Lifeless (Lawless Saga Book 2)

by Tarah Benner

  Bernie had driven until her eyelids grew heavy and then pulled over on the side of the road to consult the crumpled atlas they’d found in the glove compartment. There was a sizable patch of green on the map just a little ways west, so Bernie had followed the signs for the Salt Creek Wilderness Area and pulled into the trees. Her injured leg had been throbbing so insistently that she could feel it in her stomach, but she’d dropped off to sleep within minutes, still slumped behind the wheel.

  She’d awoken with a horrible crick in her neck and a sharp, shooting pain in her spine. Portia had still been snoring softly in the passenger seat, looking more human than Bernie had ever seen her.

  It had taken some awkward maneuvering to get herself out of the vehicle and onto her crutches, but as soon as she’d stepped outside, she’d felt the elation of freedom wash over her like a breath of fresh air.

  She’d followed a series of weathered wooden signs for The Inkpot over rugged rust-colored ground and had found herself standing over a cavernous sinkhole filled with water. It seemed incredible that such a landmark could exist in what was otherwise a desert, and for a moment, Bernie considered diving in to test the water.

  It felt so strange to be standing there in the middle of the gorgeous, desolate landscape as dozens of police officers scoured New Mexico for any sign of her and Portia.

  She knew they couldn’t stay there forever. They needed a plan. Somebody had found the dead nurse, and the security guard must have noticed that his car had been stolen. The police would be looking for the blue Toyota Yaris, and in rural New Mexico, it wouldn’t be difficult to find.

  Stealing a new car was essential. Then they needed to find a place where they could disappear.

  Limping back to the car, Bernie found Portia sitting in the passenger seat sucking a glob of chocolate pudding out of one of the plastic cups. She still didn’t look quite like herself, but she seemed better than she had in the medical center. The dark circles under her eyes were less pronounced, and a bit of color had returned to her cheeks. The cut over her eyebrow had crusted over, and some of the nastier bruises had faded to yellow.

  “You’re a savage,” chuckled Bernie, reaching across her to grab the road map off the dashboard.

  “You didn’t steal any spoons,” Portia replied testily. “Besides, I’m eating for two now, and they were starving me in there.”

  “Right.”

  Bernie pulled her arm out of the window and spread out the atlas on the hood of the car. She zeroed in on all the major metropolitan areas within a day’s drive of where they were. Fleeing to Mexico seemed like an obvious plan, but she was sure that was what the police expected them to do. They’d likely have roadblocks set up all the way to the border, which made booking it south seem like a stupid thing to do.

  Dallas, on the other hand, was only seven hours away. They could be there before dinner. With its sprawling suburbs and millions of people, finding two average-seeming women would be like finding a needle in a haystack. They could sell the car, rent an apartment, and find jobs as nannies or waitresses — anything that paid in cash.

  In all the time she’d been in San Judas, Bernie had never imagined that she’d start her new life on the outside with Portia of all people, but that was the hand she’d been dealt.

  Bernie opened Portia’s door and leaned against the top of the car. “You wanna drive?”

  “No.”

  “I drove all night.”

  “I’m from New York,” said Portia with an air of snobbishness. “I don’t drive.”

  “What?” snapped Bernie, utterly flabbergasted.

  And then it dawned on her. Portia didn’t think she was too good to drive. She didn’t know how.

  “Do you . . . Don’t you have your license?”

  “Why would I?” shot Portia. “I’ve lived in Manhattan since I was a teenager.”

  “You don’t have your license,” Bernie repeated in disbelief. “That is so weird.”

  “Whatever,” Portia muttered as Bernie slammed the door and climbed back into the driver’s seat with a chuckle.

  “Well, once we’re not fleeing the police, you’re gonna have to learn. Driving is what suburbanites do.”

  “Suburbanites?” Portia rolled her eyes. “Where the hell are we going?”

  “Dallas,” said Bernie, feeling more satisfied with her plan by the minute.

  “Ew. Why?”

  “Because it’s out of state, and it’s big enough that we can blend in.”

