The Breeders (3 page)

I drop my eyes and shake my head, more tears collecting at the crease of my eyes. I don’t want to hear it and yet, a sick, curious part of me wants her to keep going. They never speak of the Breeders, as if it might call them down on us.

“Bell.” It’s my mama behind me in the doorway.

Auntie’s eyes flick up to her, and the anger drops from her face. She picks up the crust of bread again. “Don’t let me hear you complain again.” Her gums make a wet sucking sound as she turns from me.

I scrape out of the chair, past my mama, and run to my room. I choke on the sob that’s climbing up. I have to be alone.

When I burst through my bedroom door, Ethan sits cross-legged on the bed with a tattered comic book on his lap. His black hair hangs into his eyes. His bony elbows rest on his bony knees. I hate how skinny he is. The most recent growth spurt hasn’t helped. Now he’s two inches taller but no thicker. I’ve forgotten he was in here. There’s no way I can cry in front of Ethan. I turn to go.

“Riley?” he calls at my back.

I can’t play happy sister right now. Usually I can pretend, suck back my unhappiness and invent games of chase the pig or dig up anthills and let him watch in wonder as a colony comes spilling to the top. I can’t do that today. I take another step out of the room.

The coughing fit hits. Ethan hacks like a frail old man. His bed rocks beneath him as cough after cough rolls through him. I slide my hand down my face, wipe off the mad and sad, and turn around. When he sees me, he smiles behind his cupped hand.

“Better catch those lung pieces so we can stick ’em back in,” I say as I sit next to him. I look over; my moth-eaten bedspread is pulled tight. He made my bed and his. Of course he did. He’ll do anything to keep me out of trouble. As the box springs shake with each cough, I try to think of something nice to do for him. For now, being here is all I got.

When the coughing stops, he looks up at me. “You okay?” He wipes at tears that have sprung up.

He’s asking about me with his blue-tinged lips, flecks of foam at the corners of his mouth. I’ll never be as good as my brother.

“Yep. You?”

He nods. “Were you fighting with Auntie?” His voice is raw from the cough.

“No.”

His small, dark eyes narrow. “How come she yelled at you?”

“It’s Auntie. She’s … you know.” I wind my finger around my ear and loll my tongue out of my mouth. It makes him laugh. The laughing makes him cough. God, I can’t do anything right.

His eyes track to the window where his dad fixes the Jeep. “You’re mad cause Dad won’t let you go to town.”

Ethan adores his dad and it bugs him that we don’t get along. I understand. Two of the four people he loves snipe at each other all day, but even my peacekeeping brother can’t mend the rift between Arn and me.

“Let’s not talk about Arn.” I pick up his comic book and flip through the pages. “Superman again? Haven’t you read this like 800 times?”

“It’s so cool.” His eyes light up and his posture straightens. He turns to the middle of the book, crinkled with use, and points to Superman fighting a monster covered in knotty gray spikes. The dry desert behind them looks like what I see out our back window.

“Look.” He points a dirty finger. “This is where Superman fights Doomsday. Isn’t he awesome?”

Superman is Ethan’s favorite. Whenever something bad happens, a man with rippling muscles flies in and rescues the townsfolk. Superman makes it all okay. I don’t tell Ethan we have no Superman. No one will save us from the monsters that threaten us.

“Can you read it?” His elbow digs into my thigh as he scoots closer.

My mouth tenses as I look down at the little black words. There are some I know. Many I don’t.

“Right here,” he says, pointing to a word bubble.

I smile weakly and squint at the page. “Dooms … day.”

Ethan gives me a nod.

“Is he … is he …” I squint at the next word and try to sound it out. It has too many parts that swim around in my head, making the whole too hard to piece together.

I glance at the novel wedged under the mattress that I’ve been trying to read for over a year. Some massive thing called
The Stand
. I found it in the closet of our last house in a busted black safe. The little book with the bent cover must’ve been worth something a long time ago, probably something to do with the author’s name scratched in red pen on the inside cover.

I close the comic book and set it on Ethan’s nightstand.

“My eyes hurt.” It’s a lie and we both know it, but Ethan nods. “Come on.” I stand up and offer my hand. “Let’s go check the snares. If we’re lucky, we’ll get us a jackrabbit for supper.”

