The Breeders Part 19

I slam my shoulder into his chest. Tensed though he was, he underestimated the force of my blow. He crumples backward, his back slamming into a cafeteria table. Trays go flying. Girls scatter. My eyes track a clump of half-eaten fish as it arcs through the air and smacks, wet, onto the linoleum.

Rusty pulls up and shakes his head like a punch-drunk fighter. When his eyes meet mine, the gaze is antic.i.p.atory, almost gleeful. He wants to fight. Well, bring it on.

He runs, head down, arms out. I clamber over a table, pus.h.i.+ng past two very surprised girls who wrap their arms around their pregnant bellies. "Move!" I shout. They scatter like frightened birds.

Halfway over the tabletop, there's a hand around my ankle. Rusty's fingers grip vice-like at my foot and pull backwards. I'm dragged backward on my belly, arms clawing at the tabletop for something to hang on to. My s.h.i.+n hits the bench and pain jolts up my leg. My fingers curl over the table's far edge and stop my decent into Rusty's awaiting arms.

"Come on," he grunts, his mustache twitching. His hand claws up my bleeding s.h.i.+n, drawing me closer. "Come to papa."

My fight with Rusty can't end like this. I search madly for some kind of weapon. My eyes run over plastic trays, plates of fish, plastic gla.s.ses. Rusty grunts and tugs harder. My fingers slide to the very edge of the table. One by one, they'll peel off and it'll be over. That's when my eyes lock on the smooth metal curve of the utensil to my right.

I grab the fork and release the table in one swift motion. As I tumble into Rusty's waiting arms, I rotate until I'm facing him, the fork ready. My body slams into Rusty's. There's a pain in my jaw as it smacks into his shoulder. As we tumble to the ground, I jab the fork.

When it connects, the sound of the fork sinking into Rusty's eye sounds a lot like slipping a knife into a jackrabbit's belly.

We lay in a pile on the ground. I scramble off and stare at what I've done. Slowly, Rusty sits up, the metal fork sticking out of his eye. Then he starts screaming.

I meant to hurt Rusty, but this, this is something else entirely. As I'm watching in rapt horror, something stings the skin of my forearm. What the-? Barbs attached to long wires arch from my arm to a strange gun in a guard's hand. Then he pulls the trigger. It's a moment before the current hits me.

Pain. Raw, snapping, agonizing pain. I crumple to the floor and shake on the tile. My teeth slam against each other in series of loud cracks. The tang of blood spikes my tongue. I seize. I choke. I'm dying. I'll die fried by coursing electricity.

When the current stops, I can't move. I lay on the ground twitching. My skull's exploded. My mouth tastes like bile and blood. I think I've bitten through my tongue. That little voice in my head comes back. What have you done?

As two sets of hands grab my body, I get one more glimpse of Rusty clutching his useless eye.

At least he won't be winking anymore.

Chapter Nineteen.

They drag me out of the cafeteria and toss me on a gurney. Cuffs snap around my wrists. My body still trembles with the current, and I can't turn my head. Had I eaten, I'd be throwing it up. Behind me, uproar ignites the cafeteria, but Betsy's wild moans blanket the frightened murmurs as she's dragged past me. I hear Rusty's screams as they escort him away.

The gurney rattles forward before I can hear more. I stare straight upward. The florescent lights blink overhead like the faded lines on a long stretch of bad highway.

"Where are we going?" I croak. My mind fights off images of the girls in the bas.e.m.e.nt. "Take me back to my room."

I look up. It's Dr. Rayburn. His lab coat's b.u.t.toned crookedly and his s.h.i.+rt's poking out the zipper of his fly. He doesn't answer. My belly fills up with liquid lead.

The gurney squeaks to a stop. When I'm able to lift my head, I see we're parked in front of the elevator. The glowing red triangle on the control panel sends s.h.i.+vers down my spine. We're going down. Down toward plan B.

"Don't!" I scream, hoa.r.s.ely. "You can't do this!"

Dr. Rayburn pushes me into the elevator. When the door closes, I lean up, trying to catch his attention. His normally pale face is flushed. One corner of his mouth twitches nervously. He does not look like someone bent on destroying me. "You can't do this," I plead. "You're not a monster."

