The Butchers

by Katie French

  “Ten,” he answers, no emotion on his face.

  I shake my head, blowing out a breath. We need ten times that many.

  “I’ll make ’em count,” he says, putting his hand on the back of my neck affectionately.

  I look over at him, trying not to cry. “I know you will.”

  “Riley,” Ethan’s voice calls from the back seat. “We gonna be okay?”

  “Hush, baby,” Auntie says, drawing him into her.

  My eyes focus on the road and making it churn under my tires as fast as I can. If we can get back to Corra’s and barricade ourselves in, we might stand a chance. She’s got food and supplies in there, and at least half the bunker is still inaccessible from above. Still, we’re bringing the enemy right to her doorstep. She might not take kindly to that.

  The sound of a bullet striking the solar car’s exterior rips my thoughts to the present. Looking at Clay, I can tell his hopes that they don’t have bullets have been shattered.

  Another hits the back, the sound of it tearing through metal echoing in the car. Ethan and Auntie cringe and duck low. I look at Clay. Already, he has his window down and is angling his body out. Facing backward, he takes his time in aiming.

  Another bullet smashes into the back windshield with the sound of a mallet striking glass. It doesn’t shatter, but cracks into a giant spider web.

  “Clay!” I shout, urging him to do something.

  He says nothing, just holds steady, watching for his opportunity. Then he fires.

  The shot is sucked away by the rushing wind as we speed forward. Looking in the rearview, I can’t see what it hits, but the second truck to the left swerves wide. That truck trundles off the road, into the ditch and out of sight. The other four trucks close ranks and come at us, getting larger and closer by the minute.

  Clay looks in at me and then back at his targets. One bullet gone. Nine left.

  Suddenly, there’s a terrible shattering sound. Glass rains into our car. Bits of it hit the back of my head, shoulders, and arms. Behind me someone is screaming. The pressure in the car changes drastically, and I try like hell to refocus my vision and keep the skidding car on the road. We swerve a few times, but I’m able to get us going straight again. Clay slips back in the passenger side window and looks at me. “You okay?”

  I nod. “What about them?” I shout over the roar of wind.

  When I glance back, I see bits of the shattered back window all over Ethan, Auntie, and the archer girl. Auntie’s hair whips around her face, flecked with small cuts as she looks at me. “Just drive.”

  My eyes go to Ethan, who’s also cut up and bleeding, but I can’t look long because the car is driving erratically since that last hit. Don’t let the tires blow.

  While Auntie sees to Ethan, Clay leans through the backseat aiming his gun. “Plug your ears.”

  This time when the gun goes off there are two loud bursts. The truck to the left—a pickup with metal fencing across the front—starts to list back and forth. He must’ve hit one or both of the front tires, because it knocks into the trucks on either side before dropping out of sight.

  Two trucks down. Three we can see. And we have seven bullets.

  But the three left are gaining. I can see all their features now. Trucks pierced with spikes until they look like driving porcupines, men hanging off of poles in the back, the one in the center so big it has to be a long-haul trucker, though how they got that thing moving on what little fuel there is left, I’ll never know. They’ve made themselves look like riders straight from hell, and it’s working. I’m terrified.

  Clay’s eyes mark their approach carefully. “How close are we to Corra’s?” he shouts over the wind in the car.

  “A few more minutes, but then they’re right up our asses. We have to be able to get to cover before they gun us down on her doorstep,” I say.

  “So I need to slow them down.”

  I try to keep us steady on the bumpy road back to the compound as Clay takes aim out the window.

  There’s a pop behind us, and I feel a tire go. With a lurch, the car starts to skid out of control. The steering wheel takes on a life of its own as I fight to keep control. The car’s back end goes left and then right. My mind flashes back to the car crash at Corra’s the first time we met. I flipped us over, but not this time. I turn the wheel, trying to keep us upright.

  And it works. We don’t roll out of control. The car steadies and carries on, bumping along on three tires as black smoke begins to trail from our rear.

  The trucks behind us rumble closer. Now I can see the men’s faces and bald heads. Their tattoos and guns.

