by Katie French
She nods, a trail of spit arcing from her mouth. One hand clutches the rock she's kneeling beside. The other circles her swollen belly. She spits once again and tries to rise. Her legs are so weak they almost buckle. I put my hands under her arm and help her up. When she turns to me, her eyes are sunken and wet, dark bags below them like bruises. Her gaunt, burned face forces a smile. “We gotta get back inside.”
“Okay.” I let her lean on me for support and we shuffle back to the diner. She pulls to a stop inside the diner's little entrance—a six-foot square area with double doors on both sides. The front doors are glassless, but the doors leading into the diner are intact and dusty as hell. The sides of the entrance have half-walls that can hide us from the road if we scrunch down. We do this now, our backs resting against the chipped paint. Near the floor someone's penned the words "Domine, libera nos ab Orco" and drawn a stickman hanging from a noose. On the floor beside Mama, a broken corkboard rests, brittle bits of paper still fluttering from tacks. She plucks one off and the paper crumbles between her fingers.
“Let's not go in just yet,” she whispers, eying the dim diner through the dusty glass doors. “I wanna make sure I won't be sick again.”
I hug my knees to my chest, frowning. “Is it the baby?” Her stomach rounds out of her shirt and she rests a hand there. She looks too far along to only be a month or so pregnant. The words of Nessa Vandewater, Clay's mother, ring in my head. There were some mutations to the fetuses.
My mama rubs her stomach. “Probably something I ate. I told Rayburn those cans looked bulgy.” She presses a hand to her forehead, her face contorting. Then she offers me another pained smile. “My good girl.” She tilts her head giving me that proud mama smile. “Thanks for your help.”
“Anything,” I say, working my finger through a hole at the hem of my T-shirt. I watch my mother for a while as if my vigilance could keep away whatever is tearing her up inside.
That baby. She'll never say it, but I have a feeling whatever is inside her can only do her harm.
She looks out the glassless front door, glowing orange with the rays of dawn. “Can't sleep?”
I shake my head.
“We got a long walk tonight.”
I nod.
She folds her burned hands together, the bumps and ridges of her skin like the road a few feet from where we sit. “Sometimes when I can't sleep I think of happy times. Like when you were seven and Arn took you to see the wild horses foaling in the back pasture at our house in Santa Fe. Do you remember that?”
Somewhere in the dusty recesses of my brain I find an image of me riding on Arn's shoulders as he steps toward a mare and her newborn foal. The small brown horse folds wobbling legs beneath him and pushes up, unsteady. Then the image fades out. “Yeah, I remember some. Did Arn take me a lot of places when I was little?”
She nods, her face animating. “He'd sit you beside him in his workshop while he worked on car parts. He'd give you something to tinker with. You loved working with your daddy.” She looks up at me, a frown creasing her face. Arn is not my daddy. But I loved him. Truly.
I sniff and pick at the dry caulk inside the windowless frame above my head. I miss Arn, but I know my mother aches for him. She never got to say goodbye and it eats her up. I suspect it's not just morning sickness that keeps her sleepless.
She swipes a hand at her eyes and stands, using the wall to help her. “I'm feeling better, love. I think I'll go in and lay down. You should give sleep a try, too.”
I nod, though I feel anything but sleepy. I watch her slip through the interior doors. When they shut, the dust caked to the glass blurs her into shapes. Then I can't see her at all.
A few minutes later the door creaks open. At first I think it’s Mama coming out to be sick again, but then I see how tall the shadow is and my heart beats faster. Clay slips out and limps over. In the morning light, he's just as handsome as ever: tall, with his strong chin and wild dark hair.
I smile as he sits down beside me, his feet digging wells in the dust.
“So,” he flicks his eyes up at me, “not very romantic under the table? I thought the decor in there was real homey.” There's an unusual shyness on his face.
“Homey for rodents and snakes, you mean.”
He nods, smirking. “Lately I been feelin' pretty rodent-like. Yesterday I got a craving for cheese.”
I laugh. “That's funny. I had a craving for anything.”
He chuckles and digs around the edge of the bandage on his injured hand. The bandage is fraying, the white gauze now the dirty brown like everything else. There's a long pause as we both look out toward the road and the orange light spilling over the desert.
