The Breeders Part 18

I look into her pinched, sweaty face. "I'm here. It's going to be okay." G.o.d, what a lie.

Betsy looks as if she's about to nod, but then her face scrunches up as pain rolls through her. I scan the room for these drugs they're talking about. I'll give them to her myself.

There's no time. Between Betsy's moaning and writhing, all I can do is pat her hand and wipe sweat off her brow. The doctor gears up, and they remove the lower half of the bed. I'm thankful Betsy keeps pulling me closer to her head. I do not want to see what's happening down at the other end.

The doc says push, and Betsy screams. Though I'll be deaf as well as fingerless by the end, I just keep murmuring sweetness like Auntie would. There's a grunt and a scream, and suddenly there's a new noise in the delivery room. A mewing cry. The doctor holds up a gooey, purple baby.

"Oh G.o.d," Betsy cries. Fat tears trace her puffy cheeks. "I did it," she whispers. "I really did it."

I watch the baby wriggle and cry in the nurse's gloved hands. It's amazing, really, how we're brought into this world. Red and squalling, but so, so beautiful. I feel the corners of my eyes dampen as I watch a fresh life take her first breaths. A real-life miracle.

"You did it," I whisper. "You were amazing. I couldn't have done that."

Betsy smiles up at me. "When it's your time, you will." Then she turns her smile toward her baby.

The room chills suddenly. I can't do what Betsy just did. The pain, the torture. Not to mention the nine months of agony beforehand. And Betsy's already done this three times. I step back, shaking my head. I'm not thinking about Betsy or the baby. I'm thinking about escape. I glance around the room and realize no one's paying any attention to me. The doctor tends to Betsy. Two nurses clean off the mewing baby in a heat tray. Two steps and I slip unnoticed into the quiet hallway.

Then I take off running.

Time has slipped away while Betsy was pus.h.i.+ng. The hallways are dark and empty. As I creep down the hall, I hear the murmur of someone's TV set, the steady hum of the air ventilators. Other than that, it seems everyone's asleep. If I can find the stairs, maybe I'll have a chance at getting out. I pull up to a corner and peek around.

There's a guard at a desk twenty feet away. His half-lidded eyes watch the flickering surveillance screens in front of him. I watch, barely breathing, as his heavy lids slide down. I can't believe this is the best security the government can offer. They must think that their patients are as easy to tend as mindless sheep. Well, tonight I'm more wolf than sheep. I slink past his desk and into the stairwell. I fly down the stairs at an amazing clip. The only sounds are my footsteps and the beating of my heart.

At level G and the bottom of the stairs, I pause, panting. A solid metal door separates me from whatever lurks beyond. Nannies, Doctors, Guards-all three could wait on the other side. Or it could be the fresh air under the twinkling midnight sky. There's only one way to find out. My hands slowly push open the door.

It's another dimly lit hallway. My heart sinks. There has to be a way out of here. My panic building, I head left and run past a number of closed doors with key-card swipe locks. The distant hum from behind a set of double doors gets my attention. It has a key swipe box, but someone's propped the door open a crack with a wooden wedge. Maybe it's an electrical room that has a pa.s.sageway to the outside. I take a deep breath and open the door.

I stumble in the dark room and let the door click behind me. It's pitch black, but there's an odor I don't like. My eyes find a shape here or there, but little else. I clutch the door handle and will my pupils to adjust. Soon soft silhouettes appear. The quiet echoes inside let me know it's much larger than a patient's room. At first I think cafeteria, but then I see blinking monitors every six feet or so. Some sort of computer facility?

Something s.h.i.+fts in a dark corner. I freeze, barely breathing. Is someone there? After several seconds, I hear nothing but the beat, beat, beat of my heart. There's no time. Across the echoing expanse, a fan hums and a puff of air dances on my face. On the far wall, I can just make out a large rectangular metal plate. It's the first dirty surface I've seen, stained with dried smears of what looks like garbage. A garbage chute? Does it lead out to a dumpster or down to an incinerator? I shuffle toward it.

