The Rain | Part 1 | The Beginning

by Standlee, Marietta

  My face is even paler than usual; my too full, too pouty lips are chapped. My cheeks are hollow, almost gaunt. How did that happen within ten hours? It makes my pointy nose seem even pointier. I fight the urge for some blush and lipstick, chiding myself. What am I thinking?

  I want to turn and leave the dressing area, but my legs stay rooted to the ground; my mind isn’t finished perusing myself. The wetsuit is so skin-tight, it barely leaves anything to the imagination, and my huge, double D boobs stick out like a sore thumb. I really don’t want to go out there. I turn slightly, yap, the butt still sticks out some, just like in the good old days. Rounded and perky, I smirk at that thought.

  Colin is going to have a field day with that one. At least I’m not fat anymore. If there is anything I like about myself besides my long, curly chestnut hair, it’s my waist. I’m immensely proud of it. It gives me the so envied hourglass appearance, which I’ve worked hard for; hours spent with a hula hoop is what I attribute the waist to.

  “Hey, princess, ready yet?” Colin’s impatient voice calls.

  I sigh; I don’t have a choice; I need to leave the dressing room, no matter how much I’m dreading this. When I emerge from the curtained off area, Ace brushes by me to get in. Blake is already dressed and stands by an array of oxygen tanks, explaining something to Cory.

  As casually as possible, I make my way over to the boys, doing my best to leave the feelings of insecurity behind; they have no room here right now. “So, why is he really here?” I ask, pointing my chin at the curtains, where I assume Colin is dressing somewhere.

  Blake doesn’t have to ask who I’m talking about; he sighs deeply, “Can you two quit this stupid feud? It’s getting really old.”

  “Sure, as soon as he stops…” Blake gives me a look that is making me huff. “Fine, I’ll try. Why is he here?”

  “I guess dad called him.”

  Blake averts his eyes, and I feel a pang in my stomach. It’s obvious he’s a little butt hurt. His dad called in the cavalry to rescue us. As if he doesn’t have much faith in Blake. I’m not the only one here with childish insecurities awakened by Colin’s presence.

  That thought helps to make me feel slightly better. But then I berate myself for being so selfish. I think about how Blake has taken charge ever since this whole thing started and the way I admire his natural ability to lead.

  “Don’t let it get to you. You were doing just fine before he came.”

  There is an unreadable expression on his face. “Yeah, sure, I was just about to get you killed when he showed up.”

  “It really wasn’t your fault.”

  “Really? We split up. That was on me. I should’ve never….”

  “Don’t beat yourself up, little bro. You did the best you could, and you got everybody here.” Colin appears from out of nowhere.

  “Yeah, tell that to Conner.” Blakes's eyes are red with unshed tears; there is a line around his mouth that wasn’t there before.

  “No.” I take his arm and squeeze it. “That’s not on you. Tattoo guy did that.”

  “Who?” They both ask in unison.

  “The guy from the pharmacy. He is the one who killed Conner. It’s not anybody else’s fault. Do you hear me, Blake?” I look at him the same way he tried to help me out earlier.

  After a second, he nods, but I’m sure this will haunt him for the rest of his life. I hug him fiercely. “You saved all of us; you got us here.”

  “We got ourselves here.” Blake corrects.

  I tilt my head; does he truly not understand how much he did for us? “You had more to do with that than you give yourself credit for,” I tell him hoping to convince him of the truth.

  “What happened to tattoo guy?” Colin asks.

  “She shot him.” Blake points at me. A grin spreads across his face. “Right between the eyes.”

  He indicates the spot at the top of the bridge of his nose, between his eyebrows, the same spot where I shot the thug.

  Colin raises one eyebrow at me. “Lucky shot?”

  I still don’t feel comfortable to brag or joke about it, so I turn around, ostensibly searching for Jose. But Blake is not ready to give it a rest just yet.

  “How many maniacs did you shoot, Viv?”

  “Maniacs?” Colin asks.

  “Those crazy guys. I counted ten dead ones, so how many, Viv?”