“Are we okay?” he asks, breaking the silence. “I mean, you and me?”
There's uncertainty in his eyes. It's funny how things have changed. Before the hospital, it was me speculating on what he was thinking and what he might want. Me longing for him but never being able to have him. The tide has turned. I'm not sure how I feel about it.
I reach for his hand and lace my fingers through his. “We're together.” I look up at him, my heart pounding, awash in a love that surges through me. “That’s all I ever wanted.” I drape my arms around his neck and he wraps his around my waist. Being this close sets my heart to galloping away.
Clay shrugs. “I just wanna make you happy.” He looks out at the sand-swept highway and shakes his head. “As happy as I can, considerin'. I wish I could make this all go away.”
I press my cheek to his chest. “We gotta get to a town and Rayburn can barter for a truck and gas. Those meds of his are worth enough to get us home. In the meantime, you gotta trust that you and me are fine.” I lift my head and look into his eyes. “Okay?”
His blue eyes look deeply into mine. “Okay.”
Then he's kissing me. Kissing me, kissing me, kissing me. And his hands are under my shirt and my heart is tearing through my chest as his fingers inch upward.
I push away.
He drops his hands, his eyes on the ground. “Sorry,” he mumbles. He pushes up and limps back through the door.
“Clay,” I say, but I let him go. First watch it is. It'll give me time to torture myself about all the things I've done wrong.
In my dream I'm lying on the desert floor. I can't move. Above, vultures circle like pinwheels of death. The need to get away is fierce, but nothing I do makes my limbs work. I open my mouth to scream, but all that comes out is a gasp. One of the big black birds dives down, boring its beak into the flesh below my ribs.
The pain. It drags me out of my sleep. Yet, something hard still presses into my stomach.
A raspy voice breathes in my ear. “Make a noise, you filthy half-man, and I'll fill your belly with holes.”
I snap up, awake and terrified. It's mid-day. I've fallen asleep during watch, my body slumped against the wall. A large man leans over me, grips my hair with one hand, and presses a gun into my stomach with the other. His eyes are huge, round and shiny like a doll’s, but then I realize he's wearing goggles, the kind the drivers wear to keep dust out of their eyes. The rest of his face is shaded by some sort of straw hat. Half a dozen gold chains dangle from his neck. He looks like a clown or those fashion ladies I’ve seen on pages of old magazines.
I pull back, terror raging through me. He jabs the gun barrel hard into my ribs, huffing the air out of my lungs. I gasp.
“Don't move!” he whisper-shouts. Behind him three large men slip into the diner, guns drawn.
“Clay!” I claw upright, my fingers digging into the wall.
He hits me with a sharp backhand across the face. Blood floods my mouth. I shake my head and keep screaming. “Ethan, Clay! They got guns!” Noise from inside. A scream. Oh, God.
He shoves a dirty hand over my mouth to silence me, banging my head back into the wall. I thrash back and forth, lose his hand and scream. “Mam—”
His hands go for my throat. He pins me to the wall, the window ledge digging into my skul
l. I claw at his giant hands, trying to breathe, trying to scream. He shoves me harder into the wall and the plaster crumbles around me. He’s big: barrel chested, tree-trunk thighs, arms rippling beneath his T-shirt. We're in trouble.
Sounds of a scuffle inside. Clay slams into the diner door, skids through it, and lands in a heap. Slowly he staggers up. I tug at my captor’s hands as he tightens his fingers around my throat. Stars flare in my vision.
“Clay!” I croak, as I pry at thick fingers.
Clay lurches my way, digging for the gun at his hip. His bandaged hand paws at the revolver until he remembers that he’s wounded. He reaches down with his left, but it’s a clumsy movement. The gun catches on the holster, spins out of his hands, and buries itself in a mess of bricks and trash just outside the diner. His eyes go wide. Fear and shame war on his face for an instant, then he dives through the doorframe for his gun. I turn and kick at my attacker, but my blows do nothing to slack the hands on my throat. I slam my foot into my attacker’s crotch and his hands loosen a little.
