Chapter Seven
A breeder.
That mysterious word that keeps cropping up. Now I know what it means. It’s obvious, really. I can’t believe I didn’t work it out before.
A breeder. Someone capable of breeding. A woman capable of breeding. Old enough and young enough to bear children. Like me.
Like Millie.
Only God she isn’t old enough. Not by a long shot. She won’t be fourteen for another two days, but that, apparently, is the magic number. That is the age that the “government” - those people who see themselves as being in charge, who have taken charge, no votes, no elections, no nothing – believe a woman, a girl, is old enough to begin assisting with their plan to repopulate the United States.
When Millie told that old man her age, it was dollar signs in front of his eyes. He knew he could sell the information, sell her. I wonder what he got for it. Is it wrong of me to hope it was a swift bullet in the head? Or maybe something slower, something more painful.
At last I know why Brunton has been so cautious with Millie and me, why he’s kept us out of sight, kept us quiet, dressed us like boy soldiers every time we’ve come across other survivors. But the knowledge has come too late, and that’s just one more thing to hate him for. If he’d told us the truth, told us the danger… I’d never have let Millie out of my sight; she’d never have talked to that old man.
She’d still be here.
Kyle tells me he was just trying to protect us; they all were. Well, they didn’t. They haven’t. And Millie is out there somewhere, being held against her will, being made to “breed”. She must be so frightened. It hurts me to imagine what she’s going through, but I make myself. Make myself imagine every little detail. Because all I have to do is see it, swimming round and round and round my head. She has to feel it.
A soft knock jerks me out of my thoughts. I lift my head, gaze blearily towards the door. It’s locked again, but this time it’s my choice. I’m not locked in; I’ve locked them out. I feel angry, frustrated, panicked … betrayed. And I don’t want to speak to anyone.
“Go away!”
Whoever’s outside is insistent, though the knocks remain soft. I huff, sigh, mutter, but then I get up and undo the latch.
“What?” I don’t even wait to see who’s there before I grown out my “welcome”. It’s Kyle. He offers me a small smile of understanding. Guilt blooms in my chest. I want to be mad at him – he kept me in the dark the same as everybody else – but it’s Kyle and I can’t.
“I need to talk to you.” His voice is low, quiet. It takes the last of the wind from my sails and I crumple against the doorframe, needing its support.
“What?” I repeat, but it’s softer this time; a real question.
He stares at me for a moment, then puts a hand on each of my hips and guides me back into the room. I let him back me up until the back of my knees reaches the bed and I drop down. Kyle settles beside me and reaches for my hand. He plays with my fingers, his gaze firmly fixed on where our hands intertwine. Just two days ago this would have had me giddy with excitement, now I’m so numb I barely feel the connection.
“I think I know where she is,” he says at last. “Millie,” he continues when I don’t speak. “I think I know where they’ve taken her.”
I blink at him, keeping a lid on my hope.
“Where?”
He presses his lips together; he has no intention of giving me that.