  I shrug my shoulders and look anywhere but at him or Colin. “I’m not sure, somewhere between two and three, I guess it all happened so fast.”

  “Told ’ya, she’s badass.” Blake jabs his elbow into Colin’s side.

  Colin raises an eyebrow and looks at me with new interest. I ignore them, both finally seeing Jose, sitting in a corner holding Angie. “Is she out?”

  He nods. I can tell he is worried about the toddler who looks peaceful in her sleep.

  “Here, I will take her, go change.”

  We swap places, and I hold the warm, little body pressed against mine. Her short breaths tickle my cheek in a comforting way.

  “Awe, I always thought you would look cute barefoot and pregnant. I was wrong. You look even better, holding the baby.”

  “Jerk off, Colin.” I hiss. “Make yourself useful and find some kind of floating device for her.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He salutes me and takes off.

  While he saunters deeper into the store, I can’t help but admire his muscly body underneath the wetsuit. His broad shoulders in the black suit appear even wider, his arms and legs are thick with muscle, and his butt…I turn my head, no more.

  But the second I turn around, my cheeks turn red because wherever I look, I see hot looking guys in tight-fitting suits. As a matter of fact, as I turn around, the remnants of the football team are dressed, and there is not one guy looking bad in their tight outfits.

  I swallow hard; this has got to be a girl’s wet dream. So why do I keep turning my head in Colin’s direction instead of enjoying the show? My fingers burn with the desire to call my best friend, Maggie, to tell her all about this. But then I remember why we are here and what happened, and the urge dies alongside the appreciation of the sights around me.

  Chapter 9

  It’s even darker by the time we make it to the pier. The ocean is like black ink, and something inside of me recoils at the thought of getting in there. The moon hides behind dark clouds, and part of me wonders if we’ll have another rain. I have no idea what we’ll do; if that happens, we’ll be somewhere in the ocean. Dive, I guess. I conclude. But that thought doesn’t comfort me much either. Because, what if the rain lasts longer than our tanks have oxygen stored?

  I think of my father and Blake’s and Colin’s mother; they were only out in the rain for around ten minutes. A shiver runs through my body. Better not to think about it. This is our best bet to get out of here, after all.

  After we left the diving supply store, which thankfully had everything we needed, so we didn’t have to make another stop, we commandeered a couple of cars and drove to the pier. Now, we are all sitting on the wooden ground, taking our shoes off to replace them with fins. The shoes, along with our guns, will go into two large watertight bags Colin and Blake are carrying.

  The brothers walk around, helping where they are needed and adjusting what needs adjusting. We are on the lower level of the pier, and once everybody is geared up, Blake gives us instructions on how to roll off backward into the water from the small platform. With a splash, Colin is in the water first.

  Blake says. “I’ll go last and make sure you guys are all okay. Colin will help you with the masks. Remember, we want to snorkel as much as possible, only use the tanks if we have to go deeper.”

  Jose goes next, and as soon as he hits the ocean, he holds out his arms for the small donut-like, round floaty. The hole in the middle is secured with another, smaller, also round floaty. Then the entire contraption is lined with warm blankets. Inside the warm nest is a sleeping Angie.

  We tied algae -which drifts everywhere in abundance,
around the donut to camouflage it better. I doubt it’ll matter in the middle of the night in the dark ocean, but it seemed to make Jose feel better.

  Finally, it’s my turn. My stomach flips as Blake has me sit on the platform facing him, with my back to the sea.

  “Just flip on over and come back up,” he says with a smirk.

  I sigh and, against all my instincts, let myself fall backward into the water, which is icy cold. My wetsuit protects most of me, but to my exposed hands, feet, and face, it’s like a shock.

  “It’ll get better,” Ace promises, treading water next to me.

  There is a splash, and Blake joins us. Waves lap up and down. Salty water makes its way onto my face, into my eyes, my nose, my mouth. I sputter and adjust the way my feet move the fins. That’s better; now, my face stays over the waterline.

