by Tarah Benner
His stench was so strong she could practically taste it: sweat and lighter fluid and acetone. His teeth were rotten, his nails were dirty, and his eyes were an icy blue.
The man shifted his legs so that he could straddle her hips, and Bernie pushed herself deeper into the couch. She threw her bound arms out in front of her — trying to push him away — but he grabbed her wrists and forced her arms over her head.
He was strong — much stronger than he looked. He held her arms there with one hand while his other raked up and down her body.
Bernie shuddered, and in that moment, she willed her mind to go someplace else. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. He was writhing on top of her as his free hand took greedy fistfuls of her breasts, hips, and butt.
His fingers found her waistband and tugged. Her borrowed jeans were already too loose, and they slid down easily over the top of her underwear.
Bernie swallowed. This was it. She twisted her body to the side, but it was no use. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it to all be over, and then she heard a wild yell.
She opened her eyes in time to see a flesh-colored blur collide with the man’s shoulder. Simjay knocked into Bernie’s assailant with the force of a linebacker and snaked an arm around his throat.
He wrenched the man off of Bernie, and the two of them slammed into the ground. Simjay clambered on top in a flurry of limbs and punched the man in the nose. Half a second later, Portia sprang from the bed with a wild yell. She snatched up a baseball bat propped along the wall and leapt across the trailer to help Simjay.
Bernie tugged her pants back up around her waist and stared dumbfounded at the two of them. Simjay was not Simjay anymore. He was straddling the man’s hips, and his face was twisted in rage. His knuckles were bloody, but he didn’t stop swinging until Portia brought the baseball bat down on the man’s knees.
The man screamed in pain, and Bernie heard footsteps coming from outside the trailer. Portia’s head snapped to the door, and then she bolted across the room just as the door swung open.
Bernie heard a sickening crunch followed by a blood-curdling scream. She looked out the window above her and saw the woman hit the ground. Portia leapt through the door after her, long dark hair whipping behind her as she brought the bat down across the woman’s stomach. She yelled.
Portia drew back her weapon again and smacked the lady in the kneecaps and then in the head. The sound of wood on bone was quickly drowned out by a scream, and then Portia shattered the woman’s teeth.
Bernie had to look away as Portia continued her assault, but the view of Simjay beating the man bloody wasn’t much better. Simjay’s normally playful eyes were clouded with fury, and he seemed unaware of anything except the crumpled pile of flesh in front of him.
Finally the woman’s cries faded to silence, and Portia reappeared inside the trailer. She was panting from exertion, and her eyes were flashing with satisfaction.
She walked over to Simjay, who was sweaty and panting with fatigue. “Get up,” she said, more gently than Bernie had ever heard her.
Simjay stopped moving, and Bernie was startled to see how pale he looked. He stood up with a wince of pain, and concern flared through Bernie as he buckled at the waist.
“Did you rip your stitches?” Portia asked sharply.
“It’s nothing,” Simjay gasped.
But it didn’t look like nothing. Simjay was in pain.
Portia walked around the man’s limp body until she was standing directly over his hips. She rested the baseball bat on her shoulder and cocked her head to the side as if she were studying a piece of art.
“You filthy piece of human garbage,” Portia whispered, her nostrils flaring in disgust.
Bernie was unprepared for what happened next. In one violent motion, Portia gripped the bat and brought it down over the man’s head. Blood splattered everywhere, and Bernie gagged as the warm mist reached her face.
“I’m gonna go deal with the son,” said Portia quietly, stepping over the man and striding back outside.
Bernie watched through the window as Portia flicked the baseball bat toward the ground to knock off the bloody chunks of hair and flesh. She shuddered.
“Are you . . .” Simjay began.
Bernie looked at him. He was standing a few feet away, watching her with a pained expression.
“No,” Bernie whispered, tears springing into her eyes.
Simjay hesitated, looking as though he desperately wanted to comfort her but didn’t know how. His body blurred as tears welled up in Bernie’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. A moment later, Simjay kneeled down in front of her and began ripping off her bindings.
“Sorry,” he murmured as the tape pulled at her skin.
Bernie shook her head to say it didn’t matter, but through her undulating veil of tears, she noticed that Simjay hadn’t removed his wrist restraints as she’d thought. Bits of duct tape were still stuck to his arms, and there were painful-looking red marks just outside his palm where he’d sawed through the tape.
“How did you —” Bernie began.
“The bed frame,” Simjay mumbled. “He was too busy to notice.”
A fresh wave of tears trickled down Bernie’s cheeks, and Simjay froze on the spot. He was holding her shaking hands between his own and staring at them as if they could somehow tell him what to do.
He moved to stand and then planted himself beside her on the couch. Bernie wanted nothing more than to get out of that trailer, but she couldn’t move or speak.
Slowly, carefully, Simjay scooted over until their hips were nearly touching and put an arm around her shoulders. His body was stiff and motionless. He was holding his breath as if he expected her to shrink away, but at that moment, Bernie couldn’t think of anything she needed more.
