Lifeless (Lawless Saga Book 2)

by Tarah Benner

  The kitchen seemed to have been updated more recently than the rest of the house. It was equipped with stainless-steel appliances, a farmhouse sink, and inviting butcher-block countertops. A large silver pot was simmering on the stove, but Starlight produced a big casserole dish from the refrigerator and spooned out big globs of a chicken-pasta-mushroom concoction that smelled amazing.

  “We’re really lucky here,” she said, noticing the way Lark’s gaze lingered on the fridge and the stove. “Most people lost everything when the cities fell: power, water, sewage, you name it. But Walt’s thought of everything. We’ve got a well and a leach field and a wind turbine for power.”

  “Do you guys grow everything you eat?” asked Soren, looking anywhere except at Lark.

  “I wish,” said Starlight. “We’re planting more this year, but right now we’d have a hard time getting by if we couldn’t make supply runs. We have greens, of course, and turnips and squash and chilies. More garlic than you could eat. We have eggs from the chickens, milk from the cows, meat and cheese from the goats, but Walt says none of the hogs are ready yet.”

  She turned her body toward Lark and lowered her voice. “I was vegan before, but that’s just not an option with everything that’s going on. And now that I’ve experienced fresh cheese and milk . . .” She rolled her eyes in an expression of ecstasy. “I don’t think I could ever go back.”

  “Vegan?” said Axel in a tone that suggested Starlight had uttered some disgusting swearword. “S’at mean you don’ eat meat?”

  “Or dairy or any other animal products.”

  Axel frowned. “Back in L’isiana, we’d call that dead.”

  Starlight stared at Axel for a moment and then let out a musical burst of laughter that seemed to fill the entire room. She heated up their plates and poured them each a glass of water.

  “So,” she said to Soren. “I heard you’re going to Texas to look for your brother.”

  “Yeah, we are,” said Soren, clearing his throat with a startled expression.

  “Whereabouts in Texas?”

  “Kingsville.”

  “That’s south Texas, right?” Starlight’s words were those of someone trying to make polite conversation, but her voice crept up half an octave at the end.

  “Yeah.”

  Starlight nodded, but her smile didn’t quite meet her eyes. At first Lark thought she might have been the only one who’d caught it, but then Soren asked, “What is it?”

  “Oh, nothing,” said Starlight, brightening a little. “The rumor mill around here is out of control.”

  Lark and Soren exchanged uneasy looks. From what they’d seen of Loving and the surrounding area, the “rumor mill” of New Mexico was long gone.

  “I’ve heard they’ve had some problems in Texas,” said Starlight. “Worse than we’ve had here, I mean.”

  “What sort of problems?”

  “Just some tropical storms,” said Starlight dismissively. “You hear all kinds of things these days, but news takes so long to travel . . . No way to know if they’re true or not, so I make it a habit not to worry until I see things with my own eyes.”

  They all fell into uncomfortable silence, which was broken only by the slam of the back door and the sound of light, frantic footfalls. A wild cry echoed from the back of the house, and a towheaded little boy came tearing into the room.

  “Aunt Theresa! Aunt Theresa!”

  “Hey, Jack-Jack,” said Starlight, her whole face transforming as she beamed down at the boy.

  “Is it true? Is it true? Is it truuuue?” he asked breathlessly, looking around at the group before him and then back at Starlight.

  “Is what true?”

  The boy rolled his eyes, as if Starlight were trying to pull one over on him. “Is it true that a bunch of robbers broke out of jail, and Aunt Kat almost shot ’em, and now they’re gonna live with us?”

  Starlight opened her mouth but did not speak. She caught Soren’s eye with an apologetic look, but when Lark and Simjay snorted into their casserole, her face relaxed visibly.

  “What’s up, little man?” said Simjay, holding out his hand for a high five. The boy slapped his palm, and Simjay grinned.

  “No, sweetie,” said Starlight. “These people are our guests, and they’re just staying for a little while.”

