by Tarah Benner
“I can’t,” she said, rattling her arm that was still cuffed to the bed.
Bernie let out an impatient huff. Wasn’t she the one who’d been shot and doped out of her mind? What the hell was Portia’s problem?
Feeling panicky and irritable, she tossed the dead nurse’s keys into Portia’s lap. “Hurry up.”
Leaning on the gurney for support, she piled her crutches and the plastic bag onto Portia’s legs and started to propel the bed forward.
It was extremely slow work. The gurney didn’t turn worth a damn, and Portia was a lot heavier than she looked.
Finally, Portia managed to free her arm and pull herself into a seated position.
“All right,” Bernie panted, snatching up her crutches. “You’re on your own, princess.”
Portia didn’t say a word, but she scooted toward the edge of the bed and climbed over the rail of the gurney. As she did, the back of her gown fell open, and Bernie caught sight of a painful-looking bruise on her spine.
“What the fuck happened there?” Bernie asked.
“Spinal tap,” said Portia bitterly. “They’ve been using me as a pincushion since early last night. I haven’t eaten or slept —” She broke off and put a hand to her head, wobbling a little on the spot.
“What’s wrong?” Bernie asked. Something was definitely off about Portia, and it was making her nervous.
Portia didn’t answer right away. Her face went rigid, and she bent over and gagged. A nasty drip of yellowish bile hit the ground, and Portia straightened up, wiping her mouth with a shaky hand.
“I don’t feel right,” she said. “I’m dizzy, and I have these headaches . . .”
“Probably from the spinal tap.”
Part of Bernie wanted to tell Portia to suck it up and get a move on, but Portia was looking up at her with an expression so pitiful that all those snapping remarks died on her lips.
“Let’s go,” she said as kindly as she could. “There might be cameras, and I don’t know how long before . . .”
She trailed off, but Portia caught her meaning. She nodded and shuffled after Bernie, looking like a hundred-year-old woman teetering on pale shaky legs.
“What’s your plan?” she asked as Bernie tested her crutches on the stairs.
“No idea,” she panted. “I’m sort of making this up as I go along.”
“That’s comforting,” Portia muttered. In that moment, she sounded so much like her nasty old self that it gave Bernie an unexpected surge of relief. At least she knew Portia hadn’t undergone some experimental brain swap.
They inched up the stairs at a sluglike pace, Bernie stopping every couple of steps to catch her breath and Portia clinging to the railing to keep her vertigo in check. When they came to the landing halfway up the stairs, a swell of voices reached their ears.
By the sound of things, all the guards and medical personnel were gathered just above them — probably trying to determine who had called in the code black and whether it was safe to return to their posts.
“Shit,” Portia muttered.
“Yeah,” said Bernie, wondering how in the hell she was going to get back down the stairs.
“Give me that,” Portia snapped, taking one of the crutches and helping Bernie pivot on the landing. In just a few seconds, Bernie was facing the opposite direction and limping back down the way they’d come.
She cursed to herself for having called in the bomb threat. If she’d known the code for “coffee break” or “fire drill,” they wouldn’t be in this mess.
Hearts pounding, they limped back down the hallway in the direction of their room. Bernie glanced around, trying to find some sort of landmark, but the stark, impersonal hallways all looked the same. They never passed a supply closet, and after several minutes, Bernie thought they must have taken a wrong turn.
They rounded a corner, and Bernie heard more voices. These voices weren’t fading in the distance. If anything, they seemed to be approaching them from behind.
“Shit,” she muttered, swinging her hips wildly to lengthen her stride.
“Look,” said Portia, pointing down the hall. A dozen yards ahead was another red exit sign. Bernie only hoped that it led them away from whoever was following them and not back toward the nurses and guards.
As they hobbled along, Bernie noticed that they seemed to have wandered into a lesser-used part of the building. Gurneys and spare monitors were lined up against the walls, and even the lighting seemed dimmer than before.