She collapsed against the side of his shoulder and cried harder. Simjay’s other arm wrapped around her front to form a protective cage. He didn’t say a word. He just held her as she cried, eventually moving one hand up to stroke her tangled hair. Simjay’s warm, steady presence drowned out everything else, and slowly Bernie’s tears subsided.
She didn’t know how long they sat there. Simjay never seemed to tire of holding her, and he never once loosened his grip. But after a while, the door to the trailer banged open, and Portia reappeared looking slightly more disheveled than before.
She was breathing hard and brushing her hair out of her eyes, but she looked victorious. “Time to go. I found Lark’s dog. You’re gonna have to call him . . . He won’t come near me.”
Relief swelled in Bernie’s chest, and Simjay released his grip.
It was a mark of how bad she must have looked that Portia didn’t say a word about Simjay. Bernie dreaded meeting her gaze, but there was no pity there. Portia still looked like Portia — hard and mean and tough as nails — but she seemed slightly more human than usual.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said, clenching her jaw and tossing the bloody baseball bat onto the floor. “The car’s half a mile down the road.”
Bernie nodded. Simjay pulled her to her feet and helped her limp out the front door. Her crutches were nowhere to be found, and Bernie cursed the meth-head assholes for leaving her without a means to walk.
As Portia led them around the mobile home, Bernie had a chance to study the outside. It was dirty and rusted and parked a good five hundred yards from the road in a grassy field hemmed in by trees. Between them and the road, a bonfire was smoldering, struggling to stay lit in the gentle patter of rain.
The sight of the fire reminded Bernie of the couple’s bizarre conversation, but as they made their way across the field, her foot rolled over something hard and smooth.
Bernie stopped suddenly, wrenching Simjay to a halt as she stared down at the bone. It was half-covered with dirt, but it was definitely a bone. She rolled it over with her foot, trying to figure out what sort of animal it belonged to.
Suddenly, she heard a high-pitched whine behind them. She looke
d over her shoulder and saw Denali cowering behind a pile of wood. Her heart constricted. He thought they were leaving him.
“It’s okay, buddy,” she said, shocked by how well she managed a soothing, high-pitched dog voice after everything that had happened.
Denali whined again. Bernie glanced at Portia, whose face was frozen with savagery.
“Did they hurt him?” asked Bernie.
“I don’t know,” said Portia. “I think he’s just scared.”
Bernie frowned. Simjay helped her cross the field toward Denali, and his whining grew louder with every step. At first Bernie’s concern mounted, but then she saw that he was wagging his tail.
“Come here, sweet boy,” she crooned, extending a hand in his direction.
But Denali didn’t move.
They continued to creep toward him until they were only a few yards away. His tail was thumping loudly against the pile of wood beside him, but he seemed anxious. He was guarding something.
Bernie studied the ground around him, and a wave of darkness settled over the field. Denali was standing in a pile of bones. They shone brilliant white against the rain-soaked ground. There had to be hundreds.
Forcing herself to breathe, Bernie knelt down and stretched out her hand so Denali would come. His mouth fell open in an excited pant, and he approached her with his head bowed in submission.
As he moved, Bernie’s chest constricted. A human skull was sticking out of the mud, the dead hollows of its eyes burning right through her.
“Holy shit,” Simjay breathed.
A surge of bile rose up in Bernie’s throat, and she had to swallow twice to keep from vomiting.
“Are those . . .”
“Yeah,” Bernie choked.
“We have to get out of here.” It was Portia. Her face was blank and devoid of emotion, but her eyes betrayed her horror and disgust.
Bernie nodded and patted her thigh so that Denali would follow. The rain was coming down harder, soaking her sweatshirt and causing her hair to stick to her face.
Simjay practically carried Bernie across the field with long hurried strides. They found the car still parked along the side of the road, flat tire and all. Bernie’s crutches were lying on the ground on the passenger side — exactly where she’d left them.
“I’ve got this,” said Portia, gesturing at the destroyed tire.
Bernie didn’t argue. At that moment, she didn’t think she’d be able to tie her own shoes — much less change a tire. Simjay helped her slide into the passenger seat, and Denali jumped into her lap.
Bernie let out a low “oaff!” at his weight but felt comforted nonetheless. She watched Simjay as he lowered himself into the driver’s seat, noticing the stiff, careful way he moved. She’d completely forgotten about his injury, but it was clear that he must have endured an extreme amount of pain to beat that man into submission.
A few minutes later, Portia climbed into the back seat, soaked to the skin and shivering from the cold. “It’s done,” she said in a hollow voice. “Drive.”
eight
Lark
After Lark presented her offer, Agent Cole called Mildred and Agent Stokes to take her back to her cell. Someone had shoved a metal tray of food through the slot while she was gone: two cold sausage links, a spongy rectangle of instant egg, a plastic juice cup, and a soggy biscuit that looked as though it had been thawed and reheated several times.
Lark ate without really tasting anything. The food was hardly edible, but she needed the calories. She had to keep her energy up so that she could think clearly.
Lark spent the rest of the morning pacing back and forth in her cell. She couldn’t shake the horrible image of Soren’s face stretched in anguish as he beat his fists against the wall. He was suffering worse than she’d imagined, but he was alive.
