The Rains (Untitled #1)(45)

The Hosts’ numbers grew again, and they started pelting the poly with their bodies. This tunnel was going to give way just like the first one.

I halted and started burrowing through the far side.

“What are you doing?” Alex screamed.

“I have a plan!”

I rolled free of the tunnel’s right wall and saw with relief that there were no Hosts over here. Patrick and Alex appeared through the translucent poly, yelling at me, shadows massing at their backs. “We gotta go, Chance!”

Falling to my knees, I tore up the nearest stakes. Then I scuttled along the length of the tunnel, yanking rebar stakes free as I went.

When I risked a glance up, I saw the Hosts smeared against the far wall of the tarp, all distorted faces and fingers worming through rips. We were almost out of time.

Grabbing the edge of the tarp I’d just freed, I lifted it as high as I could, feeling the wind blast across my back.

At last it caught.

The lifting wall brought me face-to-face with Alex and Patrick. They watched with stunned amazement as the tarp flopped over, the sky opening above their heads. Rebar went airborne all around me, dirt peppering my face like shrapnel. The floating tarp wrapped around the mass of Hosts, blasting them back into the corn, clearing the row.

Only Cassius, low to the ground, remained, staring at us, as befuddled as a dog can get.

The tarp lurched and bulged like a living blob.

The barn was fifty yards away.

An arm tore free of the tarp, thrust up at the moon.

Shoulder to shoulder, we sprinted for the big rolling door. My footsteps jarred the dirt, my view of the barn rocking side to side. I could hear movement behind us, getting closer. That awful quick panting at our backs.

My breath fired through my lungs. Patrick bolted out ahead, shotgun swinging at his side. He slammed into the door first, then started rolling it open. We hurtled toward him. The gap wasn’t big enough for us to fit through, but there was no time to slow. Alex bladed sideways and skimmed by. I followed her lead, the door clipping my shoulder. I spilled onto the floor, somersaulting over in time to see Patrick slide inside after us. As he put his weight to the door, the gap filled with mouths and eyeholes, countless Chasers clamoring to get in.

The hefty door slammed shut, smashing a woman’s frail wrist. Patrick strained against the handle to keep it closed, cords standing out in his neck. “The truck!” he shouted. “Get in the truck!”

Jack Kaner, bless him, had an extended-cab Chevy Silverado pickup with diesel V8, four-wheel drive, and dually tires. A no-screwing-around farm vehicle, parked across from the stall doors like a mirage. I ran for the driver’s seat, gave a quick prayer, and reached for the ignition. The keys were there. Cassius leapt over the tailgate as he was trained, and Alex swung into the passenger side, but I was accelerating before she could get the door shut. Patrick drove himself against the barn door, but he was losing the battle, his boots skidding across fallen hay.

As we neared, he let go. The barn door flew wide with the force of dozens of bodies, banging at the end of its tracks. Hosts tumbled over from the sudden lack of resistance. Aiming the cab at the opening, I sped past Patrick, who hooked the tailgate with his hand and swung himself into the bed like he always did when we repaired fence posts on Uncle Jim’s ranch.

I plowed into the Hosts, their heads snapping against the hood. Some churned under the powerful wheels; others flew off to the sides. For a moment the tires gummed up, and I was afraid the sheer mass of them would stop us. In the band of the rearview mirror, Patrick flashed in and out of sight, hammering the butt of the shotgun down into faces, Cassius snapping and clawing right along with him.

The V8 roared, and then we shot free. I drove straight across the field, throwing back rooster tails of mud and lettuce. A Host emerged from the cornstalks, and I smacked him with the grille, sending him bumping over the windshield and then up into the night sky.

The Silverado hammered across the roadside channel and then screeched sideways onto the highway as I braked. The engine shuddered, smoke wisping up from the tires.

We’d made it.

Alex shot me a look that might have held admiration. I waited for Patrick to hop down from the bed. As he came around the driver’s side, I slid over the console into the backseat, relinquishing the wheel.

He climbed in and stepped heavy on the gas, heading for the shadowy rise of Ponderosa Pass. Jack Kaner’s farm faded behind us.

“Nice job, Chance,” Alex said.

Patrick shot her a look of his own and kept driving.





ENTRY 20

Our excitement built as we neared the base of Ponderosa Pass. Maybe we were reaching the end of the infection zone, or maybe we had to get up and over to Stark Peak, but either way it felt good to be making progress. Deserted cars cropped up here and there on the road, spaced out far enough that we could steer around them. The highway was desolate under normal circumstances but looked even more so now. Few folks had been on the open road far from town two nights ago when the spores had blown across the plain.

The high beams gave us early warning of Hosts on the highway. We drove past a few stragglers. Twice we saw a horde up ahead, but Patrick had plenty of time to veer into a field and cut around them. A mile or so from the base of the pass, we came upon a dark gas station, the pump area littered with abandoned cars.

Patrick eased the truck in, aimed for the open road. He kept it idling and hopped out. I started to follow, but he shot me a wink and said, “I got it from here, little brother.”