The Butchers Read online

  Or so it was. Until now.

  Now as we look at it, we see the signs of decay—the blown-out windows, the ripped-open fencing that shows us someone has recently breached her perimeter. There is a white Breeders truck in the front parking lot with bullet holes running up its side and four flat tires. There is garbage blowing around in piles. Some of the famous spotlights that illuminated the hospital for miles around are shot out and no longer functioning.

  When I was a prisoner here, all of this would have been pristine. No one went up against the Breeders. They had superior firepower, superior manpower. They had technology that didn’t exist outside those four walls.

  Something has brought the behemoth to her knees.

  This has to be good for us. But I wonder what awaits us inside. Is Nessa even still here? And if she is, what’s her army like now? Without the surrounding city and its constant supply of workers, how is the hospital able to staff the positions it needs to survive?

  Then I think of the girls I met inside. Hundreds of girls. Where are they? And if this is what the outside looks like, what are conditions like inside?

  I turn to Clay, who’s loading up more guns and ammo than any one man should. “Do you think the girls are still alive?”

  He looks up at the abused building. “Girls are the world’s last valuable commodity, Ri. If someone came for anything, they came to take the women.”

  I shudder. “You think the Butchers took them.”

  He shrugs. “I think that any organization knows that to continue, they need reinforcements. The best way to do that is grow ’em yourself. Plus, men love women.”

  “Geez. You make having a family sound so romantic.” I lean back against the solar car and try to contain my rage, my worry.

  “The Butchers don’t care about family. They care about pussy, numbers, and guns. That’s all that’s ever mattered in war. At least we got two out of the three.” He holds up some metal beast that’ll spit bullets like that’s its job.

  And he’s right. It’s a brutal world.

  Desdemona walks up, swinging her bow. “We ready?”

  Clay looks at it skeptically. “How about I give you something better than a stick of wood?” He holds a handgun out to her.

  She scrunches up her face. “No thanks. I don’t need to compensate for something with a massive weapon.”

  I shake my head at her jab at Clay. “I can teach you another time,” I say, strapping on my own weapons.

  “So what’s the plan?” Desdemona asks. “Go in, shoot everyone, take what we need, and leave?”

  “Pretty much,” Clay says.

  “It’s not going to be that easy,” I say. “Nessa is very clever. Even if things have fallen apart, she’ll still be scheming. We need to be very careful.”

  “Or how about we go with my plan, where you all stay here and I go in first by myself?”

  I shake my head. “You know that’s not an option.”

  “Right,” Desdemona agrees. “We find Mo. We get out.”

  “What about Doc?” Clay asks, his face hardening with anger.

  “We don’t kill Doc,” I say firmly. “He’s dead to us, but we don’t repay his months of kindness with violence.”

  “He drugged you and took your baby,” Clay reminds me.

  “He doesn’t deserve to die.”

  “Fine. If we get separated, we do our best to make it back here.” He nods to the solar car.

  “I’ll hold down the fort,” Auntie says, walking up. She pulls me into a hug. “But don’t be gone long,” she whispers. “Or that one there”—she nods at Betsy, who’s rattling off to Ethan in the back of the car—“might tied up and gagged when you get back. Definitely gagged.”

  I pat Auntie on the back, walk over, and hug Ethan. Betsy stares at us with big round eyes. She’s been acting strange, well, stranger than normal ever since we drove into Albuquerque.

  “Betsy,” I say, getting her attention. She looks up at me. “Take care of Auntie and Ethan.”

  “My babies,” she murmurs, quietly. Then she goes back to muttering nonsense into the hem of her sleeve.

  The children. I forgot about those. Are they still in the hospital, or have they too been taken?

  Shivering despite the heat, I turn to Clay and Desdemona. “It’s now or never. Let’s go.”

  Armed to the teeth, we stay in the shadows as much as we can. It’s getting late, and the tall buildings around us stretch long, hiding us for the most part. It doesn’t look like anyone has posted watch, but you never know. They could still have surveillance cameras and perimeter alarms.

