by Tarah Benner
“Come on . . .”
“It’s my word against theirs.”
Bernie shook her head. On the one hand, she wanted to believe that Portia was just being neurotic. San Judas couldn’t perform an abortion on an inmate against her will. That would be barbaric — not to mention illegal.
But despite her echoes of common sense, a tiny voice kept reminding her that GreenSeed had experimented on them for years and had secured the perimeter of San Judas with killer drones. Bernie would never be able to shake the image of Finn’s dead body: his chest ripped apart, limbs scattered, intestines spilling into the dirt . . .
“At first I wasn’t sure what I wanted,” said Portia, interrupting Bernie’s gruesome vision. “I thought maybe it would be better if I never had him, but . . . he’s all I have left of Zachariah. He might be the only good thing to come out of this.”
Bernie didn’t speak. She didn’t know the extent to which Portia’s fears were justified. All she knew was that Portia might be the only person who was in a worse situation than she was.
“But they’re not gonna take him from me,” said Portia. “I’ve made a plan.”
Bernie leaned forward slightly — a difficult feat with one arm cuffed to the bed and the other stuck with an IV catheter. “What do you mean?”
Portia sighed and leaned back to look at the ceiling. “I’m getting out of here.”
“How?”
Portia smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Bernie rattled her handcuffs against the plastic bed rail.
“Oh, please,” Portia scoffed. “They’ve got you on so many meds you’ve been a glorified vegetable since you got here.”
Bernie felt a hot flash of rage but said nothing. Portia sounded absolutely crazy, but so had Lark when she’d first broached the topic of escaping San Judas.
“If you’d been awake to pay attention, you’d know there’s just one armed guard outside this room,” Portia continued. “The nurses and doctors are just contract workers here to treat inmates in critical care. You get past that guard” — she nodded at the door — “there’s not much to stop you. We’re already over that wall.”
Bernie paused, letting the impact of those words wash over her. We’re already over the wall. It sounded too good to be true, and it probably was.
Bernie hated Portia with every fiber of her being. Portia had made it her life’s mission to torture Lark and fuck them over at every turn. There was no reason for Bernie to trust her, and yet here they were — united against a common enemy.
“Why are you telling me all this?” asked Bernie.
Portia shrugged. “You slowed down the guards enough to let Lark escape. Maybe you can be my good-luck charm.”
Bernie rolled her eyes to dampen all the shitty feelings that Portia’s words stoked inside of her. She didn’t want to admit it, but it was possible Portia had a point. She couldn’t be sure what additional security measures San Judas might have in place, but if there was ever an opportunity to escape prison, this was definitely it.
Portia turned her head to the side and fixed Bernie with a cold, steely look. “I’m getting out of here, Mitchell. With or without your help.”
seven
Lark
Lark awoke the next morning to the sound of Soren’s voice. She opened her eyes in a groggy daze, unsure if she’d imagined it.
The room was still cloaked in early-morning darkness. Denali was curled in a ball at her feet, and someone was sitting on the edge of the mattress. The comfy guest bed had lulled her into such a deep sleep that she was sure she would have slept until late morning if something — or someone — hadn’t woken her.
Soren’s face came slowly into focus. His dark hair was still tussled from sleep, and his warm brown eyes were relaxed as if he’d been watching her for a while.
“What is it?” Lark croaked, rubbing her eyes.
She’d kicked off most of her covers in the night, and she was acutely aware of the fact that she wasn’t wearing any pajama pants — just a ratty T-shirt and a pair of underwear. She glanced around in search of her clothing, trying to be inconspicuous, and Soren cleared his throat loudly.
“We’re getting ready for the supply run,” he said, staring down at a birthmark on her leg. “We’re meeting downstairs to go over the plan.”
Lark was instantly alert. She sat up so fast that Soren leaned back a few inches.
“It’s okay,” he chuckled. “There’s no rush. I just gave Axel his second wake-up call. It’ll be at least ten minutes before he even thinks about getting out of bed.”
