by Tarah Benner
“That ain’t my problem!” yelled Axel. But Soren could tell his heart wasn’t really in it.
Soren stared at him for several seconds, and he could tell he was wearing him down.
“Fine,” Axel snapped. “But it’s your funeral.”
Simjay let out an excited whoop, and Bernie’s face cracked into a grin.
Soren nodded and gave Axel a slap on the back before turning over his shoulder to Conrad. “Let’s go!”
twenty-eight
Lark
Lark stood tethered to the whipping post for what felt like days. The sun was beating down with excruciating intensity. Her forehead was beginning to burn and blister, and fat drops of sweat were dripping down her nose and into her eyes.
She was completely alone, but she didn’t feel hopeless. Even with her hands bound and Mercy ticking down the seconds until her execution, Lark had never felt so empowered. Maybe being back in prison after tasting freedom had caused something inside of her to snap, but it didn’t feel that way. She felt clearheaded, strong, and in control.
For once, Lark had taken her fate at San Judas into her own hands. She’d stood up to Mercy and planted a seed of unrest in the colony. Mercy might still end up killing her for it, but if she died, the secrets of San Judas wouldn’t die with her. Homeland Security would investigate Lark’s death, and Kira would get the seeds to Agent Cole and Agent Reuben.
As the sun rose to its apex, a large crowd began to gather in the square. It was the beginning of the first lunch shift, but no one seemed to be very hungry. They weren’t lining up to fill their bowls or lounging in the shade. They were standing out in the sun, talking amongst themselves.
Every so often, a woman would glance up at the platform and shake her head. But as they grouped themselves into tighter and tighter knots, Lark noticed something strange: Most of the faces in the crowd were not hostile, and the voices were low and secretive. The onlookers seemed . . . concerned?
Clearly things had changed in San Judas. Mercy’s rein of tyranny, while normally just brutal enough to be effective, had pushed the colony to the brink of riot. It had turned the prison into a pressure cooker of deprivation and resentment, and Lark intended to blow the thing to smithereens.
As she stared out over the crowd, Lark began to feel unsteady. The heat had turned her brain to mush. Her muscles were weak, her heart was racing, and her clothes were soaked with sweat.
Suddenly, a fresh rumble of excitement whipped through the crowd, and the sea of faces parted as Mercy strode toward Lark. She was leaning heavily on her cane, and beads of sweat were glistening in the curls near her scalp. She had changed into a blood-red dress with an empire waist and billowing sleeves that reached just past her elbows.
Three of Mercy’s daughters helped her climb up onto the platform, and the square fell silent as her eyes fanned over the crowd.
“Daya!” Mercy boomed. “Untie the defendant! Let her face her accusers.”
Lark’s heart leapt into her throat. This was it.
Daya took her sweet time ambling over to Lark. She was wearing a smug expression reserved for times when she was helping Mercy punish someone. Her thick, fat fingers fumbled with Lark’s bindings for several minutes, and when Lark was finally freed, she didn’t immediately move to the edge of the platform.
Daya gave her a push, and Lark fell to her knees. She looked up and squinted. The sun was blindingly bright. It cast a whitish halo over Mercy’s head, burning her blood-red dress into Lark’s retinas.
Lark gripped her own ankle, feeling the smooth handle of the shiv protruding from her boot. It was the one she’d hidden in her shanty months ago, and after finding Kira’s weapon on her, the daughters hadn’t bothered with a full pat-down.
“Get up!” Daya growled, kicking Lark in the side.
Lark drew a protective arm across her stomach and lifted the edge of her shirt just enough to slip the shiv into her waistband. She let her shirt fall back over her waist as Daya seized her by the arms and hauled her to her feet.
Lark swayed on the spot, half-delirious from the heat and parched with thirst. She desperately needed a drink of water, but basic necessities weren’t high on Mercy’s list of priorities when she was trying a woman for treason.
“Lark Roland . . .” Mercy boomed, working hard to suppress her impatience as she rattled off Lark’s crimes.