  When we get close enough to see the gates of the fence that surrounds the parking lot and hospital, they’re ripped open.

  “I’ve never seen them open like that,” Clay whispers, panting a little from the effort of carrying his ridiculously huge guns.

  I shake my head. “Something’s definitely up. Unless they’re trying to make us think they are unarmed or unorganized.”

  Clay checks the safeties on his guns. “I’m gonna scout it out. You two stay here until I give the all-clear.”

  Before I can protest about us splitting up, he’s running out of the shadows and down the trash-strewn street toward the open hospital gate.

  Desi watches him go. “Is he really the hotshot he thinks he is?”

  “Yeah, but sometimes it goes to his head.”

  “Or his crotch,” Desdemona says, watching.

  I flick her a glance.

  “What? All men think with their dicks.” Desi shrugs like it’s common knowledge.

  “And you know so much about guys?”

  She shuts up, and I can’t talk anymore. I’m too nervous.

  Clay breeches the gate and runs through the open parking lot toward the hospital’s glass side doors. There’s no movement, nothing to indicate anyone is inside.

  A series of pops jolts us alert.

  “Shit,” Desdemona says, stepping forward. “Is that . . .?”

  “Gunshots.” I start to run.

  Tearing up the street, the rattle of gunfire continues. A window explodes, spewing shards. All around me the sounds of blasts echo off the building’s walls.

  Clay.

  “Riley,” Desdemona calls beside me, “what are you going to do?” Her bow is out; she’s running full tilt.

  “Save Clay!” I turn from her and race toward the entrance where I last saw him.

  I come upon a closed side door where the gunfire sounds the worst. Readying the semiautomatic and flicking off the safety, I yank open the door and step in.

  A bullet whizzes by me, smashing into the concrete wall inches from my head. Dropping down, I scan ahead. The scene is bloody, a mess. Clay has been here, that’s for sure. Lines of bullet holes cut into the drywall in arches up and down the black-and-white tiled hallway. A body in full black guard attire lies in a pool of blood halfway down. The rest of the doors that I can see from where I lay on the floor are closed, but at the end of the hall one is open. The person who shot at me must be waiting for me on the other side of that wall.

  If I keep going, I’m dead. If I stay here, I’m dead.

  The door behind me yanks open. Desdemona is there in the doorway.

  “Get down!” I yell as a gun goes off down the hall.

  She ducks in time for the bullet to cut through the open door and out into the night. Realizing this entrance is a lost cause, I shove her back, running out with her and slamming the door.

  “Can’t go in there,” I pant. Scanning, I listen for more gunshots. They’ve moved deeper inside. Clay must still be shooting because the bursts of gunfire happen in quick succession.

  “This way,” I say, nodding toward another entrance.

  We run toward sliding glass doors that are now just empty metal frames. Stepping over the ruined windows, we crunch inside what appears to be a receiving area. Plastic chairs line the walls. A long-abandoned desk sits empty and behind it, empty countertops, empty shelves. The Bree
ders haven’t received anyone in a long time. None of it looks familiar. When I was here last, I came in unconscious and left in a hurry. So very little has changed.

  More gunfire. Desdemona points to a long hallway to the left. I follow as we creep toward the noise. The rattle of bullets is deafening. I wonder how many men Clay is fighting off. Sounds like dozens.

  When we get to the source of the noise, I crouch and take a deep breath, looking at Desdemona, and then throw open the door.

  Clay stands in the middle of a large room, both guns blazing. He’s spraying bullets like they’re the cheapest thing on earth. They ping off metal, bury themselves into drywall, blast out lights, and shred through curtains. The room is a giant dank gymnasium full of what looks like garbage. But when I look around the room, I don’t see any opponents.

  “Clay!” I shout from behind him, still in my crouch with Desi at my side. The roar of the guns drowns me out. “Clay!”

  He stops and looks back. “Riley!”

  “What are you doing?”

  Wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm he looks up. “Guess I got a little carried away.”

  “You think?” I scan the room again. It looks like it used to be a hospital suite. There are old beds, stained mattresses, and computer equipment scattered around the room. “What are you shooting at?”