Lark took a deep breath, but her exhale came out strained and shaky. Being welcomed into the Baileys’ home the night before had made her let her guard down in a way that she hadn’t in years. But now that they were preparing to venture back onto the highway and resume their life on the run, she realized that it had been a mistake to let herself relax.
“What is it?” asked Soren.
“Nothing,” said Lark, shaking her head.
“Don’t worry.” Soren reached for her hand and cupped her fingers in his. “Everything’s gonna be fine. Walt just asked us to tag along as an added precaution. If all goes well, we’ll have everything we need to get to Mexico by this afternoon.”
Lark tried to smile, but her skin felt too tight for her face. Somehow she didn’t feel as though she’d ever be free from the fear she carried deep in her gut.
“I’ve never seen you wear your hair down,” he said suddenly, tugging Lark closer so he could run his fingers through her disheveled waves.
Lark’s chest constricted with pleasure, and for a moment she just sat there enjoying the feeling of Soren’s fingertips brushing her temple.
But then he tucked a lock behind her ear, and Lark froze. He’d exposed the two-inch-long patch of bare skin over her left ear where hair wouldn’t grow. It was from a pesticide that had caused everyone’s hair to fall out in clumps. Soren didn’t seem to notice — he’d seen it before, of course — but it felt more ugly and pronounced as she sat there on the bed.
Soren bent over and planted a kiss on her forehead, but Lark pulled away. The sensation of his lips on her skin was shocking and wonderful, but her surge of longing was followed by a swift kick of guilt.
The deep hunger she felt was what had drawn her to Soren in the first place. Even though she’d known it was dangerous, she’d gone down to the river to see him day after day. She’d been pulled along by the inertia of their romance, sinking deeper and deeper without considering the risks. Blind optimism had caused her to dismiss the dangerous reality of escaping San Judas, and because of her overconfidence, Bernie was dead.
Soren cleared his throat again but didn’t say anything. He pulled away and got to his feet, and Lark didn’t stop him. She just sat there in her underwear, her skin still tingling, wondering if she’d ever be able to have a normal relationship with him.
Once Soren had left the room, she flopped back down onto her pillows and let out an exasperated sigh. What was wrong with her? She shouldn’t be punishing Soren. It wasn’t his fault that Bernie was dead. Bernie had believed Lark when she’d said it would be fine, and it had been Lark who’d let her down.
And yet there was a tiny, horrible voice in the back of her head that said if she hadn’t been so enamored with Soren, Bernie would still be alive. That thought wasn’t comforting — it was torture — but Lark still couldn’t banish it from her mind.
Feeling restless, she got up and shuffled over to the window to pull back the shades. The morning sky was a misty bluish-gray. A dozen goats of all different colors were ambling through the pasture behind the farmhouse, and a rooster was crowing somewhere in the distance.
Sitting on the window seat were two large stacks of clothing that someone — probably Starlight — had left for her to wear. The pile on the left contained four pairs of pants in different sizes that looked as though they’d been scavenged from a few different wardrobes. The pile on the right held a var
iety of tops — soft cotton camisoles, fitted T-shirts, drapey linen tops, a hoodie, two cardigans, and a fitted green number modeled after an army jacket.
Lark’s throat burned as she rummaged through the clothing, and she had the nearly overwhelming urge to cry. For years she’d had nothing to wear except the drab T-shirts and pants that San Judas provided. She’d looked and felt like chattel, but touching real clothes that had been lovingly selected and given a life made her feel more human than she had in a while.
Swallowing down her surge of emotions, she picked out a pair of worn blue jeans, the green army jacket, and a bright-yellow T-shirt with a drawing of a bee that read “God Save the Queen.”
Lark reached the kitchen at the same time as Axel, who looked groggy and disgruntled despite having gotten seven or eight hours of sleep. Soren, Simjay, Mitch, and Thompson were already seated at the table.
