by Katie French
He pulls back, looking down into my face. “What’s this now? Why’re you talkin’ like I’ve only got minutes to live?”
A sob chokes my throat. I never intended to cry, but this all feels too much. We used to take care of each other and Ethan. Now we have all these people. Hell, the fate of what’s left of the world is on our shoulders. And with Mo slipping away from me, well, I can’t be the wall of granite like I was.
These are the things I want to say to him, but I can’t. Somehow though, he seems to read them in my eyes.
“We’re gonna make it through this,” he says, stroking my hair. “You and me, we always make it through.”
I don’t say anything. I just let him hold me and force myself to believe.
Clay
Showtime.
The trap is set and now we wait.
We’ve cleared out any sign of our arrival. The girls, Auntie, and Ethan wait at the Mack truck. Desdemona, Riley, and I are stationed behind the closest landmass that will hide us, a large boulder surrounded my scrub brush and cactus about thirty paces from the road and the station. Ammo loaded. Guns ready.
The plan is simple. Straightforward.
The supply truck will arrive around noon like it always does. One truck, two men. Broken Arrow and Ashki will invite the men inside for a drink and a smoke. While they are preoccupied, we’ll sneak up, disable the truck, and catch them unawares. With the guns we have, and the element of surprise, there should be no shootin’. We’ll have their truck and them as hostages in the matter of minutes.
If it all goes accordin’ to plan.
But noon comes and goes, and no truck. Riley keeps sendin’ me sideways looks like I know something she don’t. And Desdemona has started tappin’ her bow against the rock in a tickita-tackita rhythm that is drivin’ me crazy. We’re all anxious, I know, but there’s no tellin’ what held the truck up, if anything.
I open my mouth to tell them so, to tell them to stay loose but focused. Then I see Desi’s eyes light up, and her posture straighten. I follow where she’s lookin’ and see the dust cloud boilin’ up from the south.
“They’re here,” Riley says.
Tense, we watch, hunkered down so they can’t see us as they approach. Soon, the big truck is visible, a big cab hauler like the one I got, but this one has a back to it. My heart is poundin’ hard. I can feel my hands clenchin’ and unclenchin’. It’s all happenin’ just like we planned.
But then, behind the truck, is another truck. And then another.
Three trucks. Goddamned caravan.
There was supposed to be one.
“Shit,” I say, turnin’ to press my back against the boulder’s hot side.
“What?” Riley asks, concern already in her voice.
“Three trucks,” Desi says. “Why are there three trucks?”
“I don’t know,” I say, startin’ to understand the implications of what is happening. “Broken Arrow lied to us.”
“Now, hold on,” Riley says, watchin’ the trucks come with growin’ horror. “Maybe he didn’t know. We can’t assume.”
“We’ll have to let it go by. We can’t follow the plan now.” Desi digs her bow into the dirt with a thunk.
“And wait a month?” Riley asks.
“What choice do we have?” I ask. “We can’t take on that many without riskin’ serious trouble.”
Riley gives me a pained look.
Desi tracks the trucks with her eyes. “Definitely three. Do you think there are two guys in each? If there was only a driver—”
“No kinda smart gang lets a guy take out a truck with only a driver. There’s always a driver and a shooter if they’ve got any kind of sense, which we know the Butchers do.”
Desi furrows her brow but doesn’t argue with me. Instead, she pulls her sand-colored facemask down, hiding her expression. Why she’d need to cover her face now that we don’t plan on doing anything is beyond me, unless . . .
“Clay!” Riley grabs my arm. “Look.”
The tone in her voice already has my hair standin’ on end. But when I look, things freeze in my gut. As the trucks are about to pull in front of the gas station, a small brown streak bursts out of the scrub around the edge of the building.
Mo comes tearin’ into view, runnin’ across the street and comin’ this way. And behind her is Auntie.
“They’ll see them!” Riley cries, comin’ unstuck. She grabs her gun and starts to run.
“Riley wait!” I reach for her, but she won’t stop.
Glancing at the approaching trucks, I realize that there will be no waiting. We’re taking them on now whether we like it or not.
