Lifeless (Lawless Saga Book 2)

by Tarah Benner

  Portia staggered to her feet, and the two of them hobbled down the sidewalk as fast as they could. Bernie’s heart was thumping in her throat. She could hear the black sedan approaching from behind. They were too far from their car, and even if they managed to reach the Yaris, there was no way they’d escape Roswell without drawing attention to themselves.

  Thinking fast, Bernie whipped down an alleyway and tried the first door she found. Miraculously, it swung open, and they piled inside in a breathless rush of panic. Portia slammed the door behind them, and Bernie dropped her crutches and slid down against the wall.

  Portia flipped the light switch, but nothing happened. There was enough natural light to see the front of the shop clearly, but the back aisles were cast in shadows. The weak morning sunshine illuminated clouds of swirling dust they’d disturbed and the comforting decay of old books and maps.

  Bernie blinked. They’d slid into a used bookstore — the kind of cozy, overcrowded shop that Bernie would have loved to peruse for hours on a Saturday. Handwritten signs on slips of neon paper directed customers to “General Fiction,” “Gardening,” “Self Help,” and “Maps.” Newer titles displayed on little metal stands were crowded around the doorway, while shelves bursting with Harlequin romance and sci-fi paperbacks snaked around the perimeter. Much older books with gold-leaf covers were lovingly arranged in a display case beside the register, and dozens more volumes were stacked around the counter waiting to be sorted.

  As Portia ducked down beside the window to watch for the black sedan, Bernie strolled through the Health and Wellness section.

  “Any sign of them?” she called, pausing before a shelf labeled “Women’s Health.”

  “Nope.”

  Bernie breathed a sigh of relief. There were nearly two whole feet of shelf space devoted to pregnancy and prenatal health. She grabbed a few books that looked interesting, including a dog-eared copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

  “Here you go,” she said as she came around the corner, tossing Portia the book. There was something about just being inside the shop that made her feel more at ease.

  Portia caught the book, brows scrunched in suspicion, but when she saw the title, her expression became soft and thoughtful.

  Judging from the thick layer of dust that had collected on every surface, Bernie guessed that it had been a long time since the shop had seen any customers, and yet with the old books hemming them in on all sides and the confetti of cat hair swirling in the air, Bernie could have believed that the store had opened for business yesterday.

  But as she drew closer to the counter, a pile of old newspapers caught her eye. The Roswell Daily Record, the Albuquerque Journal, and even The New York Times lay in one large pile. By the looks of it, a few had been opened and perused at length, while others were still in their plastic sleeves.

  Bernie bent down and leafed through a copy of The New York Times. The paper was from a year and a half ago, and the front-page story showed what looked like a colored version of the Dust Bowl photographs she’d seen in history books.

  Only the photo wasn’t from the Dust Bowl. The caption said that it was a picture of a farm outside Bakersfield, California, which had been ravaged by drought and suffered a crippling economic crash after farmers left the region.

  Bernie read the article with feverish excitement. According to the paper, the entire country had been hit by the crash, and the collapse of farms in North and South America had led to the massive famine that was sweeping the nation.

  Feeling desperate, Bernie pawed through the stack and found another plastered with pictures of the decimated South — a large portion of which was underwater.

  Bernie felt as though an elephant was sitting on her chest. She couldn’t believe what she was reading. It felt like watching some horrible old movie about the collapse of civilization, and yet the current reality felt eerily familiar to all the doomsday scenarios she’d imagined.

  She knew she shouldn’t be surprised. She’d stood on the steps of the state capitol with dozens of farmers protesting the energy companies that were snapping up water rights all over New Mexico. She’d raged against the glut of genetically modified produce and beef being shipped in from Brazil. She knew that the United States’ dependence on foreign farms was taking food from the mouths of the poorer states they bought it from, but all anyone at home cared about was the rising cost of groceries.

  Bernie had only been locked up for two years — two and a half, counting the months she’d spent awaiting sentencing. She remembered fretting about the mega-drought in New Mexico and rising sea levels that were swallowing the South, but the year after her mother’s death had the hazy, half-forgotten quality of a dream.

