by Katie French
She shrugs, looking down at her destroyed feet. The skin on one heel looks like raw meat. She touches it gently with a finger. “Nothing to be done. Rayburn has some cream he said he'd give me when he gets done frettin' over that map.” The burned half of her face lifts slightly, the rutted skin rippling like a wrinkled bed shirt.
“We coulda stopped,” I say, digging in Rayburn's pack. I find the tin of cream, lift her right foot into my lap, and start applying. “I forget that you ain't been walking much.”
She nods, but says nothing. Her right hand strays to the Breeder's ankh, the cross with the oval head branded on the inside of her wrist. Her thumb rubs the raised flesh and her face darkens.
Images flash through my mind before I can stop them: a hospital bed with wrist restraints, a red-haired guard sliding his fingers up my leg, Betsy's ringlet curls bouncing from side to side as she fixes me with her sad, puppy-dog look. Betsy. Picturing her face is another punch in the stomach. Did the Breeders kill her? Did they put her under and take her to the plan B room because she helped me? I shiver.
“Cold?” Mama asks, studying my face. She purses her chapped lips.
“Yeah.” I shift my eyes to the moon and try, try, try not to think about the Breeders.
I finish her right foot and reach for her left. Ethan stirs and blinks at me through his dark bangs. “I'm hungry, Riley. What we got to eat?”
I hate this question. Not much always seems to be the answer. I shrug and try to think of something light to say. “Rayburn baked a sugar rum cake, but he's letting it cool on the window sill.” I lift my eyes to my little brother. “I think Clay's got some ice cream under his Stetson, too.”
“Shut up,” Ethan says tiredly. Then his mouth quirks. “I got some chocolate in my pocket. Wanna see?”
I lean forward and muss his hair. “Don't even joke about chocolate less you really got some. I might get so crazy I eat you up instead.” I lean forward, grabbing for him, my teeth gnashing wildly.
He pulls back, squealing. The broad smile on his face warms my heart.
I go back to doctoring Mama's feet. The joking helps lighten the mood, but doesn't fix how skinny Ethan is. The shirt Clay found him hangs so loose it's like a skeleton’s wearing it. I dig a hunk of jerky out of the pack and toss it to him. He snatches the meat, frowns, and then sets to gnawing.
Rayburn and Clay shuffle over the ridge. Rayburn points at one half of the map and holds it out to Clay. Clay pushes it away, his face stern. When he turns to say something to Rayburn, he tumbles down in the dust, his legs folding under him, his bandaged hand out to brace himself. When he hits the ground, he cries out in pain.
“Clay!” I jump up and run to him. His jeans are covered with dust and there's a red spot blooming through the fabric on his thigh where I know his bullet wound to be. “You're bleeding.”
He pushes my hand away. “I'm fine.” Sweat glistens on his forehead and his face is white.
“Rayburn!” I say, feeling a nervous flutter in my chest. I point at Clay's leg. “He's bleeding.”
Rayburn kneels down. “We, uh, we need to get your pants off.”
Clay smirks. “Rayburn, you know you ain't my type.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Leave me alone.” He turns his gaze away, the pain tightening his features.
I shake my head, touching his leg delicately. Blood seeps through his pants. “Come on,” I say, holding out my hand. “We gotta get your pants off. He's a doctor.”
Clay frowns at my hand, but finally takes it. Throwing his arm over my shoulder, we limp to a clump of cacti, Rayburn following behind. Clay gives me a pained look and drops his jeans. Heat flares into my cheeks as my eyes stray past his blue boxer shorts. Then I see his leg and all heat drains out of me. The bullet wound Rayburn so carefully stitched back in the church has busted open.
Rayburn shuffles over and squints at the wound. “It isn't, uh, isn't healing.” He looks up at me and then at Clay. “It'll get infected if it doesn't close up.”
Infection out here means death. I grip Rayburn's arm hard. “What do we do?”
Rayburn runs a hand through his black curls. “I could suture it, but it'll only open up again. If he stayed off his leg for a week or so—”
“Not a chance on yer life,” Clay says, palming sweat off his forehead.
Rayburn sighs. “Then,” he blows out a breath, “the only chance is to cauterize.”
