The Barriers Page 9

  “Hold on. I want answers.”

  Corra places her hand on the railing beside mine. Her body is close. Very close. I take a step back. What’s her game here? Still, she leans in closer, smiling.

  “I liked you the minute I saw you,” she says in a purr. “I think you like me, too. And I always think win-win. Let me get a win for you, Riley. Let me help you find who you’re looking for.” Her tongue pokes through her teeth, and I can’t help but glance at it.

  I take another step back, and my shoulder bumps the stairwell wall. “I just want answers,” I repeat, feeling lost for words. All of her flirting, her closeness, has disarmed me. I hate feeling disarmed.

  “Answers I have.” She tips her head toward the stairs, nodding me onward. “Follow me.”

  ***

  After descending five stories, we walk through a few short, dim hallways until we find a solid metal door with more military logos on the front. Corra pauses at the glowing keypad beside the entrance.

  “Turn around, Riley. I don’t want them to have any reason not to trust you.”

  I do as she asks. There are a series of beeps and the click of a lock sliding open. When I turn around, Corra is pulling open the heavy door. The room inside is already filled with conversation. She gestures me in. “After you.”

  With my shoulders tightening more by the second, I want to say no thanks, turn around, and run up those five flights of stairs, but Corra is the best chance I’ve got. And she thinks I’m a badass. So I should act like one.

  I jut my chin and walk through the door.

  Someone flies at me the minute I’m inside. A hand smashes into my chest, knocking me sideways, and another hand clamps onto my wrist, stopping my fall. I gasp. My attacker, a male, twists me around by my wrist and uses his other arm to put me in a stranglehold.

  Someone is trying to kill me. I claw at the muscled arms, panicking.

  “Stop!” Corra yells.

  I lift my foot and kick it back into my attacker’s groin.

  He umphs, buckling into me. His arm slips from my throat.

  I suck a breath and elbow him hard in the chest.

  He slumps forward farther, gasping.

  Others are flying forward. Another hand grabs my arm. Someone is trying to yank me away.

  “Stop it! Stop!” Corra shoves her way through the men who’ve surrounded us, pulling them off me. “Back up! Just get back!”

  She manages to get me free and drags me to the room’s side. I’m still sucking breath, holding my chest, but I manage to shoot her a look like what the hell is going on? She turns to the stunned men standing in a clump around us.

  “What’s your problem, Winklemen?” she asks the bent-over guy.

  “Who is this?” he manages, pointing to me with the hand not cupping his testicles.

  “She’s a friend,” Corra says, kicking a rolling chair. It slams into the table and jitters backward. “And you nearly killed her!”

  Dennis, the guy who stormed into the kitchen a few minutes earlier, pushes his way past the handful of guys. “Goddamn it, Washington. I knew this was trouble. That she was trouble. Look what’s happened.” He points at Winklemen, cupping his groin.

  Corra scoffs. “Winklemen will be fine. And this is what we’ve come to? Jumping any stranger we see? Putting them in a headlock?”

  Winklemen looks around the room for support. The other men look between Dennis and Corra like kids between fighting parents.

  “Sit down. Everyone, sit down.” Corra points at the chairs.

  We sit. In the center of the small, cave-like room, a long, rectangular table stretches half the room’s length. Matching black chairs with mesh backs ring the table. I slump in one, happy to have a moment to get my breath back. As I sit, the table’s smooth surface begins to transform and a screen flickers to life. The golden eagle on the blue background, the same one I’ve seen peppered around this place, spins in front of each seated person. It’s all very high tech and amazing for a person like me who grew up without electricity.

  Dennis glares at me from across the table. “I’m not going over classified information with her here.”

  I look to Corra. I’m not sure why I’m here, either.

  Instead of answering Dennis, she looks around at the other dozen or so men. They aren’t benders like Corra or women like me, and they range in age from younger men to middle-aged ones. All wear some version of clean but faded military dress—camo pants with lots of pockets, heavy boots, long-sleeved T-shirts in tan and olive green—but some make it look more like a costume than a uniform. The man next to me with graying hair at his temples and beard has a substantial stomach pouching out his shirt. The next one is scrawny with heavy glasses that make his eyes huge. For some reason, he reminds me of Dr. Rayburn.