They reached the door just under the exit sign, and Portia wiggled the handle. It wouldn’t budge, so Bernie elbowed her aside and shoved the nurse’s key card down into the reader. The light turned green, and a triumphant grin spread across Portia’s face.
“Fuck yes,” she murmured, turning the handle and pushing the door wide open.
They held their breath as a cool breeze tickled their skin, and Bernie’s heart leapt into her throat.
They were standing in an underground parking garage labeled with orange letter Cs. A few cars were scattered down the row, but Bernie didn’t see an exit or a staircase anywhere.
“Shit.”
Bernie knew she should be happy that they were one step closer to freedom, but as she stared out across the enormous concrete structure, all she could do was think about how long it was going to take her to get through the garage on crutches.
“Come on,” said Portia.
Bernie steeled herself for the worst and swung herself forward, glancing up at the security cameras mounted in every corner. If anyone was monitoring the feeds, they were screwed. It would take them only a few minutes to lock down the exits, and then they would be trapped in there forever.
“Look what I got,” said Portia, jangling the keys in Bernie’s direction.
Bernie stared. Standing there in the garage, she realized that the key ring was much too thick to belong to the nurse. He must have borrowed the keys from a security guard. There were two silver handcuff keys, a dozen large brass ones, and a few silver ones that looked like house keys. But there was one more that stood out from all the rest: a long black-and-silver car key with the Toyota emblem stamped across the center.
“We’ve got a ride out of here,” said Portia.
A triumphant grin spread across Bernie’s face.
She looked around the garage. There were only three cars in sight: a silver-gray Nissan, a white Dodge Caravan, and . . . a Yaris. It was electric blue and shaped like a dartfish, and it was the only Toyota in sight.
“Stupid asshole,” Portia muttered.
“She’s all ours,” said Bernie, swinging joyfully across the garage.
Portia was looking at the car as though she’d just tasted something sour, but Bernie was giddy with relief. A blue Yaris certainly wasn’t the escape vehicle of her dreams, but it didn’t matter. They were free.
Bernie slid into the driver’s seat, and Portia climbed into the back and lay down on the floorboard. She was still dressed in her hospital gown, and they didn’t want to tip anybody off, in case there was an attendant at the exit.
Bernie held her breath as she slipped the key into the ignition. She started the car, and the lights on the dashboard flickered to life.
“Shall we?” she asked, practically levitating with nerves.
“Fucking go,” Portia growled, seemingly back to her old self now that her nausea had passed.
Bernie let out an excited whoop and threw the car into reverse. She peeled out of the parking spot and sped up the ramp toward the exit.
Thick white bands painted on the ceiling flashed in Bernie’s periphery, but she just focused on the path ahead and the signs directing them through the maze of tunnels.
It seemed strange to be racing through a parking garage out in the middle of nowhere. There had to be hundreds of spots, but there were fewer than two dozen cars parked inside.
Bernie kept hoping to see a warm pool of sunlight beckoning them to freedom. Instead, the tunnel shot out into a black abyss wi
th only the stars and building lights to illuminate their path.
Bernie rolled down the window and breathed in the scent of fresh air. It whipped through her hair and seemed to flow right through her as they sped down the road leading away from the prison. She could see the silver flash of an alarm beaming from the building, and she guessed they had finally discovered that she and Portia were gone.
But instead of getting a swell of panic, Bernie’s only emotion was elation. She looked over at Portia and grinned.
She never would have guessed that she’d be escaping prison with her least favorite person in the world, but there she was — free at last, free at last.
fourteen
Soren
It was nearly sundown by the time Katrina allowed them to bury Starlight. Their carefully choreographed plan fell into motion with a somber procession across the fields and a slightly less dignified scramble as they lowered Starlight’s body into the ground.
Lark had managed to unearth a large white river rock for her headstone and gather an enormous bunch of wildflowers to place on her grave. Thompson and Walt each said a few words, but Katrina was too tearful to say anything.
