Dying for Rain

by Easton, BB

  I scream and try to pull my arm away, but all that does is jerk her body closer to me. Mrs. Renshaw is still slumped over sideways, and her wig has fallen halfway off, but her eyes are open and trying to focus on me. A trickle of blood flows from her temple down to the corner of her eye, turning the white part bright red. Then, it darts from my face to the gun between my legs.

  Shit!

  Her grip around my wrist tightens violently as she strains with her free hand to grab the weapon. My heart pounds like a desperate fist against my ribs as I snatch the gun out of her reach. Then, it stops completely as I bring it down like a hammer on the top of her head.

  Crack.

  Mrs. Renshaw’s body goes limp, landing in my lap before sliding down my legs to the floor.

  Oh God.

  I roll her off my feet so that I can free myself. The Burger Palace bag crinkles loudly underneath her, and my stomach growls. Once the duct tape is off, I hold my breath and roll her onto her side, pulling the pulverized burger out from under her lifeless body.

  I know I should check for a pulse, but I … I just can’t.

  She’s fine, I tell myself as I shove the flattened sandwich into my hoodie pocket. She’s gonna be fine.

  Running over to the wall, I reach up to hit the automatic garage door button, but the sound of Wes’s voice stops my hand in midair.

  “Supplies. Shelter. Self-defense.”

  I picture his face the way it looked on the morning of April 24, when we woke up and realized that the world hadn’t ended after all. His exhausted green eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with red. His battle-worn face, covered in dirt and ash and stubble. His blue Hawaiian shirt, smeared with Quint’s blood. And I hear his pep talk again, too, but this time, I listen. I really listen.

  “All you gotta do is say, Fuck ’em, and survive anyway,” he said, wiping the tears from my filthy cheeks. “That’s it. First, you say, Fuck ’em. Then, you figure out what you need to survive. So … figure it out. What do you need today?”

  “Food,” I whisper to myself.

  “Good. Do you have any?”

  I picture my tree house full of cans and vitamins and nod.

  “Supplies … check. What else do you need?”

  “A way to get to you,” I mumble, dropping my forehead to the wall next to the garage door button.

  “A vehicle. That can be your shelter, too. What else?”

  “An army to help me get you out.”

  “That would be nice, but let’s start with …” I picture Wes tapping the handle of the revolver sticking out of his shoulder holster with a smirk.

  “My daddy’s gun,” I sigh.

  “Self-defense. Supplies, shelter, and self-defense. That’s all you need.”

  I remember the way Wes smiled at me after that little speech. His tired green eyes didn’t even crease at the corners. There was a sadness in them I’d never seen before. A resignation that made me nervous.

  “See?” he said, letting his fake grin fall as two miserable mossy eyes stared right through me. “You got this.”

  “No,” I corrected him. “We got this.”

  I don’t know if I believe those words any more than I did on April 24, but I take a deep breath and push open the kitchen door anyway.

  Because Mrs. Renshaw was right.

  When you’re a mama, you really will do anything to protect your family.

  And Wes is all the family I got.

  Rain

  I open the door just a crack and listen for people inside. Footsteps, drawers opening, anything to help me figure out whether or not the coast is clear. The house is eerily still other than the sound of a man’s muffled voice in the distance. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but his Southern drawl and grandstanding tone make me think it must be Mr. Renshaw … until the phrase, “violatin’ the laws of Mutha Naychuh,” rises above the white noise.

  Governor Steele.

  My heart sinks. They’re probably all gathered around the TV, watching today’s execution.

  And tomorrow, they could be watching Wes’s.

  No! The thought practically pushes me through the door into the kitchen. My guilt over what I just did to Mrs. Renshaw dissipates when I see what she’s done to the place.

  Mama’s watercolor landscapes that used to hang on the wall in the breakfast nook, the stained-glass sun catchers I made as a kid that she had propped up in the window, her collection of fridge magnets from places other people had visited—all gone. Now, it’s nothing but roosters. Everywhere. A metal rooster crossing sign, stained black from the flames that destroyed her own kitchen. Ceramic rooster cookie jars with the glaze all melted off. Glass rooster salt and pepper shakers that are so cracked they couldn’t hold a grain of either one. Mrs. Renshaw must have dug every damn rooster she could find out of the ashes of her kitchen and shoved them all in here.

