Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(55)

“No, Wes! Where are you going?” she shrieks, peering down at me. The whites of her wide eyes almost glow in the dark as they jerk left and right, looking for any sign of danger.

“I’m going to prove to you that there’s nothing to be afraid of. Come on.”

Rain climbs down the ladder on trusting, trembling legs and holds my hand like a vise as we walk across the yard. The sounds of faraway gunshots and howling dogs and shattering glass tell me that I might have spoken too soon. Just because the horsemen aren’t real doesn’t change the fact that the whole world has lost its goddamn mind.

We still have plenty to be afraid of.

I pull the flashlight from my pocket and light our way as we enter through the back door, careful not to shine it anywhere near the mangled recliner. I lead Rain upstairs and feel her sweaty palm begin to shake in my grasp.

God, I hope I’m right.

We head into her room where she immediately shuts and locks the door behind us. Her hands are covering the lower half of her face, and it looks like she’s on the verge of hysterics.

“Wes, just tell me what the hell is going on! Please!”

I grab her phone off the nightstand and swipe it open as quickly as possible. “I have to show you.”

“The cell towers are down, remember? There’s no service.”

“You were listening to music earlier,” I say, hunting for the app.

“Just what I have saved on my phone.”

There.

I press the blue music note icon and find what I’m looking for. Turning the screen toward Rain, I point to the little black dot I noticed last night when I paused that incessant fucking song.

She crosses the room and stares at it in confusion.

“That’s just a blown-out pixel.” The screen illuminates the disappointment on her face.

“Maybe.”

I turn the phone back around and take a screenshot of the music app. Using the camera tool, I zoom in on the image as much as I can. Then, I save it and zoom in on the second version even more. Sure enough, once it’s large enough, the blip takes on the unmistakable silhouette that’s been haunting our dreams for almost a year.

Rain’s mouth falls open as she sees the image take shape. “What does it mean?”

“It means someone’s fucking with us.” I begin opening and closing every app on her phone, searching for more abnormalities. It doesn’t take long to find another one. “Shit.”

“What?”

I turn the phone toward her. “Open Instagram and pay attention to what you see before the feed comes up.” I watch her face as a red light splashes across it. “Did you see it?”

Her eyes are two perfect circles as they lift back to mine. “Was that the banner?”

“It flashed too fast to be sure, but I know it was red and black.”

Rain sits on the bed next to me and stares at the floor, taking it all in. “So, you’re saying somebody’s been planting these images in our heads?”

I nod, feeling sick to my stomach. “Subliminal messaging. And this is just what we can find on your phone. I’m sure we were being exposed to way more through TVs and tablets and—”

“Billboards.”

Rain and I lock eyes as we try to make sense of our new reality.

“Who would do this?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Could be anyone from a couple of hackers on a power trip to some third-world dictator trying to destroy modernized society.”

“So, does this mean the apocalypse isn’t coming? It was all just a sick joke to make us go crazy?”

I illuminate the screen on her phone again, turning it toward her so that she can see the clock for herself. “Considering that it’s after midnight, I think it’s safe to say that the apocalypse isn’t coming.”

“April twenty-fourth.” Her voice is barely a whisper as I watch her face go through the entire range of human emotion, illuminated by the digital glow. Relief. Elation. Grief. Regret. Then, as the sound of approaching destruction begins to rise in the distance, pure, unfiltered dread.

The sound is like a never-ending car accident—metal scraping metal, crunching glass, and squealing steel.

And it’s getting closer.

“Pack your shit and get ready to run,” I snap, thrusting the phone into her hand. “Does your dad have any more guns?”

She nods blankly. “In the master closet.”

I run across the hall with my flashlight, holding my breath to cope with the lingering stench of death in the room. Throwing open the closet door, I shine my light in all directions, not knowing where to look. There are scrubs and shoes and suits and dresses and—

Bingo.

The light lands on a black briefcase sitting on the floor next to the door—the kind that takes a code to open. Luckily, I have the code—in the form of a pocketknife. Jamming my blade underneath the brass plate, I pop the case open in three seconds flat, and the sight inside takes my breath away.

A Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum. Six-inch barrel. Black with a wooden grip.

Rain’s dad must have been a Dirty Harry fan.

I lift the beast out of the molded foam cutout it’s nestled into and check the cylinder.

And it’s fully fucking loaded.

I shake my head in disbelief and kiss the barrel before tucking it into my holster.