Nessa: A Breeders Story



  NESSA

  A BREEDERS STORY

  Katie French

  Copyright 2013 by Katie French

  All rights reserved.

  February, 2013 Edition

  Cover Design by Andrew Pavlik

  Dedication

  To the staff and students at Clarkston High School

  for all your encouragement and support

  The dust cloud churned in the distance as the trucks sped closer. The Breeders were coming for Nessa.

  Between the buttes and the miles of scrub land, she watched her impending doom with the baby hugged to her chest. They would take her and life as she knew it would be over.

  The baby whimpered, a soft catlike mewing, a sound to which she'd already grown accustomed. A little fist waved up from the dirty t-shirt swaddled around him. She slipped her finger in his little palm and he clutched her like a lifeline. She leaned down and touched her lips to the soft crown of his head. His wispy dark blond hair fluttered against her chin and she focused on the softness of his skin, the smell of him. He was hers for only minutes more. Her heart cracked and fell in on itself. It wasn't fair. Three days was not enough time as a mother. She needed three lifetimes.

  Marlin clambered down from the top of the Ford, yelling something. He’d fought so hard for that truck, killing a man in cold blood when their horse had given out. Now with two flat tires and no fuel, it was a useless hunk of metal, another relic to wither and rust beneath the shifting sands that would soon swallow it whole. She shuddered. The Breeders would swallow her whole. Then, she would be what? A collectable? Another prize on these doctors' shelves?

  Marlin's frantic face blocked her view of the cloud, his hand tightening around her bicep. His knuckles were still swollen from the fight two nights ago. She cringed as she thought about the men circling Marlin, their leering eyes as they flicked out switch blades and brass knuckles. He'd broken his hand and been cut in two places, but he'd gotten them out of there.

  “We gotta run.” His voice was raspy from the dust, his eyes red-rimmed from the days of straight driving. Driving that, in the end, hadn't mattered. The Breeders had found them anyway.

  She stood cemented, her eyes on their approaching enemies. Sudden tears welled, blurring her vision. The tears surprised her. She'd though the tender part of her had shorted out long ago. She pressed the baby to her chest and tried to inhale him so she might take some piece of him with her wherever she was going.

  Above a vulture circled in lazy loops. Her ma would've said it was a bad omen, but her ma had been taken and sold to the Breeders five years ago.

  “Nessa, we gotta move. Now!” Marlin pulled a revolver from his hip, his eyes slipping back to the road and the dust cloud. His face was stitched with the fear of losing her. God, she loved him then, a love so vast she could get lost in it. She turned away. Her love for Marlin would have to die. Love did not exist where they were taking her.

  Three white trucks with black windows plowed towards them. Their dust blotted out the landscape like a storm cloud. She imagined herself sucked up in a sea of sand, drowning in grit that poured over her, pinning her body beneath its depths. No, she wouldn't be buried. They wanted to use her.

  Marlin paced back and forth and then stood in front of her. Frustrated, he grabbed both arms and shook her.

  “What’re ya doin'?” he nearly screamed. “We gotta go!”

  Marlin’s blue eyes crinkled in dismay as she stared at him. She took one hand and touched the bandage on his cheek, the jagged C-shaped cut that ran from cheek to ear. It was the price he'd paid for rescuing her. He would carry that reminder with him for the rest of his days.

  She took in his face, the only man she'd ever loved. He’d grown a thin beard and his brown hair hung shaggily over his ears. Even at nineteen, he was imposing: broad shoulders, thick arms and a solid gaze that could level a man at fifty paces. He looked so much older than nineteen. She knew she did, too. There was a time when kids their age went to school dances, college parties, danced and drank and reveled. That time was gone. It was a dream you clutched upon waking, only to find it slip through your fingers as you blink into the dawn. Nessa turned and faced the nightmare that barreled toward her. This was her life. No sense in pretending.

  He shook her hard this time. Her head snapped back and the baby wailed. She opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off.

  “If ya ain't gonna run, least give me the child.”

  She looked down at her baby. Suddenly running seemed like the best idea in the world.

