Authors: Katie French
I stumble up to the next building—a general store judging by the hand-painted sign reading
Stor
in sloppy red letters. The steps lie in a crumbled mess of broken concrete, so a plank serves as the ramp up to the hole in the brick they’re using as a door. The clerk behind the counter looks up as I enter. He’s narrow and wiry in his stained apron and cotton shirt. I cringe as he scans me. I find the first aisle and pretend to be fascinated by a dented metal teapot.
When I’m safely hidden behind the shelves, I scan the store. Four-foot high metal shelves runs in three rows. They’re covered in a vast array of goods. Piles of scrawny carrots, potatoes and a single orange sit on a produce table. The factory-made goods are pricey and the clerks always keep them close by. The one or two factories that still operate are attacked with such frequency that nothing really gets made. Those dented cans and rectangular boxes with pictures of happy children were likely stolen from abandoned grocery stores. I stare at the smiling children on the boxes and my stomach grumbles. I wonder what those cheesy noodles would taste like.
I walk down an aisle of used household goods: cracked porcelain plates, tattered bed sheets, a stereo with a tin foil antenna. An elderly man with skin like leather lifts a pair of patched overalls to his skeleton frame. A man with a cowboy hat pulled low peruses the loose hardware aisle, sifting through bins of assorted nuts and bolts. No Arn.
I suck in a hot breath and approach the counter. The clerk’s glasses, taped together at the center, slump down his nose. He pushes them up with a dirty finger and looks up from his ledger.
“Can I help you?” His eyes show no desire to help me.
I pull up my male voice. “I’m looking for a man. Name’s Arn Meemick. He’s five-ten, 140 pounds. Brown hair and brown eyes—”
He cuts me off with a wave of his palm. “Listen, son, every dirt farmer and cattle rancher from here to Tahoe fit that look-a-like. You here to buy somethin’?”
I knit my brows. “I’m sure you’d know ’im if I just describe ’im better. He was wearing jeans, a wide-brimmed hat—”
He slams both palms on plank counter. “This ain’t the lost ’n found. If you ain’t gonna buy something, git.” He thumbs toward the open doorway and goes back to digging his nubby pencil into his ledger.
I stand, my mouth open. I’ve heard the Sheriff and his boys were rough and ruthless, but it’d never crossed my mind that common folk would be this heartless. When I tromp out, I pause once more at the door to shoot him a dirty look.
The man from the nuts-and-bolts aisle has his eyes on me. He looks away, but his eyes leave a burn on my skin. I tuck my head down and hurry out of the store. I gotta get Arn and get out fast.
I pass the doctor’s where a man painted with blood writhes on an exam table. Two others sit in various states of messy disorder. No Arn. It’s the same story in the armory, the livery stable and the inn. When I come to the end of the shops and the beginning of the houses, my heart sinks. I can’t go knocking on doors.
A lump wells up in my throat. I can’t leave without Arn and even if I could, I’m out of gas. I’d cry if I didn’t think it’d get me killed. I rub my hand over my sweaty forehead and sniff back the tears. This was a stupid idea in the first place.
I look up at the one final building I haven’t checked. It’s the last place I want to look, but I take a deep breath and peer in. The building’s a cement square with three barred cells lining the inside. The first cell’s empty, but the second is occupied. A man leans lifelessly against the bars. Egg-sized welts decorate his face. His left eye is a swollen purple-blue lump. A dark trickle of blood meanders down his chin.
Even with his mangled appearance, I recognize him—Arn.
Chapter Four
I run up the steps and barrel through the jail door. I tear past the guard, who’s sitting at a desk with his boots up. I skid to a halt at Arn’s cell, drop to my knees and wrap my hands around the bars.
“Arn!” I yell. “Arn, wake up!”
Boots step up behind me. A giant hand yanks me backward. I fly through the air, my arms wheeling. I hit the concrete hard. My head bangs on the far wall and pinpricks of light burst before my eyes. As I’m shaking my head, trying to clear my vision, a shadow looms. The sound of a shotgun being cocked echoes around the room.
I throw my hands over my face. The world’s fuzzy and far away, and when I look, the guard aims both barrels at my chest.
A voice from the other side of the room. “Don’ shoot.”
It takes me a moment to place the weak, garbled voice. Arn’s struggling to sit up. He’s alive. Thank god.
The guard doesn’t lower his shotgun, but his finger inches off the trigger. With it still trained on me, he looks over his shoulder to where Arn pulls himself up the metal bars. The more I can see of him, the worse he looks.