As they walked back toward the house, a leaden weight settled in the pit of Soren’s stomach. He’d resolved to tell the Baileys about their plans at dinner, but bringing it up right after they’d buried a family member seemed downright cruel.
When they reached the house, Walt rummaged around in a cherry liquor cabinet and poured them all two fingers of scotch. Soren’s stomach twisted into knots as he downed the drink, and the sudden surge of warmth in his belly only made him feel worse. Walt had treated them like family, and they were about to abandon him.
Katrina sat in Starlight’s perch by the window, holding her ukulele in her hands and staring blankly out toward the road. Walt cornered Simjay over by the fireplace, his voice growing a little louder with every splash of scotch.
Thompson took it upon herself to cook dinner. She spent nearly an hour in the kitchen sweating over the stove, and although she’d clearly poured her whole heart into it, the meal tasted like burnt tomato sauce and sadness. Walt sat at the head of the table, staring off into space, and Katrina wept silently over her lasagna.
Lark wouldn’t look at Soren. He kept turning his script over and over in his head, but every time he thought about what he was going to say to Walt, it only sounded worse.
Just when Soren had decided not to say anything at all, Walt cleared his throat loudly.
“So,” he said, glancing around the table before settling his attention on Soren. “I suppose it’s ’bout time for ya’ll to be leavin’.”
Simjay dropped his fork with a clatter, and Lark’s eyes flashed to Soren’s.
“Uh, well . . .”
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Walt. “I’d love for ya’ll to stay. Truly. You’ve been an enormous help, and I am grateful for everything that you have done. But I also know that it’d be selfish for me to ask you to put your lives on the line.”
Soren hesitated. He hadn’t been expecting this, and judging by the looks on Katrina’s and Thompson’s faces, they hadn’t been either.
“Truth is,” Walt continued, “I haven’t been a hundred percent honest with you all, and for that I am sorry.”
“Oh no?” said Soren, still fishing around for an appropriate response.
Walt shook his head. “I didn’t let on what our situation really was out here. I s’pose I shoulda told ya that we’d had some troubles in the past, but I figured we’d never persuade you to stick around if you knew. That one’s on me.”
Lark threw Soren a baffled look. Axel’s indignation was written all over his face, but Walt didn’t seem to notice.
“You see, to the outside lookin’ in, what we got here is heaven on earth. Water, power, livestock . . . You name it. But the truth of the matter is when you’ve got somethin’ good, there’s always gonna be people lookin’ to take it from you. That ambush last night was the worst we’ve weathered yet, but it hasn’t been the first of its kind.”
A glum silence fell over the room, broken only by Katrina’s soft sobs. Thompson’s face had hardened in a way that aged her several years, while Lark and Simjay looked miserable.
“Right,” said Soren, realizing that Walt seemed to be waiting on him to speak. “Well, look . . .”
He cast around for the right thing to say but kept coming up empty. “We don’t hold that against you,” he managed. “Really. We appreciate everything you’ve done for us, and if our situation were different, I think we’d all like to stay.”
He glanced around at Lark and the others for support, but everyone seemed to be avoiding Walt’s gaze. Soren took a deep breath, bracing himself for what he knew he had to say. “But we can’t. At least I can’t. Not when I know my brother is out there.”
“You can’t turn your back on family,” said Walt sadly.
Soren managed a weak smile, feeling horrible. He knew how that must sound to Walt, whose son had just abandoned him, but he had a feeling Walt would know if he tried to skirt around the truth.
“We want to stay,” said Lark in a soft voice, reaching over and giving Walt’s gnarled old hand a squeeze. “And we can never thank you enough . . . but our place is with Soren.”
“I understand completely,” said Walt, patting the top of her hand in a fatherly way.
They all fell into comfortable silence. Soren was no longer twisting himself into knots trying to think of something to say. Walt didn’t need any more explanation than that.
When he’d eaten a respectable amount of the crusty lasagna, Walt got to his feet and shuffled down the hall toward his study. Katrina’s eyes were swimming with tears again, so Soren jumped up and started clearing dishes so he wouldn’t have to sit there with nothing to say.
