Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(8)

When you’re three days away from the apocalypse, there’s not much to look forward to.





Rain


Right, left, right, right, left.

We weave back through the wreckage on the highway, and I’m lulled into a trance. The adrenaline from our escape begins to wear off—taking the last of my hydrocodone high along with it—and my mind begins to wander into dangerous places. No memories come. Just feelings. Bad ones. And the occasional unwanted picture in my head. I don’t know which ones are from real life and which ones are from the nightmares.

I don’t want to know.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try singing to myself, but every song that comes to mind is sad. Or violent. Or sad and violent. “Semi-Automatic” by Twenty One Pilots makes me think of “10 A.M. Automatic” by The Black Keys, which makes me think of “Black Wave” by K. Flay, which makes me think of “Blood in the Cut” by K. Flay, which makes me think of “Cut Yr Teeth” by Kississippi, which makes me think of “Cut My Lip” by Twenty One Pilots.

I begin searching for a happy Twenty One Pilots song—there has to be one—when Wes makes a sharp right, pulling into Hartwell Park. I hold on to him tighter through the turn, food bags cutting off the blood supply to my lower arms, and try to figure out what the hell we’re doing there.

The place has seen better days. Burger Palace wrappers, crushed beer cans, and cigarette butts have been strewn around like confetti after a party, and in addition to all the other graffiti, somebody went and spray-painted a giant letter S on the sign so that it reads Shartwell Park now.

Okay, that one’s my personal favorite.

Wes drives right up onto the grass and parks next to the playground. I let go of him, reluctantly, and climb off the dirt bike. Setting the plastic bags on the ground, I massage the divots out of my arms to try to get the blood flowing into my hands again.

As soon as his helmet is off, Wes grabs the bags and heads up a yellow ladder to the top of the playground equipment. I tilt my head back and squint up at him as he disappears over the ledge. “Why did you stop here? You just really like slides or something?”

“Dogs can’t climb ladders,” he calls back over the sound of plastic rustling and cardboard ripping.

Oh shit.

Looking around to make sure there’s no sign of the three Rs, I climb up the ladder and find Wes sitting with his back against the railing, already popping the last bite of a protein bar into his mouth.

“Damn. You were hungry.”

He wads up the wrapper and tosses it into the sea of garbage below us before offering the opened box to me. The gesture is kind, but his eyes are hard as he crunches on a cheekful of chemically engineered nutrients.

“Uh, thanks.” I slide a protein bar out of the box and peel back the wrapper. The moment my teeth sink into that brick of salty sweetness, an involuntary moan rumbles in the back of my throat. It’s the first thing I’ve eaten that hasn’t come out of a deep fryer at Burger Palace in days. Maybe longer.

“That was really fucking stupid back there.”

I swallow and risk a glance at my angry companion. Even though he’s sitting and I’m standing, the look on his face still scares the hell out of me.

“Oh … yeah. Sorry about that.”

“I told you I’d get you out of there if you kept your mouth shut and followed my lead. You didn’t follow shit.”

I wince and manage an awkward half-smile. “I followed you, like, almost the whole time.” My half-smile turns into a grimace.

“Yeah, and you ran your fucking mouth almost the whole time, too.” Wes drops his dagger-like stare and begins rummaging through the bags again.

“I said I was sorry, okay? Maybe, next time, you should kidnap somebody a little less impulsive.”

Wes rips the top off another box, ignoring me.

I cross my arms over my chest and try to pout, but it’s kind of hard when he’s twisting the cap off a pouch of squeezie applesauce like a five-year-old.

“Man”—I giggle—“you do not know how to apocalypse. We’re gonna die in three days, and you’re over here, worried about the five food groups.”

Wes stills with the pouch poised an inch from his parted lips. “Who’s we?”

“Um, you, me”—I spread my arms and look out over the empty landfill of a park—“everybody.”

“I’m not gonna die,” Wes says before wrapping his lips around the opening of the pouch.

Something about the way he’s looking up at me makes my cheeks tingle.

I laugh it off and snap my fingers at him. “I knew you were a lifer! I knew it!” I sit down across from him and lean forward. “So, tell me, lifer, if we’re not gonna die, what do you think the nightmares mean? You think the four horsemen of the apocalypse are just gonna show up on April 23 to braid our hair and play patty-cake?” At the mention of braids, I reach up and touch the place where mine used to be.

Yep. Still gone.

Wes leans forward and jams a finger in my direction. “I told you, I’m not a fucking lifer. I didn’t say, we’re not gonna die. I said, I’m not gonna die. I don’t know what the dream means, and I don’t give a shit. All I know is that whatever it is … I’m gonna survive it.”