Part 19 (1/2)

The Breeders Katie French 77070K 2022-07-22

I slam my shoulder into his chest. Tensed though he was, he underestimated the force of my blow. He crumples backward, his back slamming into a cafeteria table. Trays go flying. Girls scatter. My eyes track a clump of half-eaten fish as it arcs through the air and smacks, wet, onto the linoleum.

Rusty pulls up and shakes his head like a punch-drunk fighter. When his eyes meet mine, the gaze is antic.i.p.atory, almost gleeful. He wants to fight. Well, bring it on.

He runs, head down, arms out. I clamber over a table, pus.h.i.+ng past two very surprised girls who wrap their arms around their pregnant bellies. ”Move!” I shout. They scatter like frightened birds.

Halfway over the tabletop, there's a hand around my ankle. Rusty's fingers grip vice-like at my foot and pull backwards. I'm dragged backward on my belly, arms clawing at the tabletop for something to hang on to. My s.h.i.+n hits the bench and pain jolts up my leg. My fingers curl over the table's far edge and stop my decent into Rusty's awaiting arms.

”Come on,” he grunts, his mustache twitching. His hand claws up my bleeding s.h.i.+n, drawing me closer. ”Come to papa.”

My fight with Rusty can't end like this. I search madly for some kind of weapon. My eyes run over plastic trays, plates of fish, plastic gla.s.ses. Rusty grunts and tugs harder. My fingers slide to the very edge of the table. One by one, they'll peel off and it'll be over. That's when my eyes lock on the smooth metal curve of the utensil to my right.

I grab the fork and release the table in one swift motion. As I tumble into Rusty's waiting arms, I rotate until I'm facing him, the fork ready. My body slams into Rusty's. There's a pain in my jaw as it smacks into his shoulder. As we tumble to the ground, I jab the fork.

When it connects, the sound of the fork sinking into Rusty's eye sounds a lot like slipping a knife into a jackrabbit's belly.

We lay in a pile on the ground. I scramble off and stare at what I've done. Slowly, Rusty sits up, the metal fork sticking out of his eye. Then he starts screaming.

I meant to hurt Rusty, but this, this is something else entirely. As I'm watching in rapt horror, something stings the skin of my forearm. What the-? Barbs attached to long wires arch from my arm to a strange gun in a guard's hand. Then he pulls the trigger. It's a moment before the current hits me.

Pain. Raw, snapping, agonizing pain. I crumple to the floor and shake on the tile. My teeth slam against each other in series of loud cracks. The tang of blood spikes my tongue. I seize. I choke. I'm dying. I'll die fried by coursing electricity.

When the current stops, I can't move. I lay on the ground twitching. My skull's exploded. My mouth tastes like bile and blood. I think I've bitten through my tongue. That little voice in my head comes back. What have you done?

As two sets of hands grab my body, I get one more glimpse of Rusty clutching his useless eye.

At least he won't be winking anymore.

Chapter Nineteen.

They drag me out of the cafeteria and toss me on a gurney. Cuffs snap around my wrists. My body still trembles with the current, and I can't turn my head. Had I eaten, I'd be throwing it up. Behind me, uproar ignites the cafeteria, but Betsy's wild moans blanket the frightened murmurs as she's dragged past me. I hear Rusty's screams as they escort him away.

The gurney rattles forward before I can hear more. I stare straight upward. The florescent lights blink overhead like the faded lines on a long stretch of bad highway.

”Where are we going?” I croak. My mind fights off images of the girls in the bas.e.m.e.nt. ”Take me back to my room.”

I look up. It's Dr. Rayburn. His lab coat's b.u.t.toned crookedly and his s.h.i.+rt's poking out the zipper of his fly. He doesn't answer. My belly fills up with liquid lead.

The gurney squeaks to a stop. When I'm able to lift my head, I see we're parked in front of the elevator. The glowing red triangle on the control panel sends s.h.i.+vers down my spine. We're going down. Down toward plan B.

”Don't!” I scream, hoa.r.s.ely. ”You can't do this!”

