Page 29 of Praying for Rain

I’m such an idiot.

Note to self: take the trail from now on.

I nod to myself as I follow Wes across the parking lot. He’s all serious again, slowing down and reaching for his gun as we approach the busted front door. God, it must be exhausting, trying to survive the apocalypse.

I’m just trying to stay high enough to keep from crying all the time, and that’s hard enough.

Wes props his bike on the kickstand next to the front door and shoots a warning glance at me over his shoulder. The way he looks reminds me of the way he described Rome. Soft and hard. Old and young. Pale green eyes shadowed by thick, dark brows. Soft brown hair grazing a hard, stubbled jaw. A floral Hawaiian shirt covering jagged black tattoos. I’m attracted to the boy in him and scared of the man in him, and I’m pretty sure I’d take a bullet for both of them even though I don’t even know their last name.

But, honestly, I’d probably take a bullet for anybody right about now. This waiting around to die thing is killing me.

The glass in the front door has been smashed out, and Wes doesn’t seem too happy about it. He pauses against the wall next to the door with his gun drawn and jerks his head, indicating that I’m supposed to join him next to the entrance instead of standing right in front of it like a dumbass.

Oh, right.

I hop over to the wall beside Wes, and that’s when I hear faint, deep voices inside the building.

Wes turns toward me so that our faces are inches apart, and I hold my breath. I know he’s not going to kiss me—that wouldn’t even make sense—but my body doesn’t seem to know that. It tenses all over and buzzes and hums as Wes’s lips graze the edge of my ear.

“I’m gonna give you the backpack so that I can move around more easily in there. You stay out here and watch the bike.”

I shake my head violently. “No. I’m coming too.”

“No, you’re not,” Wes hisses between his clenched teeth.

He drops his eyes, and I feel his hand wrap around mine. I look down with my heart in my throat as Wes wraps my fingers around the handle of his gun.

“I won’t be able to focus with you in there, and trust me, those guys won’t be able to either.” Wes’s eyes slide up my body to my face, and they take what little power I have along with them. “Stay out here. Please.”

I swallow and nod, feeling the weight of his trust fall on my shoulders along with the backpack. Then, he turns and opens the door.

I don’t know how he does it, but the glass beneath his feet doesn’t even crunch as he tiptoes in and silently closes the door behind him. I watch through the broken glass as he disappears from view.

This is bad.

My painkillers are in full effect, and I can’t tell if he’s been gone five seconds or five minutes. One of my arms feels heavier than the other.

That’s weird. I bend my right elbow and notice a small black handgun in my fist. I blink at it. How did that get there?

Thunder booms in the distance even though the sun is shining. Nothing makes sense anymore. I should be in college right now. I should be working part-time at some shitty diner and getting an apartment with Carter and adopting a cat and naming it Blurryface. But, instead, I’m standing outside of Buck’s Hardware, holding a gun and guarding a stranger’s dirt bike while he sneaks inside to steal a metal detector so that we can find a hidden bomb shelter to live in because the four horsemen of the apocalypse are coming in two days, according to an unexplained dream we’ve all been having.

I hear the thunder again, only this time, it’s coming from inside the building.

Crash!

My heart lurches into my throat as the sounds of struggle—muffled grunts, skin hitting skin, skin hitting the floor, merchandise hitting the floor—come pouring out through the hole in the door. I don’t think; I just react. I yank on the handle with my free hand and charge inside, my giant backpack jostling with every step. This place hasn’t been ransacked like Huckabee Foods, but on the left side of the store an endcap shelf of fertilizer has been knocked over, and there are plastic containers and little round granules everywhere.

I run in that direction. I don’t see anyone yet, but I hear Wes’s voice coming from the back of the store.

“Rain, get the fuck out!”

“Rain?” another masculine voice says.

I recognize it immediately.

“Quint?” I almost slip in the spilled fertilizer as I turn the corner and find Quinton Jones, my buddy since kindergarten, standing at the end of the aisle with his daddy’s hunting rifle trained on Wes.

Wes has his back to me and appears to be holding Lamar Jones, Quint’s little brother, like a human shield. I can’t tell from here, but the way his arm is poised, my guess is that he has a certain pocketknife pressed to Lamar’s throat as well.

---