Page 21 of Praying for Rain

But we aren’t on the trail anymore. At least, not any trail I’ve ever been on.

This one cuts through a forest of dead trees that are in the process of being consumed by sharp, thorny vines. The taller branches, brittle and gray and bent toward the white sky, have red banners hanging from them. We’re going so fast that I can’t read what any of them say, but I can tell that each one is branded with the silhouette of a hooded figure on horseback.

The vines reach up from the forest floor like octopus tentacles, winding around the ancient trees and squeezing them until the wood splinters and breaks and crumbles into the ocean of hungry thorns.

“Faster!” I yell to Rain, but she doesn’t crank the throttle.

She begins pumping my dick even harder instead.

Fuck, it feels good.

I shove my fingers into her deeper and rub her clit with my thumb and thrust into her hand even though I know that if I don’t kick it into third gear right fucking now, we’re both going to die.

I can hear myself yelling inside my own head.

What the fuck are you doing?

I can see myself, a slave to my stupid desire for this crazy girl.

She’s going to get you killed, dipshit! Ditch the bitch and get the fuck out of here!

But I’m powerless. Rain is in control now, and she’s driving us straight toward certain death.

A tree snaps up ahead, and the sound echoes through the woods like a gunshot. As it crashes to the ground, one of its branches falls across the trail. I can clearly see the banner attached to it now, waving like a flag on the way down.

Just above the image of a faceless horseman wielding a flaming club is the date April 23.

I don’t have time to contemplate what that means because, a split second later, I’m flying over the handlebars and somersaulting down the rocky, root-covered trail. When I finally stop rolling, I smack my head on something hard. My cranium explodes in pain. I sit up, clutching my dented skull, and begin frantically looking around for Rain. Blood trickles down my arm as I swivel toward the sound of cavalry in the distance.

Four monstrous black horses are barreling toward me through the forest—heads down, smoke pouring from their flared nostrils—ripping through the brambles and branches like party streamers. They leave nothing but flames and scorched earth in their wake as their faceless, cloaked riders point their weapons—a sword, a scythe, a mace, and a flaming club—toward the colorless sky.

“Wes!” Rain’s voice calls out.

I swing my dented head left and right, but I don’t find her until I turn all the way around. She landed in a thicket of thorn bushes, and all I can see is her face and halo of black hair before the vines constrict around her body and pull her under.

“Wesssss!”

“No!” I run toward her, but the vines grab my legs, their thorns digging into my clothes and skin like fish hooks, and pull me down, too.

Trees pop and hiss and collapse all around me as the heat from the approaching fire intensifies. I struggle to free myself, slicing my hands open as I rip the sharp vines from my body. With every push and pull and grunt and shove, I get closer to the place where Rain disappeared.

My vision is blurry and red. My head feels like it’s about to implode. My hands are shredded and almost worthless, but with one last thrash, I make it out. I stumble toward the spot where I last saw Rain, calling her name with every labored step, but when I get there, she’s gone.

Leaving nothing behind but a puddle of water.

I peer into it—exhausted, confused, desperate—but all I find is my own frantic, bloodied reflection staring back at me.

Then the image splashes away, stomped out by one giant black hoof.

April 21

Rain

“Wes. Wes, wake up. It’s just the nightmare. You’re okay. You’re here.”

Wes is sleeping sitting up. His good shoulder and the side of his head are leaning against the wall of the tree house, and he has my old comforter pulled up to his chin. He yelled my name so loud in his sleep that it woke me up. Luckily, I hadn’t been asleep long, so my horsemen hadn’t shown up yet, but from the looks of things, Wes’s are on the other side of his eyelids right now. His entire face is tensed up, as if he’s in pain, and he’s breathing hard through his nose.

“Wes!” I want to shake him, but I’m afraid to touch his shoulder. I bandaged it up before we went to sleep last night, and it was pretty gross. I decide to squeeze his thighs and shake his legs instead. “Wes! Wake up!”

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