The Rains (Untitled #1)(87)

Squeezing between the trailer and a row of trash bins, I popped out into the front yard.

I heard movement behind me.

When I glanced over my shoulder, three Chasers flew out of the shadows beneath the carport. I must’ve sprinted past them without even noticing.

They’d caught me off guard. As I twisted around, raising the baling hooks, my feet tangled, spilling me onto the ground.

They barreled at me, muscles straining through their skin. There was no time to get up and fight. I crossed the hooks protectively over my head. It was the only thing I could do.

All of a sudden, footsteps hammered overhead.

I squinted up to see a figure flying across the roof of the house, backlit by the rising sun.

Between the portable tank rigged onto his back like a scuba tank, the shotgun angled across his chest, and the heavy-duty mask erasing his features, he looked like a superhero.

The shadow took flight off the roof, passing directly over the heads of the Chasers, swinging the shotgun around so it aimed straight down between his legs.

Thunder.

The scattered buckshot blew the Chasers to pieces on the driveway before me.

The form continued overhead, landing on the Airstream with a thump, cratering the metal.

I was on my back, my arm raised against the morning glare.

“Chance.” My brother’s voice was distorted through the mask. “Get up here now.” Leaning over, he stuck his hand out for me.

Scrambling to my feet, I grabbed it, and he hauled me up.

“Back onto the roof of the house,” he said. “Before others come.”

I ran down the length of the Airstream, dodging the open sunroof, gaining momentum to leap across the gap to the top of the carport. I made it easily. I turned to watch my brother.

The weight of the tank pulling down on him, Patrick sprinted across the Airstream after me. Just as he was about to leap, a clawlike hand shot through the sunroof, grabbing for his ankle, tripping him.

He stumbled, kept his feet, his force carrying him to the end of the Airstream. Somehow he managed to jump across the gap, but he landed hard, rolling over his shoulder.

One of the straps snapped, the tank spinning away from him. The mask pulled free of his mouth, yanked down below his chin, exhaling a hiss of oxygen. The tubing popped free. The tank rolled and rolled toward the edge of the carport roof.

Then it went over.

A second later I heard a clang as it hit the driveway below.

Patrick was holding his breath, his cheeks already turning red, veins standing out in his throat. The collision had knocked the air out of him. I was a few feet away, standing over him, paralyzed.

It was all happening so fast.

I saw his lips part.

Then he pulled in a breath.





ENTRY 40

We were frozen there atop the carport, me on my feet, Patrick knocked over.

He breathed the infected air again.

I didn’t know if we had two seconds or two minutes before he transformed.

“It’s okay.” He tugged the mask off over his head and tossed it to the side. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Anger and grief and denial crushed in on me, all mixed together. “But I got Alex,” I said. “I got her home safe.”

He gave a faint, sad smile. I could read the relief in it. And so much more.

“I know how you feel about her,” he said.

He did? I was shocked.

But my surprise was nothing next to what we were facing.

“Take care of her,” he said. “And make sure she takes care of you.”

He flipped the shotgun around, extending the stock to me.

“Now,” he said. “Are you ready?”

No.

I couldn’t get my mouth to answer.

“Chance,” he said, firmly. “This is gonna happen any second now. Are you ready?”

No.

I took the shotgun. He put his fist around the end of the muzzle, held the bore to his forehead, and looked up at me. Our eyes locked. I watched his lungs fill and contract, fill and contract.

I waited for that full-body shudder.

But nothing happened.

A minute passed. And then another.

Patrick let the shotgun bore slip from his face. “This is weird,” he said.

I coughed out something like a laugh. “This is impossible.”

Noises drifted up from below us, and we peered over the edge of the carport. Hosts were moving up the street from the town square, drawn by the blast.

Patrick stood, swiped the shotgun back from me, and hopped onto the roof of the house, heading back toward school. “Either way,” he said, “let’s get the hell out of here while we can.”

*

We entered the gym quietly, slipping through the double doors. The kids sat in rows on the basketball courts, the cots cleared to the side for the day. Alex sat on the lowest bleacher, having just finished talking to them all. Judging from the mood, it was clear what news she’d related.

The kids’ faces were as blank as dolls’, as blank as those of the Hosts themselves. Shock hung like a cloud in the room. It was so much to come to terms with, especially for the younger ones.

But they deserved the truth.

They deserved to know what was in store for them at the Lawrenceville Cannery if they were ever caught.

No one noticed me and Patrick standing at the back of the gym.