The Butchers

by Katie French

  The walk is long and hard. Each step down the sand-blown highway seems the same, almost like we’re standing still. After a few hours, we’re halfway through the jugs of water. Ethan’s starting to cough, shoulder slumped, his chatter now gone. Clay is a solemn presence on the road—eyes and ears alert. His hands linger at his hips even though we haven’t heard a peep. Nothing stirs tonight. The air feels dead.

  “Are we almost there?” Ethan’s voice is small, but it echoes through the silence.

  Clay shushes him more harshly than he should, but if we slip up out here, we could all end up dead. “Just up the road a stretch.”

  Ethan sulkily kicks at a rock and keeps walking with his head down. I pick up the pace and walk beside him, unslinging my canteen and offering it to him. He pushes it away.

  “Hey,” I say, studying his face in the moonlight. “You wanted to come along.”

  He doesn’t answer, but his shoulders rise and fall.

  I offer him the canteen again. “Drink. You’re no use to us if you fall down dead.”

  “I’m no use to you anyway,” he says to the ground.

  Slinging the canteen back over my shoulder, I put my hand on his back. “Is that what this is about? You’re useful to us. We need you around. Who would help Clay with the traps? Who would watch Mo?”

  “Yeah, Mo,” he says huffily. “She’s all you can think about anyway.”

  “Ethan, that’s not true.”

  “Hush,” Clay says.

  He’s standing at the top of a rise I didn’t know we were climbing. His rigid stance and gun in his hand turn on all my sensors. Pushing Ethan behind me, I draw out my empty shotgun. “Stay here,” I whisper as I creep up to the top of the ridge.

  But as I get up to Clay, I can smell the smoke, a curl of it chuffing up into the air.

  I gasp as the valley below us comes into view.

  The gas station is burned nearly to the ground. Recently, too, since it’s still burning. From the looks of things, someone dropped a torch into the underground tanks, and there was an explosion. Fire ate the gas pumps, the canopy, and the convenience store. The charred rubble lays in piles on the ground. What little is standing is twisted metal and melted plastic. Half of the canopy still stands on charred pillars, but the roofing materials are blackened and drooping into strips. Faded turquoise and gold lettering reads, “NE STOP.”

  “Who would burn all that fuel?” I whisper to Clay as Ethan presses his body against mine. I put my arm around him.

  Clay sniffs the air, scanning, searching. He points his withered hand toward two fire-eaten vehicles parked off to the side. “Bet if we go down there, there’s bodies in or around those trucks. Somebody came for gas, but either got double-crossed or made one hell of a mistake.”

  “Smoking while siphoning gas? Are people really that damn stupid?” I ask.

  “You know as well as I do how dumb some of these ranchers are.”

  His explanation makes sense, but something still feels off. “If they set the fire on accident, why would all of the tanks and the gas station be burned?”

  “Fire burnt and spread. It’s dry as a bitch out here.” Clay takes the safety off his revolver and gives me a quick look. “I’m goin’ down. Stay here.”

  I snort. “When have I ever stayed put when you wanted me to?”

  “About never.” He starts forward.

  Ethan grips my shirt in his fist. “Don’t even think about telling me to stay put.”

  It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “You stick to me like glue.”

  He nods, looking excited and nervous at the same time.

  Taking a deep breath, the three of us creep down the hill toward the smoldering rubble. I’m on alert as is Clay, gun out, eyes scanning. The smoke is worse here, acrid and thick. Black streams of it pour out of holes in the cracked pavement where the holding tanks must’ve been. We enter from the back side, away from the burnt trucks and the store. In front is a set of air pumps untouched by fire but eaten instead by time and decay. The word AIR is still visible on the peeling blue sticker stuck to the metal contraption. My eyes flit from that to the two charred gas pumps closest to us. We stride past, holding our breath and looking to the two cars parked beside it. If there’s anyone here, they’ll be waiting inside.

  I glance at Clay, his face hard, his eyes focused. If he thought anyone was still here, he wouldn’t have us walking in the open like this. He stops us just outside the glassless front doors and holds up a hand. I want to protest, but I have Ethan clinging to my shirt, so I watch as the love of my life walks inside.

