by BB Easton
I start to panic, flying through every possible name I can think of in my mind, but all I can get out is, “Hey … man.”
“Looks like you and your boyfriend here”—all three guys lift their eyes to a spot over my shoulder—“were trying to leave without paying your taxes.”
Taxes.
My stomach drops.
I manage to twist my face into a fake smile. “Oh! No … see, we worked it out with …” I gesture toward the doorman on the other side of the glass behind them, hoping he’ll verify our payment situation, but when I glance over at him, he’s not in his chair at all.
He’s lying facedown on the sidewalk, being sniffed and nibbled on by a pack of wild dogs.
My guts churn as the reality of our situation comes crashing down around me. We are unarmed and outnumbered, and the only person who might have been able to help us just freaking overdosed.
I glance over my shoulder at Wes. His jaw flexes as he chews on the inside of his bottom lip. He’s staring straight ahead, refusing to look at me, and I know why.
Because the lifer has something to live for.
“Can I go?” he asks in a bored voice, meeting the stares of all three gangsters as if they were obnoxious children making him late for work.
I almost want to laugh. A complete stranger took me at gunpoint and delivered me to my worst nightmare, and I let him do it because I liked the way he looked at me.
The nightmare! That’s it! Any minute now, the four horsemen are going to burst through that door and kill us all! It’s just the nightmare! It has to be! Wake up, Rain! Wake up!
I swing my head left and right, desperately searching for a telltale black-and-red banner, a stitch of April 23 propaganda, some flames, smoke, something, but the only things hanging on the walls are TV monitors showing videos of happy white people eating three-dollar bags of Doritos.
It’s not a dream. It’s just me, three rapists, and the guy trying to sell me to them.
Gulp.
The thugs glance at each other and then back at the man behind me.
The one on the left glares at him and spits on the ground. “Yo pussy-ass ain’t even worth the bullet.”
“Go on, pretty boy,” the one on the right says through his gold grill, flicking his head toward the door. “Get the fuck out.”
The one I recognize stares right at me, licking his thin, chapped lips. “You never said shit to me when we was in school, but now, I’m gon’ have you screamin’ my name.”
Dread slithers through my veins as all three rotten grins close in on me, and tears sting my eyes as I watch the lifer walk right on past, leaving me to pay for his precious groceries. The sliding glass doors behind the hillbilly mafia open as my only hope strolls toward them. He stops in the doorway and gives me one last look over his shoulder. But his face isn’t cold and callous, like I expected. It’s not even remorseful. What I find there is sharp and direct. Wes’s pupils narrow and cut to the display shelf beside him and back. Like a command.
Or a warning.
I don’t have time to figure out what it means before Wes brings two fingers to his mouth and lets out the loudest whistle I’ve ever heard.
The dogs outside lift their heads, and before the rednecks in red even have a chance to turn all the way around, Wes grabs a bag of chips off the shelf next to him and rips the damn thing wide open. Salty orange triangles rain down on the threesome as a pack of starving dogs rushes through the open sliding doors. My brain screams at me to run, but all I can do is stand there with my mouth hanging open as the dogs overtake my attackers, snarling and yelping and gnashing and clawing at anything and everything between them and the promise of food.
As I stare at the scene before me, a hand clamps down around my wrist and drags me out the door. I don’t look at the ogre on the sidewalk as we pass. I don’t stop to take his machine gun or hunt for my pill bottle—two things I know I’ll kick myself for later. I don’t even limp. All I can think about as Wes and I run across the parking lot is getting away from that hellhole as quickly as possible.
Once we’re behind the bread truck, Wes shoves the grocery bags into my arms and grabs his gun holster from the wheel well. “You okay?” he asks, shrugging the brown leather harness on over his shirt.
“Yeah,” I huff, shoving my arms elbow deep into the straps of the plastic bags so that they won’t fall off during the ride.
“Good.” He pulls his black helmet down over his face.
Good.