  ***

  The first time she saw Marlin, he'd just killed her captor.

  Nessa cowered under the filthy blanket near the fire. Through the slit in the fabric, she watched him stride up, gun glinting in his fist. Slumped over his boulder beside her, Big Mike was now Dead Mike. Half his head was splattered on the dust behind him. His boot twitched, the last throes of life kicking through his swiftly cooling body. Yet his blood was warm and spreading under her elbow. Every ounce of her wanted to crawl away, but she also felt like living. If she moved, she might draw the shooter’s attention and then…. He might make Big Mike look like a Christ-man missionary.

  The shooter stepped into the firelight and Nessa sunk deeper in/to the blanket, willing herself into the dust. A rock dug into her side, but she and pain were fast friends. Big Mike had hog-tied her hands and feet, the rough rope trailing over her calluses. After six months, the ropes no longer hurt. It was sad, really, how accustomed she'd grown to being his slave.

  Now this stranger, with guns holding actual bullets, stepped into the firelight and her insides went cold. Big Mike may have been a foul-mouthed, smelly abuser, but he was familiar. He wouldn't hit her if she cooked the rabbit crispy brown and rubbed his feet after a days worth of hiking. This stranger, with the fiery blue eyes and the dark slash of hair falling across his forehead, might like hearing a woman scream. She hunkered lower in the blanket and tried not to tremble.

  His boots drummed the ground as he stalked her way. She held her breath, her bonds suddenly too tight. If her feet were free, she could bolt. She was fast and wily. She wasn't afraid of dark crevasses. It was how she'd survived those three years before Big Mike.

  The blanket ripped off and he stood above her. A shadow hid half his face, making him look monstrous. He grabbed her, hauling her upright.

  “Who're you?” he asked, tilting his head to get a better look.

  She shook her head.

  The muscles in his arms flared beneath his white t-shirt. He was strong, well-fed. A road gang member or one of the well-to-do in town. Big Mike had told her about the rich folk living in actual houses, having servants. Servants. She hadn't owned shoes for seven years.

  The gunman leaned her closer to the fire and looked her over. She clutched her arms to her chest and waited. Maybe he’d think she was a boy. That was only likely if he had the brains God gave a cockroach.

  He touched the auburn hair that now lapped against her filthy shirt collar. Then his hands were on her chest, groping. She closed her eyes and pictured summer sunsets on her ma's farm before the gangs took her. Finally, his hands fell away. When she looked again, he was staring. She recognized the look in his eyes. It was the one they all gave her when they realized. Goddamn idiots.

  “A girl.” He shuffled back on his heels, fingered through his hair and looked at her. Without the anger, he was coolly handsome, his eyes a startling blue, his face well-proportioned and masculine. Nessa dropped her eyes and hoped he was kind. Kind or stupid.

  He pointed to her bound hands. “If I undo those, will you behave?”

  She nodded, offering her wrists. He dug a small folding knife from his jeans' pocket
and flicked it open. She froze, her eyes on the four inch piece of steel, but he sliced through the rope without a word. He sat back in the dust near the fire and looked at her again. She was used to this. After all, she was an endangered species.

  Finally, his eyes found Big Mike, growing cold and stiff beside her. “Who's this?” He walked over and nudged his toe under the body. Big Mike rocked back. The part of his head that was still intact stared up at the night sky, one round eye going glassy. His mouth was open, as if shocked he could really be dead. He smelled like clotting blood. She pressed her hand to her nose and focused on the one sliver of purple twilight in the west.

  The stranger grabbed Mike by the ankles and dragged him into the darkness. The body made a shushing sound as it cut through the sand and scraggly underbrush. She eyed the blood trail and sighed. The seven months of Big Mike grunting and sweating on top of her were over. What was it her pa said before marauders killed him? Good riddance to bad rubbish.

  The stranger returned and sat on Big Mike's boulder, his elbows resting on his knees. With his eyes to the flickering flames, Nessa studied his profile: strong chin, a days worth of stubble, windblown hair as if he'd been riding. His look was neither kind, nor malicious. She couldn't place his expression. The closest she could come was thoughtful. Well, that was a shame. She liked her men good and dumb.

