares.
Then he starts howling.
“Clay,” I whisper. Will he shoot them both? We need every bullet in that gun. He says nothing, just keeps aiming.
Lizard man half-runs, half-staggers back to the car. Blood plops on the pavement with a heavy, wet sound. His partner pushes up his round, blood-splattered glasses, fear crinkling his face. “You didn't havta!” he shouts as he turns to run. “You didn't havta shoot 'im.”
Clay narrows his eyes, still aiming. “I don't havta shoot you either.”
Owl man lets out a little squeal as he runs back to the car jumps into the driver side. The car engine chugs to life and they peal out in a spray of gravel. When the taillight is a little red dot in the distance, Clay slumps down beside me.
I place my hand on his arm, smiling, but once I see his face my smile fades. Sweat sprinkles his forehead and rolls down his neck. His face is pale, yet his cheeks blaze red. The revolver clatters to the dust as his arm sags against the boulder. The calm gunslinger act has cost him.
Leaning over to him, I wipe the sweat off his brow with my sleeve. “Clay,” I whisper, “you did it. You scared 'em off.” I press my hand to his cheek tenderly. I hate seeing him like this.
His hand cups mine, his sky-blue eyes shining in the moonlight. There's no smile on his face. “This time.” Slowly, he reaches for his revolver and flicks out the chamber. Five bullets rest in their cylindrical beds. He frowns and snaps the barrel back with an awful click. Rayburn's revolver has six shells and I have five. I know what he's thinking. What happens when we run out of bullets? What happens to us?
My mama stands, drawing my eight-year-old brother, Ethan, up with her. Her cotton T-shirt flutters against the swell of her newly pregnant belly. “Can you walk?” she asks Clay softly. He nods, pushing up, hiding a wince of pain behind a small quirk of his mouth. As I help him stand and take a sip of water from our canteen, a chilly wind stirs. Clay's body shivers. Then he throws his arm around me and shuffles forward.
We walk on the shoulder of the road. North, toward home and whatever awaits.
Chapter 2
In the moonlight Rayburn and Clay crouch over two pieces of road map laid out on a boulder and squint at the jagged lines carving up the paper.
“Our approximate location puts us, uh, right about here.” Rayburn presses his index finger into a dimple on the map. Then he looks up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I think.”
“How d'you know that?” Clay's eyes narrow as he flicks a glance at Rayburn. “And how we know you on the straight and narrow now and not leadin' us right back in Breeders’ territory?” Clay's hand floats slowly toward the revolver at his hip.
Rayburn blanches, his pale face growing paler. “I, uh, I, uh…” His pimpled jowls jiggle as he watches Clay's hand near the pistol.
I step in. “He saved us, 'member? He saved you.” I put my hand on Rayburn's hunched shoulder and he flinches at my touch. “Ray stitched you up. If it weren't for him, you wouldn't be walking.”
Clay frowns. “I ain't walkin' so good.” The distrust seems to fade as he mulls over what I said. He leans over the map again. “Where you say we was?”
Rayburn, swallowing hard, peers over the moonlit highway. The blacktop carves through the desert like a hard black line, marred here and there by missing pavement or a burnt-out car husk. He points at the road, his chubby face scrunched up. “This road runs north and south.”
“I know that,” Clay says, jabbing a finger at the North Star.
Rayburn nods, blinking hard. “Yes, well, we're heading, uh, north and we've walked approximately ten miles, so that put
s us here.” He pokes a finger into the folds of the map and the paper crinkles softly.
Clay pushes back his Stetson and peers down, frowning.
I know a pissing contest when I see one, so I stand up and brush the dust off my knees. Clay looks up at me. “Where you off to?” His frown fades as he gazes at me and the corners of his mouth lift slightly.
“You two don't need me to fight about where we're headed. We all know we head north 'til we find a town. No map needed for that.” Both men frown at me. I sigh and gesture down the ridge. “I'll see about Mama and Ethan.”
Clay nods, his good hand sliding up to stroke my calf. One gentle caress and he's back to arguing with Rayburn about the map.
I think about where we've come from and where we're headed. With the Sheriff dead, there's no telling what happened to Auntie as his housekeeper. Clay's hell-bent on claiming his rightful place as leader of his pa's town, but all I want to do is get my family together under one roof. That and somehow keep Nessa Vandewater off our trail.
I walk down the little dirt incline to where Mama and Ethan sit side by side, their packs behind them to prop them up. Ethan's head rests on Mama's shoulder, her arm slung behind him. I sit across from them, draping my arms over my knees.
Mama smiles at me and runs a hand through her short dark hair. “Take a load off, honey lamb.” She pats her lap. “You wanna rest your head?”
“Nah, thanks.” I lift one of our plastic water jugs from where it rests against her pack. It feels dangerously light as it sloshes against my hand. I bite my lip and put it down. My throat is starting to feel like the desert floor, but I can hold out a little while longer.
When I set the jug down, I get a glimpse of Mama's bare feet peeking from under her pants. “Oh God, Mama!” I point at the open sores, red and weeping, where her shoes have rubbed the skin away. “Why didn't you say something?”