  It’s dark. I can’t see him past the doorway littered with bits of glass and brittle pieces of charred paper. Inside, the blackened shelves are empty of course. This store would’ve been looted long ago.

  A tug on my sleeve. “Riley.”

  I raise the gun, turning to him, but see he’s gazing toward the cars. My eyes follow where he’s looking.

  “Lord in Heaven,” I breathe, feeling my lungs hitch. “Clay!”

  He comes running. “What is it?”

  I have no words. I point instead.

  “Dear God. Who would do that?”

  We stare at the bodies, four of them, two big and two small. The smaller shapes are toddlers, have to be. The family was tied together in a circle in front of the charred vehicles, back to back, heads down, their forms now lumps of charcoal.

  That’s what started the blaze.

  Their bodies.

  Clay

  I pull Riley and Ethan away, but it’s too late. They’ve already seen.

  Who would murder a family like that? Tied together, helpless.

  Set on fire.

  The ache in my throat stings as I pull my own shocked family away from the mess. Riley makes strange swallowin’ sounds, but comes. Ethan seems stuck, starin’. I pick him up and carry him away. Up the hill where he can’t see it anymore.

  “Who . . . who did that, Clay?” he whispers into my shoulder.

  I hold him close as I huff him up the hill. “Bad men. But don’t worry. No bad men can get you when I’m around.”

  He goes limp in my arms.

  I never shoulda brought him.

  When we get to the top of the hill, I set him down and reach for Riley, who’s just crestin’ the top. “I’m okay,” she says as I reach for her hand.

  Noddin’, I help her up the last few steps. “Think he’s okay?”

  Riley looks down at where Ethan is sittin’ in the dirt. “He’s seen just as bad before. God,” she says, runnin’ a hand down her face. “Wish he’d stayed at home tonight.”

  “My fault,” I say, watchin’ Ethan. “I’m the dumbass who said he should come.”

  “We didn’t know.” She paces back and forth, workin’ fingers through her chin-length hair. “Clay, how’re we gonna get to Corra now?”

  When I meet her eyes, tears have already formed. Pullin’ her into my arms, I hold her tight. Those bodies. Somebody killed ’em for the hell of it. Children, too.

  “No gas, so we can’t drive. Maybe I’ll have to hoof it.”

  “Thirty miles?” she says. I can feel her breath against my neck. “You’d never make it. Not enough water.”

  “I can find some.”

  She shakes her head, the smooth skin of her cheek rubbin’ against my neck. “I can’t lose you again.”

  “Hey, guys.”

  We both look up to see Ethan standin’ and gazin’ toward a clump of scrub. Riley lets go of me and jogs to him. I follow right behind.

  “You okay, munchkin?” she asks, takin’ his arm.

  He points. “Look.”

  In the moonlight, I strain my eyes toward what he’s pointin’ at. Off the side of the highway, I see plain old scrub and juniper trees. He seems to be pointin’ toward a thick clump of them a little ways off the road.

  Movement.

  My gun is in my hand as fast as wildfire.

  “Horse,” Ethan whispers, a slow smile creepin’ acros
s his face.

  Damned if he ain’t right. We walk over, and there are three horses. That poor family tied their horses here before going down to check things out. Smart. Too bad it didn’t save them.

  Still, it might save us.

  I walk over to the horses and they shy away, whinnyin’ and tuggin’ against the ropes.

  “Easy there,” I murmur, comin’ up slow. They watch me carefully, two plain brown mares and a white-and-black stallion. Where the hell this family found horses still alive is beyond me. Unless . . . stealin’ horses is what got them dead.

  I hold my hand out, palm down, toward one of the mares. She backs away, bumpin’ into her sister, but allows my touch. Her skin is warm, bristly fur flickerin’ under my hand. Her head swings around as much as it can and huffs into my hair.

  “Hello, girl. What say you come along with us?”

  When I look up, both Ethan and Riley are watchin’. “We never had a horse,” Ethan says, his eyes big with want.

  Riley puts her hand on his shoulder. “Most people didn’t.”

