The Breeders Part 1

THE BREEDERS.

Katie French.

To my parents, who always believed I could.

Chapter One.

When the dust cloud appears, we know they are coming.

My mama and I spy the cloud churning up the road at the same time. Her potato peeler clatters to the porch floor, sending goose flesh over my arms. I stare at the cloud kicked up by dozens of approaching tires and then back to my mother. There's no mistaking it. The fear is written on her face.

She grips my shoulder, hand already shaking. "Get in the cellar." Her face tightens. "Now."

Her rocking chair sc.r.a.pes against the porch floorboards. She yanks open the screen door and runs into the house, yelling for my brother.

I stand up, my own hands trembling now. The advance of the dust cloud has me riveted, like an animal caught in headlights. It's what we've drilled for, prepared for, whispered about at night. And now they're coming.

My mama's frantic screams pierce my thoughts. "Riley, the storm cellar! Hurry!"

I shake myself out of my stupor and force my jellied legs to move. Running into the house, I spy my stepfather, Arn, at the pitted kitchen table. He slips round after round into his hunting rifle, his calloused fingers fumbling for more in the box that holds too few. He drops one. It hits on the floor and rolls under the table.

"Gawddammit!" he swears. His leathery forehead wrinkles as he searches frantically.

I run over, grab it and hand it to him. The bullet feels cold against my hot palm.

His eyes latch onto mine and a sadness creeps over his face. This frightens me more than anything. He grabs our pistol off the table and thrusts it forward. "You'll need this." His eyes say one gun won't be enough.

The revolver is heavy and solid in my trembling hand. I curl my fingers over the wooden grip, worn smooth with use. I let my index finger stray to the trigger, place my other hand under the grip like he taught me and aim at the dust cloud. I look up at him, unable to ask what I need to know.

In this moment Arn looks old. His sun-beaten face is carved by wrinkles and his forehead is dotted with sweat. The patched overalls sag on his too-thin body. Before this he was out milking the cow or mucking out the barn, mundane, boring tasks that I wish he could go back to now. Arn grabs both my shoulders and fixes me with frightened blue eyes. "You 'member what I taught you?"

"Is it the Breeders? It is, isn't it?" My voice breaks with the terror that's sticking to my insides and knotting my stomach. Arn says nothing. He doesn't have to. His face tells me everything I need to know.

"I can fight." The gun trembles, but I lock my elbows and grit my teeth. I want this chance to face the people who've been hunting us our whole lives.

Arn shakes his head, the lines around his mouth deepening. "Soon's they see you, they'd kill the men and take the women. Get in the cellar. I'll handle this." His weathered hand squeezes mine. It's the most affection he's shown me in months. I savor the roughness of his palm. Then, quick as it came, he drops my hand and goes back to slipping bullets into his rifle, his eyes marking the approach of our enemies.

From behind me: "Riley?!" My mama is near hysterics.

"Coming!" I sprint through the old farmhouse, the boards moaning beneath my feet. I skid to a stop at our bedroom and scan it for my brother. Both beds lie empty. Ethan's boots lie on their sides under his bed. His comic book is forgotten on the floor. He'd never leave it there on a normal day. But this isn't a normal day. Angry motors growl closer. How soon before they get here? Minutes? Seconds?

I burst through the back door. The storm cellar sits fifteen paces from the house, dug deep in the ground. When we moved in six months ago, my mama showed us the cellar that, when shut, folds neatly into the dusty landscape. We've taken pains to camouflage the doors, but will it be enough?

The cellar doors yawn wide, revealing the dark earthen hole. My mama crouches at the cellar's mouth, her hand-sewn cotton dress gathering around her knees. My little brother, Ethan, descends the ladder. His hand clutches her scarred one for a moment before he disappears into shadow. He's gone. An urge to sob washes over me. I bite it back and run over.

My mama turns, searching for me. From this angle she is breathtaking in her loveliness. Her shoulder-length black hair shines in the hazy sunlight, and her left cheek is supple and pink. She's a beauty queen, a ten as Auntie says. It's the other side of her face that marks the horrors she's seen. Red angry burn scars travel her neck and face. Her skin bunches and grooves like a pitted dirt road. Her left ear is only a ragged, red hole. Yet, I rarely notice her burned face. This is the way she's looked as long as I can remember.

