Lifeless (Lawless Saga Book 2)

by Tarah Benner

  “I wanted to stop and get these vitamins for Portia,” said Bernie. “I feel like something’s up with her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  They stepped outside, and Denali immediately bounded up to Bernie. She bent down to pet him, craning her neck back to keep him from licking her face.

  “I found this book on pregnancy, and it was talking about how common it is for expectant mothers to become anemic. Portia hasn’t been right since the day we left. They gave her a spinal tap and ran all these tests, but she hadn’t been taking any of the vitamins they gave her.” She rolled her eyes. “She’s probably malnourished from the fucking scraps we were eating in prison. And I read that if she doesn’t get her folic acid, the baby’ll come out all wonky.”

  Lark raised her eyebrows. “So she’s keeping it.”

  “Yeah.”

  Bernie’s tone was casual, but Lark could tell that she too had considered the practical problems of having a baby in Portia’s situation. Caring for a newborn was tricky under the best of circumstances, but having one while on the run seemed borderline insane.

  When they got back to the truck, Axel was leaning against the passenger-side door smoking a cigarette. As soon as he saw Bernie, he stubbed it out and reached for Wayne Gibson’s stolen gun. “What the fuck?”

  “Easy,” said Soren. “It’s just Bernie.”

  “Who?” Axel looked genuinely perplexed.

  “Bernie,” said Bernie, limping up to Axel with a burst of feigned enthusiasm. “You know . . . We almost escaped prison together?”

  “Thought you got shot,” said Axel, seemingly unfazed by what amounted to a small miracle.

  “I did,” said Bernie. “I got shot through the leg. Didn’t die, though.”

  “Damn.” He actually sounded impressed.

  “Anyhoo . . .” said Bernie, already bored with Axel. “Portia and I found a little house that wasn’t too badly damaged by the flood. It’s about ten miles down the road. It’s on this hill. You can see for miles. No one’s gonna get the drop on us there.”

  Axel looked irritated that a newcomer — especially a woman — was calling the shots, but Soren silenced him with a glare.

  “All right,” he said, stepping in before Axel could say anything rude. “We could use a good night’s sleep. And it would be better for Simjay to sleep in a bed instead of bumping around in the truck all night.”

  “Great,” said Bernie. “You can follow me.”

  She gestured to a silver Camry parked a few yards down the road. It was sitting outside a dumpy little split-level with a tattered Texas flag fluttering in the breeze. It blended in so perfectly with the modest house that it was no wonder they hadn’t noticed it before.

  “I’ll ride with Bernie,” said Lark, watching Denali circle them all anxiously.

  Bernie let out an excited squeal and flung herself down the street, swinging her legs wildly with every step of the crutches. Lark followed and slid into the passenger seat, catching the stench of old fast food. Denali jumped in the back, looking happier than she’d ever seen him, and immediately began sniffing under the seat.

  “I can’t believe I found you guys,” said Bernie as she lowered herself into the driver’s seat. “Out in all this shit . . . What are the chances?”

  There was something odd about Bernie’s voice that Lark couldn’t quite put her finger on. She sounded a little distracted, and there was a definite undercurrent of melancholy that she seemed to be stifling for Lark’s benefit.

  “How did you do it?” asked Lark, still reeling from shock. “They must have had you on lockdown . . . a million guards swarming all over the place . . .”

  “Not really,” said Bernie, putting the key in the ignition and starting the car. “I think they thought I was too badly hurt to escape. They had me handcuffed to the bed, but there wasn’t much in the way of security. They had me doped out of my mind for a while . . . I don’t think they thought I’d be able to stand up, much less strangle a nurse, steal a car, and drag Portia out with me.”

  “You strangled a nurse?” Lark repeated as Bernie pulled out in front of the truck.

  Bernie swallowed, keeping her eyes fixated on the road. “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Lark, fighting down the swell of darkness rising up inside her.

  She knew all too well what that was like. She still had nightmares about Levi Flemming, and now Memphis was invading her dreams. She’d killed them both in self-defense, but taking a life left a stain on the soul that no amount of rationalization could erase.

