by Tarah Benner
“Whoops!” said Axel as he hurled a rock through the front window.
“Axel!” Soren hissed, looking around to make sure the place was deserted. It hardly mattered. Axel was already kicking stray shards of glass aside and climbing through the window.
Portia picked her way around the glass and followed him inside. Soren climbed in behind her, feeling a slight prickle of unease.
By the looks of things, someone had already looted the general store, but there were plenty of fishing rods and lures left on the other side of the building. Axel managed to unearth a flashlight from behind the counter and began rummaging through the cardboard boxes in back. Soren walked slowly through the store, noticing the few odds and ends still hanging from their hooks.
All of the nonperishables were gone, as were the first-aid supplies, sunglasses, and pallets of bottled water. All that was left was an assortment of light bulbs, a leaky bottle of sunblock, and a package of sour gummy worms.
Soren froze at the sight of the familiar blue bag, and his chest tightened as nostalgia whipped through him. His face went numb, his mouth fell open, and a hard lump formed in the back of his throat.
Wordlessly, he reached out for the gummies and swallowed to clear his airways. It felt as though he had just stepped back in time. Micah had loved sour gummy worms.
Throughout their childhood, the candy had become Soren’s go-to peace offering whenever he’d upset his little brother. Once he’d hurled a bag across the room after he’d kicked Micah’s soccer ball onto the roof of their school, and he’d done it again the day he’d inadvertently gotten Micah in trouble with Clint.
Whenever Micah had been riding in the car or lounging in his room, he would whip one of the gummies between his teeth and rip it savagely in half. He’d polish off the whole bag in an afternoon and then empty the sour dust from the bottom into his waiting mouth.
The unexpected memory of Micah demolishing a bag of gummy worms sent a fresh pang of grief through Soren. The surge of emotion came on so strong and fast that Soren had to grip the edge of the shelf to remain upright.
It had just hit him that he would never see his brother again, and he didn’t know if he could handle it.
“Umm, are you okay?” asked Portia.
Soren wheeled around and saw her standing directly behind him. Clearly she’d witnessed his little episode, and she looked wary.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, turning away.
“Do you want those?” asked Portia, pointing at the package of gummy worms clutched in his hand.
“What?”
“The gummy worms.”
Soren shook his head.
In truth, he did want them, but not to eat — just to have. He knew he couldn’t say that to Portia, though, or she really would think he was crazy.
“Here,” he said, shoving the bag into her hands before she could get a good look at his face.
That seemed to satisfy her. Portia took the bag from him and tore it open with zeal. She popped a gummy worm into her mouth, closed her eyes, and let out a moan of ecstasy.
“I haven’t had any candy in . . .” She opened her eyes. “I don’t even remember the last time I had candy.”
Soren forced a small half smile and scooted away before Axel could see him. Portia might be able to shrug off his odd behavior, but Axel would know that something was up.
Soren edged his way down the aisle, muttering that he needed to pee. He let himself out the back door, and the cool evening air whipped over his face like a bucket of frigid water.
It was a beautiful night. The crickets were chirping and the moon was out, but all Soren could feel was a debilitating weight of sadness.
Everything seemed to hit him at once: How close they’d come to freedom only to watch it slip away. How badly he’d fucked up his life. His family was dead. Micah was dead, and it was at least a little bit his fault.
A few weeks ago, he’d still had a brother. If he hadn’t ever gone to San Judas, he might still have one. He knew that it was stupid to think that he could have kept Micah from drowning on that bridge, but Soren couldn’t shake the thought that he might have been able to prevent his brother’s death.
Suddenly, the lump in his throat he’d been fighting seemed too big to swallow. It burst out of him like vomit, and he let out a dry sob so powerful that he couldn’t keep it quiet.
He hunched down on the ground so that no one would see him and let out a low, pitiful howl. Tears streamed from his eyes as he buckled over, and his chest heaved with the effort he’d been expending to keep his sobs at bay.
