The Breeders Part 14

"It's kind of a mess out there," I say, pouring water for Ethan. "Looks like n.o.body's been in here in years."

Clay looks at me, puzzled. "I'd heard of people trading here last year. I can't figure what happened."

"Did you see anything when ... you know ..." I frown and glance at Ethan. "When you saw that thing in the alley?" Ethan's eyes are locked on me. I smile as if I've nothing to hide.

"She means the body. Do you know how he died?" Ethan asks matter-of-factly.

Clay and I stare at Ethan with our mouths open.

Ethan scowls. "You guys think I don't notice anything. I'm eight, not four." He's trying to be so big, but when he sticks out his lower lip at the end of his sentence, all I can see is the baby I touted around the yard on my hip.

Clay nods. "Sorry, hoss. We'll do better."

I nod, but I'm lying. He'll be my baby brother whether he's eight or eighty.

Clay shakes his head as his eyes turn toward the open window. "There was nothing on the body to show what killed him. It was in bad shape, decay-wise. And the d.a.m.n dog didn't help. I didn't see gunshots or stab wounds, so that's something. But it doesn't tell us much."

"At least with no people, we can get what we need and get out," I say. I don't want to hang around here very long. Other than our little cla.s.sroom, the rest of this town feels like a morgue.

"Fuel and water. Those are our main priorities." Clay holds up two fingers. "Riley already got us water. If we can find fuel, we can jack one of the cars we saw and hit the road."

He makes it sound so easy. I look out the busted cla.s.sroom window toward the blue sky outside. I hope it is.

We dig through our bags for breakfast. Ethan pulls out a hunk of bread wrapped in paper. We split it and try to chew the hard crust as best we can. My stomach growls, but I quiet it with more water. It'll do for a while.

We work through each room for supplies. This time, with the boys at my back, I lose my fear. I pull open cupboards, frighten mice and spiders out of their homes, dig through moldy wads of paper. Ethan pockets a sheet of gold stars, soggy but miraculously somewhat sticky. Clay finds a heavy-duty pair of scissors with decent blades, an empty aluminum water bottle and a ball of twine. I pick up many things, kid's socks, a mug that says World's Best Teacher, a little pink boot with daisies painted on it. My mind wanders to times when these things were in use. What did these people look like? Were they happy? What happened to them? I leave each item in its dust outline where they'll decay like the rest of this place.

Cla.s.srooms pilfered, we find a set of double doors.

"Gymnasium," Clay reads on the sign above the doors. "Come on."

We push through the double doors and find a large echoing room with a wood floor and bleachers on either side. Two hoops with nets stand on each end of the floor. There's a board with faded numbers on the far wall.

"Basketball," Clay says, pointing to the hoops. "Teams of five dribble a ball back and forth. They try to scores as many points by shooting the ball into a hoop. The town south of mine had an outdoor court."

Ethan and I walk around and examine everything, the tilting bleachers, the hoop with the fraying net. When this school was in use, the kids got to play games. Their life couldn't have been so bad. Ethan finds a flat orange ball and tries to bounce it. The noise of the ball smacking the floor makes me jumpy. Eventually, I shoot him a look and he sets the ball down.

We push through another set of double doors and find a similar s.p.a.ce with rows of tables and benches. Some are turned over. Some are covered in bits of ceiling that have fallen down. Big gray bins are stuffed with ancient food wrappers and paper napkins that flow out and trail across the floor. I walk over and peer in the bins. This trash has been here so long it doesn't even smell. We find nothing but useless garbage, but I know we're getting close.

A doorway at the back leads to a dark kitchen. There's rusty old metal stoves and empty molding refrigerators. We find a few utensils scattered around the floor and in the drawers. In another drawer I find red and yellow packets, some kind of food dressing that still looks edible. I drop them into my pocket. Clay snags a decent looking frying pan and a serrated knife. Then Ethan calls my name.

