The Breeders Series: The Complete Box Set

by Katie French

  My neck goes hot. Last night Doc and I snuck across the compound and went into the Lord’s private quarters. We broke about a dozen rules. Are we going to be punished? I flick a glance at Doc, who locks eyes with me and then away. His face is stone. If he thinks it’ll be us, he shows no sign.

  Bukowski and his guards line us up and walk us out of the bunkhouse and into the dim courtyard. Dawn has broken in the east and the sky is pinkish-orange. The air is cool and still. We shuffle in and stand in tense silence.

  In front of us, someone has dragged out a five-foot-tall wooden stand on wheels. The wooden platform has a staircase on one end and a bench in the center. Chills run up my spine at the sight of it.

  Commotion from behind the wooden wall surrounding Merek’s private quarters draws everyone’s attention. Someone is caterwauling behind the fence. Two figures emerge from the open door, dragging a third, a woman making inhuman howling sounds. Lord Merek walks out in his finery, and behind him are all his wives and their children. I count the women in flowing gowns, five in all with about twelve children in tow, all boys ranging from Ethan’s age down to Mina’s brand-new baby. I look for Auntie, but don’t see her in the crowd.

  Guards drag the crying woman up to the stage. It’s Annabell. Her golden tresses are now tangled and grimy, her dress is torn and soiled in several places, and blood trails from a cut above her brow. But it’s the fear in her eyes and the awful squealing that makes my blood pressure rise. What are they going to do to her that they haven’t already done?

  Merek tromps up to the stage, his face stoic, his head held high, his announcer following close behind. Merek lifts his arms for silence and someone clamps a hand over Annabell’s squalling mouth. Muffled cries still squeak through the guard’s big fingers, but now they’re a dampened whimper. I look up at her bruised, bloodied face. What did she do? Is this the punishment she feared for not producing a male heir?

  “My subjects,” his announcer begins. His voice cracks with nerves and he tries again. “My subjects, today we stand in witness of a crime against God and our compound. Annabell, daughter of Lloyd, stands accused of treason, adultery, and theft.”

  At his words, Annabell crumples to her knees. The wailing behind the guard’s big hand grows louder. Could she have done all those things? Or is it a convenient way to get rid of a barren girl?

  “My subjects, you know our lord is a good and merciful leader.” He sweeps a hand around his compound. “You know he is fair and just. But we cannot abide such loathsome debauchery in our compound.”

  Lord Merek looks around at his subjects, seeking acknowledgment on their faces. The people nod as his eyes light on them. I’m in the back and I don’t nod. All I can do is look at Annabell’s terrified eyes. I steel myself for whatever comes next.

  “These crimes cannot stand; Annabell must be punished.” The announcer glances back as a guard walks up the stairs, carrying something in his hands.

  An ax. A giant ax.

  “The penalty for your crimes, Annabell,” Merek looks at her and then grips the ax, “is death.”

  Chapter 13

  Clay

  The next morning when my breakfast tray rattles through the door, it’s Ethan, not Betsy pushing it. He walks in, a big smile on his face.

  “Hey,” I say, sittin’ up. My legs feel numb since they’ve been chained to the damn bed all night. I’ve been forced to use a metal pan to piss in and it wafts an awful stink on the bedside table. I sit forward to block Ethan’s view of it as he situates the cart. “What’s goin’ on, buddy? They let you bring a wanted criminal his breakfast today?” I wink at him.

  He smiles thinly and hands me a hot bowl of oats with cream. “They knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”

  I nod and cup the warm bowl to my chest, feeling chilled. Even alone with me, Ethan is back to acting like a robot. Is someone watching?

  “Thanks for the grub,” I say, takin’ a spoonful. It’s plain and warm and fills my stomach. I eat slowly, tryin’ to stretch out my time with Ethan. “What’s happenin’ out there?” I ask, noddin’ toward the door. “I hope I didn’t get you in trouble yesterday when we tried to bust out.”

  Ethan shrugs. “It’s okay. Mom wasn’t mad at me.”

  “Mom?” I set my spoon down. “You know she ain’t your mom. Hell, she wasn’t even Cole’s mom.”

  Ethan bites his lip and the skin blooms red around his white teeth.