Soren’s whole body shook as he crouched there in the weeds, wishing he could die or simply disappear.
His whole adult life, Soren had lived by one rule and one rule only: Do what’s best for Micah. It was why he’d skated by with Ds in school so he could work two jobs. It was the reason he’d stuck around in Kingsville and kept coming back to his mother’s house after he’d sworn that he was done with her. It was why he’d beaten Clint to a pulp and taken off with Micah that day. It was all he could think to do.
Soren had reexamined every move he’d made a thousand times, but each time he reached the same conclusion: He wouldn’t have done anything differently. None of it had been an act of selfishness or rebellion. All of it had been for Micah.
Micah was why he’d escaped San Judas in the first place. His only plan had been to get out so that he could find his brother and get him as far away from Clint as possible.
That wasn’t the plan anymore. Micah and Clint were dead. What did he have now? He had no home, no family, no job. He was just a person moving through the world for the sole purpose of existing. But Soren didn’t want to just exist. He needed direction.
In those bleak moments inside Cheyenne Mountain, he’d convinced himself that Lark could give him purpose. But the more he’d thought about it, the more he’d realized that Lark wasn’t Micah.
She didn’t want to be suffocated by him. Lark loved her freedom more than she loved him, and he knew that he would drive her away if he tried to hold on to her as tightly as he’d tried to hold on to Micah. He’d lose her just as he’d lost him.
After a moment, Soren managed to regain control of his body and push himself to his feet. A sudden wave of clarity washed over him, sharpening his senses and awakening him to his surroundings.
He just had to keep going. He couldn’t think about Lark or Micah. He just had to keep putting one foot in front of the other until he figured out what was next. The alternative . . . Well, he didn’t want to think about that.
Soren took a deep breath and looked around. He was standing behind the general store staring at an old red pickup with an impressive web of rust along its back wheel. There were twin tire tracks in the weeds that told him it had been driven recently, though he didn’t know how recently that might have been.
Just then, the back door banged open, and Axel burst out with Portia trailing a few feet behind him.
“Let’s go,” said Axel in a breathless rush. He was brandishing a silver pistol that he hadn’t had before, and his eyes were alight with excitement.
“What’s going on?” asked Soren, still dazed from his epiphany.
“We gotta move,” said Axel, tossing the pistol to Portia. “We got company.”
5
Lark
The glow of the sunrise was just beginning to fill the sky when the Baileys’ defunct grain silo came into view. It was superimposed over the horizon like a beacon welcoming them home, and Lark felt an immediate swell of relief.
She’d been teetering on the edge of a meltdown all night — consumed by her mounting fear and paranoia. She knew the feds were still after them, but when she got her first glimpse of the farm, she felt as though she’d been given a temporary reprieve from her worries.
They were coasting into Carlsbad on fumes, but Lark felt that they’d gotten extremely lucky. They hadn’t had any run-ins with the feds, and Lark couldn’t help wondering if the Depa
rtment of Homeland Security was purposely keeping its distance — waiting for the right moment to make the arrest.
Lark pushed this thought out of her mind as they turned down the Baileys’ gravel driveway. Walt, his daughter Katrina, and Thompson had been through so much already, and Lark couldn’t bear the thought of putting them in danger.
But if Lark was honest with herself, that was exactly what they were doing. They were fugitives on the run — she herself was a killer — but Lark didn’t know where else to go.
Suddenly, what looked like a rock flew out of nowhere and bounced off their windshield with a loud crack!
Bernie let out a scream of surprise, and Conrad jumped about a foot in the air. Denali let loose a terrified bark, and Lark hit the brakes to stop the car.
“Stop!” yelled a voice from outside. There was a flurry of movement off to her left, and a curvy woman with light-blond hair appeared. It was Thompson, and she was holding a shotgun.
“Hands where I can see them!” she yelled.
Lark threw the Subaru into park and rolled down her window. It was a risky move. One wrong jerk of her hand, and Thompson would blow them all to smithereens.