  “Oh.” The boy’s cheery round face seemed to deflate. “So they didn’t escape from jail?”

  “Uh . . .” Starlight glanced at Lark, fishing for an assist, but her reply was cut short by another slamming door.

  “Jackson Taylor Bailey!” yelled a shrill voice.

  A look of dread spread across the boy’s face, and Starlight looked suddenly uncomfortable.

  “What did I say?”

  At that moment, a woman rounded the corner looking livid. She had long, very straight blond hair, a large beaklike nose, and the sort of face that looked naked without makeup. She was wearing tight-fitting blue jeans, a pink cardigan, and boots that were more fashionable than functional.

  When she saw Lark and the others sitting at the table, her expression turned icy. She grabbed the little boy by the hand and yanked him toward her. “What did I tell you?”

  “To stay in my room.”

  “That’s right,” she snarled, tossing Axel a filthy glare and finishing off with a scandalized look at Starlight. “I don’t want the kids anywhere near them,” she hissed, as if Lark, Soren, Axel, and Simjay were all infected with the plague.

  Starlight flushed a deep shade of crimson, and Lark felt a sudden urge to kick the blond woman in the shins.

  But before anyone could react, the woman yanked the boy around to her side and marched him out of the kitchen.

  “I’m so sorry about that,” whispered Starlight when she heard the back door slam. “That’s Mitch’s wife, Karen. She can be a little” — she cast around for an appropriate descriptor that didn’t sound too harsh — “overprotective, I guess.”

  “She acted like we might eat her kid,” said Simjay, sounding genuinely offended.

  “She can get carried away sometimes,” Starlight agreed. Her voice was light, but Lark could tell by the dark look in her eyes that it was about the nicest statement she could muster about her almost sister-in-law.

  “Thanks for this,” said Lark, gathering up the boys’ empty plates and taking them over to the sink.

  “Oh, it’s no trouble,” said Starlight. “Are you still hungry? I’ve got some kale salad that’s just —”

  “Oh, no,” said Axel, standing up so fast that he bumped into the table. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

  “Yeah,” Soren agreed. “We should probably go get settled. I can help Mitch with the bags when he gets back.”

  “Oh . . . Okay,” said Starlight, clearly worried that Karen’s little scene had put them off.

  “It was delicious,” said Lark graciously, following Soren out of the kitchen and back up the stairs.

  She’d expected the others to duck into Mitch’s room or for Axel to go test out the daybed, so she was surprised when they all shoved into the guest room behind her.

  “We have got to get out of here,” said Axel, snapping the door shut behind him.

  “What?”

  “It’s weird, right?” said Simjay, seemingly relieved to have Axel agree with him on something.

  Lark shook her head.

  Axel wrinkled his nose and stared at Soren. “One minute that blonde was gon’ shoot me in the head, and the next thing I know, you and ol’ boy walk in like you’re best friends.”

  “He and I talked,” said Soren defensively. “He just wanted to know that we’re good people.”

  “And he believed that after a ten-minute conversation?” Simjay glanced at Axel and then back to Soren.

  “He trusts us . . . conditionally.”

  “Trusts us?” bellowed Axel. “His frickin’ kids held us at gunpoint!”

  “We just escaped from prison,” said Soren, his voice rising a little. “What did you
expect?”

  “Keep it down!” Lark snapped. “They’ll hear you.”

  “I don’ care if the whole damn state hears me,” said Axel. “I — don’ — trust these people.”

  “Well, I do,” said Lark.

  The room fell silent, and they all looked over at her as if she’d just announced that she was going back to San Judas.

  Axel was the first to speak. “You’ve gotta be outta your goddamned mind.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Soren, cutting in to circumvent a potential argument. “We aren’t staying.”

  Lark’s heart sank. She knew it was crazy, but she felt at home there. Deep down she knew that finding a safe place like the Baileys’ farm would only delay Soren’s mission, but a small, irrational part of her hoped that they could stay for a while.

