Dying for Rain (The Rain Trilog - BB Easton Page 0,46

ourselves or get ourselves killed. What if we do the exact same thing against them? We could plant a subliminal message in the interview footage that makes people want to fight back!”

Michelle shakes her head. “Stella …”

“My name is Rain.”

“Rain … we only have a few hours to get back to the newsroom and upload that interview. Where are we gonna find that kind of content? Or software even?” Michelle turns to Flip. “Can our programs even splice images in at intervals that small?”

Flip shrugs as Quint gestures to the computer screens. “Can’t you just find the images online?”

Michelle’s mouth falls open. “Have you guys not been online since April 23?”

We shake our heads in unison.

Michelle huffs in exasperation. “It’s unusable! With no laws, it’s been completely overrun by hackers. If you go online through anything other than a secure government server, you’ll have your identity stolen, your bank account emptied, and you’ll be locked out of your device in seconds.”

I groan and fall back in my chair, rubbing my eyes with both hands. “So, where do we find a secure server?”

“Well, they have one at the TV station, but I am not working on this there.” Michelle takes another gulp from her bottle before passing it to Flip.

He accepts it with a polite nod and turns to face me. “Pretty much any government buildin’ should have a secure server. You just gotta be able to get inside and plug in.”

My eyes drift over to the heavily tinted windows on the side of the van. Just beyond them, rising like both a beacon of hope and symbol of death, is the glowing gold dome of the capitol building.

“Michelle”—I swallow—“you still got that media pass?”

Wes

Once, when I was, like, eight, I went on a school field trip to the zoo. My mom was too fucked up on whatever her drug of choice was at the time to sign the permission slip, but my teacher must have forged that shit because, when the day came, they let me get on the bus right along with everybody else.

I’d never been to the zoo before. Hell, I’d never been on a field trip before. I was so fucking excited, but once we got there, all I felt was sad. These big, magical beasts—creatures I’d only ever seen on TV—were locked up in cages like criminals. They hardly moved. They ignored us completely. Even the lions, the kings of the fucking jungle, were just lying on rocks, waiting to die. Every motherfucker there had accepted their fate.

Except the fucking tiger.

The tiger was the only animal there who was in solitary confinement. And he was the only animal there who was pacing. Not lazy, I’m just gonna stretch my legs pacing, but fucking-head-down, eyes-on-the-prize, I’m gonna find a way out of this motherfucker pacing. He would do a lap around the perimeter of his cage, pushing on the Plexiglas walls with his body. Then, he would do figure eights around all the trees, which had been cut short to keep him from climbing out.

There was something different about him. Something that made him refuse to accept his circumstances, like the others. And now, I know what it was.

Somewhere out there, that motherfucker had a mate.

I could live in here quite fucking comfortably if Rain were locked up too. We could fuck and talk and feed each other and make fun of Elliott all goddamn day. But without her, I feel like that fucking tiger. I want to climb the walls. I want to scrape the mortar out from in between the cinder blocks with my bare hands. I want to rip the face off the next piece of shit who rattles my bars.

But unlike that tiger, I am gonna get the fuck out of here.

Because unlike that tiger, I’m not gonna let them know I’m restless.

If he had acted as lazy as the lions, those zookeepers might have gotten lazy too. Maybe let his trees grow a little too long. Maybe used a little less caution when they opened the door to feed him. An opportunity would have presented itself.

Which is exactly why I’m lying on my cot, staring at the ceiling, trying to act bored, when all I want to do is punch holes in the walls and wear a figure eight into the floor with my pacing.

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.

Hard-sole shoes approach, but they’re not the spirited footsteps of Officer Elliott. Nor are they the slow shuffles of Officer Hoyt. No, these punishing footsteps belong