  She’d tripped her way through that year in a fog. She’d blown off important school papers, slept through midterms, and only remembered to eat whenever she got so lightheaded that she had to sit down.

  She remembered spending days holed up in her apartment, staring at the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink as the muffled newscast flashed in the dark room: images of Wall Street guys paddling around the Upper East Side in blow-up life rafts, Times Square half-hidden underwater, images of lives and homes destroyed.

  While the East Coast had drowned, the West had been immersed in a water crisis. Family farms were collapsing left and right, and dozens of factory farms had moved their operations to Mexico and Central America. She remembered how expensive food had been, but she’d thought it was all temporary.

  During the time she’d spent in New Mexico Women’s Correctional Facility, she’d watched the news like everybody else, but her mind had been so clouded with thoughts of her mother and worries about her own future that she hadn’t paid much attention. When she’d been sent to San Judas, the outside world had gone quiet.

  “What are you looking at?” asked Portia.

  Bernie shook her head. There were no words for what she was reading. It was her worst nightmare come true.

  She passed Portia the front page of an Albuquerque newspaper, which showed a gridlock of cars headed East. It told a story of rapid decline — of mass migration, economic collapse, panic, hunger, and failed emergency-response efforts. It was a scary bedtime story environmentalists had been telling for decades, and yet it had come true faster than anyone could have imagined.

  Bernie wondered vaguely if things had been worse than she knew before she’d gone away. Certainly there had been signs she’d ignored like everyone else: almonds for thirty-five dollars a pound, the run on white rice, the Coffee Wars in Colombia that had prompted a string of half-hearted Starbucks boycotts. Back then, small-scale disasters had become so commonplace that she’d grown numb to the world.

  “I can’t believe this,” said Portia, reading the headlines with a wide-eyed look.

  “I know.”

  “All this was going on and they kept us locked up in there?”

  Bernie’s thoughts faltered on her tongue. She hadn’t even considered that. All Bernie could think about in that moment was Lark. Did she even realize what had happened? She was headed for Texas and then to Mexico, but for all Bernie knew, Lark had no idea what she was about to find.

  eighteen

  Lark

  “I knew it,” said Axel for what seemed like the hundredth time. “I knew we couldn’t trust some nerdy-ass doctor who’d been Howard Hughes-ing it in a fuckin’ dirt house made out of recycled toilet paper.”

  “No part of that house was made out of toilet paper,” mumbled Simjay in a defensive tone.

  They were flying down the highway in the stolen Yukon, and Lark was already wishing that somebody other than Axel would drive. He seemed incapable of maintaining a speed lower than eighty, and every time he glared at Simjay to make a point, the vehicle would swerve violently across the center line.

  “Fuckin’ Harry Potter here,” he said with a note of disgust. Axel put on a high-pitched voice and mimed pushing a pair of glasses up his nose. “Oh, doctor, can I look at your pla
nts? Oh, doctor, can I see your facts and figures? Oh, doctor, can I suck your d —”

  “It wasn’t Simjay’s fault,” Soren growled. “None of us knew what he was planning.”

  “I knew!” yelled Axel. “I knew that piece of shit was up to no good the second I walked in that door!”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah! Guys like that don’ survive the end of the world without sellin’ other people out. They just don’.”

  Soren frowned. “How were we supposed to know he worked for GreenSeed?”

  “Bird Girl knew somethin’ wasn’t right with that guy!” he bellowed.

  Lark didn’t know what to say. It was strange to find herself on Axel’s side of an argument, but she had known something was off about Dr. Griffin. And if she hadn’t ignored her instincts, they might not have found themselves in that mess to begin with.

  Every few seconds, Lark would glance at the side mirror to check to see if they were being followed. Judging by Soren’s jerky movements and the way Axel kept cocking his head back to check behind them, Lark knew she wasn’t the only one bracing herself for a chase.

  “We need to find another car,” said Soren after an hour of broody silence. “If Griffin called it in, every cop in the state’s gonna be looking for this one.”

