The Benders (18 page)

She waves a dismissive hand. “That toe-sucker can rot for all I care. Town's a mess now that Sheriff's gone, and he can barely contain it. Any minute now they'll all mutiny and hang his arse.” She lifts a disgusted sneer and chuckles.

From the crib the baby lets out a little gasp. Auntie turns and rubs a hand down the tiny baby's bare belly.

“This one's name is Arthur after some famous king. Merek loves his sons to be regal.” Auntie smiles down at the once again sleeping babe. “It's nice to be taking care of little ones again.” Then she turns and looks at me. “Ethan?”

“I don't know where he is,” I say, my voice trembling. “I had him, Auntie. I had him, but then Nessa Vandewater…”

“That goddamned harpy,” Auntie says, looking ready to spit. “She's one I wouldn't mind putting in the ground.”

“Me neither,” I say. “She has Clay. I know that much. I'm willing to bet she took Ethan along to keep Clay in line.”

“Just as like,” Auntie says, still stroking the little babe. “That woman’s vile. She was in town a couple of days ’fore you all arrived. Had fun ordering me around. She’s got something big up her sleeve, too. Overheard the warden and her talking about it. Something about an army.” Auntie’s one eye goes wide. “A rat with an army ain’t a good thing.”

I shake my head, watching her hand stroke the baby’s brown cap of hair. It’s hard to look at her face with the stitched eye. “I can’t worry about Nessa until I can get you and me outta here.”

Auntie shakes her head and reaches out to grab my arm. “I stay. I won’t be a burden.”

“Stop,” I say, looking into her good eye this time. “I won’t leave you again. Never. We both go or neither of us do.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but as she studies my face she sighs. “You’re a mule of a girl, you know that? Stubborn as cement shoes.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

“It means, okay fine, take this old bag of bones with you.” She walks over and sits down in the wooden rocker that creaks under her slight weight. “It means,” she says looking up at me, “good luck. No way to bust out of here as far as I can see.”

“There’s a tournament in two days. The winner gets freedom for herself and another slave.”

Auntie folds her wrinkled lips into a frown. “What kind of tournament?”

I shrug, trying to decide how much to tell her. “Games of skill and chance. I can outwit these idiots.” I look up to see if she’s buying it.

Her arms, folded across her chest, suggest she’s not. “I heard the girls talking about it. The games won’t be fair. Merek’s brutal. Heartless. The girls tell me if they deliver a bender baby they’re forced to drown it or leave it outside the gates for the coyotes.”

I shiver at the thought. “It’s too late,” I say, trying to sound confident. “Already signed up. Once it’s done, it can’t be undone.”

“Hells,” Auntie says. “Then tell them you’re a girl and you’ll be slotted to be one of Merek’s wives. He won’t let you compete then. You’ll have to…” She looks up at me. “You’ll have to do your wifely duties. Won’t be pleasant. I won’t lie and say it is, but—”

“No,” I say, placing both palms on the smooth wood of the crib. “I belong to Clay.”

“You belong to Merek,” Auntie says coldly. “One way or the other.”

“You can’t talk me out of this,” I say, turning. “It’s done.”

Auntie fiddles with her dress for a moment. I wonder if she’ll scold me. In our old life, she would’ve given me a tongue-lashing, maybe a spanking for good measure, but a lot has happened since our life at the farmhouse was blown to pieces. She clutches her knees and won’t look at me.

“Do what you see fit,” she says through tight lips.

“Auntie—”

She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t explain. You’re a woman now. No reason to listen to an old, used-up hag like me.”

“Auntie.” I take a step toward her, but stop.

She rises, smoothing wrinkles out of her dress. “Riley, I’m not mad at ya, just…worried. I can’t protect you anymore and Clay’s not here, either. You’re gonna have to puzzle this one out for your own self.”

Although it was exactly what I planned to do all along, hearing it from her makes it rock solid. Win or lose, this is all on me.

When a bell begins ringing, it takes me a long time to register where I am. I wake slowly, letting my sand-crusted eyes flutter open. The bunk above me squeaks with Nada’s weight. I’m in my bed in the bunk house. Merek’s compound. I’m a slave.

I’d been dreaming of Ethan moments earlier. He was hiding in an abandoned building, much like the ones we stayed in with Clay and the Sheriff back in Albuquerque, old houses gone to rot, homes for birds and vermin now. Ethan was running ahead of me down a sand-filled hall. I could see his shoeprints and hear his footsteps, but nothing else. I’d scream his name and try to run, but the sand was deep and my legs useless. Every corner I’d turn, I’d see a flash of his leg before he disappeared deeper into the house.