  Seaweed floats everywhere, and something tickles my exposed ankle. I suppress a squeal, reassuring myself it’s just a fish or algae. But I can’t stop my body from shuddering. I take a deep breath to compose myself. ‘You’ve got this.’

  I tell myself to stop the panic that is trying to rise inside of me, trying to take over. ‘Whatever will be, will be,’ my mind keeps repeating—no point in creating a scene. I’ve gotten this far. Holding up fairly well under the circumstances, I keep pumping myself up. For a second, I close my eyes. Let the sensation of the water, lapping, pushing against my body from all sides, surround me. I taste the salt on my lips, feel the sting on my cheeks. Notice the air against my wet hair.

  Slowly, my heart rate returns to normal. I open my eyes. I didn’t notice it, but the current has turned my body, and I’m now facing the dark horizon instead of the city. The sight would be breathtaking under normal circumstances. The sky is pitch black, except where bright stars shine through. No clouds obscure my view, and the moon is bright and so close.

  Treading water, I stare at the spectacle; the gazillions of stars remind me of my own insignificance. Again, panic tries to sink its claws into me.

  Especially when I stare at the utter blackness, where the horizon meets the ocean, it’s impossible to distinguish where one begins and the other ends, which only serves to remind me further of the darkness around me, underneath me. Who knows what is swimming, lurking right… Stop it. I scold myself.

  The large knife Blake handed me earlier, tied to my calf, hurts me a little but serves as a distraction from my thoughts. The physical discomfort pushes away the psychological terror, still trying to overwhelm me.

  With Blake having joined us, everybody is accounted for and treading water with their fins. It’s a weird feeling, but not in a bad way.

  “Goggles on. Clean your snorkels,” Colin barks.

  He is worse than Blake when he gives orders. Still, I do as I’m told and feel my hair painfully pulled in places from the rubber strap around the goggles. I adjust it as best as I can before Colin and Blake have us swim around in small circles to get used to the snorkels and fins.

  Once my body adjusts to the water temperature, I feel more comfortable. It’s a little claustrophobic to breathe through the snorkel, and the air tastes slightly of plastic, but it’s nothing I can’t manage, now that I have finally beaten the rising panic back for good.

  Angie’s float is tied to Jose’s waist with a long cord, and the two of them take off after Colin, who is in the lead. The rest of us hold on to a rope so that we won’t get separated. Colin explained we might encounter helicopters who will most likely patrol the area to keep people from leaving once the bombing begins. He warned that in all likelihood, the choppers will be equipped with radar. In which case, we’ll need to dive as deep as we can. Hopefully, nobody will expect divers in the water and write us off for a school of fish.

  I know he is trying to reassure us, but I doubt that if a helicopter comes, the pilot will think we are fish. We can only hope to be too far out in the ocean for anybody to find us. Any aircraft employed will most likely stay closer to the shore, closer to the city, keeping people from escaping that way. We don’t think anybody will suspect that anybody is already in the ocean, at least not this far out. Probably, hopefully.

  Colin leads us out further into open water, away from the city. It seems like we are swimming forever towards the horizon. I estimate we are a good mile from the shore before Colin turns us, and we begin to swim parallel with the beach.

  I don’t have any idea what time it is. It’s dark, and the moon keeps moving; that’s all I can tell. When I look at the city we leave behind; it doesn’t seem like we are moving at all. My legs, though, begin to ache from the constant up and down motion with the fins. The pain is the only indication that we are making any progress.

  Finally, we pass the city limits. The lit-up tall hotels that stood on our right for what seemed forever are far behind us now. We must have gone about a mile and a half when the bombing starts. It must be hundreds of helicopters and jets that are in the air. I almost don’t believe my eyes, but the sudden intake of breath from my friends tells me that what I see is real. Stealth Bombers. Several of them. All these flying vessels have taken over the airspace, spewing out missiles and bombs, working their way outward from the city’s center.

  The view is so utterly surreal; I stop dead in my tracks. It’s a horrific show of brutal efficiency. The impact of detonations breaks buildings apart, and others, not yet hit, sway. The skyline lights up with hundreds of burning fires, a red inferno against the dark sky.

