by Tarah Benner
Lark waited, feeling as though she might shrivel under Mercy’s gaze.
Finally, she spoke. “You wish to take Bernadette’s punishment?”
Lark nodded.
There was a rumble of activity behind her, but she couldn’t tell if the other inmates were angry or excited about the surprising turn of events. Denali whined and began to pace in tight, nervous circles.
Lark took a deep breath, bracing herself for Mercy’s scorn or even punishment for interrupting the proceedings. But then, to her surprise, Mercy nodded in her direction.
“This is unorthodox, but . . . I’ll allow it.”
Lark swallowed to stop herself from throwing up and looked into Bernie’s eyes.
“No,” Bernie choked, pushing herself onto her hands and knees. “I’ll take my punishment. This has nothing to do with Lark.”
“Lark seems to think it does,” said Mercy evenly. “Clearly she thinks you aren’t strong enough to face the consequences of your actions.”
Lark didn’t move or speak, but she hoped Bernie knew that wasn’t the case.
“I’d be grateful, if I were you,” Mercy added.
Bernie was fuming, but she didn’t lash out. She knew she was in enough trouble as it was, and she didn’t want to make things worse for Lark.
A moment later, one of the daughters wrenched her to her feet, unwinding the ropes tied around her wrists as Bernie babbled uncontrollably.
“No. No. You can’t. Lark didn’t do anything. It was me. I started the fight. Lark was trying to stop it!”
But no one was paying her any attention. Bernie was no longer the focus of Mercy’s cruelty, so the crowd had turned its attention to Lark. They were all watching hungrily, as though they’d been starved for violence for far too long.
They didn’t exactly hate Lark, but they’d learned to fear her. Everybody knew she’d killed a man. They just didn’t know why.
A strange sort of numbness settled over Lark as two of Mercy’s daughters grabbed her by the arms and pushed her toward the whipping post. Denali let out a vicious growl and lunged at one of the daughters, and suddenly a club swung out of nowhere.
Lark screamed. Denali bounced off the end of the club with a pitiful whine, but he didn’t seem to be badly hurt.
“Control that animal!” barked Mercy.
“Down,” Lark choked, fighting back tears.
With an unmistakable look of betrayal, Denali padded backward with his tail between his legs. This, more than anything, was the thing that broke Lark. He thought she was rejecting him. He thought he was being punished.
“Stay,” Lark growled, more forcefully this time.
Denali obeyed, but Bernie — now free — reached down and grabbed hold of him. She knew how he would react to Lark being beaten. She’d be lucky if he didn’t rip her arm off trying to get to Lark.
Despite her earlier resolve not to look at her, Lark glanced down at Bernie. Tears were streaming silently down Bernie’s face, carving muddy tracks down her cheeks. She sniffed loudly and shook her head, but Lark tore her eyes away and tried to focus on something else.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the daughters reach for the whip. It was made out of tree bark and had a handle wrapped in leather.
“Bare your back,” Mercy snarled, staring down at Lark as though she were a rat that needed to be exterminated. “You may stand or kneel.”
Lark swallowed and lowered herself to her knees. She gripped her shirt with shaky hands and pulled it up, but one of Mercy’s daughters slapped her hands away and ripped the shirt down the middle.
Facing the whipping post, Lark held up her hands for the daughters to tie. The surge of voices in the crowd grew louder and louder, but Lark felt strangely far away as the ropes cut into her skin.
“The punishment for inciting violence is twenty lashes,” said Mercy.
Lark dragged in a burst of air through her nose and fixed her eyes on the pale blue sky. She imagined herself standing on top of a mountain, staring down at the world below.
She knew exactly when Mercy’s enforcer was about to strike, because Bernie let out a scream so chilling one would have thought it was her that was about to be whipped.
White-hot pain erupted all over Lark’s back, sending a surge of heat and agony flaring through her body. Denali let out a ferocious sound somewhere between a bark and a growl.
