The Believers (The Breeders Series - Book 2) (28 page)

“Rayburn?”

I look away, feeling a stab of pain. I left him. I left his body to rot in the basement.

“Oh no!” Her hand flutters to her mouth.

We say no more, and follow her back to their tent. Inside, there are eight children, Yusuf, Prema, Lavan, and Ethan. Add in me, Clay, Mage, and Mama. We have sixteen people. Three of us are able-bodied enough to fight if it comes down to it. I stare into the dark mall. If any guards are roaming, they’ll pick us off like baby rabbits.

Yusuf grabs the sheet of plywood and lifts it like our metal door. The acid will probably eat through that much faster, but we have no choice. Ethan coughs over and over as he slips out of the tent. His body curls with the effort of trying to expel this awful air out of his lungs.

“Come on,” I say, waving them all out. “We run for it.”

Clay hands me the sheet of metal and draws his gun. “Head for the doors. I got seven bullets.” His eyes behind his head wrap are deadly calm. “I'll make 'em count.”

We move: Clay in front, me, Ethan and Mama and Mage. The children run behind her, their eyes so wide and fearful it skewers my insides. Prema follows, pulling Lavan along, and Yusuf brings up the rear. The hallways are silent. Many of the sprinklers have stopped spraying, so the air is our biggest problem. Breathing is painful, like sucking lungfuls of acid even through the cloth on our faces. Beside me, Ethan draws in a straggling breath through the fabric over his face. Dear God, let him keep breathing. Help us get out of here in one piece.

In a few minutes we're at the same entrance we stood at less than an hour ago. Now only one guard stands at the door wearing a gas mask. His mask makes him look like a monster with bug eyes and an elongated nose. He raises his gun as we come into sight.

“Go back.” His voice is muffled by the mask. He points back toward the mall with his rifle. We curl behind the wall and pull into a huddle.

Clay looks at me. “Keep 'em back,” he says, nodding to the children. “Let me handle this.”

I shake my head, worry strangling my heart. “Clay, he's got a rifle and a gas mask. You can barely see.”

He tears the cloth head wrap off and shakes out his hair. His bloodshot eyes find mine. “I got this.” In his left hand he holds the guard's gun, an ugly black pistol. His right hand flutters toward the revolver in his pants, the beautiful wood-gripped revolver of his father. But he can't draw both. Not anymore. His injured hand reaches out, slips down my head wrap and strokes my cheek.

“Clay, give me the other gun.” I pull my head wrap off and hold my hand out.

“Riley,” he says, his lips parted, his blue eyes staring deeply into mine until my chest starts to buzz. “I can still take care of you.”

He kisses me hard on the mouth, his lips locking on mine. I wrap my arms around him, my fingers weaving into his hair, my body digging into his. When he pulls away, I cry out.

He thumbs down the safety and charges around the corner.

Clay runs around the corner, raises the pistol and fires in one smooth motion. The gunshot explodes through the quiet hallway. Behind me a child screams. My eyes are on Clay, stock still, the gun an extension of his body. His eyes are the blue steel of reckoning.

The stunned guard's shirt blows open and a spray of blood jets out. The guard drops to one knee, his gun sagging, his gas-mask-covered head drooping like a stomped-on insect. Clay waits, his pistol still aimed, watching his opponent like he’s got all the time in the world. The wounded guard struggles to set his rifle into his shoulder socket. Clay aims the gun and fires at the same time as the guard. Twin shots crack through the hallway.

Clay crumples. The guard goes down too, the rifle clattering and then his skull smacking on the concrete floor.

I slap my hand over my mouth, my breath stuttering in ragged gasps. I run to Clay, skid to a stop beside his body. On my knees, my hands probe his chest, feeling for injury, blood. I can't find any. Slowly he blinks up at me. Then a smile.

“Oh, thank God,” I whisper, relief surging through my veins. Then I slug him on the arm. “How many times are you gonna scare me like that?”

He smiles. “That idiot couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.” His hand reaches to my face, but before he can draw me in, his eye widen at something over my shoulder. He drags me roughly to the floor as a gun explodes.

Something zips over my shoulder in a hot rush of air and then the far wall puffs up in a spray of plaster. The guard sits, blood running from two holes in his chest, the rifle in his lap. With the gas mask torn away, his hair stands up like a handful of straw. A trickle of blood runs from the corner of his mouth and seeps into his shirt collar. His chest is heaving wildly as he tries to steady his rifle enough to fire on us again.

