The Breeders Part 22

I s.h.i.+ver a little, but try not to show my disgust. "You like how I smell?"

He nods. "Like honeysuckle."

I smell like honeysuckle? I remember the sweet-smelling soaps Betsy used to slide to me in the shower at the hospital. I smile a little at Hatch. "Do you want to smell my hair?" My brain screams, What are you doing?

Hatch nods and shuffles through the dry gra.s.s. As he closes the gap between us, his ma.s.sive shadow blocks out the sun. Now he's just a giant dark blob with a halo of blinding light at his crown. Warning bells go off. It's hard to draw breath. I tense and close both eyes. I feel the s.h.i.+ft of his weight, hear the crunch of the weed stalks under his feet, smell his body odor and chicken grease. My scalp tingles as his nose brushes against my crown. His hand reaches in and tugs my hair to his nose. Each follicle tingles, sending goose b.u.mps over my arms. I tell myself not to bolt. That it'll be over soon.

He pulls back, a childish grin slathered on his big face. He's looking at me like that piece of meat again. I draw back and cross my arms over my chest. "I have to go now." As I walk away, my legs are jelly. When I'm through the empty house, I run.

Ethan's sitting on the floor of our room when I fly in. He looks up at me as I grip the wall and pant.

He sits up. "What's going on?"

"I don't know." I run a hand over my face. A plan is spinning out in my brain. But would it work?

I lean toward my brother, my hands still trembling. "I need you to be ready. As soon as I can I figure a few things out, we're gone."

He knits his eyebrows together. "What do you mean? Back to the hospital?"

I look out the door toward were I left Hatch. "Just be ready."

Late that afternoon the Sheriff returns in a foul mood. Something about the prices of fuel. Sheriff and Clay strap on guns and take off again. The Sheriff tells Hatch they won't be back before morning. Clay stares at me out the pa.s.senger window of the van as they drive away, but I can't meet his eyes. Not when I'm leaving him behind.

I find Hatch sitting on a log by the dying fire. In the twilight he looks like a boulder, giant and immovable.

I stop when I'm five feet away. I squeeze my hands together and start before I can think too much about what I'm gonna do. "Hatch, I need a favor."

Hatch's eyes slip from my hair to my cotton t-s.h.i.+rt. He sucks in a loud breath.

"Clay and the Sheriff are going to take me back to town. I have to go back to the hospital. I need you to let me and Ethan go."

Hatch's face darkens in the gathering twilight. He digs slowly at the bug bite above his ear. "Boss said we go home. Didn't say nothing 'bout letting you go."

"I know boss didn't say, but I need to go back."

Hatch shakes his rock-shaped head.

I take a deep breath and smile coyly. I take another step forward. "You like me, right?"

He nods big and slow.

"If you let me and Ethan go, you can, uh, smell my hair all you want." I have no intention of honoring this promise.

He leans his giant elbows on his giant knees. The log rocks beneath him. "Boss'll be mad."

I walk in front of him and lean down until we're face to face. "You're bigger than boss. You don't need to listen to him."

He eyes lock onto the expanse of flesh below my neck.

"Come on, Hatch." I say with honeyed voice. "I need you." I swallow hard and think of Mama.

He's up and grabbing my arms. He hoists me to my feet until my toes sc.r.a.pe the ground. I struggle, but it's no good. He holds me up to eye level and peers in my face.

"You messin' with me?" he growls. "You messin' with ol' Hatchy?" His fingers dig into the flesh of my arms.

"N-no," I stammer. The pain pulses where his big fingers cut into me.

He pulls me closer until his face is inches from mine. I can see every hair in his stubbly beard. A jagged line runs from his nose to the top of his lip, what Auntie called a harelip. Something green lurks in the cracks between his teeth.

"Kiss me."

I shoot him a terrified look. "What?"

He tightens his grip on my arm. I wince in pain. "If you mean it, you kiss me."

Kiss him? Kiss this man ten years older than me with dim eyes, oily skin and chunks of his dinner between his teeth? This cannot be my first kiss. Please no.

I look pleadingly into his eyes. "Hatch, no."

His grip tightens on my arms until a cry of pain escapes my lips. I can see in his eyes if I don't give him what he wants, he'll take it.

"If I kiss you, will you let us go?"

He nods once.

Tears wet the corners of my eyes. What've I done? "Okay." I nod once and choke back a sob.

The big grin creeps over his face as he enfolds me in his giant arms. When his rough lips meet mine, I can't help myself. I pretend it's Clay.

The kiss is rough and wet. His tongue probes at my lips, but I clamp them shut. The stubble grates on the skin around my mouth. I pull back. "Okay," I say. "Let me go."

Hatch shakes his big head, still smiling, though his face has lost its innocence.

"Nope. I keep you."

Chapter Twenty-Three.