My cheeks tingle as I climb onto the bike behind him. The second my ass hits the seat, I plaster myself to Wes’s back, and we peel out of the parking lot and onto the highway. Shots ring out from somewhere behind us, but I don’t look back.
Of course, I don’t look forward either.
When you’re three days away from the apocalypse, there’s not much to look forward to.
Rain
Right, left, right, right, left.
We weave back through the wreckage on the highway, and I’m lulled into a trance. The adrenaline from our escape begins to wear off—taking the last of my hydrocodone high along with it—and my mind begins to wander into dangerous places. No memories come. Just feelings. Bad ones. And the occasional unwanted picture in my head. I don’t know which ones are from real life and which ones are from the nightmares.
I don’t want to know.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try singing to myself, but every song that comes to mind is sad. Or violent. Or sad and violent. “Semi-Automatic” by Twenty One Pilots makes me think of “10 A.M. Automatic” by The Black Keys, which makes me think of “Black Wave” by K. Flay, which makes me think of “Blood in the Cut” by K. Flay, which makes me think of “Cut Yr Teeth” by Kississippi, which makes me think of “Cut My Lip” by Twenty One Pilots.
I begin searching for a happy Twenty One Pilots song—there has to be one—when Wes makes a sharp right, pulling into Hartwell Park. I hold on to him tighter through the turn, food bags cutting off the blood supply to my lower arms, and try to figure out what the hell we’re doing there.
The place has seen better days. Burger Palace wrappers, crushed beer cans, and cigarette butts have been strewn around like confetti after a party, and in addition to all the other graffiti, somebody went and spray-painted a giant letter S on the sign so that it reads Shartwell Park now.
Okay, that one’s my personal favorite.
Wes drives right up onto the grass and parks next to the playground. I let go of him, reluctantly, and climb off the dirt bike. Setting the plastic bags on the ground, I massage the divots out of my arms to try to get the blood flowing into my hands again.
As soon as his helmet is off, Wes grabs the bags and heads up a yellow ladder to the top of the playground equipment. I tilt my head back and squint up at him as he disappears over the ledge. “Why did you stop here? You just really like slides or something?”
“Dogs can’t climb ladders,” he calls back over the sound of plastic rustling and cardboard ripping.
Oh shit.
Looking around to make sure there’s no sign of the three Rs, I climb up the ladder and find Wes sitting with his back against the railing, already popping the last bite of a protein bar into his mouth.
“Damn. You were hungry.”
He wads up the wrapper and tosses it into the sea of garbage below us before offering the opened box to me. The gesture is kind, but his eyes are hard as he crunches on a cheekful of chemically engineered nutrients.
“Uh, thanks.” I slide a protein bar out of the box and peel back the wrapper. The moment my teeth sink into that brick of salty sweetness, an involuntary moan rumbles in the back of my throat. It’s the first thing I’ve eaten that hasn’t come out of a deep fryer at Burger Palace in days. Maybe longer.
“That was really fucking stupid back there.”
I swallow and risk a glance at my angry companion. Even though he’s sitting and I’m standing, the look on his face still scares the hell out of me.
; “Oh … yeah. Sorry about that.”
“I told you I’d get you out of there if you kept your mouth shut and followed my lead. You didn’t follow shit.”
I wince and manage an awkward half-smile. “I followed you, like, almost the whole time.” My half-smile turns into a grimace.
“Yeah, and you ran your fucking mouth almost the whole time, too.” Wes drops his dagger-like stare and begins rummaging through the bags again.
“I said I was sorry, okay? Maybe, next time, you should kidnap somebody a little less impulsive.”
Wes rips the top off another box, ignoring me.
I cross my arms over my chest and try to pout, but it’s kind of hard when he’s twisting the cap off a pouch of squeezie applesauce like a five-year-old.
“Man”—I giggle—“you do not know how to apocalypse. We’re gonna die in three days, and you’re over here, worried about the five food groups.”
Wes stills with the pouch poised an inch from his parted lips. “Who’s we?”
