Fighting for Rain

by Easton, BB

  More yelps and growls break out below as I try to figure out how to distract these guys long enough to make it across the pavement. Half of them still have their collars on, so I know they haven’t been wild for long. I bet if I had a tennis ball, most of them would still chase it.

  They’re not predators; they’re just fucking starving.

  A breeze blows through the alley behind the shopping center, causing the stench of death and whatever’s decomposing in the dumpster to intensify. I pull my shirt over my nose and mouth, trying like hell to keep from puking, when my eyes land on a sign next to one of the metal back doors.

  Parkside Bakery.

  Bakery.

  Food!

  Before I even finish formulating my plan, I drop to my knees, reach down into the dog soup below me, grab the handle on the sliding side door of the dumpster, and yank that motherfucker open.

  The bastards go insane, clawing and jumping and climbing over one another to try to get inside. I pull my hand back just as a Jack Russell terrier with gnashing teeth makes it to the top of the dogpile. He chomps down on a paper bag just inside the open door and rips it open with a violent shake of his head. I don’t wait to see what comes falling out. Whatever it is, it’s enough to keep them distracted as I leap to the ground and take off for the ladder.

  I grit my teeth and try not to look at the battered body on the ground as I sprint past it, but the sight of purple dreadlocks in my peripheral vision tells me more than I wanted to know.

  I’m not the first scout Q has sent on this mission.

  Bile climbs up my throat, but I push it down and run harder. When I make it to the ladder without being chased, I decide to keep running. I don’t stop to look both ways before I cross the parking lot between the shopping center and the pharmacy, and I don’t fucking slow down. I’m done being cautious. I’m done with this whole goddamn day. I just want to get in, get out, and get the fuck out of Pritchard Park forever.

  I draw my gun and duck through the shattered sliding glass door. Usually, I would tiptoe around in case someone was inside, but honestly, I hope someone’s inside. There’s a rage building inside of me that I wouldn’t mind unleashing on a Day-Glo skeleton right about now.

  Fuck Quint for getting hurt.

  Fuck Carter for having a pulse.

  Fuck the World Health Assholes for doing this to us.

  Fuck Q for sending me on this goddamn death march.

  Fuck Rain for making me want to believe in shit that history has proven will never fucking exist for me.

  “If anybody’s in here, come the fuck out!” I snarl, sweeping my head from left to right. The place is silent. “You have three seconds to show yourself, or I will shoot your ass on sight!”

  When I don’t hear anything, except for the blood rushing in my ears from the run and my untapped wrath, I do a quick survey of what’s left in the store. The checkout station has been ransacked. There’s not a single pack of cigarettes, candy bar, or bag of chips left on the shelves, but the rest of the store looks pretty much the same.

  I guess makeup and greeting cards aren’t exactly a top priority when you think the world’s about to end.

  The pharmacy is in the back corner, past all the convenience store bullshit, so I unzip the backpack and make my way down the aisles, chucking shit in along the way. Tampons, toothpaste, shampoo, hand sanitizer, protein bars, peanut butter … I can’t believe all this stuff is still here. In Franklin Springs, this place would have been taken over by thugs weeks ago.

  Oh shit.

  The realization stops me in my tracks and then sends me sprinting past everything else in the store and diving over the pharmacy counter.

  The Bonys probably did have guys posted in here twenty-four/seven … up until yesterday. They thought the world was gonna end just like everybody else, so they were out, getting fucked up and killing pedestrians for fun. I saw them. But when they finally shake off their hangovers and figure out that the world didn’t end and it was all just a hoax …

  The rumble of motorcycle engines in the distance fuels me as I scour the labels on row after row of identical white bottles with incomprehensible Latin words printed on them.

  Goddamn it!

  I don’t know what any of this means. Nobody ever took me to the doctor as a kid. The only drugs I know are the ones with street value, and of course, those are long gone.

  Rain would know what to look for.

  Rain.

  I unzip the front pouch on her backpack and read the label on the pills she swiped from Carter’s house for my bullet wound.