  A hate I have never felt before begins to swirl inside off me. I exhale it through my nose like dragon smoke. It seeps through my pores like steam from a hot sidewalk. It clouds my vision, turning everything I see as red as the comb on a rooster’s head.

  It takes all of my self-control to stay silent as I walk over to the breakfast table. I want to stomp and growl and rip that metal sign off the wall so that I can use it to smash every other rooster in this room. But I breathe through my mouth and avoid the squeakiest floorboards as I tiptoe over to Mrs. Renshaw’s purse on the kitchen counter. It’s a big, ugly sack of a thing with rhinestones all over it, but when I lift the flap and look inside, a crystal rooster keychain stares back at me … along with a key fob that says GMC on the back of it.

  I close my eyes and say, Thank you, but I don’t know who I think is listening.

  Mama maybe?

  It can’t be God. He deserted us months ago.

  Opening the drawer next to the oven as quietly as possible, I reach in and take out the can opener.

  “Bailiff! Bring out the accused!”

  Crap!

  The execution’s almost over. I have to hurry. I close the drawer and slide the can opener into Mrs. Renshaw’s purse, and then I slowly lift the bag off the counter. I make sure that nothing inside jingles or rattles as I drape the strap over my neck and across my body. Then, I turn.

  And find Sophia Elizabeth Renshaw staring at me from five feet away.

  “How did you—”

  I dart forward and wrap my hand around her mouth, peeking into the dining room and up the few stairs to the living room where her dad and brother are staring with wide eyes at the glowing screen.

  POW!

  They both jump in their seats as I pull my head back into the kitchen.

  “Sweetie …” I scramble to come up with an explanation that will make sense to a ten-year-old, but as I stare into her deep brown eyes, wide with fear and confusion and blind trust, all I can think to say is, “I love you. So much. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Sophie blinks twice and then nods a little into my hand.

  “I have to go now. Do me a favor and don’t tell the guys you saw me, okay? They’ll be mad.”

  Sophie nods again, pulling her eyebrows together, and I drop to my knees to hug her.

  “Once again, I’m Michelle Ling, reporting live from Plaza Park. Today’s Green Mile execution event was brought to you by Garden Warehouse. On behalf of Governor Steele and the great state of Georgia, stay safe out there, and may the fittest survive.”

  “Dude,” Carter groans from the living room. “They have got to start making those holes bigger. Did you see the way that guy smacked his head on the way down? Ugh.” I hear the squeak of my couch cushions and know my time is up.

  “Don’t s’pose it matters now, does it?” Mr. Renshaw replies as I give Sophie one last squeeze.

  I can’t leave through the back door in the dining room because they’ll see me, so I turn and tiptoe back over to the garage, pressing my finger to my lips as Sophie watches me go.

  I slide through the door and close it behind me with the qu
ietest click, relieved to see that Mrs. Renshaw’s body is right where I left it.

  But horrified to see a spot of blood forming on the concrete next to her head.

  My stomach lurches violently, but there’s nothing in it to throw up.

  I realize that if I hit the garage door button, Jimbo and Carter will hear that rusty old motor and come running, and I need more time if I’m gonna grab my supplies out of the tree house.

  That only leaves me with one choice.

  I have to open it myself.

  Pressing my vanilla-scented hoodie sleeve to my mouth and nose, I tiptoe over to the chair where I spent most of the day restrained in the dark and climb up onto it.

  Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look down, I think as I teeter over Mrs. Renshaw’s lifeless body and reach for the emergency release cord hanging from the metal track above my head. I tug on it, like Wes did on April 23 when we had no power and needed to get Mama’s motorcycle out of the garage, but it’s stuck. So, using both hands, I yank on the cord as hard as I can.

