by Katie French
A Middie shuffles up, an aging woman in loose cotton pants and a tunic with only a single gold bracelet glittering on her wrist. Her face wrinkles into a look of displeasure as she scans our group.
“Really. That's enough. You're not supposed to be here anyway.” She fixes a disapproving gaze at Mage who shrugs her narrow shoulders.
“Please,” I say, facing the Middie, “is there anything you can do for my mother? She looks...” I can't finish. I clasp my hands together and will myself not to choke up.
The Middie turns her eyes to my fragile mama. “She needs rest. I assure you she has the best care here. Trust us.” She places her hand on my back and leads me toward the door.
I whip around and crouch down to grab my mama’s hand. Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment I think one or both of us might cry.
“I'll come back. Every day. I'll make sure they're doing what they need to do to get you better.” My eyes flick down to her stomach. “Both of you.”
My mama nods, her eyes wet. “Don't worry about me. Take care of Ethan and the others, but don't worry about me.”
Chapter 8
There’s a special place in hell for whoever assigned me laundry duty. My fingers are wrinkled white raisins and my body aches from kneeling over the wash tub. The smelly undershirt I'm holding goes back into the sudsy tub and then I scrub it on the washboard. I've already nicked one knuckle on the board leaning out of the washbasin. Eying the jagged edge, I know it's just a matter of time before I rip open another.
Plunge and scrub. Plunge and scrub. Mage sits beside me twirling a wadded-up shirt through the soapy water in a figure eight. As the Messiah's daughter, her plunging and scrubbing are mostly for show. She chats with the other women stationed around us in this abandoned shop. It must've been a beauty parlor—some of the swivel chairs and mirrored vanities are still in place. Faded posters show women with big curly hairdos. On the back wall is a huge sign with the words Redken and some other faded print I can't read. I stare longingly at a cracked leather swivel chair that sits with its sisters along the wall. My knees throb from kneeling on the tile beside the washbasin. I look up at the woman in charge. Prema's frown looks like it's been etched out of rock. Her wrinkled brown skin and five-foot frame don’t diminish her bulldog manner. She shoots me sharp glances whenever my plunging and scrubbing slow. I scowl and shove the shirt down with a splash of sudsy water. Maybe if I rub a hole in one of their precious shirts, she'll kick me out. A few more hours of this and I'll wish I was back in the diner starving to death.
Mage bounces over, another paper animal in her hands. I'm not sure what this one is supposed to be, but she flits it in front of me anyway, making it loop and dive as I wring out the shirt and stand.
“Thirty minutes 'til dinner,” she sings, making her animal gallop over my shoulder with a “dumpty dum” song. “Wook at me,” she says in a baby voice, dancing her animal in my face. “I'm Wiley and I'm soo sewiuos.”
I plod over to the clotheslines strung along the back wall and spread my shirt out. Two of the metal clips molded out of old wire hangers fasten my shirt to the line. The watery drip, drip, drip is soothing. I stand, staring dumbly at the black Redken poster, and wonder what a “wax pomade” is while the blood returns to my legs.
“Eh hem.” Prema glares at me. Her wrinkly chin waddle, that reminds me of a wild turkey, trembles angrily. I push a huge, dramatic sigh out of my chest, lumber over, and grab another dirty shirt from the pile.
Death by starvation might not be that bad.
“Tell me about the outside,” Mage says, resting her animal on my arm. “Tell me about,” she drops her voice, “the Breeders.”
She says their name like it’s a curse word she's afraid a parent will overhear. Her eyes flick to Prema nervously and then lock on my face, hungry to know. I stare at the sudsy water. The bubble-filled froth clings around my wrist where the ankh brand rests. It'll be there forever, just like the memories of the Plan B room. The skeletal girls strapped to beds with computers keeping them alive.
I shake my head to rid it of the image. “The outside's a cruel place. You're better off in here.”
Mage frowns, clearly not liking my answer. “But, there's so much to see. Old buildings. Mountains.” She grips my arm and leans in close. “Are the Breeders really taller than the tallest man?”
“The worst Breeder is really a woman.” Nessa Vandewater's face appears in my mind. Is she hunting us right now?
