The Breeders Part 23

"Riley, is he-"

"Give me your feet!" I shout, stooping to dig at the twine around my brother's ankles. As I'm prying off the twine, I keep shooting glances back toward the garage. I keep expecting to see Hatch running toward us, his knife raised, but nothing. I pry off Ethan's bonds and I pull him toward the street. We skirt around the house. When we hit the pavement, I can see into the garage where I left Hatch. The dark, moaning shadow on the garage floor lets me know he won't be coming after us. The venom is working its magic. It's the only time I'll thank a rattler.

"Come on," I say, jogging next to Ethan down the moonlit street. "The hospital's this way."

Chapter Twenty-Four.

The hospital looms in the distance, all nine stories of concrete and gla.s.s glowing like an electric beacon. From here you can't tell the horrors going on inside. When we can see each individual window, my palms glisten with sweat. We've jogged on and off for two hours. My s.h.i.+rt is soaked, I have blisters on both heels and I want a drink of water so bad I'd kill for it. Ethan stops in the shadow of a leaning streetlamp, puts his palms to his thighs and sucks in rattling breaths. When he looks up, his eyes follow mine to the building illuminated before us.

"There it is," he whispers.

I nod and pull him into one of the vacant buildings that dot the block. We step over the pile of bricks that block the entryway. Something skitters into the darkness as we walk in, but judging by the sound, it's too small to be a threat. This place must've been a restaurant based on the faded sandwich posters curling off the wall. Booths with faded yellow seats line one wall. The cracked remains of a soda fountain stands next to the cash register. Ethan walks over and pushes the lever but nothing happens. Subway, the sign reads in big yellow letters. I thought subways were transportation.

My eyes flick through the dark shadows, examining every doorway. My skin crawls and my heart can't stop pumping way too fast. Part of me expects Hatch to come barreling out, hands hooked to tear me apart. We left him behind hours ago, but the look on his face as he tore through the house haunts me.

We lean against a debris-littered counter and stare at the glittering hospital.

"What's the plan?" Ethan asks.

I gotta get him out of here. He's sucking in far too much plaster dust and mold. He rests a hand on the counter and leaves a palm print in the dust.

"The plan is I get in somehow and you stay here."

"No way." He shakes his head back in forth. "I'm going."

"Ethan, it's not safe. I can't take you in there."

"I can't stay out here," he whines as he looks around the dark, cobwebbed s.p.a.ce.

I think of what Clay said at the fire. Before I can stop it, an image on Ethan swims up before me. His face is slack and white. Blood splatters his chest. I shake it away. "You stay here."

"If you don't take me," he says, his fists tightening, his face s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up into that look of defiance he rarely uses, "then I'll ... I'll go knock on the front door. They'll let me in." He juts out his chin.

"Ethan!" I scowl. "You're being impossible." I slump in a booth, streaking the dust on the tabletop. He frowns at me from across the room. The stubborn set of his mouth matches mine. And I don't wanna leave him out here alone and unarmed. He could get in as much trouble here as inside with me.

"Fine," I say, staring out at the glowing hospital. "But you do absolutely everything I say, when I say it." I point my finger at him. "No questions."

He nods, his fists loosening.

"And if I say run, you run and don't stop. Not for me. Not for anyone. You got me?"

He nods.

I sigh, and a puff of dusts swirls off the counter and dances in the moonlight. I rub my fingers over the bridge of my nose. My legs ache from the long walk here. My shoulders are in knots. We have no food or water, no weapons of any kind. I rub my hand over my face. What the h.e.l.l am I gonna do?

"How we gonna get in?" The garbage crinkles under his feet as Ethan takes a few steps toward the door and peers up.

I shake my head and rub my hand over my stiff neck. There's a tender stab of pain at my hairline where Clay dug out my tracker. Then it hits me.

I reach into my pocket. There, at the bottom, is the little metal disk the size of a b.u.t.ton. Carefully I draw out the microchip and hold it up to the light. But will it work?

Ethan peers at the little disk. "What is it?"

"A locator," I say, tilting it ever so slightly in the light. "Betsy said the energy from my body activated it." I peer into the dark cave that used to be a sandwich shop. "We need to find a knife, something sharp. Then I'm going to need your help."

I press a strip torn from my s.h.i.+rt to the back of my neck and wince at the pain. Ethan re-implanted the transmitter. He said it started glowing a few minutes after we pressed it in the fold of my skin. Now he crouches beside me next to some smelly dumpsters at the back of the hospital. Black garbage bags peak over the lips of the metal bins. Some of the bags are torn open and garbage litters the ground. I push away a soiled cloth with my boot. Garbage pickers have been here. If we get spotted, it'll be a good cover story-that we're scavenging. I keep telling myself this as I sit with my back pressed to the stinky metal bin, my knees to my chest, my fists clenched at my sides. At least one part of my plan makes sense.

