Red Rain: Over 40 Bestselling Stories

by J. R. Rain

  “All I want is for you to just move. To get up. Stand ten or twenty feet away. Maybe thirty.”

  “Maybe you should go fuck yourself.”

  The bus grew louder. It blotted out most of the street. The driver sat high above us. He looked alert and clear-headed. He didn’t look like someone who was about to lose control of a massive vehicle that, if out-of-control, might as well be a Sherman tank.

  I sat forward, ready to spring into action. Would I be fast enough to save the girl? Should I just grab her now and haul her out off the bench and over the far wall?

  I nearly did. In fact, I had just started to rise off the bench when something happened.

  That something was the hiss of air brakes.

  The bus was stopping.

  I didn’t relax until the bus had fully stopped in front of us. And when it did, the girl leaped to her feet, throwing her bag over a shoulder. She turned to me as the bus door hissed open. “Nice call, bitch.” She stepped inside, looked back at me once, and promptly flipped me the bird.

  The bus driver leaned toward me. An elderly man with a red face said, “Hey, lady, you coming in or what?”

  “No, sorry,” I said, my voice trailing off. “Wrong bus.”

  He shrugged, reached for a lever, shut the door. A moment later, the bus was heading north again on Harbor Boulevard, leaving me sitting alone and confused as hell. I didn’t know whether or not to feel relieved or irritated.

  What the hell had just happened?

  I didn’t know, but the very bus I had seen smashing into the cement bench and crushing the young girl in the waitress uniform had just passed me by. And just as that thought crossed my mind, just as the bus crossed the next intersection, I looked down at the bench beneath me.

  It was wooden.

  I snapped my head up, searching desperately ahead. Yes, there was another bus stop two blocks away. A bus stop that was directly in front of a Coco’s restaurant—

  Where a young waitress—wearing the same black slacks and pin-striped blouse—was sitting, on what was surely a cement bench. A young girl digging in a handbag and not paying attention to the bus bearing down on her.

  I leaped to my feet, sprinted down the sidewalk. I would never get there in time, not even with my freaky enhanced speed. And the bus, if anything, was picking up speed.

  All while the girl continued digging in her bag.

  Shit.

  I ran faster, passing people on the street. Many turned to watch me speed by. Many didn’t care or notice.

  Someone screamed far ahead. I looked up and saw why. The bus was slewing across the lane, bouncing into the curb. Metal sparked from the rims.

  The light on Amerige Street was mercifully green, and I dashed across it, running faster than I ever had before, but knowing I would never make it in time.

  And knowing there was only one thing I could...

  A single flame appeared in my thoughts.

  I focused on the flame and ran and dodged signs and people and trees. As the flame grew brighter, I leaped as high as I could, holding my arms out. I convulsed. My clothing burst from my body. And when I opened my eyes again, giant, black, leathery wings stretched out far and wide to either side. Wings that were once my arms. And instead of falling back to the sidewalk, I sailed forward, low to the ground.

  Someone screamed behind me. Two, three, four screams.

  A tree was fast approaching. I flapped my wings hard, gaining altitude—and just clipped the tree. A car to my left hit its brakes, squealing. Another car hit its brakes. More squealing, but mercifully I didn’t hear the sounds of cars crashing.

  The building next to me was mostly smoked glass, nearly as dark as my thick hide. I hoped it camouflaged me enough to not cause a major panic.

  Below, the bus careened off a small tree, flattening it, scattering leaves and birds everywhere.

  I flapped my wings faster, racing forward. Wind thundered over me. One or two people below stopped and pointed at me, but most people were watching the out-of-control bus, oblivious that something giant and horrific was speeding through the night air just a few feet above their heads.

  The bus bounced and jolted—and bounded onto the curb like something hungry and destructive. Now I heard screaming from inside the bus. What had happened to the driver?

  I didn’t know, and I had no time to think about it. I had seen in my dreams what would happen to this poor girl, and it would not be pretty. And, just like in my dreams, she sat directly in the path of the runaway bus.

