The Butchers

by Katie French

  Everything except Mo.

  She’s the last piece.

  “Shit,” I say out loud.

  “Let me go, and I’ll take you to him. You can have all the reward. I’ll keep none for myself.”

  Standing up, I put my foot against his throat and press hard until he gags and struggles for air.

  “Get this straight,” I say through my teeth. “That beastie, as you call it, is mine. She will always be mine. You and your leader can rot in hell for all I care.”

  When I pull my boot away he gasps and gags. I stride to the full bucket and pick it up angrily, sloshing some over the side. Then I walk back inside, but his eyes are still on me.

  “Barrage’ll get it, you know. Won’t stop at nothing. You’ll see.”

  Riley

  At dawn, we’re ready to ride. There’s no wasting time now. The supply trucks have already been gone too long as it is. We’ve concocted a story about an ambush, which will make sense when they see the bullet holes in the paneling, the blood on the seats. It allows us to bring back only two trucks, leaving the third hidden a few miles from Broken Arrow’s place. The goods inside will keep those we leave behind fed and watered until we come back.

  If we come back.

  We’ve settled on two in each truck—Clay and I in one, and Desi and Ashki in another. He’s insisted on coming, though I know it is tearing Broken Arrow apart. One of the last known Navajo Indians, and I am putting him at risk of death.

  Still, he says he wants to fight. He puts on the clothes of the Butchers we’ve killed, his brown face revealing no emotion. Clay, Desi, and I do the same. It’s vile, putting on the stinking leather garb these men wore. Some of their clothes are bloody, but we have to disguise ourselves if we think we’re going to make it inside Shiprock.

  Even then, this plan seems ill thought out. Desi and I are women. Clay and Ashki look nothing like the men we killed. The only good news is they wore goggles and hats, which will help.

  Beside me, Desi is struggling into a leather jacket. She reaches for a dusty bandana and starts tying it over her face. “I feel naked without my mask.”

  “You’d do better with that hat if you cut off your hair,” I say nodding to the topknot of black curls.

  She touches the bun. “I’m not going bald for those bastards. Not today.”

  As I watch, she jams the hat down on her head and fights with it until it stays put.

  “The minute they get a good look at us, we’re done.” I look down at my outfit, leather chaps, a stinky T-shirt and jacket that’s far too big. All of this feels foolish.

  “All we need to do is get them to open the gate Broken Arrow told us about,” she says slinging her quiver over her shoulder. “Then, even if they see us, we can fight our way inside.”

  “Fight our way inside,” I repeat. “Sounds fun.”

  Desi looks out at the pink rays of dawn spilling in. “Time to go.”

  Throwing on gloves, I grab the guns Clay has picked out for me, the two that will do the most damage and be the easiest to wield: a Glock 42 and a Smith and Wesson M&P. Then I walk out into the main living area to say my good-byes. Auntie, Betsy, Sissy, and Broken Arrow stand in a row looking sad but determined not to cry. I walk up to Auntie and squeeze her tight.

  “Come back to me,” she whispers, clutching me around the neck.

  “I always have, haven’t I?”

  “So far.”

  “Take care of Ethan.” Emotions well up in my throat. I hate leaving with him still clinging on to life. I can’t even think about it. “And Mo. Keep her safe.”

  Auntie gives me a squeeze. “You know I will.”

  I nod at Betsy, Sissy, and then thank Broken Arrow for all he’s done for us. We’ve brought danger to his doorstep, and he knows it. But if we succeed today, the danger should be gone. If we fail, it could mean everyone here is in danger.

  Then I walk over to where Ethan lays, pale and breathing shallowly. Brushing hair out of his eyes, I grip his hand and lean down. “Munchkin, it’s me. It’s your sister.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “I want you to be awake and playing when I come back. Shooting at birds and throwing rocks and asking questions, got it?”

  His lip quivers.

  I press my lips to his, tears sliding down my face.

  Then I get up and go to Mo’s cage.