Yeah, but the rest of it's a mess, that nasty voice in my head says. Even if the receiver still works, which is unlikely, and Betsy sees it, which will never happen, will she even care enough to creep downstairs and let you in? Then you'll have to skirt the guards, find Mama, get her unhooked and get the h.e.l.l out, all with Ethan at your side.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Nothing is more impossible.

In five hours it'll be morning. And if the Sheriff's right, it'll be my mama's last day alive. I take a deep breath and silence the voice in my head. There's no time for plans, only action.

Ethan picks up a crumpled paper wrapper and starts folding it into little squares. His voice is so quiet I barely hear him. "Ri, do you think Mama will be happy to see me?"

His hair hangs over his eyes, so I can't read his expression, but I watch the way his fingers tremble as they fold the paper into neat squares. I put my arm around his slim shoulders and pull him to me. "Course," I whisper. "She'll grab you up and squeeze your guts out. Only ..." I haven't told him. How can I explain this to a little boy? "There's something I gotta tell you."

He looks up at me, his face tightening. His eyes are round saucers in the moonlight. "She's hurt, ain't she?"

I pick up a ceramic shard lying next to my boot and rub my thumb along the smooth surface. "Not exactly."

"What then?"

I take a deep breath. "They've knocked her unconscious." I meet his gaze now and plow through the rest. "She'll look like she's sleeping, but she's not. She may be hard to wake up."

Ethan stares into my eyes for a few tense seconds. I wonder if he'll cry, but his eyes are dry, his face solemn. I keep forgetting all he's been through.

"Okay," he says turning toward the hospital. "Let's go get her."

An old soul, my little brother.

"There's no way I can keep you outside," I say, more of a statement than a question.

He shakes his head.

"Fine," I say, sighing. "I wish for once I could keep you outta trouble."

"You need me," he says, puffing up his narrow chest. I tussle his hair. He's not even nine. G.o.d, what a life for a kid.

A hinge creaks behind us. Our heads snap toward the sound. Across the dirty lot, a door opens. The rectangle of dim light widens as we watch. Ethan's hand claws for mine. I grab it and drag him closer. Someone's coming.

"Come on, you silly heads," the shadow whispers. "Get your tus.h.i.+es in here."

Betsy. Oh, thank G.o.d. I stand, pulling Ethan up. We jog toward the round shadow. I send Ethan up the five metal steps and I follow. When the door shuts, Betsy throws her arms around me.

"Agatha," she says, her cheek pressed to my ear. "I'm so glad to see you."

I hug her once, pull back and take her in. Her belly has deflated, leaving a saggy middle that pouches beneath her gown. Her hair blond curls are down, bounding onto her shoulders. I grip her hand. "You came. I had no idea if you'd see my signal."

She smiles and nods. "I did. Weirdest thing, I'd put that tracker away when you left, but today I found it on my nightstand. And turned on, too. But here you are. And who is this?" She asks turning to Ethan. "What a cutie," she says, pinching his cheek.

I blink, processing. "Wait a minute, someone set the tracker on your nightstand?" The hairs on my arms rise.

Betsy nods. "Anyway, you're here. What're you doing back? Couldn't take it out there, right? Awful, I heard." She turns to Ethan and sticks her bottom lip out in a mock pouty face. "Awful, wight?"

"Betsy," I say, grabbing her arm, "we got no time. We need to get my mom and get the h.e.l.l out."

"That's, uh, that's going to be exceedingly difficult," says a voice behind us.

Stepping through the shadows, a masculine form emerges in dark slacks and too-large lab coat. His smudgy gla.s.ses reflect a ray of light.

"Rayburn," I say, grabbing onto Ethan. "What're you doing here?"

"Well, how'd you think I got down here, silly?" Betsy says, putting her hands on her hips.

Rayburn and Betsy. They're both here, willing to stick their necks out for me. Yet something about this whole thing seems off. If I had time, I could puzzle it out. I don't. I turn to Rayburn. "I don't care how tough it is. What we gotta do to get her out?"

Rayburn shrugs and peers at me behind the film of his gla.s.ses. "I can get you into the plan B room. Unplugging your mother-well, uh, that's another story."

I reach out and put my hand on his arm. He stiffens at the touch. "You'll figure it out. I know you can do it."

He clears his throat and blinks at me.

"Come on," I say. "We don't have time."