I run toward the sound of his voice. He's standing in a little pantry stacked with shelves. Most are empty. At the bottom though, I see some large metal cylinders the size of small drums. He hefts one up. The label has fallen off and decayed, but on the top in small writing I see a label. "Green beans," I read slowly. I smile and pat him on the head. "Nice job, Superman."

He hefts the can and smiles so wide I can see all his little, white teeth.

We take two trips to carry all of the cans back to our cla.s.sroom where we stack them neatly. We've scored three cans of green beans, two cans of what's called fruit c.o.c.ktail, two cans of baked beans and a can of corn. It's a good haul. I smile as I look at our stack.

"How do we get one open?" I ask.

"I saw a can opener in the kitchen drawer. I'll go grab it," Clay says.

"I'll get it." I have to pee from all the water I drank anyway. It'll give me a good excuse to go alone.

I head out of the cla.s.sroom and down the hall toward the bathroom. Just before the ladies' room I notice our tracks, three sets of shoe prints in the dust on the floor. We've been all over this school and it shows. Then something draws my attention: the large boot prints running along the far wall, fresh in the layer of dust. They're too big to be any of ours and they weren't there a few hours ago.

We aren't alone.

Chapter Fifteen.

I run back to our cla.s.sroom and slam the door. I stand against it, panting, wide-eyed. Clay and Ethan were sorting through a deck of cards they found in the kitchen. They stare up at me.

"What's going on?" Clay asks, standing up.

Ethan stands, too, still holding a six of clubs in his hand.

"Footprints," I pant. "Not ours. In the hall."

Clay glances out the little window in our cla.s.sroom door. "Maybe they're old."

I shake my head. "They're fresh."

Clay pulls out one of his revolvers. His eyes get that look they always do when that silver revolver is cupped in his palm. "I'll check it out. You stay with Ethan."

I don't protest. Something about stalking through the quiet halls to meet some unknown predator doesn't seem fun to me. As he's opening the door, I put my hand on the door jam. "Be careful," I say as I look into his blue eyes, the color of a summer sky.

He lets a little smile dance across his face. "Sounds like you're getting used to having me around."

And he ruined it. "Never mind," I say, waving him out the door. "Go be as reckless as you want. We're totally fine without you."

"Liar," he says, his smile growing. "You need me."

I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him.

He chuckles and then disappears out the door.

I sit with Ethan against the far wall with a revolver in my hand. The minutes tick by slowly. I listen, but hear little else but a few birdcalls from the window and my heart beat in my ears. Footsteps sound, heavy and coming this way. I rise, the gun leveled. It's Clay. He bursts back in our room.

"Anything?" I ask.

He shakes his head, holsters his gun and picks up the jug of water. He lifts it to his lips. I watch his Adam's apple rise and fall as he swallows. Then he drops the jug, panting. "Ahh," he sighs.

"What?" I say, impatient. "What did you find?"

He smiles wryly. "Thought you said you didn't need me." He takes another long pull from the jug. I cross my arms over my chest and tap my foot. He can be so infuriating.

One more devious smile and then he sets the jug down. "No sign of anyone except the footprints. Must've heard us come in, checked us out and took off. His trail leads out a lower window. Just curious 'bout visitors."

"Why didn't he want to talk?" I ask, the hairs on my arms still standing up.

Clay shrugs and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. "Probably as scared of us as we are of him."

I shake my head. "I wanna get out of here."

Clay pulls the can opener out of his pocket and hands it to Ethan. "We have to get gas and that's going to mean digging through this h.e.l.l hole. We do that after we eat. We're safer in here than out there if there's something to fuss about."

I say nothing, but can't shake the feeling of dread.

We open the canned corn and eat until our bellies are stuffed. Then we fill our packs with water jugs and a hose and bucket Clay found in the janitor's closet. Clay scrambles over the window ledge and jumps down. I pa.s.s Ethan to him and then lower myself down.