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “Got any grub?” His voice was low, smoky. It raised the hairs on her arms.

  She nodded toward the leather satchel Big Mike made her carry. He strode over, pulled out the jerky and took a bite. He gnawed the dried meat with his back teeth and winced. “God. Weren't a great cook, I take it?” He gestured toward the darkness where he'd taken Big Mike.

  She shook her head, dropping her eyes. This was her game: act like a simpering idiot until he let down his guard and then get her hands on his knife or a log from the fire. She'd killed her share of rapists. She'd given Big Mike a concussion when he'd found her so sick in that cave. It was the reason her hands and feet were nearly always bound.

  Her eyes strayed to the rough twine spooled around her ankles. He frowned at the red welts beneath the rope. “He do this to you every night?” he asked, pity creeping into his voice.

  She nodded. “Hurts.”

  He turned back to the fire, clearly thinking as he gnawed his lower lip, his hands peeling the leaves off a dead twig. He tossed his hair out of his eyes, a gesture she'd find cute if she weren't certain he was about to rape her.

  He stood slowly, his boots shuffling the dust. “If I cut the bonds, will ya run?”

  She shook her head, her breath quickening. He considered this for a moment, probably taking in her bare feet, thin frame and scrawny legs. What threat could she be after all? he was probably thinking. Then he stepped over and began cutting the rope at her ankles.

  She watched the flex in his tan arms as he sawed, smelled him – the scent of horse and chewing tobacco. He must've ridden in and tied the horse a ways off.

  Finally, the last threads frayed beneath his blade and her ankles parted. Her legs spilled open, dirty feet digging into the dust as she adjusted stiff joints. He didn't move, just sat an arms length away, staring at her. His eyes traced her body, stopping at the triangle of bare skin above her button-down shirt. His chest rose and fell faster. He licked his lips. One hand splayed in the dust near hers as he moved in and closed his eyes.

  She took off running.

  She sprinted into the darkness, her legs prickling, heart racing. Brambles cut at her ankles. Above, the moon was a sliver and the dark ate up the firelight after a few paces. She scrambled through the scrub grass, darted around a boulder and sprinted down a small ravine. Something skittered away as she tore past a shrub. The moonlight lit the buttes to the west; their dark outlines stood out black against the night sky. She'd find his horse, or a cave and hide out until he exhausted himself.

  Then she heard him behind her.

  Panting, lurching through the darkness, loud footsteps marked her pursuer. He was clumsier, but just as fast.

  No... she realized. Faster.

  Her heart pounded as she dipped around scraggly cactus arms. He was behind her now, cursing. He had the revolver. He could shoot out her leg and drag her back to town. She was worth a lifetime's wages. No man would let go of that kind of money. She pushed forward in a burst of speed, her lungs burning. Run or die.

  She bolted around a boulder and he was on her. Arms circled her waist and hauled her down. They hit the ground hard, her jaw snapping, her elbow plowing into something sharp. His body landed on top of hers, knocking the wind away. The world spun as terror found her. What would he–

  “Goddammit,” he grunted, flipping her over. Then he was holding down her wrists, legs pinning hers. His shirt was ripped at the sleeve and covered in dirt. His hair clung to his head, slick with sweat. He panted, his chest heaving.

  She thrashed, but he held her easily. With one hand he reached down and unfastened the top button of her shirt. He trailed one finger from the hallow of her throat to where the fabric folded.

  It was as if the skin beneath his finger burned, as if every nerve ending connected to the patch of skin where his finger rested.

  Then he leaned down, pressed his mouth to hers.

  Kissing, that's what this was. His mouth was wet and supple. Big Mike had never kissed her, never even tried. He tugged on her bottom lip with his teeth, before pressing his lips back to hers. She stopped thrashing, stopped clawing at him. He kept kissing, warm and wet and intriguing.

  She'd lived on her own and starved. She'd lived with Big Mike and was brutalized. Maybe this young handsome stranger was her meal ticket, her ride to a better life.

