by Katie French
I walk by rows and rows of exhausted benders, eyes red, fingers black, faces void of hope.
This isn’t right. These people should be free.
Doc touches my elbow to keep me moving. Mister glares at us from a bunk he seems to have all to himself. I walk where Doc leads, my eyes on the floor.
In a back corner, Nada waits on a top bunk, swinging her legs like a child. One hand runs nervously back and forth over her buzzed hair. When she sees us, she jumps down and springs toward us.
“Everything okay?” she asks, looking at Doc. “Mister looked pissed.”
“If Mister ever stopped looking pissed, I’d worry,” Doc says, waving a dismissive hand in that direction. “He knows not to mess with me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I’ve known people like Mister before. They’re the ‘punch first, think later’ type. I wouldn’t be so cocky if I were you.”
Doc turns on me, his eyebrow raised again. “You sure do talk a lot.”
I shrug. “So do you. Which bunk’s mine?”
He points to the one next to his and Nada’s. “Last bender who bunked with us is gone. Either dead or wishing he was.” Doc slides his eyes over to me to make sure I’ve caught his drift, then continues. “I didn’t manage to get you sheets or a pillow,” he says. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, sitting on the bottom bunk.
Nada sits beside me and Doc stands facing us, his eyes roving around the bunkhouse.
“Who do you think will enter?” Nada asks him, bouncing on my bed nervously.
Doc looks at her absentmindedly. “Hmm?”
“The contest,” she says. “Mister for sure and Dareen, but probably Angel and Frida, too. Maybe Joe?”
Doc sits on the bed beside ours with a squeaky protest of springs. “I don’t care who enters. It’ll be a lot of stitches and tourniquets for me.” He sighs. “That man’s a menace.”
Nada’s eyes widen. “Don’t let them hear you say that,” she whispers.
Doc shakes his head. “The guards are gone and don’t think I haven’t heard every single one of these benders say the exact same thing behind closed doors.”
Still, Nada gnaws her lower lip. “Do you think Charlie will enter?”
“Why do you care so much?” he asks, getting up and fiddling with his own padlocked footlocker. He brings out a comb and runs it through his hair.
Nada gnaws her lower lip and jiggles the bed again with a squeak, squeak, squeak. I put my hand on her knee to stop her.
“I’m entering the contest and you can’t stop me,” she says in a burst of words.
Doc stops combing and stares at her. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” she says, jutting out her chin.
“I’m entering, too, not that you’d care,” I say.
Doc glances at me, but turns his full attention to Nada. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
She pulls her knees up onto the mattress and folds her arms around them. “I’m not being ridiculous. You know as well as me that one of these days I’m going to end up blown sky high like Larry or Benson. Working in the powder might as well be a death sentence.”
My ears prick up at that. I work in the powder.
“I’m getting you out of there,” he hisses. “I told you that.”
Nada shakes her head, her body trembling now. “Can you get me free, too? Can you do that?”
Doc looks hurt. “Nada.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He stands, his face flushing, and leans into the bunk, towering over Nada. “If Dad knew what you were thinking—”
“Dad’s dead,” she says, her eyes filling with tears. “He died so that we could be free.”
Doc flinches at this and his eyes find me. “You’re encouraging this,” he says, sitting down on the mattress beside ours with a huff.
I shake my head. “I don’t think Nada should do it.”
She shoots me a hurt look.
“But I see where she’s coming from,” I add. “No one should be forced to live as a slave. Even if it means fighting against crazy odds. It’s just like taking on the Breeders; that seemed insane, too.” I go quiet, thinking of Clay and Ethan. But we didn’t win, did we? All we did was delay our capture.
“You were taken by the Breeders?” Nada whispers, eyes wide.
I glance around, making sure the other benders aren’t listening. “They wanted to put a baby in me, but we got away.” Images flash through my head—Clay killing his father, Betsy being dragged away by Breeder’s guards, Rayburn (poor, sweet Rayburn) driving the van.
Nada watches me carefully. “Maybe you can win the tournament,” she says with wonder. “If you do, take me with you.”
