The Rains (Untitled #1)(31)

“Hey, Little Rain.”

It made me smile, which I’m sure was her intent. “I hate when you call me that,” I said.

She leaned over, gave me a playful bump with her shoulder. “Yup.” But it was sad, too. There was nothing more to say, really. It was just a way of reaching out, of connecting. We were united in that moment as the two people who cared the most about Patrick. And about what was gonna happen to him.

A while later—though we tried not to notice how much later—my brother joined us on the bleachers. Together we listened to Chet give his birthday in a trembling voice.

Ben hopped up onto one of the middle bleachers and started pacing across it. The front of his shirt was stiff with dried blood from where he’d wiped his hands. “Look,” he said, “the first thing to figure out is who’s in charge. And I think it’s pretty clear who’s protected us the best so far.” The heel of his hand rested on the stun gun tucked in his waistband.

“Dr. Chatterjee’s in charge,” I said.

Ben cast his broken gaze over at me. “Dr. Chatterjee,” he said, “can’t hold a gun. Not with that grip.”

A lot of the kids looked taken aback. We’d heard students be rude to teachers before, but we’d never seen one be so dismissive before.

Ben’s mood had changed since he’d returned from taking care of Britney’s body. He seemed more cocky, his eyes gleaming with some secret confidence.

Dr. Chatterjee took off his glasses again, calmly polishing them. “Is that what you think leadership is about, Mr. Braaten?” he asked.

“Not generally,” Ben said. “But now more than ever.”

“How about wisdom? Experience?”

“You may have noticed that age ain’t exactly being rewarded in the new order.” Ben scanned the kids’ faces. “Like I said, I’m willing to do what has to be done to keep you guys safe.”

“You wouldn’t send help for Dick and Jaydon,” Eve said, “when they went to help the others. So which of us are you keeping safe?”

“The majority of you.”

“Which is fine,” Patrick said. “Until you’re not part of the majority.”

Rocky spoke up. “I think our leader should be Dr. Chatterjee,” he said. “And whoever’s oldest.”

We looked up at that board, Chet Rogers’s name at the very bottom. His birthday four days from now.

And Patrick’s name written right above.

Chet made a nervous noise. I thought maybe he was going to say something, but he drew into himself. He crossed his arms over his chest as if he were hugging himself. His eyes stayed lowered as he tried to smooth out his breathing, but he was wheezing pretty good. I remembered how his mother and the school nurse always seemed to hover nearby, fearful of an attack. A kid with asthma in farm country was at no small risk. If he had an episode now, I’d have to run to the nurse’s office to fetch his oxygen mask.

But Ben paid Chet little mind. “If we’re going for stability,” Ben said to Eve, “why would we choose leaders who are next in line to die?”

Patrick stood up abruptly. “Let’s cut to it. Do we agree that everyone gets a vote?”

Most everybody nodded.

“Okay. How many vote that Dr. Chatterjee’s in charge?”

About three-fourths of the hands went up.

“That’s settled, then,” Patrick said, with a glance at Ben. “Now let’s get back to figuring out just what the hell to do.”

“Fine,” Ben said. He cast a look across the faces of the kids. “But think about it. When the next Host shows up, who do you want between you and it? Me or Chatterjee?”

“For now, Mr. Braaten, we will let that remain a rhetorical question,” Dr. Chatterjee said, “and get back to the facts as we’re learning them. Eighteen appears to be the age at which people … transform.” His forehead furrowed as he puzzled this out. “Once that chronological point is crossed, it’s as if a switch is thrown, making the person susceptible to spores in the air.”

“How do you know the spores aren’t already inside us all?” Eve asked. “Just hanging out, waiting to spread?”

Dr. Chatterjee blinked a few times. “Well,” he said, “I suppose I don’t.”

“No,” Chet said, still rocking himself. “You’re right.”

“How do you know?” Chatterjee asked. “Chet? How do you know?”

“I … um, I saw my neighbor—Mr. Gaeta? Right after it happened. He was chasing a kid down the middle of our street, and a car…” Chet gasped a few times. “I saw his brains when they … spilled out. And they were black. Like covered with oil. And then next…” His breathing quickened, and for a moment I thought he might hyperventilate. “The car plowed into the kid he’d been chasing.” He took in a gulp of air. “Luis Millan.”

At this a wail went up from the back of the gym. Probably one of Luis’s cousins. We were all shocked.

“His head was…” Chet’s hand hovered by his forehead. “And his … brain … I could see … it looked normal. It wasn’t all black and oily. Not yet. So no, I don’t think the stuff was in there. I think it waits in the air until the second we turn eighteen. Your brain’s ready, and then that next breath costs you … everything.” He stared at his trembling hands. “Like Britney.”