  Poor Dr. Rayburn.

  Corra clears her throat. “Gentlemen, we are at a turning point. The situation is dire. Conventional wisdom and tactics are no longer working. The skills we possess don’t seem to matter out there.” She pauses, looking around. She’s very commanding, and some of the men nod. But some stare at Dennis, looking at him for his reaction. A house divided.

  “Riley here,” she nods to me, “knows the outside world. She seems adept at dealing with it. Isn’t that right, Riley?”

  I look at her, confused about how she would know this about me. “Well, I… I guess I know the world. I grew up out there.”

  Corra nods. “Riley may be the only person who can help us.”

  They’re agreeing, but I’m growing more agitated. I lean forward, putting both hands on the smooth table. “Listen, I’ve had enough of this. You say you need me, but I have no idea what for. If you don’t start explaining exactly what it is you’re talking about, I’m gonna walk out of this room and good luck convincing me to come back in.” Setting my shoulders, I don’t lower my gaze when Dennis and half the men around the table shoot eye daggers at me. Of course, I’m bluffing, but is it convincing enough?

  “Tell her,” Corra says to Dennis.

  Still scowling, Dennis angrily taps his tabletop, swiping images away until he seems to find what he’s looking for.

  On the tabletop screen, the revolving military symbol disappears. In its place, an overhead visual of a destroyed landscape comes into focus. It zooms in, blurring and clearing until we get the bird’s-eye view of an abandoned city. Buildings are crumbled messes, the streets run riot with trash and desert weeds. Judging by the state of decay, no one has been in this place in a long time. And on the ruined road sits one of the solar vehicles Corra picked us up in. The driver’s side door is wrenched open. The camera zooms in until I see something smeared on the pavement near the car.

  The man beside me leans back like the image makes him uncomfortable.

  Dennis stares at his screen, his face emotionless. “We’ve located Dr. Beetle’s vehicle after scouring thousands of satellite images. As you can see, he’s abandoned it, and there’s evidence of violence.” He taps something on his screen, and the image zooms in to the pavement. In the black-and-white image, the smeared handprint is gray, but anyone with half a brain can tell it’s blood.

  Corra swallows hard. “No sign of him or the cargo?”

  Dennis shakes his head and zooms the screen out, back to the bird’s-eye view again. “We’ve scanned this whole area and all surrounding buildings. Just like before, the subject seems to know we can see it in daylight and restricts its movements to the night. That, or it’s become nocturnal.”

  The man beside me snorts. “Nocturnal? It’s evolving? In such a short amount of time?”

  Corra leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Dr. Gilbert, we cannot assume anything with this creature. It’s unlike anything we’ve encountered before. We need to be prepared for any eventuality.”

  I hold up my hand again. “Creature?”

  Corra clears her throat. “Riley, I need you to keep an open mind. Can you do that?”

  I furrow my brow. “Sure.”

&
nbsp; Corra nods, wiping a hand over her face. “And if I tell you something shocking, you’ll at least pause and consider it before you make a judgment?”

  I shrug. “Try me.”

  Corra takes a deep breath and looks around the room. Everyone around the table holds out their arms and draws back their sleeve.

  On each of their wrists is the ahnk brand.

  The Breeders’ symbol.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ethan

  Sitting with her back to me and her arms crossed, Betsy keeps huffing and blowing out her lips like a dumb horse until I just can’t take it anymore. This shack is too hot and smelly to control myself.

  “Just say it!” I shout.

  “Your plan was stupid and so are you!” she yells at me.

  “You’re the stupid one,” I say quietly. I don’t have the energy to yell. Because maybe she’s right. I feel pretty stupid.

  As soon as Mike left, the mean little boy, Hank, snapped back into nasty mode. With help from two big guys, he pushed us to one of their shacks and locked us in. The door and lock look flimsy. We could probably kick our way out if we wanted, but that won’t get us closer to Clay. And it’s hot as blazes out there right now. The heat rolls in through the cracks between the boards. At least there are vents between the mismatched planks of the roof and the walls, but it doesn’t help much. Betsy and I lie on the gritty floor and sweat.

