by Tarah Benner
Thompson seemed unfazed. She was on her feet rummaging in a basket of odds and ends sitting on the kitchen counter. She produced what looked like an oversized walkie-talkie and set it down on the table in front of him.
“This is a police radio,” she said. “It’s fully charged, and the battery should last for a while. I’ll give you the charging dock that comes with it, but I don’t know if you’ll be able to find power.”
Soren stared at the radio, wondering where she was going with this.
“I have another one of these upstairs,” she said. “Occasionally these pick up communication with the precincts that are still operating in the area.” She paused and took a deep breath. “When you and your brother get settled . . . If you find a place that’s livable . . . I’d really appreciate it if you’d get in touch.”
“Sure,” said Soren. “Of course I will. But —”
“Honestly, I don’t think we’re going to be able to hold on to this place much longer,” Thompson added in an undertone. “We were stretched pretty thin as it was, and with Mitch and Theresa gone . . .” She sighed. “Walt’s not getting any younger, and he’s made a lot of powerful people angry. He’s turned down offers from GreenSeed and all the big oil and gas companies, and he’s painted a pretty big target on his back. If it’s not the bikers, it’ll be someone else.”
“I’ll call you,” Soren promised. “The second we find a place.”
“Thank you,” said Thompson.
In that moment, she wasn’t the brusque ex–police officer. She was scared and uncertain and trying desperately to hold her family together. Soren’s heart went out to her, but a second later she cleared her throat, and the old Thompson was back.
“I’ll have Kat round up a couple of rifles for you. Walt says he wants you to take his truck.”
That statement nearly knocked Soren sideways. “What?”
“It’s an old clunker, but it’ll be a step up from that Ranger,” Thompson added hastily.
“You don’t have to —”
“We want to,” she said. “Walt wants to. But if you get arrested, please just tell them that you stole the truck and the guns.”
Soren laughed. “Of course.”
A few minutes later, Simjay, Axel, and Lark ambled downstairs for breakfast. Axel and Simjay were still yawning and stretching, but Lark looked wide awake. Her rucksack was already packed by the door, and Denali was stuck to her side like Velcro — as if he worried he might get left behind.
Walt’s truck was an ancient maroon-and-white Dodge Ram with a camper shell and a three-inch lift. There were a few dings and scratches around the bed from hauling lumber and farm equipment, but in all other respects, the truck looked brand new. It had a nice set of off-road tires, and the interior was immaculate.
Loading the bed of the truck with their remaining supplies gave Soren a sudden twinge of sadness. It was obvious that the old pickup was Walt’s pride and joy, and he was giving it to them.
While Simjay was filling their water skins, Katrina appeared on the porch to give them two rifles from the Baileys’ collection and a bag of ammunition.
Lark gave her a long heartfelt hug as Walt ambled over from the barn. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on the day they arrived, but he looked much older and frailer than before.
“Are you sure about the truck?” Soren asked as he shook Walt’s hand.
“I haven’t given it a second thought,” said Walt matter-of-factly. “You all need it more than I do, and I’m plum grateful for everything you’ve done.”
Privately Soren felt that they hadn’t done nearly as much for the Baileys as the Baileys had done for them, but he gave Walt’s hand one final squeeze and thanked him again.
“I’ll be sorry to see you go,” he said, giving Lark a hug and slapping Axel on the back.
“We’re sorry to leave like this,” said Soren.
“Now, you just quit apologizin’,” said Walt. “There ain’t nothin’ to be sorry about.”
Soren thought he saw a flicker of despair in the old man’s eyes, but then Walt cleared his throat in a way that told Soren it was time to go.
They all piled into the truck — Axel in the passenger seat and Lark, Simjay, and Denali in the back. Lark gave Katrina a weak smile, and Soren nodded at Thompson to let her know he hadn’t forgotten his promise. Her police radio was resting in the compartment in front of the center console, and he looked forward to the day when he could call with good news.
“Ready?” he said as the truck rumbled to life.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Axel.
Soren glanced in the rearview mirror at Lark, who was gazing sadly out the window. He knew that Lark, like him, couldn’t shake the awful feeling that this might be the last they saw of the Baileys.
Thompson put an arm around Katrina and led her back inside the house, and Walt strode off toward the fields without so much as a backward glance. They rolled out of the driveway in a fine cloud of dust and watched the Baileys’ farm disappear in the rearview mirror.
Soren took 285 south toward the Texas border, his eyes scanning the desolate road with a little less panic than before. They stopped outside a small town in Texas and pulled into a convenience store parking lot. Soren had been hoping that Texas would not be in as bad of shape as New Mexico, but this town looked just as barren as Loving had.
A rain-rumpled sign with smeared purple handwriting told them there was no gasoline, so he killed the engine and headed toward the store with Axel to see if there was anything worth taking. Lark let Denali out to stretch his legs, and she and Simjay sat on the tailgate to eat a few bites of Starlight’s corn bread.
