Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(2)

Way to go, Rain. Get high and cut all your hair off. Real original.

I try to remember what happened last night, but it’s not even a blur. It’s just gone. Like the hair that I pick up and toss onto my overflowing trash can on my way to turn on the shower.

We’ve been advised to use our bathtubs for water storage in case our town’s supply gets cut off, but the way I see it, if we’re all going to die anyway, why not enjoy a hot shower first?

And by enjoy, I mean cry under the stream until the water turns cold.

I towel-dry my hack job of a hairdo, throw on a tank top and a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants, and shove my feet into an old pair of cowboy boots. I used to want to look cute when I left the house. Now, I just want to look homeless. Bronzer, beachy waves, cleavage, cutoff jeans—all those things attract attention. The bad kind. The kind that gets you robbed or raped. At least, around here.

As much as I’d like to spend the next three days in bed with my head under the covers, I’m fucking starving, and all we have here is dried spaghetti noodles, a can of lima beans, and a bottle of expired pancake syrup. Our supplies have been running low ever since the gangs took over the neighborhood grocery stores. They’ll let you shop, but you have to be willing to pay in their preferred currency, which, when you’re a nineteen-year-old girl…

Let’s just say I haven’t gotten that desperate yet.

Luckily, Burger Palace is still serving. And they take cash. I just have to get in and out without drawing too much attention to myself.

I pick the Twenty One Pilots hoodie up off my floor and resist the urge to bury my nose in the soft cotton like I used to. I know Carter’s scent is long gone, just like him—and thank God for that. The last thing I need is another reminder that my stupid boyfriend chose to spend his last few weeks on earth in Tennessee with his family instead of here with me.

Asshole.

I yank the sweatshirt on over my head, completing my frumpiest look yet, and stomp down the stairs. The scene in the living room is pretty much the same as it is every morning. My father is passed out in his recliner, facing the front door, with a fifth of whiskey tucked in the crook of his elbow and a shotgun across his lap. I’d probably take more pity on him if he hadn’t always been a mean-ass drunk.

But he has.

He’s just a paranoid mean-ass drunk now.

I can’t even bear to look at him. I cover my mouth with the sleeve of my sweatshirt to keep from gagging on the smell of piss as I snatch his prescription bottle of hydrocodone off the table.

I think you’ve had enough, old man.

Popping one of the little white pills into my mouth, I pocket the rest and cross the living room.

I grab my dad’s keys off the hook by the front door and lock the doorknob on my way out. Even though I know how to drive, I don’t bother taking my dad’s truck. The roads are so clogged with wrecked and abandoned vehicles that they’re basically impassable now.

Traffic laws were one of the first things to go after the nightmares began. Everybody started driving a little faster, having a few extra drinks, ignoring those pesky red lights and stop signs, and forgetting that turn signals had ever existed. There were so many accidents that the tow trucks and traffic cops and ambulance drivers couldn’t keep up, so eventually, they just quit trying. The wrecks piled up and caused more wrecks, and then, when the gas stations closed, people started leaving their vehicles wherever they ran out of gas.

Franklin Springs, Georgia, has never exactly been a classy place, but now, it looks like one big demolition derby arena. I would know. I live right off the main two-lane highway that cuts through town. In fact, the Welcome to Franklin Springs sign hangs right across the street from my house. Of course, somebody recently spray-painted a giant UC over the RAN in Franklin, so the sign reads Welcome to Fucklin Springs now.

Can’t imagine who would do such a thing.

The quickest way into town would be to walk along the highway about a mile or so, but it also feels like the quickest way to get raped or robbed, frumpy outfit or not, so I stick to the woods.

As soon as my feet hit the pine needle–covered trail behind my house, I feel like I can finally relax. I inhale the humid spring air. I listen to the birds chattering away up in the trees. I try on a smile; it doesn’t feel right. And I pretend, for just a moment, that everything’s okay again, like it used to be.

But, when I step out of the woods and feel the heat of a nearby car fire on my face, I remember.

Life sucks, and we’re all gonna die.

I flip my hood over my head and tiptoe around the corner of the library, watching out for the three Rs: rioters, rapists, and rabid dogs. The dogs don’t really have rabies, but so many people have died in the weeks leading up to April 23 that their pets are starting to band together and hunt as a team.

So. Many. People.

Images of those I’ve lost flicker behind my eyes, dim and grainy, fighting to get a feeling past the hydrocodone. But the painkiller does its job, and within moments, I’m fuzzy and numb again.

When the coast is clear, I shove my hands in the front pocket of my hoodie to keep all my shit from falling out and scurry across the street. Cars and trucks are lurched on the curbs, overturned in the ditches, and abandoned with doors wide open in the middle of the lanes. I try not to think about how many of those cars might still have people in them as I reach out and pull open the Burger Palace door.