  KEFLEX (cephalexin) Capsules, 250 mg

  I kiss the label and drop the almost-empty bottle back into the bag. The roaring of engines grows louder as I scan the shelves for anything starting with a K.

  Forget about the drugs! Run, dumbass!

  Epinephrine … flurazepam …

  Go! Now!

  Glucophage … hydralazine …

  What are you doing? Do you think that Quint kid would be up in here, finding meds for you right now? Fucking run!

  Keppra—no. Shit. Too far … Keflex!

  The moment my fingers graze the five-hundred-count bottle of antibiotics, the crunch of broken glass under boot heels roots me to the spot.

  “Argh!” a deep voice growls just before the sound of something being smashed echoes off the high ceiling. “They took all the goddamn smokes!”

  I crouch down on the floor between two pharmacy shelves as a second pair of feet comes crunching into the store.

  “Ah, man,” a younger voice says, so quietly I can barely hear him. “They took all the Mr. Goodbars.”

  “Fuck Mr. Goodbar!” the older asshole yells, followed by the sound of hollow cardboard containers tumbling to the ground. “If you don’t find me a cigarette, a cuppa coffee, and something for this gotdamn migraine in the next five minutes, I’ma beat yer ass, boy.”

  “I—”

  “Four minutes!”

  “Okay, fine.”

  I unzip the backpack, tooth by plastic tooth, and slide the Keflex bottle in as quietly as possible.

  “I’ma check the break room for a coffeepot,” the older asshole grumbles. “Anybody tries to come in that door … shoot ’em.”

  Shit.

  I look around, frantically trying to find a better place to hide. The shelves of drugs run perpendicular to the pharmacy counter, so even though I’m crouched down, anyone walking by would be able to see me. The only safe place would be under the counter, but with all the shit in this backpack, there’s no way I could get over there without making noise.

  So, I do the only thing I can; I wrap both hands around the smooth wooden handle of Rain’s dad’s .44 Magnum, and I say a silent prayer to my new pal, God.

  “Hey, Vipe, I found a carton of Virginia Slims!”

  “I ain’t smokin’ no Vagina Slimes!” The asshole’s voice is much louder than before.

  Closer.

  Every muscle in my body tenses, including my trigger finger, as the old bastard walks into view. His thinning gray hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. His leathery skin is pockmarked and sunburned. His beer gut sticks a solid foot out in front of him, and his black biker jacket has been spray-painted with neon-orange stripes resembling skeleton bones.

  He stops right in front of the counter, and my finger tightens around the trigger. But he doesn’t see me. Instead, he turns his back and pulls a bottle of Excedrin off the shelf across from the pharmacy counter.

  “Maybe I should grab some Vagisil for that pussy of yours while I’m back here.” He cough-laughs into his fist while I stare down the barrel of my gun, aiming directly for his bald spot.

  My heart is pounding so hard I can feel every vein pulse and swell as they force the blood into my muscles. I know this feeling. This is exactly how I used to feel every single night, lying in an unfamiliar bed, clutching whatever weapon I’d stashed under my pillow, waiting for some other balding, beer-gutted piece of shit to come f
ind me.

  The bloated Bony pops the cap on the Excedrin bottle and tosses a few into his mouth before turning his head toward something out of my view.

  “What you doin’, boy?”

  “I’m just gonna grab some allergy meds. This pollen is killin’ me.”

  “The pollen is killin’ you?”

  The hungover old fuck shakes his head, and I know what’s coming next before it even happens. He’s gonna call that kid a little bitch and throw that bottle of Excedrin at him.

  He turns his head sideways, so I aim for his temple.

  “The pollen’s killin’ you?” He raises his voice, cocks his arm back, and lets the painkillers fly. I hear them bounce off of something before hitting the ground with a rattle. “How the fuck did I end up with a pussy wipe for a son? I shoulda put a pillow over your face the day your mama shit you out!”

  My fingers tighten around the gun in my hands; I wish it were that motherfucker’s neck.

  “Sorry, sir,” the kid mumbles.