“Really?” Mage squeaks. Prema looks over at us. Mage lowers her voice again. “What does she look like?”
“What does it matter? You're never gonna meet her.” At least I hope not.
Mage slumps back against the wall. “My papa says if the Breeders ever come here, we won't go with them. We should die before we let them take us.” Her eyes stare into the distance, a sadness filling them.
I drop the shirt I’m washing and lean in to get her attention. “Hey,” I whisper, “have the Breeders ever come here? Do they know we're here?”
Mage shakes her head. “Papa says we're protected. As long as we please the Gods', they'll keep us safe from the Breeders.”
“Huh. That's good, I guess.” I plunge my shirt into the wash while my mind mulls this over. I don't know if I believe the Gods are protecting them, but somehow they've managed to keep their women free this long. Still, this conversation helps confirm that we need to get on the road as soon as possible. I don't want to lead the Breeders here and jeopardize these women's safety. And I don't wanna be caught either.
I unfold a shirt covered in bright green stains. It smells rancid, like rotting death. Suddenly I'm transported back to the clinic in the abandoned town Clay, Ethan, and I found. All those dead bodies killed by an epidemic and stacked on top of each other until they moldered into a giant mound of festering flesh. I reel back, holding the shirt in front of me out like a rotten carcass.
Prema, kneeling at her own basin, looks alarmed. She gets up, lurches over, and snatches the shirt from my hands, a redness creeping into her brown cheeks that I don't understand.
“What is it?” I ask, watching as she balls the shirt up and shoves it deep into her own laundry basket. “What happened to that shirt?”
She shoots me a daggered stare and says nothing. Her rheumy eyes say mind your own business. Little does she know, that's impossible.
“Dinner time,” Prema snaps. The other women finish hanging up their last items and shuffle off toward the aroma of pork wafting down the hallway. Prema points an arthritic finger at me. “Finish up.” She nods at my half-full basket. “If I see you in line and later find that basket has clothes in it, it’ll be a double load for you tomorrow, dust.” She shuffles out, her long skirt shushing behind her.
“Can you hurry?” Mage asks. She bounces onto one of the cracked leather salon chairs and swings her feet. “I'm starving.”
I roll my eyes. She doesn't know what starving means. “Why did she call me dust?”
Mage leans into one of the cracked vanity mirrors and stares at her teeth. “That’s what we call all the outsiders. I guess 'cause people out there are so dusty.”
“Oh.” I walk to the basket where Prema stuffed the T-shirt and drag it out. The green stains look sulfuric in the light, nasty like someone puked up their intestines after eating nuclear waste. “Why did she get so mad when I pulled this out of the bin?” I say, holding the shirt up to Mage. “What happened to this?”
Anxiety floods Mage’s face. “Put it away.”
I tuck it back into the basket. “What's so secret? It's just a dirty shirt.”
She hops off the swivel chair and shoots a look down the hallway, knitting her hands together. “Riley, there's some stuff you shouldn't ask about. Like that,” she says, pointing to the basket.
“Seems like there's a lot I shouldn't ask about.” I turn and fix her with a serious stare. “Are the people sick here? You need to tell me. If we've been infected... if my mother's been infected, or Ethan...” Ange
r surges through me. If they've brought us here just to kill us with their diseases...
Mage shakes her head. “It's not catching.”
“So, there is something wrong with people.” I step closer. “How do you know it's not catching?”
She folds her arms angrily over her flat chest. “I just know, okay. I'm not sick, am I?” She throws up her arms in an I-told-you-so gesture.
“You're the Messiah's daughter; maybe they gave you some... antidote.”
She shakes her head. “None of the women are sick.”
“So, it's just men?” I step back, taking this in. What about Clay, Rayburn? What about Ethan?
Mage takes out another slip of her colored paper and begins rashly folding creases, making angry triangles with her trembling fingers. “I don't know why you’re digging. It's just gonna get us in trouble. My papa wouldn’t like you knowing.”
I step closer, placing my hand over hers, trying to still her frantically folding hands. “Mage.” I wait until she looks up at me, her gray eyes lifting. “Whatever’s going on, I need to know about it. I need to protect my family.”