  “We had one. Saddle was his name. Great horse. They ain’t easy to come by,” I say, strokin’ my hand down the horse’s long neck to her back. They’re well taken care of despite bein’ tied to this tree for a day or so. “They need water,” I say, checkin’ saddlebags on the mare’s flank. I find one waterskin half empty. Riley digs around in her pack until she finds a sheet of plastic and holds the corners until we create a makeshift bowl. When I pour the water in, all three horses crowd around and lap thirstily.

  “Give ’em all we got,” I say, searchin’ in the other horses’ packs for more water. I find another plastic jug and pour it into the makeshift water trough as the horses continue to drink. Then, while they’re drinkin’, I walk around and inspect the saddles still strapped to their backs. The leather is worn but repaired in places where it was frayed. And one of the mares is hitched to a cart, still filled with supplies. Everything about these horses suggests that dead family down there were good people. Or at least smart enough not to abuse their transportation.

  “Once they’ve drank, can we ride them back?” Riley asks.

  “They’re tame enough, I think. I’ll take the male. You two can have the mares. Ever ridden before?”

  Ethan shakes his head. Riley says, “Not very confident about my horsing abilities.”

  I run my hand down the horse closest to me. “I’m tryin’ hard as hell not to make a horse joke right now.”

  She rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

  “Right. No horse jokes. Let’s get a move on.”

  We make it back to the camp in less than an hour. All three animals seem eager to trot now that they aren’t tied to the tree. Ethan’s a natural, holdin’ the reins and usin’ the stirrups to keep his rear from slammin’ against the saddle.

  “This is great!” he hollers.

  “Keep it down,” I say, but I can’t help smilin’.

  Beside me on one of the brown mares, Riley’s face is tight.

  “You can relax. You got the most docile of the three.”

  “It isn’t the horse,” she says, glancin’ down at the animal between her legs. “It’s those people. Or rather, whoever killed them. I thought we were free of bandits here.”

  “We ain’t never free of bandits, really.”

  “I know, but I just thought . . . I just thought we’d gone far enough away.”

  “The world is shit,” I say, a heat flarin’ up in my chest. “The people in it are all out for survival and don’t give a God damn if it means killin’ someone else.”

  “But what could that family have done that deserved that?” She blinks and rubs her eyes with one hand. “They were children, Clay.”

  “Riders maybe,” I say, scannin’ behind us. “Sacrifice to the Good Mother.”

  “They don’t set their victims on fire.” Riley looks ahead at Ethan. I’m sure she’s remembering when him and her was almost sold to the Riders.

  “Different set of beliefs, maybe. Ain’t no tellin’ what folks that crazy will do.”

  She frowns. “Awful.” She pauses. “Here’s another thing that bothers me. Riders are all about horses. They would’ve found these. Those two cars were decades old.”

  “Maybe they missed ’em. Maybe they were wounded. We can’t know for sure.”

  “Will we make it, Clay? Will these horses get us to Corra before Mo . . .”

  She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to. I wish I could hold her again, run my fingers through her hair, but she’s far away.

  “We’ll make it,” I say, even though I wouldn’t bet paper money on it.

  She needs hope. We all do. Sometimes hope is all that keeps you steppin’.

  We spot our cluster of buildings just as the sun is turning the east pink. Auntie comes out to the road, her dirty shapeless dress flutterin’ around her ankles. Her feet are bare and she’s wearin’ the eye patch Riley found for her. She’s a goddamned pirate, a buccaneer. She’s got to be in her sixties, but I’d wager she’ll live longer’n I do.

  “We made it,” I holler as Ethan kicks his heels into his horse and trots up to her.

  “Horses,” she says as we ride up. “Where the hell is the fuel?”

  “Gone,” Riley says, slidin’ off her saddle. “Someone burned it. How’s Mo?”

  “The same,” Auntie says, takin’ the reins. “Go see for yourself. I know you won’t feel better ‘til you do.”

  Riley runs toward our hovel and disappears down into the hole.

  I dismount and run my hand down the stallion’s nose. “To the river you go, my friend.”