  “We didn’t have no choice,” I say out loud. Betsy covers her ears, but I pay no mind. “They gave us water. And I don’t know why you’re the mad one. You don’t have to do this job. I do.”

  She hums to drown me out, so I stop talking.

  Truth is, I’m scared. I don’t know what they’re gonna make me do. None of the men seem nice, and I hate Hank’s guts. I know Mama wouldn’t like me saying I hate anyone, but Mama’s in heaven and Hank can rot in hell for all I care.

  I don’t understand these people. They got no women and don’t want mine. They live and work in the shadow of the giant windmill with livestock and a garden of edible plants. From here, we can hear their sheep lowing from a barn, and men’s voices murmur outside. An hour ago, someone brought us water and two raw carrots that we crunched on until the bellyaches came. That started Betsy complaining, and she hasn’t lain off since.

  At least if I’m mad at Betsy, there’s no room for feeling scared.

  Hank comes in, closing the door behind him. Just looking at him makes me want to smash his face in. Something about how he looks at me like I’m a slug he wants to fry under a magnifying glass.

  “You ready?” he asks in his nasal voice that always sounds like a whine.

  I stand up, brushing the grit from my pants. “Ready for what?”

  “To die?” he asks, gleefully lifting his eyebrows.

  “I’m not gonna die,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.

  Hank cackles. “Wait ’til you see what you have to do.”

  He opens the door and gestures for me to exit. I glance at Betsy, but she won’t even look up at me. How can she be mad at me when I’m the one risking my neck?

  “She stays here,” he says, giving me a hurry-up gesture.

  I give Betsy one more look, expecting… what? A good-bye? But she continues to stare at the boards. I sigh and follow him out the door.

  Ripples of shimmering heat make the ground blurry in the distance. It’s nuts living out here. All the huts are closed up, the animals put away, but a group of men has gathered in the windmill’s long shadow. They turn toward me as we walk down the steps and across the desert.

  I think about bolting, but how far would I get? Scanning the faces in the crowd, I don’t see Clay. He should be here. Unless he’s dead.

  “Hurry up,” Hank says, tugging my arm.

  I pull away, but his grip is tight. The sun begins burning the top of my head.

  The windmill itself is a monster—three stories high with legs as round as tree trunks and spinning blades that look six feet long. Beside it, a huge plastic holding tank is full of water. A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire keeps everyone out. The gate is chained, and two guards with guns tucked in their belts stand between the men and the fence. My eyes flick between the guns and the men. Will I have to battle one of those guys? They wouldn’t do that to a kid, would they?

  Hank stops when he gets a few feet from the guards. The shade feels good, though I’m sweating like crazy. The crowd parts, and Mike the Knife steps through. I stare at the scars on his neck. The skin below his Adam’s apple is braided with scars. If I had to guess, I’d say someone tried to hang him and failed. It explains why he can’t talk. Why he needs to use Hank. I’m sure that makes that kid feel real special.

  Mike stops and stares at me, making me wanna curl up small. His face reminds me of Clay’s pa before he died. Except Mike doesn’t laugh and cackle like Sheriff Tate did. In a way, that’s scarier. I can’t tell what he’s thinking or feeling.

  Mike the Knife waves a paw at Hank, and he scampers over, leaning his ear toward Mike’s mouth. Mike whispers. Hank turns to address the crowd.

  “The newcomer will perform an act of induction to prove his worth and secure his place in this group. He will climb the ladder to the top of the windmill, grease the gears, and climb down. If he does this without fail, he will be given a place in our community. If he does not…” Hank trails off, turning his hateful gaze to me.

  God, I hate that kid.

  Mike nods, walks to the gate surrounding the windmill, and unlocks it using a big keyring he wears around his belt. The gate swings wide, and the guards back up so Mike, Hank, and me can enter the gated area. I look at the ladder’s metal rungs running up one of windmill’s four legs. It’s a steep climb, especially in the hot sun, but I was expecting way worse. I almost smile as I take my place beside the first rung. These sissies must be afraid of heights.

