by Katie French
I whisper, “Don't worry.” Hollow words. We're all worried. No, terrified.
“Shut up,” Lavan says. He glares at me with his clouded left eye.
“Who's the Messiah?” I ask, jutting my chin out. “Why's he been waiting for us?”
Lavan pushes back his beat-up ball cap and narrows his less swollen eye. “Shut,” he leans forward and raises his knife, “up.”
I scowl and let my head bang against the van as the broken road vibrates us back and forth. If they wanted us dead, they would've killed us, which means one thing: they need us alive.
Twenty minutes of driving through desert and we come to the remains of a town. We cruise past crumbled buildings and see two-thirds of a concrete warehouse, bone white and roofless, on the left. A house with loose siding waving like long fingers sags on the right. We pass a burned-out car husk. My eyes follow it until I see the bleached skull lying in the passenger seat. I flick my eyes to the horizon and try to control the awful dread crawling around my stomach.
We turn down a long, dusty road that dips into a hollow valley. The road winds around to a building half a mile long. The giant rectangle looks like it used to be one of those large shopping areas, a… mall. Some shop names still cling above the entrances though many have fallen away: Dillard’s, something that just reads J. Pen, and Macy. At first glance the mall might seem like another dead building, but there are signs of life. To the west, in a cracked parking lot, several black rectangles angle toward the sun.
Clay sees my eyes and nods. “Solar panels,” he says.
“Shut up,” Lavan says. He flashes what's left of his teeth in a nasty sneer.
We pull up to another aging white van. A guard stands beside it with a semi-automatic rifle in his massive arms. One of his nostrils is crusted and oozing yellow pus down his cheek. These people are sick. Are we breathing in their disease right now? I feel every breath expand in my chest as I taste the air.
The van slides to a stop and the leader leans out. “New recruits,” he says, thumbing behind him.
I can’t see his face, but I can hear the smile in his voice. My skin prickles. Ethan leans his shoulder into mine. I grab his bound hands.
The guard leans in and looks at us. His face quirks up in a knowing smile. “Nice haul, Andrew. Haven’t had fresh blood in a while.” He pats the top of the van with a thunk, thunk to indicate we’re good to go.
Fresh blood. I hope he's kidding.
We trundle past the white van and pull up to one of the mall’s loading docks. The van backs up to an elevated opening covered by flaps of black plastic. Andrew jumps out of the driver's seat, comes around, and opens the van's back doors. He climbs inside, his sombrero brushing the ceiling. “Don’t go thinking you’re gonna run.” He nods toward the guard at the front. “That gun he’s got. Real bullets.”
I snort. He draws his knife out and points it at me again. “You’re looking for trouble and you’re gonna find it. Mark my Gods’ loving words.”
I narrow my eyes, but Clay's foot slides out and taps my knee. He wants me to shut up. I bite my tongue and taste the bitterness of self-control.
The back door swings open and the heat from the blacktop rolls in. A smell too, something… dead. Andrew and Kemuel shove us forward toward the doors. Rayburn stumbles, banging into the door with a loud thunk, and falls out onto the pavement. Andrew laughs.
I whirl around, anger pulsing at the back of my throat. “Hey!” I shout. “Leave him alone!”
Andrew tromps through the interior of the van, shaking it. He holds the knife edge an inch from my face. “You want I should pick on you instead?”
“Go right ahead.” My heart pumps with anger, pushing the fear down. Mama shoots me a terrified look, but I don't care if he hits me. Anything to keep the fear at bay.
“Andrew,” Stephen calls nasally through his broken nose. “No time to dally.”
Andrew frowns, puts the knife in his belt, and shoves me forward. When I jump out of the van, I help Rayburn collect his glasses. “Keep your head down,” I whisper. “He already doesn't like me. He doesn't have to hate you, too.”
Rayburn nods, tears in his eyes. He slips on the scratched glasses, making his wet eyes shine. The rest of my family piles out of the van.