The convenience store was better stocked than the market in Loving had been, but it was obvious that it hadn’t been open for business in a while. Axel recovered a bag of pork rinds, a dozen Slim Jims, and a length of plastic tubing to siphon gas. There were some rolls of scratchy toilet paper in the back room and several boxes of AA batteries, so Soren took the batteries and rejoined the others outside.
“We need gas,” he said as soon as he was within earshot.
“How much we got left?” asked Simjay. He was fiddling with Thompson’s police radio, but there was only static.
“Less than a quarter tank,” said Soren, pulling the road map out of his back pocket and spreading it out on the tailgate. “We’re gonna be in bad shape if we don’t find fuel soon.”
He traced the route he’d intended to take with his finger, hovering briefly over the towns they might reach before they ran out of gas. Their best bet would have been Fort Stockton, but they’d bypassed it intentionally, thinking that the larger towns would be more likely to have a fully operational police force on the lookout for escaped felons.
There were half a dozen little towns between there and San Antonio, but they had no reason to think that they would be any better stocked.
“Let’s drive through town,” he said. “See if we can find a car to siphon some —”
He broke off. A muffled voice was coming through the police radio, and Simjay was staring at it as though it had just burst into flames.
“— escaped from a private facility in Arroyo Verde, New Mexico. Subjects fled the scene in a stolen blue Toyota Yaris with New Mexico plates, license number seven — four — six — tango — charlie — whisky — golf. Last seen headed west on forty. Over.”
Simjay looked up, his expression a bizarre mixture of horror and delight. “It works!”
“They’re not talking about us,” said Lark, sounding panicky. “Somebody else escaped.”
“Who, though?” asked Simjay, his voice trembling with excitement.
Soren shook his head, fighting a horrible sinking feeling in his gut. Whoever it was, it had to be somebody who knew the prison’s security flaws as well or better than he had. And there was only one other person he’d confided in about their plan.
“Shep,” he whispered.
“Nah,” said Simjay, looking
nervous. “He wouldn’t have.”
“Looks like he finally nutted up,” Axel muttered. He’d just emerged from the side of the building buttoning his fly, and he looked vaguely impressed.
Soren wanted to deck him.
“It’s probably not him,” said Simjay.
“Who else?”
“It could be anybody,” said Lark. “We’ll keep listening. They’re going to have to come back on and give a description of whoever it was.”
Soren kneaded his temples with the pads of his fingers, trying to escape the choking sense of dread building in his gut. Shep was his best friend — the person Soren would have chosen above anybody else to escape San Judas. But Shep had only had a few months left on his sentence and had decided to wait it out. But if he’d changed his mind . . .
“He’s got a car,” said Simjay unhelpfully. “At least he didn’t try to make a run for it on foot.”
“A car that every police officer in the state is looking for.”
“Maybe Shep ain’t as dumb as we think,” said Axel with a shrug. “Maybe he picked a blue car on purpose to git Johnny Law lookin’ for a blue car. Maybe he planned on tradin’ it in the first chance he got.”
“Come on,” said Soren. “You know there’s nothing between here and Arroyo Verde. He’ll be lucky if he makes it fifty miles.”
Axel shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Well,” he said, “ain’t no use standing here flappin’ our jaws. Let’s find some gas ’fore the bacon catches up with us.”
Soren gave a grudging nod. As much as he hated to admit it, Axel was right. If Shep had escaped, there wasn’t anything they could do for him now. He was hours behind them, and he was headed west. If he had escaped, he wasn’t trying to catch up with them.
Still reeling from their discovery, they all piled into the truck and headed toward town. As Soren had suspected, the streets were completely deserted. Most of the buildings had fallen into disrepair, and it looked as though the town had shut down years ago — perhaps even before the famine. They passed several fallen power lines and a broken-down eighteen wheeler but no vehicles that looked as though they’d have any fuel.
Once they’d completed their tour of the sad little town, they had no choice but to get back on the highway and continue along their route. Soren kept glancing nervously at the fuel gauge, but he gave up after half an hour, convinced that watching it was making them burn gas more quickly.
They passed a sign for a town called Sonora, but Soren knew they would never reach it in time. Walt’s truck was running on fumes, and they were still miles away. Before the truck lurched to a stop, Soren steered them off the road and into a clump of trees. Axel swore loudly, and all the optimism Soren had felt that morning seemed to evaporate.
At the rate they were going, they were never going to make it to Kingsville. They were running low on food and even lower on water. The police were still on high alert, and he had no idea where they were going to find gas.
“I guess we’re walking,” Soren breathed in exasperation.
“Wait . . . why?” asked Simjay.
Soren and Axel turned to stare at him, but Simjay wasn’t being sarcastic. He looked just as nonplussed as Soren felt.
“Did your mama drop you on your head as a baby?” Axel snarled. “We’re out — of gas.”
“I know,” said Simjay. “But you think they might have some?”
He pointed up the hill. Soren followed his gaze to a sand-colored structure about half a mile off the highway.
He hadn’t noticed it before, but there was definitely some kind of building sticking out of the dirt. It had an arched doorway, enormous vents protruding from the roof, and at least a dozen slanted windows beaming along the south side. It didn’t look like any house that Soren had ever seen. It looked as though it had been dropped there from outer space.
