The Butchers

by Katie French

  We hear gunshots. Then footsteps. They’re coming.

  Not really thinking, I hand him Mo, who’s gone limp again, and rush forward. The giant doors are locked with a tongue and groove lever larger than my forearm. With my good hand, I lift it up. When it falls free, I yank open the door.

  Dozens of faces turn to me. Women, girls, nannies. Every age, color, shape, and size. They’re sunburnt and dusty. They’re tired and hungry. But they’re alive. Dozens, maybe a hundred.

  I shout at them. “We don’t have a lot of time. If you want to be free, you need to run now.”

  A few blink at me. One runs forward. Another. Soon they’re all piling up, spilling out of the open door.

  I get to Clay just in time to see him turn and fire on the first guard who appears in the hallway. The guard dies with a shriek. Many more are behind him.

  “Run! I’ll hold them off.” He hands me Mo. I want to drag him with me, but there are all these women, surrounding me, tugging on me, begging. And Mo is limp in my arms.

  “Clay!” But I can’t see him anymore. I’m surrounded by pleading women. An ocean of them.

  More gunshots. We have to get out of here.

  “Clay!”

  “This way!” someone yells.

  I have no choice. I’ll get them to the trucks and go back for Clay.

  We run away from the gunfight. I take the slope down, knowing that ground level is where the trucks are. I need to find where we came in, steal a truck, and load as many of these women as I can into it. Then I’ll get one of them to drive it, and go back.

  There’s gunshots from above. A man with a rifle spits bullets down on us. Women scream. Some scramble for cover. One falls and doesn’t get up.

  “Find cover,” I shout, but we’re in an open area, rock on either side, with nowhere to shelter from the bullets.

  I look up to see who’s shooting and notice the gunman above us. He aims right for me. I pull Mo to the other side of my body and squeeze my eyes shut.

  There’s a cry. I look up in time to see the man clutch at an arrow through his chest before he falls off the cliff’s edge. A little farther up the cliff’s face, Desi gives me a wave.

  No time for thanks. I push the women forward. “Come on! Keep running!”

  Women stare at me, terrified, crying, but they listen. They follow me. Desi keeps pace, higher up, her bow in one hand as she runs along the ledge looking for guards.

  We fly down the slope, rocks skittering ahead like small animals before a stampede. Mo is heavy in my arms, and my broken hand is throbbing with undeniable pain, but I can’t ask one of these unknown women to carry her. Still, I look around at their brave sunburned faces. They keep glancing at me, like I have answers they don’t. They don’t know I have no idea what we’re going to do at the end of this slope or where the hell the garage is. I’m only running ahead. And maybe into disaster.

  The slope ends. Looking around, there’s no indication where the garage is, so I stand there, staring, wasting precious time. The women crowding behind me murmur. They’ll know soon I don’t know what I’m doing.

  “Right!” Desi calls from above.

  I crane my neck.

  There she is just above us, looking brave and beautiful, her head covering gone and her black curls flying. “Go right!” she yells, pulling up to shoot an arrow behind us.

  When I turn around to see what she’s aiming at, my heart stutters. Men. Lots of men with guns running after us.

  “Right!” I yell, taking off again. We turn, flowing into a dark, narrow tunnel that makes it hard to see. Once my eyes adjust, I can navigate forward, but I know that if the men catch us in here, we’re trapped. Some of the women beside me are growing tired, too. I turn, shouting toward the back. “Keep running. Don’t stop. We are almost there.”

  I have no idea if we are or not, but it seems to work. They keep running.

  And it turns out we are nearly there because I run through an entrance and out into the delivery area. The one guy loading boxes looks up, a crate of clucking chickens in his arms. His eyes grow huge as he sees scores of women pooling out of an entrance. Hefting Mo on my hip and ignoring the pain from my hand, I grip my gun and aim it at him.

  “Hands up!”

  He drops the crate of chickens, hands shooting for the ceiling. The chickens hit the ground and cluck like mad.

  “Someone tie him and gag him,” I yell, searching for the truck we need.

  I find it near the front, a big hauler with a giant trailer on the back. I climb up and throw open the doors, elated to find it empty. “Everyone in,” I say, waving the women forward.