We walk toward the mall. Around the loading dock symbols are painted on the walls in a rusty brown. I recognize a few crosses, a Star of David, and then some other religious symbols I can't recognize. The symbols closest to the door aren't brown. They're blood red. As we walk toward the stairs leading up, I see a pile of what looks like charred sticks. That's when the smell hits me—that burnt animal smell. Not sticks, bones. A white rib bone curves from a four-foot-high pile. I lurch back and press my bound hands to my nose. My heart slams into my chest. Ethan looks into my face for reassurance, so I bite down on my tongue and give him a nod.
Bloodied symbols and animal sacrifices. Dear God.
The four men push us up a chipped concrete staircase and through the long black flaps hanging over the entrance. Through the loading dock is a big warehouse, scattered with metal shelves holding old tools, grinders, pieces of machinery, car parts.
“Move,” Stephen says behind me. Andrew pushes my skeletal mother forward and rage bubbles in my brain. Clay shoots me a look and I try to bottle my anger. For now.
We wind through the warehouse and push through a set of double doors. A rancid stink smacks me in the face as grunts and squeals echo down the hallway. In another large room, a horde of pigs runs toward the metal sheeting fence and presses their snouts against it. I stare in awe as their pink and gray noses bob up and down, smelling us. Andrew bangs his knife handle against the grating as we walk by. The herd goes careening back into the warehouse with a chorus of squeals. There are dozens in there, hundreds maybe. I see the source of the stink in a soupy mess all over the floor.
As we are ushered by the pigs, Stephen grabs Kemuel by the neck and points toward the pen. “I know what you’re doing this afternoon, baby boy.” His braying laugh echoes through the concrete space. Kemuel shrugs him off, shoulders hunched, head down. I keep my eyes on him. How can we talk, Kemuel? I think. He might be our one chance at escape.
We come to two heavy metal doors and enter what was once a mall. I expect darkness, but instead overhead lights flicker in several parts of the hallway. Not a lot of light, but enough to keep us from stumbling. The only electric light I've seen was at the Breeders' hospital. A sick feeling crawls over me as I think about that place again. My eyes flick down to my sleeve where the pink, puckered ankh brand is burned into my flesh. Are these people in league with the Breeders?
Broken-down storefronts spread out left and right. The glass windows are mostly covered with strips of cloth stitched together, but one of the curtains has fallen open. Inside two people sit Indian-style, clothed in bright, gaudy fabrics, outlandish hats, jewelry. Next to them, a storefront that reads Icing has a metal grating pulled down over the entrance. As we pass, a little face peeks out at me. A child? I swing my head back to get another look. Brown curls fall around his face as he presses his nose through the grating. I crane my neck to see and Andrew shoves me hard. I stumble, bang my knee into a wooden bench, and spill onto the floor.
“Hands off,” Clay growls.
Andrew smirks at him, yanks me up, and shoves me forward.
We round the corner and come into a giant open space. Faded plastic tables and chairs are set up to seat groups of six and eight. Above us, the ceiling looks like it was once a giant glass dome, but now is open air. This room is hot, but not stifling. They must be running fans or using the mall's ventilation system with all that solar power they're soaking up.
My eyes fall on a large structure in the middle of the food court. Dozens of carved horses on poles are ringed around a platform. Though the paint’s chipped off in places and the glass bulbs are broken, I can't help but stare. The horses look so lifelike, their marble eyes flashing, the tufted crests curling from their foreheads like royal steeds in
story books. The carousel is a spot of beauty in a place that seems to hold so much darkness.
“Come on,” Andrew says, pushing me forward. “The Messiah's waiting.”
We sit in plastic chairs in the Messiah’s antechamber. The room is sparse with some plastic leafy plant angling in one corner and nothing else. There's no electricity here, just a few sputtering candles, creating a shimmering darkness that makes my skin crawl. The other men have left us except Andrew, who stands guard outside the door.
I stare at the solid metal door that separates us from the Messiah. We've been waiting for at least a half an hour. My mind has run every horrible scenario and come up with some amazingly disturbing possibilities: a mutated fetus baby as big as a man, a Christ-man missionary gone deranged, Nessa Vandewater and her guards. I can't take it anymore. I stand up and start pacing.
“This is crazy. We should rush the door and take Andrew. He doesn't even have a gun.” I say, stopping in front of the door and eying it.
