The Rains (Untitled #1)(12)

“Please don’t,” I said. “Uncle Jim? Please don’t. Don’t make me.”

His face lost to shadow, he kept on, readying the leather strap with his hands.

I raised my weaponed fists. “Please don’t.”

I could hear Patrick running to catch up. He wouldn’t be here in time.

Uncle Jim’s boots kept on, tramping across the mud, closer and closer.

I was crying. “Don’t.”

And then he was on me.

I sidestepped him and swung the baling hook. It embedded itself in his throat. He made a terrible gurgling sound and sank to his knees. I shook the spike free of his neck as Patrick finally arrived, his face flushed from his sprint.

Uncle Jim got one boot under him, then another. He stood, blood streaming from his neck, soaking the front of his jacket. As Patrick raised the shotgun, I turned my head, not wanting to see.

I heard the boom.

I heard the sound of a body hitting the dirt.

Then I heard the creak of our screen door, way over by the house.

I turned back in time to see Sue-Anne glide onto the porch. She halted beneath the light, a swirl of moths wreathing her head. For a moment she remained there, peaceful and still.

Then that full-body shudder racked her body.

I’d been waiting for it. That made it even worse.

Her chest jerked a few times.

We watched her eyes turn black and disintegrate. We watched those tunnels swivel across the landscape and lock onto us. Her spine curled, and she leapt from the porch, landing on all fours, then springing up onto her bare feet. She sprinted at us faster than she should have been able to, her muscles strained to the breaking point. She was thirty feet away. I blinked, and then it was twenty.

Her hair flew about her face, her lips stretched thin with effort. She had tugged the sash free from her bathrobe, and it flapped wildly behind her.

Patrick chambered another shell.





ENTRY 8

We didn’t want to take the time to dig graves, so we laid Jim and Sue-Anne side by side on their bed in the master upstairs. It was a messy business, but after everything they’d done for us, we owed them that. We set up Rocky and JoJo in the living room watching TV so they wouldn’t have to see the terrible state of our aunt and uncle.

My brother and I stood by the footboard, looking at them lying there. Patrick had draped empty pillowcases over their heads to hide the damage, but already blood was spotting through. It was an awful scene, made more awful by how normal it might have been, the two of them reclining beside each other as if ready for bed.

At least they were together.

Our family had never been big on praying, but Patrick clasped his hands at his belt and cleared his throat. “They were good folks who took care of us when they didn’t have to.” He paused. I heard him breathing wetly but didn’t dare turn to look at him, because I was worried I’d start crying. “And they didn’t just love each other but they liked each other, too, always laughing together and still slow-dancing sometimes. As far as I’ve seen, that’s pretty rare in a couple who’s been married that long. They set a good example for us, and I hope me and Alex are lucky enough to feel that way no matter how long we’re together, and I hope Chance finds that with someone someday, too.” He was quiet for a bit longer, and when he spoke again, his voice was strained. “They were lucky to have each other, and we were lucky to have them.”

I reached out and touched the bump of Sue-Anne’s foot. My chest gave a little, and I bit my lip, hard. Patrick lifted Uncle Jim’s cowboy hat from the bedpost and rested it over the pillowcase-covered head, cocking the brim the way Uncle Jim always did. We turned off the lights and closed the door behind us, not knowing when we’d come back.

Standing in the hall, we could hear the TV playing downstairs. I said, “We’ve been breathing the same spores as Mrs. McCafferty and the Franklins and Jim and Sue-Anne. So some people must be more susceptible to them. Or maybe adults turn quicker and it takes longer for kids to change.”

We looked at each other, and I knew we were thinking the same thing. Either of us could transform at any minute. I was watching my brother for that telltale full-body shudder, and he was watching me for the same.

Patrick broke off the mini-staredown, reaching past me for the phone in the tiny alcove off the hall. He dialed and waited. I could hear the ringing, though the sound was muffled against his cheek, and then I heard Alex’s message.

You’ve reached me, Alex, and my dad, Sheriff Blanton. Dad, say hi.

Hi.

Real personable, Dad. Way to intimidate your constituency. Anyways, leave a message here for us. If it’s an emergency, then you wouldn’t be calling here, would you? You’d be calling Dad at the office. So we’ll just pretend this whole thing never happened.

Alex.

Okay, okay.

Beep.


Patrick hung up and redialed. With the phone wedged between his shoulder and cheek, he drummed his fingers against the wall, his impatience starting to show. His other hand fished his pendant necklace out of his shirt.

It was a sterling silver jigsaw-puzzle piece strung on ball chain like a dog tag. The puzzle piece fit together with the one around Alex’s neck, though hers was on a fancier necklace. She’d bought the set at the mall in Stark Peak. I remember the day she gave Patrick’s to him. I was inside reading Beowulf at my desk. I happened to look up and see them through the window. They were having a picnic outside. She opened the little jewelry box, presenting the fitting pieces to him like an engagement ring. They cracked up a bit about the whole fake proposal, and then she cocked her head like she did.