We pull on patched coveralls, thin long-sleeved shirts, hats, thick boots. We’re sweating before we walk out the door, but without the gear the white-hot sun would fry our skin. I snag the hunting rifle, the Winchester single barrel with the battered grip and oiled muzzle (
We keep our guns clean,
Arn always says) and sling it over my shoulder. I won’t use it unless the coyotes are prowling. Guns ain’t hard to come by, but bullets are. I got my hunting knife in my pocket. I hope to put that to some use.

I lead us through the yard. Ethan shuffles after me, his oversized boots—mine a few years ago—clunking through the dust. We tromp to the barn. Its weathered sides lean left and the roof sags like a deflated piecrust. Arn says the main beams are so solid, it’ll hold for thirty years. Looking at the rotting boards as I enter, I can’t imagine it standing for another three.

I walk through the large, open doors and the air instantly cools. It’s quieter here and even the smell, cow manure and musty hay, won’t bother me for long. Bounty, our cow, moos at me as I walk by. I lean over the rail and rub the black patch on her forehead.

I lead us to the back of the barn. In a dark corner, a tarp-covered shape hunkers near Arn’s workbench. I pull off the tarp and the air thickens. A four-wheeler with a cracked leather seat and worn, nubby tires winks at me beneath the dust. The four-wheeler is off limits. We can’t afford to use fuel for a snare check. I run my hand over the bumpy leather seat and feel a pulling in my chest. One headlight stares out at me, begging me to unleash her.

Ethan slides up behind me. “We gonna take the four-wheeler?”

I can tell by his voice that he’s uneasy. “Thinking about it.” I grip the handlebars, the rubber warm to the touch.

“You know Dad says we can’t.”

I sigh and throw the cover back over the quad. “Fine,” I grumble, “but you better not bellyache on the way back. I ain’t carrying your big butt all the way home.”

He pokes me in the stomach. “You’re the big, fat bubble butt,” he says, smiling.

I reach for him, ready to make him pay—through ticking mostly, but maybe a few pinches for good measure—but he’s sprinting away. I charge after him, a smile spreading.

We head out past the dead fruit trees that mark where our yard ends and the scrubland begins. We tromp through the dried creek bed, the brown, broken dirt crunching under our boots. Ethan lags to watch a lizard dart under a rock. Flies buzz around my head, attempting to land and bite. With the human population on the decline, the animal population is on the rise. That is good for hunting, but swarms of bugs leave red welts up and down my arms.

Twenty minutes of sweating and tromping brings us to the game trail. I tread beside it, careful not to disturb the dry grass. When we approach my snare, I hear thrashing. Bingo. I run up and draw my knife. When the iguana hears me, the lizard scrambles around in the dirt, wiping his tail and kicking up a cloud of dust. My rope snare tightens around his neck until his eyes bulge. He’s circled around the shrub I’ve used as an anchor, giving him inches to move.

When my shadow crosses him, his legs scour the dirt. He hisses and shows me his big pink tongue. I kneel beside him and grab a hold of his belly with both hands. He bucks and kicks, but my grip is strong. His sharp, spiny scales cut into my palm, but I grit my teeth and pin the iguana to the dirt. When I have him still, I draw my knife from its sheath. Ethan leans over my shoulder and looks down at the bug-eyed lizard.

“You gonna kill it?” His voice is thin. He hates the killing.

“Close your eyes.” I don’t like the killing. I just like it more than starving to death. I lift the knife. Its round dark eyes blink up at me.

“Sorry, guy,” I murmur into the lizard’s rolling eyes. His heart thrums under my palm. “Us or you.”

Once the lizard is dead, I tie the rope snare around his long tail and then sling him over my shoulder. We need to hike it home fast. The smell of blood will get the coyotes on our trail soon enough. We jog back to the house, the blazing sun searing our heads until I swear my hair’s on fire.

Ethan begins to wheeze halfway back. We stop in the shade of an angular cactus so he can catch his breath. In the lean slash of shade, Ethan lifts the rifle from the ground and raises it to his eye.

“Can I shoot the gun?” He looks up at me expectantly.

I look out over the dusty landscape. The dry land shimmers in the heat. The green cacti are the only color dotting the sea of brown. “Arn says you ain’t old enough to shoot when he ain’t around.”

He sighs and peers over the gun, aiming at a rock formation. His fingers stay away from the trigger though. He’s much more obedient than I am. A few years ago when Arn taught me to shoot, I pulled the trigger long before he gave me permission.

