Dying for Rain (The Rain Trilog - BB Easton Page 0,62

me a shove, and I scream and grasp at nothing as I topple over sideways.

But I don’t hit the ground. The crowd catches me and carries me like a conveyor belt toward the front of Plaza Park. I blink and try to catch my breath as I wave at Q, who gives me a smug smile before slapping the crap out of the guy she’s crouching on for trying to pull her off.

From up here, I can see that droves of angry people are flooding in from the streets—probably thanks to our live broadcast—but the new rioters are only making it harder for the ones trying to flee to get out. Because the longer sides of the park are walled off by risers—which the riot cops are now standing on, firing at anybody who tries to climb up to their level—the only way in and out of the park are the two shorter sides. Folks are either fighting to get out, fighting to get in, or fighting just for the hell of it, but when I see the news van pull away from the curb, I know who’s not fighting.

Michelle and Lamar.

I catch a glimpse of Lamar’s messy dreadlocks in the passenger side window as the van takes off down the street. I want to feel relieved that they got out, but instead I feel the sudden pull of gravity as a bullet whizzes past me and into the crowd holding me up. I start to fall as everyone around me screams scatters, but I manage to hold onto somebody’s shirt to keep my upper body from hitting the ground. When I finally get my feet under me, I notice that the man I was clinging to is standing perfectly still, staring at the ground through a bullet hole in the middle of his hand.

Then, I hear a scream.

It might be mine. I don’t even know anymore.

I keep my head down and keep pushing forward. Too low, and I’ll get trampled. Too high, and I might get shot. I trip and stumble over other people who have fallen, their bodies reminding me why I have to succeed today.

No more deaths in vain. No more blood spilled on this ground.

Especially not Wes’s.

Someone nearby raises her fist in the air and shouts, “Here’s your sponsor!” The words I spray-painted around Quint’s body.

Emotion squeezes my chest as the people around her do the same.

Chants of, “Here’s your sponsor!” spread like a ripple through the crowd, fists pumping and feet stomping.

It gives me an opportunity to get a little lower and weave my way under their raised fists.

Then, a fresh round of panic breaks out. I didn’t hear any shots fired, so I’m not sure what the threat is until I see a shiny metal canister spewing smoke careen through the air over my head.

“Tear gaaaasssss!” someone cries, and the pushing starts again.

I’m crushed by bodies moving in all directions as thick smoke pours in, filling what little open space there is left. Just before it gets to me, I pull the neck hole of my hoodie up to my forehead. Then, I yank the hood down past my chin. I can’t see anything through the layers of thick black fabric, but I can feel, and I can climb.

Keeping my breaths as shallow as possible, I try to pretend like I’m Q. I climb the jerking, screaming bodies around me until I’m grabbing hair instead of clothing. Then, I move forward. My eyes and nose and throat begin to burn as I blindly crawl over the coughing, crying heads of strangers.

I called them here, I think as stinging tears soak into the black cotton covering my face. I did this to them.

Someone in the crowd behind me fires aimlessly into the air, screaming about his eyes, just as something sharp pokes me in the cheek. I reach out and feel leaves. A branch.

A tree!

I yank the hood off my face and peek out of the neck of my sweatshirt just as the person below me succeeds in bucking me off. I tumble to the ground and land on my feet, but the mob pushes me forward, slamming me into the trunk of a recently planted oak tree.

The first of Governor Steele’s victims is decaying under this dirt, but I don’t have time to think about that.

I have to figure out how the hell to save the next one.

I want to fight my way down the line of saplings until I make it to Wes’s