  A man breaks off from the crowd and brings me a large leather belt. He begins securing it around my waist with calloused fingers. On the belt hang several large, metal wrenches, with more tools in the large, open pockets. It reminds me of Daddy’s tool belt and a bit of sadness sticks in my throat, but I swallow it down. In one pocket, I spy a small, plastic oil jug. The man pulls the belt tight around my waist, but it’s still pretty loose.

  “Wish I could make this tighter for you,” he grumbles as he fidgets with the latch. He’s got a nice face, soft in the cheeks and chin, with a lined forehead and blue eyes like my daddy’s. His dirty fingers tug at the last belt loops, and he frowns. “Too loose. It’s gonna trip you up.”

  “Hurry up, Saul,” Hank says. “Get his ass up the ladder.”

  Saul glares in Hank’s direction and gives the belt one more tug. “Sorry, kid. Smallest belt I got. Might wanna keep one hand on it if you can. Don’t want to slip out of it.” He looks into my eyes to see if I’m paying attention, and I nod. He nods back. “The wrenches are for the bolts. Hopefully, they’ll turn easy for you, but if they give you any trouble, use a little of the oil to loosen ’em up.” He holds up a wrench to make sure I understand. Then he points up at the windmill’s head. “When you get the outer casing off, you’ll see the gears. Give ‘em a good soak with the oil. Use the whole bottle. But whatever you do, don’t get any on your hands.” He holds calloused hands up and looks into my eyes again. “And watch out for the blades. A strong gust can whip that head around and knock you clean off. I don’t gotta tell ya what a three-story fall does to ya.”

  I shake my head.

  He gently pats my shoulder. “Good luck, kid. Remember what I said.”

  “Hurry up!” Hank complains, stomping a foot.

  Saul backs away, and that squishy feeling returns to my guts. The men watch me now like I’m the best show they’ve seen all year. All but Saul. He stands at the back of the crowd with his head down.

  Mike, hands in his armpits, nods at me like I should get on with it.

  “Go!” Hank yells. “What’re you waiting for, idiot? Climb!”

&
nbsp; I let myself glare at him just for a second. Then I turn and grab a ladder rung. It’s hot in my palm. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want—

  I feel a kick in the seat of my pants. When I turn around, Hank is behind me. “Climb, you bastard, or I’ll go get the dogs.”

  I want to punch him. Instead, I climb.

  The rungs burn the palms of my hands, so I move up quickly. Climbing’s not so bad. I lift one foot, then one hand, and up I go. But when I look down to see how far I’ve come, the ground looks real far, and I’m only halfway up. The people are insects, staring up at me. I clutch the rung between my chest and elbow and try to breathe. Hank would want me to freak out and fall. He’d laugh at my pancake body as my guts oozed into the ground. I need to make it to the top just to wipe that stupid grin off his face.

  When my stomach isn’t a jumpy frog anymore, I climb again. Hand, then foot, and then hand again. The higher up I go, the skinnier the ladder becomes. The frame shakes with the breeze, making the knots in my chest tighten. Above, the windmill’s giant head spins lazily in the wind. Luckily, the breeze is calm, or I got no idea how I’d do this. We had a water-pumping windmill at our house before Daddy and Mama died, and one time I helped Daddy fix a gear inside its head. But that was on the ground, I was six, and all I did was hand Daddy his wrenches. This time, I’m alone, up in the sky, and being watched by a bunch of awful men.

  Somehow, I make it to the top. The ladder runs through a wooden platform built around the windmill’s frame. I’ll have to climb through the hole in the center, and then stand on the platform to work on the casing. Then I’ll have to undo the bolts.

  Climbing through the wide hole and up to the very top isn’t hard. And having the platform below me makes me feel more stable. It’s about four-foot square around the narrow base of the windmill’s structure and made of wooden planks. I don’t want to step off the ladder and onto the platform. Who knows how sturdy it is? And I sure as heck don’t want to let go of the ladder. I hold on to the last tiny rung, only as wide as my chest, and pretend Riley, Clay, Auntie, and even Mama are down there cheering me on. And it helps a little. It’s cooler here, too, and the breeze has dried the sweat on my back.