“You stand accused of deception . . . theft . . . treason. You betrayed me. You led one of your sisters into harm’s way, and you abandoned your community out of fear. You are a coward and a thief — the lowest of the low.”
Mercy paused for effect, and a flurry of whispers rippled through the crowd. Lark was waiting for the other shoe to drop. She was waiting for Mercy to ask who had plotted to help Lark escape a second time — who had broken her out of Mercy’s compound and stolen the supplies. But she didn’t.
“Is there anyone who wishes to speak in this woman’s defense?” Mercy boomed.
Lark waited. Nobody moved. The murmuring in the crowd grew louder and louder, but no one had the guts to stand up to Mercy.
Lark wasn’t surprised. She’d never been terribly popular with the other inmates. She was violent and standoffish and kept to herself. But it still stung that no one dared to speak out in her defense.
Her heart sank. This was not going as she had planned. All she needed was one person to speak up, and she would have the opening she needed. But if Mercy’s trial went off without a hitch, Lark would be swinging from that noose within the hour.
“Well, then,” said Mercy, clearly pleased that she hadn’t needed to fend off any dissent. “I hereby find the accused . . . guilty of all charges.”
A rush of protest rose up from the crowd, and Lark wondered where all that passion and disapproval had been two minutes ago. The daughters looked uneasy.
Mercy rolled on, a little startled by the crowd’s abrupt change in mood, and Lark began to panic.
Something was wrong. Mercy usually dragged out these sham trials for at least an hour. It was free entertainment that made a lasting impression on the other inmates.
Normally, the person Mercy threw up on the chopping block was given an opportunity to make a statement — usually a last-ditch attempt to clear her name or beg for leniency. It never worked, but it helped to bolster Mercy’s legitimacy as a fair and merciful leader.
Not this time. Things were moving much too quickly. Mercy wasn’t taking any chances with Lark. She knew that the moment Lark opened her mouth, she would cast doubt on everything the inmates had been forced to swallow.
“Lark Roland, in accordance with the compact of this community, you are hereby sentenced to death. You will be hung by the neck until dead. May God have mercy on your soul.”
A dark cloud fanned out over the crowd, and the murmurs of disapproval grew louder and louder. The inmates shifted restlessly, and Daya and Bianca exchanged a tense glance. Lark stared out at the women closest to the platform, silently pleading with them to say something.
But then Lark heard a voice rise up from the crowd — strong, steady, and beautifully familiar. “I — have something — to say.”
A gap appeared near the center of the crowd, and the bodies parted in an uneven circle. Kira was standing eight or ten yards from the platform, and she was glaring up at Mercy with a look of unwavering determination.
“Sister Kira,” said Mercy in a strained voice.
Mercy’s daughters shifted uncomfortably. Lark could tell that they were waiting for a signal. At the first sign of trouble, they would pounce and silence Kira.
“I have something to say in Lark’s defense,” she said.
A livid expression flashed across Mercy’s face. She didn’t speak, but all the muscles in her face tightened as she fought to keep her regal smile in place. The daughters were all glowering at Kira, but Kira didn’t back down.
“I’m sorry, sister,” said Mercy finally. “But the time for objections has passed. A verdict has been delivered, and �
��”
“You mean you delivered a verdict,” said Kira, standing up a little straighter.
Mercy’s eyes narrowed in dislike. “Yes,” she said, her voice coming out half an octave higher than usual.
“I must have missed the part where Lark was tried by a jury of her peers,” said Kira roughly. “Or was that never part of the community compact?”
Kira raised her eyebrows, and Mercy’s nostrils flared in disgust. A flurry of dissent rippled through the crowd, and Lark noticed that the women were no longer making an effort to keep their voices low.
“You’ve been speaking for us for years,” Kira continued. “The laws in here are just rules that you invented.”
“Our laws are in place for everyone’s protection,” Mercy growled, her voice retaining a shadow of her usual self-righteousness.
“Who do they protect?” Kira yelled. “As far as I can tell, the only person who seems to benefit is you!”
