The Breeders Part 21

Clay curls his fingers over the hem of his shirt. "My pa said I won't have to go on raids or trade with the road gangs. Just keep order in town. I told him he'd have to take you and Ethan in." He lets his eyes wander back to the fire before they flicked up to my face. "Everything's worked out okay, though. You're free and Ethan's got a place to grow up. And all I have to do is agree never to run away again." Clay's eyes are distant, looking out my window onto the moonlit landscape.

I shake my head. "We can't go home. My mama's at the Breeder's hospital. They have her knocked out in this room with all these half-alive girls." How can I describe the horror? I think of her in the pitch-black room, wires hooked to her chest, the tube taped to her mouth. I wince and shake the image away. "We gotta get her out." I look up, pleadingly into his eyes. "We gotta."

He blinks, processing. He reaches for my hand. "Riley, I'm sorry-"

The Sheriff's voice cuts through the room. "Clay!" his father bellows. "Get your a.s.s in here!"

He shoots a look down the hall. His hand, hovering inches from mine, drops to his side. "I'll be back," he says, turning.

"Clay, wait."

He glances back with a look I don't quite understand. His heavy footsteps echo down the hall as he walks away from me.

I crumple into my mound of bedding and stare up at sagging plaster ceiling. I replay the last few moments. Clay so close. His fingers on my arm. The change in atmosphere when his father called him, like a switch flipped inside his head. One minute he was mine, the next he belonged to the Sheriff. I curl into the musty blankets and close my eyes. I may have Ethan and Clay back, but we're no better off than I was before.

I wake stiff and groggy. Orange firelight flickers dimly from the metal barrel. A lump beside me shifts. It's Ethan, curled in the sheets, one smooth pale cheek peeks from beneath a flowered blanket. I curl toward him.

Something stirs in the hallway. Someone's there. I look, but at first in the dark all I catch is a giant, lurking shadow. Hatch. I stare, barely breathing. His raspy breath and the creak of the floorboards under his weight seem deafening in the silence. I wrap my arms around myself and watch his shadow increase until it's ma.s.sive, a thundercloud blotting out the moon. If he comes in, I'll scream.

Moments pa.s.s with nothing but breath and the fear creeping up my shoulders. Don't let him come in.

The floor boards creek. Heavy footsteps thud away. I pull the blankets up to my chin and scoot closer to Ethan. It takes me hours to fall back asleep.

"Riley, wake up."

I open my eyes to my room bathed in day. Sunlight dances through a battered cobweb across the window. Birds chirp somewhere in the distance. I've overslept.

I stretch the kinks out of my back as Ethan plops down a plate of breakfast-a lumpy mound of yellow eggs and a thick slice of brown bread. I want to gobble it all the minute he sets it beside me. Instead I take the fork and try to eat like a lady. Two bites and I'm shoveling the eggs into my mouth. It's so much better than hospital food.

My brother watches me eat, poking his fingers through holes in a moth-eaten blankets. The rose pattern of large pink flowers and cascading green leaves reminds me of the one stretched across my bed at home. Will I ever see it again? I turn my attention to Ethan. I've seen that wrinkled forehead before. He's stewing about something. I put down my fork. "What's cookin', bacon?" It's an old Auntie phrase. Just saying it makes me homesick.

"What does that mean?" He c.o.c.ks his head to the side. His chin-length hair hangs off the side of his head like a brown curtain. He doesn't remember.

"What's going on in that noggin' of your'n?" I rap on his head lightly with my knuckles.

His face tightens. He looks to the door and then leans in close. "I heard something, but I-"

"Spill it," I say, feeling my pulse quicken.

He works his little fingers back and forth in the blanket holes. I know he's pretending they're worms poking out of the dirt. If I were feeling more playful, I'd pretend to pluck them out for some hungry baby birds. But playtime's done.

He sighs heavily. "Last night I went to get my stuff from the van and I heard Clay talking to his daddy. I didn't really mean to easedrop."