“She can’t win the tournament,” Doc says, flopping back on his mattress. “And she can’t take you with her.” He pulls out an old hardback book from his locker and buries his nose in it.
Nada makes a face at him and turns back to me. “If you win, will you take me?”
“There’s someone else here I’ve promised to save.” I smile sadly, thinking of Auntie. Where is she right now?
Her frown deepens. “I have to enter.” She gets up.
I put a hand on her arm to stop her. “I still think it’s a bad idea for you to enter.”
She looks at me for a beat and climbs the ladder. Her weight settles into a depression on the mattress above. I stare at the interlocking metal springs for a while, thinking all this over. I’d hate to face Nada in battle. If it came down to it, could I beat her up for a chance at freedom? Could I kill her—kill anyone for that matter? It won’t come to that. I can’t kill just for a shot at freedom. I doubt Merek wants to kill off half his labor force for sport anyway. Plus, Nada’ll be knocked out in the first round and I won’t have to face her.
The bunkhouse’s lights go dark. Thin slivers of moonlight peek through barred windows, making the room a landscape of shadows. Around me, sleeping noises pick up, the wheezing breath of the bender two rows down. The quiet murmur of voices across the room. The squeak of springs. Do benders have sex with each other? I guess they must, based on the noises coming from somewhere to my left. My brain runs with this thought for a while, but my body is tired and my eyelids droop.
Sleep comes hard and fast.
Waking up comes even faster. There’s a hand on my mouth and another on my arm, yanking me out of bed. Panic blasts the fatigue away. My eyes snap open.
Mister hovers over me with a pocket knife aimed at my eye socket.
“Make a sound and you’ll need an eye patch,” he whispers in my ear.
I stare up at the blade inches from my cornea. I nod dumbly.
He drags me off the mattress and into a standing position, his dirty hand still clamped over my mouth and the knife never wavering from my eye. I flick a glance at Doc, willing him to wake, but he’s turned toward the wall and isn’t stirring. Neither is Nada. A few benders look up from their bunks as we pass, but their eyes snap down again when they see Mister. I shoot them pleading looks. They ignore me.
Mister’s hand clamps tight on my arm and he leads me to a side door that’s been cracked open. He shoves me out into the moonlight.
A guard with a gun strapped to his back regards us with interest. Mister hands him a small package and the guard nods. “Five minutes.”
Mister chuckles low under his breath. “It won’t take me five minutes to teach this fresh meat a lesson.”
Chapter 9
Clay
Cole.
The word hits me like a hammer to my brain. I clutch the banister and stare up at Ethan and my mother.
“What did you say?” I whisper.
“He said his name is Cole.” Nessa narrows her eyes at me. “Your brother, Cole.”
“No.” I stumble back. My head blares with a dull pain. My mouth’s dry. “No.”
Nessa leads Ethan down the steps, her red nails still clamped on his shoulder. “I told you I wanted to make it up to you,” she says, smilin
’ again. “This is how I do it. I bring your life back.”
“I don’t want this life,” I say, glancing ‘round the room. “Ain’t none of this real.” I stride over to Ethan and place my hands on his shoulders. “You don’t hafta lie. You can tell the truth. You’re Ethan.”
He stares up at me with big, brown eyes. His hair’s been cut, no shaggy locks to toss away. He looks between me and Nessa.
“I’m Cole.” He pauses. “Your brother.”
I drop my hold on his shoulders and take a step back. “What did she do to you?”
He says nothing, but his face pinches. Anger boils in my brain at the sight of his confusion. My eyes snap up to Nessa.
She frowns, one hand on her hip. “You aren’t very grateful, young man.”
“Grateful for this…lie?” I ask, narrowin’ my eyes. “Grateful for this manipulation?”
Anger burns like flash powder in my brain. I lunge for her, one hand wrappin’ around her throat. Her eyes widen, but then narrow to snake-like slits. Her hand moves fast, jutting forward into my ribcage. An object, slender and cool, presses against my chest. At first I think gun, but the shape is too rectangular.
She smiles.