“Honey, please sit down,” Mama says. She's paler than normal and blue crescent bruises have cropped up under her eyes. Looking at her only makes the desire to slam my body through the door stronger.
Clay's eyes follow me as I begin stalking around the tiny room. “Riley, do as yer ma says.”
I whirl on him. “Wow. You sound just like Arn. And yet, neither one of you is my daddy.”
He cringes. Beside him, Ethan's head sags. Bringing up my dead stepfather is not a great way to make a point. I throw myself into the plastic chair and blow out a frustrated breath.
“So, what do we do?” I ask, tugging against the twine around my wrists. Unfortunately, Andrew seems to be the best knot-maker in New Mexico.
Clay scans the room. “Wait and see. We got no weapons.”
“Yes, an-and they have knives,” Rayburn stutters. He scratches his chin against his shoulder and blinks at me through his smeary glasses.
“What if they want to eat us?” I ask.
“Riley!” Mama scolds, looking at Ethan. He blinks up, eyes wide.
I nod at my brother. “He may be eight, but he's seen a helluva lot in the last few weeks. I think he oughta know what we're up against.”
My mama shakes her head. “They’re not cannibals.”
“B-b-but those bones,” Rayburn says with a shudder.
“That's not helping.” Mama gives Rayburn the same disapproving stare she usually saves for me.
“Speculatin' is about as good as castratin' a mare,” Clay says, rolling his shoulders back. He scans the room, meeting our eyes. “I'll get you out. I'll find a way.”
His brass-balls confidence is one of the things I love about him, but deep in my heart, I can't believe him. He's barely healed from being shot up, his right hand is a mangled mess of hamburger, and his last attempt at drawing from the hip was a disaster. I won't say it, but I can't count on Clay to get us out of this mess. This time it'll be all up to me.
The inner door draws open. We all turn, jaws dropped. Through the dim light, a woman dressed in a white robe steps out.
Ethan gasps. We all do. She's nearly old as Auntie with long gray hair brushed to a sheen flowing down her back. Her feet are bare. One pale hand sweeps toward the door and her sleeve ruffles in the breeze.
But what my eyes are really drawn to is the pregnant belly rounding out of her gown.
“Come,” she says, her gray eyes narrowing. “The Messiah will see you now.”
Chapter 5
We all stare, unable to move. The pregnant woman waves us in.
“Get up. You do not want to keep the Messiah waiting.” When she frowns her face looks like beaten leather.
Clay stands and we all follow. He limps to the doorway and lines up in front of the pregnant woman. “We're ready,” he says in his man-in-charge voice.
She leads us into a room where candles glow on every flat surface. The air is stale and smells of burning sage. It takes all my willpower not to choke on it. The room reminds me of a market store for oddities. Every nook and cranny is chalk full of trinkets: stacks of yellowing books, crinkled scrolls, and religious relics. At least twelve crucifixes litter the area, including the seven-foot-tall wooden cross that dominates the far wall. Strange items lurk on a shelf to the right: a jar with a bulbous animal fetus floating in yellow liquid, a golden statue of a woman with six arms, and a shrunken head in a shadow box. On the other wall, dozens of paper calendars are pinned, overlapping one another. They've been marked and circled in something that looks like dried blood. The door clicks behind us and the hairs on my arms stand up. I lean into Ethan until I can feel his elbow at my hip. I'd throw my arm around him if my hands weren't bound.
The Messiah steps out of the shadows. The flames highlight his features: the long brown hair, the matching beard, the white gown that drapes over him like a silk curtain, showing off every muscle. Facial sores peek through a coating of make-up—a scab below his ear the size of a quarter, a red blister below his left eye. He stands in front of us, his chin up, his eyes closed, his lips moving in some sort of prayer. Finally he spreads his arms wide, his sleeves fluttering.
“My friends,” he says, his eyes still closed, “the Gods spoke to me about your coming. It has come to pass as the Heavens revealed to me. Welcome.”
He opens his eyes. They're yellow and cloudy like sandblasted glass. Can he see at all? Yet the edges of his mouth are curled into a small, contented smile.