We slip through the shadowed storage room that smells of old garbage, past the shelves of cleaning supplies, the yellow mop buckets, the industrial sink. Then we gather in front of the door that leads into the hospital.

I give Rayburn a little nudge to make sure he's listening. "We go quiet and fast to plan B. Rayburn, can you take us on a route to avoid the guards? If we see someone, we'll have to try to hide, which could be-"

"I can get you past the guards," Rayburn says with more conviction than I've ever heard him.

"Okay," I say. I look around at the faces before me in the dim light: Betsy's round, expectant one; Ethan's slim, worried one; Rayburn's jowly nervous one. "Everyone ready?" They nod. "Okay," I say again. "Let's go."

Rayburn swipes his badge and the door swings open. The hallway outside is dark and quiet. Little nightlights throw triangles of light on the tile floor. Rayburn scuttles out and motions for us to follow. I take Ethan's hand, my heart in my throat.

We skulk down the hallway. Rayburn takes a quick left, then right. He stops at a set of double doors, takes out his swipe card. The automatic doors slide open with a smooth hiss. The room before us is pitch black.

Rayburn disappears into the inky darkness. My heart thuds as I will myself forward. I know what horrors await me, but there's no time for fear. I tug Ethan along. Betsy shuffles so close behind, heavy breathing pulses at my ear. Together we walk into the darkness.

The door clicks shut behind us. A thick nothingness descends. The only thing anchoring me is Ethan's hand in mine and Betsy's breath at my back.

"Rayburn, the lights," I whisper.

They snap on with blinding brightness. We wince and blink into the light. When I look up, I take a step back. "Rayburn, what the h.e.l.l-"

We're not in plan B. This room is smaller, about the size of a cla.s.sroom, with echoing tile floors and low ceilings, and there are no beds, no unconscious pregnant girls. Most of the room is empty except one occupied bed in the corner.

Ethan stiffens. "Riley!" He points to the bed ten feet away. "Is it-" He starts to tremble.

It's our mother. I run over and put my hand on her skeletal arm. I mark every blue vein in her semi-transparent skin. She looks worse than when I last saw her. Her belly bulges round and grotesque. She looks far too along to be only impregnated a few weeks ago. But she's alive. The wires run from under her gown to the computer monitor above. The jagged green lines show her breathing, pulse and heart rate all steady.

Why is she here alone?

"Rayburn, what's going on?" I ask, turning on him.

He freezes, giving me a sheepish half smile. He's backing quietly to the door. "You, uh, you wanted, uh your mother. There she is." Beads of sweat have popped up on his hairline. His flabby chin trembles. Warning bells clang in my head.

"Rayburn, what've you done?"

The door opens with a hiss. We've been found.

The Sheriff strides in. My mouth drops open. I tuck Ethan behind me. Betsy's hands tighten around my arm.

"What is this?" I ask Rayburn again. He says nothing.

The Sheriff gives me his dangerous grin and then steps aside. A woman strides in and the door slides shut behind her.

"Oh no," Betsy whispers, sliding close until her gown swishes against my arm.

The woman is dressed like those business ladies I've seen in magazines. She wears slacks with pressed creases and a matching jacket. Her smooth brown hair is clasped at the back of her head. She's about Mama's age, but with none of the wear and tear that comes from life on the outside. Her chin and nose are sharp, her lips thin, unwelcoming, but there's something familiar about her sky blue eyes. They fall on me now as I'm staring, speechless.

The woman lifts her lips in a smile that's supposed to be welcoming but borders on nasty. She takes a step toward me, her shoulders back, her chin held high. "You must be Riley. I've wanted to meet you for a while now."

There's something familiar about her voice. It takes a moment before it hits me. It's the voice I heard over the intercom reprimanding Rayburn when he tried to be kind. She's one of the head Breeders.

We're screwed.

I swallow and raise my own chin. "Who're you?"

She takes another step. "I'm Dr. Nessa Vandewater. I'm one of the people in charge here." She gestures toward the hospital. "It's nice to finally meet you, Riley. I've heard a lot about you." She clasps her hands in front of her and I note her manicured fingernails, long and red.

The Sheriff snorts and she shoots him a pointed look. He grumbles but quiets. He rests his palms on the set of revolvers on his wide hips and glares at me.

Her s.h.i.+ny black shoes click on the tile as she takes another step forward. She's close enough I can smell her perfume, something like wilting roses. I focus on her eyes, piercing blue with flecks of gray around the irises. Where have I see her before?

She studies my face and gives a nod of approval. "I can see why Clay's taken a s.h.i.+ne to you. Feisty, bold. Just like his mother."

I c.o.c.k my head. "You know Clay's mother?"