I b.u.mp into something at thigh height. A table? I reach down until I feel the spongy material at my fingertips. Blankets. A mattress. It's a hospital bed like my own upstairs. My fingers trace up the sheet until I touch something firm beneath. My hand slides around the shape under the blanket. I stagger back. A foot. It's a human foot.

The room seems to slide sideways. There's a pounding in my ears. Is this the morgue? But why the monitors at every bed? I can't breathe. I spin to leave and b.u.mp into another bed.

Trembling, I peer down, my hand over my mouth to cover the gasp.

It's a girl, though I can hardly call her that. Her lank hair has fallen out in clumps and lies in piles beside her head. Her pasty sore-pocked skin is nearly see-through on her skeletal face. Cords and wires jut out of her arms, chest and head like she's some kind of machine. Long, thin fingernails curl from her lifeless hands. An odor like rotten meat wafts from the bed, gagging me.

She's the living dead. And she's eight months pregnant.

Icy waves of fear wash over me, weakening my knees. I scan the dark beds. There must be dozens of girls in similar states. They're human incubators. A fate worse than death. On a bed next to me a legless creature lies nine months pregnant, her face covered by paper-thin skin. The stumps of her legs still oozing. Oozing.

I gag and stumble back. Have to get out.

"Dear G.o.d," I whisper with trembling lips, "What is this?"

"Plan B," the husky male voice behind me says.

I whirl around, but it's too late. He slams me to the ground. My knees bang into the tile, then my wrists, and finally the ground hits my cheek like a punch. I shove up and scamper forward, but he's got my ankle. He pulls. My fingers find a bed sheet. I claw up the bed. The sheet slips back and the unconscious woman's head lolls towards me. It's then I see the burns.

My mother's burned face lies before me. She's unconscious, a tube taped over her mouth like a transparent snake burrowing into her throat. Tubes coil out of blue veins in her arms. One hand lies cupped on the bed as if she were reaching out to me. But she's not. She's unconscious. One of their plan B experiments.

"No!" I scream. The guard yanks on my arms, pulls me across the tile floor. I lock my eyes on my mother until it's too dark to see, until she's a ghostly blur in my tear-filled eyes. "Mama!"

G.o.d, no. Please no. Not her. Not like this.

I used to think the Breeders were monsters. Now I know they are.

The guard drags me back upstairs to my room. I'm glad he grips my arms because my legs are jelly. When he pushes me on my bed and straps me down, I barely have the strength to fight back. All I can see in the darkness is my mother's lifeless face. The tube in her throat. Her hand clutching, finding nothing in the dark.

Dr. Rayburn stands at the side of my bed. He waves the guard away.

"You're a monster," I manage to croak.

"You ... uh, you are not authorized to roam the hallways." His eyes flick to my face and then away again. "Full restriction is back in place."

"What did you do to her?" I blink back tears. I won't cry. Not in front of him.

The doctor's voice is thick and full of phlegm when he speaks. "It's, uh, it's not your concern." His eyes flick to the camera. Then he leans in and lowers his voice. "This is what I've been warning you about."

"How could you?"

"Those girls could not comply. The hospital feels," he pauses and looks up at the camera again. "We feel it's for the, um, greater good. No fertile female can be wasted."

"That's my mother, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" I say through my teeth. "She has children! You turned her into a living corpse!" I bang my fists on the railings. "How can you sleep at night?!"

"Uh, yes, well, listen," he says, running a hand over his greasy mop of hair. He steps closer to my bed than he's ever dared and lowers his voice to a whisper. "You've got to comply. If not, you'll end up down there. There won't be much I can do to help-"

The intercom on the wall squawks to life. "Dr. Rayburn, please report to your supervisor immediately." The voice is cold, calculating and surprisingly female.

Rayburn stiffens. His eyes grow as wide as a child's caught in some unspeakable act. He's been kind, and now he's in trouble. I swivel my head away as he turns to leave, feeling the tears starting to well. Even the smallest kindnesses are banished here. I can't stand it. I look out the dark window. Dawn's graying the sky. I wonder if it will be one of my last sunrises. What does it matter? My mother can't see sunrises anymore.

"Forty-eight hours," the doctor mumbles as he stands at my door. "You have that long to prove to them that you'll, uh, you'll go along with the program. After that, well," he looks at me with sympathy, "you know."