Several women near the platform were nodding and murmuring in agreement, and Mercy’s expression was hardening bit by bit. The crowd was quickly becoming agitated, and Lark took the opportunity to study the daughters.
Daya, Amber-Lee, and Bianca were watching Mercy, waiting dumbly for instructions. But Mercy hadn’t given any orders. She was still staring at Kira, looking as though she wanted to light the woman on fire.
“Who do they protect?” Kira repeated.
The question was directed at Mercy, but two or three women near the front answered instead.
“Mercy!” they yelled.
Kira stood up a little taller, emboldened by the unexpected show of support. “Who’s always telling us what to do?”
“Mercy!” yelled a few more.
Kira’s eyes lit up, and Lark could tell she was fighting a triumphant smile. “Who benefits from our work while she sits around all day?”
“Mercy!”
“Who takes all the best food while we fight over scraps?”
“Mercy!”
“Who has put our sisters to death on a whim?”
“Mercy!” This time, the shout echoed from every corner of the square. Lark’s heart soared.
Kira had turned the crowd into a literal mob. They were angry and restless, and they were chanting Mercy’s name like a death knell.
“Who — has terrorized us — all these years?” Kira boomed.
“Mercy!”
In that moment, everyone in the crowd was fixated on Kira. Their eyes were shining with rapture, and they were ready for a fight.
Kira had never looked more beautiful or more deadly. Her strong arms were glistening in the sun, and her face was glowing with resolve.
A flurry of excitement rose up from the mob as the women closest to the middle crowded around the platform. They were heckling Mercy, and a few of them looked as though they were seconds away from climbing up and tackling her.
Mercy appeared to have frozen on the spot. Her eyes were like two angry slashes cut into her face, but her mouth was gaped in shock. Her large bosom heaved as her lungs struggled for air, and her hands were clenched into fists.
For the first time, Lark saw genuine fear in her eyes. Isolated shouts of rage punctuated the chanting, which had morphed into a resounding cry of “No Mercy! No Mercy!”
Amber-Lee and Daya had climbed down from the platform — perhaps to drag Kira away before she could cause any more trouble. But then a funny thing happened. A dozen or so women pressed in around Kira, forming a protective wall.
Suddenly, somebody let out a deranged yell, and two of the women closest to Lark began to climb up onto the platform. Mercy staggered backward on her heels, and her jolt of horror was like blood in the water.
Lark didn’t hesitate. She had her opening.
In one fluid motion, she reached under her shirt and withdrew the shiv from the waistband of her pants. She’d spent hours sharpening it to a fine point, and it was as deadly as any knife.
Lark breathed in deeply to send as much oxygen to her muscles as possible. She was still fighting a burst of dizziness, but she clenched her fingers around the shiv and gathered every shred of grit she possessed.
She launched herself across the platform, raising her arm over her head. Mercy didn’t notice Lark moving behind her. Her eyes were locked on the women climbing onto the platform, and Bianca was busy trying to stomp on their hands to prevent them from getting any closer.
Lark’s arm made a graceful arch through the air as she threw herself at Mercy. Only when she was close enough to see the beads of sweat darkening the neckline of Mercy’s dress did the crowd realize what was happening.
They let out a collective gasp as Lark jammed the blade of her weapon into the side of Mercy’s neck. A riotous scream echoed through the square, and several of the women near the platform let out a lusty yell.
The blade of the shiv sank deep into Mercy’s flesh, but Lark wasn’t through. She withdrew the blade, and Mercy let out a glug of pain as she tried unsuccessfully to turn toward Lark.
Her eyes bulged in shock and panic as they swiveled around to look at her, and Lark grabbed her by the neck. Terror flashed through Mercy’s eyes, and Lark plunged the blade into the center of her throat.
The women nearest the platform yelled, their voices mixing with the chaos swirling through Lark’s brain.
Mercy collapsed. First her bad leg gave out, and then her good one. She threw out an arm to break her fall, but Lark jumped on top of her and slammed her into the platform.