I snap my head to Rayburn in horror. “You mean burn his leg?”
Rayburn nods gravely. “I don't like it any more than you do.” He begins twisting his hands together nervously.
“I'm fine,” Clay says, reaching down to draw up his pants. I put a hand on his chest and feel the sweat seeping through his cotton shirt.
I stare into his beautiful face, flushed with strain. “I can't let you die.”
His good hand reaches up to stroke my cheek. The softness of his gaze turns my world upside down. “Please,” I whisper.
He gives me a quick nod. Then he looks at Rayburn. “We got any whiskey?”
Rayburn shakes his head.
“God damn.” He unbuckles his pants. “Then let's get this over with.”
We build a fire behind a butte, hoping that it hides our light from the road. I tend the fire, flicking glances at Clay from time to time. He sits beside the flames, his leg out, his eyes distant. He knows as well as I do that this is going to be awful; he's got his cold-as-steel gunslinger expression set hard on his face. How can he be made of stone when right now my limbs are brittle as tumbleweeds?
Mama and Ethan wait for us over the ridge. They don't need to see this. I wish I didn't, but I know I'm not leaving.
When the fire's hot, Rayburn and I stand nervously to the side, staring at Clay's wound.
“What do we use?” I whisper, worrying my hands.
Rayburn holds up the revolver and shrugs. In the firelight, his expression has never looked so uncertain. He leans into me. “This might not work, OK? Burning the surrounding tissues could r-r-result in a bigger wound and cell death…” He sniffs and thumbs back his glasses.
In this light, Rayburn looks fourteen, not the twenty-two I know him to be. I place my hand on his slumped shoulder. “You told me this is the only way. Is it?”
Rayburn looks up at me, the firelight dancing on his dirty glasses. He nods.
“Then we do this. We do it quick and we do it right.” I squeeze his arm. “We do it for Clay.”
He licks sweat off his upper lip, turns, and strides to the fire. Then he leans down and begins heating up the barrel of the gun.
Clay looks over at me as I sit down. “I'll need somethin’ to bite down on.” His voice is so even it sounds like we're talking about the weather.
I nod and pull out the belt Rayburn gave me. Slowly, I hand the folded leather to Clay. “You sure?” I ask, grabbing his hand. “You sure you can do this?”
He nods, his blue eyes flashing in the firelight. “No other choice, right?”
I shake my head. “Guess not.”
“Then let's get it over with.” He flexes the belt in his hands. “You hold my arms? I don't wanna accidentally clock Rayburn while he burns me.” A smirk lights his face. “Or maybe I do.”
“You can't clock Rayburn.” I try a smile, but it feels false. Rayburn crouches by the fire and grips the revolver handle wrapped in a huge wad of cloth. The barrel glows a menacing red. He stands up and walks over, eying the barrel like it’s a snake ready to spring.
Clay swallows hard and looks up at me. “You got me?” he says, a small tremor sneaking into his voice. His eyes are suddenly wet. Afraid.
“I got you,” I say, taking his hand. Holding it like it's my only lifeline to him.
He pulls me in, his lips pressing into mine. The kiss burns through me like a fever, heating my insides. His lips yield softly and I taste his fear, but also his resolve. If this is what he has to do, he'll do it. Like he's always done.
We pull apart. I caress his cheek once. Rayburn kn
eels down and Clay shoves the belt between his teeth and bites down, then gives a quick nod.
I hear the sizzle of skin before the smell of burnt flesh hits my nose. I squeeze Clay's hands. His eyes lock into mine and we're together in this awful moment.
Then he starts to scream.
Chapter 3
When Clay can walk again, we continue up the busted highway. Each mile feels like a hundred. Mama limps so bad I wince every time I glance at her. Clay's no better. His leg, though no longer bleeding, is swollen and blistered beneath his pants. He needs rest or he'll drop dead.