  “Get the fuck outta my sight!” the dickhead yells, throwing his hand in the direction of the pharmacy.

  Shit.

  Even though there are about three aisles of drugs between the pharmacy door and me, they’re open shelving units. I can see everything. I see the door handle slowly rotate down. I see the door swing open with a creak. I see the ripped jeans, black-and-orange skeleton hoodie, and shaggy hair of a kid who can’t be older than fourteen.

  His posture is hunched over, as if he wants to curl in on himself until he disappears, and he’s too busy staring at the floor to notice the man hiding in plain sight ten feet away.

  Something on the shelf in front of him catches his attention, and he leans over even further to pick a small purple box off the shelf.

  Zyrtec. Thank fuck.

  Take it and go. Take it … and …

  The kid’s eyes lift suddenly, as if I’d spoken out loud, and lock directly on to mine.

  Well, one of them does.

  The other one is swollen shut and black as hell.

  His good eye goes wide as it lands on my gun, so I quickly lower it and raise a finger to my lips.

  Please don’t make me shoot you, kid. For fuck’s sake …

  The boy bristles but not because of me. Because of the sound of footsteps in the hallway behind him.

  “Hey, you little cocksucker …” Daddy Dearest appears in the doorway, and I can smell last night’s liquor on him from here. “You find a coffeepot back h—”

  His beady, bloodshot eyes drift from his cowering son to whatever—or whoever—the kid is staring at, and the second they land on me, I’m on my feet. Backpack in one hand, gun in the other, I sprint for the counter, hoping to clear it before the bastard can get a clean shot on me, but the sound of skin hitting skin stops me in my tracks.

  The man shouts a few choice expletives at the kid, but I can’t hear them. All I can hear is that backhand. It reverberates through my jaw, just like it did the first time I got hit in the mouth. The sting of pain, followed by the burn of humiliation.

  Words like, “Shoot him, stupid,” and, “Give me that fuckin’ gun. I’ll do it,” slide off my back and land on the floor in a meaningless pile of syllables as I turn and face every motherfucker who ever put his hands on me, all rolled into one.

  The rage that has been building inside of me all day now feels like a tiny match … that just got dropped into a can of gasoline.

  I surrender all control of my body—give it over willingly—and watch like a spectator as I charge straight toward that piece of shit. His rodent-like eyes widen in shock just before my shoulder careens into his bloated fucking belly, sending him stumbling backward into the wall.

  The noises make it to my brain first—something plastic clattering to the ground, boots shuffling over dirty floors, the dull smack of knuckles hitting teeth, the melodic ping of those teeth hitting the tiles—and then the physical sensations begin to come through. The rush of adrenaline through my bloodstream, the crunching pain in my right hand every time it connects with his face, the delicious strain of muscles in my left arm as I fight to keep him upright against the wall. Vaguely, I register his flailing arms, his dirty fingers trying to punch and poke whatever parts of me he can reach, but he can’t hurt me.

  Nobody can.

  Not anymore.

  A new sound rises over the pounding of blood in my ears, and it pulls me back to reality like a bucket of cold water.

  It’s a small, cracking voice demanding in an unconvincing tone that I, “Stand back.”

  Fuck. The kid.

  I release his old man and step back with my hands in the air as the bastard’s limp body slides down the wall.

  “Back up,” he says again, pointing a .32 at me with shaking hands.

  I do as he said, my knuckles screaming in pain and my chest expanding violently with every breath I suck in.

  “‘Bout fuckin’ time, you piece of shit,” the old man spits through the fleshy pulp that used to be his lips. His eyes are swollen to mush. A river of blood runs from his broken nose down his mouth and chin. And when he rolls his head toward the kid, he garbles, “Shoot him, stupi—” but he doesn’t get a chance to finish his command.

  A bullet above his right eye shuts him up forever.

  I flinch as the blast echoes around me. I turn with my hands still raised and face the corpse’s maker. His posture is taller, his good eye narrowed in resolve.

  He’s not looking at me when he lowers his gun, and he’s not speaking to me when he says—no, declares—“I’m. Not. Stupid.”