  He nods to the back of the room. “In there. I think there are at least five of them.”

  “In the closet? I ask.

  When he confirms, the three of us walk carefully over, watching for traps and ambushes. Finding none, I stand at the door. “Cover me,” I say to Clay. He positions himself and aims his terrible guns. “Just . . . don’t fire, okay? Just put the gun down.”

  He lowers the guns, nodding in acknowledgement.

  Then I throw open the door.

  Five men cower. One throws his hands up. “Don’t shoot! We surrender.”

  “Toss out your guns,” I say.

  Kicking guns my way, they look like they think they’re about to be murdered. Frankly, they’re way more pathetic than I’d imagined. Five guards? This place used to be crawling with them. “Where is everyone else?”

  “Donaldson and McCarthy went upstairs with the bender and never came back,” says one balding, rat-faced man with a scraggly beard.

  Another adds, “We’re all that’s left after the Butchers.”

  A taller, beefier man elbows him in the gut. “Don’t tell ’em that.”

  I kneel, narrowing my eyes at beefy guy. “Listen, do you see his guns there?”

  Clay brandishes the amazing death machines he’s holding. The beefy man’s eyes flick to them and back to my face.

  “Tell us everything. We won’t kill you if you cooperate.”

  He gives me a defeated look. “That’s what the Butchers said. And then they started cutting people’s heads off.”

  “We aren’t the Butchers.” I give Clay a look to tell him to stand down. “What happened here, and where is this bender?”

  The beefy man sighs and then starts talking. “We heard rumors about a gang of killers a few months back, but shit, we hear that rumor every few weeks. We were untouchable.” His face crumples.

  The rat-faced man picks up where he left off. “They came at night. Dozens of ’em. They broke in—we don’t know how—started killing. Before we knew they was here, they’d killed half the staff. Jimmy. Bruce.” He’s holding back tears.

  “So we fought ’em off best we could,” the beefy man continues, “but at that rate there was little we could do. They’d already gotten up to the floor with the women. Started taking ’em out in truckloads.”

  “They took all the women?” Desi asks.

  The beefy man looks at her masked face, seeming to realize she might not be what he first thought she was. “They took most of the women. Ones that were too old or too sick they killed.”

  I cringe, thinking about all those nannies, the poor sick girls, the girls in Plan B. It’s horrible.

  “Then what?” Clay asks.

  “Nessa locked down the top floors,” the beefy man says. “They wanted to get up there. She’s got a lot of good loot upstairs. But they couldn’t get in. Got a grenade up there, blew out a few windows, but then, they had most of what they’d came for. They drove off. When they were gone, we came in and took over.”

  “What about the bender?” I ask, feeling heat creep up my neck.

  “That blond one. Nessa wanted to see her. Like I said before, two of our guys took her up and haven’t been seen since. Bet they’re getting a good meal.” The rat-faced man looks down bitterly.

  “What about another bender? Or a little girl? Where are they?” My heart is pounding hard waiting for their answer.

  The beefy man nods in understanding. “The brown-haired bender we got down the hall. Didn’t see no kid.”

  Pain jolts down my spine. Where is Mo? If Doc did anything to her . . .

  “Where’s the brown-haired bender? Take me to him.”

  We get the beefy guard up, leaving the other four to be watched by Desi. Clay and I walk behind him. Clay gives me a look, speaking in low tones. “It’s going to be okay, Riley. Mo is okay. Just because they didn’t see her doesn’t mean somethin’ happened to her.”

  I don’t answer him, afraid if I start talking tears will spill out. I cling to anger. Anger makes me strong.

  The beefy man stops in front of a small, nondescript closet door. As I wait for him to dig out keys, I listen, not hearing any sound. Is this some sort of trick?

  He turns the lock and pushes the door open to complete blackness. “Why’s it so—”

  Whack.

  Something smacks down hard on his head, causing him to pitch forward. He lets out a cry and then someone is rushing out. A steel weapon emerges, being held like a club. Pulling up my gun, I almost shoot until I see who it is.