  It breaks me to see her locked up like an animal, like the very thing I was trying to avoid. But Clay and Broken Arrow have fashioned a cage out of chicken wire and a metal grate to keep her and everyone else safe. She hates it. She’s sulking, sucking her fingers and turning her back to us. I stick my fingers through the wire, stroking her bare back. There’s a cut on the back of her arm that needs tending. My fingers ache to do these things for her, but I know I can’t. If she’s to have any sort of life, I need to kill the men that will stop at nothing to have her, to use her and pull her apart for the secrets inside her body.

  “Mo,” I say. Then louder. “Mo.”

  She looks over her shoulder, flashes her teeth at me, and then turns away. Her face is so human and her actions are all animal.

  I bite down on the pain and talk to her anyway. “Mommy is going away for a little bit. Auntie is going to take care of you. You’re going to be okay, Mo. Everything is going to be okay.” What I don’t say is, if I can get one or many of those Breeders doctors that they have hostage, then maybe I can cure her, undo whatever it was Nessa did.

  “Mo, I love you.”

  She doesn’t turn around, but there’s a soft hooting in her throat. Just as I’m turning to pull my hand away, hers closes over mine, tiny fingers sliding over my skin. A caress of remembering. A caress of love.

  Then her hand slips away. It’s all she can give me, but it feels like more than enough.

  Clay and I load into our truck. Desi and Ashki into theirs. I watch the little gas station grow small in the rearview, a bowl of snakes in my belly.

  When the giant rock formation appears through the windshield, the knots in my stomach tighten.

  “There she is,” Clay says.

  Along the flat brown land, a giant rock rises up to the sky. Shiprock is huge, the many jagged walls of rock rising to create one giant formation off in the distance.

  “Ashki told me about the legend surrounding Shiprock,” Clay says, glancing at me as he drives. “He said that the Navajo thought it was sacred. They called it some name I didn’t understand, but it meant ‘the rock with wings.’ That it was what was left of a giant bird that carried his people to this country.”

  “It does look like a wing,” I say tilting my head. It’s nice to have something to talk about besides our impending doom. “If they had a giant bird, though, wouldn’t they have told it to take them somewhere better? Like Canada?”

  Clay smirks. “Ashki said that decades ago, when Broken Arrow was just a boy, some bigwig started carving a home out of it. He wanted to recreate this place called Petra, a palace made out of stone somewhere across the ocean. He bought the land from the government when things started to falter. See, once things started going to shit, they didn’t care about things like national monuments quite so much. They needed cash, so they started selling off federal land. Anyway, some bigwig started building a city on one side, blastin’ away rock and creatin’ tunnels. He made cisterns to catch water and constructed pipes to funnel it. But it was dangerous. Had lots of bad collapses. Workers died. The project died off for a while.

  “But then this Barrage guy, the leader of the Butchers . . .” He looks at me until I nod in understanding. “His father took the formation over. And when he grew to power, he used his men to start up the diggin’ and blastin’ again. Now it’s a fortress. Impenetrable.” Clay’s eyes watch it grow in the distance.

  “And we’re trying to penetrate it,” I say, chewing on my lip.

  Clay doesn’t answer. His eyes peer intensely down the dusty path.

  The going gets rougher. There aren’t many manmade roads
out here from before, but there are well-worn tracks from where the trucks have trundled through over and over. We follow one of these, bumping over ruts and scraping past bushes. I lean out and glance behind me, seeing Ashki and Desi stone-faced in their garb. Desi gives me a two-fingered salute.

  We take a turn and we can see the city on a hill. Or rather in a hill. Doors, windows, and winding staircases cut into the rock. Ornate carvings and awnings. All the carvings are at least five stories from the ground. The rest is sheer cliff face, plunging down.

  Lower and to the left is the entrance, a big opening at least thirty feet wide and twenty feet high, blocked off by wooden doors that reach up fifteen feet. Above them, on a rocky shelf, an armed guard is posted. Staring at us.

  “Act natural,” Clay says, but I’m not sure if he’s talking to himself or me. He flexes his fingers around the steering wheel, and I adjust my goggles and bandanna. Sweat beads up beneath the band of my hat.