  The release mechanism pops open, knocking me off-balance and causing my feet—and the chair—to come out from under me. I swing from the cord wildly, legs flailing and teeth gritted as I wait for the crash, but it never comes. Just a soft thud. I realize before I even drop to my feet what must have broken my chair’s fall.

  Agnes Renshaw.

  I don’t even look as I dart past her and hoist the heavy garage door up by hand. Then, once I duck underneath and slide it back down, I tear around the side of the house and through the backyard. The sun is setting behind the trees, but there’s enough light left that anybody who happens to be looking out a window right now would see me dashing up my tree house ladder. All I can do is hurry and pray that they don’t.

  I chuck all of the cans and vitamin bottles back into the Huckabee’s Foods bags and give my parents one last glance as I sprint through the knee-high grass toward the front yard. The wind chimes on the back porch tell me goodbye as I round the side of the house. I pass my daddy’s rusted old truck and Mama’s motorcycle—that hopefully no one here knows how to drive—and set my sights on the silver GMC at the top of the driveway.

  With my heart in my throat, I reach out and grab the driver’s side door handle, seconds away from being home free, but instead of feeling the door unlatch and swing open, I feel resistance followed by sheer terror when the headlights begin to blink, and the horn begins to blare.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  I scramble to shift all the bags I’m carrying to one hand as I dig in Mrs. Renshaw’s purse for the car key with my other. I glance at the window next to the front door where I can see Carter and Jimbo on the other side, sitting on the couch, facing the TV. Both of their heads turn in my direction, and Carter shoots to his feet.

  Come on!

  My thumb grazes the jagged comb on the crystal rooster’s head as the front door swings wide open. Carter’s furious gaze lands on me as I yank the keychain out and frantically begin mashing buttons. I tug on the door handle and push and push and push every rubbery square as Carter leaps down my front porch stairs and runs at full speed up my driveway. The door finally flies open, and I dive inside, slamming it shut just as Carter’s fingers wrap around the edge of it. He screams as I pull harder and harder, trying to get the door to latch. The moment it does, I hit the lock button and jam the key into the ignition.

  “You bitch!” Carter screams, cradling his smashed fingers while he kicks the side of the truck, but I don’t look at him.

  I shift into reverse and peel out of there, feeling a bump under my tire just before Carter screams again.

  I risk one last glance at the house as I shift into drive. Mrs. Renshaw is in the garage, facedown under a wooden chair. Carter is hopping on one foot in the driveway, screaming every swear word he knows at the top of his lungs. Mr. Renshaw is standing on the front porch, using the railing as a crutch while he shakes his head in disappointment. And above the garage, where the blinds on my bedroom window are spread apart, I’m sure two big brown eyes are watching me go.

  I tear my gaze away from that house of horrors and focus solely on the double yellow line stretching out before me.

  “I ain’t sorry for what I done.”

  Well, Agnes, that makes two of us.

  Rain

  Franklin Highway cuts through the hundred-foot-tall Georgia pines like it’s always been there. The smooth curves and rolling hills help calm me down, much like the glowing blue lights on the instrument panel of Mr. Renshaw’s fancy new truck. There’s one red light that catches my attention, and as soon as my brain is able to process information again, I slam on the brakes and come to a screeching stop right in the middle of the highway.

  “Oh my God,” I mutter, lowering the parking brake that I’ve driven over five miles without realizing was still on.

  My hands shake as I wrap them around the steering wheel again, and I wonder if it’s from adrenaline or hunger. Probably both. I pull the flattened burger out of my hoodie pocket and peel back the crumpled yellow paper. It looks like roadkill, but my mouth waters at the sight of it anyway.

  I devour it as I drive downhill through the darkening woods, careful to avoid all the twisted metal and broken glass that Quint’s bulldozer didn’t clear.

  Quint.

  I wonder how he and Lamar are doing.

  Stuck at the mall with that psychopath, Q.

  I bet she’s gonna make ’em scout for her now that Wes is gone.

  Oh God. They won’t last five minutes outside of the mall. The Bonys are gonna eat them alive.