The bright daylight lances my eyes. I cover them and squint into the distance. The scene outside is just as creepy. The street is deadly silent. The buildings sit as lifeless and desolate as ever. A few birds call and a squeaky hinge squeals from somewhere downtown. Penetrating tragedy is the only thing that would leave a town this empty. Yet, someone survived. Who is this stranger slinking around in the night? Then a gruesome thought grips me. Maybe he killed all these people. I scan the dark windows and alleys as we walk.

We head down the abandoned street to the big yellow sea sh.e.l.l billboard that Clay says marks a gas station. When we find it, the roof covering has collapsed and has mangled at least half of the pumps. Clay fiddles with a remaining pump, pushing b.u.t.tons, looking into the metal nozzle, but even if the tanks still had gas, with no power, they won't pump. I watch as he scans the busted concrete until his eyes light on a metal disk nestled in the pavement. He heads into the little shop attached to the gas station.

"What're you doing?" I call.

He returns with a long metal rod, rusted, but still st.u.r.dy. Then he sets to digging out the cover. When he dislodges the cap, we all gather around the hole. It's an underground tank. Clay picks up a pebble and drops it in the dark hole. It clanks against metal. This gas station is tapped out. Of course it is.

We wander into the little store behind the pumps. The store named Tom and Jerry's is little help, either. It's lined with toppled shelves and more trash. We spread out, looking for any usable items. Ethan pulls out a little packet of pills that must be medicine. Clay holds up an empty gas can triumphantly. I want to be excited, but empty cans will get us nowhere. My hands reach under toppled metal shelves and fallen light casings, until I find something plastic and crinkly. I pull out the wrapper sure it's trash, but this one has weight. A candy bar-Baby Ruth, according to the label. Both boys stare at it like I've just found gold.

"We'll split it three ways," I say, opening it.

It's been smashed and melted and hardened several times, but when I put the chocolate in my mouth, the sugary flavor explodes over my tongue. It's so sweet it puckers my lips. A grin spreads over Ethan's mouth as he chews. Clay licks his fingers when his portion is gone.

"Find another one of those," he says.

But I can't. We dig through the piles for a while until our fingers are grimy and I've sc.r.a.ped the skin off two knuckles. The best I can do is a bag of chips that has been pulverized to crumbs. We take turns sliding the tiny salty crumbs into our mouths until the bag is gone. Then Clay nods to the door.

"Let's go get some gas before it gets dark."

We head back toward the front gate. We pa.s.s several abandoned buildings with nothing but rodents, debris and more trash. Then we come up to a dumpy brown building with a flaking sign. Clay reads: "Urgent Care Medical Clinic. Hang here. I want to see if there's any drugs in there. We can trade 'em in the next town over for what we need."

I know how expensive medicine can be. Arn would trade months worth of pelts for a few pills or salve or even iodine. The three of us file in through the frosted gla.s.s doors.

Something's very wrong. The putrid stench sends everyone's hands over their mouths. Flies buzz in the hundreds and their carca.s.ses line the front windowsill and the floor. Broken needles, dirty bandaging and a dried mess that looks like old vomit cover the floor. I stagger back toward the door. I don't care what's salvageable in here. My brain is telling me to run. Then I see dark mounds blocking the hallway.

Corpses. The pile of bodies is three feet high and stretches down the hallway. The stained sheets cover many, but to my left a clawed hand dangles over a soiled table. Lank, blond hair sprouts from under a sheet near the front. Another is slumped in a chair, his legs purple, his face a bloat mask of decay.

We gotta get out. I grab Ethan and pull him with me as I run out of the building.

As soon as I hit fresh air, I vomit on the sidewalk, my corn lunch splattering against the wall. I close my eyes, but I can't see anything except rows of bodies. The flies swarming around them. The smell. I spit and swipe at my nose trying to get the smell out. I hear Ethan gagging beside me. Then Clay follows. He pulls at my wrist.