  I don’t think I’m even breathing at this point. Out here, miles away from the city center, the sound of the detonations is muted, making everything seem even more unreal. I can almost make myself believe it’s just a movie, a bad, B-rated movie on a widescreen TV. Almost. So much has happened already; the bombing practically seems like a natural progression of what we’ve already witnessed and been through today.

  We all stop moving forward, just tread water, mesmerized by the show. It’s horrifying and fascinating at once. I think about the millions of people in Los Angeles, Santa Monica, and Anaheim. I assume most of them have killed each other by now, but I remember the blanket with the word HELP painted on it. Where are all those people now?

  We are too far away to make out details, but even in the water, we can feel the impact of the hundreds of bombs as the waves increase.

  The sky over the city is looking like a sunrise: Red and orange. Fires are everywhere. I don’t know how many jets and helicopters are in the air, hundreds maybe. It’s terrifying. Do they know?

  Do they know they are killing Americans? They have to. Colin said something earlier to that aspect. How do the pilots deal with that? Or perhaps they were told everybody is infected? No, the military people by the barricade we encountered earlier knew. They saw us, and yet they still denied us. They made us go back to certain death. Who ordered this? Or, more likely, I should ask how desperate are the people who ordered this and the ones following those orders? Do they know something we don’t?

  Suddenly, there is movement on the beach. Dark figures run towards the shore. People desperately flee from the raging inferno their city has become, trying to get into the water and swim to safety.

  “That’s enough, gawking. Let’s go,” Colin urges us on, looking worriedly skywards.

  And here they come. Six Black Hawks turn away from the city. Heading straight for the beach, where they unleash a horrifying hail of bullets at the innocent people on the shore and in the water. Even this far out, we hear the thunder of the automatic fire and screams of people as they are ripped to pieces.

  “Dive,” Colin yells.

  My heartbeat quickens as my mind goes through the steps Blake and Colin explained to us earlier. The person in front of me is Jason; I turn the little wheel on his tank, while Blake does the same to mine. With a numb mind, I suck the water out of the hose before putting the mouthpiece between my lips to test it. After it’s done, I dive underneath the water.

  Down, down, down. The deeper I swim, the darker it gets. Terrified, I keep a tight hold
on the rope. So tight, my knuckles hurt. The cord is literally a lifeline; if I lose my grip on it, I don’t think I will be able to tell which way is up and which way is down as we keep going down further.

  I pray that Angie will be okay up in her little nest. The rope Jose has attached to her floaty is about a hundred feet long, much longer than we need, but still, if the Black Hawks come this far out and shoot their high caliber rounds into the water, the toddler won’t stand a chance.

  My rope tightens, and I realize we are finally going forward again instead of down. Pressure builds around my head, and my ears pop as if I were driving up a mountain instead of descending deeper into the ocean. My legs are starting to ache with the unfamiliar movement of up and down.

  If I thought the snorkel and goggles were claustrophobic, I have another thing coming with the mouthpiece, through which air reaches my lungs. If something happened to it -I think with a jolt of adrenaline shooting through my body, I would surely drown. And once again, I have to fight the rising panic down that wants to get a hold of me.

  It’s utterly black in front of me; I can barely make out Jason’s fins moving ahead of me. I have no idea how Colin is able to lead us and can only hope that he isn’t taking us further out to sea or, worse, back to the beach.

  I concentrate on the movement of my legs because if I lose that, I will surrender to the panic that wants to overtake me. I take a deep inhale through my mouthpiece and exhale. Hundreds of small and big bubbles rise and make a funny sound—the constant threat of a Black Hawk coming out this way and spotting us tears on my nerves. Resolutely, I focus on Jason’s barely visible fins.

  Up and down.

  Up and down. The movement is becoming hypnotic.

  My fingers keep their death grip on the rope, even though they are beginning to get numb. With all of Colin’s and Blake’s planning, we failed to grab gloves. The urge to wiggle my fingers grows, but the fear of losing track of the rope is greater. The discomfort also helps to dispel the imaginary pain from a sudden bullet or missile strike.