I turn to say something to Desi, but there’s no need. She’s already slingin’ arrows out of her quiver. I dash around the boulder, drawing up my gun.
The trucks grindin’ brakes fill the air with noise and their tires with dirt. But they’re definitely stoppin’ in a hurry. As I come around the rock, a gunman is already swingin’ out of the passenger side, gun in hand. His eyes are locked on Mo hungrily. Broken Arrow said they were lookin’ for her.
Runnin’ Riley levels her pistol and fires, missing the gunman, but hitting the truck he’s next to and shatterin’ the windshield, which erupts in an explosion of shards. She gets to Mo, who’s stopped halfway in the middle of the dusty road, the noise of the gun stoppin’ her in her tracks. But as Riley scoops her up, the gunman unfurls and aims at Riley.
I raise my gun and squeeze.
My gun goes off, a loud crack travelin’ across the tableau. The gunman tumbles behind the truck and disappears. But that’s only one down, and as I turn, two more are launchin’ themselves out of the other trucks. They take aim at me from behind the hoods of their vehicles.
“Get her out of here!” I yell at Riley, pivoting to fire. Two shots ring from my gun as one booms my way. The air shivers as their shot goes a foot wide to the right. My shots are closer, and one seems to connect. There’s a scream and a clatter as a gunman drops out of sight. The other bullet pounds hard into the truck’s hood, punching a hole in the metal.
When I look back, Riley’s scooped up Mo and is sprintin’ toward Auntie, tryin’ to get her in the house.
I hear a sound behind me too late.
A man aims a gun at my head. His eyes are dark, and his teeth are gold. His bald head is blistered with sun exposure. “Put your gun down,” he says. “We’d like to have a talk with you and yours.”
Slowly, I turn, hands raised in surrender. His gun looks clean and well-oiled.
There’s a twang and swoosh. As I watch, an arrow pierces his chest. It’s a clean shot, right to the heart, and the man barely has time to claw at the arrow shaft before he’s droppin’ to his knees in the dirt. When I look up, Desi’s covered head disappears behind the rock again.
Three down. How many to go?
At least one more, because another gunman pops up from behind a truck and fires. I dive without thinkin’, feelin’ the bullet slice through the space I was in moments before. Crashing to the dirt, I roll over rocks and scrub. When I stop, I pop up, aim, and fire.
My bullet pings off the truck’s side. I’ll have to get around their shelter, or I’ll keep wastin’ bullets. Scannin’ left and right, the coast is clear. “Desi, give me cover!”
Then I take off running.
I gun it for the trucks, the three in a line parked just before the gas station parkin’ lot, taking up one whole lane of a two-lane highway. Three massive trucks. So many places to hide and shelter behind. And I have no idea how many guys there are.
But my mind clears as the first target comes into view—a portly man with a belly as round as his bald head. His skin is red in patches, too much road sun. He’s wearing chaps, a leather jacket, and a bandana over the lower half of his face. Beside his feet lies his dead partner. He’s ready for me, aiming at my chest as I run toward his truck.
I aim right back.
Slowing down my breathin’, I pull the trigger first.
He gives out a cry as his gun cartwheels away. Blood sprays up like a cloud. He brings his mangled hand to his chest with a cry. Watery eyes look up at me. Aiming to kill, I speak calmly. “Hands up. Don’t move.”
He holds both hands over his head, the intact one still gripping the injured one.
Keepin’ my gun on him, I eye down the line of trucks. There’s no movement, nothing to indicate any other enemies.
“How many in your party?” I shout at him.
“Four.”
“Lies!” I say, stridin’ up and grippin’ his collar. I press my gun to his temple. “How many?”
“F-four. Three drivers. One gunman.”
I narrow my eyes, watchin’ his face.
Desdemona appears around the front of the truck we’re standing behind. “I’ll check the cabs. Stay here.” She moves lithely between the trucks, stoppin’ at the two dead bodies splayed out beside their trucks. She runs back in a few moments. “I don’t see anyone else.” She turns to our hostage. “It’s only you, Ace. Lucky, lucky.”