  “Look,” said Soren. “They’re going on a supply run tomorrow morning. Walt said it’s gonna be a good one. We’ll tag along for the added manpower, load up on food and fuel, and be out of here by lunchtime.”

  “I don’ know,” said Axel. “I don’ trust these people.”

  “We don’t have to trust them,” said Soren. “But right now they’ve got a lead on supplies, which we need.”

  Axel was still seething, but even he couldn’t alter the reality that they were stranded with a flat tire, no fuel, and very little food. After some grumbling, the three of them dispersed, leaving Lark alone to admire her room.

  She let out a loud sigh and flopped down on the beautiful bed. It smelled like dryer sheets and cedar, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up on the soft comforter and wake up to the smell of Starlight’s cooking.

  It was ridiculous, but she desperately wanted to stay there. She couldn’t think of the last time she’d been in a real home. This was the sort of house that had kids’ heights scratched into the kitchen wall, stray Santa socks balled in the bottom of drawers, and old school projects collecting dust in the attic. It was a place where kids could return long after they’d grown up — a place where the door was always unlocked and everything stayed the same.

  The homeyness gave Lark a surge of comfort, but it also filled her with sadness.

  She didn’t belong there — not really. She was a fugitive on the run in a world that had fallen apart, and the Baileys’ house was a relic from another life. It was a life that was still familiar to her but desperately out of reach — a life before her mother had died, before Levi Flemming and San Judas, before she’d lost her best friend in the world.

  six

  Bernie

  The hours after Calvin Bishop’s interrogation were hazy at best. Immediately after he left, a jumpy-looking nurse came in to adjust Bernie’s meds. She asked the nurse where she was being held and for how long, but the nurse just fiddled with the machine beside the bed and scampered out as quickly as she could.

  A few minutes later, Bernie’s eyes began to droop, and the room faded out of focus. When she finally came to, she was being wheeled down a narrow hallway on a gurney. The walls were lined with wooden bumpers, and the same speckled white ceiling floated above her.

  The pain in her leg had dulled, but her head felt extremely heavy. She couldn’t tell who was pushing her gurney — only that they kept veering to the right and bumping into the wall. At one point they hit a large hump that caused a jolt of pain in her injured leg, and she heard the clang of wheels rolling onto an elevator.

  They emerged onto another floor with dozens of heavy steel doors. They rolled around tight corners for what seemed like a very long time, inching closer and closer to what might have been the center of a maze.

  Bernie caught sight of a plain black-and-white clock — the kind they used in schools — but she had no way of knowing if it was nine in the morning or nine at night. She still hadn’t passed a single window, and no one would tell her how long she’d been unconscious.

  The gentle rumble of the gurney combined with the cocktail of painkillers eventually lulled her back to sleep. When she awoke next, she’d been moved to a different room. This room was larger and had its own bathroom. It was dark except for a single strip of lighting mounted above her head and the thin crack of light bleeding from the bottom of the door. She also had the disconcerting feeling that she was not alone.

  “You’re awake,” said a cool, familiar voice.

  Bernie gave a start and looked around, still foggy from the meds.

  As her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, she could just make out another bed to her right and the outline of a person propped up on two flat hospital pillows. Her new roommate had long black hair, dramatic features, and the slightly unhinged look of a Bond villain.

  Bernie did a double take. She was sure she had to be hallucinating. She blinked twice and pinched her arm, but there was no mistaking the person in the bed beside hers.

  “Portia?”

  “Who else, retard?”

  Bernie blinked. “How . . . How long have I been here?”

  “Just a day. It took you long enough to wake up.”

  Bernie shook her head, and Portia scoffed in disgust. “What, did that bullet get lodged in your brain or something?”

  Bernie didn’t answer. She was too busy staring at Portia, who looked much, much worse for the wear. Her face and neck were covered in ugly purple bruises, and she had a nasty cut above her left eye. She was draped in the same kind of shapeless blue gown that Bernie was wearing, but she looked just as snooty as she had fanning herself under Mother Mercy’s pergola.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Portia’s eyes narrowed. “Are you seriously asking me that question?”