Lark whimpered, but her body didn’t have time to absorb the pain before Mercy’s daughter delivered another strike.
She ground her teeth together to keep her screams at bay, but the noises her body was making were wild and involuntary. Tears clouded her view of the distant mountains, and she felt as though she might combust from the heat.
As the pain overtook her, she lost count of the lashes.
She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t even scream.
five
Soren
A month passing without any supply drop shook the prison to its core. No inmate could ignore the ominous cloud of dread that had settled over San Judas, especially in the men’s colony.
Tensions were already at an all-time high. The food stores from the last harvest were seriously depleted, and the Peters brothers were on the warpath.
But despite the air of crisis hanging over the colony, Soren wasn’t thinking about supplies that day. He was thinking about the girl from the river — the girl he’d watched from a distance every week for a year.
That morning he’d done the unthinkable: He’d initiated contact.
It wasn’t something he’d ever planned on doing, but his discovery about the guards had made him bold. Soren was dying to tell someone what he knew, and for whatever reason, he wanted to tell the girl.
In reality, he didn’t know if he could trust her, but he felt compelled just the same. Something about her told him that she was just as hungry for freedom as he was, though she hid her desperation well.
Instead, he’d decided to test the waters with a poem he’d found in one of the books from the prison library. Just reading it felt criminal, but he’d copied it down, stuffed the note into a plastic bottle, and floated it downstream.
As it turned out, the girl hadn’t noticed it, but her dog had. Soren had been watching from the other side of the river when she retrieved the bottle and read what he’d written.
The girl hadn’t smiled. She hadn’t even blinked. But Soren had known when she finished reading because there was a light in her eyes that wasn’t there before. It had lit up her whole face and caused his heart to swell with hope.
That look was all he could think about as they watched the women file through the south corridor to reach their supplies. It stayed with him when the riot broke out and when word spread that the prison administrators hadn’t left them any seed or supplies. He had to contact her again.
It was this thought that kept him going as he stood in the long, restless mess line, waiting for the meager spoonful of slop Jorge would ladle into his bowl. The sun was beating down with excruciating intensity, and tempers were running high.
“What’s taking so long?” muttered Shep. He was standing behind Soren, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other.
“No idea.” Soren knew Jorge was probably on his last vat of mush, but he didn’t say so. Shep always got keyed up when they ran out of food, which had happened a handful of times in the year and a half Shep had been inside.
Suddenly, Soren heard a commotion up ahead. The line pressed forward, and several men near the front let out angry growls of protest.
“Is he out?” Shep asked, craning his neck to see over the crowd.
It seemed that he was. Jorge was yelling at some men near the front, swearing in Spanish and waving his ladle like a sword. Soren couldn’t understand half of what he was saying, but he could tell by the angry set of Jorge’s mustache that he was telling the men to clear off.
“Fuck,” Soren breathed, glancing down at his empty clay bowl and wishing he�
�d stowed one of those skinny gray squirrels back at their cabin instead of surrendering them all to the kitchens.
Just then, the line pitched forward, and he saw several men near the front launch themselves at the cook. Jorge went down, and the crowd erupted into chaos.
“Shit!” muttered Soren, pushing his way through the line.
For once, nobody shot him a dirty look or threw out a leg to trip him for cutting. Most people Soren passed were too confused to be angry as he pushed them aside and swam toward Jorge.
Up close, he could see that the cook was outnumbered five to one. Anthony, the instigator, was choking Jorge while two of his friends punched him in the stomach. Soren caught two stray fists and a kick as he sank a headlock onto one of the men and dragged him away from Jorge.
An enormous shadow overhead told him that Shep had joined in the fight, and within a few minutes, they’d managed to extract Jorge from the mess of limbs.
Jorge had a bloody nose but wasn’t too badly hurt. Unfortunately, their scuffle seemed to have stoked the agitated crowd, and small scuffles were breaking out behind them.