"Eavesdrop. What were they saying?"

"I wasn't listening good until I heard them say something about Mama."

I haven't told Ethan about Mama yet. I just couldn't. Now, the hairs on my neck stand up. "What'd they say?"

"They were talking about how Mama is stuck in the same hospital you were in. Is that true, Riley?"

I bite my lip. "Yeah, bud. She was there."

"She was?" He leans in closer, his eyes widening. "Did you talk to her?"

G.o.d, help me get through this without crying. I tighten my jaw. "She was in another part of the hospital, but she's okay." I shift my eyes from his. Lies. All lies.

He sinks back into the mound of blankets, his eyes distant as his mind works this over. "I'm glad she's okay," he says quietly. He goes back to working his fingers into the blanket.

I lay my hands over his. "She is. Now what did Clay and his daddy say?"

Ethan frowns. "Clay told his daddy that you wanted to get Mama outta the hospital. He asked if we could go get her. Clay's daddy said no. A deal's a deal, or something like that." He shakes his head, trying to get it right. "Clay said we need to go, but then Clay's daddy said if he kept bugging him, he'd leave you and me here and drag Clay's a.s.s back to town hisself. Then when Clay left, his daddy said something to Hatch about they're getting rid of the plan B patients in two days anyways. Something about it ain't working? I don't know." He frowns, then looks up at me. "What're we going to do, Riley? We have to get Mama." His wide eyes search mine.

When I pull my hands off my knees, I've left white indents where my fingers dug into the skin.

Ethan asks again. "What're we going to do?"

I dig through the pile of clothes next to me, looking for shoes. "What'd you think? We're going after her."

Chapter Twenty-Two.

When I was little I'd sit by my mama's feet and unwind yarn while she knitted. I used to spend hours unknotting those coa.r.s.e colored threads. My little fingers would pick at the knots until the tangles gave way. Despite the boredom, despite my sore fingers, I'd give anything to be back there again.

Alone in the mildewed room, I track down the shifting threads of my thoughts and unknot slowly. The facts are these. My mother has been sedated and is being used as a human incubator. Something bad is going to happen to her in two days. The Sheriff refuses to help because if he angers the Breeders, he might lose his kingdom. Plus, he probably couldn't care less. Clay gave in to this father when he said to drop it. Without Clay, our chances are slim.

Fact, says my petulant brain, you won't want to leave Clay behind if that's what it takes.

A pain shoots up my chest at this thought. I replay that moment with Clay again and again. The sweetness of the liquor on his breath as he stepped towards me. The touch of his hand on my wrist, hot like the fire that burned in the barrel behind us. I catch myself listening for his voice down the hall, for the tread of his feet on the gravel outside. But, he's the Sheriff's right hand man. Will he help?

I curl my knees under me and stare out the window where I can just see the top of a neighboring roof. Many of the semi-circular terracotta tiles have cracked and fallen away. A small, brown bird lands there for a moment and then ducks down into a hole in the tile where he's made his nest. I watch him settle in, feeling a wave of homesickness so raw I have to fight back tears. I wanna fly home, tuck myself in a warm snug place and fold my head under my wing. Then I think of Mama in that awful room. Whatever "get rid of" means, I can't let that happen.

I take a deep breath and tick off the plan. We'll have to get away from the Sheriff and get back to the hospital somehow. Once there, we'll need a way in. And we need Clay. I'll have to get him alone to find out his plan for Mama. And if he won't help? I wrap my hands around myself. Let's hope it won't come to that.

He shows up at my door for lunch in dusty jeans and boots. His sweaty t-shirt clings to the muscles of his arms and chest. He wipes a hankie across the back of his neck. "You up then?"

I gesture toward the noon sunshine streaming in my open window. "It's the middle of the day. I'll go bananas if somebody doesn't give me something to do."