  Portia wrinkled her nose in an expression that said she had no interest in blending in, but she didn’t put up a fight.

  “First we have to find a different car,” said Bernie. “This thing’ll be hard to miss.”

  “You want to steal a car?” repeated Portia. “How?”

  Bernie swallowed. She hadn’t really nailed down the specifics. Sure, they’d stolen the Yaris, but the car had practically been thrown in their laps. She doubted very much that they would get that lucky again, and she wasn’t exactly a seasoned criminal. She didn’t know the first thing about stealing a car.

  Bernie didn’t have long to think about the next phase of their mission, however. Half an hour later, they passed a faded billboard for Roswell, New Mexico, featuring a green cartoon alien in a flying saucer that read “UFO Crash Site 1947.”

  “People are so stupid,” mumbled Portia, glaring at the alien as they passed.

  “What, you don’t believe in aliens?”

  Portia tossed her a withering look.

  “Are you serious?” asked Bernie, studying Portia’s expression to see if she was disparaging the people of Roswell or their belief that a spaceship had crash-landed there in the forties.

  “What?” said Portia, annoyed by Bernie’s prolonged stare.

  “Do you really think we’re all alone in the universe?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It doesn’t —” Bernie broke off with a scoff of indignation. “It doesn’t matter?”

  “What do I care?” said Portia. “At the end of the day, we’re alone on Earth. It’s not so devastating to think that we’re alone in the universe, too.”

  Bernie closed her eyes and fought back a smile. “I’m sorry, but that’s just so ignorant.”

  “What’s ignorant is thinking that a species that mastered intergalactic travel prior to 1947 would crash-land in New Mexico. Even if there was life on other planets —”

  “If?” Bernie spluttered. “If?” She shook her head with a laugh. “There is no ‘if.’ There’s no fucking way we’re the only intelligent life-forms in the universe.”

  “That’s cute,” said Portia with a withering smile. “I suppose you believe we’re all part of some grand cosmic plan, too.” She rolled her eyes. “Face it, Mitchell — we’re all just insignificant specks of carbon. The universe doesn’t give a flying fuck —”

  “Whoa,” said Bernie. “I feel like we’re dancing around something deeper here.”

  “No. I’m just telling you that people who think the aliens are trying to contact us need their heads examined.”

  “So you think all the people who’ve ever seen a UFO were lying?”

  “I’m just not stupid enough to think that whatever we do on Earth would be of any interest to these so-called aliens.”

  “Ah-ha!” Bernie snapped. “So you admit that they exist!”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t deny it.”

  “All I’m saying is that there’s a one hundred percent chance that whatever they think happened in Roswell never did.”

  “How do you know?” Bernie cried. “You weren’t even alive!”

  Portia didn’t answer. Bernie knew Portia had only fallen silent because she didn’t consider the argument worth her time, but she couldn’t help feeling as though she’d won.

  It was a flat and desolate drive down the highway to Roswell. Bernie felt nervous about going through a town where the police might recognize them, but they had t
o get a car and do something to change their appearance so they’d be less recognizable.

  They turned onto First Street, passing a rundown tattoo parlor with spray-painted aliens on the side of the building, a T-shirt shop (also devoted to aliens), and a bar called Area Fifty-One. Bernie was surprised by how dead the town seemed. There weren’t any people out and about, and all the businesses seemed to be closed.

  “Is today a holiday?” Bernie asked. “Cinco de Mayo or some shit?”

  Portia raised her eyebrows, clearly just as perplexed.

  There wasn’t a soul in sight. Bernie idled briefly in front of a drugstore, but it had a large “Going Out of Business” sign taped across the windows. The inside looked completely vacant, so they couldn’t stop there to get supplies.

  They drove around the block, passing the International UFO Museum and Research Center, which seemed to be Roswell’s main attraction. The large purple marquee outside looked almost brand new, yet there was no one parked outside the museum and no tourists milling around on the sidewalk.

  “This is weird,” said Portia.

  “I know.”