“Um, you, me”—I spread my arms and look out over the empty landfill of a park—“everybody.”
“I’m not gonna die,” Wes says before wrapping his lips around the opening of the pouch.
Something about the way he’s looking up at me makes my cheeks tingle.
I laugh it off and snap my fingers at him. “I knew you were a lifer! I knew it!” I sit down across from him and lean forward. “So, tell me, lifer, if we’re not gonna die, what do you think the nightmares mean? You think the four horsemen of the apocalypse are just gonna show up on April 23 to braid our hair and play patty-cake?” At the mention of braids, I reach up and touch the place where mine used to be.
Yep. Still gone.
Wes leans forward and jams a finger in my direction. “I told you, I’m not a fucking lifer. I didn’t say, we’re not gonna die. I said, I’m not gonna die. I don’t know what the dream means, and I don’t give a shit. All I know is that whatever it is … I’m gonna survive it.”
I almost choke on my protein bar. Burying my lower face in my elbow, I cough up bits of powdered peanut butter and stare at the delusional man sitting across from me. “You’re gonna survive it?”
Wes lifts his shoulders in a half-assed shrug as the pouch between his lips flattens to nothing.
“How are you gonna survive something if you don’t even know what it is?”
Another shrug. Another wrapper hits the ground.
“Been doin’ it my whole life.” Wes’s voice is soft again, and this time, his eyes don’t meet mine when he speaks.
Something inside of me twists at his admission, and I lower my voice to match his. “So, you’re like, some kind of survivalist then?”
“Sure.” The word comes out harsh and flat, like he doesn’t want to talk about it.
That’s fine with me. I’m an expert at not talking about shit. Or dealing with it at all if I don’t have to.
I lean back against the railing and yelp as the items he shoved down my shirt earlier clang against the yellow metal poles. The corner of one package stabs me in the spine while the corner of another pokes me in the ass through my pajama bottoms. “Ow! God! Damn!”
With a huff, I turn around so that my back is toward him and untuck my tank top, letting all of his precious supplies fall into his lap. Wes chuckles softly, and I look at him over my shoulder.
Big mistake.
The man in the Hawaiian shirt is smiling down at the tools I just dumped on him like it’s Christmas morning. His lashes are long and dark against his high cheekbones, a lock of soft brown hair has fallen out from behind his ear, and all I want to do is crawl into his lap so that maybe he’ll look at me the same way.
But he won’t because, unlike that flashlight, pocketknife, pack of lighters, and can opener, I’m a tool that’s already served its purpose. Wes got his food, and any minute, he’s going to toss me aside like all those wrappers on the ground below us.
Through the railing behind Wes, my eyes catch movement on the other side of the playground. An older couple just arrived, and they’re each pushing a small child on a swing. The kids are giggling and kicking their feet, completely oblivious to the garbage and sadness all around them, but their parents’ vacant, numb, washed-out stares say it all.
They’re going to watch each other die in three days, and the only thing they can do about it is stay high and try not to cry in front of the kids.
I tear my eyes away from their pain, as all of mine begins to rise to the surface. Every punch and kick I took this morning makes itself known. The rejection I know is coming—when Wes announces that he doesn’t need me anymore—burns like fire beneath my skin. Every loss I’ve suffered and the ones I know are coming pound against my skull, demanding to be acknowledged. I feel it all and all at once.
I grab my hoodie pocket, desperate for relief, but it’s empty. Of course.
Because Wes stole my pills to buy these fucking groceries.
Turning back around, I shove my hands into my windblown hair and try to catch my breath, but I can’t. I can’t breathe. I can’t get my fingers through the tangled strands. And I can’t believe I was stupid enough to let this guy take the only thing I had that would make this pain go away. I yank harder. Breathe harder. I rock back and forth, trying to soothe myself, but nothing’s working.
“Hey … you okay?”
“No!” I shout, but I only hear it in my mind. My lungs are expanding and contracting—I can feel it—but the air’s not getting in.