The rough twine around my wrists burns, but not as much as knowing I've brought this all on myself.

Ethan sits beside me, bound hands in his lap, chin to his chest. His hair hangs limp over his eyes. It's better that way. I couldn't stand him looking at me right now.

Hatch first bound my hands and feet. Then he sought out Ethan, dragged him out kicking and screaming and tied him up, too. Now, as twilight crouches around the campfire, we watch as Hatch throws more boards onto the blaze. The firelight dances on his face. His eyes look like round black beads in the fleshy dough of his head. He scratches at the bug bite, red and raw above his ear and throws a cabinet door onto the fire. It crackles, throwing coils of black smoke into the air.

My insides smolder and bubble like wood that fuels our fire. I brought this on us, so I need to get us out. I stare into Hatch's blank face. There has to be something I can do.

"Hey, Hatch," I say, smiling at him. He lifts his eyes to mine as he tosses another cabinet door onto the blaze. "Untie us, please. We're not going anywhere."

Hatch scratches his head and smears a line of soot above his ear. "I know."

"We can help you get the fire on. Maybe cook a little something. You hungry?"

"Don't need help." He pulls a can of food from his overalls pocket.

I set my mouth in a firm line even though I'm trembling inside. "Hatch, boss is going to be so mad at you for what you're doing. You better let us go or I'm gonna tell him what you did."

Hatch's eyes hungrily trace my body. "I'm boss now."

I drop my head and stare at my threadbare knees. Why did I think this would work? Why didn't we just run while we had the chance?

Hatch lumbers up and thuds into the house for more wood. I search the shadows for escape. There's nothing for miles but dusty back yards, decaying houses, dead trees. Even if we could get free, any attempt to run and he'd be after us in seconds. My eyes trace over our yard: just logs, dry gra.s.s, long and matted down from all the walking we've been doing.

While my eyes are sweeping the campsite, movement under the armchair draws my eye. Something's underneath the chair's fraying fabric.

Then I hear a sound that strikes fear deep into my heart. Sssshhh-thck-thck-thck. A rattler.

Ethan and I have been raised to avoid rattlesnakes at all costs. Arn taught us they can strike from two-thirds their body length. He said climbing trees can sometimes save you, but diving into water will not. When we were younger, our mutt Bitsy took a diamondback bite on her cheek. The dog languished for a day, writhing and yelping until Arn put a merciful bullet in her brain. Since then, I've had a healthy fear of rattlers. Now one is curled snugly around itself about six feet from me. And it looks big.

The best plan would be to quietly pick up and move away. I'm about to tell Hatch when the image of our writhing dog flashes through my head. Hmm. I revise my plan.

Hatch returns with another armload of sc.r.a.p wood and drops it next to the fire. He produces a can opener and cracks open a can of what looks like minced chicken. I watch the armchair with rapt interest and hope that Hatch's huge presence will be enough to send the snake out, fangs bared.

Hatch turns to me, a big dumb smile creeping up his face. "When supper's done, you and me go in the house."

I shake my head. "Ethan and I stay together."

Hatch points a chicken-coated finger at me. "You and me." He thumbs to the house. He runs his hands over his bare belly beneath his stained overalls. A sick, anxious feeling climbs over me. I absolutely cannot go in the house with Hatch. The next few minutes seem to stretch into infinity as I try to piece out an escape.

Hatch spoons hot heaping portions of the minced chicken into his mouth with the same dirty fingers he uses to scratch his crotch. I keep my eyes on the rattler who hasn't moved an inch. Then I see the long curved stick Hatch used to stoke the fire. If I could get my hands on it- Hatch burps and pats his round belly. The dirty overalls swell around his flabby midsection. He holds the last can up and motions to us. He scoops some food out with his fingers and lumbers toward me, his hand outstretched. He wants me to eat out of his hand. Despite the urge to smack the globs of chicken away, I smile and stand up. "I'll come sit by you and you can feed me." I hate the sugary tone in my voice, the smile I plaster on. Then I nod to my feet. "That is, if you undo my feet."

He eyes me, but finally flicks out a little pocketknife and slices through the bonds at my feet. "If you run," he says, hulking over me, "I kill him." He points to Ethan. His face hangs emotionless. He means it. I no longer feel bad about trying to hurt Hatch.

As I step past the chair, my insides crawl. I walk over and stand to one side of the chair, clutching my bound hands together nervously. I do not want to get bitten by a rattler. In the flickering firelight, Ethan watches my every move.

Hatch leans toward me, his fingers slathered in minced chicken that at one time smelled so good to my growling stomach. Now, from the curling ends of his dirty fingers, it looks like chicken brains. I open my mouth and let him jam in the chicken. His thick fingers sc.r.a.pe the roof of my mouth. There's the taste of chicken, but also a tang of ash and dirt. I swallow as quickly as I can. He nods and digs in the can for more.