Every bit of this shouts crazy person. His act makes me wanna sprint out the door. The door that Andrew is now slipping back through with his knife in his hand. I step in front of Ethan and tighten my body.
“Please, Andrew, sever their bonds. I want the Gods' guests to be comfortable.” His gaze floats somewhere near the ceiling like he doesn't need to see us, like he's seeing us in his mind. He waves Andrew in our direction and then floats off into the dark shadows of the room. Meanwhile, Andrew stalks over with his knife raised.
I watch tensely as he saws through Mama's bonds, then Ethan's, then Rayburn's. He hesitates at Clay, but then, looking down at Clay's bandaged hand, cuts through his ropes. Clay rubs his wrists and glowers, and there's a fire in his eyes, the kind that would usually go before flashing steel and a loud bang.
Finally, Andrew gets to me. He flicks a look back to the Messiah. “You sure you want 'em all freed?”
The shadowed figure waves a hand. “Yes, yes. It has been decided. They will not harm us.” He turns back to whatever he's doing.
Andrew leans into me and slips his knife between my wrist and the rough twine. “Remember what you did to my face?” he whispers, sawing. His breath stinks like an outhouse on a hundred-degree day.
My chest heaves as he works the blade back and forth, but I meet his eyes and smile. “I sure do.”
“And you thought there wouldn’t be payback?” He smirks.
There's a sharp pain at my wrist. Blood springs up in a red line and trickles into my sleeve. It's not a bad cut, but any cut can spell death when medicine is scarce. I flash my teeth at him, but he's already wiping the blade on his pants and walking away.
Bastard.
As we're standing around, rubbing our wrists, the Messiah floats back to us, his arms wide, reminding me of a crane with wings outstretched. “Sit,” he commands, swinging one arm toward a row of food court chairs. We settle ourselves into the plastic bucket seats. Ethan leans close to me.
I look around the dark room for weapons. Andrew’s knife is the only one, as far as I can tell. If I could catch him by surprise—
“Which one of you is the girl who escaped the Breeders?” the Messiah asks, turning.
I freeze, suddenly aware of every hair on my head. My hand goes instinctively to the ankh brand on my wrist.
“And which one of you is the man who murdered his own father?” The Messiah lets his cloudy eyes float in our direction, skimming over the tops of our heads.
I swallow hard and look down at Clay. His jaw is ramrod straight and he is clench
ing his fists in his lap. The Messiah glides to a stop in front of Clay, his gown billowing around his legs.
“It’s you, isn't it?” he says, pointing a loosely cupped hand at Clay's chest. “Much like Krishna killed his uncle Kansa.” The Messiah gestures to a statue of a blue man sitting with his hands turned upward. “We murder out of fear or we murder for power. Which was it that caused you to slay your kin?” The Messiah points his expressionless face in Clay's direction, but does not look at him.
Clay says nothing, just sits with this fist jammed in his lap.
The Messiah floats over to stand in front of Mama. His cupped hand hovers over her swollen belly. Finally, he presses his hand onto her stomach. His thin lips move, but no sound comes out. His face darkens.
“Kalli,” he says, and the pregnant woman shuffles over. He reaches out for her hand and places her palm on my mother's stomach as well. She frowns and shakes her head.
“What?” I say, leaning forward. “What are you doing?”
The Messiah turns my way, his eyes floating in my general direction. “A hospital-grown fetus. An aberration. We do not believe in the experiments those doctors perform on the Gods' children.”
“Neither do we, but they really didn't give us a vote before they put one in her,” I say.
“What's wrong with Mama?” Ethan whispers to me.
The Messiah turns his head toward Ethan. I don't know if he naturally looks like the Jesus-man or if he's dressed that way for effect. Either way he's creeping me out.
“Your mother is infected with one of their fetuses. The baby will grow exponentially in the coming months. They gestate much faster than normal.”
I look down at Mama's distended stomach. We all knew she looked too pregnant.
“What'll happen to her?” I ask, my pulse throbbing into my head.
The Messiah tilts his face to the ceiling. “Only the Gods may know. Here we can ease her pain. Our midwives are blessed.”
“How can you have women here?” I ask, looking over at the pregnant woman who stands next to him, her hand on his sleeve.