  Clay fires again, but this one must go wide. He squeezes off another round, which pings off the main truck’s grill to no effect.

  Meanwhile, our car is slowing. It’s taking all my strength to keep it going on a straight course while the wheel tugs mercilessly to the right, threatening to toss us into a ditch.

  “We’re almost there,” Auntie yells, pointing.

  I see the slope that leads to the underground bunker’s entrance. But the trucks are so close that even if we make it, we’ll have no time to get out of the car before we’re gunned down. And with the rock walls rising up on all sides, we’ll be fish in a barrel. Still, there seems to be no other option, so I turn left, gritting my teeth as I steer the unruly car down.

  When I look in the rearview, the semi-truck driver bares his teeth as he gains on us.

  “Clay?” I ask all the questions I can’t voice.

  “When we get to the entrance, you do what you can to get everyone inside. I’ll hold them off.”

  It’s a shitty plan. He has, what? Five bullets? Six? Not enough to take on half a dozen men with guns and fully functional trucks.

  But the entrance is almost on us. The trucks have to squeeze into single file as they follow us down the narrowing path to Corra’s. The semi is right on my tail, taking up the whole road behind us so I can’t see anything else. They don’t fire now. They know there’s little more we can do.

  The road opens up into a parking lot with the cement bunker entrance right in front, the walls of the mountain on all sides. Looking for my best option, I drive in much too fast, whipping the car around until the left doors face the road and the right doors face the compound’s open door.

  “Everybody out!” I yell, jumping out and coming around to grab the archer from the backseat. Auntie moves like the wind, hauling Ethan along with her, who’s screaming protests about wanting to stay and fight. I half-carry, half-drag the girl through the large concrete doors that were blasted apart and stuck that way on our last stay here. If we’re overrun, she’ll be taken for sure, but it’s the best I can do. As I’m setting her down, the gun battle starts.

  Gunfire echoes through the canyon from all sides. I have no idea what’s happening or who’s shooting, but I run out low, using the car to block me. Only the semi-truck is visible, its bulk blocking the entrance so the other two trucks can’t get through. Which is good for us, but as I look up, I realize it might not matter. Ahead of me, Clay’s crouched behind the car, peeking out to take one shot, then two as the men in the large truck fire at will, pinging bullets off the ground, concrete, and car exterior.

  They must have bullets for days.

  And now, Clay is not firing back. It dawns on me why. That’s it. The bullets are gone.

  Hearing me come, he looks back at me sadly. “Riley,” he says seriously, “go inside. Hide.”

  Tears forming in my eyes, I shake my head. “I’m staying with you.”

  His eyes seem to glisten as he shakes his head. “Please. Hide. Find Corra and the others. Get help. I’ll slow them down.”

  I know what that means. He’ll fight, and they’ll kill him, giving us only a few minutes to scramble into hiding spots before they drag us out screaming. And that’ll be a slow death. An awful death.

  No. I’ll die right here, by his side.

  I grab his hand, tears falling now.

&n
bsp; The men seem to realize what it means when we don’t shoot back. One and then two of them step out of the semi-truck cautiously, peering around from their hiding spots and then smiling.

  “Come out, come out,” one calls, brandishing a pike with a curved blade on the end. The one next to him laughs. Confident, the two stride forward swinging their blades.

  I squeeze Clay’s hand, trying not to think about what’s going to happen in the next few seconds.

  Footsteps behind me make me whirl around. Corra is carrying something heavy. She gives us a scowl and positions herself between us, hefting the object onto the car. It’s a long cylindrical weapon, like a gun but with a much larger barrel.

  She places her finger on the trigger. “Brace yourselves.” Then she fires.

  Riley

  The explosion is so loud, the force so powerful, I fall back, catching myself on my elbows.

  A giant explosion rocks the ground. Orange flames curl into the air, and a wave of heat rolls over us. For a moment, I worry I’m on fire, but then the wave dissipates, leaving my ears ringing and my head on a tilt-a-whirl.