Toward dawn, as the light is graying, we find a dusty shell of metal that used to be a roadside restaurant. Beside it sits a little four-pump gas station and service shop. The diner's broken sign reads “Restaur” in big block letters that look like they lit up at one time. The rest of the word lies in broken chunks out front. As we shuffle up, Clay draws his gun. No telling who might be holed up inside. We slink cautiously to the front and peer in. All of the windows have long since blown out, but the metal roof is mostly intact. Tables—their Formica tops wrinkling and peeling back like apple skins—are strewn in the corners. Sand has blown in and completely covered one side and most of the floor. A rusty metal stool glints in the gray light filtering through the holey roof.
“Stay here,” Clay whispers. He limps up the broken concrete steps and slips inside.
I wait with the rifle pressed to my breastbone, my heart pounding against it. The first rays of sun are turning the east pink. With the Breeders looking for us and the heat index into the hundreds, we can't travel during the day. If we don't get off the road, we're toast. This had better be the place.
“All clear,” Clay says from the doorway. He takes off his hat and wipes his brow. “I'm gonna check the service station just to be sure. You all go ahead and get comfy.” He nods toward the diner and then limps off.
I blow out a breath. “All right, folks. Looks like we're bedding down here for the day.” I shoulder my rifle and wink at Ethan. “Let's hope we find some grub.”
A search of the larder reveals nothing but a dried lizard carcass so long dead it's just a wrinkled husk, three empty cans, and some rotten shelving. The same story for the nearby gas station. Just drained gas cans, rusty tools, and heaps of trash.
So we sleep on empty bellies, folding our bodies under the broken tabletops with mounds of sand for our pillows. I look up at the underside of the table at a wad of gum hardened to a black nub. What did the people who stopped here long ago eat? Pies? Bacon? Across the room a washed-out sign pictures a frothy mug with the letters A&W on the front. I sound out the words Root Beer Floats $3.99. I'd give my right arm for a foamy mound of cream right now.
Clay limps in the door and slides in beside me. I lean over, prop my head up on my hand, and stare into his face.
“All clear?”
He nods, taking off his hat and tossing it aside. His brown hair is messed into adorable wet curls that lap at his forehead. He rubs his good hand over the scruff on his chin.
“Nothin' out there but dust and car husks.” He sighs and sets his revolver down.
“Think we can repair any of 'em enough to get 'em running?” I ask, stifling a yawn.
He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “Nah. They're all busted to hell. No wheels. No interior. Somebody picked 'em over a long time ago.” He rolls over to face me. Suddenly I'm aware of how close our bodies are, of how his blue eyes scan my face hungrily.
“I could take first watch, but it'd be nice if I had some help stayin' awake.” He reaches out, fingertips grazing my cheek, my bottom lip, before he runs a finger down into the hollow at the base of my neck. I shiver. “I can think of a few things that'll keep me from driftin' off.” He slides his fingers down my neck and then slowly undoes the top button on my shirt.
“Clay,” I say, nervously. He smiles and presses his lips to my jaw line. Heat rushes through me.
I should tell him to stop. Mama and Ethan snore lightly from the shadows a few feet away and who knows where Rayburn is. And, frankly, I'm nervous. I've only kissed two men in my life: Hatch, who forced me, and Clay. I have no idea what I'm doing. What if I'm bad at this? What if we go too far? But instead of stopping, my hand presses to his chest. The steady beat of his heart accelerates. It pounds for me. I lean in and run my nose along his jaw line.
His good hand reaches around my back and draws my body to his. The other hand, the puffy bandaged thing I feel at my back, is more tentative. What if I hurt him? His cauterized leg is still red and angry, but maybe this will help distract him. The trickle of dawn light from the holey roof lights up small parts of him as he moves closer. This is Clay. Clay who saved me. Clay who nearly died for me. Clay who I love. He scoots over a few more inches until his chest touches mine. My body begins a rhythmic hum. My breath quickens and my scalp tingles. His scent is warm earth and male musk, and it makes me want him even more. His breathing pulses against my face and an aching in my gut moves lower.
His head shifts down and a brush of stubble grazes my cheek. Then his mouth finds mine.
He kisses me urgently, kisses me until I can't help but draw up to him. I arch my back and press myself against him, fit myself into his body. I slide my hands over his back, the muscles flexing. His good hand cups my neck, my back, slips around and rests on my thigh. I stifle a low moan in the back of my throat. I’ve never known wanting like this.