  The heat of the moment changes from charged and frenetic to stifling and heavy.

  This is the world we live in now.

  No social workers were coming to help this kid.

  No Department of Child and Family Services.

  No cops or judges or family attorneys were gonna fight for him.

  And there won’t be any coming to investigate this crime scene either.

  This is the new justice system.

  And right now, I’m scared to ask myself which one is better.

  The kid finally looks at me, shock giving way to shame as he awaits my judgment, but I have none to give him.

  Instead, I grab my backpack—pain shooting through almost every muscle, knuckle, and rib in my body—and head toward him on my way out the door.

  I pause right before I pass, placing a hesitant hand on the kid’s trembling shoulder. “Fuck ’em,” I spit out, my eyes fixed on the empty hallway beyond the door and the empty life waiting for me beyond that. “Say fuck ’em and survive anyway.”

  April 25

  Rain

  I wake from a dreamless sleep, only to find myself lying in a pitch-black nightmare.

  When I sit up and blink into the darkness of the tree house, my shirt tumbles off my bare chest and lands in my lap. My right hip is sore as hell from lying on the plywood floor. I rub it absentmindedly as I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I must have slept all the way through the afternoon and into the night. There isn’t a speck of daylight filtering in from the hallway anymore.

  But I don’t need light to know that Wes is gone.

  I can feel it.

  His heat, his scent, his quiet, simmering intensity—all of it. Gone. The only evidence that he was even here are the clothes draped over my naked body and the pocketknife tucked into my fist.

  He might as well have stabbed it into my heart.

  I squeeze the textured handle as hard as I can. I squeeze it until my fingernails cut into my palm and my biceps begin to shake. I squeeze it even harder than I squeeze my eyes shut as I fight to keep the tears at bay.

  Supplies. Shelter. Self-defense.

  Wes left me with the last thing he thought I needed to survive.

  Without him.

  Stop it. Maybe he just had to pee. Maybe he went to find water.

  I pull my shirt on over my head and feel around for my jeans.

  Oh God.
Maybe he’s in trouble.

  Worry swallows my despair and sends me scrambling down the tree house ladder. I trip over my boots at the bottom, pausing just long enough to shove my feet into them.

  My vision adjusts to the dark, allowing me to avoid the edges and corners of the bookshelves as I trudge past. My footsteps sound flat and heavy, as if the grief I’m carrying has actual weight.

  Please let him be okay. Please, God. I’ll do anything.

  The hallway is silent, except for the occasional cricket or frog, but I shatter that silence with every puddle I accidentally splash through and every broken tile I send skidding across the filthy floor.

  My brain lies to me, my eyes seeing Hawaiian prints and haunting eyes in every reflection and shadow I pass. When they finally land on the fountain, I gasp as the silhouette of a man rises beside it. Hope fills my heart and then gushes out through a fresh tear when the figure lifts a rifle to his shoulder.

  “Don’t shoot.” I hold my hands up. “It’s Rain.”

  “Holy shit, Rain! You’re still here?” Carter’s voice echoes through the atrium as he lowers his weapon and jogs toward me.

  When his long arms pull me to his chest, another wave of déjà vu from last night crashes over me. Carter hugged me like this before he knew that Wes and I were together. When he still thought I was his.

  The only reason he would hug me like that now is if—

  “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

  Carter’s body goes stiff. Then, he nods against the top of my head.

  “Nobody’s seen him since yesterday afternoon. Or you.” Carter drops his arms and takes a step back so that he can look down at me. “But here you are.”

  I can’t see his face, but I know he’s smiling from the tone of his voice.

  Wes is missing, and Carter’s smiling.

  I take a step back, too. “Does anyone know where he went? We have to find him, Carter. What if he’s hurt?”

  “He’s not fucking hurt,” Carter huffs, turning to walk toward the fountain. He leans over and lifts something off the ground. It’s about the size and shape of a small boulder.

  “I found this tonight while I was patrolling.” He points a finger at the south hall. “Just inside the main entrance.”