  Bernie swallowed, racking her brain for some detail she might have missed. The last time she’d seen Portia, she’d been brawling on the floor of Mercy’s compound with Lark. Portia had caught them stealing the keys to the toolshed, and she was going to rat them out.

  “Why don’t you ask Lark?” Portia whispered in an acidic voice. “Oh, wait — you can’t. Lark left your ass here when she escaped.”

  Bernie’s chest clenched. “How do you know about that?”

  Portia rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. All these guards are a bunch of horn dogs. Men who think with their dicks will tell you anything.”

  “Lark didn’t leave me here,” said Bernie, fighting a bitter sting of betrayal. “We were all trying to escape, but I got shot.”

  “Whatever,” Portia snarled. “Point is, that bitch was always looking out for number one. She doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself.” She lifted both eyebrows. “Can’t say that I blame her, really. Hell, she’s got it figured out. You don’t see her chained to a bed, do you?”

  “Why are you here?” Bernie asked.

  “Well, let’s see . . .” said Portia, her whole body trembling with rage. “After your friend decked me in the face and poisoned everyone against me” — Portia inserted air quotes around the word “friend” — “Mercy had Daya, Krystal, and Brianna beat the shit out of me.”

  “I’ve never heard of them extracting someone who got hurt in a fight,” said Bernie.

  Portia let out a discordant burst of laughter that didn’t meet her eyes. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a fight. A fight implies that there was something a person could have done to defend herself.” Her mouth tightened into a thin line, and she met Bernie’s gaze dead on. “No . . . They tried to kill me.”

  “So the guards brought you here?” said Bernie. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” said Portia. “I guess they’ve never had an inmate get knocked up before.”

  Bernie stared. In all the craziness, she’d somehow forgotten about that little bombshell.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  Bernie cleared her throat, overwhelmed by the bizarre surge of emotions that had erupted inside of her. On the one hand, she was glad that Lark hadn’t gotten Portia killed. Then she felt a sharp slap of despair when she realized she’d never be able to tell Lark what she’d learned.

&nb
sp; She was still terrified about what was going to happen to her now that she’d tried to escape, but she was glad that she wasn’t stuck in the scary medical building alone. Of course, she couldn’t help wishing she could have gotten stuck with Rita or Shay or really anyone else, but she felt kind of sorry for Portia.

  “Did you . . .” Bernie began. “Did you, uh . . . lose the baby?”

  “Now there’s a fucking euphemism,” said Portia. “Nope. Little man’s still kicking. Guess he inherited Mercy’s ‘fuck you’ gene. He’s determined to come out just so he can see what a mess I’ve made of things.”

  “He?”

  “I don’t know if it’s a boy,” Portia added quickly. “I just started thinking of him as a he. I don’t know why. I guess I’ve been thinking about Zachariah so much that —” She fixed her face into a stony expression. “It’s pointless, really.”

  “How far along are you?”

  “About three months.”

  “Wow,” said Bernie. “And you, uh . . . know what you want to do?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Bernie cast around for a delicate way to phrase her question. “You want to . . . er, keep him?”

  “Well, it doesn’t really matter what I want, does it?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Open your eyes, Pollyanna Dumbfuck,” snapped Portia. “Why do you think they pulled me out of there?”

  Bernie didn’t answer. She had no clue where Portia was going with this.

  Portia swallowed and glanced around, as if she were searching for an escape route or just trying not to cry. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and wavering. “They’re not going to let me keep him.”

  Bernie’s eyebrows shot up. “Did they tell you that?”

  “No, but it’s obvious. How would that look? An inmate getting knocked up in an all-women prison colony? Can you imagine the press that would get if I said I was raped by a guard or that they were somehow negligent? I wouldn’t tell them whose it was, so —”

  “They can’t force you to have an abortion.”

  Portia shook her head, her eyes suddenly glassy. “Why not?”