Badlands. Jill Sorenson

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      Brett looked up at the ceiling of the tunnel, where there were bats. Sleeping bats, tucked up and motionless.

      Owen seized the moment of distraction. He grabbed Brett’s right wrist and slammed it against the cave wall, knocking the gun loose from his grip. It clattered to the floor, along with the flashlight from Brett’s surprised mouth. Owen couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t need to. He drew back his arm and punched Brett in the stomach with full force. The air rushed out of him in an audible whoosh.

      Brett doubled over, as men who’d been gut-checked often did. Owen grabbed Brett’s head and brought it down on his raised knee, crushing the small bones and cartilage in his nose. The blow was delivered with enough force to knock him out, apparently. He slumped to the ground, unconscious.

      Owen scrambled for the gun and flashlight. He also took Brett’s walkie-talkie. Then he crept forward, his heart hammering against his chest. “Penny?” he called out, unsure which direction to take.

      He had no idea how they would get out of this. His actions might have saved them or sealed their doom.

      * * *

      PENNY JOLTED AWAKE with a start.

      She’d had a dream about Owen. He’d been calling out to her in the dark, crawling through the earthquake wreckage, searching vehicles full of dead bodies. She was pregnant again, sitting in the passenger seat of her aunt’s car. Not trapped under the freeway, as she had been, but among the victims in the massive pileup outside. Owen had found her and reached inside. His grasping hand was blue-tinged, his forearm ropey with black veins.

      Shivering, she cleared her mind of the disturbing image.

      Cruz was about ten feet away from her, carving designs on the wall with a sharp stick. It was hard-packed clay, not crumbly, but it had a fine, siltlike surface. The powdery substance clung to her dress and skin. Cruz looked like he’d taken a bath in it. He was singing songs under his breath, not being quiet at all.

      “Shh,” she told him, straightening. “Did you hear anything?”

      “No.”

      “Come here.”

      He dropped the stick with reluctance and returned to her side. The light coming from the hole in the ceiling seemed a little brighter. She took a sip of water, doubting she’d slept more than an hour. “How long was I asleep?”

      “I don’t know.” He had no sense of time. Five minutes was an eternity to him.

      She put her arm around him and listened, her pulse still pounding from the nightmare. Although she was exhausted, she couldn’t believe she’d drifted off. She’d been quaking with tension and sorrow, tortured by the thought of Owen dying.

      Catastrophic events made some people stronger. Owen had been a hero during the earthquake. He’d emerged from prison a reformed man. At his national park job, he’d proven himself again by rushing to help a female ranger in trouble. These experiences had inspired him to pursue a career in rescue work. He was naturally courageous.

      Penny wasn’t.

      She’d had the opposite reaction to trauma, retreating from any hint of danger. Playing it safe was more her style. She didn’t know how she’d drummed up the nerve to hit a man over the head with a rock. If not for the blood under her fingernails, she’d have suspected the episode was just another bad dream.

      “I’m hungry,” Cruz whispered.

      Penny gave him a drink of water. It was the only thing she had.

      “When can we leave?”

      “Soon.”

      “What happened to Owen?”

      She swallowed hard, unable to answer without breaking down. Although she had mixed feelings about prayer, she said a silent plea in her desperation, begging God to spare them.

      “I’m bored,” Cruz said.

      “You don’t like this cave?”

      “I want to see the rest of it.”

      “I bet there are bats.”

      His brown eyes lit up with curiosity. He had clay dust in his hair and on his lashes, giving him an angelic look. “Where?”

      Penny was about to answer when she heard a man calling her name. He sounded frantic. He sounded like...Owen.

      Cruz tried to respond, but she clapped her palm over his mouth. This might be a trick to draw them out. She also didn’t trust her ears. She’d seen Owen’s lifeless body. Heart racing, she stared at the narrow entrance, half expecting a zombie hand to reach through.

      “Penny,” he shouted, closer now. “Cruz?”

      She released her grip on Cruz, trembling with emotion. “Owen?”

      “Where are you?”

      “Over here!” She scrambled toward the opening and stuck her arm out, waving to get his attention.

      Then he was right there with her. The hand that clasped hers wasn’t ghostly pale or black-veined. It was dirty and strong and vibrant. His skin was lightly tanned, not quite as dark as hers or Cruz’s. She wept at the sight and feel of him.

      He was alive! She didn’t care how. He was alive.

      Owen couldn’t fit through the narrow space, so she climbed out to greet him. With a strangled sob, she threw her arms around his neck. His stiff shoulders betrayed his discomfort; he’d always reacted strangely to touch.

      Penny had been friends with Owen since he’d gotten out of prison. She’d stayed in contact with all of the earthquake survivors. They exchanged emails and shared Facebook photos. She’d taken Cruz to visit Owen a few times in Sierra National Park. The three of them had a special connection. He seemed to enjoy their company as much as they enjoyed his. Penny cherished every moment with him.

      Over the years, Owen had gained confidence. He no longer flinched at a simple handshake, but he still avoided overt displays of affection. She didn’t think he was repulsed by the feel of her body against his. There was something else going on.

      His behavior reminded her of an incident from her childhood. Their dog, Blanca, had run away on a rainy day, only to be captured and returned by a neighbor. Her mother had tried to thank the man with a hug, but he’d been wet and dirty, too polite to soil her clothes.

      That was Owen, to a T.

      She knew he’d had a dysfunctional home life. She knew he’d done things he regretted, in and out of prison. Maybe her father had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he wasn’t good enough for her.

      “I thought you were dead,” she said, for his ears only.

      “Shh,” he said, patting her hair. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

      When Cruz joined them, she released Owen, wiping the tears from her cheeks. He hugged her son with ease, proving his self-consciousness СКАЧАТЬ