But it wasn’t the house that made his heart pound with excitement. Parked outside was a brand-new black SUV. Clothes were drying on the line, and there were tire tracks leading up to the house from the road.
Soren glanced at Axel, who looked as though he were thinking exactly the same thing: There was someone living in that house, and they were the answer to all their troubles.
fifteen
Lark
“We can’t just walk up to someone’s house and ask for a lift,” said Axel. “That’s how folks git shot in Texas.”
“You got a better idea?” asked Simjay.
They were all standing outside Walt’s truck, staring up at the bizarre house on the hill.
“Let me put it this way,” said Axel. “There’s a weirdo hermit living off the grid in the middle of East Jesus nowhere. What part of that seems like an invitation for a bunch of escaped felons to come up and ring the doorbell?”
“We don’t have a choice,” said Lark, glancing at Soren for support.
In the few days she’d known Axel, she’d realized that shooting down other people’s plans was one of his favorite pastimes. He rarely had any ideas of his own; he just enjoyed complaining.
“Ya’ll go right ahead,” said Axel. “I’ll wait here and keep the Heckler warm for when he chases ya’ll off his property with a sawed-off shotgun.”
Soren let out an aggravated sigh and met Lark’s gaze.
“Send Bird Girl,” said Axel. “She’s small, nonthreatening . . .”
“No. No way,” said Soren. “She’s not going up there alone.”
“So you do think there’s a maniac up there!”
“No, he’s right,” said Lark.
Soren wheeled around to stare at her in disbelief. Up until that moment, they’d been on the same page, and clearly she’d blindsided him.
Lark shrugged. “Who’s gonna open their door to four armed strangers? We shouldn’t all go up there together.”
“No,” said Soren. “You’re not doing this alone. It’s too dangerous.”
“I’ll take Sim,” Lark offered. “He’s pretty nonthreatening.” She threw Simjay an apologetic look. “No offense.”
“None taken,” he said, sounding less than thrilled about walking up to a stranger’s house in the middle of nowhere.
Axel rolled his eyes, but Soren looked thoughtful. Lark could tell he didn’t like the idea of her going up there — even with Simjay — but he couldn’t argue with Axel’s logic.
“All right,” he said, meeting Lark’s gaze with an uneasy look. “But we’ll be close by.”
Lark nodded. Soren reached into his waistband and handed her the Glock, and Lark shivered a little when her fingers closed around the cool plastic. It wasn’t the gun she’d used to kill Memphis, but she still felt the tremor of the explosion that had surged through her body when she pulled the trigger.
Simjay took the stolen revolver and tucked it into his boot. It was clear by the way he handled it that he didn’t care for guns, but they needed to be as prepared as they could be in case things went south.
“You have to stay here,” Lark said to Denali, scratching him behind the ears as she braced herself for what she was about to do.
Soren pulled her to the side and gave both arms a squeeze. “If anything seems off to you, you scream,” he said in a husky voice.
Lark nodded.
“We have a clear shot at the house from here. Don’t go inside, and don’t move around back. Stay where we can see you.”
“I got it,” said Lark. Part of her was annoyed by Soren’s overprotectiveness, but it also gave her a twinge of fondness. It had been a long time since she’d had anyone watch over her like that, and being around him made her realize how much she’d missed it.
Denali whined and pawed at the dirt as Lark and Simjay set off together toward the house. It was deliberately positioned behind a slight hill and sloped to meet a mound of earth, so it would have been easy to miss from the highway.
As they drew closer, Lark noticed that the home appeared to be constructed from some type of clay, but the front face of it was nearly all windows. Lark suspecte
d that it had been built to capture heat from the sun during the winter months, and no detail of the home had been left to chance. The roof was covered in solar panels, and a narrow clay chute carried rainwater down to a cistern.
They approached the dirt path leading to the front door, but before they could get within thirty feet of the house, a small explosion erupted in the vicinity of Simjay’s feet.
He gave a high-pitched yelp and jumped. Another small blast went off, accompanied by a burst of sparks. Lark took an automatic step back and yanked the Glock out of her waistband.
“Stop right there,” boomed a man’s voice.
Lark looked up. The voice was loud and had the slightly tinny quality of one that had been electronically magnified. As she scanned the roof, she saw what looked like a Bose speaker mounted just under the eave.
Lark and Simjay froze, Simjay looking as though he might pass out.
“Drop your weapons, and put your hands where I can see them,” said the man.
Lark gave Simjay a sidelong look, silently pleading with him not to do anything stupid, but it was too late. Simjay was already hopping on one foot, trying to free the revolver from his boot. He threw it onto the ground and staggered back several feet, holding two shaking hands above his head.
Lark let out an exasperated sigh.
“You too!” barked the voice. “Now!”
Lark didn’t move. Her heart was pounding in her throat, but she was still able to think despite the surge of electricity thrumming in her veins. Surrendering her weapon sounded like a terrible idea, but there was no telling what sort of damage the man might be able to inflict with his booby traps before they reached the front door.
“I’m going to give you until the count of three,” said the man. “Then I am going to shoot you in the head.”
