The Breeders (4 page)

I uncover a small block of carved wood that Arn has whittled into a rough figure. I turn the wooden doll until I can make out the strong chin, the bulging muscles, the S carved with Arn’s careful fingers. Superman. Ethan’s unfinished birthday present.

With tears in my eyes, I slip the wooden figurine back under the cloth. That decides it. If Arn’s alive, I’ll find him. There’s no Superman. There’s only me.

I walk to the tarp-covered quad. I pull off the cover and nearly choke on the dust. Three days ago I was going to take a joy ride. Today there’s nothing joyful about the ride I’ll take.

I sneak back to the house for supplies. My mama and Ethan are curled up in their rooms. Auntie rocks on the porch. She’ll see me go, but by then it’ll be too late. I grab my backpack from the hall closet and slip into the kitchen. I tuck in canned goods, crusts of bread and a big jug of water. From the closet I grab goggles, a bandanna and Arn’s thick leather jacket. I’ve already got my hunting knife. I snag the rifle and a box of bullets on my way out the door.

My heart hammers hard by the time I get back to the barn. If I’d eaten much today, it’d be coming back up. I got plenty to worry about on the road: bandits, animals, running out of fuel and starving to death. Then if I make it to town I have to somehow find Arn without drawing attention to myself. Arn’s stories about the inhabitants have nervous sweat pooling on my palms. Town is a den of thieves, rapists and murders. A girl like me is worth a lifetime’s wages. This is not my brightest idea.

Back in the barn, I check the bandages binding my breasts and then slip on Arn’s jacket.

His scent buried deep in the collar starts a lump of sadness in my throat. I tie the dirty brown bandanna over my mouth and nose and slide goggles over my eyes. Arn’s battered helmet is a loose fit, but I strap it on anyway. I have no mirror to judge, but pretty sure I can pass for a boy. That is, unless they get too close.

The fuel in the quad’s tank isn’t enough for a return trip. If I do come back, I’ll have to buy gas or steal it. Just one more problem on my list, but the alternative is giving up Arn for dead. I strap on my backpack and straddle the quad.

Visible through the open barn door is the house. I linger over the windows that mark my bedroom, my mother’s room. My fingers tremble as I urge them towards the ignition. I touch the metal key, but can’t force myself to turn it. From her stall Bounty moos and blinks her big brown eyes. I get off the quad, jog over to Bounty and throw by arms around her thick, bristly neck.

“Take care of them, Bounty,” I whisper into her fur.

She shuffles and blinks.

I squeeze her once more, then hop on the quad before I change my mind. The engine’s roar echoes through the barn, sending Bounty careening to the back of her stall. I don’t look back. I hit the gas.

I peal into the hot morning air and fly across the yard. My eyes mark the patch of dust where I taught Ethan to ride the old ten-speed we found in the barn. I rush past my mother’s little garden with the carrot tops just poking from the dry soil. I trundle over the spot where just three days ago Arn lay fixing his Jeep. I blink back tears. I look away.

The quad’s tires crunch the gravel as I hit the main road. Auntie jumps up as I pass by the porch, her mouth formed into an O. She looks beautiful in her long cotton shift, her hair billowing around her. I raise a hand in passing. Then I turn my eyes away so her pleading eyes don’t make me turn this quad around.

When I allow myself a look back, three people stand side by side on the porch. They lean into each other, their forms blur into one shape, a wall of mourning watching me go. Tears blear the lenses of my goggles. They think I’m foolish, rash, crazy. I hope to God they’re wrong.

* * *

The open road stretches like a never-ending sea of busted blacktop. On either side, the scraggly hardpan and endless flat dirt never change. The sun has crept to her zenith and bores like a hot poker into my leather jacket. My shoulders and arms ache. My butt feel like someone’s spent the afternoon kicking it. Three hours down. Two to go.

I crest a small hill and spot a splash of color on the horizon. A few more seconds and I make out a car. It’s some snazzy thing, Camero or Viper, gone to rusty Swiss cheese on the side of the road. My shoulders tighten. Abandoned cars should be the state mascot there’s so many, but this one looks drivable—odd since anything that moves is snatched up by somebody. I swallow past the tightness in my throat, let up on the gas and run my eyes over the car.

The hairs on my arms go up as my eyes fix on the lump cresting above the steering wheel. Someone’s in the driver seat. Dead or alive? My insides go liquid. Most of me wants to let off the gas and turn around. Or crank the gas and fly past. But what if it’s Arn?
Arn, Arn, Arn,
I think. I slow to fifteen miles an hour, my heart jackrabbiting beneath my leather jacket.