He shifts me toward him, the sand making a shushing sound as if it too knows our need to be silent. He tugs up my shirt, the pads of his fingers circling my waist, inching higher. The skin there flares with sensation. My body molds into his as if it has a will of its own, but somewhere, as if at the bottom of a well, my brain is blinking warning, warning. But, my body wants him. Wants him. I lean in until there's no space between us, just his body touching my body. He's panting now, groping for me. His mouth finds my neck, kisses the hollow of my throat.
Stop! my brain says. You're under a table in the dirt and your mama and brother are a few feet away.
But they're asleep, my body argues. Clay's hand brushes my bare rib cage and my body ignites. Soon he will undo the binding on my breasts, unwind me, and lay me bare.
Then you'll be undone, my brain says. You can't do this.
I turn away from the voice and press my lips to Clay's. My tongue finds his and he tastes like warm earth. He moans and pulls me tighter.
What if you get pregnant?
Pregnant. Pregnant like Mama, sick and vulnerable on the road. Pregnant like poor Betsy whose fate I'll never know. Pregnant like the Breeders hoped to make me before I escaped. I picture myself hobbling down the road, my round belly pulling me down like a lead weight, my legs giving out. How could Clay want me then? I'd be nothing but a liability. Pregnant is the last thing I wanna be.
Clay's lips find mine, but I pull back. My body fights me every inch, the low throb in my groin turning into an ache.
“Come on,” he breathes, his lips grazing the skin of my neck. “Don't you trust me?”
Trust him? Sure I trust him, but not with this. I draw my arms up and cross them over my chest. His hands fumble a moment more, then slip off. He blows out a frustrated breath and rolls over on his back.
I sit up. Through the hole in the ceiling, dawn light brushes the sky. I look over at the shadow that is Clay. Even if I could explain why I pulled away, I can't tell him here. Not with my mama and Ethan sleeping nearby. With my heart thudding and my body aching, I stand up, fix my shirt, and shuffle to the open diner doorway.
I step outside through the doorless entryway and peer around. The sun's already a huge round ball, cresting over the ridge. It'll be hotter than Hades in an hour. I walk around the side of the little breadbox restaurant, trying to get out of sight of the road. I pass a window sign that reads 50s Diner. Good Grub. Good Times. Too bad the good grub and good times are long gone. I kick an empty aluminum can and it skitters away. We have about three day’s worth of ratio
ned food, four days of water. I lift my eyes to the horizon. How can I keep my family alive? That's the question I ask myself every single day.
I tromp down a little hill and into the hardpan where I'm hidden from the road. The dusty plain is quiet. In the east, a slash of orange is creeping over the horizon. The buttes and scrub brush will soon be awash with golden glow and the land will come alive. I rub my hands over my arms. My shirt has gone threadbare in the last few weeks. My boots are even worse; wiggling toes peak through holes in both boots. But I’ve got bigger problems. Like water. I lick my chapped lips and wish we could stumble on a vast blue lake. I'd dive in and swim around like a fish. I'd drink until the lake disappeared.
A little lizard skids past me on the path. If he can find water, we can. My eyes trace over the knobby cactus, the scraggy scrub grass, the rocks warming to orange with the first rays of day. To my right is a prickly pear; its flat oval leaves are covered in giant spines, but on top is what I want. I take my hunting knife from my pocket and cut a slice off the bulbous pink fruit growing from the top. I pluck the fruit from the ground, careful of the spines, and slice into it. As the juice dribbles into my palm, my stomach seizes. I press it to my mouth. Sweet and gritty, I suck and suck until it’s a husk. It's not much, but it soothes my dry throat. I chuck the shriveled remains over my shoulder and reach for more. Ethan and Mama will love these.
Something behind me stirs. Someone or something is shuffling along the ridge behind me. Whatever it is, it's big and coming fast.
I whirl around, gripping my hunting knife. I think of the rifle I left back in the diner. Stupid. No time. I lock my eyes on the ridge and wait.
A figure lumbers into view, a dark shadow moving fast. It drops to its knees beside a rock. The sound of retching finds me. Mama.
When I reach her, she's bent over two rocks, spitting the last of her measly lunch onto the ground. I bend down and rub her back. “You okay?”
