The Believers (The Breeders Series - Book 2) (17 page)

I pass a bookshelf chock full of yellowed books and try to read their spines. “I've never seen so much stuff in one place. Most of the buildings we find have been gutted to the gills.”

He nods, picking up a broken syringe. “Genius, really, to collect as much as p-p-possible. It’s not like this stuff is, uh, is being produced anymore.” He pushes up his glasses, hunches down, and peers deep into a suitcase on the floor.

I gaze around. The stacks and piles go on forever. How can we find anything useful in twenty minutes?

“We need to split up. No more window-shopping. You go left. I’ll go right. We look for weapons, anything that could help us escape and get out of this place.” Remembering Mama’s situation, a tightness encircles my heart. “Look for medications, too. Anything that might help Mama survive on the road.”

Rayburn offers me a sympathetic look. “I’ll work on that. You look for the, uh, weapons.”

I smirk, taking off into the dimly lit interior. Rayburn knows me too well.

I jog, scan, jog, scan. Bins of warped silverware. Cracked plastic tubs of clothes and shoes. Everything has a fine layer of dust. It's like searching through a museum. If I had the time, I’d rifle through each bin and touch each relic, turning it over with gentle fingers. A baby doll peeks at me from under a table, one eye gooed shut, the other staring at me behind her black lashes. So many treasures, yet I can't find what I'm looking for. I don’t know if I expected a shelf full of guns and racks of bullets, but I find nothing. Not even a usable kitchen knife.

At the bottom of one bin, I find little brown cylinders the size of my finger tied in a line. At each end a little wick dangles. I lift them to my nose. They smell faintly of gunpowder. Mini explosives? I pocket them, along with two soggy packets of matches. They could come in handy if they still light.

“Rayburn!” I call from my end of the warehouse. He's hunched form the door, bent over a tub. “How much time?”

“Not much!” His voice echoes back to me.

Panicked, I run faster. When I get to the back wall, my heart sinks. This is our one chance.

To my right I spy a door. Gripping the worn handle, I tug it. Locked. Locked doors mean big prizes.

I run back, grab a couple small screwdrivers and some thin pieces of stiff copper wire. Then I set about picking the lock. It's the second time today that I'm glad I had Arn around growing up.

When the lock clicks, I'm sweating and my heart is pounding, but the door sliding open sends a shiver of joy through me. I'm greeted by darkness. Slowly, my eyes piece together a storage room. I feel around, hands extended until I bump into something at waist level. My hands fumble into a round drum big as a water barrel. It's heavy. Gripping the sides I drag it through the doorway. Liquid sloshes inside. When I make it out of the storage room, I’m sweating.

Rayburn appears behind me. “What is it?” He leans over my shoulder.

“Don’t know.” The off-white opaque plastic holds liquid. Water, or something else? I twist off the round white plug. The chemical fumes that escape nearly knock me off my feet. I stagger back, coughing, my eyes burning.

“Cover it up!” Rayburn shouts, fumbling for the lid.

“What is it?” I ask.

“A caustic chemical. Some sort of hydrochloric acid maybe, or bleach.” He looks up at me with worried eyes. “Whatever it is, we should l-l-leave it alone.”

Symbols are scrawled across the sealed lid in a smudgy charcoal.

“What does it say?” I lean in.

Rayburn reads the dark, ominous letters. “'Caution: HF. Do not Open. For 14:13.'”

As the sun sinks low in the west, my mind whirs. I roll the black, slashed words around: Caution: HF. Do not Open. For 14:13. The Caution is simple enough. For 14:13 tightens my insides. Why would they keep a huge barrel of caustic chemicals locked in a room? What is 14:13? A time? A date? They’ve already been tampering with the water. Then I remember Mage telling me her father said it would be better to die than to go with the Breeders. Will they use this poison on us? How long do I have to figure it out until these lunatics dump it in our water and wipe us all out?

I point at the black scrawl, the smell of chemicals still hanging in the air. “What d’you think this is?”

He swallows hard and looks down at the barrel. “I…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? What do you think about the number 14:13? A certain time of day? Some sort of code?” I stare at his face in the dim light of the warehouse.

He blinks uncomfortably, pushing up his glasses. “Riley, I really, uh, don’t know.”