Clay rolls over and snaps up to his knees. His left hand is a blur. The crack is loud. I wince. The guard's chest tears open. He falls, the rifle spilling once again to the floor. Clay strides over and fires a final time. The body jumps and then is still. I stare at the dead guard. At Clay standing over him, the gun in his hand still curling smoke, at the hard set of his jaw, the flint in his eyes. He saved my life. Again.

Yusuf pokes his head around the corner. “Is he…?”

“All clear,” Clay says. “Let's get these doors open.”

The doors to the outside are chained and padlocked. Clay takes the guard's rifle and starts hammering at the padlock with the butt. My eyes follow the tiny beams of light trickling in through the boarded windows.

“Here,” I say, digging my fingernails under the wood and tugging back.

We pull. Slowly, the thick wood creaks backward, more light spilling into the dark hallway. The nails groan as they slowly tear out of the plaster. I’m pulling, my arms aching, my eyes watering, when I hear a cry. Mama falls to the ground.

I drop the board and go to her. She’s on her hands and knees, her head bowed. I put my arm on her shoulder. “What is it?”

When she looks up at me, I pull back. Dark blue veins stand out on her forehead like a road map of pain. She looks like a withered fruit someone has sucked dry. “I can’t…” she whispers.

I can barely hear her. I lean in. “We'll get you help,” I whisper, not knowing what to say. My relief at beating the guard is replaced by sheer terror. I stroke her cheek. Behind me the boards peel back, letting in more light. A child shouts for joy, but inside my heart is crumbling. Rayburn is dead. Almost everyone in the mall is dead. Who's left to save her?

She moans, rocking forward. Ethan appears at my side. His pale face and bloodshot eyes make him look sickly. “What's happening?” he asks, choking on tears.

She shakes her head, tucking into a ball. Her spine curves through her thin shirt.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

She rocks back and forth as if she could lull the creature inside her back to sleep. “It’s wrong.”

“What is?” I lean into her, pressing my shoulder into her. I peer down until I can see her eyes. The vein on her head pulses as she looks up at me.

“Whatever’s inside me.” She blows out a hot breath. “It shouldn’t be born.”

I place my hand on her head. “You’re exhausted. We’ll get you outside, and—”

“
Nooo
,” she moans. “We have to get it out. Where’s Rayburn?”

I drop my eyes, staring at the pitted cement floor. She's forgotten what happened to him. “We’ll … we’ll get you outside.”

I can’t breathe. I can’t even look at her. I stare helplessly at her face and watch as she begins rocking again.

Light spills into the entrance way as a giant piece of plywood clatters to the floor. Dusty air spills into our chemical-clogged space. I squint into the light. Even though the air is hot and dusty, it’s clean. Freedom. I slip my hand under Mama’s bicep.

“Come on.” I tug. “We
don’t
give up.”

She lifts her head, giving me a look that says I have no idea who I am talking to, but finally she pushes up.

Slowly the sixteen of us slip out of our poison prison.

Standing on the sand-caked sidewalk, everyone takes a deep breath. Night has fallen. The navy sky sprinkled with stars is so beautiful that tears spring to my eyes. So many stars. The air is thick with sand and grit, but that stinging burn in my nose is gone. Fresh air. Beside me, Clay takes Ethan’s hand with a look of relief on his face. Ethan tosses a lock of black hair out of his eyes. “The moon,” he says quietly. “I forgot what it looked like.”

I nod, hugging him. “We all did.”

“What now?” Clay tucks the pistol beside his revolver in the front of his pants. His eyes track the sand-covered parking lot.

I point toward the dim building in the distance. “The garage,” I say. “The trucks are there. Fuel too. We can get somewhere safe. Who knows if anyone is still alive?” I nod back towards the mall. What has happened to the Forgotten? I gotta believe they’re all dead too.

I support Mama's hunched form as we walk. In the fresh air, her breathing is less ragged, but she doesn’t look up at the moon, doesn’t smile. Her hands circle her stomach, which seems to be pulsing. What if she’s right? What if whatever’s inside her is evil? But I was a Breeders’ baby. That baby in there didn’t ask to be what it is anymore than I did.