  “Don’t be,” said Bernie. “He was a total creep. He was going to . . .” She trailed off with a shudder. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

  But Lark could tell from the tone of her voice that Bernie wasn’t done thinking about it. It was eating her from the inside, no matter how much she tried to brush it off.

  “I’m sorry,” Lark repeated. “This is all my fault.”

  “Will you stop it?” said Bernie. “It’s over — in the past. I don’t blame you for leaving me. This isn’t your fault.”

  “I swear I thought you were dead.”

  “I believe you,” said Bernie. And it sounded as though she did. “I just can’t . . .” She shook her head so that her messy bun swayed from side to side. “I just can’t wrap my head around the fact that they kept us locked up in there with everything else that was going on. Nobody even told us that all those people had died or that the entire East Coast was under water . . . I just feel like my whole life is gone, you know?”

  Those words kicked up a fresh wave of sadness inside her. “Yeah, I do.”

  Lark couldn’t quite explain how she felt. She’d only been on the outside for a few days, but the time they’d spent inside San Judas already felt like another life entirely. Lark had been so caught up in the day-to-day drama of trying to avoid Mercy and her daughters that she’d barely had time to wonder what was happening on the outside. She’d ignored all the signs that something wasn’t right.

  But worse than learning what the prison administrators had kept from them was the realization that she couldn’t just pick up her life where she’d left off. The dreams she’d had before prison didn’t feel like hers anymore. It was difficult to imagine hiking the Continental Divide or standing along the rim of the Grand Canyon when it was a struggle just to survive.

  “So . . .” said Lark, tentatively changing the subject to pull herself out of her own dark thoughts. “What’s it been like traveling with Portia?”

  “Not so bad,” said Bernie. “She’s really not that awful away from Mercy and all those guys. Plus I think Zachariah’s death changed her. Now she’s got the baby to think about, and —”

  She broke off, squinting into the rearview mirror, which had just been flooded by the truck’s high beams. “Fucking shit . . .” Bernie let out a disgusted scoff. Axel was tailgating. “I’m gonna kill him, Lark. I’m gonna strangle him in his sleep . . .”

  Lark chuckled, and Bernie slowed to a crawl. At first Lark thought she was only doing it to irritate Axel, but then the end of a gravel driveway came into view. It was half-concealed by trees, and the falling-down mailbox was the only clue that there was a house hidden there.

  Bernie craned her neck to double-check that she had the right place and turned. The truck’s lights bounced as it followed them up the gravel drive, and Lark saw what looked like an oversized log cabin at the top of the hill. It had a two-car garage, an inviting front porch, and a wagon wheel propped up against the fence.

  Miraculously, the house looked as though the flood hadn’t affected it at all. Grass was growing up around the foundation, and the driveway was littered with debris, but it looked otherwise unharmed. Inside, a flashlight shone through a set of homey red-and-cream checkered curtains that someone had probably made by hand.

  Axel pulled the truck up behind the Camry, and Lark and Bernie got out. Lark heard Axel arguing with Soren about the best way to move Simjay whi
le Bernie hovered awkwardly on the driveway.

  “Maybe you and I should go in first,” Bernie said.

  Lark’s stomach did an uncomfortable flip. She hadn’t imagined that she’d ever be seeing Portia again.

  Denali whined and ran around to the backyard, and Lark reached out to stop Bernie a few inches from the front stoop.

  “Are you sure about this?” she whispered. “Portia hates me.”

  An uneasy expression flashed across Bernie’s face. “Noooo. She just . . . I think she’s probably over it by now.”

  Lark gave her a dubious look. “Come on. It’s Portia.”

  “I know, but —” Bernie cast a desperate glance around the driveway, clearly at a loss for what to do. “No. It’ll be fine. I’m sure of it.” Then, in a singsong voice she added, “It’ll be fiiiine.”

  The boys’ argument faded into the background as Bernie rapped on the front door. It was a quick, rhythmic pattern that she and Portia had clearly rehearsed, and Lark felt a pang of jealousy that her best friend and Portia were now allies.

  At first she didn’t hear anything from inside the house, but then there was a soft patter of feet, followed by the ripple of a curtain.