“Thompson . . . it’s me!” she called, hoping that Thompson would look before she decided to shoot.
“Lark?” There was no mistaking Thompson’s tone of surprise. She lowered her shotgun and put her fingers to her mouth. Thompson let out a high-pitched whistle, and Katrina stepped out from behind a tree.
At the sight of Katrina, Denali let out an excited whine and tried to squeeze around the seat to get to her. Bernie and Conrad looked less than thrilled. With her jet-black hair, nose ring, and tattoos, Katrina looked much more intimidating than she was.
“No — way!” she said, breaking into a wide grin and sprinting across the yard in a pair of distressed blue jeans, combat boots, and a skintight leather vest.
She let out a loud whoop as Lark climbed out of the driver’s seat and threw her arms around her neck. Lark squeezed Katrina back, but her embrace was nothing compared to Katrina’s bone-crushing hug.
“I knew you’d be back!” Katrina yelled, turning to Thompson with wide, excited eyes. “Didn’t I tell you?”
Thompson nodded, though her enthusiasm was somewhat dimmer than Katrina’s.
Lark didn’t take it personally. Thompson’s sister Starlight had been the quintessential free spirit, whereas Thompson was the tough, no-nonsense ex-cop. She’d struck Lark as serious and methodical before, but since her sister’s death, Lark guessed that she had only become more protective of the Baileys.
“Heyya, Katrina,” said Simjay, getting out of the vehicle and cracking a roguish grin. “How you doin’, girl?”
“Hi, Simjay,” said Katrina, kindly suppressing an eye roll at Simjay’s overly familiar demeanor. It didn’t seem to matter that Katrina was a lesbian. Simjay couldn’t turn off the charm.
As he struggled to conceal the way he was ogling both women, Bernie let out a breath of annoyance and climbed out to introduce herself.
“I’m Bernie,” she said, sticking out her hand a bit too aggressively and giving Katrina her most winning smile.
“You’re Bernie?” said Katrina, oblivious to the jealous rage that Lark was sure had just flared through Bernie’s system. “I’ve heard so much about you!”
“You have?”
“Yeah, of course!” said Katrina.
“This is Conrad,” said Simjay, gesturing over to their awkward pilot, who was slinking shyly out of the passenger seat.
“Hi, Conrad,” said Katrina.
Conrad smiled but glanced around nervously, as if he expected an anvil to fall from the sky. Katrina took his hand and smiled warmly, but Lark saw her glance into the station wagon, as if Soren and Axel might be crammed into the back.
“Are the others . . .” Katrina trailed off, and Lark felt a surge of dread when she realized what she must be thinking.
“They’re alive,” she said quickly. “We had to split up, but they’re supposed to meet us here.”
Katrina looked visibly relieved, and her concern gave Lark a swoop of fondness for the Baileys.
Denali was happy. He kept circling the group and wagging his tail, and when Katrina bent down to pet him, he closed his eyes and opened his mouth in a happy, contented pant.
“Everything okay?” Thompson asked, glancing at the vehicle with an expression that told Lark she knew it was stolen.
“Umm . . .” Lark glanced at Simjay. “It’s a long story.”
Katrina shook her head with an amused glimmer in her eyes, but Thompson looked concerned.
“We’ve, uh . . . gotten ourselves into some trouble,” said Simjay.
“What else is new?” said Katrina.
“More trouble than before,” Lark added.
Katrina glanced up at Thompson, but before she could say anything, the front door of the farmhouse banged open. Some small part of Lark still expected Starlight to come running out in one of her butterfly tops, smelling like fresh-baked cookies with her wispy brown hair askew. But it wasn’t Starlight. Starlight was dead.
Instead, Walt was ambling down the driveway toward them, looking ancient beyond his years. A week and a half without Starlight seemed to have aged him significantly. The lines around his eyes looked deeper, his old denim overalls hung looser on his frame, and his head looked strangely oversized in his old trucker hat.
“Lark,” he said as soon as he was within earshot. “Is everything all right?”