When the door clicks closed, I let the sobs break free. Crying is one of the only things I'm still free to do.

I'm in my room, staring at the clock. The TV is on. Some show with two men fighting. I can't focus. I watch the second hand tour the clock face and think of my mama. What did it feel like when they put her under? Could she hear me when I screamed her name? If I could get to her, could I somehow wake her up?

I roll over and stare out my bedroom window. Even if I could get it open, there are the heavy metal bars. Even if I could pry the bars off, we're seven stories up. I roll over and look at the door. It's monitored day and night. It doesn't open without a guard pressing a b.u.t.ton from the control room. Yet there has to be a way to get my mama out. I refuse to give up and let her live out her last awful moments in that room.

The only possible option is what Tish suggested earlier. Rusty. Rusty with his filthy smile and ugly mustache. Thinking about him makes my stomach churn. I can't imagine letting him touch me. But if he could free my mama, wouldn't it be worth it?

Would he get her out and me out, too? Images of Betsy writhing in pain flash through my head. I don't want to bring a baby into this world, be a part of this twisted system that manufactures girls like canned soup. Then my daughters would be faced with the same horrific decision I'm forced to make. I shutter at the thought of having a baby, just to lose her to plan B.

I've wound my bed sheets into knots. I lean my head back on my pillow and look up at the clock. Forty-four hours, fifty-five minutes. Soon, by not acting, my decision will be made for me.

When my door slides open, Rusty struts in with my breakfast tray. The sight of him smirking, rubbing a finger over his carrot-colored mustache, is revolting. He's tall and rail thin, with a head of red, curly hair. He's wearing the white guard's uniform and black loafers. But it's his eyes, slipping over my body like filthy hands, that make me want to gag.

He sets the tray on the table, takes a napkin and drapes it over the surveillance camera lens. His voice oozes like rancid oil. "Hey there, sweet thing. Heard you called for a little side of Rusty with your breakfast this morning." He reaches out and tugs on the sheet covering me.

I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. "What're you doing here?" I ask, trying to stall. I hate the way he's looking at me.

Rusty's smiles, a smile that reminds me of a snake-oil salesman on one of these shows Betsy watches-wide, white and entirely false.

"Tish said you wanted to trade. A one-way ticket out of this joint. Well, Rusty's all about helping little ladies." He leans over the bed and presses his palms onto either side of the mattress where I sit. His face hovers less than a foot from mine. I can see the dandruff around his collar, the chunk of something green between his teeth.

I lean away from him. "I've changed my mind. If I'm going to trade," even discussing this makes me feel ill, but I press on. "If I'm going to trade, I want my mama out of plan B."

He leans down. His body nearly on top of mine. I feel his hand on my thigh above the blanket. "No can do, sweat thang. n.o.body comes out of plan B. But I can get you out. You'd like that, right? Out to see your boyfriend?"

He puts his weight on me now. His heaving chest presses into mine until I can't breathe. The smell of raw desire and cheap cologne is suffocating. One rough hand's running down my thigh and pulling up the fabric of my gown. The other hand grips my neck like a vice. His mustache brushes the skin of my neck as he runs his tongue along my jaw.

If he can't get my mama out, I want him off me. Now.

I slam my palms against his polyester uniform and shove and kick until he tumbles off and onto the floor. He pulls up on the side of my bed, the greasy smile sliding off his face.

"What gives?" He swipes one hand over his mess of red hair.

I scrunch back farther into the bed, as if the pillows could hide me. "Get out! You aren't touching me!"

He gives me a shocked look. "Tish said you wanted a trade." He says trade like he's already undressed me.

"She was wrong."

Rusty frowns. "You're slotted for insemination tomorrow. Don't you want to get out before they put a bun in that oven?" He points towards my stomach.

"Not bad enough to let you touch me," I hiss.

He tucks his s.h.i.+rt back into his pants and stalks to the door. He turns back angrily. "You'll regret this, sweetheart."

"No, I don't think I will."

Rusty and his proposition are out.

Forty-two hours.