  “Doc!”

  He runs out, still brandishing the steel beam, but stops. “Riley.”

  A few others pile out after him, also holding pieces of long metal like weapons. An old woman, a pregnant woman, and a teen pile up behind Doc, looking scared and confused.

  I’m too shocked to say or do anything. Doc looks between me and Clay and then back at the guard’s body on the closet floor. “I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.” Doc lowers the metal rod. He offers me a smile.

  And I punch him in the face.

  Clay

  “What the hell?” Doc says, holdin’ his nose.

  Riley reaches back to hit him again. This time I grab her hand.

  “Let me go, Clay!” She fusses, fightin’ against me, but I don’t let go.

  “Just hold on,” I say, lookin’ over the situation. Doc looks worse for wear, so I wonder what happened to him in that closet. I’m just as pissed at him for makin’ us come here, but I can see things have not gone as planned. And Riley gets awful worked up when we really need to be thinkin’ clear.

  I try the thinkin’ clear part.

  “Doc, where’s Mo? Nobody can tell us where she went.”

  Doc’s eyes flick to me, and for the first time he seems happy to see me. “I think Corra took her up to your mother.” Then his eyes trail back to Riley. “I swear I didn’t betray you. I know it looks like it, but Corra came to me and told me about her plan. I knew if I didn’t go along with it, she’d do it without me. I went with her to protect Mo.”

  Riley struggles against me, tryin’ to strike again. “A lot of good it did! Now she’s upstairs with that monster. Do you have any idea what Nessa will do to her?”

  Doc looks crestfallen. “I tried to stop it.”

  “How?” Riley says, cryin’ angry tears now. “How did you try to stop her, Doc? By drugging me? By locking up Clay? I know you’ve always hated him and that you’re mad at me for choosing Clay over you.”

  Wow. There it is. I look at Doc to see how he’s takin’ her layin’ everything bare. And in front of all these people. The women behind him have no idea what’s hap
penin’.

  Doc fixes an emotional stare on Riley. “I never tried to hurt you. All I did, time and time again, was try to save you.”

  Sounds familiar.

  “You lie!” She struggles again.

  This time I pull her back. “Think about Mo. How do we get Mo back? Not by fightin’ with Doc.”

  She goes still in my arms. Then she turns to Doc, her voice as flat as it was angry a minute ago. “How do we get upstairs?”

  Doc stares, dumbfounded, but the gray-haired woman in the nanny jumpsuit answers for him. “Nessa is the only one with the controls. The men who took over have a phone that they use to call upstairs. The only way up is to ask her to unlock the stairwell door.”

  I meet the old woman’s eyes. “Where’s the phone?”

  “Clay,” Riley asks, lookin’ up at me. “What do you plan to do?”

  I take a deep breath. Thinkin’ about seein’ my mother again has my guts in a bunch, but then I feel like this is all my responsibility. I should’ve killed her when I had the chance.

  “Find the phone. I need to speak with my mother.”

  It takes quite a while to figure out what the hell we’re doin’. There’s the brained guard to deal with. He is alive, but probably has a concussion. We carry him back to the other guards—who look rightly terrified when we drop him off.

  Desdemona raises an eyebrow behind her sand-colored face mask. “Things go a little rougher than expected?”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t bash him. It was that one.”

  Desdemona looks around me from her perch outside the closet. Her bow is tight in her hands. “The bender? He knocked this one unconscious?”

  “He’s tougher than you’d think,” I say, glancin’ back at Doc. He’s spent the last few minutes lookin’ like somebody pissed in his waterhole. And Riley won’t even look at him.

  “What’s with the others?” Desdemona asks, eyin’ the group of three women we bring in tow.

  “They were prisoners. The bender was tryin’ to bust them out. Thus, the beat-up guard. Keep an eye on ’em too, would you?”

  Desdemona shakes her head. “Sure. I’ll watch everyone. You got anything else you need me to do while you’re gone? Wash your laundry? Cook us up a meal?”