Mage drops her eyes. “It might be too late for that,” she whispers.
I grip her arm. “What d'you mean?”
She stiffens, her eyes locked on my hand. I pull it off her arm, but the look on her face tells me I've played this all wrong. She stuffs both hands in her jumper pockets and won't look at me. “So, dinner?”
I frown. Another false move. It seems that's the only thing I'm good at lately.
We enter the food court after everyone else. The lines that normally curl around the stalls are thin with everyone already seated at the tables, eating. My stomach grumbles at the roasted meat smell, but the hollow pit that's normally there isn't so hollow anymore. Three square meals, even small ones, are miraculous. I have more energy, more stamina. What would it be like to stay here indefinitely? No days on the road. No Breeders chasing us down. No famine. My eyes fall on Stephen spooning a soupy grain into his mouth. No, this place isn't free. There's always a price to pay.
Mage flits off toward a group of kids her age sitting on a bench near the decaying play area. She doesn't even say good-bye. I've made her mad and it'll take some work to fix what I've broken. I'm thinking this all over when a hand cinches around my wrist and pulls me backward down a dark hallway.
I stumble back, unable to see my assailant. When I open my mouth to scream, another hand wraps around it. I swing back to plant an elbow.
“God, I love it when you're feisty.”
Clay. I stop fighting and whirl around. In the dimness, his features are shadowed: his strong jaw flecked with a week’s worth of stubble, his dark hair rippling over his forehead. A smile rises on his lips as I turn to him.
“I’ve missed you.” I wrap my arms around his neck and tuck myself into him.
He stumbles back, bumping into the wall. His hands circle my back and rub up and down. My heart pounds. He cups my chin and kisses me. My body floods with fire. I press into him, locking my hands around his back. His hands are in my hair, on my face, pulling me closer. We kiss and kiss. I pull back, panting, smiling.
“I missed you,” he says, his voice low and sexy.
“God, you have no idea how much I've wanted to talk to you,” I say, staring into his blue eyes. “This place is so...”
“Messed up,” he says, nodding. His forehead wrinkles. “There's something wrong with the men in the Brotherhood. They're all huge and they have these...sores.”
I nod. “Mage hinted as much. Stay away from 'em much as you can. Try not to touch 'em or drink from their water.”
He leans his head back on the wall. “I tried, but they all share a water bucket and we got no choice but to drink. It's so hot in that damn grow house, we can't go more'n a few minutes without needin' water.” He shakes his head. “Whatever they got, it shouldn't affect you or Ethan. I think he's too young or somethin'. None of the other boys his age seem sick.”
“Clay,” I say, reaching up and touching his cheek, “if you say we go, then we go. I'm not okay with letting you get sick. We'll find a way.”
He sighs heavily. “Yer ma can't travel yet, and I ain't much good on the road neither.” He looks down at his bandaged hand and frowns.
“Is that what this is about? You don't need to protect us on the road. I can worry about that.”
He pulls back. “That's just it. I don't want you to worry 'bout defendin' us. That's my job.” He pounds his chest with his fist. “I was supposed to stop 'em from capturin' us, but I couldn't. I couldn't even keep hold of my goddamned gun.” He tightens a fist on his good hand, the veins on his arm pulsing. “I dropped it.”
I run my hands up over his shoulders. “You're hurt. There's nothing you coulda done.”
“Do you know what my pa woulda done if I'd a dropped my gun like that on a raid?” His eyes are distant.
I shake my head.
“Beat my hide, that's what. Beat me 'til I couldn't walk the next day. Gunslinger never drops his weapon.” He lowers his eyes. “Never.”
“It wasn't your fault.”
“One time,” he says, looking out, his eyes hard blue stones, “I dropped my gun when my horse reared up. I let go to keep hold of the reigns so I didn't fall off and break my damn neck. You know what my pa did?”
I say nothing.
“There weren't another soul around, so it weren't like I needed it or nothing, but you know what he did?” Anger has flooded into his face, making his cheeks flare red.
I shake my head.
