Page 12 of Praying for Rain

But I know somebody who does.

Before I can crank the throttle and get the fuck out of there, something tells me to give the entrance a second look. I do, and that’s when I notice that the dead guy is no longer lying on his stomach. He’s rolled over onto his side. And there, squatting next to him, is the little black-haired bitch who did the rolling.

Rain’s hoodie-covered body is kneeling in front of the corpse, holding one side of him up with her shoulder while she digs through the pockets of his baggy jeans. The guy’s face is fucking horrifying—eyelids half-open, mouth slack, dried puke covering one side of it—but Rain is going through his shit like she’s hunting through a clearance bin at Walmart.

A little fucking survivor. I knew it.

When she finds what she’s looking for, Rain lets the guy’s body fall back down with an unceremonious plop. She focuses all of her attention on something small and orange in her hands. I want to stand up and give her a slow clap for having bigger balls than I do, but I’m pretty damn sure that whatever gang produced Thug-Life Shrek and the meth-head trio, it has plenty more soldiers to spare inside.

Rain shakes a pill into her mouth. Then she caps the bottle and shoves it down the neck of her sweatshirt, tucking it into her bra. I smirk, remembering how that same bottle practically fell out of her hoodie pocket and into my hand when I threw her over my shoulder earlier.

She’s learning.

Shaking my head, I stomp down on the kick-start.

Rain got what she came for. Now, it’s my turn.

I pull out from behind the bread truck, expecting Rain to spin around with a smile on her face at the sound of my approaching engine.

Instead, she spins around, holding homeboy’s Uzi.

It’s still strapped to his massive body, but she keeps the barrel trained on me as she struggles to free it. By the time I pull up to the curb next to her, her cheeks are pink from exertion. I sit and wait with a smug smile under my helmet, knowing good and goddamn well that this girl isn’t going to shoot m—

Br-r-r-r-r-r-ap!

The crescendo of a machine gun sounds at the exact same time that a white-hot pain slashes through my shoulder. I look to Rain in disbelief that the bitch actually pulled the trigger, but she isn’t facing me anymore. She’s facing the main entrance where two more of society’s red bandana rejects are lying on the ground, bleeding all over a bed of broken glass.

Rain’s startled eyes dart over to me before she drops the Uzi and leaps to her feet. She hesitates, then makes a mad dash for my bike, stopping to pick up one of the fallen gangbanger’s pistols along the way.

Supplies, shelter, and self-defense, I recite in my head as Rain wraps her soft little body around mine.

Two down, one to go.

Rain

I just killed a guy.

Two guys. I think I just killed two guys.

As I bounce up and down on the back of Wes’s speeding dirt bike, I replay what just happened in my head. I don’t relive it. I simply watch it, like a bad TV show, while I wait for the hydrocodone to kick in and make it all go away.

I see the reflection of the sliding glass doors opening in Wes’s shiny black helmet. I see red bandanas coming out of that door. I see guns pointed at Wes. Then, I see the men holding those guns fall down as the sliding glass doors explode behind them. It looks like sparkly crystal confetti in the air. Everything is so loud. I can’t believe Wes actually shot those guys. I turn back around and look at him.

But he isn’t holding a gun.

I close my eyes and smoosh my cheek against Wes’s shoulder blade a little harder. Then, I throw that instant replay clip into the fortress of Shit I’m Not Going to Think About Ever Again Because None of This Matters and We’re All Going to Die.

Wes’s body begins to twist and flex in my arms like he’s trying to do something while he drives, so I sit up and peek over his shoulder. He has one hand on the handlebars while the other is messing around with his holster. I wonder if he needs my help, but before I can offer, Wes draws his gun and tosses it into the woods.

I turn my head, following the revolver with my eyes as it disappears into the underbrush. Then, I gasp as the pistol I forgot I was even holding is pulled free from my hand. Wes holsters his new gun—my gun—and I feel his body shake with laughter.

Asshole.

I smack him on the shoulder and hear him yelp, even over the roar of the engine.

When I look down, there’s blood on my hand.

Oh my God.

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