  Ethan needs help down, but when he’s dismounted he runs to Auntie and hugs her waist. “There was dead kids, Auntie. Someone set them on fire.”

  She clutches her boy as her eyes find mine. “Dead kids?”

  I sniff, wonderin’ how much to say with Ethan in hearin’ range. “A family set on fire. We didn’t see who done it.”

  “Fresh?” she asks.

  I nod. “No sign of how long, but these horses were tied up and still alive. Thirsty as hell, but lookin’ okay. The station was still smokin’.”

  “Well, shit in my pajamas,” Auntie says. “Riders?”

  “Maybe. Riley isn’t sure.”

  “Riders don’t leave good horses just lying around.”

  “These were hid,” I say.

  “I found ’em!” Ethan adds triumphantly.

  “Well, isn’t that great, bug,” Auntie croons. “And cowboys are probably pretty hungry, I wager.”

  “Yes,” he says, tuggin’ her toward their hole.

  She lets him drag her away, stoppin’ once to turn and address me. “I’ll tell Doc you need help leading our new friends to pasture.”

  In a minute, Doc is up, rubbin’ sleep from his eyes and tuggin’ on britches. He walks up to me, his eyes on the horses.

  “Jesus,” he says. “They’re big.”

  “Yep.” I hand him the reins of Riley’s mare. “They’ll need to be to get us to Corra’s.”

  Doc takes the reins lookin’ more nervous than Ethan or Riley ever were. “Do they bite?”

  I smirk. “Only if you piss ’em off.”

  His eyes bug. “How do you piss them off?”

  I laugh, feelin’ good now that we’re home. “Oh and I hear they don’t like benders.”

  “Genderist horses. Great,” he mumbles.

  We walk the horses around the compound and down to the river, lettin’ them drink their fill, which takes a lot longer than you’d think. When they’re done, we watch as they munch the green grasses and plants by the lake bed. They’re probably starved, poor bastards.

  I tell Doc about what we found, and he looks rightfully horrified. “You think it’s safe to ride across country when there’s someone out there setting fire to people?”

  I look long and hard at Doc. It’s hard to talk to him ’cause I know how he feels about Riley. He doesn’t know it, but I seen him starin’
at her across the fire with that pinin’ way he has, lidded eyes and pouty lips. Love-sick, that’s what that look says. Sometimes it makes me want to split his lip, but I don’t. Not his fault she’s amazing.

  Plus, I ain’t used to benders. Not that I have anything against ’em. Hell no. I thought Riley was one at first. Imagine my surprise. It’s more that Doc looks so much like a girl it’s hard for me to remember he wants to be a man. No shame in that, I reckon. I wouldn’t be a girl if someone paid me in gold bars.

  He repeats his question. “Do you think it’s safe out there?”

  I answer his question with one of my own. “You think that I could stop Riley from goin’?”

  He drops his eyes to the horse’s massive head. The animal is pulling up grass beside us. “Not on your life.”

  “Well, then, you know my answer. No more dangerous than everyday livin’.”

  “That’s not really true, and you know it. The open road is far more dangerous than what we got set up here.”

  “How long you think we’ll survive once these bullets run out?” I draw out my revolver and toss open the canister. Then flick it closed again.

  He keeps on watchin’ the horse. “We can trap game. Grow food.”

  “And what if someone like the Riders or even just a pair of roadies happens on our little campground, and we ain’t got no bullets?”

  He returns my hard look with one of his own. “I expect you and I will have to take care of them.”

  I’m tired and irritated, but still my response is harder than it should be. “You and me. Riiight.”

  Doc whirls on me, his posture hard. “You think I can’t do a damn thing because I’m a bender, is that it? You think I’m not worth anything?”

  I shake my head. “No, I think you ain’t worth anything because you had it nice and easy. You were soft, takin’ care of scraped knees and babies with upset stomachs while some of us were fightin’ for our lives.”

  He grits his teeth. “Didn’t Riley tell you about what we had to do to find you? How we almost died looking for you?” He jabs a finger at my chest, but thank God he doesn’t touch me, because heat is floodin’ through my blood.