  “Hold your horses,” said Axel, clearly reluctant to give up the Yukon. There was something peculiar and endearing about the way he ran his hands over the leather steering wheel and kept readjusting his seat. “I’ve never had a car like this before,” he added. “I’m gonna enjoy it while I can.”

  That sentiment gave Lark an unexpected pang of sadness. She didn’t know Axel very well, but based on the details she’d gleaned from Soren and Simjay, she guessed that he’d had a hard life.

  All she knew for sure was that Axel had grown up on a hog farm and that his old man had been a “good-for-nothing asshole” who drank too much and smacked him and his brothers around. Judging from the scornful way he’d eyed the wealthy doctor’s house, Lark guessed that he’d never had much in the way of money.

  A few minutes later, they passed a billboard for the world-famous Junction Flea Market.

  “We should check that out,” said Simjay out of nowhere.

  “What?”

  “The flea market. That’s, like, the third billboard I’ve seen.”

  “Why would we wanna go to some stanky flea market?” grumbled Axel.

  Simjay shrugged. “They sell all sorts of things at flea markets . . . guns, camping equipment, old tools . . .”

  Axel gave a disinterested grunt, but Simjay pressed on.

  “Might find something we can use . . . valuable antiques . . .”

  “Whose gonna buy antiques with everything that’s goin’ on?”

  Simjay shrugged. “Might not have to buy anything. An old Civil War cannon might be ours for the taking.”

  “My brother had an ol’ Nazi hatchet from World War II,” said Axel. “Used to chase me around the livin’ room in his underwear wavin’ it around . . .”

  He trailed off fondly, and Soren caught Lark’s eye in the side mirror.

  “Yeah, there you go . . . They’ve got World War II memorabilia galore, I bet.”

  Axel fidgeted in his seat for a moment, as if he were seriously considering stopping. Soren and Lark didn’t say anything, but a second later, Axel pulled off the highway.

  The flea market wasn’t hard to find. It was situated on the outskirts of town in an enormous white building that looked like a cross between a warehouse and a convention center. The massive parking lot was deserted. Old beer bottles and fast-food containers were blowing around in the ditch, and inside, the windows were covered with newsprint.

  “Don’ look like it’s open,” said Axel.

  They drove around the rear of the building to get a better look at the premises, and Axel slammed on the brakes.

  There was a red Chevy Colorado parked a few feet from the building. It was backed up to one of the open loading bays, and judging by the banging and clanking going on, the driver was inside the building.

  “Would ya look at that?” said Axel, a lustful gleam in his eyes.

  They all stared at the truck. It had Texas plates, dual exhaust stacks, and a set of bull horns attached to the front.

  Axel glanced at Soren, as if asking for permission, and Soren gave a barely discernible shake of his head.

  “Axel . . .” he said in a warning voice.

  But Axel had already made up his mind. After a four-second deliberation, he threw the Yukon into park, got out, and ran around to the back cargo area.

  “Axel!” Soren barked.

  “He isn’t . . .?” Lark began.

  But it seemed that Axel had lost his mind. In ten seconds flat, his arms were loaded with their supplies, and he was sprinting toward the Chevy.

  “Shit,” Soren muttered.

  “He’s not . . . No way.” Simjay shook his head in disbelief. “He wants to steal that truck?”

  “Axel!” hissed Soren, getting out and following Axel at a run.

  Lark watched them argue from the Yukon, growing more anxious by the second. Finally Axel threw up his hands, and Soren jogged back to the vehicle.

  Lark leaned out the window while Axel circled around to the back of the Yukon.

  “We’re taking it,” said Soren.

  Lark opened her mouth to argue, but Soren cut her off with an urgent look. “It might be the best chance we get.”

  Lark couldn’t believe it. In less than a minute, Axel had all their supplies piled in the bed of the truck between the antique end tables that someone had lovingly cocooned in bubble wrap. Lark got out of the Yukon, listening intently for the sound of approaching footsteps, and slipped into the back seat of the Chevy.