I turn toward the fire. "Looks like the fire's dying down. Let me stoke it for you." I reach with both bound hands for the branch he's been using.

He watches me warily as I grab the branch. It's about three feet long and springy, harmless. His brain slowly registers this and he bobs his head as I stir the logs around.

"You can feed Ethan while I take care of this," I say, batting my eyelashes.

Hatch shuffles over to hand-feed my brother. I scoot back up on my rock, clutch the stick to my chest and wait.

Ethan looks just as disgusted as I was, but he eats hungrily off Hatch's dirty fingers. I watch, barely able to regulate my breathing. Hatch lumbers back over to me.

"Why don't you have a seat? This chair's nice and comfy," I say, putting a trembling hand on the armchair.

He looks at the chair. "This is boss's chair."

I smile at him. "You're the boss now, right?" He stares at me, his harelip twitching. I can almost hear the gears in his head turning as he considers. Then he smiles and lowers himself into the chair. I hold my breath, but no snake. I grip the stick. I think it's long enough, but my hands are bound and I'm not even sure I can get a good angle.

Hatch stands suddenly. He leans down until his greasy face hovers right in front of mine. "You and me time." He runs a dirty finger over my exposed collarbone. His breath is hot and heavy in my face. He presses his giant form on me until I'm enveloped. I choke on the smell of sweat and animal fat. His big paws grope for my tender regions. He tugs at my s.h.i.+rt, trying to pull it up. Every inch of me p.r.i.c.kles.

I close my eyes and jab the stick under the armchair.

My stick grazes off something, but is it chair or snake? I try to swirl it around, but Hatch s.n.a.t.c.hes the stick from my hands so fast a splinter bites into my palm. "What you doing?" he asks, his brow wrinkling.

He raises the stick to strike me. Then we hear it.

Sssshhh-thck-thck-thck.

Hatch stumbles back, searching. I see her, the brown blur slithering across the dry gra.s.s. Hatch takes a step back and his foot lands on the rattler's tail. The rattlesnake turns and springs. Her jaw unhinges. I see the flash of white fangs. Her brown, arrowed head latches onto Hatch's exposed ankle.

"Yeeeaawww!" Hatch kicks his foot, trying to detach the snake. Her body thrashes like a long brown streamer on a windy day. She won't let go. Hatch tumbles over the chair and lands hard on his back, his legs dangling in the air. He's still screaming.

I watch with my hands over my mouth.

The snake slithers away, shaking a warning song as she slices an S through the dry gra.s.s. My eyes flick to Hatch. He's moaning and yelping. Was it enough to stop him?

He rolls back and forth on his back in the dust, clutching his ankle in both hands. He tugs his foot toward his mouth in an attempt to suck the poison out, his lips curling in an anguished sneer. When he can't get his foot to his mouth, he rolls over and pulls himself up on the tumbled armchair. A string of frothy saliva runs down the corner of his mouth. His body's covered in a scrim of dust. His blood-shot eyes fall on me.

"You." He points a shaking finger. He limps toward me, his face twisted in rage.

If he catches me, he will kill me.

I turn and sprint toward the house. His heavy footsteps thud after me. With my heart flying into my throat, I tear through the yard as fast as my legs will go. I catch my foot on a p.r.i.c.kly shrub and take a hard fall. My elbow slams into the dust and pain spikes my mouth as I bite my tongue. I look over my shoulder. Hatch is right behind me. White froth decorates the corners of his mouth as he reaches out with a clawed hand. I scramble up and sprint across the yard. I gotta make it to the house.

I tumble through the sliding gla.s.s door, my shoulder rocking into the frame. I thud down the hall. Where to go? Kitchen! I stumble in and yank out drawers. My bound hands scramble over rusty tongs, place mats, crumpled paper napkins. Where's a G.o.dd.a.m.n knife?

Hatch clomps up the back steps. He blows and snorts like a colt run into the ground. "You!" His face pinches with pain and rage. His arms are out, fingers hooked. He'll tear me to pieces. I don't wanna die at the hands of Hatch.

I sprint out of the kitchen, down the hall. I pull open the first door. A linen closet. d.a.m.n! My heart slams against my chest. I yank open the next door. The garage. I stumble down two concrete steps. The air's thick here, the floor strewn with garbage. I slosh through it at a run. My foot thunks into something solid and pain shoots up my leg. I crash hard into a pile of oily rags. I think I've broken my toe. I push up and hear him behind me.

Hatch stands at the garage stairs, gurgling, frothing. He looks like one of the brain-eating zombies from Auntie's horror stories. He'll crack me open and scoop out my insides, but not before using me up first. Go! I think. I claw my way up.

He growls and tumbles down the steps.

I sprint through the open garage door and into the dark toward the fire. When I reach Ethan, he's standing stock-still.