Clay balls his fist. “He got off his horse, brushed the dirt off my gun, and hit me right here with the butt,” he lifts the hair and reveals a white scar cutting into his scalp. “Split my head like a melon and it bled like a sumbitch.” Clay swallows, his chest heaving. “I 'member lookin' up, the blood pourin' in my eyes, and there weren't no apology on his face. He stuck out his chin and said, 'Never drop yer gun again.'” Clay stops and presses his eyes closed. When he looks at me, his face is full of pain, anger, and shame. “I was ten.”
“Clay…” What should I say to that? Your father was a goddamn monster? It's a good thing you killed him? I place my hand on his arm and it trembles beneath my palm. “That wasn't your fault and neither was us getting captured. They overpowered us.”
He looks up at me, his jaw locked tight. “They overpowered us because I'm weak.”
“No.” I take his hand, but he pulls it away.
“I don't wanna talk 'bout this,” he snaps. Then he softens. “We should go 'fore they notice we're gone.”
I nod, but feel like a cored apple, empty and centerless. Our moment alone and it turned into this? He strides up, kisses my cheek, and then he's gone, limping into the food court, and I'm left standing alone.
We sit together and eat, Rayburn, Clay, Ethan, and I. The din in the food court covers our silence. People chat at their tables, dishes bang, and children squeal as they tromp around the carousel, hopping from horse to horse or jump on the decaying foam fruit in the play area. My eyes lock on the faded plastic slide that must be a giant watermelon slice, though now it's dirty beige with bits of foam peeking out. The children slide down the bumpy surface, whooping. A little boy jumps off a big banana and lands with a thump. They're so carefree. I look at Ethan, whose sad eyes gaze into the distance and then at Clay, whose anger is still tucked in the corners of his frown. We'll never be careless like that.
“I think I, uh, know where they get their supplies,” Rayburn says.
For a moment, I almost missed it over the din, but then I turn to him. “What'd you say?”
He blinks at me behind his smeared glasses. The acne on his chin looks better since we've been here, not as red and blotchy. With everyone's eyes on him, he seems to shrink. His stutter gets worse. “I, uh, I said that I think, uh, that I know where they get their s-s-supplies.” He shrugs and then scoops a big bite of stringy pork into his mouth.
Clay swivels on him. “W
hat took you so long? Spill. Where do they come from, 'cause I know they can't have snatched it all from inside this mall?”
Rayburn chews and swallows hard. “I'm pretty sure, uh, it all came from the Breeders.”
My insides grow cold. “How?” I say, leaning in. “How could they have supplies from... there?” I can't say the word. My brand seems to tingle.
Rayburn shrugs his bony shoulders; his dirty white button-down hospital shirt hangs loose on his frame. It's amazing how much weight he's lost since we've been on the road. “The van we rode here in was, uh, an old model hospital supply van.” He pauses, gulps, and looks around. “The solar panels are Breeders technology, I think. There are panels like that on the hospital roof.”
I nod him on, prickles crawling up my skin. “They couldn't have done that on their own. Is that how they make girl babies? With Breeders’ technology?”
Rayburn shrugs. He's downplaying his intelligence, blinking behind his smudged glasses. I've seen him do this a few times. He knows more than what he's saying. I lean forward to press him further when Clay speaks.
“So, what're you sayin'? They're in cahoots with the good docs back in Albuquerque? Are they gonna turn us back over to my... to my mother?” Clay rubs a nervous hand through his hair.
Rayburn shrugs again. “Can't tell that.”
I grip the table with clawed fingers. “We gotta get out of here.”
Clay nods. Beside me, Ethan sags. When I look over at him, his eyes have found Mage across the food court. She's flitting from table to table, showing off her paper animals, giving a few away. Her golden hair glows. Ethan watches her, his mouth twisted down. I don't say it, but I think, Give it up, kid. We can't take her where we're going.
After dinner we scrub plates until my already puckered fingers are raw. When we finish I'm so bone tired I can barely keep my eyes open. I ask Mage about seeing my mama again, but she shakes her head. She doesn't seem as mad as before, but the easy comfort we had has flown. I'll have to come up with a way to get her back on my side.