“None o’ your business, old man,” the guard says to my stepfather. He turns back to me and nudges my leg with his steel-toed boot. “What the hell ya think you doin’ barging in here? Want me blow yer everlovin’ head off?”
I raise my palms up in a show of surrender. “Sorry.” I point to Arn. “I … I’m here for him,”
The guard relaxes his grip on the gun. “Ya got bail, pal?”
I inch up on my elbows so my head’s upright. The goose egg where my head hit the concrete throbs. “What’s the charge?”
The guard lets the gun barrel tilt to the floor and wipes a hand over the sweat dotting his bald head. “Owes for the goods he stole."
I glance at my stepfather, who’s upright but leaning against the wall for support. His left hand clutches his abdomen. There’s more wrong with him than a busted face.
“Dat’s a lie,” Arn mumbles as if his mouth’s stuffed with rocks. He spits dark brown flecks of dried blood on the cell floor.
The big guard, who reminds me of the bald guy from the cleaning bottles I saw in the general store, shrugs. “Don’t matter. Sheriff already done sentenced ya. Ya stay ‘til ya pay as the Sheriff say.” He guffaws loudly at his rhyme, his big lips crinkling up in a grin. He looks at me, hoping I’m in on his joke. I’m not. The smile fades from his mouth, but he’s decided I’m not a threat, either. He lumbers to the desk near the door and plops down in the metal folding chair. He lays the shotgun across the desktop and wipes more sweat off his brow. “So, you got bail?”
I ease up slow so not to disturb my pounding head. I give Arn a questioning look.
“Git outta here.” Arn coughs and spits again. This time the floor is stained bright red.
There’s no point in starting to obey Arn now. I pull myself up, walk over to the guard’s desk and dig out my gun slip. My fingers tremor as I lay the paper on his desk. “I got a gun to trade.”
The guard shakes his head and beads of sweat fling off the bald surface. “Can’t make the deal, Neil,” a goofy smile touches his lips, “but I can tell ya that ain’t gonna be enough.”
I put my hands on the chipped wood. “What about a four-wheeler in great condition?”
The guard shrugs. “Maybe. You gonna have to wait at this rate ‘cause he’s late.” He grins sloppily now, despite himself.
“Huh?” I ask.
The smile slips and he waves a dismissive hand at me. “Never min’. Sit there ’til Warden come.”
“Warden?”
“He’ll tell you yeah or nay on that quad. Should be back in tick.”
I sit on one of the dented folding chairs that are strewn haphazardly next to the cells. Arn and I don’t speak, but he keeps nodding toward the door. I shake my head. He sighs and slides down to the floor, wincing and running a hand over his ribs.
Seeing him like this kills me. Who hurt him? The only one around is the guard, though he doesn’t seem like the face-busting type. He’s too busy picking his nose and eating it.
After about a half an hour, the guard stands up. He leans to one side, farts and then paws it away. He grabs a big key ring, the rifle and a tattered book with the picture of naked women inside the faded glossy pages. He points his finger at me as he heads toward the door.
“Going ’round back to drop a load. Don’t try anything stupid or I’ll shoot ya.”
As soon as he’s gone, I crouch down and grip the rusted rebar fixed unevenly in the concrete.
“God, Arn. What happened to you? You alright?”
Arn nods, though I see a wince of pain tighten his mouth before he covers it up. “Got some cuts and bruises. Couple busted ribs maybe.” He sounds like he’s got a mouth full of marbles. “Ri, you need to go. Don’t mess with the Warden.”
“No way I’m leaving. How’d this happen?”
Arn scrunches up the wall a little and winces again. “Made a fair trade. Got food, gas, odds and ends.” He shifts and grimaces. “Turns out the shopkeeper and the Sheriff been running a scam. Shopkeeper takes your trade and then cries wolf. Sheriff’s thugs lock you up. They split the spoils. Least that’s what I reckon.”
My knuckles go white around the bumpy bars. The injustice of this place and everyone in it makes my head swim.
“Don’t worry. I’m gonna get you home. Mama will take care of you.”
Sadness fills the eye not swollen shut. “Don’t let ‘em hear you talk that way.”
I lay my forehead against the bars, the coolness soothing to my feverish skin. A slick unease is settling over me, sending shivers up my spine. This is why my parents never let me come in to town. It’s more horrible than I could’ve imagined. I open my mouth to apologize when a lean shadow darkens the doorway.