  I think about a year ago when I drove up to Clay’s town to retrieve Arn. That seems like ages ago. I’m so much older now.

  The gates open when we’re minutes from arriving. Three armed men step out, and then the gates close in behind them.

  Clay swallows hard.

  “Do they suspect?” I ask, my hand tensing on my gun.

  “Standard procedure,” he says, his voice tight. “Stick to the plan.”

  Clay pulls up to the men. When he stops, the welcome party steps up to the window, their guns held to their chests. One comes close, peering in. He’s got a bald head paired with a handlebar mustache. He’s paired his leather with scraps of denim—jeans, a shapeless denim bandana tied across his forehead. He spits tobacco on the ground, looking dubious.

  Clay nods calmly. “Mornin’ fellas. Am I glad to see you.”

  “We was expecting you yesterday. Where you been?”

  “Got ambushed. Damn near died. One of our guys caught a bullet in the skull before we could finish ’em. Jesus, I thought that was it.” Clay scratches at stubble casually.

  “So you’re coming back with four instead of five?” The man peers back, looking at Ashki and Desi. “Where’s the other truck?”

  “Blown to hell,” Clay says. “They set an IED on the road. Our front man hit it, and it blew their truck to shit. Nothing we could do about that.”

  “Who set the ambush?” The man frowns, his moustache bending down.

  “Hell if I know,” Clay answers. “We didn’t get a good look at ’em ‘til they was dead. Then they weren’t too pretty. Six men. Nothing particularly interesting about them.”

  The man strokes his moustache. “Barrage’ll find them interesting if they’re blowin’ up his supply runs. No affiliation badges?”

  Clay shakes his head.

  The mustached man takes a step closer, lookin’ in at me. “I ain’t seen you before.”

  My heart starts to pound. Me speaking was not part of the plan. I turn to Clay.

  “New recruit. From the hospital. Dumb as a box of rocks. No sense in askin’ him nothin’.”

  Dropping my eyes, I try to look stupid. Inside, my heart is tearing around my chest.

  “Huh,” the man says, and I’m not sure if he bought it or not. “Bring the load inside,” he tells Clay, patting a hand against the side of the truck.

  When I look up, Clay is pulling ahead slowly as the men step back and the wooden doors begin to creak open. The interior is dark, lit by torches that flicker with the wind as we drive in. The cave carved into the stone is long and dark with no way for us to see the back. Clay drives in, pulling off to one side. Ashki pulls up beside him, both their engines rumbling loudly. Clay slowly turns the key, shutting off the engine.

  This is it. We’re trapped inside.

  “Time to get out. Keep your head down,” Clay says, concealing his guns as I do mine.

  It takes all my willpower to open my truck door and step out.

  The air is dry and chilly. Men mill around, mumbling to each other and starting to open and unload the truck goods.

  I shuffle around, trying to keep my eyes down, trying to look dumb. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ashki and Desdemona get out of their trucks as well. We clump up together, trying to figure out our next move. I count seven men in the unloading dock, including the three that met us out front. And then there’s the gunman outside, who will undoubtedly hear if shots are fired. Plus, who knows who else will hear and come to their aid. Two-to-one odds. Not good.

  Clay leans close to me and whispers, “Let’s try to get out of here. No firing.”

  I nod my head the tiniest bit, then look around to see if Ashki and Desi have heard. Just as we’re about to shuffle out, the mustached man walks up to Clay. “Boss needs to see you.”

  “Why’s that?” Clay asks, his voice calm but with the slightest edge of concern.

  My heart begins to pound. I can feel the gun at my hip. My fingers itch toward it.

  The man pulls his thumb and forefinger down his moustache. “Boss says he wants to hear about this ambush. Head up to his office.”

  “I’ll go,” Clay says, glancing back at me.

  “All of you,” the mustached man says, his eyes narrowing. Now I can see the unease in his gaze. He suspects. He has to.

  Clay starts to lead us toward the long dark throat of the tunnel, when the mustached man steps in front of him.