  When he tugged off her pants, she found herself giving what he'd intended to take.

  ***

  When she missed her monthly bleeding, she knew she was in trouble.

  Months with Marlin had flown by: days of lying in beds, a tangle of arms and legs. Of kisses. Of breakfast in bed with Marlin's hand on the small of her back as he ate ravishingly and then fell back in bed with her.

  She'd let him keep her, for now at least. He'd hid her in the town brothel and bribed the madam to keep the other men away. Sure, the other ladies, forty years older with scars and missing limbs, glowered when they brought meals, but what did she care? It was better than starving. Better than Big Mike.

  Her cage was an eleven-by-thirteen room with a four poster bed, threadbare sheets, and an old four-drawer bureau. A rickety end table beside the bed held a vase of desert flowers Marlin had presented a few days ago. Outside the barred window, the pavement bustled with men. Men selling goods, men riding horses or driving pieced-together vehicles, men shouting and yelling and coming into the brothel to get their one and only taste of a woman before going back into a world almost completely void of them. The window held little interest for Nessa. Instead, she turned her energies to the books Marlin dropped on her bed after days of being away: chunks of novels, hardcover textbooks with yellowed pages on subjects like computer programming and biology. She read everything, every scrap, every novel with half its pages dashed to the wind, the crinkled paper delicious between her fingers. She wanted to know. It was as if somehow expanding her mind might make her more than what was between her legs.

  But, then her blood didn't come. One month. Then two. The swell under her navel told her all she needed to know.

  A problem, one she had to take care of.

  The next time one of the brothel's sex slaves came in, Nessa got up and walked over to take the tray. The delicious aroma of smoked meat and fresh milk sent her stomach rumbling, but she set the tray on the dented end table and smiled at the woman who'd brought it. She was in her fifties with graying hair, wide-set, mousy eyes and a twitchy mouth. She wore tattered underwear and brazier that was standard issue of house. When she turned to go, a dimpled, white butt cheek peaked out at Nessa. The lives these women were forced to lead.
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  Nessa stood up. “Wait. Beth, isn't it?”

  Beth nodded dully, her saggy breasts quaking in the black push-up bra.

  “Beth, why don't you sit down? They run you ragged all day, don't they?” She pressed on a smile.

  Beth nodded, her mouth agape showing several missing teeth. She slumped onto the bed, her bare stomach folding into three doughy rolls. “Thanks,” she said, not looking at Nessa. “Got two customers waitin', but if I hang back, dem other girls'll havta take 'em.”

  “Rough work. Trust me, I know.” Nessa fumbled with the frayed edge of the bedspread, swallowed hard and continued. “I haven't seen any children around the place. Any babies lately? I’d think there’d be some with your… occupation.”

  Beth shrugged. “Most girls is dried up down there, I reckon.” She pointed to her lady parts. Nessa lifted her eyes to the ceiling, but Beth didn’t seem to notice her embarrassment. “Demi's not, though. Madam don't like chilluns in the house.” She blinked with expressionless, milking cow’s eyes.

  “So,” Nessa scooted a bit closer on the bed, the old springs creaking beneath her, “what happens if someone gets in the family way?”

  Beth leaned back and looked at Nessa full on for the first time. Her wide eyes narrowed. “You 'xpectin'?”

  Nessa shrugged, fighting the sudden urge to touch her abdomen. What was happening inside her right now? Was life stitching itself together? Little arms and legs? A head? She reached out and put her hand on Beth's arm. “You have to help me.”

  Beth ran a hand through her gray hair, coarse like wire scrubbing pads. “You tell yer man? Some men like a son 'round. Make you valuable for least eight months more.” She gnawed at a red sore on her lip and shrugged.

  Nessa shook her head, digging a finger through a hole in the sheet. “I can't keep it. Being pregnant would make me slow, clumsy, dependent on everyone. If Marlin doesn't want the baby, he’d have to get rid of me and if he does, then what? I have this. . . this person I'm supposed to keep living in an awful world? No.” Nessa squeezed Beth’s arm until she looked up. “Can you get me what I need?”