  They pour up, women helping women, young and old and in between, reaching down hands, giving boosts up. They curl into the back, sitting side by side. While they do this, I run to the front and try to see about keys.

  I open the driver’s side and slide Mo onto the seat. She’s barely moving now, and worry chokes me, but there’s no time when men are coming to murder us. My hands fumble over the steering column, over the sun visor and into the glove compartment. Nothing.

  I jump down and run over to where a brown-skinned woman is finishing the knots on the man’s wrist restraints. “Where are the keys?” I demand.

  He looks up at me with frightened animal eyes. A kid really. Terrified.

  “Where are the keys!”

  “My pocket,” he finally offers.

  I dig inside his pants and find them, clutching them to my fist triumphantly.

  That’s when the shooting starts.

  Bullets start zinging through the air. One buries itself into the ground at my feet. The last of the women climb into the back of the truck. There’s a boom as someone slams the doors shut. I was going to have someone else drive. I was going to go back for Clay. And Desi and Ashki. Now, if I don’t drive the truck, this is all for nothing.

  I can’t even think about what this means, driving away. I can’t. I just run.

  Bullets zip by me. I sprint to the driver’s side, the door still open. As I jump in, a bullet destroys my side mirror. Another burrows into the metal door paneling. I slam the door closed, jam the key in the ignition, and crank it.

  The truck jumps to life, loud and fearsome. I grind it into gear and start to reverse as fast as I can. I can’t see, but the doors are back there somewhere.

  Hitting something, the truck lurches sideways. Mo slides and nearly tumbles off the bench.

  A bullet explodes my windshield. Glass rains everywhere. I duck, closing my eyes.

  When I am able to look up again, the men are starting to surround us. Ten men. Fifteen. Guns pointed.

  I slam my foot on the gas.

  We blast backward, grinding against another truck, lurching over things under our path. As we speed back, a broken body rolls out beneath my tires. Then another as we bump along. More shooting. A bullet smashes the metal panel in the cab behind us. They’re shooting to kill me. They want the women. They want Mo.

  The truck lurches once more, and then sunlight spills into my open windshield. We’re out. We’re out in the open.

  I grind the gears again, shifting sloppily, the truck complaining. The bullets ping against the front as the men advance. I turn the wheel and gun it.

  The truck trundles wildly forward, bumping over rough terrain, but there’s road in front of me, not gunmen. And the truck is picking up speed. We might actually make it away.

  Away from Clay. I’ll go back. As soon as everyone is safe, I’ll go back. I choke back tears. What am I doing driving away from him? It feels like ripping my own heart out. But what else can I do?

  I press my foot to the floor, willing the truck to fly.

  But I can feel the engine struggling. The bullets did more harm than I knew. I pray the tires will keep turning. Then I lean out and look behind us.

  Two smaller trucks, then three and four, peel out and head toward us. Going fast. Faster than my truck that is losing speed.

  They catch up in minutes.


  It was all for nothing.

  I grip the steering wheel and glance at Mo, quiet on the truck seat. They’ll have her and all these women. They’ll kill me, and that’ll be the end of it. I press my foot to the floor and still the truck slows.

  No, no, no.

  Slower.

  Slower.

  I lay my head down on the steering wheel as we grind to a halt. Then I reach for Mo and pull her to my lap. Her smell is familiar. I hug her as the truck cruises to a stop, smoke beginning to pour out of the hood.

  The trucks pull up, circling us. Hooting, the men growl and sneer at me. They brandish guns.

  I hug Mo.

  My blurred eyes spot something on the horizon. A cloud of dust.

  Someone is coming.

  Sitting up, I clutch Mo to my chest protectively and watch as the vehicles pour in. Trucks, cars, motorcycles, mishmash versions of each. Nearly a dozen.

  Who are they?

  The one in front speeds up, heading straight for one of the Butchers’ vehicles. In faded and hand-painted letters on the side it reads, “Merek Bullets and Ammo.”