Lark sighed. “I’m sorry to ask this, but . . . I need a favor.”
“Well, shoot,” said Walt, a flicker of amusement twinkling in his light-blue eyes.
“Actually, I need two favors.”
“And what might those be?”
“We should probably go inside,” said Lark, feeling antsy. She couldn’t just blurt it out. She needed to warm up a little before she laid it all out on the table.
“All right.”
Lark took a deep breath and started back toward the house. Her guilt about dragging the Baileys into their problems was outweighed only by her desperation. The secret was burning inside of her, and she longed to tell Walt what was going on.
“It’s good to have you back,” said Walt as they trailed up the driveway. His tone was light and conversational, but Lark knew his approach was a time-tested strategy he’d used to get the truth out of his kids when they were growing up.
“Yeah,” said Lark. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”
“Mmm.”
Lark hesitated. They hadn’t even made it to the porch, but she felt that she had to tell him.
She stopped dead in her tracks and turned, cringing inwardly as she anticipated his reaction. “Walt, you should know . . . We’re wanted by Homeland Security.”
Walt’s snowy eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You don’t say.”
Lark’s face scrunched into an apologetic expression, but she didn’t know exactly how to tell him that she needed his help. She decided a direct approach was best.
“I wouldn’t be dragging you into this if it weren’t important,” she continued.
Walt’s eyes twinkled in a way that told Lark he wasn’t going to shut her out or banish them from his farm. He didn’t balk at other people’s problems. She’d seen enough of Walt to know that he would do whatever he could to help.
“This sounds like the sort of discussion one ought to have with a very strong cup of coffee,” he mused. “’Course we haven’t been able to get any coffee lately, so it’ll have to be tea, I suppose. Or scotch . . . Pick your poison.”
“Tea’s fine,” said Lark. She didn’t think a cup of tea was going to help with their problems, but it seemed rude to point this out. Instead, she just followed Walt up the driveway and onto the porch.
The Baileys’ farmhouse was old but well loved. It was painted white with a single gable that rose up like a guardian over the farm. Slat-back rockers were scattered around the porch, and Lark fe
lt a twinge of sadness as she took in the sheets of plywood that were still nailed over the living-room windows.
Behind the house, Lark could see the charred side of the barn and several acres of fields that had been set ablaze. The destruction was a harsh reminder of what had transpired the last time Lark had been there. She and the others had had a run-in with a vicious biker gang that had tailed them back to the Baileys’ farm and killed Starlight in the process.
There was a marked difference in the feeling Lark got this time when she stepped through the creaky screen door. There were no delicious scents wafting from the kitchen, and no one was there to greet them with a warm smile.
The Baileys’ house still smelled like burned wood, and the living room stood in complete disarray. The sheets of plywood over the windows blocked out the light, casting a drab pallor over everything. Pieces of furniture had been rearranged to cover up the bloodstains on the hardwood floor, and there was a layer of dust and clutter over every surface. Presumably Starlight had done most of the cleaning, and no one had taken up that torch since she died.
“Come on,” said Walt, gesturing to one of the armchairs by the fireplace. “Sit down, sit down.”
Lark sat, wishing more than anything that she could take away some of the grief that hung thick over the house.
Bernie, Simjay, and Conrad all squeezed onto the lumpy couch. Bernie looked extremely uncomfortable, and Conrad seemed terrified. Thompson went into the kitchen to make tea while Katrina perched on the edge of her father’s armrest.
“So,” said Walt, fixing his gaze on Lark once again. “What can I help you with?”
Lark took a deep breath. “You know how I said that we were wanted by the Department of Homeland Security?”
Walt nodded.
“Well, they were after something else . . . something besides us.” Lark glanced at Bernie and Simjay. “They wanted our help — mine, actually.” Lark took a deep breath. “They wanted me to help them get their hands on some of GreenSeed’s supercrops. GreenSeed was holding on to their seed until they got FDA approval and they could take the crops to market . . . patented.”