She saw the old sign as she pulled in. A dingy relic from another age, it was secured to two metal poles, looking sad and limp and desperately cheery.
WELCOME TO THE BRIGHT LANDS, it read. Pink flamingos and green bison smiled and charged around a landscape of mobile homes that reigned over tended lawns, around pies cooling on windowsills and men draping their arms over the shoulders of their teenage sons. A NEW KIND OF COMMUNITY.
Oh sweet Jesus. Oh sweet Jesus.
She rumbled to a stop between two trailers—a blue one to her right, a green one to her left, a tall triple-wide dead ahead across the circle—and took in the scene.
Why hadn’t she brought more guns?
Four armed men (boys, she thought, two of them were boys) stood before her, weapons drawn in her direction. A ghostly face framed by two plaits of brown hair slid up behind a window of the tall triple-wide and studied her with a loathing that didn’t seem human. Clark blinked, and the face was gone.
Hadn’t it looked a lot like Mr. Lott?
When no one lowered his gun, Clark saw no choice but to open her door. She took a careful step out of the truck, hands held high, and stood where her metal door still covered half her body. Where it concealed the pistol and revolver on her hips.
“Aren’t we flattered, boys?” Mr. Boone said. “More company.”
On the ground in the middle of the circle, Bethany Tanner looked about ready to rip these men’s balls off with her teeth.
Clark saw no sign of Joel or Kimbra.
“I apologize for the interruption,” Clark said. “I’m just here to collect a couple friends.”
There was a brief hesitation, a consideration.
“It was Luke!” shouted Mitchell Malacek suddenly, a black Glock trembling in his hand. “I found Bethany Tanner with a gun in his truck. This bitch must have followed him here too.”
All eyes turned to Luke Evers. He stood on the concrete porch of an orange RV, a low string of white Christmas lights turning his hair incandescent. The handsome kid next to Luke now stepped away with a look on his face like he’d stumbled into roadkill.
Luke turned in Clark’s direction, mouth open, panic rising on his face. His eyes darted to a black camper trailer situated close to the tall triple-wide and returned to her. Did it again.
“I came alone,” Clark shouted. “And if you’ll just let me see Joel Whitley I’ll be on my way.” After a moment’s hesitation she added, “I can take any girls you might have lying around off your hands too.”
Parter said something to Mitchell and Garrett Mason that Clark couldn’t catch. The boys adjusted the grip on their guns. Clark inched one hand down toward her hip.
Boone struggled to get hold of the proceedings. “Well, maybe y’all leaving would be best for all involved.”
The breeze stirred.
“Son of a bitch,” Garrett said from behind the grill of his helmet.
Clark heard it too. Oh sweet Jesus, no: another truck was heading fast for the ring of trailers. Its chugging muffler was unmistakable. She turned and saw Whiskey Brazos racing toward a gap between the black camper and silver Airstream to her left. KT Staler was sitting wide-eyed in shotgun, T-Bay Baskin gawping behind him.
It happened so quick Clark couldn’t stop it, so slow she couldn’t miss a moment. Whiskey’s face stretched with shock as the guns turned his way. Jamal, seated behind Whiskey, bent his body toward his door. T-Bay screamed. KT Staler was holding out his arm, mouthing, “No!”
Garrett Mason brought his AR-15 semiautomatic assault rifle to his shoulder and aimed down the sights with a hatred Clark could see through his helmet’s grill.
Garrett fired.