Page 3 of Fighting for Rain

“You okay, man?” Wes asks Lamar, changing the subject. He doesn’t want to talk about what we might find inside this place any more than I do.

Lamar just nods, staring straight ahead. Quint’s smart-ass little brother hasn’t said a word since he came to, but at least he can walk. And follow directions. That’s actually an improvement for him.

When we get to the bottom of the ramp, we find a chain-link fence circling the perimeter of the mall property. The sounds of gunshots, terrified screams, and revving engines fill the air—probably Pritchard Park rioters celebrating the fact that they survived April 23, but they obviously don’t care about looting the mall.

They’re smart enough to know there’s nothing left to loot.

We walk along the fence until we find a spot that’s been flattened. Then, we cross the parking lot and head toward what used to be the main entrance.

We pass a few cars with For Sale signs in their broken windows, kick a couple of hypodermic needles along the way, and eventually make it to a row of metal and glass doors. At least half of the windows have been broken out already, which makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

We’re not the first ones here.

The bulldozer hood won’t fit through the door, so we set it down on the sidewalk as carefully as we can.

“I’ll go in first,” Wes says, pulling the gun from his holster.

“I’m coming with you,” I announce before glancing over at Lamar. “You stay with him.”

But Lamar’s not listening. He’s staring at his big brother like he hung the moon.

And then fell from it.

“Don’t you dare touch that glass,” I add, pointing to Quint’s neck. “He’ll bleed out. Do you hear me?”

Lamar nods once but still doesn’t look up.

When I turn back toward Wes, I expect him to argue with me about coming with him, but he doesn’t. He simply offers his elbow for me to take and gives me a sad, exhausted, exquisite smile.

“No fight?” I ask, wrapping my hand around his tattooed bicep.

Wes kisses the top of my head. “No fight,” he whispers. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Something in his words makes my cheeks flush. I should be afraid of walking into an abandoned mall with no electricity at night in the aftermath of The Apocalypse That Never Happened, but as Wes tucks me behind his back and pulls the broken door open, the only thing I feel is an overwhelming sense of belonging. I would follow this man to the ends of the earth, which, from the looks of it, might be right here at Pritchard Park Mall.

Wes guides us through the open door and eases it closed with the tiniest click. We tiptoe over the broken glass like professionals, and Wes leads the way with his gun stretched out in front of us.

The smell of a decade’s worth of dust and mildew is overpowering. I have to clench my teeth and cover my nose with the sleeve of my hoodie to keep from coughing. The only source of light inside is the moon shining in through a few dirty skylights, but I came here so many times as a kid that I know the layout by heart.

At the end of this hall, there should be a fountain in the middle of a two-story atrium. I remember there being escalators behind it and elevators on the left—cool glass ones that I used to beg Mama to ride over and over and over. Branching out from the atrium, there are four hallways—this one leading to the main entrance, the north hallway that leads to the old food court, and two more on the left and right that lead to the big department stores that Mama always said we couldn’t afford to shop at.

Even though I remember coming here as a kid, there’s no sense of nostalgia. No warm familiarity. It’s so dark and so vacant that I feel as though I’m walking on the moon and being told that it used to be Earth.

As the crumbling edges of the stone fountain come into view, the sound of voices in the distance has me pulling Wes to a stop.

I push up onto my tiptoes until my lips graze the shell of his ear. “Do you hear that?” I whisper. “It sounds like—”

“Freeze!” a voice shouts as the silhouette of a man holding a rifle appears from behind the fountain.

Instinctively, I hold my hands up and step in front of Wes. “Don’t shoot!” I shout back. “Please! Our friends outside are hurt. We just need a place to spend the night.”

“Rainbow?” His voice softens, and I recognize it instantly.

It’s one I’ve heard say my name a thousand different times in a thousand different ways. It’s one I never thought I’d hear again, and after I met Wes, never wanted to. It’s the voice of the boy who left me behind.

“Carter?”

I thought April 24 was going to be a new beginning.

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