Lark was already beginning to regret refusing Reuben’s offer. She had no intention of leaving without Soren and Axel, but perhaps being so quick to throw the offer back in Reuben’s face had hardened him against her. If she’d played the game — if she’d worked with him little by little — was it possible that she could have negotiated Soren’s and Axel’s freedom?
She and Agent Reuben were engaged in a bitter power struggle, and she’d done nothing but provoke him. If she’d learned anything from dealing with Mercy and her crew, it was that you sometimes had to swallow your pride and allow the other person to think he or she had the upper hand in order to get what you wanted.
Lark’s spiraling thoughts were interrupted by the rattle of the metal door slot. Her heart leapt into her throat, but it was just the guards bringing her lunch. She took the tray with cold, stiff hands and sat down on her bed, feeling more miserable than she had in a while. Lunch was a lukewarm meatloaf brick, a puddle of instant mashed potatoes, and a limp grayish pile of green beans that looked as though they’d seen better days.
Lark deflated on her cot. This could be her future: endless days of nothingness, horrible frozen meals, and supervised trips to the toilet with miserable Mildred.
Reuben was right. Homeland Security could hold her there indefinitely, and she didn’t even know where “there” was. If she couldn’t earn her freedom by striking a deal, her only choice was to find a way out herself.
Lark expelled a hollow laugh. Now there was a thought. She may have escaped from San Judas, but she had a feeling that escaping from a secret underground bunker run by the U.S. government was another matter. She wouldn’t even know where to begin.
But just as she stabbed her plastic fork into the slab of meatloaf, she heard a familiar beep, and her cell door flew open.
It was Mildred again, looking just as sour as she had that morning. But behind her stood — not Special Agent Stokes — but Agent Cole.
Lark sat up straighter on her cot, fork still stuck in the horrible slab of meatloaf.
“Let’s go!” barked Mildred, waving her arms frantically as if they had some place to be.
“Where are we going?” asked Lark. Agent Cole’s presence wasn’t reassuring. He seemed all right, but she couldn’t help wondering if he was there to escort her to Homeland Security’s secret torture chamber or something.
“You’ll see,” said Cole. His expression was completely unreadable.
Lark set the tray of barely touched food on her bed, not at all sorry to pass on the revolting meal. She got to her feet, and Mildred moved to cuff her.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Agent Cole, lifting his blazer just enough for Lark to see the handgun resting in his shoulder holster.
“Protocol, sir,” said Mildred, shoving into the cell and grabbing Lark by the wrist.
“Right,” said Cole, averting his gaze and taking a step back as if he were embarrassed.
Lark was too puzzled to be annoyed as Mildred slapped the cold cuffs on her wrists, but she did get a spike of irritation as Mildred shoved her out of her cell and prodded Lark in the back with her stupid nightstick.
It wasn’t necessary. Lark had already quickened her pace to match Agent Cole’s much longer stride. He, like Mildred, seemed overly anxious to get where they were going, though neither of them had told Lark where that might be.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Lark, ignoring Mildred’s huffing and puffing behind her as she jogged to keep up.
“I ran your idea by Agent Reuben,” muttered Cole. The quiet way he spoke was odd — as if he were trying not to move his lips. Lark realized suddenly that there were probably cameras everywhere, watching them as they moved through the building.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Cole kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. “He wasn’t happy, but he agreed to your terms.”
“Really?” said Lark. She couldn’t believe it. Reuben had agreed to let them all go free.
“Yes, really. It’s unorthodox, but I managed to convince him that you weren’t a security risk.”
“How did you do that?” asked Lark.
“I reviewed your psych eval,” he said. “The one submitted during your trial so you could be considered for a place at San Judas.”
“Oh,” said Lark, taken aback. Of course she’d known that her psych eval was entered into the court record, but she hadn’t thought it would be made public or that government officials would be able to access it after her sentencing.
“You’re what we call a twenty-O-seven.”
“A what?”
“Have you heard of the big five personality traits?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s kind of like that, except we use the parameters to assess people’s mental stability and predictability. You scored high on resilience, compassion, self-worth, and accountability, moderate on aggression, low on impulse control.”
Lark swallowed. She didn’t like Homeland Security knowing so much about her.
“You’re the only one of your friends who would even be considered for an assignment like this. Your buddy Axel was off the charts on aggression, anti-social behavior, and impulse control. He believes that the morality of an action is determined by its consequences, and he has low self-worth — a big red flag for us.”
“Axel?” Lark didn’t know why, but Agent Cole telling her all that felt like an invasion of Axel’s privacy.
“That’s pretty typical for someone who was abused as a child,” said Cole with a shrug. “Someone with his background almost always ends up in the criminal-justice system . . . Many become abusers themselves.”
“What about Soren?” she blurted. She knew it was wrong to ask, but she couldn’t deny that she was curious.
Agent Cole raised both eyebrows. “Even if he hadn’t decked the guard who came to check on him this morning, he’d be an even worse candidate than Axel.”
“Seriously?”
Cole nodded.
Lark hated that she was fascinated by the government’s bullshit personality test, but she couldn’t help it. The fact that they considered Soren more of a loose cannon than Axel was almost laughable.