  “Hey, it’s me,” Bernie called through the door. “Now, don’t freak out, but —”

  The door opened half an inch, and four pale, spidery fingers appeared around the edge. It creaked back a few more inches before Portia saw Bernie’s face and flung it all the way open.

  Portia’s eyes snapped from Bernie to Lark and then to Soren and Axel hauling Simjay across the front lawn.

  Lark froze. She was staring at the girl who’d gotten her thrown into the Pit and nearly killed. But Lark’s initial panic and fury was suppressed by the sudden, crazy urge to laugh.

  Underneath her goofy alien sweatshirt, Portia was wearing a hot-pink UFO T-shirt that said “We Are Not Alone.” Lark couldn’t quite make out Portia’s baby bump, but she imagined the little bastard was in their somewhere — tiny horns and all.

  Portia was so taken aback by the sight of Lark that it took her several seconds to recover. When she did, her lip curled into a familiar scowl, and she flicked her lashes back in her signature haughty eye roll.

  “Well, well,” she snarled. “Long time, no see.”

  Lark opened her mouth to say something, but she never got the chance.

  One second, Portia was glaring at her with the same hateful expression she’d worn in prison, and the next, she was hurling herself off the porch.

  twenty-four

  Lark

  It happened so quickly that Lark had no chance to react. Portia launched herself off the porch and flew at her like a skinny, knocked-up linebacker.

  They tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs, and Lark gasped for air as her spine slammed into the dirt.

  “You — fucking — bitch!” Portia screamed, straddling Lark and punching her in the face.

  Lark was so shocked that she just lay there motionless. She’d been expecting a snide remark or maybe even a screaming match, but she hadn’t expected Portia to attack her.

  Denali barked from a few yards away, and a second later, a big ball of canine fury slammed into Lark’s shoulder. He snapped at Portia and made a grab for her sleeve, his mouth gaped in a yawn of rage.

  Portia just howled and flailed her arms at Lark. She caught her with a sharp slap to the face, but it was Bernie’s voice that yanked Lark back to the present.

  “What the fuck?” Bernie screeched, trying and failing to pull Portia off of Lark.

  “Whooooweee! Chick fight!” yelled Axel.

  Above her head, Lark saw Soren move to intervene, but Axel threw out an arm to stop him. “Gotta let the ladies work it out.”

  Lark sucked in a gasp of air and threw up her hands to block Portia’s windmill attack. She was still trying to decide what to do. She’d hit a pregnant girl before — when Portia had busted her and Bernie in Mercy’s house — but that had been a life-or-death situation. Rolling around on some stranger’s lawn, it just didn’t seem like the right thing to do.

  There was a flurry of activity near Soren and Axel, but no one really seemed to want to get in the middle of things. Lark had one hand in Portia’s face, forcing her head away with gentle pressure to the jaw, but Portia was flying off the rails.

  She slapped Lark again — hard — and slid up Lark’s stomach. Her bony fingers closed around Lark’s throat, and Denali hurled himself at Portia.

  “Owww! Fuck!” Lark managed, trying to pry Portia’s fingers away from her windpipe.

  Portia sloughed Denali off with a hard shrug and dug in harder. Suddenly Lark had had enough.

  She tossed her hips to the side, throwing Portia into the grass. Lark flipped Portia onto her back and returned with a tempered punch of her own. It caught her squarely in the temple, which only seemed to intensify her rage. Portia threw out a hand — nails drawn back like a cat’s — and clawed Lark across the face.

  “Hey! Hey!” Lark yelled, leaning forward to restrain Portia by the wrists. “That is enough!”

  Portia hawked up a loogie and spit in Lark’s face. “You bitch!”

  “Nice to see you, too,” panted Lark, fighting the urge to knock the girl sideways.

  Finally Portia stopped struggling, and Lark had a chance to notice that she did not look well. Her skin was extremely pale — especially her lips, which were normally plump and pouty.

  “Are you done?” Lark murmured.

  Portia just scowled. Lark waited a beat to see if she was going to resume her struggle and then released her grip on Portia’s arms.