  “She tell you to call her Mom?” I ask, the anger bubblin’ up again. I set my half-eaten bowl on the tray next to the piss container. This conversation is makin’ me lose my appetite. “Ethan, did Nessa make you call her mom?”

  He stares down at my white sheets. “I’m Cole,” he whispers.

  I grip his arm as my chest pounds. “You are not Cole,” I say too loudly. I lower my voice and try again. “Whatever she told you, you don’t have to bring that bullshit in here. You can be honest ’bout what she’s done. I won’t let her hurt you.”

  He lifts his dark eyes up to mine. Dark eyes, not blue like my real brother’s. They were blue, weren’t they?

  “Clay, I’m Cole,” he says with more confidence. “Remember when we snuck into the mercantile and stole all the shopkeeper’s sweets? Pa was so mad.”

  I can’t speak. I sit on the bed and study his face. She must’ve fed him some of my brother’s memories, but he speaks with such gumption she must’ve also taught him to believe he was there somehow. My body is cold, but my head’s hot. I wanna jump outta bed and shake Ethan. But this is not his fault.

  “Please don’t,” I say, tryin’ to stay calm. “Please stop talkin’ like him.”

  “But I’m supposed to help you remember,” Ethan says. “Like the time we took those horses down to Baha. We slept under the stars and Pa played a little guitar. The coyotes howled along with him.” Ethan smiles like he sees it. “He never could sing worth a lick.”

  “Stop.” I sit up, jarrin’ Ethan from his ‘memory.’ “Those aren’t your stories to tell. So stop.” My hands shake. I clutch the mattress to steady the tremble. “Ethan, please stop pretendin’ and tell me the truth.”

  “This is the truth, Clay.” He touches my arm. “I missed you. I wish you could remember.”

  “Get out,” I say, shovin’ him away. “Get out, please!”

  I can’t take this. My head spins. This is Ethan. Ethan, Ethan, Ethan. Cole died. He died in my arms. I put both hands on either side of my head and try to breathe. When I look up, Ethan stands at the open door, lookin’ at me.

  “Clay?”

  I pick up the bowl of oats and throw it at the wall. It shatters and wet goop plops on the ground. Ethan cowers like I hit him and my heart shatters.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, clutchin’ my head. “Sorry. Sorry.” Hot tears puddle into my hands. I don’t know up from down anymore.

  When I finally look up, he’s gone and my door is shut. I lie back on my bed and look up at the crack in my ceiling. Whatever Nessa did to him to make him believe he’s Cole can’t be good for the boy’s brain. And whatever she thinks she’s doin’ by this, it sure ain’t drawin’ us closer together. I hate that vile bitch.

  Oh God, Cole. I think of that night in Baja. Pa played a little six-string guitar and sung so bad, the coyotes howled along in the distance. He grinned big and Cole grinned big right back. I was surly and quiet at thirteen and wishin’ to God he’d shut up and let us sleep. But Pa never didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought.

  And now he’s dead and Cole is too and I’m the only soul left from that trip who remembers that night. So how in the hell does Nessa know that memory?

  My belly bundles into knots at that thought. Cole can’t be alive. And Cole can’t be Ethan. Things have tumbled ’round so much in my head that the sharp edges are dulled. Soon, if my mother has her way, I won’t remember the difference between Cole’s face and Ethan’s.

  Sirens.

  I sit bolt upright in bed, my ankles clangin’ the cuffs against the bed post. My r
oom’s dim, almost dark. Sweat’s puddled under my back from the heat. What time is—

  A jet thunders over. The engines buzz close, closer than when they dropped that bomb on the Hercules. We must be under attack again.

  “Hey!” I yell to whoever might be around. “What’s goin’ on?”

  Something explodes. The boom is loud and the ground rumbles. Are they droppin’ bombs?

  “Hey!” I yell. “Hey!”

  Another explosion. This one’s closer. I smell smoke. Outside, soldiers yell and run down the hallway.

  I can’t be locked in here. Not like this.

  The door bursts open. I tense my body, ready to fight. Nessa runs in. Her hair’s wild, her eyes too. She holds a pistol in one hand and keys in the other. Without a word, she begins unlocking my ankle cuffs.

  “What’s happened?” I ask. One cuff comes off, but before the other is free she snaps what feels like another cuff on the ankle she just released. “What the hell?”