Wispy tufts of hair stir in the breeze, thin corn silk strands, white and fine. When I’m level with the car, I can see the dead man’s face, blue and bloated. It slumps like a sack of grain as his forehead slowly fuses with the steering wheel. My eyes drag over the shriveled lips, curled back on a set of yellow teeth in a ghoulish grin. The only thing moving are the flies darting around his eye sockets.

Dead. So dead. I can’t crank the gas fast enough. For an hour I see his shrunken face at the backs of my eyes.

As the sun marks four o’clock, a dark brown slash appears on the horizon. The town’s outer wall blocks the road ahead. Arn’s told me the battered wooden barricade is heavily guarded. I’ll have to talk to a man and surrender my weapons before I can enter. If they’re feeling generous, they’ll give my gun back when I leave. If they’re having a bad day, well, I might not make it out alive.

I pull up to the gate and squeeze the brake. The wall itself is enough to make me want to give up this whole plan. The thick wooden beams are topped with rusty nails, coils of razor-sharp barbed wire and broken glass that winks in the sunlight. The guard tower is twenty-foot wooden enclosure with a platform at the top. As I kill the engine, a burly man leans out of the tower and aims an assault rifle at my head. I throw my hands up.

“State your business!” he yells.

My voice catches in my throat and nothing comes out but a muted squeak.

The man shouts out again, his tone dangerous. “State your business or I’ll blow off that foot!”

In the last second before I speak, I remember I’m supposed to be a man. My voice comes out choked and artificial. “I … I’m looking for someone.”

The guard keeps the barrel aimed at my chest. Nervous sweat soaks my undershirt.

“Who you looking for?” he growls.

“My, uh, business associate,” I yell up in my fake male voice. “Arn Meemick. Left three days ago with most of our supplies. Never returned.”

“You here to shoot him?”

“No, sir. Just wonder what happened to my supplies.” I blink the sweat out of my eyes and try to keep my breathing level.

The guard pulls his gun back and disappears below the tower wall. The gate creaks open.

As I hop back on the quad, I fight the urge to turn and drive in the opposite direction.
Arn, Arn.
I drive through the two massive wooden doors, big and scary as the gates of hell.

The guard blocks the road with his massive body. He’s six-foot-four and muscled in areas I didn’t even know possible, his arm awash in scrawling blue tattoos. Only someone brave or crazy would puncture their skin and risk infection for decoration. He’s wearing cowhide boots and vest tied together with bits of electrical cord, the frayed ends splayed out like whiskers. And on his face—a grimace so unwelcome he could stop a stampede. He waves me over to where a dozen other vehicles sit inside the wall. I park the quad in between a rusted motorcycle and a truck with no doors. As I step off, he comes up.

The long barrel of his rifle is aimed at my chest when I turn. I throw my hands up. “I … I thought I was okay.”

The guard spits a bit of wood he was gnawing at my feet. “Spread ’em.”

This is it. He’ll feel my breasts and it’ll be all over. I could run or reach for the rifle strapped to my back, but he’s already got the drop on me. I hold my arms up and try to quell their trembling. Stupid. I was so stupid.

He stands so close I feel puffs of his labored breathing hot in my ear. He smells of tobacco smoke and old leather as he invades my space. His big hands paw at my thighs. I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my lip. What will he do once he knows?

I keep waiting for him run his paws over my chest, but his hands slip off before progressing upward. I open my eyes.

He isn’t looking at me. His eyes are fixed to the porch of the old Victorian house on the corner. Or rather, the fifty-something woman with shaggy gray-brown hair wearing a skimpy, black negligee. In her lacy underwear, she’s nearly naked. White flesh spills out above the push-up bra, the tattered thigh-high stockings. Her lips are splashed red and dark bruises circle her flat, dead eyes. We watch as she begins a jerky dance. I turn away as she thrusts her hips back and forth, showing off the goods.

She’s a sex slave. That house with the barred windows up top must be the brothel. When the Breeders have used up the women—the ones who survive—they ship them to their enforcers. Men like the Sheriff use them as sex slaves and pocket the money. A horrible life. Mine if I mess up here.