  When I’m able to pull myself up, I look over the car and see the semi-truck has exploded. Smoke pours from the blackened hood and what’s left of the cab. Black twisted metal curls out like spider’s legs and fire eats away at anything it can. Just ahead of the burning truck are two bodies—our would-be killers. They are facedown in the dirt and not moving, though that doesn’t mean they’re dead.

  Dazed, I look over at Corra. She shakes out her shoulder, rubbing away the kickback from the rocket launcher. “I’ve been dying to use that thing,” she shouts. Then she gets up and heads to the downed men. When she takes the pike that one of them was carrying and holds it up, I look away. I’ve seen enough death for a lifetime.

  Clay’s hands find me and draw me into an embrace. “You okay?”

  “Yeah!” I say, though I know I’m shouting because of the ringing in my ears. “Are they dead?”

  “Corra is taking care of the two that got in. The semi’s so big, even if the other two trucks wanted to follow, they can’t.”

  He gets up, and I want to call him to come back, but I can’t hear well, much less get my voice to work. And now my head seems to be spinning worse than before. It’s an awful vertigo I can’t get a handle on. Some time passes before Clay comes back and sees me on my hands and knees still trying to get my head to stop spinning.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, dropping beside me.

  I want to help him, want to make sure all my family is okay, but I can’t even pick up my head. He hefts me into his arms and carries me into the cool, dark bunker interior.

  Auntie’s worried voice floats after us as he takes me inside, taking corridor after corridor until he finds what he’s looking for—one of the unused bedrooms that used to belong to Corra’s crew before they died. Clay sets me on the musty bed and hovers over me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to get up.

  “Stay down,” he orders gently. “You need rest.”

  “How can I rest? There are people after us.” I try to get up, but the room keeps on spinning.

  “Riley?” a voice calls from the doorway. When I can look up, I see Doc’s face.

  “She collapsed. I’m trying to get her to rest, but she won’t lie down.” Clay looks to Doc for answers.

  I try to stand up, holding onto the bed, but it’s nearly impossible. “Doc, can you help me? I need the dizziness to stop.”

  He looks at me frowning. “I have something, but . . .” He hesitates.

  “Give it to me,” I beg, clutching the bed and trying not to vomit.

  Doc looks at me and then to Clay. “Just give her the damn medicine,” Clay urges.

  Doc draws a needle out of his pocket and brings it to me. Slowly, he steps up, grabbing my shirt and lifting it. There’s a poke as the needle slides into my flesh.

  I expect to feel better, clearer headed, but a swift darkness starts to descend. Soon, I can’t even hold my head up. Falling onto the bed, my eyes find Doc. His face is full of . . . regret?

  “What . . . did you do?” I ask him.

  “Sleep, Riley,” he says, putting a hand on my cheek.

  I try to fight, but the words won’t form. Body won’t move.

  My eyes . . . close.

  I wake slowly. First, my brain. Then my body.

  When I can remember, my mind brings back snippets. An explosion. Clay. Doc. A needle.

  I try my hands first. Slowly, fingers come back online, flexing, gripping. Beneath me, I feel the softness of some sort of cloth or mattress. When I’m able to move my head, I feel it scrape against the pillow.

  Forcing my eyes open, I’m confronted with the dark. But slowly, things take shape—the outline of my body on the bed, the rectangular shape of a door leading into a dark hallway.

  Why so dark?

  “Clay?” I call with a croaky voice.

  No one answers.

  They knocked me out so I would sleep. It’s night and they’ve turned the generator off to save fuel. But hell, it’s dark. And where is everyone else? Slowly, I sit up. My head still spins a little. Feeling wetness I touch my right cheek and trace a sticky trail that must be blood up to my right ear. The explosion must’ve ruptured my eardrum, and that’s where the vertigo came from. At least I know I’ll heal. And rest probably was a good idea as long as the Butchers didn’t get past Corra.

  They didn’t. Did they?

  Suddenly, the quiet and the dark kindle a slow panic in me. What if the Butchers broke in and killed everyone but me? What if that’s why it’s so silent?

  Staggering onto my feet, I feel along the walls and out the door. Then I’m off down the hallway, listening for any sound.