The garage looms in the distance, the dark doors shut to keep out the sand. Hopefully the trucks we tinkered on are still here. There were four, enough to get my family away from here and give Yusuf and Prema something to take the children away in. I wonder where they’ll go. Nowhere will be as safe as the Citadel was before the Messiah went completely insane

When we make it to the garage, I leave Mama in Clay’s arms and walk to the side door. Ethan and I scoop away the sand clogging the entrance with cupped hands and then I yank on the door until it twangs open.

“Once we get the trucks, we can grab whatever supplies we need from the warehouse across the lot and then be on our way.” I peer into the dark interior. “After you,” I say to Prema.

She steps into the dark. Her scream cuts through me like a blade.

Before I can process Prema’s scream, a hand reaches out of the dark and yanks me into the garage. Panic blares through my head like a fire alarm. An arm circles around my neck, gagging me. I claw, kick, bite my assailant. My elbow lands somewhere soft, but the arm chokes, chokes, until stars dance in my vision. I gasp for air. My heart beats out of control. Is this how I die? Vaguely, I’m aware of Clay shouting. Blinding lights snap on.

Two dozen men aim guns at our group. In the center, staring at me, is Andrew.

“Let her breathe,” he says reluctantly. He smiles, his goggles flashing reflected light into my face. The arm at my neck loosens. I suck in a straggling gasp.

Most of the Brotherhood are here, armed to the teeth and dressed for battle. Across the garage sit twenty to thirty women and small girls. Some are bound with rope. Others stare at us with wide eyes and clutch their daughters to them. A few of the boys we rescued run to their mothers and fall into their laps. There's a lot of sobbing. The scene is emotional, touching, but I'm not moved. All I can think about is the fact that every fertile woman from the Citadel is sitting in that corner.

They never intended to “go home” with the poor souls inside. They let everyone die while they saved themselves and their families. Those bastards.

“How could you!” I say, whipping toward Andrew. I glare at him, but my barbed looks do nothing. He instructs his men to push my crew into the garage and shuts the door behind them. Some of the children cry. I don't want to cry. I want to shoot Andrew in the face.

Prema steps forward, waving an angry finger at Andrew. “It was your job to protect us and you all ran? Cowards!” She makes some sort of sign on her forehead and then spits on the ground. Several men drop their eyes. One shrugs bashfully. Andrew glares back at Prema through his goggles.

“Watch your words, old woman. Every breath you take depends on me not killing you.” He flashes teeth like dirty pebbles. “So, be nice.”

Prema pulls herself up to her five-foot height and puffs out her chest. “I stopped being nice years ago and I won't take orders from you!”

Andrew smiles as he digs his hand under his tunic and pulls out a large gold necklace decorated with charms. The Messiah’s necklace.

Prema gasps. Her arthritic finger points at the necklace resting on Andrew’s collar bones. “You…you have no right.”

Mage stamps her foot. “Take off my papa’s necklace!”

His fingers trace the gold charms, as if soaking in the feel of them. Of the power they bring. “As second in command, I have the right to wear this necklace, as well govern the people of the Citadel.”

“The people of the Citadel were supposed to follow our Messiah home,” Yusuf's voice warbles as if he might cry. “You told us so yourself. Now we find this?” He swings his hand out toward the guards and their wives. “I don't understand.”

I grit my teeth and fight against the arms that hold me. “Were the Breeders even coming?”

Andrew’s face becomes falsely solemn. “It was the will of the Gods.” He spreads his hands, palms up, a great impersonation of the Messiah. “I am but a humble servant to their whims. I foresaw that the Brotherhood should not go home, but stay and fight the Breeders’ attack.”

“Bullshit!” I yell, struggling against the guard who holds me. “Then why would you save them?!” I toss my head at the women and girls. “My friend is dead because of you, you motherless bastard!”

“A lot of people are dead because of you,” Clay snaps, his jaw tight. He struggles against the man that holds him. “You didn't even have the balls to kill 'em yerself!”

Andrew steps over to Clay, peering up at him with his over-large eyes. “You killed the Messiah. Men, you know what we need to do with these outsiders.”

“He didn't.” Mage pushes through the crowd. “I saw it. My papa pulled the trigger, not Clay.”

A woman in the back nods. “I saw it, too. He did it himself.”

Andrew puffs out his cheeks in a frustrated breath. “It doesn't matter what happened. This traitor was one of us,” he points an accusatory finger at Clay, “and now he's inciting a riot against Gods’ people! We should execute them all.”