  I angled my wings and rocketed down. I was still about a half a city block away.

  The bus slammed into another tree, plowed through a hedge, obliterated a trash can. Someone in its path dove out of the way, saving themselves.

  The girl on the bench still hadn’t looked up, was still clueless, was still rocking out to whatever the hell she was listening to.

  Someone yelled at her from across the street, waving their arms in vain, trying to get her attention.

  No luck. Now she suddenly laughed at something. Perhaps a funny lyric in the song. Perhaps recalling a funny conversation she’d had today. Either way, it was the same laugh from my dreams.

  I dropped from the sky, talons extended. A bird of prey. A beast of prey. The bus was now half on the curb, half on the street, rumbling inevitably toward the girl.

  I sliced through the air. A black streak. A black streak with claws and teeth and wings.

  People were screaming. The girl finally looked up.

  She screamed too, tried to run.

  Too late. The bus was upon her.

  Except, I was upon her, too. Or, rather, on top of her. Just as the bus blasted through the cement bench, my clawed talons snatched her from under her arms and around her shoulders.

  I beat my wings hard, lifting the girl, who screamed and twisted beneath me. I lifted her higher and higher, all while I heard the destruction below. Concrete and metal colliding. Horns honking. More screaming than I had ever heard in my life.

  Soon, we were above the highest building.

  Near the corner of the roof, near a door I suspected led to stairs, I set her down.

  She was still screaming as she crumpled into a heap. I saw immediately that her clothing was torn where I had grabbed her. Blood oozed from a few wounds as well. Her shoulders, I was certain, were dislocated.

  But at least she was alive.

  I didn’t linger.

  I flapped my wings hard and rocketed up into the night sky.

  7.

  There was much talk about the bus crash.

  The driver, an old man who was nearing retirement, had suffered a massive heart attack. He’d fallen over the steering wheel, and it had taken many passengers to finally wrestle him off and gain control of the bus. And despite going up on the curb of a busy, downtown sidewalk, no one had been seriously injured.

  Much had been made of the creature that had appeared. A creature witnessed by many people. Also, much had been made of the girl who had been seen on the park bench in one instant, and then was seemingly gone in the next. She reappeared miraculously on a nearby rooftop. Injured but safe.

  There was much talk of a guardian angel.

  Or a guardian something, since those who had seen the creature proclaimed it was no angel.

  A demon, if anything.

  I knew all of this because Detective Sherbet of the Fullerton Police Department had talked to me about it, confirming that it had been me. Secretly, of course, as he knew most of my secrets. He reminded me that I wasn’t a superhero, but he also thanked me.

  Most intriguing were the reports of a naked woman seen sneaking through town, only to disappear into a minivan.

  And drive off.

  I knew that hide-a-key would come in handy.

  The End

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  Rearview Mirror

  It’s after work and Harvey is tired.

  It’s been a helluva a long day and all he wants to do is
go home to his wife and girl, eat a big dinner, and watch Dancing With the Stars.

  Harvey turns off the slow-moving freeway, relieved to finally be out of traffic, and heads up a long off-ramp. As he slows down for the red light, he wonders who might get eliminated tonight. The star quarterback with the big hands, or the surgically-enhanced (but still quite cute) aging actress?

  The red light barely registers in Harvey’s conscious thoughts. Like most people, his actions are automatic. One moment he’s driving, and the next he’s stopping safely behind the car in front of him. Harvey’s not thinking about the light.

  He’s thinking about Dancing With the Stars.

  As he waits for the signal to turn, he idly wonders what his wife will make for dinner tonight. During breakfast this morning, had she mentioned something about making meatloaf? She might have, but Harvey can’t remember. Breakfast has been thoroughly buried by a shitty day at work.

  Harvey had never had a man-crush until this year. That’s when the good-looking quarterback appeared on Harvey’s favorite realty dance show. What an amazing smile the man had. And he was so tall! And athletic! Harvey wished he was as tall and athletic.

