The Believers (The Breeders Series - Book 2) (15 page)

He frowns. “What bad things?” His eyes search mine.

“Nothing.” I look away. “You seemed… drugged. If you keep going with them, you'll get in too deep. You'll be one of them,” I raise my eyes to his, “not one of us.”

He places his hand on my cheek. “What do you mean?”

I lean into his touch. “You have to stop.”

He shifts his eyes away.

“Clay, seriously.”

“Riley, it's just, when I drink their water…” he leans back and sighs. “It's the only time I feel strong again, like I did before I was shot up. I feel like a man.”

“It's not worth it,” I say, taking his injured hand.

“I know.” He looks down at his hand, the piece of himself he's lost forever.

When I finally make it to the laundry room, Prema meets me at the door. Her mouth is twisted into a wrinkled knot like I'm something sour she's just spit out of her mouth. She crosses her arms over her sagging breasts and glares at me.

“I'm sorr—”

Her arthritic knuckles slice through the air. “You're out.”

“What?” Behind her, Mage twirls around in one of the cracked leather salon chairs and gives me an apologetic look.

Prema's face, on the other hand, could be made of stone. “You're surly, lazy, and late.”

“What?”

She cut's me off. “You're fired. We don't want you.”

I take a step back, looking around. “So…what do I do?”

She swings her arm toward the door, almost whacking me with it. “Go. Andrew will take you to your new job.”

My insides go cold as I turn. There, propped against the entryway, arms crossed, stands Andrew. When our eyes meet he gives me a nasty smile. He hooks a finger, beckoning me toward him. “Got a job for you.” He smiles even bigger.

I tromp over to him, scowling. He pushes on my shoulder. “Move.”

We walk, Andrew behind me. My body is a rigid pole, my eyes and ears alert to his movements. The impulse to whirl and begin punching sits solidly in my belly, but I know that'll come to no good. Instead I picture horrible ends to his life. Death by vultures seems a good place to start.

When we get to a set of boarded-up exterior doors, I swivel and shoot him a questioning look.

“You've pulled garage duty. Gonna be pretty hot today, I hear.” He steps closer to me. I stumble back and my shoulder blades bump into the wall. He's got me pinned. I glance down the vacant hallway. No one. My heart thrums. He smiles.

When I duck under him and shove through the boarded-up doors, he laughs and calls out, “Enjoy your day.”

The heat hits me like a wall. Must be a hundred degrees with the sun cresting in the mid-morning sky. I jog down the concrete walkway that opens up into the blacktop parking lot. It's been, what? A week? More? A long time since I've been outside. A large part of me wants to take off running, but I can't leave my family and without vehicles or water we're dead. Beyond the parking lot, a few outbuildings sit, some repaired, some fallen down into a jumble of bricks. Past that a sea of sand and cactus stretches forever. No wonder Kemuel came back.

“Riley.” Rayburn jogs awkwardly toward me, a smile on his round face, his dwindling paunch jiggling. I smile as he stops before me, panting with his hands on his knees.

“Rayburn, what're you doing out here?” I ask, looking around. Across the shimmering parking lot, a garage sits with three large doors thrown open. Inside, men in gray coveralls work on vehicles. Cars without tires are up on hoists; two trucks sit on pads. One man climbs out from a car-sized hole in the floor and wipes his greasy hands on a rag.

I have two thoughts:
Arn would've loved this
, and,
how can we steal a truck and get the hell out
?

“Heard you're assigned with me today.” Rayburn blinks at me behind smeary glasses. He smiles, his eyes turning into two upside-down moons.

“Yeah, I guess. Show me where to go.” I walk with him across the parking lot. The heat rolls across the blacktop in waves. I glance at Rayburn. I've been so busy I haven't noticed his sunburned cheeks and grime-encrusted fingernails. He hasn't even mentioned garage duty.

We clomp toward the garage and already I'm dripping with sweat.

“Heard you got fired,” Rayburn scratches at a fresh cluster of tiny pimples on his cheek. “Sorry.”

“My own fault,” I say, kicking at a hunk of pavement.

“Did you see Clay,” he asks, eyes on the pavement, “last night?”

“Yeah.” I look at him. “Did you hear anything?”

“I saw the men coming back,” he says, shrugging, already sounding uncomfortable. “They didn't look, uh, look right. They were acting like animals.”