His face is green and slack. "Come on. Gotta get away."

We jog and then run up the road. My stomach lurches again and I stop and throw up what's left of my lunch. Then we find a three-foot high brick wall surrounding a parking lot and sit with our backs to it. I can't stop my hands from shaking as I drink from the water bottle and pa.s.s it along. Visions of the bodies swim in my mind.

"What happened to them?" I ask.

Clay shakes his head and sips from the bottle. "Disease. All those needles, the sick beds. Probably some flu epidemic. G.o.d."

Ethan looks up at him, the whites of his eyes large in his terror. "Are we going to die?"

Clay shakes his head and pulls Ethan closer to him. "No. We're fine." But when he glances at me over Ethan's head, I can tell that answer is hollow.

I grip my water bottle between my shaking hands. "We can't go back there. I don't care what kind of meds we find. We can't catch whatever killed those people."

Clay rests his head on Ethan's for a moment. "You get no protest from me."

I clutch my arms, trying to hold myself together. Up the road, the desolate buildings stretch on endlessly. A broken streetlight sways in the wind. Dark, empty shops, their windows smashed, their contents spilling into the street, wait for us. Now more than ever I want to leave and there's only one way I can. I stand up and grab the empty gas jug and hose.

"Let's get that gas and get the h.e.l.l out of dodge."

The first car we find is empty. And the second. With the third I manage to get a mouth full of gasoline, but after I get the gas flowing into the hose, we get about a gallon before that tank runs dry. We walk several more streets and find one more car. This time Clay gets a mouth full of gasoline and another gallon and a half. The sun is sinking low and we only have enough gas to get us a few miles down the road.

"This sucks!" I scream, hurling the hose against the car and then kicking the tires. I want to dump the gas on something and set fire to it. A little of my common sense kicks in and I just kick a hunk of broken sidewalk into the road.

Clay puts a hand on my shoulder. "It's okay, Riley. We'll try again tomorrow."

I whirl around. "I don't want to sleep here again! It's a graveyard! If we get stuck here much longer, we're going to die just like them!" I flap my arms in the direction of the medical clinic. I'm behaving so badly, but I can't stop. I pick up a chunk of brick and hurl it through one of the only intact windows in town. The gla.s.s explodes with a satisfying smash. I watch the shards rain onto the ground.

Ethan's grown stiff and pale beside me. I see his lip starting to tremble. I've scared him. What have I done?

Clay takes Ethan by the hand. "Well, if our neighbor didn't know where we are, he sure does now. We're going back." He pauses and looks at me. "You done or you need to break something else?"

Exhausted and embarra.s.sed, my shoulders slump. I'm done being mad. Now I feel like cowpie on a boot sole. I lower my head and follow behind, back to the school, trying hard not to cry.

When we get back to the cla.s.sroom, I can barely pull Ethan into the room when Clay pushes him up. They settle down and start digging into the can of corn, but my stomach churns from the gasoline and the scene at the medical clinic. I curl into the little beanbag, grateful that I can escape for a little while. Sleep comes hard and fast.

When I wake, the room is dark. Ethan breathes evenly beside me. Clay leans against the window ledge, lit by a little square of moonlight. A pair of wire-rimmed gla.s.ses perches on his nose. I've never seen him wear those. To top it off, he's holding a crinkled book up to the light. It the moonlight he looks entirely transformed from the rugged gunslinger of the day.

"You know how to read?" I ask, sitting up.

He startles and looks up. His hand strays to the gla.s.ses and yanks them off, a blush so red rising up his cheeks that I can see it in the dark. He tucks the frames in his breast pocket and slips the book behind his back.

"I was just ... looking for something." He rubs a hand over his neck and gives me a sheepish grin.

He's embarra.s.sed. G.o.d, how adorable. I point to the book. "What is it?"

He blushes again and shrugs.

"It's okay," I say. "I really want to learn to read. I've tried, but ..." I shake my head.