  “It’s a remote-operated cuff. If you try to run or if I don’t enter my pass code in every ten minutes, 100,000 volts goes from this”—she holds up a little black remote— “to this.” She taps the device strapped to my ankle. “Same idea if you pry the cuff off.” Then she undoes my other ankle. “Let’s go.”

  I stand up, my legs shaky and weak. I give them a couple good pumps and look at Nessa. Another bomb explodes, closer this time, close enough to rattle the whole room.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?” I look toward the open doorway.

  Nessa digs out another pistol and hands it to me, but not before trainin’ her own on my chest. “No funny business. Fight for our side or we’ll all be dead. Got it?”

  I nod, though my brain is practically smokin’ with all the thoughts of escape. Can I shoot off the cuff? If I shoot Nessa before she can reach her gun or use the taser remote, what then? I’ll have ten minutes to somehow get the cuff off, but the black band looks impenetrable. I don’t have time to contemplate the rest. She pushes me out the open door and into the hallway.

  This building is eerily silent and dark. Like the power’s gone out. Moonlight streams in from the open front door. Men in uniform stream past as we step out. Everyone is runnin’ in different directions. Who’s in charge?

  “They’ve bombed us twice and both were direct hits on officer housing. Somehow they knew.” She grimaces, her pinched face makin’ her look older. “We think they’re out of bombs. Our intel says they’re going to make a frontal assault on the main gate. If they come in here…” She sighs and pulls another pistol out of the holster under her arm. “Clay, they’ll wipe out everyone. Us, Betsy, Cole.”

  “Ethan,” I murmur, staring toward the front gate. “What kind of fire power they got?”

  “Whatever they can get their hands on. How they got bombs and planes operational is beyond me, but then I’m not in the briefing meetings.”

  Gunfire erupts in the distance. She tenses and jogs forward. “Follow me.”

  I watch my mother run down the moonlit street, gun in hand, and wonder what the hell I should do. I could run, find Ethan, and try to get out, but the place is a madhouse and if she’s tellin’ the truth, we’d drive into a bigger nightmare than we’re already in. Plus, if I don’t follow, she’ll tase me and probably leave me to die. My only chance is to follow Nessa, assess the situation, wait ’til she’s distracted and run. I jog after Nessa, testin’ my injured hand around the heavy metal grip. It’s still slow. Better, but slow. I switch over to my left.

  Damn, it feels good to have a gun in my hand.

  The smell of gunpowder and the clatter of artillery snap my brain into fighter mode. Down the street the grunts have set up a makeshift barricade at the front gates. Tables, planks, even large sheets of siding from some of the abandoned buildings are stacked up at the entrance. Men are stationed at intervals behind it, rifles and pistols pointed through the holes. A couple of Jeeps are also parked with more grunts behind. I do a head count and come up with about forty men. Where are the rest of ’em?

  If this is their defense force, me with one goddamned pistol ain’t gonna do a damn bit of good. I should get Ethan and find me a back door.

  Nessa spots me and waves me to where she’s crouched behind a huge wooden table. When I pause, she holds up the cuff remote and points to it. I jog over, rollin’ my eyes.

  “If you expect me to fight, woman, don’t wave that remote in my face.”

  She frowns. “You looked like you needed reminding.”

  I laugh. “You can’t afford to tase me. You got a handful of men and they look about ten days outta diapers.”

  “These maniacs,” —she says, gesturin’ wildly toward her enemy— “will show no mercy.”

  I don’t know if this is another lie or not, but I’ve got no way to find out. I pull my gun up to my chest and nod to a kid beside us who’s not much older than Ethan. “Where’s everyone else?”

  She frowns, combing her fingers through her ginger hair. “I don’t know.”

  Gunshots crack out from the darkness beyond the barricade, and two bullets smash into the Jeep ten feet from us. All the grunts tense and aim for the darkness.

  “They’re just testing us,” Nessa calls out to the men. “Save your bullets.” Then she looks back at me. “Most of the boys here have only begun arms training. Keep an eye on them.”

  “Me?” I look around at the pale-faced boys hunkered down around us. “Why me?”

  She looks me over before answerin’. “Because you’ve seen battle and you know what to do.”