Blood was pouring from Mercy’s wounds, warming Lark’s hands and soaking through her shirt. She gripped the end of her shiv to withdraw it, but her fingers slipped right off the end of the bloody handle.
Undeterred, Lark drew back a fist and clobbered Mercy in the side of the face. Mercy groaned, and Lark shifted her weight to gain a better position over her voluminous hips.
Blood was seeping down the neck of her dress — such a brilliant shade of red that it made the material seem dull by comparison. It flew up and splattered Lark’s eyes and lips as she withdrew the shiv and plunged it into Mercy once, twice, three more times.
Then a rough pair of hands grabbed Lark under the armpits. They heaved her up and hauled her across the platform, but Lark continued to flail and strike. Mercy seized and let out a desperate choke of pain, but all that came out was a low, bloody gurgle.
Everything after that became a wild blur. Mercy’s daughters swarmed the platform. Some of them rushed to their leader’s side, while the others moved to restrain Lark.
Lark caught several kicks and a punch to the jaw, but she was still flailing like a maniac trying to get back to Mercy. The daughters were bent over her limp body, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood, but Mercy was slowly suffocating on the stage she had commissioned.
Suddenly, something hard struck Lark on the back of the head. She flew forward, and somebody tackled her from the side. Lark rolled onto her back, and the enormous body slammed down onto her chest.
It was too bright to make out her attacker’s features, but she slapped Lark hard across the face, and Lark felt a slice of pressure against her windpipe.
Somebody was trying to kill her.
Lark fought to pry the stranger’s hands away from her throat, but the woman was much bigger and stronger. Her hands were slick with sweat, and she couldn’t get a good grip.
Lark gasped for air, only managing a tiny wisp. It wasn’t enough. Her body had sped into overdrive, and her hammering heart was expending oxygen faster than she could replenish it. Her movements grew more clumsy and desperate as she fought to keep breathing, but the stranger showed no signs of weakening.
Blinded by the sun, Lark swung indiscriminately at her attacker, but then a strange sound reached her ears. It was a low, faraway hum, and at first Lark was sure she must be imagining it.
She hadn’t seen a plane or a helicopter in years. They never flew over San Judas — not ever.
But then the hands pressing down on her windpipe lif
ted. Lark gasped for air, drinking it in greedily, and Bianca’s face swam into view. Her head was turned up toward the sky, where a dark shadow was moving across the clouds.
Lark squinted, still heaving for air. Her head was spinning. Her hands were covered in Mercy’s blood, and she was on the verge of passing out.
But she wasn’t imagining the shadow in the sky. And as it drew closer, she realized that the humming she heard belonged to an aircraft. It was too small to be a plane, and the shape of the cockpit made her think it was designed for the military.
The realization hit her like a very bizarre dream: The aircraft was a helicopter, and it was trying to land.
twenty-nine
Soren
Soren stared down at the colony. Hundreds of women were assembled in the square, and six or seven were gathered on a raised platform.
He recognized Mercy Peters’s infamous whipping post, but something wasn’t right. A woman in red was sprawled flat on her back, and people were kneeling all around her. She looked dead.
Beside her, one woman was hunched over another, delivering a beating that rivaled fights Soren had seen in the men’s colony. He couldn’t see the girl she was hitting, but then the helicopter dipped lower, and Bernie let out a gasp. “Holy shit. That’s Lark.”
Axel’s eyebrows flew up. “Daaamn!”
“What?” snapped Portia, leaning over Simjay to press her nose against the glass.
Soren squinted. It was difficult to tell from so far away, but the woman lying beside the corpse certainly looked like Lark. He could see her dark hair fanning out behind her and the outline of a tattoo below her clavicle.
She wasn’t moving. Soren’s heart seemed to swell to twice its normal size. It was thundering in his chest and constricting his lungs, making it difficult to breathe.
She wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be dead.
But then the girl raised her head toward the sky, and Soren saw that it was Lark. She was staring up at the helicopter, and Soren realized in that instant that six hundred other heads had also turned upward.