The air’s not getting in!
“Rainbow …”
“Rain!” I snap, clutching the sides of my head.
“Rainbow,” a sweet voice calls in my head. “Rainbow, baby, time to come inside …”
The image of a beautiful, smiling woman with dark blonde hair flashes behind my eyes before my flailing consciousness bats it away.
No!
“Rain …” Wes’s voice is measured and calm.
He’s talking to me like I’m a caged animal, so I behave like one.
I fucking run.
Wes
“Rain!” I shout after her, but she’s already halfway across the parking lot.
Her limp is worse than before, but she’s managing. I lean back against the railing and watch her disappear into the woods.
What the fuck was that?
I glance over my shoulder at the family she was staring at just a second ago and wonder if she knew them or something.
Whatever. It’s not my problem.
My stomach growls, reminding me exactly what my problem is. Or was, before I scored a week’s worth of food, thanks to that little black-haired psycho. I’m actually glad she ran off. That one had desperate clinger with daddy issues written all over her, and the last thing I need is another mouth to feed.
I dig through the plastic bags until I find the can of beef stew. I’m sure it’ll taste like fucking dog food, but it has enough calories and protein to get me through the rest of the day.
I pick up the packaged can opener in my lap, and I swear, it fucking smells like her. Lifting the cardboard to my nose, I close my eyes and inhale, remembering the way she wrapped her little arms around me in the grocery store. Her hair smelled just like this—vanilla or cupcakes or some girlie shit. Made my dick hard.
Yeah, and then she stormed off and almost got herself gang-raped.
My heart beats like an iron fist against my ribs as I picture her standing there, watching me leave, big blue eyes full of fear, big black hoodie almost down to her knees.
Stop it. You don’t need her anymore. Supplies, shelter, self-defense. That’s it.
My blood pumps harder as I remember the way she tried to fight me off in the parking lot. Bitch actually pulled my hair. Nobody’s ever pulled my fucking hair before.
Supplies, shelter, self-defense.
I picture the little crease in her forehead and the swelling claw marks on her cheek after I yanked her ass out of Burger Palace, standing there, debating
whether or not to get on the bike with me. As if she had a choice.
Supplies, shelter, self-defense.
Then, I see her the way I found her—balled up on the floor, so tiny, taking the beating of a lifetime because she refused to hand over her precious painkillers.
Damn it!
I chuck the can back into the bag and grab my shit. My stomach protests as I leap down to the trash-covered woodchips below and begin tying the grocery bags to my handlebars with violent knots. I have to get Rain back, and it has nothing to do with the fact that she smells like sugar cookies or looks like a broken china doll dressed by a blind person or because of the way her tits and thighs felt pressed against me on the back of my bike. I have to get Rain back because I know something she doesn’t.
Rainbow Williams is a fucking survivor.
And I’m not done using her yet.
I follow the trail she took through the woods on my bike, but it only leads as far as a strip shopping center down the road from the park. The place is deserted, hollowed out from a fire. If I had to guess, I’d say the looters probably took whatever drugs they could find in the dentist’s office and left the rest to burn.
That’s the only thing of any real value anymore. Pills. Pussy. The thrill of pyromania. Cash is worthless—unless you want to Apocasize your French fries at Burger Palace. And our government is so full of shit that nobody even listens to those lying assholes anymore. According to them, the US dollar is “stronger than ever,” and we should all just “remain calm” until “the source of the nightmares is identified.”
Of course, that message has been playing on a prerecorded loop for the last few weeks because not even the newscasters are showing up for work anymore. They’re all at home with their families or out getting fucked up and lighting shit on fire like the rest of us.
I drive around the building and pick up the trail again, heading back the way I came. Even though I haven’t been back to Franklin Springs since I was nine, I still know these woods like the back of my hand. I think I spent more time in them, avoiding my cunt of a mother and her parade of drunken boyfriends, than I ever did under her roof.