  As he continues to wait for the light, Harvey thinks about what an ass he made of himself earlier today. He’d made a joke about the boss’s wife...to the boss’s face. The boss hadn’t been amused and now Harvey is certain he’s on the man’s shit list.

  Harvey is always doing stuff like that, and he knows it’s a problem for him. More often than not, he suffers a profound lapse in judgment...an inappropriate joke here, a bad decision there. Always apologizing for his mistakes.

  It’s gotten to the point where Harvey no longer trusts any of his decisions, ever. Which is why at lunch today he purchased a book about just that, about learning how to trust one’s feelings. Harvey didn’t know how to trust his feelings. Lately, all Harvey ever did was agonize over his choices and then, invariably, he would make the wrong one.

  Not anymore, he thinks. Indeed, he’d read the first few chapters at lunch and already felt more empowered.

  Now Harvey’s attention is drawn to a flier stapled to a telephone pole next to the off-ramp. The flier reads: Phone Bugs—Just $69.95!

  Harvey thinks it would be awesome to secretly listen to his wife’s phone calls, especially since he’s had a nagging suspicion that she’s been losing interest in him.

  Yes, I’ll do it!

  As Harvey quickly begins writing down the number on an old receipt—a receipt for a $125 car wash he’d been talked into getting last week—he begins getting a nagging feeling that maybe he shouldn’t do this. What did the book say about nagging feelings?

  He pauses, thinking about the book that sits on the front seat next to him.

  Yes, Harvey remembers. Nagging feelings were meant to be listened to. Nagging, agitated feelings were the body’s first warning system that maybe something was, in fact, not a good idea.

  Nonsense, thinks Harvey. What’s one or two phone calls? What harm could happen? Besides, she’s his wife. Didn’t he have a right to know what she was saying?

  Harvey easily talks himself into writing down the numbers, which he stuffed into his shirt’s breast pocket. The feeling of unease grudgingly passes, and Harvey could hardly wait to place his order tomorrow. He wonders if they have a website. He’ll check tonight after the wife is asleep. Then delete his search history. As usual.

  He drums the steering wheel, waiting impatiently for the light to turn green. Harvey wonders idly what the world would be like with only green lights. He decides it would be a good thing; after all, people could get to where they want much faster. Harvey never stops to consider the consequences of a world with only green lights. The downside, if you will.

  Sweat trickles down his back. The sun beats down on his hood, and that’s when Harvey looks into his rearview mirror for the first time.

  He looks—and looks again.

  “Holy shit!”

  A truck. Coming up the off-ramp behind him. Speeding like a bat out of hell.

  “Holy shit,” he says again.

  The off-ramp from the 91 freeway onto Valley View Street is a long one, running about two hundred yards or more. The truck in Harvey’s rearview mirror is already about halfway along it, with no signs of slowing down.

  Harvey’s bowels begin a process of moving, although he is not aware of it.

  With the truck quickly filling the space in his rearview mirror—and going even faster if at all possible—Harvey undoes his seat-belt with his right hand and opens the driver’s side door.

  He has a bad feeling. A very bad feeling. Something bad was going to happen, and Harvey is sure he knows what it will be.

  The truck is going to hit him...and hard.

  Perhaps even hard enough to break his neck or throw him into traffic.

  As he’s about to step out into traffic, as he’s about to dive for cover, a thought occurs to him.

  Maybe the truck won’t hit him. Maybe the truck is going to choose a different lane. Perhaps even the left lane where there is plenty of space. The left lane—which just so happens to be the lane closest to Harvey.

  But Harvey, true to form, ignores this internal warning.

  This time, for once, he’s absolutely positive that he can trust his instincts.

  Harvey dives out of his truck, rolls into the left lane.

  Looks up—and screams.

  The second to last thing that Harvey sees is the blinking of the truck’s left turn signal. And the very, very last thing that Harvey sees in this world is the truck’s bug-encrusted grill...