“Yeah, they did.” I glance up, thinking of Clay's vacant eyes. I lower my voice. “Rayburn, I think those men were drugged. They went to this underground lake and swam in the water. I think it's the same water they used to induct the Brotherhood. The rest of us drink clean water, but for some reason the Brotherhood drink this contaminated water. They were guzzling the stuff last night. Maybe if they have a lot of it they turn—”
“
You
went down
there
?” He stares at me.

I put my hand on his elbow. “It's okay. No one saw me.”

He frowns. “Contaminated water could, uh, could explain a l-l-lot. The chemical smell in the crevasse. Their sores.” He points to the corner of his mouth and looks at me.

“Why? What ever-loving good would it do to poison their own kin?” Gooseflesh pricks over my arms. I knew these people were up to something. Now it's confirmed by Rayburn, who, despite his blinking eyes and weak chin, knows way more than he lets on.

Rayburn steps over a huge pothole. “The men came back last night in what seemed to be a, uh, testosterone rage coupled with a hallucinogen or deliriant. Maybe the water acts as a male hormone replacement. Maybe it makes them v-v-virile enough to generate female children. But it’s also got to be polluted with other chemicals, either added on purpose or just happen to be there, that make them, uh, crazy.”

“You sure water can do that?”

“Why else would they poison themselves?” He squints into the sun, thinking. “It would depend on what the water was contaminated with, but yes, uh, it would be possible. If the Messiah were playing amateur chemist with limited knowledge, he might have found a cocktail that allows them to reproduce. He probably also hasn't b-b-een able to stop the side effects. Tampering with the underground lake makes sense. It's s-s-separated from their main water source and he can take his, uh, his men down there and use them like human guinea pigs.”

Prickles run along my skin, both hot and cold simultaneously. “Will it kill them?”

Rayburn nods. “You don't see many of the Brotherhood over forty. They, uh, probably don't live that long.”

I shuffle to a stop. A few men in the garage look up at us. We don't have much time.

“What do we do?” I ask.

Rayburn eyes open far too large. “You have to get Clay out, and fast.”

The garage is hotter than hell's kitchen and my greased-up coveralls are soaked through after thirty minutes, but I have to admit garage duty is a heap better than laundry. The four garage monkeys (as they call themselves) are young and fun and talk so nasty to each other Prema would curl up and die if she ever heard them. A slender guy they call Crank shows me how to use an air compressor and sets me to work checking tires for leaks. I fill the heavy rubber tires, sink them into a huge paint-stained tub of water, and watch for bubbles. Then I plop the wet tires on the concrete and mark the leak with a red marker. The big red X drawn on the tire tread gives me more satisfaction than scrubbing dirty panties ever did. Crank shows me how to patch tires using a grinder, gooey cement, and a tire patch. They're impressed by my prior knowledge and how quickly I pick up what they show me. I look at my grease-stained fingers and smile. If Andrew and Prema thought they were punishing me with garage duty, boy, did they ever get it wrong.

Lunch consists of ham slices that we eat sitting on stacks of old tires. The warm rubber is soft on my backside and the guys’ banter makes me laugh. They sing a bawdy song about girls from the city with big titties and, though I blush, it's kind of nice not to be treated differently for once. These men are so different than the meathead Brotherhood members. Maybe the Brotherhood is revered for their strength and ruthlessness, but I'd take a grease monkey over them any day of the weak.

Donut, the twenty-something guy with a bald patch on the crown of his head and a mouth that would embarrass my cussing Auntie, puts me to work stripping wires and sorting through bins of parts. I sift through air filters, rusted lug nuts, and spark plugs. I clean threaded cylinders until they shine. Afterward, Crank gives me a tour of a car engine. I'm amazed at how much they know about fixing and piecing together vehicles. Lance, a long, lanky guy with a hawk-beak nose and wide-set eyes, shows me how to use a mechanical jack. By dinnertime, I'm almost sad to leave the sweltering garage.

Rayburn and I walk slowly back toward the mall. The garage monkeys have locked the garage down tight. If we ever wanted to break in for supplies, we're going to have to either get one of those guys on our side or steal the keys. I watched intently as Crank dropped them into his pants' pocket. Maybe we can get him to see reason if we—

“Good work today.” Rayburn smiles at me. There's a dimple in his left cheek that I've never noticed before. Then again, I don't see Rayburn smile very often.