The current hits me like a punch. Raw and snappin’, it electrifies my body, like eels wrigglin’ through my blood, lightin’ me up. I fall and convulse. My muscles aren’t my own. My brain—my brain burns.
Oh God, Riley. I’ll die before I see her again.
Then it’s over. I sizzle like overdone bacon on the floor. Muscles twitch. My breathing stutters. The warm puddle under me has to be my own piss, but I’m too broken to be ashamed. My hospital gown flaps open, showin’ my bare ass to all. Somewhere behind me, Betsy sobs.
“Take him back to his room,” my mother says, like I been a naughty boy.
You’re the naughty one, I think. And I’m gonna kill ya.
Michael hauls my useless body up and smirks in my face. “Nice work, mama’s boy,” he whispers in my ear as he pulls me backward. “Now I gotta strip you down and wipe your ass like a baby.” He chuckles as he clunks me down the steps, my heels bangin’ into the wood with a thud, thud, thud. He throws me into a Jeep and drives me back to my room.
How have I been reduced to this snivelin’, useless sonovabitch? If my pa were here, he’d laugh and probably beat me for good measure.
Slowly, my muscles begin to awaken, but they’re twitchy and mostly useless. I think about throwin’ myself from the Jeep, but a fall right now would leave me crippled on the concrete and more broken than before. I can’t believe she tased me. I can’t believe she’s makin’ Ethan say he’s Cole.
Just thinkin’ about Cole opens a raw wound deep in my heart. The images flash before me, an awful slideshow of nightmares—the flashy sports car on the side of the road, me getting out to see it, the marauders’ faces as they sprung out, Cole bleedin’. It was my fault I couldn’t protect him and now Ethan, who I love like a brother, is in danger and I still did nothing. The helplessness eats at me like a festerin’ sore. I need to bust out of here or die tryin’. There’s no way I’ll live with myself if I can’t.
Michael cuffs my wrists, drags me back to my room, throws me on the bed, and stares down at me in disgust.
“You can sleep in your own piss, mama’s boy,” he says, one lip curled up. “It’ll teach you to use the potty like the big boys.”
“You won’t feel so big when I put a bullet in your guts,” I say, my voice flat.
“Keep on threatening me.” He gives my bed a kick. “Your mama won’t always be around to protect you.”
I roll over and face the wall. When he gets no response from me, he kicks the bed again, and slams the door. Moments later, the lights snap off and I’m left in darkness.
Curling up on the bed, my wet hospital gown stickin’ to my thighs, all I can think is, Least Riley ain’t here to see this. Then I spend the moments before sleep comes tryin’ to remember the exact color of her eyes.
Light on my eyelids draws me out of a heavy cotton sleep. I blink, tryin’ to adjust. My head is thicker than a bull’s dick and my throat’s like desert hardpan. Slowly shapes come into focus. I snap up.
I’m not in the little room with the bed and the beepin’ monitors. I’m not in a piss-covered hospital gown, neither. This room might as well be my old bedroom when I lived with my pa. The dresser’s new, not chipped and cracked on one corner from when I dropped it haulin’ it up the stairs. The sheets are new, too—white, crisp things that slip beneath my hands. But there, on the wall to my left, hangs the framed picture of Derek Jeter that he signed long ago. Not that I loved baseball or anything. Not that his autograph is worth a witch’s damn now, but most art and pictures didn’t survive, so any that do are collected and traded by the well-to-do. And I just liked it. Jeter’s got this look on his face that lets you know he thinks he’s a badass. When I was ten, I thought I was a badass, too. The glass is missing and the mahogany frame’s dented all to hell, but I swear to God it’s the one from my house. And why wouldn’t it be? Nessa must’ve looted the whole damn place and brought it here.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and realize I’m free to move around. No chains, no handcuffs. My clothes are simple—a white T-shirt that fits perfect and black cotton pants with draw strings. No shoes on my feet, nor any about. I tiptoe over the wooden floor, careful not to alert whoever might be lurkin’ downstairs, and make my way to the window.