  The End

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  Death Came Knocking On My Window

  I wasn’t having the best of days.

  Okay, so I didn’t do so swell on my college trig test, and I probably could have avoided the argument I’d had with my girlfriend, Rachel. Still, that didn’t mean Death had to come knocking on my window.

  I’d been in my bedroom studying. Yes, I still live with my parents. Something I just can’t get enough of saying. Right, my girlfriend’s never been prouder either. What can I say. I’m a full-time student and have a part-time job. Do the math. It doesn’t add up. For now, yes, I live with Mommy and Daddy and I’m not too proud of it.

  So, after getting home kind of late from Olive Garden, blowing my last fifty bucks on a girlfriend who didn’t seem very appreciative (the source of our fight), I went through my pre-study rituals. Or, as Rachel calls them, my pre-study procrastinations.

  First, I ate a chocolate chip granola bar, washing it down with a frosty glass of milk. I always ate slowly, of course. Why rush when I might risk choking? Once done, I carefully looked through all my email, spam included. Hey, I might miss something interesting or important. Next, I methodically worked my way through all of my friends’ updates on Facebook. Hey, what are friends for? Then I changed into my studying clothes. Yes, my skivvies. My underwear. My tightie whities.

  Once done, and once I updated my Twitter page, of course, I cracked my trig book open.

  Reluctantly, of course.

  So, there I sat staring into my trig book, my brows no doubt furrowed deeply, wondering if I’d gotten any re-tweets, when someone tapped on my window.

  Tapped, tapped on my window.

  I veritably leaped from my bedroom desk.

  Was it Rachel? Could she have reconsidered my offer for late night fooling around? If so, why had she tapped on my window? Why not just text? Why not just call? Hell, why not just knock on my front door?

  I crossed my small room, stepping over my laptop bag and a pile of clothes and today’s Taco Bell offerings. Halfway to my bedroom window, it occurred to me that the tapping was from, more realistically, my pal Bryan who was known for these kinds of late-night ramblings. The poor sap was having the hardest time getting along with his own girlfriend—and I got to hear every word of it.

  Still, if my friend was in need, well, I was gonna be there for
him.

  No matter what.

  Hey, it’s the kinda guy I am.

  So when I yanked aside my curtains, trusting fool that I am, I received the shock of my life. Standing on the other side of window, illuminated faintly in the yellow light from my desk lamp, was a hooded figure who was most certainly not my girlfriend or Bryan or anyone I had ever seen.

  I yelped and backed away. I yelped again when a bone-white hand rose before my face and rapped on the window again.

  As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door...

  Why Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” came to mind, I didn’t know, but I did know one thing: the hand wasn’t bone-white.

  It was a bone. Or, rather, bones.

  As in a skeleton.

  Holy sweet Jesus.

  I almost—almost—lost control of my bladder right then and there.

  Calm down, Louie. Obviously it’s someone playing a prank on you. Ryan definitely. Maybe with a little help from Rachel. Maybe some sweet payback for me being impossible tonight (even though I’d splurged on her with my last fifty bucks).

  And then I saw something very odd.

  So odd that my bowels turned to water and I needed to go to the bathroom. Very badly. Very, very badly.

  He pulled back his hood...revealing a smiling skull. But this wasn’t a plastic mask or even a clever rubber one. This was the real deal. I knew it, sensed it, felt it.

  I backed away, stumbling through my clothes and over my backpack, nearly tripping. I heard the tiny squeak that came from my mouth and couldn’t believe the sound came from me.

  Jesus, Louie, get ahold of yourself. You must know that guy. Obviously it’s Bryan in a mask. A clever mask—Jesus, are his eyes glowing?

  He—or it—tapped again. No, not tapped.

  Rapped.

  Loudly, rattling the glass.

  My squeak turned into a shriek and somewhere inside me I knew my friends were doubled over with laughter. My stupid, punk-ass friends. Or maybe these were some local high schoolers. Hell, even my own dad was a bit of a prankster.