By the looks of things, the guys had gotten a clothing drop from Starlight in the middle of the night, too. Soren was dressed in relaxed-fitting jeans and a zip-up hoodie, and Simjay was rocking a black T-shirt with a rainbow marijuana leaf on the chest. It seemed that no one had had pants large enough to fit Axel, but he’d traded his threadbare navy crewneck for a Harley Davidson T-shirt and an enormous camo jacket.
Starlight handed Lark a cup of tea, and Lark gave her a grateful smile.
“Oatmeal?”
“Yes, please,” said Lark, squeezing onto the bench beside Soren and looking down at the road map Thompson had spread out across the table.
“We’re hitting up a church food pantry,” said Thompson in the brusk voice of a police sergeant bringing her deputy up to speed. “It’s an hour’s drive from here, but it should be worth it.”
“The town’s deserted,” Soren added.
“What makes you think it hasn’t been hit?” asked Axel, staring at the cup of tea in front of him as if Starlight had just offered him cyanide.
“The church stopped paying its taxes years ago,” said Thompson. “The property was foreclosed on just before everything went sideways, and that town was one of the first to go.”
“How did you find out about it?” asked Lark.
“Walt used to drive a truck to the farmer’s market there every Saturday. The guy who bought the tax lien on the property shut the place down but never had a chance to take possession. Walt said the place has sat pretty much untouched.”
Suddenly the front door banged open, and they all turned to see who it was. There was a flurry of activity in the mudroom, and then Katrina walked in wearing an oversized Carhartt jacket and artfully ripped jeans.
“We’ve got plenty of fuel to get us there and back,” she said, her face flushed from the cool morning air. “Mitch patched your tire last night, and I topped off the gas,” she added. “All that fuel is a big investment, but we should score enough food to last us a few weeks.”
“I’ll scout ahead in the Geo,” said Mitch.
“Fine,” said Katrina. “Thompson’s with me. Two of you guys can drive the Ranger. I’d like one more with us, and one of you should ride with Mitch.”
It took Lark a moment to realize that Katrina was addressing her. Soren was bent over the map with Thompson, evaluating the route they would take, and it seemed that the sting from Katrina’s tussle with Axel and Simjay hadn’t worn off.
“I’ll ride with you guys,” said Lark quickly. She didn’t much care for Thompson, but Starlight’s kindness gave her a good feeling about Katrina.
“I’ll go with Mitch,” said Simjay.
“Okay.”
Soren looked up. “Wait, what?”
“You and him can take the Ranger,” Katrina said to Soren, glancing over Axel as if he weren’t even there.
Soren shot Lark a concerned look, but she averted her gaze and ate her oatmeal. She wasn’t ready to talk to him about what had happened upstairs, and the look in his eyes was enough to draw attention to the awkwardness between them.
After breakfast, Katrina doled out weapons. Simjay’s eyes almost bugged out of his head when she tossed him a Ruger mini rifle, and Lark’s heart beat a little faster when Katrina handed her a Remington.
She didn’t want to tell Katrina that she’d shot a gun for the first time the day before. The fact that she’d almost blown Axel’s head off wouldn’t inspire much confidence.
Lark ran her hand down the barrel, shaking herself mentally. Although Soren had said they were only accompanying the Baileys on the supply run as a precaution, she couldn’t help but wonder what Katrina was expecting.
They filtered out of the house and approached the vehicles, where Mitch and Thompson were loading empty crates and tarps into the back of both pickups. Starlight had promised Lark that she’d look after Denali while they were gone, and he whined in protest as Lark closed the door behind her.
As she started toward Katrina’s purple pickup, Soren stopped her. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
Lark hesitated.
“In private?”
Her stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch, but she followed him around the porch anyway. Lark’s mind was running on overdrive as she tried to think up a way to explain her behavior earlier, but when Soren turned around, one look at his face told her that their missed connection was the last thing on his mind.
“What are you doing?” he asked in an agitated voice.
“What do you mean?”
Soren’s eyes narrowed. “Riding with Katrina and Thompson?”