  A slight itch of unease had started near the base of Bernie’s spine and crawled its way up to the nape of her neck. It looked as though the entire town of Roswell, New Mexico, had fallen victim to an alien abduction, but even she didn’t believe in something so far-fetched.

  She felt as though they were drawing attention to themselves simply by being the only car on the road, so she pulled into an alleyway and parked behind a dumpster. She grabbed her crutches, got out, and started to limp down the road.

  “Where are you going?” called Portia.

  Bernie turned around. Portia was still wearing her hospital gown, and she was dressed in a pair of overlarge scrubs. They couldn’t wander around looking like a couple of escaped mental patients. She had to find them something else to wear.

  “Stay here,” said Bernie. “I’ll be right back.”

  Portia didn’t put up a fight, which made Bernie think she must still be feeling off-kilter from all the tests they’d put her through. At least she hoped that was Portia’s problem. Portia hadn’t let on that she’d been feeling ill before the tests, but she had suffered quite a beating at the hands of Mercy and her crew.

  What if there was something wrong with the baby? Bernie thought in a panic. They were out in the middle of nowhere all alone. They couldn’t walk into a hospital or clinic without risking arrest, and Bernie didn’t know anything about babies in utero. Fetuses, they were called. Feti? And what was going to happen when it was time for Portia to deliver?

  Bernie shuddered. She really hadn’t thought through those details when she’d made up her mind to take Portia with her. Even if they made it to Dallas, they didn’t have any insurance or identification. They weren’t equipped to handle a baby, but there was no going back. They were on their own, and they were going to get caught if they didn’t get their shit together fast.

  The first order of business was to find some normal-looking clothing. To Bernie’s dismay, all the shops along the little strip seemed to be closed, and she realized with a jolt of panic that she didn’t have any money.

  She stopped outside an alien-themed junk shop that, according to the sign, included a black-light space-walk experience. There was a little ticket window along the side of the building, cut out beneath a hand-painted mural of a UFO.

  She scrutinized her reflection in the window below the dark “Open” sign. She definitely didn’t look normal. Her hair was wild and unkempt, and her injured leg was cocooned in so many bandages that it appeared to have swollen to twice its normal size.

  She studied the ticket window in what she hoped was an unobtrusive way. It was a sliding glass window not unlike the drive-thru at any fast-food restaurant. There was no one else around, so she wiggled it experimentally, and, to her surprise, it slid right open.

  Bernie looked around again to make sure she wasn’t being watched and then stuck her head inside. The shop was dark and deserted, and the window was just low enough for her to slide on through.

  Propping her crutches against the side of the building, she braced her elbows on the window and hoisted herself up.

  It was much more difficult than she’d thought. Her injured leg throbbed as her lower body swung like a pendulum, and her arms immediately ached from the effort of supporting her entire body. With a low grunt, she twisted and shimmied on her belly until she slid the rest of the way inside.

  Bernie landed in a heap on the floor and gritted her teeth in pain. The shop had a slightly musty odor that someone had tried to mask with a citrusy cleaner, and the space was cluttered with overpriced junk. Neon T-shirts hung around the room on old department-store clothes racks, and the shelves were bursting with all kinds of alien memorabilia: rubber keychains, UFO magnets, cans of alien sausage, and bug-eyed baby alien toys.

  Bernie couldn’t help but smile as she hopped around the shop on one foot, picking out a new alien wardrobe. She chose a pair of tasteful black sweatpants with an alien head over the left front pocket for Portia and a pink UFO T-shirt that read “We are not alone — Roswell, NM.” For herself she grabbed a simple gray tank top with an alien head on the chest and some official-looking Area 51 camo pants. She stole an oversized hoodie for each of them, grabbed two alien suckers from the register and, on impulse, the little stuffed alien baby.

  Fighting the nervous chill she got from her shoplifting spree, Bernie wrapped her spoils in a tight bundle and threw them out the window. It was much harder wriggling out than it had been getting in, and the landing was much less forgiving. She’d wanted to find some boxes of hair dye and a pair of barber scissors, but she doubted she’d get so lucky breaking into the abandoned drugstore. Instead, she hobbled back to the Yaris and rapped on the door.

