The Breeders (24 page)

I’ve wound my bed sheets into knots. I lean my head back on my pillow and look up at the clock. Forty-four hours, fifty-five minutes. Soon, by not acting, my decision will be made for me.

* * *

When my door slides open, Rusty struts in with my breakfast tray. The sight of him smirking, rubbing a finger over his carrot-colored mustache, is revolting. He’s tall and rail thin, with a head of red, curly hair. He’s wearing the white guard’s uniform and black loafers. But it’s his eyes, slipping over my body like filthy hands, that make me want to gag.

He sets the tray on the table, takes a napkin and drapes it over the surveillance camera lens. His voice oozes like rancid oil. “Hey there, sweet thing. Heard you called for a little side of Rusty with your breakfast this morning.” He reaches out and tugs on the sheet covering me.

I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. “What’re you doing here?” I ask, trying to stall. I hate the way he’s looking at me.

Rusty’s smiles, a smile that reminds me of a snake-oil salesman on one of these shows Betsy watches—wide, white and entirely false.

“Tish said you wanted to trade. A one-way ticket out of this joint. Well, Rusty’s all about helping little ladies.” He leans over the bed and presses his palms onto either side of the mattress where I sit. His face hovers less than a foot from mine. I can see the dandruff around his collar, the chunk of something green between his teeth.

I lean away from him. “I’ve changed my mind. If I’m going to trade,” even discussing this makes me feel ill, but I press on. “If I’m going to trade, I want my mama out of plan B.”

He leans down. His body nearly on top of mine. I feel his hand on my thigh above the blanket. “No can do, sweat thang. Nobody comes out of plan B. But I can get you out. You’d like that, right? Out to see your boyfriend?”

He puts his weight on me now. His heaving chest presses into mine until I can’t breathe. The smell of raw desire and cheap cologne is suffocating. One rough hand’s running down my thigh and pulling up the fabric of my gown. The other hand grips my neck like a vice. His mustache brushes the skin of my neck as he runs his tongue along my jaw.

If he can’t get my mama out, I want him off me. Now.

I slam my palms against his polyester uniform and shove and kick until he tumbles off and onto the floor. He pulls up on the side of my bed, the greasy smile sliding off his face.

“What gives?” He swipes one hand over his mess of red hair.

I scrunch back farther into the bed, as if the pillows could hide me. “Get out! You aren’t touching me!”

He gives me a shocked look. “Tish said you wanted a
trade
.” He says trade like he’s already undressed me.

“She was wrong.”

Rusty frowns. “You’re slotted for insemination tomorrow. Don’t you want to get out before they put a bun in that oven?” He points towards my stomach.

“Not bad enough to let you touch me,” I hiss.

He tucks his shirt back into his pants and stalks to the door. He turns back angrily. “You’ll regret this, sweetheart.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

Rusty and his proposition are out.

Forty-two hours.

* * *

When dinner arrives, Rayburn lets me eat in the cafeteria as long as I’m under guard. When I walk through the doors, a slap of cooked fish smell welcomes me. My guard leads me to a table with Tish and Sammy. I don’t want to hang with these two, especially since Tish will ask about Rusty, but the guard won’t leave until I sit. Tish and Sammy stop their talk, glance at me, and then continue complaining about the food. I pick at the clumpy fish that’s already cold on my plate.

When the guard’s out of earshot, Tish leans into me. “Heard you screaming at Rusty this morning.” The smirk on Tish’s caramel-colored face is unmistakable. She loves other people’s misery. It gives her something to do. “Thought you wanted out so bad you’d do
anything.
”

“Not bad enough to let that slimy bastard touch me.” I push the fish around my plate. I’ve lost my appetite.

Tish nudges Sammy. “It’s not so bad, right, Sammy?”

Sammy doesn’t look up, but stabs angrily at her lettuce.

I raise an eyebrow.

“That little bun in the oven,” Tish says, pointing to Sammy’s stomach, “didn’t come from no Petri dish, if you know what I mean.”

I do, though it makes me sick. Sammy’s cheeks flush bright red. She shoots Tish a searing glare, grabs her tray and tromps over to another table. I catch Rusty’s eyes following Sammy as she goes.

“I’m just saying,” Tish says with a smirk, “might not matter if you’ve turned him down. He might find a way to get what he wants.”

I grip my fork until my knuckles are white. Rusty’s everything that’s wrong with this place. I think of my mama in the dark, a tube snaked down her throat. Hurting Rusty won’t make that right, but it might make me feel better.

I turn to Tish, letting all caution fall to the wayside. “Does anyone ever get out of plan B?”

She turns to me, her eyes wide, her mouth open. “How do you know about—”

“I just do. Tell me. Is there a way out?”

She slowly shakes her head from side to side, her black curls jiggling. “Once you’re in, you’re in. I never seen anybody come out.”

The look on her face makes me believe her. My mama. What can I do? I can’t give up and let her rot in that basement hooked up to monitors. The thought of that would drive me insane. There has to be a way.

Then the cafeteria doors fly open. Betsy barrels in, white hospital gown billowing around her like a sail. She’s sobbing and shaking. She spots me and makes a beeline over. When she reaches us, she wraps her hands around my arm and hangs on for dear life. “Oh, Agatha, they’ve taken her!” The tears darken the fabric under her pudgy neck. “They won’t give her back.”

I take her hands. “What’d you mean? Your baby?”

“Esmeralda. Only those witchy nannies say that name is gaudy. They put Jane on her bassinet card. Jane. What kind of name is Jane? Plain Jane. Jane goes down the drain. Jane insane in the brain.”

Betsy’s eyes roll wildly in her head. Behind her, the guards stride up. I stroke her arm to sooth her. “Betsy, what’re you talking about?”

“They won’t even let me nurse her. They say I’m too
hysterical.
” Her voice rivals howling coyotes. She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her gown and emits big barking sobs that shake her whole body and me with it.

“There has to be a mistake,” I murmur, patting her arm.

A mistake—or the cruelty this place masks as kindness. After all she went through and they take away her baby? The rage I’ve been feeding shakes its cage, wanting release. A shadow falls on us. Two guards stand on either side. The slash of red hair tells me all I need to know. Rusty, to my left, winks before reaching down and grabbing one of Betsy’s arms. The second guard grabs the other. They begin to drag her to the door.

“Agatha!” she wails. “Help!”

My face flushes. My breathing deepens. This cannot stand.

“Let her go!” I say through clenched teeth.

One corner of Rusty’s mustache rises as his eyes meet mine. He turns to the other guards. “If this one causes any disturbance,” he says, nodding to me, “feel free to use appropriate force.”

He sounds so professional when he’s not trying to seduce a child. He won’t sound so professional in a second. I clench fists and bare my teeth. He drops Betsy and faces me, his arm out, fingers splayed as if readying for a fight. “Let’s do this,” he says, grinning.

In my head that little voice is screaming,
Don’t! Think of Mama and plan B!
I look down at Betsy, the hot, crumpled, sobbing mess on the polished linoleum. The voice of reason goes silent as I run toward Rusty.

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 anticipatory, almost gleeful. He wants to fight. Well, bring it on.

He runs, head down, arms out. I clamber over a table, pushing 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 shin 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 shin, 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 glasses. 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 basement. “Take me back to my room.”

I look up. It’s Dr. Rayburn. His lab coat’s buttoned crookedly and his shirt’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 shivers down my spine. We’re going down. Down toward plan B.

“Don’t!” I scream, hoarsely. “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 shifts 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 basement 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, God, 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.