The Brothers (27 page)

I take a deep breath. “That story was just so damn…confusing. In the end, their love wasn’t enough. They’re both in the ground, their bones turning into dirt.”

“So you think that’ll happen to you and Clay?” he says, finishing my thought.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You’ve only been apart a few weeks. When we find him, he’ll be fine and just as in love with you as the first day he saw you.”

A cloud passes over the sun and plunges us into shadow. I hug my arms and stare at the horizon. “I hope so,” I say as I turn and head back for the Jeep. “I hope so.”

Clay’s gone.

I sit up, heart slamming in my chest. Clay’s body was the warm lump beside me, but now the space is musty cushions and a thrown-back plastic sheet.

“Clay?” I call. The dusty room echoes. In the dark, the old auto parts store is scary. Shapes that were shelves and racks in the daylight now look like monsters. I flick my eyes to the doorway. “Clay?”

Down the hall, someone’s talking. I sit still and try to pick out voices. The high-pitched, whiney one is Betsy. The deeper one is Clay.

At least, I hope so.

Slowly, I crawl out of the mound of cushions.

He was beside me when I went to sleep. He called me Cole, but that was okay. He was happy, thinking I was his little brother. He was remembering good times and not crying like sometimes happens. He sounds like he’s crying now.

I inch toward the door. The voices could be strangers. Strangers who wanna eat me. I got no weapon. Goddamned Betsy won’t let me carry the gun. She says I’m too little.

I say a crazy person is not the boss of me.

The voices grow louder when I step out of the storage room and into the store. Big, open windows let in moonlight. Rows of rusty shelves cut the room into rectangles. I step over piles of trash and metal hangers, trying to be sneaky. The voices keep murmuring. I’m pretty sure it’s Betsy and Clay, but my heart won’t stop thudding. I creep to the edge of a shelf, hunch down, and listen.

“Hush little baby, don’t you cry,” Betsy’s voice sings, low and sweet. “Mama’s gonna bake you a mockingbird.”

Bake you a mockingbird? That ain’t how my mama sang it. Then again, Betsy’s always getting stuff all cuckoo.

I lean forward and peek out.

Betsy holds Clay’s head in her lap and she’s stroking his hair. Clay’s eyes are closed. She keeps singing and stroking, singing and stroking. And it’s kinda nice.

“Who are you?” Clay murmurs. His eyes are still closed. With his brain all tangled, sometimes he jabbers in his sleep. Sometimes he acts like he’s sleepwalking, and we don’t know what to do with him. One time we chased him a mile and a half in bare feet before we could wake him up and coax him back to the ruin we was sleeping in.

That was scary.

“I’m your girlfriend,” Betsy murmurs. She leans down and kisses him.

I freeze. Betsy—cuckoo, broken-brained, bed-wetting Betsy—kisses my sister’s boyfriend. I watch as she pushes her slobbery tongue in his mouth.

I wanna clobber Betsy over the head with a shelf.

But when I start to step out, a noise from outside stops everything. Footsteps scrape on the concrete.

Someone’s coming.

I got no weapon. Clay had the only gun, and who knows where that is. Betsy pulls a six-inch kitchen knife from her pocket and points it at the doorway.

Yellow eyes appear in the open doorframe. An animal. The fur is mangy, the ears pointed. A coyote? One knife might not be enough to ward it off. My hand closes over the bite scar on my arm.

A mangy dog pokes his head in the doorway and sniffs.

“Git!” Betsy yells, waving the knife. “Git outta here!”

The dog tucks his tail and scampers away. And I’m relieved.

Until I see Betsy aiming the knife at me.

I hold my hands up. “Betsy, it’s me, Ethan.”

She doesn’t drop the knife. Her eyes are cold.

“Git,” she says quietly. Her other hand closes tightly around Clay’s shirt. He shifts in his sleep.

“Betsy.” I hold my hands out and take a step forward. “I’m Ethan.”

She narrows her eyes.

“We came here together. I’m Riley’s brother.”

Finally, she lowers the knife. “I know.”

But the
I know
don’t sound friendly at all.

She tucks the knife back in her pocket and watches me, one hand twirling through Clay’s hair. I look at her and Clay. I hate being a kid.

I do the only thing I can do. I drag my pillows from the storage room and lie down on the other side of Clay.

In the dark, I pretend to sleep, keeping one eye on Betsy. Her right hand is clutched around the knife and the left has Clay’s shirt pinched tight between her fingers.

Betsy may be broken, but she’s dangerous.

I start praying in my head.
Dear God, Wake up Clay. Make him normal. Make him remember. And send Riley. Send her quick.

If you enjoyed this story,
please pick up a copy of the first novel, THE BREEDERS.

Sixteen-year-old Riley Meemick is one of the world's last free girls. When Riley was born, her mother escaped the Breeders, the group of doctors using cruel experiments to bolster the dwindling human race. Her parents do everything possible to keep her from their clutches— moving from one desolate farm after another to escape the Breeders' long reach. The Breeders control everything- the local war lords, the remaining factories, the fuel. They have unchecked power in this lawless society. And they're hunting Riley.

If you’ve enjoyed this series, I’d love it if you would help others enjoy it too.

LEND IT – This book is lending enabled so you can share with your B.F.F., your cool grandma, or anyone you think will get a kick out of it.

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.

Katie French imagined herself an author when her poem caught the eye of her second grade teacher. It was about birds and frankly, it wasn't very good, but it sparked a love of literature. In middle school she spent her free time locked in her room, writing her first young adult novel. This thoroughly solidifying her status as a class-A nerd. She currently works as a high school English teacher, a job that she loves even when it exhausts her. In her free time she writes, reads great books, and takes care of her two beautiful and crazy children.

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What can I say that I haven’t already said? How about this? I love this job. I love writing these stories and having you read them. I love to keep you up late at night, worrying about the fates of Riley and Clay, Janine and Tommy. I love to live inside the world of the Breeders. In fact, I may never leave. Long after my readers have grown tired of Riley and Clay and their dusty, thrilling escapades, I may still be here, tooling about like a child locked in a toy store after hours.

Much props and virtual fist-bumps go out to my first readers, Kimberly Shursen, A.G. Henley, and Jacinda Owen. A better set of writers and friends does not exist. A.G. and Kimberly are amazing authors. If you haven’t read their books, you are missing out. Seriously. Go now. Buy them.

Thanks goes out to my Underground Book Reviews team, Amy Biddle and Brian Braden. Along with Kimberly, you were the ones that helped me believe I could make this happen. Read their books, too. (Boy, I’ve gotten bossy, haven’t I? Well, it’s for your own good. Like kale. Eat that while you're at it.)

Thanks to my cover artist, Andrew Pavlik, who put up with my constantly changing mind. Thanks again to Lindsey Alexander, editor extraordinaire. You are a real professional and I value your advice immensely. Also, if you need a clean proof, check out Cynthia Shepp. She found over 1000 errors. And I’m an English teacher!

To my family and friends, you hit me with love the size of a Mack truck and I am thoroughly bowled over by it. I'm so blessed to have dozens of people who have my back no matter what. How did I ever get so lucky?

To my children, thanks for leaving me alone for a bit so I could finish this up. Hopefully, someday it’ll pay for your college. I love you.

Ryan, you are the man. I win every day by being married to you.