Fighting for Rain - BB Easton Page 0,24

like an urban wasteland out here. It sounds like a goddamn nature preserve. And, for a moment, it feels like I really am the last asshole on earth.

This is exactly how I pictured April 24. No people. No rent. No debate about whether to stay or leave anybody or anyplace. Just me and the shit of the earth.

Only in my head, it felt a hell of a lot better than this.

I step over a section of flattened chain-link fence and look down the street in both directions. The pharmacy is so close that I could be there in about two minutes if I stuck to the road, but considering that the last bastard I saw walk down this highway is still lying on it about fifty yards away, I decide to cross the street and walk behind a strip shopping center instead.

I draw my gun as I slide along the side of the brick building, taking care not to let the gravel crunch too loudly under my boots. The farther away I get from the street, the worse the smell. I dismiss it as just another overflowing dumpster—until I recognize it.

It’s the same way Rain’s house smelled when I found her parents.

My stomach twists and my heart pounds as I take a breath and glance around the corner of the building.

Yep.

There’s a dead body back there all right.

A dead body being chewed on by a pack of fucking dogs.

I stifle a gag, but the noise in the back of my throat doesn’t go unnoticed. One head pops up from the pack. Then, another. And another. By the time the first bark sounds, I’m in a full sprint and already halfway to the dumpster behind the building. I grab the top edge and swing myself up as a dozen mangy dogs descend upon me. Thank fuck the lid was closed. The dogs bark and snarl and rake their claws down the sides of the metal box I’m standing on while I catch my breath and try not to look at the carcass on the ground a few feet away.

Think, motherfucker.

I glance to the right. The pharmacy is next to the shopping center, separated by a parking lot, but it’s too damn far to make a run for it. I have no food—I emptied the backpack before I left so that I could fit more supplies inside of it—and I am not shooting a bunch of golden retrievers and Labradoodles.

One of the dogs yelps and bucks a smaller dog off its back.

Fuck, they’re trying to climb each other now.

Climb …

I hold my breath as I look down the length of the building. Then, I exhale when I spot what I’m looking for.

A fire escape.

The ladder is about forty feet away though.

More yelps and growls break out below as I try to figure out how to distract these guys long enough to make it across the pavement. Half of them still have their collars on, so I know they haven’t been wild for long. I bet if I had a tennis ball, most of them would still chase it.

They’re not predators; they’re just fucking starving.

A breeze blows through the alley behind the shopping center, causing the stench of death and whatever’s decomposing in the dumpster to intensify. I pull my shirt over my nose and mouth, trying like hell to keep from puking, when my eyes land on a sign next to one of the metal back doors.

Parkside Bakery.

Bakery.

Food!

Before I even finish formulating my plan, I drop to my knees, reach down into the dog soup below me, grab the handle on the sliding side door of the dumpster, and yank that motherfucker open.

The bastards go insane, clawing and jumping and climbing over one another to try to get inside. I pull my hand back just as a Jack Russell terrier with gnashing teeth makes it to the top of the dogpile. He chomps down on a paper bag just inside the open door and rips it open with a violent shake of his head. I don’t wait to see what comes falling out. Whatever it is, it’s enough to keep them distracted as I leap to the ground and take off for the ladder.

I grit my teeth and try not to look at the battered body on the ground as I sprint past it, but the sight of purple dreadlocks in my peripheral vision tells me more than I wanted to know.

I’m not the first scout Q has sent on this mission.

Bile