  “Merry Christmas,” she said, opening the passenger-side door and tossing the hideous alien memorabilia into Portia’s lap. “And this is so I don’t have to get you a baby-shower gift.”

  The baby alien toy landed on the floorboard with a squeak, and Portia stared at it as though it were a dead animal.

  “You’re welcome,” said Bernie, stifling a laugh and tossing the rest of the clothes onto the hood of the car. There was no one around, so she stripped off her scrubs and wriggled into her new outfit.

  “What’s going on here?” asked Portia.

  Bernie didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure if she was referring to the clothing or the general weirdness of Roswell.

  “I haven’t seen a single person since we’ve been here.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Bernie. As much as she’d tried to fight her feelings of unease, she couldn’t deny that Roswell gave her the creeps. “Maybe we can find someone to ask.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Portia. “That’s a good idea. ‘Excuse me, sir. We’ve been in prison for the last few years and we’re on the run. Could you tell us what the fuck is going on around here?’”

  “Well, I wouldn’t lead with the prison story, but —”

  Portia got out of the car and shoved Bernie out of the way, cutting her off with a scoff of disgust. She stripped off the hospital gown with an excessive amount of rage, tossed it to the ground, and spit on it for good measure.

  As she stood there naked in the alley, Bernie couldn’t help but notice her baby bump and the ugly patchwork of bruises all over her body. They co-mingled with the intricate tiger tattoo wrapping around her waist and the string of cherry blossoms dotting her ribcage.

  Portia pulled on the alien clothes and glared at Bernie with the gleam of a challenge in her eyes. She took off at an unsteady lurch, stopping suddenly with a queasy expression.

  “You feeling all right?” asked Bernie.

  “Let’s see . . . The father of my unborn child is dead, I was beaten unconscious by three deranged thugs — Lark’s fault — I feel like I want to puke every three minutes, and yesterday I got a spinal tap. Yeah. I feel fucking fantastic.”

  Bernie hesitate
d. “You . . . You think the baby’s okay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bernie’s insides turned to ice. Portia’s tone was cool and dismissive, but Bernie could tell that she really did care. She was just so used to burying her pain that she didn’t let it affect her.

  Back at San Judas, Bernie had been so busy hating Portia that she’d never stopped to appreciate what a hard-ass she was. She might have been a whiny, backstabbing bitch, but Portia was tough.

  “I want some French fries,” said Portia suddenly, looking around like a bloodhound who’d caught the scent of its prey.

  “O-okay,” Bernie stammered, relieved to hear Portia voice a desire that she could actually do something about. “Let’s get you some French fries.”

  “We don’t have any money.”

  “Well . . . We’ll just dine and dash. It’ll be fine.”

  Portia let out an exasperated sigh but kept walking. They combed the entire downtown, but there didn’t seem to be a single shop, restaurant, or bar that was open for business. Bernie’s sense of unease grew.

  “Maybe it’s a local holiday,” she offered. “Maybe it’s, like, the anniversary of the UFO crash.”

  “For the last time, no UFO ever crashed here,” grumbled Portia, sitting down on a stoop outside a store that sold, among other things, rainbow wind socks and alien-themed bongs.

  Something about Portia’s slumped posture and pale complexion set Bernie’s nerves on edge, but she kept moving down the street on the hunt for French fries.

  Then she heard something: the low hum of an engine, followed by the thump of a car stereo. A jolt of relief shot down her spine, but her blood ran cold as a shiny black sedan pulled around the corner.

  “Fuck,” she whispered.

  Bernie didn’t think. She just moved. Without stopping to consider that she might be overreacting, she pivoted on the spot and flew back down the sidewalk toward Portia.

  “We have to go,” she said, jabbing Portia in the knee with one of her crutches. “Now.”

  “What? Why?” Portia followed Bernie’s gaze down the street, and all the snark and irritability slid off her face. “Shit.”