  But it’s quiet and dark everywhere. Oppressively dark. A few of the emergency lights glow red from the floors, but that’s all I have to see by. And even those are few and far between. My panic is building, and everywhere my eyes turn I half-expect to see my loved ones in a pool of blood.

  “Auntie? Clay?”

  With my hand along the rough wall, I start a slow jog, but when my foot snags a pile of debris and I pitch forward, I am forced to slow down again.

  With it so dark, it takes me a couple of passes to get where I am headed. When I get to the cafeteria, it’s dark, too. I’ve never seen it without its lights on, so the wide cavernous space, lit only by a few glowing red bulbs, is disorienting. Traveling along one wall, I scan the tables and make my way back to the kitchen.

  When I get inside the smaller, more enclosed space, a sound stops me in my tracks—the sound of someone eating.

  “Who’s there?” I have no weapon, no way to defend myself.

  There’s a pause. Then, “Shit, it’s you.”

  “Betsy?” I ask, recognizing the voice.

  There’s the sound of something clunking down on a counter, a bowl perhaps. Then I hear her move from the back of the kitchen toward me. When she’s just out of arm’s reach, I can see her outline in the dark.

  “I thought they locked you up with the rest.”

  “Who did? What are you talking about?”

  She gives an annoyed sigh. “Corra and that one you brought. Doc? When they left, they locked the rest in a cell.”

  “What?” I grip the wall, my head spinning again. Maybe she’s making this up? “Doc did what?”

  “He locked Clay, Ethan, and your aunt up in a cell. Aren’t you listening?” She sounds agitated with me.

  “Doc didn’t do that,” I say, feeling sick. That look on his face as he approached me with the needle. Like he was contemplating doing something he shouldn’t.

  “Yep. He and Corra planned it while you were gone. Corra’s been wanting something to take to Nessa as a bargaining chip for a long time, but didn’t have nothing. When you brought the monkey—”

  “Mo!” I shout, starting forward. I grab Betsy’s shirt and yank her to me, my anger blinding me. “Where’s Mo?”


  “Stop it! You’re hurting me.” Her fingers pry at my hands, but she’s weak and gives up quickly.

  I shake her. “Where is Mo?”

  “They took her. They took her to Nessa.”

  Riley

  I let go of Betsy, feeling like someone just socked me in the stomach. Mo is gone. Worse, she’s being taken to the last person on the Earth I’d want to have her. Nessa is the one who cut up Betsy’s brain, who infected my mother with a fetus who ate her insides up like a cancer, the one who took her own son’s memories so he’d love her again. She’s the worst kind of doctor, one who doesn’t care at all for human life. At least Corra was somewhat reasonable. Nessa is vile. And she hates me.

  “They went to the Breeders?” I ask the shape of Betsy now hunkered against one wall, away from my reach.

  “I told ’em I wouldn’t go there. Never again. Don’t care if I have to eat bugs.” Her voice sounds small and childlike now. Nessa cut up her brain like a prime piece of steak. No wonder she doesn’t want to go back.

  “Oh God,” I say, running a hand over my face. “Doc was in on this. You’re sure?”

  “I listen when they don’t think I do. Nobody remembers old Betsy Wetsy. They started talking once you left to get Clay. Corra talked Doc into knocking you out and taking the monkey onkey. I think Doc likes Corra. Neither one of them like Clay. But I do,” she adds quietly.

  “Shit,” I whisper into my palms. I can’t believe Doc would do that to me. I knew he was jealous and upset that Clay was calling the shots, but to betray us like that . . . “Where are the rest? Take me to them.” I say, standing up.

  Betsy slouches away, but I grab for her and get ahold of her arm. “I don’t want to hurt you, Betsy.”

  “Yes, you do,” she murmurs, her voice pouty. But she starts to walk, and I let go of her, following her shadow out of the cafeteria and down a hall. I hear banging on metal coming from somewhere in the dark. Cutting around her, I run toward the sound.

  The banging comes from a locked door, either the one Corra put me behind when we first arrived here last time or one similar. Fumbling my hands over the lock, I find a way to slip it open and fling wide the door. Total darkness greets me.