by BB Easton
We bounce over a tree root in our path, and Rain giggles in my ear, squeezing me tighter. I used to love the way her tits felt while smashed against me whenever she rode on the back of my bike, but I think I love the way her round belly feels even more.
I suck in another breath and marvel at this fucked up new feeling.
It’s not just happiness. I was happy sleeping in a puddle on the floor of an abandoned mall with Rain by my side. No, this is something else.
This is everything else.
All of it. All the things I ever wanted but wasn’t stupid enough to hope for. Safety. Security. Love. Life. Fun. Freedom.
A future.
I close my eyes and inhale another lazy lungful of fresh air, but when I open them, I have to slam on the brakes. Rain squeals and clings to me for dear life as I skid sideways and stop inches away from a fifty-foot-long banner as it unfurls from an oak branch and blocks our path.
Like so many banners I’ve seen before, I expect one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse to be staring down at me—a cloaked demon riding on the back of a smoke-breathing black stallion, ready to chop my head off or light me on fire—but what I find there instead is even more terrifying.
The putrid, pasty scowl of Governor Fuckface. His jowly mouth opens, baring razor-sharp teeth that slam down again and again, missing us by millimeters.
I grab Rain and stumble away from the banner just as my bike disappears into the void of his cavernous mouth. From this distance, I can see the whole image now. It’s in similar shades of black and red and gray, like the April 23 banners we all saw in our nightmares, but instead of April 23 at the top, this one simply has a bull’s-eye.
Right in the middle of Fuckface’s forehead.
His bloodshot eyes dart left and right as his teeth continue to gnash at nothing, but just when I begin to feel like he’s no longer a threat, the trees shed their vibrant leaves in a single, sudden explosion. Rust-colored confetti rains from the sky as every tree in the forest begins to age in reverse. They shrink and shrivel up, twisting and contorting until they’re nothing but saplings again.
Then, they reach for us.
“Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!” The banner man cackles as spindly branches grab for us like claws.
The sky goes dark, and the wind howls through the barren woods as I grab Rain’s hand and turn to run back the way we came.
“Wes!” she screams just before her hand is ripped away from mine.
“Rain!” I turn to find her six feet above the ground, suspended in the branches of a sapling.
She’s floating in some sort of pink primordial ooze, and the tree appears to be fucking feeding on her, growing bigger and stronger than all the others.
“We must return to the one true law!” Fuckface howls. “The law … of naychuh!”
My vision blurs. My fists ball at my sides. And when he opens his mouth to cackle again, I take off in a sprint. I’m going to rip him down and rip him apart and fucking feed him to himself until he chokes on his own evil hypocrisy, but before I get there, I notice his eyes go wide in fear as they focus on something behind me. I slow to a jog and turn around as people from all walks of life begin to march into the forest. The collective crunch, crunch, crunch of the leaves under their feet is deafening as they surround us, each one with a fist in the air.
“Seize them!” Fuckface shouts.
The trees come alive, snatching children from their mother’s arms, ripping families apart as they scream and reach for one another. Pink plasma surrounds their tangled, trapped loved ones as the trees feed on their screaming bodies.
But the people in the woods are undaunted. They continue to march forward, in unison—crunch, crunch, crunch—as the bull’s-eye in the center of Fuckface’s forehead begins to glow like a flashing neon sign.
I glance at Rain, her face distorted through the ooze, and she begins pointing frantically at something below me.
When I look down, I’m holding her dad’s .44 Magnum.
I kiss the barrel and say a silent, Thank you. Then, I close one eye and aim for the target.
When I squeeze the trigger, I expect that fucker to disappear, go up in smoke, burn to the ground, something, but instead, he simply laughs at me.
“Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
I raise my gun and fire three more rounds into that shithead’s forehead, but still … nothing.
Then—crunch, crunch, crunch—the sea of men, women, and children behind me step up to join me on the front line. They stand shoulder to shoulder with me, lowering their fists as they draw their weapons—shotguns, rifles, flame-throwers, hand grenades—an arsenal as diverse as they are.