I put my hand on my little brother’s shoulder. “You’re holding the barrel wrong.” I slide his hand into place.

“I can fire just once?”

I muss his hair. “Sure. What Arn don’t know won’t kill him, right?”

* * *

When Arn never returns from town, my words haunt me all night long.

Chapter Three

We sit around the kitchen table as the first rays of daylight bleed into the horizon. It is seven-thirty. Arn has been gone for twenty-two hours.

When I awoke this morning, I found my mama at the table with her mug of weak tea. Her red, puffy eyes let me know she’d been crying. Yet, when I sat down with her, she smiled at me, her eyes dry. Somehow it comforts me, though I know it’s just a show.

One by one we gathered at the table. The kitchen window looks out on the dry, gravel path where Arn disappeared yesterday morning. For an hour we have watched, not speaking as the dust swirls in little sand tornadoes across the road.

Arn usually returns before nightfall whenever he goes to town. The road is dangerous after dark. Marauders will run cars off the road, steal their goods and kill the occupants. Arn is smart, careful and a crack shot with his rifle. It’s how he’s kept us safe this long. I tell myself this as I watch the red and orange hues spread across the east.

Hundreds of reasonable problems could’ve befallen my stepfather. The old Jeep could’ve died, despite his deftness at fixing it, leaving him stranded. He could’ve had trouble trading for enough fuel. He could’ve been too tired to ride the four hours back home and slept in the safety of the town walls. Yet, those aren’t the thoughts that run riot in my mind as we wait. I think about someone shooting him in the back because they wanted his rifle. I think about his mangled body lying on the side of the road. I think about Arn never coming home.

I glance at my family. Auntie’s face registers no emotion, but her stubby fingernails click rapidly on the tabletop. Ethan’s trying hard not to cry, but any minute the dam will break. My mama sits, her face a mask of muted sorrow. Her spoon clinks around her mug, stirring tea that has long since grown cold.

I can’t just sit here. Bounty moos from the barn. Arn wasn’t here for her morning milking. I push up from my chair.

“I’m going to milk Bounty.” I don’t wait for an answer.

My heart pounds as I reach the faded red doors. I yank them open and am flooded the raw stink of manure. Looks like I have shoveling to do. I pull my shirt over my mouth and walk into the dimness. Bounty greats me from her stall, blinking her big brown eyes and swishing her bristly tail back and forth. I put my hand on her neck. “I’m here,” I murmur. At least I can help someone today. I dig out the milking bucket and stool.

My mind runs as my fingers pull on Bounty’s udders. The warm milk zings into the metal bucket as my thoughts tumble around. If Arn is dead … It’s gut wrenching to think. He can’t be dead, but someone has to face facts. If he’s dead, we’ll all follow. He’s the only one who can barter in town. We might be able to survive for a while on wild game I trap, but what happens if the game dry up? The canned food will last two or three months. The garden barely ekes out enough to make the labor worthwhile in this dry soil. We’d have to eat Bounty and the two pigs. And then there’s medicine. Arn went into town to buy rubbing alcohol, bandages and disinfectant. I can’t watch Ethan die of a little scratch that gets infected.

I tug Bounty’s teat too hard and she shuffles against me, almost knocking me off the stool. I run a hand over her bulging belly in apology. Then I lay my cheek against her warmth. Arn will just have to come home. Any other possibility is unthinkable.

* * *

On the third day after Arn fails to show, my mama cries upstairs. The sound cracks me wide open. I stare at the ceiling and let hot tears trace my cheeks. My family is falling apart. Chores have come to a halt. Ethan straggles around the house and bursts into tears. Auntie Bell rocks on the front porch for hours. Nobody’s eaten much in three days. I milk the cow, feed and water the livestock and then crawl back into bed. I stare at the cracks in the plaster ceiling and think about how to keep my family alive.

I drag myself out of bed, dig my feet into my boots and head to the barn. Bounty moos a greeting as I walk in, but I don’t stop to rub my hand along her flank. I pass several empty stalls until I reach the big expanse Arn uses as his workshop. In the dim light, I examine his projects. The kitchen chair he was mending sits upturned, legs to the sky like a dead spider. A rough spear carved out of a tree branch rests against the wall. Oily car parts lie in pieces on the table. I notice a lumpy object covered with a cloth on the shelf above. Digging through Arn’s things seems wrong, but if he’s dead someone will have to.