Another man bursts out through the diner door. This guy's huge too, with veiny biceps. His clothes are outlandish and bright: red lace-up sneakers, puffy green pants, and a tank top that reads Vera Beach in neon letters. Who are these people?
The tank-top man runs after Clay. They square off in the dust outside the diner, Clay making a fist with his good hand and tucking his bandaged one to his chest. Tank-top man smirks, showing his four remaining teeth, and then swings like a prizefighter.
A fist arcs toward Clay’s jaw. Clay ducks. The swing slices the air an inch from his head, rippling his hair. Tank-top man flies forward, carried by his own momentum. Clay follows, up and around, with three quick jabs in Tank-top man's kidneys. Tank-top man drops to one knee.
Inside Ethan shrieks.
I snap my head toward the diner. My attacker, recovering from his kick in the privates, shoves me back. His eyes move to the fight between Tank-top man and Clay. He's momentarily distracted. I think of Ethan, close my eyes, and punch him as hard as I can in the face.
There's a loud crack. His head snaps back. My hand instantly throbs, but his hands are off my neck. I scramble for his gun, loose in his right hand. We fumble for steel. My hands claw across flesh and metal. He grits his teeth and growls, pushing rancid breath into my face. We play tug of war with his gun. His sombrero slips off and I can see his thin, black beard, a two-inch scar cutting through it. Clumps of hair are missing on his scalp revealing raw, red patches of flesh. Behind the goggles one round eye is cloudy. Something’s wrong with him.
Still fighting for the gun, he digs his elbow in my chest. A knot of pain spreads across my breastbone, but my fingers find the gun grip. I yank hard, stagger back, and find a gun in my hands.
I wrap my finger around the trigger. My attacker watches me carefully. I thumb down the safety. There's no fear of death in his eyes. He thinks I'm afraid, that I won't do it. Next to me I hear Clay and Tank-top man begin another round.
I grit my teeth and pull the trigger.
A dry click. Nothing. No bullets.
Jesus Christ.
He smiles at me, revealing corn-yellow teeth.
I smile, pull back my arm, and hit him across the face with the gun. His face ripples to the right with the impact. Blood spews from his mouth. His eyes roll back. He lands with a loud thunk on the debris-filled pavement.
Yes, I think. Then, Clay!
I whirl around. He's slugging it out with Tank-top man: awful rocking punches that make me cringe. I run up as Clay stumbles on his bad leg and falls over a chunk of broken concrete. He lies on his back, bleeding, panting. His injured hand has bled through the bandaging and his right eye is swelling shut.
I jump between him and Tank-top man and aim the gun.
“Riley, no!” Clay yells, rolling over and scrambling for me.
I lock my elbows and aim the gun at Tank-top man's heart. “Back up, you sonovabitch!”
He steps forward, smiling. Along with his four teeth and there’s a giant red sore eating up half his upper lip. His pupils are cloudy, the whites are yellowed. And he smells like rotten meat. There’s definitely something wrong with him. With all of them.
“Drop the gun, Bender.” Even his voice is thick, like his tongue is a dead thing in his mouth. He nods toward the gun. “We both know there's no lead in that shooter.” He takes a step forward, cloudy eyes searching my face. His big hands reach out, dirty fingers curling toward me. I don't move.
“Do what he says,” Clay whispers in my ear. The pain in his voice cuts me to the core. He wants to protect me, but if I drop the gun, Tank-top man will kill Clay.
He takes a step forward and now he's three feet away. My eyes lock on the sore on his lip, the raw rancid strawberry that mars his face. He smiles, puckers his mouth, and makes smoochy sounds. “You like what you see? I hear Benders got real soft skin.” He narrows his clouded eyes. “Guess I get to find out.”
I smile in mock amusement. “Not today, you motherless bastard.” I pull the gun back like a tomahawk and whip it as hard as I can at his face.
The gun smashes his nose. His giant hands snap over his bloody beak and he screams.
“That'll be enough!” a male voice behind me shouts.
I whip around. There, in the doorway of the diner, stand the other two men. The smaller of the two holds Ethan and Rayburn by their forearms. Their wrists are bound with rope. Rayburn has a giant welt on his forehead. Ethan looks okay. The other man has my pregnant mama pulled tight to his chest. Pressed up against her throat is a long, rusty blade. Her eyes go wide as the dull blade dimples her skin.