He swallows hard and s.h.i.+fts his gaze back to the changing numbers on the control panel. "It's best if you, uh, don't talk."

"No," I say, shaking my head, leaning forward until my wrists ache against the metal cuffs. "You can't take me to plan B. Let me go! Please!"

He won't meet my gaze. "Best if you don't talk."

With Rayburn I thought I had hope. Now hope has flown and what I'm left with is the stunning realization that my life is over. I'll be turned into a living corpse, left to sleep out my days to the rhythm of a heart monitor, my only friends the ghosts of girls who could have been so much. And my mama. I'll never save her. We'll rot together in some bas.e.m.e.nt lab while the rest of the world goes on.

"Janine Meemick," I choke, sobbing. "Can you put me next to her?" At least we could be together. It's the only thought that gives me a speck of comfort.

Dr. Rayburn looks at me and then flicks his eyes back to the numbers as they light up on the control panel.

Tears slide down my face, into my collar. I think of Auntie, Ethan, and Arn. I think of Bounty, who was someone's dinner long ago. I think of Clay, whose fault this is. I'll never see any of them again. Their faces swirl around. I try to remember every facet of their being, what they smelled like, what it felt like to touch them, how much they loved me. Maybe I can bring some of that with me into the darkness. Oh, G.o.d, this can't be it, can it? I'm sobbing uncontrollably when the elevator doors slide open.

We exit the elevator and swing around a corner to a set of double doors. When he pushes me through, I wait for that rotten meat smell, but we enter an echoing warehouse instead. What's going on?

High industrial shelves line walls stocked with paper products, cardboard boxes and linens. Food cans are stacked in neat pyramids. Every supply must be stored in here. It's a looter's dream, which also explains the huge, metal blast doors and the giant control panel next to it. There's a few machine guns mounted above the panel, grenades, bullet-proof vests. They're taking no chances in defending their stock.

Two vans are parked just inside the doors. The first is a polished supply van, but the second is dusty and battered. Through the darkened windows people move inside.

My sobs subside. "What's this?" Rayburn's already shuffling toward the van, muttering.

The pa.s.senger door opens and Rayburn leans in. I crane my neck, but the windows are black. Rayburn talks to someone inside. Then he stumbles out, closes the door and shuffles back to me, raking a nervous hand through his greasy hair.

I strain forward wildly. "Who's in the van, Rayburn?"

He gives me a sidelong glance, as if he's forgotten me. Then he starts undoing my handcuffs, a slight tremor back in his hands. "Don't run," he says, as he leads me to the van. "You've got nowhere to go."

I struggle against Rayburn as he pushes me up to the back doors. "Who's in there?" I scream. "Tell me!"

The doors pop open. A giant, bare-chested man in overalls stares blankly at me, his mouth open, his eyes slipping over my body. His giant hand cinches around my bicep.

"No!" I scream as the thug pulls me into the van. His hands are the size of baseball mitts. They clamp me to his large sweaty body. The van doors shut. The engine starts up.

Pressed against some strange man's chest, his hot breath in my ear, the reality of my situation sinks in. First plan B. Now this. What is happening?

Huge biceps block my view. I can't see over the frayed backseat. I struggle against the beast holding me. We pull out of the hospital warehouse and bounce onto the road. We're leaving Mama. I open my mouth to protest. Then several things happen at once.

A head pops over the bench seat. "Riley!"

It's Ethan.

My fear recedes at the joy of seeing my brother. Ethan. What's he doing here?

There's another voice from the front. "Let her go, Hatch."

That voice. I turn toward the front of the van and there he is. Clay's climbing over the bench seat toward me. His dimpled smile washes over his face as he drops into the back and pulls me from Hatch's grip.

"I thought I'd never see you again." His fingers delicately cup the skin of my wrists. He kneels, his face expectant, astonished, relieved.

Clay. Clay's here. I meet his eyes.

Then I lean back and punch him in the face.

"G.o.d!" Clay yells as he cups his jaw and shoots me a wounded glare.

Before I can process anything, giant hands grip grab me back in a thick, muscled embrace. I bat out with hands that must seem infantile to this giant. He squeezes me to his chest, the metal b.u.t.tons of his overalls digging into my cheek. His chest is sleek with sweat.

I hear Clay behind me. "I said get your hands off!"