  Portia continued to glare at her but didn’t attack, so Lark got up and hauled Portia to her feet. As she moved, the pink T-shirt rode up in the front, and Lark saw a small but noticeable bump protruding from her abdomen.

  Everyone watched with bated breath as Portia tugged down her shirt and stomped back inside. Denali watched her go with a low growl.

  Lark was still breathing hard and fast. Axel’s face was stretched in a perverted grin, Simjay was drooling, and Soren looked relieved.

  Bernie was the first to break the silence. “Should we, uh, go in and get you settled, then?”

  Lark gave a shaky nod and followed Bernie onto the porch. She heard a flurry of gruff male sighs as Soren and Axel hoisted Simjay back up in his cocoon of blankets and carried him up the porch steps.

  The moment Lark stepped inside, she had the bizarre feeling that she’d been thrust back in time. Plastic emergency lanterns cast long shadows over the creaky parquet floor. The kitchen was decked out in dark oak cabinets and checkered accents, with at least a dozen ceramic roosters glaring down at them from every nook and cranny.

  A scalloped wooden arch over the bar looked straight into the den, where the built-in bookcases were crowded with decorative plates and Precious Moments figurines. A faded green couch, a plaid armchair, and a well-loved La-Z-Boy were situated around the coffee table, and to Lark’s right, a set of sliding glass doors led out to a deck.

  Soren and Axel heaved Simjay onto the couch while Lark inched down the hallway to get a better look at the bedrooms.

  “Portia’s got the master all to herself,” said Bernie. “You can room with me if you want.”

  She shined her light into what looked like the guest room. Lark caught a glimpse of a white lace comforter, frilly floral wallpaper, and lots of wicker furniture adorned with silk flowers.

  “One of the guys can take the couch — I think it’s a pullout — but the rest of you will have to bunk in there.”

  Bernie flashed her light down to the end of the hallway, stifling what Lark recognized as a snort of hilarity. Inside, Lark saw that there were two twin beds — one against each wall — and that the entire room was decorated in a lurid cowboy theme.

  It was clearly a kids bedroom. One bed was done up to look like a covered wagon, while the other had a wrought-iron headboard with the silhouette of a horse in the middle. The quilts were a mishmash
of blue stars and red bandanas, and the walls were decked out in cowboy hats and lassos.

  “I’ll take the couch,” said Soren.

  “So long as me and Sim don’ have to share a bed,” said Axel, glaring at the awkward family photos on the mantel.

  “Oh, don’t you worry ’bout that, cowpoke,” said Bernie.

  Axel wrinkled his nose in confusion but didn’t say anything.

  They ate a silent meal of canned peaches and ramen, and the guys moved Simjay into the cowboy bedroom. After a heated argument over who would take the wagon bed, they gave Simjay his meds and wandered back outside.

  Bernie and Lark shut themselves into the guest room, and Denali padded in behind them. He was oddly terrified of the ceramic roosters, and he curled up at the foot of the bed just as he had back at San Judas.

  “So what’s up with you and Soren?” Bernie asked as soon as they were alone.

  Lark’s stomach squirmed. “What do you mean?”

  Bernie rolled her eyes. “Come on . . . I could feel that arctic breeze from twenty feet away!”

  “Oh.” Lark averted her gaze, feeling slightly ashamed. She hadn’t thought it had been that obvious, but she should have known that her best friend would see that she was holding Soren at arm’s length.

  Bernie egged her on with a sideways look, and Lark collapsed onto the bed with a sharp kick of discomfort.

  “He told me you were dead,” she groaned, getting a familiar swoop of dread in her gut when she thought back to the night they’d fled San Judas. “He said he saw you go down after you were shot and that there was nothing I could do.”

  “I did go down,” said Bernie, wide-eyed in the glow of their plastic lantern.

  “Yeah, but he didn’t know you were dead.”

  “He knew there was nothing you could do,” said Bernie seriously. “It’s not like you could have carried me out of there. And even if you had, I probably would have died. They had to remove the bullet fragments and stitch me back up. I would have bled to death if I’d made it out of there.”