  The truck’s headlights illuminate a charred, blackened bulldozer up ahead, right in front of the mangled, overturned eighteen-wheeler that exploded when Quint and Lamar tried to push it out of the way. Visions of yellow sparks and orange flames flicker before me in my mind. The sound of flying debris landing all around us fills the quiet cab. My heart begins to race as I remember finding Quint and Lamar, unresponsive in the wreckage, blanketed with broken glass. And when I pull off onto the Pritchard Park Mall exit ramp, I know what I have to do even before I drive over the flattened chain-link fence surrounding the mall.

  The whole reason Wes was sentenced to death is because he helped me save Quint’s life.

  If I leave him here, if Q makes him start scouting, all of that will be for nothing.

  I turn my headlights off as I drive across the empty parking lot, pulling up to the curb directly in front of the main entrance. If I didn’t know better, I’d think this place was just as abandoned as it had been when they boarded it up ten years ago. But I do know better. There’s a whole community of armed runaways living inside, a whole farm’s worth of food growing on the roof, and a whole pecking order of power that starts with Q and ends with whoever is at the bottom dying at the hands of Bonys while trying to fulfill her list of demands.

  I shut off the ignition, pocket the key, and pull the gun out of my waistband. Taking a deep breath, I look around to make sure there isn’t a murderous, spray-painted motorcycle gang coming my way. Then, I hop out of the truck, lock the doors behind me, and dash inside.

  The building is dark and dank and smells like mildew. The sound of frogs croaking and crickets chirping echoes in the atrium up ahead, and the filthy, cracked floor tiles clatter under my boots. I can’t believe I considered this place home just a few days ago. I was so blinded by my fear of the outside world that I couldn’t see it for what it was.

  A disgusting, disintegrating hellhole.

  I creep down the darkened hallway and pull the gun out from my waistband, wishing it were a flashlight instead. I peek my head into the tuxedo rental shop where Quint and Lamar have been living ever since the accident, but no one’s home.

  They’re probably in the food court, finishing dinner.

  I consider waiting for them here to avoid a conflict with Q, but that thought lasts half a second before my feet turn and carry me straight toward the cafeteria.

  Wes c
ould be executed as soon as tomorrow. Time is a luxury I don’t have.

  The sounds of laughing, shouting, accordion-playing, and obnoxious singing get louder and louder as I make my way through the atrium, past the crumbling fountain—with its murky water and random swamp plants—and around the broken escalators. I remember when the idea of seeing Q used to scare me to the point that I wouldn’t leave the tuxedo shop, but that feels like a lifetime ago. Back when my only goal was to avoid my own pain.

  Well, there’s no avoiding it now. It’s here. It’s in my face and in my house and on my TV and buried in my backyard.

  Q can’t hurt me worse than this.

  Just before I walk through the food court doors, I shove the gun back into my waistband and cover it with Carter’s hoodie. I don’t want to cause trouble. I just want to get my friends and get the hell out of Pritchard Park. Forever.

  The burn barrel in the center of the cavernous room is still smoking from tonight’s dinner, but nobody is manning it. Everyone is at their designated spots—Q and the runaways are at the back table, living it up like they’re at the Mad Hatter’s tea party, and the Jones brothers are sitting by themselves at a table off to the right, picking at their almost empty plates in silence. It’s weird to see the Renshaws’ table empty, but I refuse to think about them right now.

  Or ever again.

  I glance at Q as I tiptoe across the room. Her head is thrown back in laughter. A cloud of pot smoke swirls above her head. She doesn’t see me … yet.

  But Brangelina does. Brad and Not Brad elbow each other and jerk their prominent chins at me as I tear my eyes away and focus on what I came here to get.

  Quint’s face lights up as I approach their table. Where there was once a shard of glass four inches long sticking out of the side of his neck, he now sports a single bandage. The beige color stands out against his dark skin.

  Lamar turns his head but doesn’t give me the same warm welcome as his brother. He glares at me like I’m just one more mother figure who abandoned them, his fifteen-year-old authority problem stronger than ever.