The giant releases me just as the driver swerves. The van rocks and I crash into the wall with a thunk. My elbow throbs where it dented the van wall. When I sit up, Hatch squats beside me, staring wide-eyed. My hospital gown has slipped off revealing my bare shoulder. As I s.n.a.t.c.h at the gown, his eyes watch my hand and then trace down other parts of my body. I don't like the hungry look on his face. He leans forward. Clay grabs the straps of his overalls and hauls him backward.

"I told you to keep your G.o.dd.a.m.n hands off her!" Clay's tone is dangerous, considering this monster, with his tree trunk arms and barrel chest, has eight inches and seventy-five pounds on him.

The giant brushes Clay's hands off with a flick of his wrist. "Boss said keep her still." Even his voice is meaty and slow. His sausage fingers curl into fists.

Clay pokes a finger into the denim bib on Hatch's chest. "I'm boss's son and I say get the h.e.l.l away before I make you!" His hand claws toward the revolver at his hip.

"Boys," says a familiar voice from the front, "knock if off, gawddammit."

I see the crescent-shaped scar first. Then the crooked smile. The Sheriff grins at me from the driver seat.

"Been a while, little lady." He nods and tips an invisible hat. "Welcome to the family."

Chapter Twenty.

The tension in the van sits thick and heavy.

They let me ride in the middle bench with Ethan. Clay sits up front with his father. Hatch rides behind us. No one talks. Every now and then, Hatch farts or the Sheriff whistles a little tune through his teeth. The only other sounds are the road and the thoughts blaring in my head. How did this happen? Where are we going? Is Ethan okay? Looking at him, curled into me, his hair's too long (he keeps blowing it out of his eyes) and he's got what looks like his lunch smeared at the corners of his mouth, but he's all there. Clay's been taking care of him after all. I slink one arm around his shoulders.

My eyes flick to Clay up front. There's a puffy, red lump where my knuckles mashed his jaw. He sits ramrod straight, tightened fist in his lap. He's worked up, though I'm not sure if it's Hatch or his dad or me. He deserved the punch. He put me in that hospital where I was almost raped and used for birthing experiments. And now he's here with his father. They saved me from plan B, but whatever the Sheriff's got in mind can't be much better.

I watch Albuquerque, or what's left of it, zoom past as we drive by. Ethan stares up at the angling buildings, their windowless sides tracking up higher into the sky than any he's ever seen. "Did people live way up there?" he asks, his eyes on a battered skysc.r.a.per.

I nod. Ethan stares upward, his mouth open. My eyes are on the dark doorways, the abandoned cars, the empty parking lots with garbage skittering like crumpled animals. Every now and then we see vagabonds with dark vacant eyes and tattered clothes living in abandoned buildings. Occasionally we see people with matching shoes, full sets of teeth. There's one benefit to the Breeder's hospital. They've created jobs, income and a sustainable place to cl.u.s.ter around. Some of the buildings show signs of repair: boarded-up windows instead of gaping holes, swept sidewalks, cars that might actually run. We drive past what must've been a park, with decrepit benches, tall branching trees and a large gra.s.sy field. Vendors have set up booths made of recycled material. Ethan points at a vendor selling both scavenged office furniture and handmade items, chairs pieced together with plywood and two-by-fours, tables molded out of street signs and rusted rebar. The delicious smell of cooked meat wafts in the open window. A man ladles stew out of a large vat, spewing steam into the air. It makes me think about all we've lost as a civilization. How so much seemed to fall away when the population tanked and we were reduced to basic survival. As Auntie always said, "Leave men to their own devices and this is what you get." Maybe the Breeders will bring some civilization to our uncivilized world after all. Too bad they're willing to sacrifice human life for progress.

A little further out of town, we drive into what used to be a housing area: cozy lanes that now hold abandoned houses falling into decay. We drive past a row of houses burnt to a crisp, their blackened walls standing alone like charred tombstones, marking the demise of the American dream. I spot a square adobe house. The garage door is long gone and piles of fallen plaster litter the garage floor. Next is a sagging two-story where the walls have s.h.i.+fted and the roof bowed. The trees and shrubs someone carefully planted and outlined with stones have withered and died to yellow stalks.