“Rayburn, seriously. This is important.” I hit my hand against the barrel. The plastic vibrates and the liquid sloshes inside.

“Is it?” he says, dropping his eyes to the floor.

“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I think it is.”

He blows out a frustrated breath. “It could mean absolutely nothing, Riley. It could be someone's favorite number or their shoe size.”

“Their shoe size?”

“You know what I mean.” His eyebrows fold down and his stammer is nearly gone. His next words come out forcefully. “You are so busy looking for a way out maybe you haven’t considered that we just stay.”

I blink, taking in his words. This was the last thing I expected him to say. “Stay? Stay here? Rayburn, we can't—”

“Can't we?” he says, gripping the sides of the barrel. “We have food here. Shelter. I have meaningful employment. No one tries to shoot us. There are…” His eyes lock on a stack of hardcover books. “There are many benefits to becoming a member of this, uh, this well-formed society.”

“Well-formed society?! I…I can't believe what I'm hearing.” I nearly spit the words. “Why would you say this?”

“Why? Because I have so much to look forward to on the r-r-road?”

I stare at him, my mouth open. “What about Clay?”

Rayburn won’t look at me. “Clay can take care of himself.”

My anger flares hotter. “You’ve never liked him.”

His head jerks up. “W-w-wait a minute. He never liked
me
. Not the other way around.”

“That doesn’t mean we let them take him.” I shake my head, frustration building. We are running out of time. Crank and Donut will start missing us soon.

He turns and begins striding back to the warehouse front doors. “Good luck with your wild goose chase, Riley. Let me know when you g-g-get us excommunicated.”

I grit my teeth and watch him leave. Then I shove the barrel back into the closet and lock the door. I don’t care what he says; I have a bad feeling about that barrel. Above me, the giant metal beams, once shiny and new, have given over to rust and erosion. How long after I'm dead will those beams still be here, providing homes to birds? Generations? How can I keep fighting when the people I’m fighting for turn against me?

Our garage shift ends as the sun is trailing thick orange fingers over the parking lot. Rayburn and I walk together, our long shadows leading us in. We haven’t spoken since our fight. Crank, Donut, and Lance crunch behind us too close for us to speak anyway. I look over at him and he drops his head. I kick at a rock in our path and watch it skitter into the weeds. Why does everything I do have to be so hard?

Inside, we split up and wash up in different bathrooms. Then we walk to the cafeteria, the throng joining us, making it impossible to talk. We stand in line, elbow to sweaty elbow, and receive our trays of stringy, boiled beans and a deflated wheat roll. Andrew wasn’t kidding when he said they were rationing. My heart sinks at the small portion. After all that hard labor, I’m starving.

When I look up, I spot Ethan and Clay at a table not far from mine. The boys wave, but I don't move. Instead I look out across the bustling food court. It's easy to see why Rayburn wants to stay. He has a real chance at a life here and the road has been awful for him. He could work and make friends. For a moment I consider it, creating a life with these people. But then I think of Stephen, of Kemuel, of Andrew and his goggle-covered stare. I think of the sore already forming on Clay's lip. And the moaning in the hole. Rayburn might not believe me, but I know this place is poison.

My reason for moving on sits several tables down, waving for me. Them and Mama and Auntie. We can't stay here. No matter the cost, family is the foundation I've built my life on, and I'm not about to let them be killed by these monsters.

I slump down in a plastic chair beside Clay and Ethan. They're deep in some serious conversation and I lean in to hear it over the din.

“Just go up to her,” Clay says, smirking, “and say, 'Hey pretty lady, wanna take a walk?'”

Ethan blushes. “I can't do that.”

“Well then, I dunno. Figure out how to make one of them paper animals and give it to her. Or a flower or somethin'.” Clay's eyes trail over to where Mage plays with the other children.

I clear my throat. “What're we talking about exactly?” I look at Ethan. “You ask him for girl advice?”

Ethan drops his head, letting his bangs hide his eyes. He shrugs his shoulders as his answer.

Clay throws an arm around me. “Old hoss has himself a crush. Perfectly natural. We was just having a man-to-man. I told him how I stole yer heart.” He tries to plant a kiss, but I dodge it.

“I don't think it's good advice for him to get tangled up with Mage.” I lean forward to get Ethan's attention. “Remember what I said? What good is it to get involved when we're just gonna leave?” I cross my arms over my chest. “Besides, you're only eight. Too young.”