Dr. Rayburn pushes me into the elevator. When the door closes, I lean up, trying to catch his attention. His normally pale face is flushed. One corner of his mouth twitches nervously. He does not look like someone bent on destroying me. ”You can't do this,” I plead. ”You're not a monster.”

He swallows hard and s.h.i.+fts his gaze back to the changing numbers on the control panel. ”It's best if you, uh, don't talk.”

”No,” I say, shaking my head, leaning forward until my wrists ache against the metal cuffs. ”You can't take me to plan B. Let me go! Please!”

He won't meet my gaze. ”Best if you don't talk.”

With Rayburn I thought I had hope. Now hope has flown and what I'm left with is the stunning realization that my life is over. I'll be turned into a living corpse, left to sleep out my days to the rhythm of a heart monitor, my only friends the ghosts of girls who could have been so much. And my mama. I'll never save her. We'll rot together in some bas.e.m.e.nt lab while the rest of the world goes on.

”Janine Meemick,” I choke, sobbing. ”Can you put me next to her?” At least we could be together. It's the only thought that gives me a speck of comfort.

Dr. Rayburn looks at me and then flicks his eyes back to the numbers as they light up on the control panel.

Tears slide down my face, into my collar. I think of Auntie, Ethan, and Arn. I think of Bounty, who was someone's dinner long ago. I think of Clay, whose fault this is. I'll never see any of them again. Their faces swirl around. I try to remember every facet of their being, what they smelled like, what it felt like to touch them, how much they loved me. Maybe I can bring some of that with me into the darkness. Oh, G.o.d, this can't be it, can it? I'm sobbing uncontrollably when the elevator doors slide open.

We exit the elevator and swing around a corner to a set of double doors. When he pushes me through, I wait for that rotten meat smell, but we enter an echoing warehouse instead. What's going on?

High industrial shelves line walls stocked with paper products, cardboard boxes and linens. Food cans are stacked in neat pyramids. Every supply must be stored in here. It's a looter's dream, which also explains the huge, metal blast doors and the giant control panel next to it. There's a few machine guns mounted above the panel, grenades, bullet-proof vests. They're taking no chances in defending their stock.

Two vans are parked just inside the doors. The first is a polished supply van, but the second is dusty and battered. Through the darkened windows people move inside.

My sobs subside. ”What's this?” Rayburn's already shuffling toward the van, muttering.

The pa.s.senger door opens and Rayburn leans in. I crane my neck, but the windows are black. Rayburn talks to someone inside. Then he stumbles out, closes the door and shuffles back to me, raking a nervous hand through his greasy hair.

I strain forward wildly. ”Who's in the van, Rayburn?”

He gives me a sidelong glance, as if he's forgotten me. Then he starts undoing my handcuffs, a slight tremor back in his hands. ”Don't run,” he says, as he leads me to the van. ”You've got nowhere to go.”

I struggle against Rayburn as he pushes me up to the back doors. ”Who's in there?” I scream. ”Tell me!”

The doors pop open. A giant, bare-chested man in overalls stares blankly at me, his mouth open, his eyes slipping over my body. His giant hand cinches around my bicep.

”No!” I scream as the thug pulls me into the van. His hands are the size of baseball mitts. They clamp me to his large sweaty body. The van doors shut. The engine starts up.

Pressed against some strange man's chest, his hot breath in my ear, the reality of my situation sinks in. First plan B. Now this. What is happening?

Huge biceps block my view. I can't see over the frayed backseat. I struggle against the beast holding me. We pull out of the hospital warehouse and bounce onto the road. We're leaving Mama. I open my mouth to protest. Then several things happen at once.

A head pops over the bench seat. ”Riley!”

It's Ethan.

My fear recedes at the joy of seeing my brother. Ethan. What's he doing here?

There's another voice from the front. ”Let her go, Hatch.”

That voice. I turn toward the front of the van and there he is. Clay's climbing over the bench seat toward me. His dimpled smile washes over his face as he drops into the back and pulls me from Hatch's grip.

”I thought I'd never see you again.” His fingers delicately cup the skin of my wrists. He kneels, his face expectant, astonished, relieved.