This time, when I raise my gun, they all take aim with me.
This time, when I squeeze my trigger, the entire traumatized, hungry, tired, homeless, grieving, fucked up population fires their weapons alongside me. And this time, when my bullet hits the bull’s-eye, it’s joined by a thousand others.
The target jerks and flashes and rings like a carnival bell before it explodes in a giant ball of fire. I have to shield myself from the heat as Governor Fuckface lets out a pained, defeated cry.
Gasps and cheers and laughter spread through the crowd, so I lower my arm and watch as the banner burns away. The breeze blows its sparkling ashes around us like swirling silver glitter as the saplings twist and grow and sprout new green leaves.
I run to Rain’s tree and catch her in my arms as she leaps from the growing branches. The smile on her face is brighter than fucking sunshine as I spin her around, watching everyone in the woods do the same.
This time, when I inhale, the air doesn’t smell like burning leaves.
This time, it smells like burning governor.
I exhale with a content sigh as the sound of knuckles on a steel bar wakes me from my dream.
What the fuck was that? I wonder as I scrub a hand down my face.
I haven’t had a dream like that since the government was pumping them into my head, pre–April 23. Of course, those always ended with four demonic horsemen destroying everyone and everything in their path in an apocalyptic blaze of glory, not with the citizens banding together to defeat the enemy. Big fucking improvement.
I open my eyes to find Hoyt standing at my door. He’s staring at the floor even harder than usual, his mouth forming a perfect frown. It’s not until I see what he’s holding that the bliss from my dream wears off and the nightmare that is my fucking reality comes crashing down around me.
It’s a bundle of brown.
Fucking.
Burlap.
“The governor moved the Green Mile up to this mornin’.” Hoyt clears his throat. “ ’Fraid I’m gonna hafta ask you to put these on.”
The sadness in his voice makes me have to clear my own fucking throat.
Jesus, Hoyt.
I stand up and approach the bars.
“How long have I got?” I ask, pulling the jumpsuit from Hoyt’s reluctant arms.
“Don’t know.” He sighs and shakes his head, his chin practically resting on his chest.
I notice that he’s still holding something—a white plastic cup filled with caramel-colored liquid.
“A little hair of the dog?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
Hoyt’s eyes jump to mine in a panic. “I … uh … no. I just … thought you might want a fresh cup … you know … to brush your teeth.”
He brought me whiskey. Sweet fucking bastard.
“Officer Hoyt, I could kiss you.”
I grab the cup from my sink and exchange it for the one in his meaty hands. “Thanks, man.”
Hoyt nods at the ground before shuffling away.
I swirl the alcohol around in the cup, taking a deep whiff until his footsteps fade in the distance.
Then, I pour it down the drain and brush my teeth.
I have a date with the fucking devil today.
I’ll drink when it’s over.
Rain
After lying wide awake next to Lama
r’s skinny, snoring body all night, I decide I’ve had enough. If I don’t stretch my legs soon, I’m gonna scream, and I don’t want to wake Lamar up. I’m sure wherever his mind is right now, it’s a hell of a lot better than what’s waiting for him here.
Reaching up, I feel around with my hand until it hits a dangling handle. Then, I yank as hard as I can. The lid pops open with a quiet click, and sunlight floods the spacious trunk. We went with a Cadillac this time—at Lamar’s request. A metallic purple one sitting on blocks.
I sit up and stretch before climbing out of the trunk, but when I do, a wave of nausea almost brings me back down to the fetal position. The blood on my jeans must have dried and stuck to my skin overnight. Every movement severs the crusty bond a little more—like a bandage being pulled off—and I smell like a corpse.
Once my feet are planted firmly on asphalt again, I suck in a few breaths of fresh air. Then, I turn and unzip the duffel bag as quietly as possible, pulling out a bottle of water Michelle gave me yesterday and a prenatal vitamin.
