The Breeders Read Online Free PDF Page B

I remember I’m supposed to be a man. My voice comes out choked and artificial. “I … I’m looking for someone.”
    The guard keeps the barrel aimed at my chest. Nervous sweat soaks my undershirt.
    “Who you looking for?” he growls.
    “My, uh, business associate,” I yell up in my fake male voice. “Arn Meemick. Left three days ago with most of our supplies. Never returned.”
    “You here to shoot him?”
    “No, sir. Just wonder what happened to my supplies.” I blink the sweat out of my eyes and try to keep my breathing level.
    The guard pulls his gun back and disappears below the tower wall. The gate creaks open.
    As I hop back on the quad, I fight the urge to turn and drive in the opposite direction. Arn, Arn. I drive through the two massive wooden doors, big and scary as the gates of hell.
    The guard blocks the road with his massive body. He’s six-foot-four and muscled in areas I didn’t even know possible, his arm awash in scrawling blue tattoos. Only someone brave or crazy would puncture their skin and risk infection for decoration. He’s wearing cowhide boots and vest tied together with bits of electrical cord, the frayed ends splayed out like whiskers. And on his face—a grimace so unwelcome he could stop a stampede. He waves me over to where a dozen other vehicles sit inside the wall. I park the quad in between a rusted motorcycle and a truck with no doors. As I step off, he comes up.
    The long barrel of his rifle is aimed at my chest when I turn. I throw my hands up. “I … I thought I was okay.”
    The guard spits a bit of wood he was gnawing at my feet. “Spread ’em.”
    This is it. He’ll feel my breasts and it’ll be all over. I could run or reach for the rifle strapped to my back, but he’s already got the drop on me. I hold my arms up and try to quell their trembling. Stupid. I was so stupid.
    He stands so close I feel puffs of his labored breathing hot in my ear. He smells of tobacco smoke and old leather as he invades my space. His big hands paw at my thighs. I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my lip. What will he do once he knows?
    I keep waiting for him run his paws over my chest, but his hands slip off before progressing upward. I open my eyes.
    He isn’t looking at me. His eyes are fixed to the porch of the old Victorian house on the corner. Or rather, the fifty-something woman with shaggy gray-brown hair wearing a skimpy, black negligee. In her lacy underwear, she’s nearly naked. White flesh spills out above the push-up bra, the tattered thigh-high stockings. Her lips are splashed red and dark bruises circle her flat, dead eyes. We watch as she begins a jerky dance. I turn away as she thrusts her hips back and forth, showing off the goods.
    She’s a sex slave. That house with the barred windows up top must be the brothel. When the Breeders have used up the women—the ones who survive—they ship them to their enforcers. Men like the Sheriff use them as sex slaves and pocket the money. A horrible life. Mine if I mess up here.
    “Surrender your weapons,” the guard murmurs. He holds out his hand, but his eyes stay on the woman. He licks his lips and I want to sock him, but at least he’s not paying me any mind. I drop my rifle in his outstretched hand. He takes my gun, carries it back to the tower and comes out with a crinkled piece of paper. He pushes it into my palm.
    “Lose your slip, lose your gun.”
    I tuck the paper, smudged with dirty fingerprints, in my pocket. “Thanks,” I mutter reflexively, yet it’s my own female voice. I freeze and shoot my eyes up to his face.
    He’s already walking back to his guard stand, one hand scratching his butt through his jeans. His eyes lock on the woman who’s doing a strange jig. Her fearful eyes remind me of a jackrabbit caught in a snare.
    I shake my head and focus on the plan. I remove my goggles and helmet in exchange for one of Arn’s fraying straw Stetsons. I pull the brown bandanna to my chin. Peering at my