A sharp pain flared over Soren’s skull, and he swayed dangerously on the spot. Somebody had struck him on the back of the head, and the square was spinning in and out of focus.
He stumbled, knocking into another guy, and somebody grabbed him by the front of his shirt.
Soren braced himself for another blow, but before the man’s knuckles collided with his face, a deep, threatening voice erupted over the crowd.
“What the fuck’s all this?” yelled Marcus.
Soren froze, and the man gripping his shirt let go.
Marcus was one of the Peters brothers’ three enormous henchmen, and as always, he was flanked by his sidekicks, Tyrell and Big Jim. All three of them were dark, beefy, and aggressive, dressed in sagging gray pants and oversized navy T-shirts. They were some of the biggest assholes in San Judas, charged with bullying the weak, doling out beatings, and stealing anything of value.
“Hello?” Marcus yelled, looking around to find someone to single out. “I ast’d a question . . . Now, somebody bed’r answer me!”
Nobody spoke.
“Marcus!” roared another voice.
Soren’s stomach did an uncomfortable flop. The voice belonged to Hudson, the oldest and meanest of the Peters brothers. He was striding through the crowd with his huge arms swinging at his sides, perspiration shining on his big bald head.
Marcus, Big Jim, and Tyrell looked around stupidly, and the rest of the men watched in silence. It wasn’t like Hudson Peters to get his hands dirty.
The men dived out of the way to clear a path for him. The mouth inside Hudson’s thin goatee was twisted into a scowl, and his enormous hands were balled into fists.
Soren’s feeling of unease grew when Hudson stopped in front of the serving line. His cold eyes swept over the empty steel vat, Jorge’s dusty smock, and the disheveled men who’d instigated the brawl. At first Soren thought Hudson might lash out at Jorge, but then his gaze locked on Anthony.
Anthony, for what it was worth, looked as though he was about to piss himself. His sallow skin drained of color, and his bushy eyebrows disappeared into his frizzy blond afro.
Hudson pointed, and Marcus grabbed Anthony around the neck. Big Jim shoved one of his buddies into the puddle of grease that had spilled from the vat, and the rest of them scampered away from the scene.
Marcus dragged Anthony away from the line so that everyone could see him. By now, the inmates who’d already eaten had emerged from their shanties and begun to gather around the square. They were all muttering to each other in low, uneasy voices, and, like Soren, they seemed to sense that something horrible was about to happen.
“Unless you been livin’ under a fucking rock . . .” Hudson yelled, turning and decking Anthony in the face.
Anthony’s entire head snapped around, and Soren saw a trail of blood splatter onto the dirt.
“The powers that be didn’ leave us a goddamn crumb!” Hudson punctuated this next line with a vicious punch to Anthony’s liver.
Anthony doubled over with a horrible cry of pain, but he couldn’t move with Marcus holding his arms behind his back.
“Those of you cryin’ in your shanties and pickin’ fights to get more than your share . . .” He turned abruptly and sent Anthony’s head flying in the opposite direction with a vicious left hook. “You won’ be with us for long.”
Soren felt as though his stomach was trying to force its way out of his throat. He hated Anthony with every bone in his body, but watching Hudson beat him for show made him feel sick.
Hudson allowed himself a thoughtful pause before addressing the crowd again. “When times get tough . . . only the strong survive.”
He turned halfway toward Marcus, who released Anthony so abruptly that he fell to his knees, coughing and retching.
Hudson watched Anthony writhe on the ground for several seconds, turning something over in his mind. Then he fumbled with his jeans and removed his thick brown belt.
“The fact that the administrators have stopped our supplies means somebody in here gave them a reason. I don’ know who, I don’ know why, but one of you filthy shit stains does.”
He bent down toward Anthony and fumbled with the belt. Soren couldn’t see what he was doing, but a second later, he snapped up at the waist, dragging Anthony by the head.