His eyes switch between her and me, more fear hauntin’ this features. “You can’t kill me. Barrage will not be happy. I’m high up in his organization, see. A sergeant.” He nods to a line of poorly inked tattoos in his wrist. Four lines run parallel there, blue ink crisscrossin’ the man’s skin.
I press the gun harder. “A sergeant, huh? Then you’ll have a lot of information for us. Let’s go inside.”
Relief floods me as I walk my prisoner in. I thought we were dead in the water when three trucks pulled up. But we dispatched them without a single injury to our people. Glancin’ over, I give Desi a look I hope she understands. We’re a badass team. Maybe making it into Shiprock isn’t batshit crazy after all.
As we turn toward the buildin’, I see Broken Arrow and Ashki watchin’ us come. Riley runs up, holding Mo to her body. Mo seems strangely quiet in her arms.
“I’ll take him in,” Desi offers, yankin’ him toward the gas station’s doors.
I turn toward Riley, realizing that Auntie isn’t around. I wonder where she’s gone and what caused Mo to go so limp when moments before she was tearing wildly across the pavement.
“What happen—?”
Riley grips my arm. Her face is splashed with worry. “Clay, we have to go quick. It’s Ethan. He’s hurt.”
Riley
I don’t understand what’s happening. One minute the trucks are here and Mo is running at them, putting herself in terrible peril. The next minute Clay and Desdemona are taking down Butchers, gunshot exploding around me like bombs. And Mo runs straight into my arms like she knows me, like she loves me again. I press her quivering body to mine, sucking in the scent of her, hope blooming in my chest, but then Auntie’s there, grabbing my arm and tugging. “Ethan, Ethan!” she’s saying, frantic and wild. “He’s hurt.” Her eyes say there’s more to the story.
Once she’s told me, she takes off running back toward the where we hid them, and I’m left holding Mo, wondering what in the hell is going on.
When I tell Clay, he and I run as best I can with a baby clinging to me. We make the half mile there in the blink of an eye. I can see Sissy and Betsy inside the cab, quiet. Stunned. They watch us approach with wide eyes.
There, in the shade of the truck, Ethan is splayed on the ground. My eyes land on his dirty boots, two sizes two big. Three days ago I helped him stuff more sand in the toes to keep them on. My little brother. What could be wrong with him?
Auntie’s body blocks his as we run up, but when she hears us, she pulls back, exposing the wound. A giant gash of bloody skin is flayed open at his throat.
I gasp, nearly stumbling and losing Mo. She’s doing some sort of quiet hooting in the back of her throat as she clings to me.
Clay grabs my arm, steadying me. Then he runs to Ethan, dropping to his knees in the dirt.
“What happened?” I say in panic as Clay begins tearing his clothes and applying pressure to the wound.
Auntie’s tear-soaked eyes find me. “She just attacked. I had her in my arms one minute . . . a-and then she bit me. Hard this time. I dropped her.” Auntie’s voice peters out.
“What are you saying?” My ears ring. I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my feet much longer. I stagger to Ethan and fall on my knees beside Clay. The blood is so red. There’s splatters on the ground, on his shirt. His eyes are closed. He looks like the baby I carried around our yard on my hip. The playmate I had wanted for so long. The friend I never knew I needed. Sobs choke me. “Who did this?” I almost scream.
“Mo,” Auntie says, gripping my arm. She shakes me. “Mo did this.”
I look into her face, not believing, not understanding her words. “No. There has to be a mistake.”
Auntie’s grip is iron on my arm. “No mistake. Mo bit him. She was vicious. After she bit me, she jumped on him. Her teeth were flashing—” Her words are cut off in a sob. She presses a hand to Ethan’s blood-splattered chest as Clay tries to stop the bleeding.
This cannot be right. Mo wouldn’t do this. Would not hurt Ethan. I stagger up, looking down at her clinging to my body. She’s still shaking, still making haunted noises in the back of her throat.
Suddenly I want her off me. I pry off little fingers, but she keeps clutching me, trying to burrow into my clothes. “Let go. Just stop!” I push her away.
“What have you done?” I yell.
Big brown eyes peer up at me. Shiny. Like she’s been crying. But Mo doesn’t cry. I don’t even know if she feels.