I step to the edge of the cellar and peer at my brother. From the bottom of the hole, his eyes are wide as a jackrabbit's caught in my snare. His lower lip trembles. He looks five instead of eight. "It's okay," I lie.

My mother grips my shoulder and presses down. "Get in." Her voice is a choked whisper. She glances back at the dust plume. The gray cloud hangs huge, blocking out the horizon, a tornado set to tear our world apart.

I take a step back and narrow my eyes. "You first."

"I have to get Bell." She looks towards the upstairs window.

I grip her arm. "No! They won't take Auntie. She's too old."

My mama pulls me to her chest in a brief hug. Then she scrambles out of my clutches. I claw for her dress, but she's gone. "Don't go!"

"I love you!" she yells over her shoulder, her voice full of tears. The back door thwacks as she disappears inside it.

"Come back!" I yell, but it's too late.

I stare at the door, wondering if I'll ever see her again. I take a step toward the house, but the truck motors rumble so close they rattle my molars. They will be here in seconds. And what my stepfather says is true. If they see me, they will stop at nothing to have me and I can't put my family in danger.

Ethan whines, "Riley?"

I lower myself into the ground as tears streak the dirt on my cheeks. I draw the wooden shutters and the storm cellar plunges into darkness. Strings of light stream through the cracks of the rotting boards. This earthen hole reeks of damp soil and musty wood. A cobweb brushes my face. I cringe and bat at it as I step carefully to the bench where my brother is a small, dark shadow. Ethan crawls on my lap. He's all arms and legs now, too big to curl onto his sister's lap. His hands claw into my clothing, holding me so close I feel his heart flutter like a baby bird caught in his shirt. On a normal day I wouldn't put up with baby stuff, but today is different. Today we might lose everything.

"Shh. Shh," I murmur, until I remember we need to be silent. I grip Ethan to me with one hand and the gun with the other.

The engines shake the ground so hard I wonder if their trucks are parked on top of us. Dirt sifts through the cracks above. Brakes whine. Doors slam. Ethan trembles.

Husky voices raise the hair on my arms. They call out. I can't make out what they're saying, but I can guess the tone, which right now is friendly enough. Where's my mama and Auntie Bell? I can't just sit here. I slip Ethan off my lap. He moans in protest, his fingers grasping at my clothes, pleading. I pry them off and slip up the ladder. A rung creaks under my weight, but the men are too far off and their voices too loud to hear me. I climb up and press my eye against the knothole.

From this angle I can see the road and our front porch. Three trucks idle in our driveway. They're road gang trucks with big all-terrain tires and grates attached to the front for smashing everyone out of their way. A rusty blue F150 is pocked with bullet holes. A dark green Chevy has hooks welded to the bed rails and handcuffs slung through them. The handcuffs make me sick to my stomach.

A half-dozen men lean out of cabs. They wear leather road gear, buzzed haircuts and grimy goggles. A few have big crude tattoos. They glare forward, spit dust from their mouths and let their rifles drape loosely over their shoulders. They aren't aiming at my house. Yet.

"Riley," Ethan whispers behind me.

I wave one hand at him to be quiet, despite the dark. Then I turn back to the scene.

This gang's leader, a meaty man with a bald head and worn leather jacket, stands on the porch with Arn. The thug has his boot up on the seat of Auntie's rocker and he's leaning on his knee as if he were shootin' the breeze with a friend, but then there's the nine-inch serrated blade on his hip. He smiles crookedly, and even from here I can see he's missing half the teeth. His shaved head sports a crescent-shaped scar trailing from the corner of his mouth to his ear. His lapel winks in the sunlight. A gold star rests over his heart.

"Sheriff Tate," I mouth. This is bad. Real bad. He's the local arm of the Breeders. He delivers them girls and they keep him stocked in guns and ammo.