I just hope I can keep it down.
As I unscrew the cap, Lamar throws an elbow over his face and groans.
“Morning,” I mumble, tossing the giant, chalky pill into my mouth. I swallow with a shudder.
“Why’s everybody so loud?” he whines, making me realize that it is pretty loud out here.
I turn in the direction of soon-to-be Burger Palace Park, and my jaw almost hits the Cadillac’s chromed-out bumper. Dozens—no, hundreds of people have gathered around our handiwork.
Last night, Lamar and I laid Quint’s body in the middle of Plaza Park, his arms and legs spread out like a human X. Then, we went and found the dead Bony I’d seen on the side of the road yesterday. I took his King Burger mask to put over Quint’s face, and Lamar took a can of orange spray paint he’d found in the guy’s hoodie pocket. Once the bloodstained mask was in place, I painted the words HERE’S YOUR SPONSOR in a circle around Quint’s body.
“Lamar.” I shake his shoulder. “Lamar, look!”
He grumbles and sits up, dreadlocks smashed against the side of his head as he turns and squints in the direction of our human protest sign … and the crowd gathering around it.
“Oh shit …” he says, almost to himself. “It worked.”
Turning to me, Lamar’s brown eyes go wide. “The sublimi-whatever thing! It worked! People are coming! Holy shit, Rain! What pictures did y’all use?”
“Just some photos I found on Google. People marching with their fists in the air. People rioting in the streets. Oh, and a picture of Governor Steele’s banner from the capitol building with a bull’s-eye Photoshopped right onto his forehead.” I smirk.
Lamar snorts and shakes his head. “You ’member, before all this shit started, you had blonde hair and wore cowboy boots and dresses. Now, look at you.” He gestures from my head to my waist. “Black hair. Boned out. Savage as fuck. You’re like … Post-Apocalypse Barbie now.”
“I feel more like Morning Sickness Barbie,” I say with a forced smile. But it fades the moment I let my gaze drift over to the growing crowd circling the body of my dead best friend.
I wrap an arm around Lamar’s shoulders and exhale.
“What do we do now that they’re here?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say with an honest shrug. “Go start a riot, I guess.”
Lamar nods. “For Quint.”
“And Wes.”
“And your folks.” He gives me a sympathetic look.
“And Franklin Springs.”
“And all the people pushin’ up oak trees down there.”
Sliding my free hand into the front pocket of my hoodie, I splay my trembling fingers across the biggest reason of all.
And for you, little one.
My matted hair suddenly blows into my face as a van flies past us on the road, weaving around all the abandoned cars like an Olympic downhill skier. Then, it slams on its brakes with an ear-splitting screech. A second later, the Channel 11 news van backs up next to us. Michelle rolls her tinted window down, revealing a fresh-faced reporter with a sparkle in her eye, an entire tube of concealer covering her bruises, and a breaking story to chase.
“Do you see that crowd?” she shouts. “It worked! Come on! Let’s get over there!”
I grab the duffel bag as Lamar climbs out of the trunk. Michelle hops out and opens the giant side door on the van for us.
“Where’s Quint?” she asks as we pile inside.
Lamar drops his eyes, and I raise a single finger in the direction of the park.
“Oh, he’s already over there?”
“You could say that,” I mutter.
Ever the good journalist, Michelle’s eyes narrow to slits as they shift back and forth between Lamar and me. It doesn’t take her more than a second to deduce from our tear-streaked faces and blood-soaked clothes what happened.
“Oh my God. No.”
I nod.
“Quint is …”
I nod.
“Are you serious?”
I nod.
Lamar stares out the window, practically catatonic, as I fill her and Flip in on what happened.
Michelle reaches for the bottle of vodka in her cupholder and takes a long swig as I tell her the story, her red lipstick staying perfectly intact.
“And the governor said they’re moving the execution up to this morning?”
After everything I just told her, that’s what she’s focused on?