“Surrender your weapons,” the guard murmurs. He holds out his hand, but his eyes stay on the woman. He licks his lips and I want to sock him, but at least he’s not paying me any mind. I drop my rifle in his outstretched hand. He takes my gun, carries it back to the tower and comes out with a crinkled piece of paper. He pushes it into my palm.

“Lose your slip, lose your gun.”

I tuck the paper, smudged with dirty fingerprints, in my pocket. “Thanks,” I mutter reflexively, yet it’s my own female voice. I freeze and shoot my eyes up to his face.

He’s already walking back to his guard stand, one hand scratching his butt through his jeans. His eyes lock on the woman who’s doing a strange jig. Her fearful eyes remind me of a jackrabbit caught in a snare.

I shake my head and focus on the plan. I remove my goggles and helmet in exchange for one of Arn’s fraying straw Stetsons. I pull the brown bandanna to my chin. Peering at my reflection in a couple of truck doors, I figure I look as good as can be expected. Yet, when I step away from my quad, I feel buck naked.

I scan the parked cars for Arn’s Jeep. The busted wrecks people call vehicles always amaze me. Most trucks or SUVs got no windows. Some got no doors. I spot a pick-up truck with the bed sheared off behind the back tires. I’m looking in wonder at a burnt-out car frame with new tires—when I see it. There, a few rows over, sits our Jeep. I almost clap at the sight of it. I run over and peer in. No blood splashes the torn and dusty upholstery. No signs of a struggle. No signs of Arn, either, but if the Jeep’s here, Arn’s here. For the first time since Arn’s disappeared, I feel a little lighter.

The gate creaks closed behind me, slamming together with a decisive thud. I’m locked in. The fear falls back on me like a wet blanket. I’ve made it into town. That completes the only plan I had. As I swivel to take in the town, my stomach knots. Men. Everywhere I look are men—men on dusty sidewalks on either side of the main street, men going in and out of stores, men carrying brown packages or greasy car parts. Men linger outside the brothel to ogle the dancing woman. Every single one will attack if they know my secret. I’m a mouse in a basket of snakes. I shouldn’t have come.

A gunshot cracks down Main Street. I throw my hands over my ears. But when I look, everyone is going about their business. I stand up, straighten my coat and pray my beating heart don’t show through my jacket.

When I was little and the coyotes used to prowl around our shack, my mama used to whisper a saying in my ear. It comes back to me now. “Fear makes the coyote bigger than he is.” Right now the coyote’s pretty damn big, but I gotta do what I gotta do. I stick my chest out and strut like a man down the street.

A sassy piano tune starts up in the brothel. The off-key notes form into a song my mama used to hum under her breath at dishes or while mending. Behind the dancing prostitute on the porch, someone sings along real mournful and slow.
Are you lonesome tonight? Do you miss me tonight? Are you sorry we drifted apart?

Arn loved that song. I bite down the jolt of raw pain, straighten my jacket.

When I pass the brothel’s open door, I spy a half-dozen men lounging around the parlor in beat up recliners, sipping house gin. Three sad-eyed women in undergarments carry drinks on trays. One is missing an arm past the elbow. The other has a red, puckered scar that travels from her eyebrow to the corner of her down-turned mouth. In the corner a woman about sixty straddles a man’s lap. Her breasts are bare, white, puckered and resting on her narrow stomach. Her sad, tired eyes meet mine as the man cups them in his calloused hands. I tuck my chin into my bandana. As I walk away, I send messages to her in my head.
I’m sorry about your life. Sorry, so sorry.

My head down, I bump into a skinny man in a moth-eaten shirt. His gray hair straggles down his face in greasy stands. I smell the homemade liqueur on his breath. “Watch your strut, pard, or I’ll cut ya a new grin.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. I race away before he can respond.

The town must’ve been a bustling main street before the world fell apart. I try to imagine it in its heyday, back when the cobblestone sidewalks lined the street like even teeth. The electrical cords overhead, long and black as snakes, used to pump light to the leaning streetlamps. The benches, now rusted iron frames, used to hold people eating flavored ice, laughing. The glass-front windows held shiny goods fresh off the factory line. I picture a red bicycle and a ruffled pink dress. Must’ve been real nice.

When I open my eyes I see it how it is now: everything broken, bent, brown. Half the storefronts are just crumbled piles of bricks. The other half still stand, but have boarded-up windows, graffiti splashed on the walls. One little shop’s got a coat of dried blood splattered on the wall. Nothing new, shiny or nice to see here. I tuck my eyes and head forward.