The Rains (Untitled #1)(96)

Alex had kissed me right here in this very spot. I remembered how she’d leaned in. The softness of her lips.

I wondered how I’d feel if she came back without Patrick.

Or if he did without her.

What if they didn’t come tomorrow? Or the next day? How long would I wait before heading back to Creek’s Cause?

I was too exhausted to sleep. At the slightest sound outside, my heart leapt with hope, but every time I peered through the curtains, it proved to be branches rubbing together or the barn roof creaking.

I tried to process everything that the Rebel had told me, but it all seemed too huge, and it made me miss Patrick and Alex even more. I took solace in the fact that I’d heard no gunshots. What if something happened to me but Patrick remained alive out there somewhere? How would he ever know what he meant for our survival?

Sometime after midnight, sick with worry, I sat on the floor, pulled out my notebook, and started writing.





ENTRY 44

Okay. I’m here. I’m finally caught up, but my eyes are so heavy. It’s almost light out now, and at last I might be tired enough to— I hear footfalls outside.

Patrick and Alex?

The sun is coming up, so I have to be careful when I peek through the curtains.





ENTRY 45

I’m dead.

There are Drones all around the cabin in every direction—above, below, both sides. They don’t know I’m here, not yet, but they’re walking in patterns through the woods, just like Mappers, leaving no stone unturned. Except this time the spiral’s not expanding.

It’s closing in.

I see them flickering behind the trees. I hear their boots trampling the underbrush. There is no way to slip through, not this time.

Every second brings them closer.

I won’t kill myself. After what the Rebel said, I know I owe it to everyone to try to stay alive as long as I can, but—

I just heard the barn door bang open. They’re probably searching the stable now. There’s nowhere for me to go. Nothing left to do. My only chance is if Patrick and Alex made it out. If they did, they’ll come for me. I know they will.

The problem is I probably can’t stay alive until they do.

I can’t help but think of the coming Hatch, those pulsing stomachs about to give birth to a new age. All the kids at the cannery I can’t help. The others around the world who I’ve failed. JoJo and Rocky and Eve, back at school, who I can’t even protect from Ben.

I’ve never been this scared.

I’m gonna hide this book now. If you’re the one who discovers it, find Patrick Rain. And give it to him. He’s the only one besides me who can carry out the mission, and he has to know everything. Pray he’s alive. He’s the last chance we’ve got.

Or I should say the last chance you’ve got. I don’t know what will happen to me, but judging from those kids I saw floating on the metal slabs, it won’t be good. If the Harvesters find out who I am, it’ll be even worse.

I can hear leaves crunching just beyond the front door. The Drones, taking their final turn around the house. They’re coming. They’re coming for me.

I only have time to scribble a warning on the front cover of my notepad. Please read this whole account and read it well.

Good-bye and good luck.

We’re counting on you.





EPILOGUE

The document you are reading does not—cannot—exist. If you’re reading this, your life is at risk. Or I should say your life is at even greater risk than it was already. I’m sorry to burden you with this. I don’t wish you the kind of harm that came to me and the others from Creek’s Cause. This is what I’ve managed to piece together since it all began. I wrote it down knowing that words are more powerful than bullets—and certainly more dangerous. All is probably lost already.

But maybe, just maybe, these pages will give you a chance.

I hope you’re up to it.





NEXT: WHO WILL SURVIVE FOR THEIR …

LAST CHANCE?





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks go to:


—Lisa Erbach Vance of the Aaron M. Priest Literary Agency, for whom I’ve run out of superlatives.

—Trevor Astbury, Rob Kenneally, Peter Micelli, and Michelle Weiner, my extraordinary team at CAA. What a job they’ve done for me.

—Marc H. Glick and Stephen F. Breimer, my expert counsel. Twenty years, boys.

—Melissa Frain, my delightful, insightful editor.

—Kathleen Doherty, my publisher, and Ali Fisher and Amy Stapp, also of Tor Teen, for their terrific support.

—Maureen Sugden, my erudite copyeditor, who slays with wit.

—Mark Sullivan, who taught Chance how to get off that shot with a Ruger M77 Hawkeye.

—Melissa Hurwitz, M.D., and Bret Nelson, M.D., for reading early and helping me make the implausible plausible.

—Christi Goodman, for generously helping me color my fictional setting.

—Dana Kaye, my astute and tenacious publicist.

—Delinah, Rose, and Natalie, for making my life outside my stories as vivid, unpredictable, and rewarding as what goes down inside them.

—My parents, for filling my childhood with the ingredients that give rise to imagination.