Clay barks a laugh. “Eight's a fine age for yer first crush. 'Sides, where else is he gonna see girls? Not on the road, that's for damn sure.”

Ethan pushes back from the table. “I don't wanna talk about this.”

“Munchkin,” I say, reaching for him, but he turns and runs off. I sigh in frustration.

“You baby him, you know.” Clay's voice is matter-of-fact, and it bugs the hell out of me.

“You think he's just one of the boys, huh? Having a man-to-man. Well, he's not a man, Clay. He's eight.” I gesture toward the kids on the play structure to make my point.

His eyes travel there. “I was riding on raids at 'bout that age,” he says flatly.

“Well, I certainly don't want him raised like you were.”

He shoots me a look. “Me neither.” He frowns, leaning forward on his elbows. “I wasn't tellin' him to shoot up a road gang. I was tellin’ him its okay to talk to a girl.” Then he looks me over. “What’s wrong with you today?”

Should I tell him about the barrel? What would I say? That I found some caustic fluid that I think might kill us, but I can’t be sure? Clay won’t believe me and I just don’t have the strength left to try to convince someone else. Plus, if I’m honest, I’m starting to doubt myself. Maybe I always do jump to conclusions.

I look up at him and try a smile. “I've been fighting against the world for my whole life.” I pause and take a breath. “Sometimes I forget I don't have to fight you too.”

He caresses my cheek. “The fight in you is one of the things I love.”

***

Before I go to bed, I walk down to the infirmary. The guard at his stool doesn't even stand up. He frowns at me, waving me on with his yellowing paperback. As I walk the infirmary hallway, the cots and mattresses are quiet. Patients lay still with their eyes closed. It's creepy here at night. I wish Mama was well enough to come back to our room and lay beside me.

An older man with yellow, cat-like eyes watches as I slip by. He sits up and continues to watch me.

“Revelations...” He trails off, his voice dying in his throat. “Revelations 14:13.”

The black scrawled numbers on the barrel, 14:13! I turn toward him, senses alert. “What did you say?”

He reminds me of an old tortoise, his neck stretching like he could slip it back in his shell if he was spooked. I took him to be ancient, but as I get closer, I can see he isn't as old as I thought. It's just his puckered body, his yellow eyes, and thin hair that makes him look that way. Did the water do this to him? Fear scrambles up my spine as his eyes lock onto mine.

“What did you say?” I ask again, hardly breathing.

“The end... is nigh.” His eyes pop open until they're nearly lidless. He leans forward, stretching his long neck. “Revelations 14:13. ‘Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth.’” He coughs and a glob of blood and saliva splatters his palm. He looks at it for a moment and then begins smearing it on his cheeks. “’Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them.’”

I pull back, horrified. And yet, what if he knows about the poison in the warehouse? “When is the end?” I kneel at the edge of his dirty mattress. He rolls toward me and I shrink back. I steel my will and look into his eyes. “What do you know about the end?”

He blinks at me. “The temple was filled with smoke from the glory of the Gods.” He smacks his palm to his bloodied cheek with a sound like a snapping twig.

“Stop,” I say, reaching for his hand as he pulls back to hit himself again. He smells like rot.

“And no man was able to enter into the temple.” The volume of his voice rises as he slaps his cheek with his other hand. “Till the seven plagues of the seven angels were fulfilled!”

“What's going on?” A Middie jogs up, holding her billowing skirt. “You!” She points at me. “You let him go this instant.”

I drop the man's arm and he slaps himself again. The crack is loud and it rocks his body back, almost off the mattress.

The Middie grabs me by the arm. “What have you done? Why did you make Brig so upset?”

I look down at Brig, who hauls back and slaps himself so hard the sound echoes through the store. “Maybe you should stop yelling at
me
and worry about Brig knocking himself unconscious.” I point as he winds up again.

“Oh, Gods help me,” she mutters, reaching down, trying to sooth him. She takes his hands and holds them to his chest. His head lurches back and forth in a tantrum. “Get out of here,” she says to me over her shoulder.

I push up, my legs shaking. As I'm about to turn the corner, a slap echoes through the hallway. The Middie says, “Oh, Brig, Jesus.”