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “I’ll have my hands full.” With that, she slinks around the barricade and creeps off into the shadows. Where’s she goin’? Then I think, I could run now. Run and get Ethan and find a back way out. Would she know to activate the cuff?

  That’s when the shootin’ begins.

  Orange streaks blast into wood and metal with awful shreddin’ noises. The Jeep’s windshield shatters, sending the fresh-faced boys cowerin’. A boy beside me drops his gun on the concrete and hides behind the Jeep. My pa woulda answered that sloppiness with a smart punch to the jaw. His desperate eyes meet mine. He’s maybe seventeen, with cropped blond hair, pointed nose, and a thin mouth. His uniform is splattered with something that stinks. Vomit? Probably his own. I pretend not to see it.

  “Don’t lose this.” I pick up his gun and hand it to him. “Looks like you’re gonna need it.”

  His lower lip trembles. “How many are coming?” He points into the dark where more orange streaks scream toward us and crash into the barricade.

  I shake my head. “Take it one at a time.”

  He nods, turns back toward the darkness, and cracks off three shots.

  Shootin’ into the dark ain’t my style, though. I watch from a hole between a table and a huge piece of aluminum siding. They’ve got to reveal their position somehow. Only then does it make sense to fire.

  More bullets ping into wood and metal. More terrified boys shoot into the dark. Where in the hell is someone to tell these greenies what to do? It’s every goddamned man for himself.

  At the deep rumble of an engine, everyone holds their fire. I slip my head up over the Jeep hood and peer into the dark. In the cloud-speckled moonlight, a large shape moves up the road, headin’ directly for our barricade. Grindin’ gears and crunchin’ pavement means it’s a big vehicle, but what in God’s name is it?

  A red flare bursts to life in the distance, illuminatin’ the beast. A true-as-life tank churns up the road, creakin’ and growlin’, the long barrel aimed at our pile of junk barricade. And runnin’ away from the flare that gave us a peek? Nessa Vandewater, her hair flyin’ like red fire, tearing into the darkness.

  She did a brave thing, runnin’ into enemy lines to let us know where they are, but then I think of the taser anklet I wear.

  Guns fire on all sides. My mother dives off and disappears. And I have something to shoot at. I turn and aim at the enemy.<
br />
  There’s thirty, forty, fifty odd men in various states of dress and armament marchin’ alongside the tank. All wear white surgical facemasks painted in grotesque colors. Some look like animal mouths, some like red splashes of blood. I see rifles, handguns, crossbows, hatchets. So they aren’t as well-armed as I first thought. I suck in a deep breath. It’s been a while since I had myself a good ol’ fashioned gun battle.

  Then all thought drops away as the tank’s rifle swivels toward us and takes aim at our barricade.

  “Run!” I yell.

  I sprint sideways and grab the collar of the grunt boy beside me and haul him along. Several others have the sense to follow, but a few just stare as we bolt for cover.

  The tank fires.

  The explosion is huge; a blast like a giant hand swats me forward. I fly into the concrete and tumble. When I roll onto my back, I lay for a moment, tryin’ to breathe, tryin’ to hear. The tank fired on our barricade. Slowly, I push up to my elbows and peer over.

  What used to be our barricade is an open mouth scattered with wreckage. One Jeep lies on its side, top tires spinnin’ uselessly. A few men lie dead and charred on the pavement. One poor soul with his legs missin’ below the kneecaps screams for his mama. I drag my eyes away from the carnage to the enemy tank. The rest of their army cheers and surges toward the now-open gate. They’ll be on us in seconds.

  “Get up!” I push to my feet and drag up two stunned soldiers, then a third. I shake them and whirl them around. “Those bastards are gonna kill you. Kill them first.” The boys nod, pull out guns, and take aim. I find my pistol, blown a few feet away by the tank blast, and take cover. I crouch up behind a Jeep and wave the men over. All accounted for, there’s six of us. I see another group linin’ up on the other side of the gate. Two dozen remaining men is not enough to defend against this army, but it’s all we got.

  The tank grinds closer.

  “Listen,” I say, wipin’ sweat from my face with my sleeve, “we gotta get this right the first time. No second chances. When you see an enemy face,” I point, “put a bullet in it. Got that?” The boys nod. The one closest to me is cryin’ quietly, but he nods.