  “It’s not that way. It’s that way.” He points toward the big double doors at the front. Now I can see a staircase cut into the rock. God, we look like fools.

  “Sorry. Got turned around. Been out in the sun too long,” Clay offers jostling his head like that will explain it.

  The four of us hurry toward the stairs as the mustached man watches us, his eyes burning into our backs.

  The stairs lead up and then take a turn to the left, creating an enclosed staircase made out of rock and sheltering us from view. Once we’re out of earshot, I stop.

  “This is crazy. They have to know we’re not one of them. If we show up to the boss, he’ll kill us.”

  Clay stops and pulls out a gun, making sure it’s loaded. “Look, they didn’t take our weapons, so that has to count for somethin’. If they thought we were bad news, they would have stripped us and delivered us to their leader in cuffs. I say we go to this Barrage’s office and kill him there.”

  Desi leans up, gazing at all of us. In the torchlight, she looks thin and all too feminine. “If this Barrage guy is any kind of leader, he’ll have guards with him. Armed and ready to shoot if we even blink the wrong way.”

  “True,” Clay says, “but I’m a fast draw. I think this can work.”

  I shake my head but don’t say anything to contradict him. “What other choice do we have?”

  “Hide,” Ashki offers. “There are lots of dark tunnels here. Cisterns. Empty caves.”

  “But for how long?” Clay asks. “And what are we waiting for? We need to kill Barrage, and we need to do it quickly. Cut off the snake’s head, and it dies. Without their leader, the men won’t know what to do with themselves.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Ashki asks.

  “Do we have a better plan?” Desi asks back. “Nope? Okay, so we go with kill Barrage and anyone standing in our way. Sounds good to me.” She adjusts her bandana and stares ahead.

  Ashki clams up, and I don’t have a better idea either. So up we climb, our hearts in our throats.

  When we get to the top of the stairs, there’s a wide opening with exterior light pouring in. Clay motions for us to stop and slinks up.

  He jogs back to us a few seconds later. “There’s a platform that looks down the side of the formation. Two men are out there. One posted as guard and the other one talking to him. We need to figure out a way to get them to tell us where the boss’s office is without looking stupid.”

  Looking stupid. That’s my character.

  “I’ll go out and tell them I’m new here.”

  Desi says, “That should work. As long as they don�
��t suspect you’re female.”

  Before I turn to exit, Clay grabs my hand. “Be careful.” His blue eyes lock into mine.

  I squeeze his hand, then walk up the remaining steps into the light.

  Clay’s right, it is a platform—one made of rock with a ceiling about ten feet overhead. But at the edge of the platform is blue sky and a buffeting wind that flutters my clothes and tugs at my hair. I see the two men silhouetted against the bright sky. One has a rifle in his hand, the butt of which sits on the rock floor. The other man is gesturing wildly with his hands. I can hear snippets of his story from here.

  “ . . . and then she says, ‘I ain’t asked you to come in. You’re gonna have to leave. And I says, ‘I paid my money, wench. I can do what I want.’”

  The man with the rifle scratches the back of his neck absentmindedly. “You really said that?”

  “Sure as shit I did,” the other man confirms. “And she let me stay, too. Even gave me drinks on the house.”

  “Bullshit,” the rifle man says.

  “It’s true,” the other man protests.

  I could stand here listening to them lie their way through the afternoon, but I need to get this over with. I drop my head and slouch my shoulders. Shuffling up with a drag-footed gate, I make my way over to the men. The closer I get, the more of the scenery beyond the platform I can see. The cliff edge below the platform plunges down steeply to jagged rocks, but over to one side I can see more windows and doors carved into the rock across from us. And there, like a cattle pen carved into a flat patch of mountain, a group of people are being held prisoner.

  The prisoners from the hospital.

  Bingo.

  The men stop their story and notice me staring. The one with the rifle lifts it into his arms.

  “Who’s this?” the rifle man asks.

  “Never seen him before,” the other man says. “Hey, boy, what’s your name?”

  “P-Petey,” I stammer. “I’m s-supposed to see the boss.”