The Sheriff turns down a particularly long driveway and stops in front of another adobe house. I stare at the matching white garage doors, both bent, rusty and cracked open like sleepy eyes. To the left, up a little walkway, the front door stands open. I peer inside to a dark hallway, my heart spurring up in my chest.

"Boys," the Sheriff says, drawing his gun, "search the premises. No dinner guests. You got me?"

"Stay here," Clay says to us as he slides open the door.

The men jump out. Ethan and I scoot to the edge of the battered bench seat and watch out the front winds.h.i.+eld as the men slink up the sidewalk and through the door, guns drawn, faces tense.

After five minutes, Clay strides up to the van and pulls the side door open. "All clear. Come on in." Ethan jumps out. Clay offers me his hand to help me.

I glare at his hand like it's a viper and push past him.

The fresh dusk air is clean and cool after the smog in the van. I inhale deep. It's the first free air I've breathed in a week. Then my eyes meet Sheriff Tate's as he saunters back to the van for supplies. Not so free after all.

I take a step toward the house when Clay blocks my path. "Hold up," he says. He's got a pocket knife in one hand and pair of tweezers in the other. I gape at him. He points to my neck. "We need to get that d.a.m.n transmitter out or they can track you. I can do it." He looks down at his utensils. "Gonna hurt a little."

I shrug. "Won't be any worse than what I've already been through."

His face tightens. Then he twirls his fingers in a turn-around gesture.

I face the van. He steps behind me. I feel the heat of his body as he leans in. "Close your eyes and count to ten," he says in my ear. I try not to focus on his breath pulsing on my neck, the pressure of his fingers cupping my shoulder.

One, two, three ... There's the small jolt of pain as the knife pierces my skin. Four, five, six ... A deeper pain as the tweezers go in. Seven, eight ... I feel something detach. Nine ... The trickle of blood down my neck. Ten ... His hand pressing a cloth to the wound.

"Done," he says, sounding relieved.

I turn around slowly. His hand's still on the cloth on my neck. My eyes travel up his outstretched arm to his face. If he weren't so handsome with his steel blue eyes and easy smile, it might be easier to stay mad.

"Here," he says holding the tweezers out. He drops the b.l.o.o.d.y chip into my palm. It's so small, about the size of a b.u.t.ton, yet so complex with its tiny wires. A green light fades in the center, like a firefly winking out. "You can keep it," he says. "A memento if you want one."

I place the chip carefully in my pocket. I have to remember the hospital. My mama's there.

"Come on," he says, waving me into the house.

The smell of mildew and decay hits me as we walk in the front door. The air's thick, swirling with dust we churn up with our boots. The foyer opens into what used to be a kitchen and living room. The part of the kitchen ceiling has fallen onto the buckling cabinets. Everything of value has been stripped, so all that remains is warped linoleum, dirty carpet and piles of trash. My hand brushes over a flaking newspaper on the kitchen counter that crumbles to pieces before I can read the headlines. Cobwebs drape from the corners. I spy a trail of brown animal droppings near the splintered sliding gla.s.s door. It'll be an interesting night's sleep.

The barren backyard doesn't look much better with the tilted swing set rusting in the dust. Other dilapidated houses dot the landscape as far as the eye can see. I grab Ethan by the hand and pull him toward the yard. I need to get him alone to ask all the questions thudding around in my brain.

Clay looks up from the armload of wood he's carrying-a broken kitchen chair, piece of a picture frame, what looks like a dusty jewelry box. "Where you two going?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "To pee. Do you mind?"

He frowns and shakes his head. "I don't think you should wander around alone." His eyes flick across the yard to where Hatch drags a fallen tree trunk like a twig to the woodpile.

I hold up Ethan's hand that I'm clutching. "I've got Ethan, okay? We'll be back in a few minutes. Feel free to hold your breath till we return."

I turn on my heel and drag Ethan along. We trudge past Hatch and into the neighboring yard. Before us stands the remains of a three-bedroom ranch, but the back half has been eaten by fire. I pull Ethan in, stepping over what looks like a dead animal, but I don't stop. When we get to the middle of what used to be the living room, now blackened and missing the roof, he pulls back. "Riley," he says, crossing his arms over his narrow chest, "I do not want to watch you pee."

"You're not. Listen, I need to ask you some questions. No fooling around, okay. We only got a few minutes."

He squishes up his face, but nods.