  I look up, not believing my eyes. There’s Doc in the passenger seat, face smeared with war paint. He levels a gun and shoots at the Butchers’ truck tires as his driver circles around. The rest of the vehicles follow in a rain of bullets. Gunfire explodes from everywhere. I clutch Mo and pull her down low as bullets ricochet off my truck.

  For tense moments, we wait. And then the gunfire seems to be receding. I lean up, peering over the dash.

  The Butchers are on the run, their trucks limping back to Shiprock on flat tires, the rest of Doc’s people in pursuit. Only one vehicle appears to be too disabled to go back. The rest tear toward the stone palace, leaving us alone.

  The first truck I saw circles back, skidding to a stop in a swirl of dust. Doc jumps out, looking fierce and triumphant. He runs to me, and I throw open my door.

  “Riley, are you okay?” he asks peering in.

  “Doc, you saved us.”

  “I went back to Broken Arrow’s and saw what happened. I knew you needed help so I got some. Is that Mo?” he asks, looking in.

  I pull her onto my lap, now able to see the state she’s in. She looks like she’s barely clinging to life. “Is she okay?”

  Doc takes her pulse and pulls back her eyelids. “She’s stable. When this is done, we’ll find good doctors. Don’t worry.”

  I squeeze his hand just as he’s about to pull away. “You’re a good friend. I’m sorry.”

  His face warms, mimicking my expression. “Stay here. Keep the women safe. We’ll be back when we make sure the coast is clear.”

  “Find Clay,” I ask, only barely able to keep the desperation out of my voice.

  He nods and hops down, running back to his truck and taking off after the others.

  The quiet that follows is a stark contrast to the terrible noise we’d been going through. The women in the back must still be terrified. They have no idea we’ve been rescued. Picking up the limp Mo, I pocket my gun and then jump down, walking around toward the truck’s double doors.

  As I’m halfway down the long truck trailer, I hear someone coming. I’m about to turn when I feel something hard press between my shoulder blades.

  “Don’t make a sound.”

  Heart thudding, I freeze.

  When I turn slowly, Barrage is there, aiming a gun at me, his face splattered with blood, but his body looking unharmed. There’s only one truck left in sight. The driver is dead, sitting wide-eyed in the seat, a bullet hole leaking blood down his front. Barrage must’ve played dead in the truck until Doc left. Until he got me alone.

  “Give it to me,” he says gesturing wildly to Mo.

  “It’s over, Barrage. Give up,” I say. “Your men are dead. Your fortress is about to be ours. If you surrender, my friends just might let you live.”

  “With her, I can start over, build my own army of wild beasts. It won’t take me long. I have connections in Mexico who are very interested in what I have to offer.”

  I pull Mo closer to me. “She’ll fight you. Without me, she’ll fight you tooth and nail.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I just need her blood.” He starts to grab for her, but I pull away. He aims the gun. His face is the twisted mask of a man who has one goal. The blood in the creases of his cheeks and between his teeth makes him look insane. “Don’t you see? People know about her. People with armies. They’ll come for her. Even if you somehow escape me, she’ll always be hunted. Always.” He points the gun at my face. “Now, hand her over.”

  I look down at Mo. One of her hands is curled around a strand of my hair. Her little body sags into mine until we’re one. Her chest stutters softly as she sniffles in her sleep. I can’t hand her over to a madman, even if he’ll shoot me.

  I turn and start to run away.

  He brings the gun down hard on the back of my head.

  The blow is hard. My head jars forward, then my body. I fall into the dirt.

  The world blurs. Smears and streaks of color. Sound. Someone crying. Shrieking.

  When I’m able to focus my eyes, I’m lying on my back looking up at the blue sky. I see Barrage trying to force a struggling Mo into his car. He pushes the driver’s dead body out onto the dirt and slams the doors. As he’s trying to start the car, Mo begins attacking him. He hits her with a whack and she goes down.

  “No,” I manage, trying to get up. My head is pounding and spinning at the same time. I reach for the gun in my pocket and stagger to my feet.

  The truck starts to fishtail away.

  “Stop,” I call, shuffling up. I raise the gun. I can’t let him get away with Mo. There isn’t a worse fate for her.

  I raise the gun and fire again and again.