A sick sort of gurgle erupted from Anthony’s mouth. His whole face was turning bright red, and Soren realized that he had Hudson’s belt looped around his neck. His hands were slipping on and off Hudson’s, and it looked as though his head might pop right off.
“You got somethin’ you wanna tell me, shithead?” Hudson growled, drawing Anthony closer so that the belt cut into his throat.
Soren was sure Anthony would be shaking his head, but the guy couldn’t breathe, much less speak. His skin was turning an astonishing array of colors, and his eyes were bugging out.
For a few seconds, he tried to pry the belt away from his throat, but Hudson was much stronger.
Soren watched in horror as Anthony’s feet continued to flail. His face had turned a bright bluish purple, and his lips had gone stark white. After a few seconds, he stopped struggling, and his arms dropped to his side.
Hudson released his grip with a look of disgust, and Anthony hit the ground with a thud.
Soren could see the angry red-and-purple marks on his neck where the leather strap had cut into his skin, but Anthony didn’t move to rub his throat. He didn’t move at all.
Soren’s insides seemed to liquefy. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. The crowd was still watching in stunned silence, waiting for Anthony to make a sound.
Then, slowly, the realization dawned on them: Anthony wasn’t unconscious. Anthony was dead.
“Somebody here knows why they cut off our supplies,” said Hudson, sounding as though he’d already forgotten about the 170-pound man lying dead at his feet. “Somebody knows somethin’, and I’m not gonna rest ’til I know what it is.”
six
Lark
Slowly, painfully, Lark emerged from the darkness. Light was leaking in from between her salty eyelids, and every inch of her felt as though it had been flayed.
When she finally opened her eyes, she was surprised to find herself lying facedown in her bed with a blanket drawn up to her waist. The wind whipping through the cracks around the window made the kerosene lamp sputter, and she could just make out a basin of pink-tinged water, a sad little soap chip, and a threadbare rag stained with blood. Bernie must have been cleaning her wounds.
Lark heard a heavy panting to her left and looked around. Denali was sitting beside the door, standing guard. When he saw that she was awake, he jumped onto the bed and started licking her face.
Lark turned away and tried to push herself into a seated position, but that small movement sent a flash of pain down her back. She bit back a yell and slid off the bed, reaching around to stem the fre
sh wave of blood trickling down her back.
The light pulsating beneath the flesh of her forearm had turned a sickly shade of yellow, which meant she was either fighting off an infection or that her erratic heart rate had triggered the sensor.
The rudimentary first-aid supplies weren’t much, but they were probably the best Bernie and Rita could do. Creosote leaves would help with infection, but the closest bush — if there was one — would be down by the river.
Fighting a wave of dizziness, Lark grabbed a fresh shirt and carefully slid it over her arms. Her back burned as she wriggled it over her shoulders, and she felt her skin rip anew as she pulled the hem down to her waist.
She shuddered. She didn’t think she could go through that again with her jacket, so she just draped it over her shoulders and secured the top button.
As Lark moved toward the door, a strange, off-kilter feeling hit her like a sledgehammer. She felt dizzy and lightheaded, but it wasn’t from the pain. Bernie must have given her something to sleep, and the effects hadn’t worn off yet.
Fighting the buzzing sensation in her head, Lark pushed the door open and set out into the darkness. She could still make out the orangish glow of firelight in the distance, but she didn’t encounter a single person on her way to the woods. Denali trotted along behind her, determined never to leave her side again.
As they entered the dark canopy, Lark’s senses were engulfed by the rush of wind through the trees and the snore of a spadefoot toad. The familiar sounds felt like a balm for her wounds, but then out of nowhere came a horrible retching noise.
Lark froze. Denali let out a low, throaty growl, and Lark made a sharp tsk between her teeth to cut him off.
The stranger retched again, and this time Lark knew she hadn’t imagined it. It sounded as if someone was becoming violently ill, but then it stopped, and she heard footsteps.