He smiles faintly. "Thought you could use the rest." His eyes trace down my body. I'm dressed in his simple faded jeans, a cotton t-shirt. "You look ... well rested," he says, a blush running up his cheeks.

His blush sends a fire to my cheeks. I shake my head and focus on the question I have to ask. "Clay about last night. There's something I-"

"Lunch is on," he says loudly, his eyes tracing down the hallway as if someone's listening. "Figured you'd like to join us."

"Okay," I say slowly. So it's not safe to talk. He leads me down the warped hallway, stepping past a hole where the floor has sunken in. Just before we come into full view of the others, Clay's hand seeks out mine. The soft pads of his fingers trace the skin of my palm. My heart pounds, but as quick as it came, the touch is gone. He strides toward the fire pit, calling to Ethan. I cup my tingling hand to my chest and step into the sunshine.

Ethan's perched on a log, his cheeks stuffed like a squirrel's, a half-eaten chicken leg clutched in his hand. Hatch sits on the dry gra.s.s with a hunk of chicken in his hands. Grease runs from the corners of his mouth, down his thick neck. He wipes an oily hand on the bib of his dirt-streaked overalls. As I sit next to Ethan, Hatch's eyes track me.

Clay crouches over the skillet and plucks off hunks of crispy chicken meat-a little burnt, but smelling delicious. He makes a plate with the chicken, a fat brown roll and a jug of milk. When I take a drink, the milk is warm and fresh. I stare up at him in wonder.

He smiles. "Pa got it in town. We like to eat good even on the road."

I look around for the Sheriff, but he's missing from our circle. I nod toward the ruts in the driveway where the van was parked. "Where'd he go?"

Clay looks at me and then slips a glance at Hatch. Hatch keeps his eyes on the chicken skin he's peeling and eating in big greasy bites.

"He's getting supplies for the ride home," Clay says.

"Oh," I say, feeling stung. "Are we going home?" My voice wavers like I can't seem to figure out what it should sound like.

He takes a bite of his bread roll, chews carefully. "Soon's you feel up to it."

My eyes slip to Hatch. "I feel fine."

My mama, on the other hand, does not feel fine. She doesn't get to eat chicken. She'll take the rest of her meals, however many she has left, through a tube in her arm. I picture her sunken face and a cold shiver pa.s.ses over me.

Clay's brow furrows. "You cold?" He stands. "I'll get you a jacket."

I reach up, grab his sleeve and pull him back down. I throw on a smile. "Sit down. Just someone walking over my grave."

Hatch belches, stands and lumbers off, undoing his overalls. I watch his hair speckled back recede in the distance. This is my chance. Once he's gone, I lean toward Clay. "What about my mama? We can't just leave her there. Who knows how long she'll hold out?"

Clay locks eyes on the chicken in his hands. "Riley, I know you're worried, but we can't just rush into the Breeder's hospital guns blazing. There ain't nothing we can do till we get home. After that, we'll ..." He finally looks up at me. "We'll come up with a plan."

I pull back sharply. "What're you saying? Leave her there? We can't leave her there. That," I say, pointing somewhere in the distance, "is my mother!"

"Riley, listen." He turns to me. "I know you love your ma, but it can't work. I just don't see-"

"Of course you don't see," I say, standing up. Fire burns through my brain. There's no stopping what comes out, no matter how ugly it is. "You're the one who let his pa sell his own mother to the Breeders. Did you help pack her bags?"

Anger rushes into his face. "That's not fair," he says, his voice controlled only barely. "I was just a little kid. I don't even remember her."

"What's not fair," I say, my voice trembling, "is my mama turned into a living corpse left to rot in a bas.e.m.e.nt." I clench my fists. "That is NOT fair."

Clay shoulders tighten as he glowers into the fire. "You're ready to fight the Breeders?" He turns to me, eyes blazing. "The most heavily armed, well-guarded place in the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n world!?" He stands and points a finger in my face. "You're recklessness will get you killed! And him, too!" He points at Ethan.