Sheriff Tate talks to Arn, though I can't hear. He steps off the porch and clomps toward us, with Arn at his heels. I drop back down the ladder, stand in front of Ethan and point the gun toward the cellar door. Their footsteps crunch closer. I can't breathe.

Ethan's hand tightens around my arm, a vice grip. Please, G.o.d, don't let them find us, I pray. Please.

Their boots crunch to a stop and veer right. Arn must be showing him our water pump. If the Sheriff takes another few steps this way, he'll be able to see the hidden cellar. I listen in the darkness, hoping against hope that he'll get a drink and go on his way.

The old pump creaks up and down as my stepfather draws water. This old farmhouse has its own windmill and well, which remarkably still produces fresh drinking water. It is why we can live out in this wasteland and not in town.

The Sheriff drinks and sighs in satisfaction. His heavy voice drifts through the cracks. "That's fresh. Didn't think clean wells still pumped 'round these parts. You sh.o.r.e got lucky." His voice is resonant, like a roll of thunder. Beside me, Ethan squeezes my arm until it goes numb.

"Yep. Yep. Lucky." My stepfather's worn voice catches in his throat. Let him hold it together a few more minutes. Please.

"So, just yer lonesome on the homestead?"

I hold my breath. Ethan shifts nervously beside me.

"Yes, sir. The boy I took in died a few years ago. Rancher's flu. Had a renter, but he cleared out some months back. Don't mind the quiet."

The men pause for an eternity. I glance down at Ethan. Even in this dim light I can see his face twisted with terror. If we get out of this, I'll give him the caramel I've been saving since Christmas to lift that look off his face.

"Awful big house for a stiff such as yerself. Mind if we give 'er a look? Couple crim'nals we hoping to strap in irons."

Liar! They're looking for girls. Everyone's looking for girls.

Arn blows out his breath. "Rather you boys be on your way. Got more milking to do."

The Sheriff clucks his tongue. "Uh-uh. Milking's a morning ch.o.r.e. Hiding something, are ya? We'll jist take a peek."

Sheriff Tate pushes a shrill whistle through his teeth. Boots thunk to the hard-packed dirt.

"Now hold on!" Arn yells.

I scramble up the ladder and press my shoulder to the cellar door. I steady my trembling hands. Ethan, the dull shadow beneath me, begins to cry. I flick my eyes away and swallow hard. I don't care what happens to me, but nothing can happen to him. I couldn't stand it.

My front door bangs open, and angry tomcat yowling cuts across the yard. I hop down a peg and fix my eye back to the peephole.

Auntie Bell bursts out of the house, screaming, her hair wiping around her like a great gray storm. Her arms flail as she barrels toward the Sheriff.

"You stinking, rotten pig eater!" She lurches, her hands hooked like talons. My stepfather grabs for her dress. The cotton shift pulls tight around her wrinkled body as she strains to attack.

She claws at the Sheriff's face. "You loathsome, dirty hair pie! I spit in your mother's grave!" Auntie kicks out wildly. One of her clogs flies off and smacks into the Sheriff's thigh. He stumbles back and drops his hand to his knife. He will kill Auntie and Arn, but I'll shoot him before that happens. I tuck my head to my chest and feel the adrenaline buzz inside me. The metal feels smooth under my trigger finger. I press my shoulder to the door.

Laughter explodes through the air. I slam my face back to the peephole so fast a splinter sinks into my cheek.

A crooked smile lights up the Sheriff's carved face. He thumps a meaty hand on his knee. "Batty, old witch," he says, cackling. He points at Auntie. "Ya got some fire left in them bones."

His hand leaves his knife and he waves off his men. "We ain't interested in a wrinkled ole cooz. We decent folk, not savages. You right to be careful, though. Some banditos would s.n.a.t.c.h her up, foul mouth and all." Auntie reaches through Arn's embrace and claws at the Sheriff. He clucks his tongue and laughs again, loud and nasty.

The Sheriff jumps off the porch. "Thanks for the drink. Take care now!" He waves real friendly like, hops in the lead truck and pushes a shrill whistle through his teeth. Motors flare to life. The line of vehicles peels out, spewing gravel against our house.

I can't believe it. They are leaving.

