The Rains (Untitled #1)(58)

Patrick looked trapped inside it, and I couldn’t blame him.

Three minutes.

“Wait.” Alex’s eyes were brimming.

Patrick looked at her. Understood. Sliding the mask up onto his forehead, he pulled her in. They kissed. For the last time. Eyes closed, her hands pressed to his chest, his arm looped around the small of her back. She was on her tiptoes, face tilted up to his.

I could feel the emotion radiating off them like something physical, and I knew everyone else could, too. It might as well have been the last kiss in the history of the world.

I couldn’t help but wonder what it felt like to have someone kiss you like that.

They parted. Alex took a half step back, stifling a sob.

Patrick slid the mask back into place.

Chatterjee twisted the valve open, set the dial to eight liters per minute, and said to Patrick, “Take a deep breath. And blow out.”

Patrick did. Then he inhaled.

“You are now breathing only from the tank,” Chatterjee said.

“Just in case,” Ben said, raising the stun gun and resting it on Patrick’s forehead. “For everyone else in here.”

One minute.

The bag bullfrogged beneath Patrick’s neck, expanding and collapsing with each breath.

The seconds counted down.

I plucked the Stetson from the floor and put it back on Patrick’s head. I couldn’t stand for him not to have it on right now.

He had Alex’s hand, their fingers intertwined. He reached for me with his other hand.

Fear shone from his eyes. I’d never seen him look like that.

I clasped his other hand.

We stood there bracing ourselves, Alex and me on either side of Patrick, Ben before him, that wicked steel rod pressed right between his eyes.

And everyone else watching.

Ten seconds.

Five.

It was one o’clock.

Patrick exhaled, his shoulders lowering a good two inches.

“We don’t know the exact time,” Ben said. “It’s sometime after one. So let’s not celebrate yet.”

He lowered the gun from Patrick’s head but kept it at the ready.

We stayed like that, breathing hard, for five minutes and then five more. A short time later, Chatterjee looked at his watch and said, “He was born by now. I’m sure of it. The time frame has passed.”

Ben shoved the stun gun back into his jeans. “You’re only putting off the inevitable,” he said. “How much time’ll that tank buy him anyways?”

Chatterjee crouched and checked the readings. His face changed. He rose unsteadily. Ben leaned over and read the dial.

“This only gets you five hours,” he said.

“I only need five hours,” I said.

For once Ben looked taken aback. “For what?” he asked.





ENTRY 25

At the edge of town square, Patrick and I bellied down beneath an ambulance, facing the hospital, watching shadows move in the first-floor windows. He wore his mask. His cowboy hat scraped against the undercarriage, so he kept his chin low to the ground. At one side lay his oxygen tank. At the other his shotgun.

Getting here had been hell.

Not because of the Hosts—we’d actually been pretty lucky in that regard. But sneaking around in the night hauling a compressed-air tank and waiting for a Chaser to flash out of every shadow had frayed our nerves to the point of snapping. We’d crept from bush to tree to alley to car, our hearts racing every time we dashed across the open. Though we’d tried to be cautious, we’d been forced to take risks to save time, all too aware that every breath Patrick drew meant one less breath in the tank.

Our lookouts at the school had noted decreased Host activity along the southern fence line by the teachers’ parking lot, so we’d slipped out there. That gate also put us closest to the building itself for our return. Since we’d be lugging back as many super-heavy oxygen tanks as we could, any saved distance helped. Alex stood watch at the gate now, with Cassius at her side; when we got back, she’d signal us once the coast was clear. As strong as she was, she wouldn’t be able to manage the heavy tanks as well as Patrick or I. We’d asked for volunteers, of course, but none of the bigger boys had stepped forth. They were either scared or—like Ben—unwilling to risk their necks.

I was unarmed. The amount of loading and hauling I had to do required full use of my hands, so I couldn’t have my baling hooks dangling around my wrists. I felt naked without them.

Worse yet, Patrick was getting weird on me. First he joggled his head from side to side. Then he waved a hand in front of his face, wiggling his fingers.

“What?” I hissed.

“Everything’s blurry,” he said. “And I’m light-headed.” He pushed his palm to his forehead. “My head hurts. And feels good at the same time.” He offered me a goofy smile. “I think the oxygen’s making me loopy.”

“Great.” I reached for his tank and slid it toward me. I couldn’t read the dials, not in the dark, and even if I could have, I had no idea which way to adjust the oxygen concentration. That would have to wait for Chatterjee.

So I was stuck in the middle of the town square, heading into a deadly mission, with my brother acting like a drunk.

He took a few Darth Vader breaths. “Luke, I am your father.”