Now, as I lay in bed staring at the springs above me, my panic clings to me like my sweat-drenched T-shirt. My throat’s raw as if I really have been screaming for my little brother. I want to roll over and press my face into my mattress and cry. Instead, a bleary-eyed Doc shakes my mattress with one hand as he pulls up his pants with the other.

“Up,” Doc says urgently. “This can’t be goo—”

The doors burst open. Guards pour in with batons already out. “Get up, you lazy scrubs. We got us special entertainment this morning.” Bukowski strolls through the bunk house, clanging his baton on beds as benders jump down.

I glance to the barred windows. It’s not even dawn. They’ve never woken us up this early.

“Get up!” a guard yells at me, leaning into my bunk.

I stand as Nada is climbing down. She lands beside me, flicks me a worried look and glances to Doc. He shrugs.

Once all the benders have assembled, standing at attention at the ends of their bunks, Bukowski walks by, swinging his baton.

“Got something for you to witness this morning,” he says, his tone serious. His baton gives a punctuated whack against the bunk bed. “No talking, no moving, no messing around of any kind. Lord Merek wants you to witness so you’ll know what the consequences are. Rule breakers will be punished.”

My neck goes hot. Last night Doc and I snuck across the compound and went into the Lord’s private quarters. We broke about a dozen rules. Are
we
going to be punished? I flick a glance at Doc, who locks eyes with me and then away. His face is stone. If he thinks it’ll be us, he shows no sign.

Bukowski and his guards line us up and walk us out of the bunkhouse and into the dim courtyard. Dawn has broken in the east and the sky is pinkish-orange. The air is cool and still. We shuffle in and stand in tense silence.

In front of us, someone has dragged out a five-foot-tall wooden stand on wheels. The wooden platform has a staircase on one end and a bench in the center. Chills run up my spine at the sight of it.

Commotion from behind the wooden wall surrounding Merek’s private quarters draws everyone’s attention. Someone is caterwauling behind the fence. Two figures emerge from the open door, dragging a third, a woman making inhuman howling sounds. Lord Merek walks out in his finery, and behind him are all his wives and their children. I count the women in flowing gowns, five in all with about twelve children in tow, all boys ranging from Ethan’s age down to Mina’s brand-new baby. I look for Auntie, but don’t see her in the crowd.

Guards drag the crying woman up to the stage. It’s Annabell. Her golden tresses are now tangled and grimy, her dress is torn and soiled in several places, and blood trails from a cut above her brow. But it’s the fear in her eyes and the awful squealing that makes my blood pressure rise. What are they going to do to her that they haven’t already done?

Merek tromps up to the stage, his face stoic, his head held high, his announcer following close behind. Merek lifts his arms for silence and someone clamps a hand over Annabell’s squalling mouth. Muffled cries still squeak through the guard’s big fingers, but now they’re a dampened whimper. I look up at her bruised, bloodied face. What did she do? Is this the punishment she feared for not producing a male heir?

“My subjects,” his announcer begins. His voice cracks with nerves and he tries again. “My subjects, today we stand in witness of a crime against God and our compound. Annabell, daughter of Lloyd, stands accused of treason, adultery, and theft.”

At his words, Annabell crumples to her knees. The wailing behind the guard’s big hand grows louder. Could she have done all those things? Or is it a convenient way to get rid of a barren girl?

“My subjects, you know our lord is a good and merciful leader.” He sweeps a hand around his compound. “You know he is fair and just. But we cannot abide such loathsome debauchery in our compound.”

Lord Merek looks around at his subjects, seeking acknowledgment on their faces. The people nod as his eyes light on them. I’m in the back and I don’t nod. All I can do is look at Annabell’s terrified eyes. I steel myself for whatever comes next.

“These crimes cannot stand; Annabell must be punished.” The announcer glances back as a guard walks up the stairs, carrying something in his hands.

An ax. A giant ax.

“The penalty for your crimes, Annabell,” Merek looks at her and then grips the ax, “is death.”

The next morning when my breakfast tray rattles through the door, it’s Ethan, not Betsy pushing it. He walks in, a big smile on his face.