Simjay seemed to be thinking along those same lines, because he pleaded with Thompson to let them clean up the kitchen so she could go upstairs and take a much-deserved bath. Axel “helped” by gruffly handing Simjay dishes, and Lark disappeared up the stairs.
Soren watched her go with a horrible ache in the pit of his stomach. He knew Lark still thought that it was wrong to leave, but that wasn’t the only reason she’d been avoiding him. There was something else going on between them, and Soren didn’t know how to fix it.
They hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other that night he’d found her in the women’s colony. Their attraction was undeniable, but Lark hadn’t asked him to sleep in her bed.
Soren could tell she was keeping him at arm’s length. She’d pulled away when he kissed her, and she’d hardly said two words to him since the shooting at the church.
Soren didn’t fault her for it. He knew she was still grieving for Bernie and trying to process everything that had happened, but some small undeniable part of him knew that she blamed him for Bernie’s death.
She wasn’t wrong. Soren knew that he was partially to blame, but it was all he could do not to think about it. If he let his mind wander back to that horrible night, the despair he felt was suffocating. It weighed on his soul and made him feel as if he were being buried alive.
Bernie and Finn were dead, and if it weren’t for him, they’d still be alive. Soren had spent the past three days desperately trying to avoid those dark thoughts. If he let himself dwell on that reality, the despair was too much for him to handle. And if he succumbed to his misery, he would never be able to continue.
The next morning, Soren lay awake for several minutes wondering where he would wake up next. The next couple of days were fraught with uncertainty, and he only hoped that he would wake up someday soon knowing that Micah was safe.
Simjay was stirring on the floor beside the bed, so Soren got up, dressed, and gathered his belongings. The worn blue jeans and the T-shirt on his back had belonged to Mitch, but after everything that had happened, he doubted that the Baileys would mind him keeping them.
When he came downstairs, Thompson was filling the t
ea kettle with water. She had heavy bags under her eyes and looked as though she hadn’t slept at all.
“Morning,” said Soren.
“Morning.” Thompson’s tone wasn’t unfriendly, but she wouldn’t meet Soren’s gaze.
She was so out of sorts that when two pieces of toast popped out of the toaster, she put them on a plate and immediately dropped it on the floor.
“Shit.”
Soren dove down to retrieve the toast from the shards of broken ceramic, muttering something about the five-second rule. Thompson threw two new pieces of bread into the toaster and banged around for several minutes making tea.
When the toast popped up a second time, she slid the plate across the table and dropped the jelly. Soren groped around for a rag to clean up the mess, and Thompson took the whistling kettle off the burner.
They sat down awkwardly at opposite ends of the table, Thompson staring at a jar of olives that she’d pulled out of the refrigerator as Soren spread peanut butter on his toast.
“Thanks,” he said after a moment.
Thompson scoffed and shook her head. “I never was much for cooking. That was always Theresa’s thing.”
Soren nodded but didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to respond to something like that.
“I know you have to leave,” said Thompson after a moment. “I know you all were just passing through, and I understand.” She glanced toward the staircase and then lowered her voice. “If I had it my way, we would all be leaving.”
“Leave the farm?” Soren asked.
“It’s not that I want to leave,” she added hastily. “We need to. But Walt will die before he leaves this place, and Kat won’t abandon him. Maybe if Theresa . . .” She trailed off, dragging in a deep, fortifying breath. “The point is, they’re my family in every way that matters, but I’m not optimistic about our future here.”
A fresh wave of dread rose up Soren’s chest. “Well, listen . . . If you ever . . . If you guys ever decide that it’s time . . .”
He’d been on the verge of saying that they could come stay with him and Micah, but he knew that was a ridiculous thing to promise. For one thing, he had no idea where they would end up. The last three days had shattered all of his expectations about life on the run, and he had no way of knowing what the next few days would bring. He also had no way of getting in touch with the Baileys to let them know that they’d found someplace safe.