“Stop!” I yell. Behind me, Clay clutches my arm as I lurch forward. “Please.” I use all my willpower to lower my voice. “You don't have to.”
My attacker steps up, his hand holding his bruising cheek. He finds his sombrero, brushes the dirt off it, and fixes it back on his head. Coupled with the dusty goggles that magnify his eyes threefold, the hat makes him look ridiculous. I'd laugh if I weren’t so sure he was about to kill me. His gray eyes zero in on me for a moment.
“We don't need all this violence,” he says. “Either you all come with us or we slice every male on the spot. We take her,” he nods to my mama, “and you, gut the others, and leave 'em for the dogs.”
I start to speak, but Clay's hand cinches around my arm. “We go,” he says through gritted teeth. He wants to fight just as bad as I do. I know he's the rational one and I should listen, but to go with these cavemen? I shoot him a glance, but he's watching the leader with his penetrating gaze.
My attacker nods and his man removes the knife edge from Mama's throat. She sags a little.
Tank-top man limps over, holding his bleeding nose. He wrenches my hands together. Clay shouts in protest, but his hands are being bound by the other man. I hate the feel of twine on my wrists. I hate seeing Ethan's eyes as they lead him off.
“Where are you taking us?” I ask and get a sharp push from behind. I stumble forward onto the road. A dusty white van is parked a ways back on the shoulder.
Shoving my mother before him like a stubborn mule, my attacker looks at me with soulless eyes.
“To the Citadel. The Messiah has been waiting for you.”
Chapter 4
They shove us in a large white van with worn tires and a few rusty side panels, but, surprisingly, it’s not as beat-up as every other vehicle on the road. In the back, the seats have been removed, leaving a large open swatch of scratchy black carpet. We're herded in, the back doors slamming behind us. I sit with my back to the van's side, Clay to my right and Ethan to my left. Rayburn and Mama are on the other side of the van, sitting cross-legged, bound hands on their laps.
Mama looks up, anguish darkening her face. She’s thinking the same as me: we're prisoners, we're unarmed, and we’re helpless. This is how we end up dead. She offers me her reassuring smile. I think she's beautiful, but I try to see her as these men do: a middle-aged, pregnant burn victim.
I drop my head and sigh. It doesn't matter what she looks like. She's a woman. Most men would give anything to own a woman or to have one to trade to the Breeders.
They've assumed I'm a Bender, the half-male half-female mutations that are born now instead of girls, but it doesn't do me much good, seeing as how Tank-top man seems to have a taste for Benders. I picture his giant hands on me and feel the strong desire to crush something. His windpipe, hopefully.
The leader opens the driver's door. He turns to Tank-top man. “Stephen, you're up front.” Then he speaks to the two men standing at his door. “Lavan, Kemuel, you're in the back. Stay alert.”
The other two take their places: backs against the front seats, facing us. Lavan glares at us, the knife in his hand. Kemuel sits next to him, hands around his knees. He may be the only one who doesn't come from a family of giants. He's slender, about fourteen with the wisp of a mustache sprouting on his lip, curly black hair, and heavy eyebrows. His delicate features and long lashes make him almost pretty. Maybe he's a Bender, though his compadres don't seem to act like it. His clothes are more subdued, holey pants, a white T-shirt, and only a single silver chain dangling from his neck. He's the one who I'd go after to plead our case, the only one who might have some pity on his face as he looks at Clay's bruised cheek. I try to meet his eyes as the leader starts the van and bumps us onto the road, but Kemuel keeps his eyes on the holes of his pants.
Clay's eyes are locked on his knees, too. I can almost taste the shame rolling off him. He fumbled the gun. If I hadn't seen it, I wouldn't believe it. He's never missed a shot since I've met him, though he's never been this hurt either. I know how he's seething inside, wanting to crush these men. I watch his hands squeeze into fists in his lap. I want to touch him, soothe out the wrinkles on his forehead, but I’m not a fool.
“Riley,” Ethan whispers as soon as the road noise picks up. “What's gonna happen?” His leg brushes mine as he leans in closer. I can feel him tremble even over the vibrations in the road.