When dinner arrives, Rayburn lets me eat in the cafeteria as long as I'm under guard. When I walk through the doors, a slap of cooked fish smell welcomes me. My guard leads me to a table with Tish and Sammy. I don't want to hang with these two, especially since Tish will ask about Rusty, but the guard won't leave until I sit. Tish and Sammy stop their talk, glance at me, and then continue complaining about the food. I pick at the clumpy fish that's already cold on my plate.

When the guard's out of earshot, Tish leans into me. "Heard you screaming at Rusty this morning." The smirk on Tish's caramel-colored face is unmistakable. She loves other people's misery. It gives her something to do. "Thought you wanted out so bad you'd do anything."

"Not bad enough to let that slimy b.a.s.t.a.r.d touch me." I push the fish around my plate. I've lost my appet.i.te.

Tish nudges Sammy. "It's not so bad, right, Sammy?"

Sammy doesn't look up, but stabs angrily at her lettuce.

I raise an eyebrow.

"That little bun in the oven," Tish says, pointing to Sammy's stomach, "didn't come from no Petri dish, if you know what I mean."

I do, though it makes me sick. Sammy's cheeks flush bright red. She shoots Tish a searing glare, grabs her tray and tromps over to another table. I catch Rusty's eyes following Sammy as she goes.

"I'm just saying," Tish says with a smirk, "might not matter if you've turned him down. He might find a way to get what he wants."

I grip my fork until my knuckles are white. Rusty's everything that's wrong with this place. I think of my mama in the dark, a tube snaked down her throat. Hurting Rusty won't make that right, but it might make me feel better.

I turn to Tish, letting all caution fall to the wayside. "Does anyone ever get out of plan B?"

She turns to me, her eyes wide, her mouth open. "How do you know about-"

"I just do. Tell me. Is there a way out?"

She slowly shakes her head from side to side, her black curls jiggling. "Once you're in, you're in. I never seen anybody come out."

The look on her face makes me believe her. My mama. What can I do? I can't give up and let her rot in that bas.e.m.e.nt hooked up to monitors. The thought of that would drive me insane. There has to be a way.

Then the cafeteria doors fly open. Betsy barrels in, white hospital gown billowing around her like a sail. She's sobbing and shaking. She spots me and makes a beeline over. When she reaches us, she wraps her hands around my arm and hangs on for dear life. "Oh, Agatha, they've taken her!" The tears darken the fabric under her pudgy neck. "They won't give her back."

I take her hands. "What'd you mean? Your baby?"

"Esmeralda. Only those witchy nannies say that name is gaudy. They put Jane on her ba.s.sinet card. Jane. What kind of name is Jane? Plain Jane. Jane goes down the drain. Jane insane in the brain."

Betsy's eyes roll wildly in her head. Behind her, the guards stride up. I stroke her arm to sooth her. "Betsy, what're you talking about?"

"They won't even let me nurse her. They say I'm too hysterical." Her voice rivals howling coyotes. She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her gown and emits big barking sobs that shake her whole body and me with it.

"There has to be a mistake," I murmur, patting her arm.

A mistake-or the cruelty this place masks as kindness. After all she went through and they take away her baby? The rage I've been feeding shakes its cage, wanting release. A shadow falls on us. Two guards stand on either side. The slash of red hair tells me all I need to know. Rusty, to my left, winks before reaching down and grabbing one of Betsy's arms. The second guard grabs the other. They begin to drag her to the door.

"Agatha!" she wails. "Help!"

My face flushes. My breathing deepens. This cannot stand.

"Let her go!" I say through clenched teeth.

One corner of Rusty's mustache rises as his eyes meet mine. He turns to the other guards. "If this one causes any disturbance," he says, nodding to me, "feel free to use appropriate force."

He sounds so professional when he's not trying to seduce a child. He won't sound so professional in a second. I clench fists and bare my teeth. He drops Betsy and faces me, his arm out, fingers splayed as if readying for a fight. "Let's do this," he says, grinning.

In my head that little voice is screaming, Don't! Think of Mama and plan B! I look down at Betsy, the hot, crumpled, sobbing mess on the polished linoleum. The voice of reason goes silent as I run toward Rusty.