“Hey,” I say, sittin’ up. My legs feel numb since they’ve been chained to the damn bed all night. I’ve been forced to use a metal pan to piss in and it wafts an awful stink on the bedside table. I sit forward to block Ethan’s view of it as he situates the cart. “What’s goin’ on, buddy? They let you bring a wanted criminal his breakfast today?” I wink at him.

He smiles thinly and hands me a hot bowl of oats with cream. “They knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”

I nod and cup the warm bowl to my chest, feeling chilled. Even alone with me, Ethan is back to acting like a robot. Is someone watching?

“Thanks for the grub,” I say, takin’ a spoonful. It’s plain and warm and fills my stomach. I eat slowly, tryin’ to stretch out my time with Ethan. “What’s happenin’ out there?” I ask, noddin’ toward the door. “I hope I didn’t get you in trouble yesterday when we tried to bust out.”

Ethan shrugs. “It’s okay. Mom wasn’t mad at me.”

“Mom?” I set my spoon down. “You know she ain’t your mom. Hell, she wasn’t even Cole’s mom.”

Ethan bites his lip and the skin blooms red around his white teeth.

“She tell you to call her
Mom
?” I ask, the anger bubblin’ up again. I set my half-eaten bowl on the tray next to the piss container. This conversation is makin’ me lose my appetite. “Ethan, did Nessa make you call her mom?”

He stares down at my white sheets. “I’m Cole,” he whispers.

I grip his arm as my chest pounds. “You are
not
Cole,” I say too loudly. I lower my voice and try again. “Whatever she told you, you don’t have to bring that bullshit in here. You can be honest ’bout what she’s done. I won’t let her hurt you.”

He lifts his dark eyes up to mine. Dark eyes, not blue like my real brother’s. They were blue, weren’t they?

“Clay, I’m Cole,” he says with more confidence. “Remember when we snuck into the mercantile and stole all the shopkeeper’s sweets? Pa was so mad.”

I can’t speak. I sit on the bed and study his face. She must’ve fed him some of my brother’s memories, but he speaks with such gumption she must’ve also taught him to believe he was there somehow. My body is cold, but my head’s hot. I wanna jump outta bed and shake Ethan. But this is not his fault.

“Please don’t,” I say, tryin’ to stay calm. “Please stop talkin’ like him.”

“But I’m supposed to help you remember,” Ethan says. “Like the time we took those horses down to Baha. We slept under the stars and Pa played a little guitar. The coyotes howled along with him.” Ethan smiles like he sees it. “He never could sing worth a lick.”

“Stop.” I sit up, jarrin’ Ethan from his ‘memory.’ “Those aren’t your stories to tell. So stop.” My hands shake. I clutch the mattress to steady the tremble. “Ethan, please stop pretendin’ and tell me the truth.”

“This is the truth, Clay.” He touches my arm. “I missed you. I wish you could remember.”

“Get out,” I say, shovin’ him away. “Get out, please!”

I can’t take this. My head spins. This is Ethan. Ethan, Ethan, Ethan. Cole died. He died in my arms. I put both hands on either side of my head and try to breathe. When I look up, Ethan stands at the open door, lookin’ at me.

“Clay?”

I pick up the bowl of oats and throw it at the wall. It shatters and wet goop plops on the ground. Ethan cowers like I hit him and my heart shatters.

“I’m sorry,” I say, clutchin’ my head. “Sorry. Sorry.” Hot tears puddle into my hands. I don’t know up from down anymore.

When I finally look up, he’s gone and my door is shut. I lie back on my bed and look up at the crack in my ceiling. Whatever Nessa did to him to make him believe he’s Cole can’t be good for the boy’s brain. And whatever she thinks she’s doin’ by this, it sure ain’t drawin’ us closer together. I hate that vile bitch.

Oh God, Cole. I think of that night in Baja. Pa played a little six-string guitar and sung so bad, the coyotes howled along in the distance. He grinned big and Cole grinned big right back. I was surly and quiet at thirteen and wishin’ to God he’d shut up and let us sleep. But Pa never didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought.

And now he’s dead and Cole is too and I’m the only soul left from that trip who remembers that night. So how in the hell does Nessa know that memory?

My belly bundles into knots at that thought. Cole can’t be alive. And Cole can’t be Ethan. Things have tumbled ’round so much in my head that the sharp edges are dulled. Soon, if my mother has her way, I won’t remember the difference between Cole’s face and Ethan’s.

Sirens.

I sit bolt upright in bed, my ankles clangin’ the cuffs against the bed post. My room’s dim, almost dark. Sweat’s puddled under my back from the heat. What time is—