  Denali leapt in after her, and Soren climbed into the driver’s seat while Axel went to get Simjay. They sat in silence, both of them watching for any sign of movement inside the building, while Axel wrestled a reluctant Simjay out of the SUV.

  Suddenly, Lark heard a man’s voice echoing from the loading bay, and Soren gave Axel an urgent wave.

  Everything that happened next was a complete blur. One moment, Lark saw a dusty pair of cowboy boots appear, and the next, Axel was tossing Simjay into the back of the pickup. A man yelled and jumped down from the loading bay, and Soren punched the gas.

  Lark fumbled for her seatbelt as they peeled out of the parking lot and saw the choppy reflection of a portly man in a black Stetson sprinting after them.

  Axel let out a delirious whoop and chucked the Yukon keys into the weeds behind the flea market. He waved at the man, who was gasping for air, and gave him a sincere two-finger salute.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” cried Simjay.

  “I can’t believe we just did that,” said Lark.

  “I can,” Axel chortled.

  Soren glanced at the man’s shrinking reflection in the rearview mirror. “Poor guy.”

  “What do you mean?” spluttered Axel. “We gave him the Yukon! That thing’s worth four times what this is.”

  “Still . . .” said Simjay. “He was probably really attached to this truck.”

  “Well,” said Axel. “I’m really attached to my freedom. If that means liberatin’ some poor bastard’s truck, so be it.”

  As much as she hated herself for it, Lark couldn’t argue with Axel’s logic. Ditching Dr. Griffin’s vehicle would buy them some time, and it wasn’t as if they’d left the poor man stranded.

  Axel might have been a brutish, backwards asshole, but he was also a survivor. Lark didn’t know if going along with his schemes made her an asshole, too, but she figured it was better to be an asshole on the run than a good citizen behind bars.

  “Find anything?” asked Soren, watching Axel rifle through the glove compartment.

  “Jackpot!”

  Lark leaned over the center console to see what he’d found. Inside the glove box was a rumpled atlas, a pack of cigarettes, a brown leathe
r wallet, and a handgun with two spare magazines.

  “Thanks, Wayne,” said Axel, checking the man’s ID and tossing the wallet into the back seat.

  Lark caught the wallet and opened it up. Wayne Gibson was a big man in his late fifties with a ruddy complexion and a gray mustache. There were three five-hundred-dollar bills stuffed inside, a very outdated family photograph, and a sad coffee punch card for a local gas station.

  While Axel examined the handgun he’d found — a sharp-looking Springfield nine millimeter — Lark consulted the atlas. According to the map, they were only a couple hundred miles from Kingsville. If they pushed it, they could make it to Soren’s house by nightfall.

  Lark settled back against the worn seats that smelled like tobacco and watched the rugged West Texas countryside roll by. They passed several desolate farms and even a few tiny towns, but they didn’t stop to search for fuel. Soren was single-mindedly focused on reaching Micah.

  An hour or so outside of San Antonio, Lark saw a sign that made her sit bolt upright. It had a plain white background and a bold red cross that had faded in the sun. Wild swoops of graffiti had been painted over the message, but Lark could still make out “ OOD, LEAN ATER, SUPP IES — 50 MILES HEAD.”

  “What do you suppose that is?” Simjay asked aloud.

  “Red Cross camp,” said Axel, taking a drag on one of Wayne’s cigarettes and flicking ash out the open window.

  Simjay let out a note of mild interest and returned to fiddling with Thompson’s police radio. They hadn’t heard anything on the airwaves since they’d left Dr. Griffin’s, but then, out of nowhere, a man’s voice broke through the static.

  “Caucasian with blond hair, five-foot-four; the other Asian, five-foot-six.”

  “Who are —” Simjay began, but Lark and Soren silenced him with a “Shh!”

  “— last seen in Roswell, New Mexico, driving a blue Toyota Yaris. Both women are in their early twenties and should be considered armed and extremely dangerous.”

  Soren turned around in his seat and met Lark’s gaze with a look of enormous relief.