  The first three shots ping off the truck’s backseat, but the fourth blasts through the back windshield. Suddenly, the truck is fishtailing out of control. It careens wildly toward a giant boulder.

  “No,” I say, starting to run.

  The truck hits the boulder nose first, smashing with the horrible crunch of broken metal and shattered glass.

  I run, praying Mo is okay. Praying, praying, praying.

  When I get up to the truck, my hope vanishes.

  The truck is totaled. The front is crumpled up like tissue, crunched into an accordion. Barrage is pinned against the steering wheel. My bullet hit him in the neck, and he’s drenched in his own blood. I stare at his broken glasses, at the blood on his face. Then I run around to the passenger side and try to get the door open.

  “Mo!” I hear nothing. There’s no movement.

  The front passenger door won’t open; it’s too warped from the crash. So I yank on the passenger’s side door until it finally gives way, opening with the horrible creak of hinges.

  There on the floor in a rain of glass is Mo. Unconscious. Not moving.

  Trembling, I reach down, carefully drawing her body up from the broken glass.

  She’s bloody, but I can’t tell where it’s from. And it looks like one or both of her legs are broken. The worst part is there’s blood in her mouth and trailing out of her nose.

  “Oh God, Mo, please,” I beg, trying to hold her but worrying I will hurt her.

  Small hooting noises come from her throat. Dark brown eyes flutter open. She looks at me. Slowly, one small hand reaches out and touches my face.

  “Mo, what do I do? Where do you hurt? Just . . . just hang on. I’ll get Doc.” I turn and start to run, but she cries out like the jostling hurts her.

  Her eyes plead with me, but I am useless, helpless. What do I do?

  “Mo, how can I help? What can I do?”

  Her eyes plead like she wants something from me. Like she wants me to end her pain.

  I shake my head. “Just wait for Doc. He’ll fix you.”

  She gives a low hoot. Her dark brown eyes plead with me.

  But that can’t be what she wants. She can’t want me to . . .

  She’
s in pain. She’s been in pain for so long. And nothing I’ve done has helped. Things have only gotten worse and worse. And so she wants the pain to end.

  A sob stutters in my throat. “I can’t. I can’t do it. Please, let’s just wait for Doc. He’ll know what to do.”

  She arches, the pain terrible. And I’m prolonging it.

  But this can’t be the only way. Can it?

  “Mo,” I murmur, holding her. “Mo, honey, I love you. I can’t do this.”

  She squirms in pain, her eyes shutting. Her face looks skeletal as it twists with the torment of what has happened to her body.

  I’m being selfish. I’ve been selfish this whole time.

  Sobbing, shaking, I set her carefully onto the cushioned backseat. She moans again, clenching and unclenching her fists. She’s in so much pain.

  My shaking hands can barely get out the gun, but somehow I manage. But when I raise it, I can’t. The weapon feels like it weighs a thousand tons.

  Yet, every moment I prolong, I extend her anguish.

  What kind of mother am I, letting her suffer because I’m not brave enough?

  Choking on sobs, I raise the gun. It wobbles. I steady it with my other hand. I make myself focus.

  “It’s okay honey. It’s all going to be okay.”

  I suck in a deep breath and squeeze.

  The gunshot is loud. But when I look down, I’ve done it. She’s out of pain.

  But mine has only begun.

  I stare at her still body. Lifeless, gone.

  The gun falls from my hand. I lean against the side of the truck and slide down until I’m sitting in the dirt. I put my head in my hands.

  Eventually, a car rumbles up. Hands grip my shoulders. When I look up, it’s Doc.

  “I couldn’t save her,” I sob. “She was in too much pain.”

  He looks above me and seems to understand. He kneels beside me, holding my shoulders. “I couldn’t save her either. It’s just as much my fault. I thought that by betraying you and going with Nessa, I . . . I could do something. Be brave, or . . . But it wasn’t. I wasn’t. I should’ve told you.”

  Leaning into him, I feel his warmth. I’m so cold. “Is anyone alive?” I whisper. “Clay? Ethan? Auntie?”

  “Yes,” he says, holding me. “Clay is back at Shiprock. Auntie and Ethan are coming to meet us here.”