I stand. "Don't bring him into it." I shoot a glance to Ethan. He's staring at us wide-eyed, a chicken leg dangling forgotten in his hand.

"Yes, I'll bring him into it!" Clay shouts. "You want to know how my brother died? Probably not, because you don't give a d.a.m.n, but I'm gonna tell ya anyway. Cole was ten. Him and me, we was like you and Ethan. We went everywhere together. One day I was driving us home and I spotted a shiny sports car parked on the side of the road. I pulled over and thought we'd have a look-see. I shoulda known better, but I was stupid and fourteen. When we walked up to the car, they was waiting for us. Two men jumped us. Took everything we had. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d cut me here," he pulls down his shirt revealing a jagged three-inch scar above his heart. "Cole-" He grimaces. "He bled out in my arms." He looks down at his empty hands.

He lifts his head, anger replacing the pain. "That's what's going to happen to him," he points wildly to Ethan, "if you rush into that hospital."

I shake my head. "I'm not asking to go on some joy ride in a sports car. I'm asking you to save my mama's life."

"Doesn't matter," he says, stepping away. He looks up at Ethan. "When he dies in your arms, it won't matter why you went."

"Clay-" I reach for his arm.

He pulls away and stalks off into the distance. There's a pain in my chest, like an iron fist squeezing my heart into pieces. When I fit it back together, my heart will be a sharp jagged thing, ready to slash at anyone who gets near me.

Ethan's at my arm, tugging. "Riley, go after him."

I shake my head wildly. "No. And you're not, either."

Ethan cringes at the tone of my voice. "What d'you mean?"

"We leave him behind."

"Why?" he whines.

I stare into Ethan's wet eyes. "Because he's still on the wrong side."

The tears start to well in Ethan's eyes, but I grip his forearm. "No crying. Not for him."

Ethan s.n.a.t.c.hes his arm away and runs off without a word.

I stand alone, batting at the hot tears that p.r.i.c.k at the corners of my eyes. Alone is better. The only person that can cut you when you're alone is yourself.

It's late afternoon when I finally peak out of my room. The house is quiet. I haven't seen or heard anyone since the incident at the fire. I've been hunkered down, too, licking my wounds, but I gotta pee something fierce. I slip through the dank hallway, out the door and out into the fresh air. The birds twitter in the eaves of the houses around us. The brittle weeds crunch beneath my feet as I walk into the back yard of the abandoned neighboring house.

I slide behind a faded plastic play climber and take care of business. The plastic's hot on my bare skin, but being out of that dust-clogged room lets me breathe again. When I'm finishing up, I hear something moving in the shadows of the house behind me. An image of the deranged stranger who shot me flashes through my head. I step back until I'm pressed against a chain-link fence, my pulse in my throat. Metal digs into my back as I eye the dark entryway. Who's in there? Forget it. I don't wanna know. I grip the rusted fence, ready to boost myself up, I see the shine off an egg-shaped head in the house. Hatch, following me again.

Hatch appears at the doorway and clomps down the rotting back steps into the yard. His bare feet, blackened at the soles, make slapping sounds on the ancient wooden boards. His mouth hangs open as his eyes run up my body again.

"What do you want?" One hand searches my pocket. No weapons. My eyes flit around the yard for something to brain him with and come up with nothing.

He scratches a bug bite on his bald nugget of a head and hunches up his shoulders.

"Clay said you weren't supposed to be around me." I lean into the fence, the metal diamonds pressing into my back. I can be over it and gone in seconds.

Hatch takes another step toward me. The stairs moan under his weight. "Clay's not the boss. Boss don't care where I go, he said." His eyes linger at the swell of my chest beneath my t-shirt.

It might be reckless, but recklessness is all I have left to save my mother's life. I take a step toward the giant blocking my path. "Hatch, were you following me?"

He blinks at me for a moment as if the gears in his head turn real slow. He's missing at least a half-dozen teeth. He points to my hair. "You smell like flowers."