Chapter 4 - Rebecca
"Let's go find your brother," I say, turning toward the dirt road that stretches before us like a promise.
My heart hammers against my ribs as we move forward, each step taking us further from the prison and deeper into whatever this new reality is.
I can't quite process what's happening… How in the span of a few hours, I've gone from prison nurse to fugitive, running through the woods with an injured inmate.
An inmate who now knows things about me that I've never told anyone. Not my colleagues, not my friends.
_My father died in prison._
The words I spoke so easily in that quiet administrative office echo in my mind. I've kept that part of my life locked away for years, a private pain that shaped me but that I never discuss. Yet I told James without hesitation, the truth tumbling out as naturally as breathing.
Why? Because he was bleeding under my hands? Because we might die at any moment? Or is there something about those dark, steady eyes that pulled the confession from me?
I sneak a glance at him as we walk. His face is pale, jaw clenched against the pain. Blood has seeped through the bandage again. He needs a hospital, antibiotics, proper care. Not a desperate trek through the woods.
"How are you holding up?" I ask, though the answer is obvious.
"I've had worse days," he replies, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
"Somehow I believe that."
He's slowing down. The adrenaline that carried us through our escape is fading, and reality—blood loss, trauma, exhaustion—is taking its toll. Two miles suddenly seems impossible.
"We need to rest," I say, my nurse instincts overriding everything else. "Just for a few minutes."
"No time," James shakes his head. "They're still looking."
As if to confirm his words, we hear shouts in the distance behind us. They're faint but unmistakable. The search is organized and spreading.
"Then we need to move faster," I decide, slipping under his arm to support some of his weight. "Lean on me."
He hesitates, pride warring with necessity. "I'm too heavy for you."
"I'm stronger than I look. And you're too stubborn to die, so we're doing this."
After a moment, he relents, allowing me to take some of his weight.
He's right. He is heavy, solid muscle and bone pressed against my side.
But determination makes up for what I lack in size.
I adjust my grip around his waist, careful to avoid his wound, and we continue down the road at a slightly better pace.
The late afternoon sun filters through the trees, casting long shadows across our path. In other circumstances, it would be peaceful, beautiful even. Now, every shifting shadow makes me flinch, imagining pursuers gaining ground.
"Tell me about your brother," I say, partly to distract James from the pain, partly to fill the silence that makes each snapping twig sound like a gunshot.
"Dice?" A genuine smile crosses his face. "He's my little brother. Only family I've got."
"Dice is an unusual name."
"Nickname. His real name's Daniel. But he's always been a risk-taker, even as a kid. The name stuck."
"And he's in a motorcycle club?"
James nods. "Outlaw Order MC. Dice is just a prospect, but they're his family now." He pauses. "Good guys, mostly. Despite the name."
"Mostly?" I raise an eyebrow.
"They operate in gray areas sometimes. But they have a code. They protect their own."
I absorb this information, wondering what I've gotten myself into. A motorcycle club that "operates in gray areas" doesn't sound like the kind of people I normally associate with. Then again, normal went out the window the moment I decided to flee with James.
"Will they help us?" I ask, the question that matters most right now.
"Without question," he says with absolute certainty. "Dice will move heaven and earth once he knows I'm in trouble."
His confidence is reassuring. We keep moving, each step an effort for James, but he doesn't complain. The only signs of his struggle are his increasingly labored breathing and the growing dampness where his blood seeps through his shirt onto mine.
"Almost halfway," I encourage, though I have no way of knowing exactly how far we've traveled. The road seems endless, winding through trees that all look the same.
"Rebecca," James says suddenly, his voice lower than before. "If we get separated, I need you to remember something. Outlaw Order Clubhouse. That's where you'll find Dice. Tell him his brother sent you."
"We're not getting separated," I insist, tightening my grip on him. "And you can tell him yourself."
But his words plant a seed of dread. He's preparing for the worst, that he might not make it all the way. We crest a small hill, and I feel a surge of relief. Through the trees ahead, I can make out what looks like the roof of a building. The gas station.
"Look," I point. "We're closer than I thought."
James straightens slightly, renewed determination in his stance. "Let's hurry."
As we approach, the full gas station comes into view.
It's small and dated. The kind of place that still has actual gas pumps instead of digital ones, with a little convenience store attached.