“What about it?”
“I just . . . don’t know if it’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” asked Lark, slightly taken aback. “You said you trusted Walt.”
“I know, I know,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I do trust him. And I trust them . . . for the most part.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Soren gave her a pointed look, but Lark held out for an explanation.
“I just don’t like it.”
“Like what?”
“You going with them alone.”
Lark stared at him for several seconds before the realization dawned on her. When it finally did, she found herself caught between the urge to laugh and her impulse to feel insulted. “What? You think I’ll be in danger?”
Soren shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking extremely uneasy.
“Oh my god, that’s it,” said Lark, letting out a sharp breath of laughter. “You’re worried about me.”
“Of course I’m worried.”
Lark laughed again, watching Soren’s expression shift from uncomfortable to irritated. Him worrying about her safety was as sweet as it was hilarious.
“Soren . . .” Lark lowered her voice and glanced around. “I’m a murderer, remember?” she said, drawing out each word for emphasis. “If anything, somebody should be worried about Katrina and Thompson.”
Soren frowned. “That’s completely irrelevant.”
“It’s not irrelevant,” said Lark. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can,” said Soren, plainly annoyed. He arched an eyebrow. “And you’re not a murderer. It was self-defense.”
“Which just goes to show that I can defend myself pretty effectively.”
Soren sighed. He didn’t find this nearly as funny as she did. “Will you just promise me that you’ll keep your guard up?”
“Of course I will.” Lark almost added “you know me,” but she bit her tongue.
Soren swallowed and then reached into his waistband to withdraw the stolen revolver. “Take this with you, all right?” he said, handing it over. “I cleaned and reloaded it. It’s good to go.”
“I already have a gun.”
“It’ll be better in close quarters than that thing,” he said, lowering his voice. “Don’t let them see it.”
“Soren —”
“It’s just a precaution.”
Lark opened her mouth to protest, but her words died on her lips as Soren lifted the front
of her shirt and stuck a finger into the front of her waistband. A surge of desire flared low in her stomach, but Soren just slipped the revolver into her jeans and released her.
“Be careful,” he whispered, giving Lark’s hand a quick squeeze.
“You, too,” Lark managed, still feeling flushed and off-kilter.
She moved away from Soren as quickly as she could and walked over to the truck. Katrina and Thompson were already sitting in the front seat, Katrina staring impatiently into the rearview mirror.
On the other side of the house, Lark could see Mitch arguing animatedly with Karen, who looked deeply unhappy about her husband’s involvement in the mission.
“Come on, let’s go!” Katrina yelled out the window at him, pounding the horn twice.
Mitch turned and threw Katrina a ruffled look before pivoting back to his wife and uttering a few final words. He stormed over to a teal Geo Tracker. Simjay was already sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, looking as though he might puke all over his shiny new Ruger.
Mitch started the engine, and the three vehicles rolled down the road in a caravan — Simjay and Mitch in the front, Axel and Soren in the middle, and Lark, Thompson, and Katrina bringing up the rear.
“He’s so fucking whipped,” Katrina muttered as the truck bumped along over the rough gravel road.
“Yeah,” said Thompson, deftly loading a magazine and slamming it into her handgun.
“If it weren’t for those kids, I think he would’ve left Karen’s ass back in Boulder.”
“Probably good he didn’t, all things considered.”
“Karen’s not happy about us staying with you, is she?” Lark asked.
“It’s not just you,” said Katrina. “My brother’s balls have been rolling around in that troll’s Kate Spade bag for years.” She turned to look at Thompson. “You know she baby-trapped him, right?”
Thompson shot her a dubious look. “How can you baby-trap someone when you already have a kid?”
“They almost got divorced once . . . when Jack was like a year old? But then Karen had this mental breakdown and — poof! — she was pregnant again.” Katrina shook her head. “Mitch told me once that he wasn’t even sure if Ava was his, but as soon as she was born, Mitch fell in love. He couldn’t leave Karen then.”
