Dying for Rain (The Rain Trilog - BB Easton Page 0,31

peels himself off the dash.

“I have an idea.” I flip on the high beams and decide to try to drive down the side of the road. There are a few cars and mangled, twisted bumpers blocking the sidewalk, but I think I have just enough space to maneuver around them in the truck.

“Rain, are you sure we should go this way?” Quint asks.

The br-r-r-r-r-ap of a machine gun in the distance answers him with a resounding no.

“This is how the GPS said to go,” I snap. “You got any better ideas?”

Quint shuts his mouth, and we creep alongside the road in silence, the sound of thumping hip-hop and excitement and fear and desperation growing louder with every passing second.

“Where is everybody?” Lamar asks, securely buckled in the backseat this time.

“I think we’re about to find out.”

We creep over the top of a hill, and the scene laid out before us looks like an anthill after it’s been stepped on. There are people everywhere—fighting in the street, having sex in the street, standing on cars while watching other people fight and have sex in the street, shooting up in doorways, firing guns into the air, and walking around with homemade signs advertising whatever weapons, drugs, sex acts, or snacks they’re selling.

I see two guys holding leashes and fistfuls of dollar bills while their pit bulls maul each other.

I see a guy pushing a grocery cart full of colorful bongs.

I see a man holding a machine gun, guarding a naked woman dancing on the corner in clear six-inch heels.

Then, I see a body lying facedown on the sidewalk in my headlights, and I have to slam on the brakes.

“Dude, are you crazy? You can’t stop here,” Lamar whines.

“I can’t run her over either!”

“That bitch is already dead!”

“What if she isn’t?”

“Maybe somebody should go check,” Quint offers.

“One, two, three—”

“Not it!” We all shout in unison.

“Ahh! That was you, big bro! Go do it!”

“Whatever! We all said it at the same time!”

“Nuh-uh. You said it late.”

“Ugh!” I groan. “I’ll do it, okay?” I go to pull the gun out of my waistband when the sound of motorcycle engines perks my ears.

I lift my head and stare through the windshield as a group of neon-orange skeletons on motorcycles rushes down the street toward us like an approaching tidal wave. They crisscross between the parked cars, bashing them with baseball bats and shooting out their windshields with wolf-like howls.

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

One of them mows down a group of semiconscious junkies leaning against a dumpster with a machine gun that’s been mounted to the front of his motorcycle. Their bodies jerk and fall to the ground as screams fill the air. The folks on the street scatter like rats, diving for the alleys and huddling in vacant doorways.

“What the hell are y’all waitin’ for? Let’s go!” Lamar yells, pushing on the back of his brother’s seat.

I reach out to grab my door handle when I notice the neon-orange bones painted on my sleeve.

“No,” I mumble, letting go of the door.

“Rain!”

“Just … just shut up, okay?” I wave Quint off while keeping my eyes locked on the leader of the pack. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to.

“Fuck this!” Quint goes to open his door, but my hand shoots out and grabs a fistful of his T-shirt.

“The Bony kid said to tell ’em we’re from Pritchard Park, remember? Maybe they can help us!”

Quint stares at me like I just sprouted a third eye. “Are you fuckin’ crazy?”

“You’re crazy if you think they aren’t gonna shoot you the second you jump outta this truck!” I yell over the sound of approaching motorcycles and gunfire and howling.

It’s so loud now I know they’re on top of us … even before Quint’s terrified eyes look past me and out the broken window.

“License and registration, ma’am,” a sinister voice bellows in my ear.

With a deep breath, I turn and smile, which I realize a moment too late is the exact opposite of the hardened gangster vibe I was supposed to be going for. It’s also the exact opposite of what I want to do when I take in the blood-spattered King Burger mask staring back at me. The eyes and nose have been painted black, and his grinning mouth has extra-white teeth painted on either side of it to resemble the lip-less smile of a skull. But instead of Día de Muertos designs painted on the cheeks and forehead, it’s pot leaves and dollar signs. Not that I can see much of the