My heart pumps erratically as I try to breathe normal. A cold sweat trickles between my shoulder blades. I shiver and suck air.

Cold fingers wrap around my wrist. I jolt back, my foot slips off a slick rung, and I tumble. My flight through the air is short, the ground hard. The impact sends a snap of pain up my tailbone. I look up and make out my brother's big brown eyes.

"d.a.m.n it, Ethan. Don't scare me like that," I snap. Then I see the terror running over his face. G.o.d, I'm dumb. He still thinks his whole family's about to be murdered and I yelled at him.

I stand and squeeze him to me with one arm. "Sorry, little man."

He pulls away. "Did they leave?"

"Yeah, munchkin." I try to muss his hair, but my hand's not done trembling. "Safe for another day." I can't believe it. We got so lucky.

He sighs and slips his hand in mine. "Don't call me munchkin."

"You got it, munchkin." I stand aside while he mounts the ladder. Suddenly, I'm dead tired. The gun weighs a hundred pounds.

When we get in the house, Auntie Bell sits at the kitchen table. Her loose cotton dress sags against her bony shoulders. She's braiding back her long, gray hair as she mutters something about a dirt pie. My stepfather stands at the window, watching the dust cloud fade. He's got his hands in the pouch of his overalls, his thinking stance. My mama steps behind him, puts her hands around his waist and her head on his shoulder. Their love is so solid, like the beams that hold this house up. My stomach flip-flops with bittersweet longing. I am sixteen and the only boy I see is my eight-year-old brother. Love for me is like the sunset: beautiful from afar, but I can never touch it. Love is ancient history. I get safety instead.

When the dust cloud is only an image we'll see in our nightmares, my mama slips away from Arn and lights a fire in the old stove.

"Riley, get the bread out of the pantry, please." She grabs an opener and a dented can of beans.

"n.o.body's gonna talk about what just happened?" I ask no one in particular.

My stepfather flicks his eyes at me and then starts tucking his guns in their hiding places. Auntie Bell mutters under her breath. My mama drops the beans on the pan. They sizzle and pop as their bodies dance on the cast iron.

"Riley, we're tired and hungry. Please get the bread." Finality settles on her rutted face.

I head for the pantry. I may be the most wanted thing in the country, but I still have to listen to my mama.

Chapter Two.

Today's the day, I think as I stride through the house. Outside I hear Arn swearing at our Jeep. Yeah, right, says the voice in my head. He's never going to let you go.

I push open the screen door and step out on the porch. According to Arn, this land used to be called New Mexico, though there's nothing new about it. For miles on either side of our yard, the scrubland, tumbleweeds and acres of dirt cover the landscape. Plant life consists of p.r.i.c.kly cactus and squat, mean bushes that snag up my ankles. Animals are brown, wiry and should be avoided, unless you're eating one. And the people, we're made tough and p.r.i.c.kly, too. I tell my mama this whenever she asks why Arn and me can't get along.

The sun looms orange and round in the east. At eight a.m., it's already sweltering. I squint down the road toward civilization. Our closest living neighbor is thirty miles east; the closest town, three hours after that. It's torturous living out in what Auntie calls "the devil's a.r.s.e," but from what we hear, the roads north and east team with road gangs. My parents won't chance a townie life, and as my mama says, living where no one else would has its advantages. People leave you alone.

Out here we survive on what game Arn and I can trap and whatever plants my mama can coax out of her garden. Arn barters in town for the rest. If he is fixing the Jeep, it means he's going to town for supplies. This time I'm determined to go.

I jump off the porch, the one we spend hours on, rocking, shucking beans and counting the minutes with our eyes on the road. I sidle over to where Arn's legs stick out from under the rusted vehicle. My eyes trace over the mud-caked knees of his jeans, down to his boots with the hole in the right toe. A string of curse words float up from under the Jeep. I grip the rusty hood, take a breath and nudge his leg.

"What?!" There's a clunk. Then more curse words.

He's. .h.i.t his head. d.a.m.n. Not a good start. I should turn around and eat breakfast with Auntie. Instead, I dig my toe into the dust and clear my throat.