A faded sign reads "Earl's Gas & Grocery.
" One pickup truck sits parked at the pumps, but otherwise, the place looks deserted.
"Wait," James pulls me to a stop at the edge of the trees. "We need to think this through."
He's right. We're a mess—him in blood-soaked prison clothes, me in a nurse's uniform spattered with blood, both of us dirty from the woods. We'll attract attention immediately.
"I need to clean up before I go in," I say, assessing our options. "There must be a restroom I can use."
"And I need to stay out of sight," James adds. "Prison breaks make the news fast."
We observe the station for several minutes. Earl sits behind the counter inside, reading a newspaper. No other employees visible. The bathroom appears to be around the side, with an entrance from the exterior.
"Here's the plan," I say finally. "I'll clean up as best I can, then go in and use the pay phone. I'll also buy some supplies. Food, water, maybe some clothes if they have any. You stay hidden in the trees."
James shakes his head. "Too risky. What if Walsh's men show up while you're inside?"
"They're searching the woods, not checking gas stations yet. Besides, we need help, and this is our best option."
He studies my face, clearly not liking the plan but seeing no alternatives. Finally, he nods.
"Be quick," he says. "And Rebecca? Don't give your real name to anyone."
The warning sends a chill through me. Of course. I'm aiding a prison escape now. I'm a criminal too.
"I won't," I promise.
We make our way to the edge of the property, staying within the tree line. The side of the building with the bathroom is out of view from both the road and the front counter, offering some privacy.
"Wait here," I tell James, helping him sit against a tree just within the woods. "I'll be as fast as I can."
His hand catches mine before I can move away. "Be careful."
The simple touch, the concern in his voice, they affect me more than they should. I squeeze his hand once, then slip away toward the bathroom.
It's unlocked, thankfully. Inside, I'm confronted with my reflection in a grimy mirror, and what I see shocks me.
Wild curls escape from what used to be a neat ponytail.
Blood—James's blood—stains my light blue scrubs in dark patches.
Dirt smudges my face. My eyes look wider, wilder than I've ever seen them.
I hardly recognize myself.
Working quickly, I scrub the blood from my hands and arms, then dampen paper towels to clean my face. I can't do much about the scrubs except zip up my jacket to cover the worst of the stains. I fix my ponytail as best I can, tucking escaping curls back into place.
The result is still far from normal, but at least I don't look like I just escaped a massacre. Taking a deep breath, I leave the bathroom and walk around to the store entrance, trying to appear casual.
A bell jingles as I enter. Earl looks up from his newspaper, eyeing me with mild curiosity.
"Afternoon," he says, his voice gravelly with age.
"Hi," I respond, aiming for friendly but not memorable. "Do you have a pay phone I could use? My cell died."
He nods toward the back corner. "Right over there. Still works, believe it or not. Most folks forgot what a pay phone looks like these days."
I smile politely and head for the phone, relieved to see it's the old-fashioned kind that takes quarters. I dig in my pocket and find a few, then lift the receiver.
Now comes the hard part. I don't know Dice's number.
I hesitate, then dial the operator. When she answers, I ask for the number for Outlaw Order Clubhouse. After a moment, she provides it, and I hang up to dial directly.
Each ring heightens my anxiety. What if no one answers? What if they can't—or won't—help us?
"Outlaw Clubhouse," a gruff male voice finally answers.
"I need to speak with Dice," I say, keeping my voice low. "It's about his brother."
A pause. "Who's asking?"
I swallow hard. "Tell him that his brother sent me."
Another, longer pause. Then, "Hold on."
I wait, watching the store entrance nervously. Earl has gone back to his newspaper, paying me no attention. Still, I feel exposed, vulnerable.
"This is Dice." A new voice comes on the line, younger, edged with tension. "Who the hell is this and what do you know about my brother?"
"My name is Rebecca. I'm with James. He's hurt, and we need help."
"James is in prison," Dice replies immediately, suspicion evident. "Who are you really?"
"There was a riot," I explain quickly. "He was attacked by men working for someone named Walsh. We escaped, but they're hunting us. James is badly injured. He said you'd help."
Silence on the line. I can almost feel him processing this information, deciding whether to trust me.
"Where are you now?" he finally asks.