“It's a good job.” I glance back toward the garage. “Those guys are the nicest here.”

Rayburn nods. “They're not Brotherhood, just regular guys.” He pauses, stepping carefully over a chunk of missing concrete where the parking lot has fallen away in gray chunks. “Like me.”

“Rayburn, you're not a regular guy,” I say, elbowing him in the ribs. He huffs at the blow and rubs where I've jabbed him. “You're some kind of bona fide genius. You've got more stored in that noggin than I'll ever know.”

He blushes, his sunburned cheeks reddening even more. “I'm not a genius. I just had good teachers and access to a vast library of books, as well as computer databases chocked f-f-full of information.” A small smile touches his lips as he remembers.

“You had computers?” I ask, kicking at a hunk of concrete that goes skittering across the faded yellow parking lines. The mall looms close.

“We had computers,” he says nodding. “The information was, uh, was monitored of course. But, yes, we had a database of knowledge on medical procedures and other things too. Electronics. Environmental Science.” He laces his fingers together in front of his greasy jump suit. “I loved sitting immersed in all that information. I'd read until my eyes felt like they'd, uh, fall out of my head.” He pushes up his glasses, his look distant.

“Must've been nice to get to see all that.” I think about us growing up with one or two books we found lying around, half molded, how I still can't read great.

Rayburn stops. His face is solemn, the crease in his sunburned brow deepening. “That hospital was as much a p-p-prison for me as it was for you.”

Heat burns up my neck. I cross my arms over my chest and stare down at the scraggly desert plant pushing its way up through the busted concrete. “Didn't see any chains around your ankles when you were walking around the halls. You had access to door codes, trucks.” I flick angry eyes up at him. “I hardly think your life and those girls in plan B was the same.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Not the s-s-same, but you think I could just leave? What do you think Dr. Vandewater would've, uh, done with me?
Will
do to me if she finds me?”

I shrug. “Invite you back?”

“Ha!” he laughs humorlessly. “She would flay me and then stake me in the desert for the coyotes to slowly p-p-pick apart.”

For a moment we're quiet. Then I reach out and pat him once on the back. “Thanks for coming on this crazy adventure.”

Rayburn nods. “Thanks for being p-p-patient with me.”

We cross the last bit of parking lot together and slip under the shade of the fading awning. Rayburn pulls the boarded-up door open for me. Inside the mall, the air feels deliciously cold. The beaded sweat on my body cools and I strip off the coverall down to my T-shirt and pants. With Rayburn beside me, we head toward the buzz of dinner.

I look around for Ethan and Clay and find my little brother waving and hopping up and down. I tug Rayburn's shirt and head toward his table.

Ethan steps back and someone in a wheelchair sits beside him. Mama! She turns and her burned face toward me and smiles.

She's dressed in one of those white patient’s gowns, still far too thin with protruding cheekbones and hollows under her eyes, but she looks okay. Alive at least. She smiles at me. “Darling.” She reaches up and cups my cheek. I feel like crying.

“Mama. You're out.” I press my face into her hand.

She nods slowly. “For the moment. The Middies thought it would be good for me to get some fresh air and see my lovelies.” She touches a grease stain on my arm and asks, “What've you been up to, Riley?”

I blush and Rayburn answers for me. “She's a, uh, grease monkey now.” He smiles awkwardly. “That is to say, er, she's working in the garage with me.”

“She got fired.” Ethan leans forward, hands on Mama's wheelchair arm. I shoot him a look, but he's beaming at Mama and not even looking at me.

“I got fired because I was late from tending to Clay.” I look around the bustling food court. “Where is he?” I crane my neck.

The smile drops off Ethan's face. He points reluctantly.

I follow his finger to a wide table at the front. The Brotherhood sit, massive elbow to massive elbow, laughing and banging their fists on the table at jokes I cannot hear. And in the middle sits Clay.

Anger surges through me as he laughs at something his table mate says. When his eyes meet mine, the smile falls off his face.

“Don't be too hard on him, darling,” Mama says, touching my hand.

I nod, but all I can feel is hardness circling my heart, encasing it, walling it in.

Clay drops his fork and excuses himself from the table. He heads our way.