“
Who
are you?” A venomous voice cuts the silence.
A shadow slinks into the room until he forms into one of the most frightening men I’ve ever seen. The man’s black hair is greased flat to his skull. His button-down shirt is as white as Bounty’s milk, a feat so impossible in this landscape I gape in wonder. His down-turned mouth drags up over sharp white teeth that match his white shirt. He can only be the Warden.
“Stand up,” he commands. His acid-green eyes sear into me.
I pull myself upright. The Warden runs his eyes up and down my body. I fight the urge to shudder.
“Darrel says you have bail?” the Warden hisses. The guard trots in the doorway, pulling up his pants.
“I do.” My heart patters in my chest. His eyes seem to see through me.
The Warden laces his long white fingers together. “What’s the item of trade?”
“A quad,” I say. “Yamaha. She runs like a dream.”
His eyes narrow to slits at the word
she
. My stomach does somersaults.
He steps towards me, so close now I smell onions on his breath. “Pull down your bandanna.”
I glance at Arn for help he can’t provide. I focus back on the Warden. “Why?”
The Warden gives me a reassuring smile, yet he looks more like a jackal than a lap dog. “I like to see the face of the man before I do business.” He hisses the word
bizznezz
like a snake.
Somewhere in the distance a fly buzzes against a window. Down the street someone is shouting. The heat of the room intensifies.
I swallow hard. “What if I say no?”
The Warden snaps his fingers, a sound like stepping on a dry twig, and Darrel jumps up with the shotgun.
The Warden widens his smile. His polished white teeth remind me of fangs. “If you don’t uncover, I’ll know you’re an outlaw. We don’t tolerate outlaws.”
Outlawzz.
I picture the lizard I killed the day before. How did it feel when my snare tightened around his throat? Slowly, I reach up and slip my finger between the bandanna and my skin. Then I yank down, exposing my face.
The Warden recoils. “A bender.”
He doesn’t think I’m a girl. Relief floods me, then stops cold. Some think benders are filthy half-people. They’re cursed at, kicked out of town, killed for being neither male nor female, but some mutated combination of both.
The Warden snaps a hand at Darrel. “Arrest him.”
“No!” Arn tugs at his cell bars.
Darrel takes a heavy step towards me.
“Don’t,” I say, shuffling backwards. I back up till I hit the far wall. My eyes search for an exit, but the only way out is blocked by Darrel and the Warden. I look to Arn.
“He ain’t done nothing wrong,” Arn says, a mournful look falling over his bruised face.
The Warden reaches for the gun holstered at his hip. White flecks of spit sprinkle the corners of his mouth. “He’s what’s wrong.” He points a thin finger at me. “He’s an abomination. A poison in this nice community.” The sound of his revolver sliding out of the holster echoes in the heavy stillness of the room.
My eyes snap from Arn to Darrel to the Warden. This can’t happen. I might be able to dodge Darrel who’s bulky and slow. Then I’ll have to get through the Warden and his polished revolver. Even if I manage that, I’ll have to get past security at the gate. And I’ll still be without Arn.
“Don’t—” is all I manage to say as Darrel grabs for my wrist. This time I won’t be able to stop the tears.
A new voice cuts in from the doorway. “What’s going on, fellas?”
Everyone turns. The man I saw in the general store stands in the doorway. His hands rest on his hips, inches away from the two big, shiny revolvers. He’s tall and well built, not sickly and thin like ninety percent of the people outside. With his cowboy hat thumbed back, I can see his face. Even in my distress, my eyes linger on his smooth skin, strong jaw and sky blue eyes.
He strides in and tips his hand in respect. “Afternoon, Warden. Couldn’t help overhear your conversation with this here gentleman.” He points to me. “Guess I missed the memo ‘bout benders being outlawed.”
The Warden swipes back one of his slicked curls. He wags a finger at the young man like a naughty child. “Clay, this is not your business. Leave it alone.”
Clay’s boots click on the floor as he steps toward us, a dazzling smile on his face. “Now, see, here’s the thing. Sheriff’s off to see about a horse and he left me in charge. I know you won’t go ’gainst Sheriff’s orders.”
Hatred creeps up the corners of the Warden’s face, the crease between his lips showing those sharp, white teeth.
Clay ignores the Warden’s grimace and points at me. “What’s the kid here for?”
Eyes snap back to me. When Clay’s meet mine, my face flushes. I got no words.