“Yeah, but I don’t know when.”
“Oh my God.” Michelle takes another swig. “We have to start broadcasting now. Here, put this on.”
She tosses a bundle of soft red material at me. I catch it in my lap as the scent of lavender fabric softener fills the air.
“I grabbed you a wrap dress from my closet since it’s kind of one-size-fits-all. It was the best I could do on such short notice.” She gives me an apologetic look. “At least it’s red—the color of revolution.”
“Revolution?”
“You got ’em here. Now, you gotta tell ’em what to do.”
All of our heads turn toward the crowd flooding into Plaza Park as we drive past. I can hear their shouts from inside the van as the riot cops with Plexiglas shields try to push people off the field.
My palms begin to sweat as I turn my back to everyone in the van and strip my hoodie off over my head, followed by my once-white tank top. I then pull off my hiking boots and peel my blood-encrusted jeans off my legs. The skin underneath is stained maroon, and fresh tears fill my eyes as images from last night flash before them. Quint’s body in my lap. The kindness of the security guards who helped us—I don’t even know their names. Holding Lamar as he cried himself to sleep. I consider taking the bottle of water and rinsing my legs clean, but it doesn’t matter.
I’ll probably be covered in my own blood by the end of the day anyway.
Or Wes’s.
With a heavy sigh, I slip on the wrap dress and tie it around my waist. The fabric is soft and clean and somehow comforting.
“Here.” Michelle hands me a tube of lipstick and a comb from her purse. “You don’t want people to just hear you. You want them to listen to you. A bold lip draws their eyes to your mouth.”
I remember another woman I saw on TV with a bold red mouth.
“My name is Dr. Marguerite Chapelle. I am the director of the World Health Alliance. If you are seeing this broadcast, congratulations. You are now part of a stronger, healthier, more self-sufficient human race.”
I shudder.
We sure as hell listened to her, didn’t we?
“What do I even say to them?” I wonder out loud, using the reflective surface of the lipstick cap as a mirror to help me apply it.
Michelle thinks for a minute, vodka sloshing out of her bottle as Flip pulls up onto the curb next to Plaza Park. “I read a study a few years ago about social media that said that people are addicted to outrage. It said that news stories about major events got way fewer
likes and shares and comments than posts from people reacting to those events with outrage. We’re drawn to that kind of fiery passion. It makes us feel alive, powerful … connected. No successful movement was ever started without outrage, so I say, you get up there and get pissed off.”
“I’m not trying to start a movement. I just want these people to help me save Wes.”
“What do you think they want?” she asks, opening the passenger door to the sounds of chaos and anger. To a sea of people with locked elbows and fists in the air.
I sigh as I yank the comb through my tangled hair. “A revolution.”
“You built this bomb, girl. Time to go set it off.” Flip winks at me in the rearview mirror before opening his door and climbing out too.
I turn to Lamar. “How do I look?”
He furrows his eyebrows at me, the right one still scarred from the bulldozer accident. “Like a reporter.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I liked Post-Apocalyptic Barbie better.” Lamar shrugs. “Maybe take the hoodie … just in case.”
I give him a sad smile as I reach for my sweatshirt. Anything to make him happy. “You doin’ okay?” I ask, tying the sleeves around my waist.
He shakes his head and drops his eyes. His chin begins to wobble, but he grits his teeth and squashes it.
“Me too, buddy.” I pat his knee. “Me too.”
“Guys …” Flip calls out, slapping the side of the van to get our attention. “Looks like we might be too late.”
Lamar and I scramble outside and notice that everyone’s heads are craned back and tilted to the right as a helicopter descends onto a small, oval-shaped patch of grass next to the capitol building.
Michelle turns to me with an apologetic look on her face. “Shit! I have to get into position. He’s gonna go inside the capitol for a minute and then make a big entrance by coming down the capitol steps. I usually meet him at the end of the main walkway and introduce him. Then, we walk over to the park together.”