A glance to the street below reveals daylight, midmornin’ by the looks of things. The rest of the abandoned houses and the street are dead quiet. There’s a Jeep parked in the driveway, but only one. I see no guards, no sign of my mother. Carefully, I pull up on the window.
Alarms begin blarin’ deep in the house, an awful bleat, bleat sound like a dyin’ sheep. Footsteps thunder up the stairs. Panicked, I rear my elbow back and smash it into the glass. Pain blasts up my arm and the glass stays put. I look for something to throw. If I can smash the glass, I can jump—
The door bangs open. Mike, my friendly neighborhood jerkoff, barrels in with a taser. He lifts one corner of his mouth menacingly. “I was hoping you’d try a run for it,” he says, steppin’ forward, the taser out. It snaps with angry electricity.
I ready my body for a fight.
“Now, really, Michael,” Nessa says from the doorway, “is this how we treat our guests?”
Nessa’s dressed like Suzy Homemaker. A frilly apron is tied at her waist and her hair is down in large, bouncin’ curls. She wears a black-and-white polka dot dress and black patent leather flats. The red nails are still there, though. They’re the crack in her façade, the mark of the beast. She ain’t no homemaker.
Nessa takes a step into the room and pushes Mike out. He reluctantly turns off his taser, glares at me, and disappears. My mother takes his place.
“Well,” she places a hand on her hip, “what do you think?”
“About?” I ask. I’m still scannin’ the room for something to throw out the window. The dresser maybe.
“About this house? Your belongings? I’m sure you recognize them.” She points to the framed Jeter poster, then to a stack of novels on the nightstand beside the bed.
“So you got some trash from my old life. Great work. It means diddly.” I take a step toward the bed, sweep my arm down, and knock the books off the nightstand.
She glances at the splayed books and up at me. “You’re being petulant.”
“You’re being psycho. I woke up completely dressed and in another location. Stop druggin’ me. Stop messin’ with my head!”
She purses her lips and sniffs, her hand still clenched around her thin waist. “You haven’t even thanked me for your hand.”
I look down at my mended hand and flex it. It works better, actually, but I don’t want her to know that little tidbit. “I never asked you to heal me.”
“No,” she says, stridin’ in her long graceful steps to the window. “You never asked me to bring you here or take care of y
ou and your brother. You never asked me to save you from the hellish death the warden was planning for you.”
I study her as I think this over. “Warden doesn’t have enough sense to get out of a wet cardboard box. He didn’t stand a chance against me.”
“He had your location all along. He knew about the mall.”
At the mention of the mall, I freeze. “How—”
“I stopped him. I paid him so he wouldn’t draw and quarter you in the town square.”
Suddenly I feel chilled. “My friends woulda—”
“Would have what?” she asks, cuttin’ me off. “Would have come to your aide just like your friend Kimber? Do you know what the warden promised Kimber to betray you?”
I say nothing. My heart beats a tribal chant in my chest.
She eyes me coldly. “A horse. Warden offered Kimber a horse. An old mare with a bowed back and ten teeth in her head. That,” she says with a nod, “is what your life is worth to him.”
I swallow hard and turn to the window. Goddamn Kimber. Me and him used to ride out together when we was just kids. He taught me how to drive a stick shift, gave me nudey mags when my pa wasn’t lookin’. Heat floods my body and my knees feel weak.
“Clay,” she says softly, takin’ a step toward me, “life doesn’t always have to be a fight.” She takes another step. She’s an arm’s length away, close enough I can smell her perfume. “I don’t always have to be your enemy.”
“Why?” My head’s all messed up. I don’t know what to think when I look into irises the same color as my own.
“Why do I want this relationship?” she asks, gesturin’ between herself and me.
I nod, slow and heavy. I’m so tired.
“You’re my son.” She takes the final step and puts a hand on my arm. I flinch, but she grips tighter. “I love you.”
I look in her face. It’s soft, even maternal. But, she’s the enemy. She took Riley away. I yank my arm out of her grasp and step back until my shoulders bump into the wall. “No,” I whisper. “I won’t forget what you done. Not until you bring Riley back.”