She reaches for me again, but I push her hand away. I fall down beside Ethan, tears staining my cheeks. I grip his limp hand and pray. I pray hard.
When I turn back around to look for Mo, she’s gone.
We carry Ethan back to the gas station in hope of a miracle. I’m no doctor, nor is Clay. None of us are, except Doc, and he’s gone. And Mo’s gone, too. I called for her, but she didn’t come back. And I can’t focus on finding her when Ethan’s at death’s door. Clay says his pulse is there but faint.
If she kills him . . .
Broken Arrow and Ashki accept Ethan with open arms. The lay him on the floor and begin working on him. Ashki boils water, while Broken Arrow gets out thread and a needle. I try to watch them work, but my eyes are smeared by tears. And Auntie can’t be consoled. She stands outside keening until Clay tells her we need to stay quiet, so she turns and walks off into the wilderness, cotton dress billowing around her legs, hair whipping in the wind.
Clay moves between holding me and helping with Ethan. He’s stoic, but I can tell from his face he’s just as scared as I am. Ethan looks so pale. So small. And the blood on his shirt and in his hair makes me want to burst into fresh sobs all over again. Once Broken Arrow and Ashki are done with their work, I sit by his side and pick dried blood out carefully with the pads of my fingers. I wash his face with cool water. I comb his hair out of his eyes.
He doesn’t move.
Broken Arrow starts praying in a language I don’t understand.
It grows dark.
Other things happen around me that I’m only vaguely aware of. Desi moves the other trucks out of sight. She ties up the prisoner and makes him sit outside the back door. Betsy and Sissy talk to each other in hushed whispers from the bunk bed. Ashki offers me food that I won’t eat.
And Clay goes looking for Mo.
I sit by Ethan and feel dead inside. I’ve done this. Mo was mine. I brought her into our family, trained her, taught her to be almost human. And then I continued to keep her with us even after she started getting violent. And why? God, because I loved her. And, despite everything, I love her still.
There’s no reasoning with love.
So when Clay comes back with her, growling and struggling in his arms, I’m relieved. And ashamed.
And when he binds her with rope to keep her still, I want to protest. But I don’t. I wipe blood out of the creases of Ethan’s ears.
At midnight Auntie comes straggling bac
k, looking wild and exhausted. She sits beside me and grips my hand.
“It isn’t your fault,” her wind-whipped voice says, barely a whisper.
I say nothing.
“Go get some water, food, or you’ll fall down dead. You’ll be no good to him then.”
When I don’t move, she shoves me. I get up, my body feeling like straw, like my bones are sticks and my muscles are cotton.
I find my way in the candlelit dark to the back door and the courtyard where the water pump is. It takes me a moment to find the pump. Somehow I manage to get the thing moving and fill up the bucket at the base. The easy creaking sound is almost soothing. Then his voice cuts through the dark.
“Did you find the beastie?”
I whirl around.
There in the moonlight, his back to the gas station’s wall and his hands tied behind him, is our prisoner. Bald and tattooed, he is gruesome looking even if I can’t see him well in the dark. Forgetting my water, I walk over to him. “What did you say?”
“I said, if you found the beastie, my leader will pay you for it. Pay you heaps and heaps. You live like a king.” When he flashes a smile, all that shows are the gold caps on his teeth.
Crouching down beside him, I can smell the rankness of his breath, the motor oil under his fingernails. “And why would your leader want my beastie?”
He tilts his head. “You heard tell of the beastie that can solve the riddle, eh? The one that holds the genetic codes to speed up life. With it, he will create all the soldiers he needs. Fast like. It’s why we went to the hospital, but that bitch wouldn’t give up the information. Blew it up and her with it. But the beastie has it in its very blood. If you don’t take it in, someone else will. And then they’ll be rich and you’ll be dead.”
My body goes rigid as I absorb what he’s saying. That’s why they went after Nessa. Not just for information on creating weapons, but to get the technology to make soldiers. Nessa wanted quickly maturing humans for breeding purposes, but awful men can always find a way to twist things. And he’s right. If he could harness the secrets, he could create hundreds of beings like Mo. He’s got the Breeders doctors, women to use as incubators. Medical equipment stolen from Nessa, too.
