He stood up, and Alex did, too. I found my feet but kept my gaze lowered to the floor. Inside me, emotion surged like hot lava—grief and guilt and bone-deep horror.
“Chance,” Alex said. “It’s okay.”
Patrick stepped in front of me. I still didn’t look up, but I saw his shadow. Then he held out his arms a little. The hot lava boiled, ready to explode right out of my chest.
I stepped forward, hugged my brother tight, and wept like a damn baby.
ENTRY 17
I woke up in the middle of the night and checked the clock—it was almost 2:00 A.M. We’d agreed to meet in Chatterjee’s classroom after the others fell asleep so I could give the Rebel helmet another try.
It’d be good if it worked.
Or at least if I didn’t puke my guts out all over the floor again.
I eased off my cot so the springs wouldn’t squeak and went to wake Alex. Her cot was empty.
That was weird. We’d planned to walk over together.
Patrick wasn’t in bed either, but that made sense since he was on lookout duty, keeping an eye peeled from Mr. Tomasi’s room. I snuck out of the gym and made my way to my old English classroom.
Patrick was sitting cross-legged on Tomasi’s desk, facing the bank of windows.
“All quiet on the western front?” I asked.
Without turning, he said, “Northeastern. And yeah.”
Patrick didn’t always get my references.
“I thought Alex might be here with you,” I said.
“Nope. Check Chatterjee’s—maybe she’s there already.” He turned his head to check the clock, and I caught a sliver of his silhouette. “I got ten more minutes till Dezi relieves me. I’ll meet you guys there.” His head swiveled away to face the windows again. I stared at his broad shoulders.
All business. That’s Patrick.
I withdrew.
As I walked back out of the humanities wing to head for Chatterjee’s, I noticed movement outside through one of the windows. Instinct kicked in, and I dropped to the floor. For a minute I breathed into the cold tile. When I finally peered over the sill, I saw a figure on the swing set in the sheltered picnic area.
Oh.
I let myself out through a side door and sat down in the swing next to her. We swayed back and forth on our toes. Even though the building shielded us from the street, the last thing we could risk was creaking chains. For some reason I knew not to say anything. I sensed she just wanted me there.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Alex finally said. “I try to push down all the memories of before, but sometimes they slip to the surface. Imagine that. With everything going on out in the real world, I’m most scared of what’s inside my skull.”
“You had a nightmare?”
She tilted her head, as if the question confused her. “A wisp of a memory. My dad pushing me in a swing at Hammond Park. This was before Mom left. I couldn’t have been eight years old yet. The summer sky, his hands on my back, the wind against my cheeks—I felt it like I was there. One of those timeless moments, you know?”
I did know. I’d never considered it directly, but I realized that I’d always thought of swings as timeless also. I’d figured that someday my kids would sit on swings, too, and be pushed by me, and then my kids’ kids would be pushed by them. But when this set rusted and crumbled to the ground, who would build the next one? There were no more adults, and there’d be no more kids. Not in this world.
Alex said, “I know that you and Patrick never got along with my dad—or him with you guys—but I remember how safe he made me feel.”
Sheriff Blanton had always thought Patrick and I were trouble, two broke ranch kids going nowhere. He couldn’t stand his daughter’s dating Patrick. He used to warn her, Rain only goes one direction. Down.
“He was a good dad,” I said.
“I shot him in the head,” she said. “I know it wasn’t him, but it was what was left of him, and every time I think of my daddy, even pushing me as a little girl in a swing, that’s where my mind goes. From a swing set to the bullet I put through his forehead. I can handle one memory or the other, but when you put them together, well…” She blew out a breath. “That’s what I can’t stand. That life contrasted with this one.”
“But we can’t forget who we were before either,” I said. “Or all we’ll have is what’s out there.”
She kicked her legs straight. The chains groaned, and she moved her shoes quickly back to the ground. “What’s the point of remembering if it only makes it hurt more?”
“I guess that’s our job now,” I said. “To take who we were before and try to bring it to this. Try to protect those seeds and grow them.”
“Even here?”
“Even here.”
The breeze shifted, bringing the smell of grass and rotting flesh from the neighborhood across from the school. We drifted forward and back, forward and back, not going anywhere.
“Patrick and I had a fight,” she said.
I thought about my brother on Mr. Tomasi’s desk, staring out those windows, and I realized he wasn’t just focused. He was mad.
“When I first woke up from the dream,” she said, “I went to talk to him. But I can’t talk to Patrick about stuff like this.” Alex turned in her swing to face me, the chains twisting overhead. Her ice-green eyes fixed on me. “Not like I can talk to you.”
I felt a guilty rush, more pleasant than not. It was like eating a piece of stolen candy, delicious and unhealthy. I wanted to say a hundred different things, but I didn’t know if any of them were the right thing to say, and so, with effort, I turned away from her vulnerable gaze.
“Patrick only thinks about now. About what has to be done. About the next step. And that’s safe and reassuring, and we need that more than ever.” She blinked and held her eyes closed for a moment, her long lashes arcing out. “But there’s also something … missing in that.”
The moonlight caught half of her face. It was hard not to look at her lips, not to remember what they felt like.
“It’s my fault,” I said. “When my parents died, he had to step up. He couldn’t be a normal eight-year-old. I wasn’t strong enough. So he had to be. I never would’ve made it without him.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret.” She leaned closer to me, and I could smell the lavender skin lotion she wore that she’d foraged somewhere. “He wouldn’t have made it without you either.”
There was only maybe a foot between us. I wanted so badly to lean forward into her.
Instead I said, “We should get to Chatterjee’s.”
She tilted off the swing, and I followed suit. We slipped back inside and walked quietly down the dark corridor. We’d just rounded the corner when I came chest to chest with two of Ben Braaten’s lackeys, Dezi and Mikey. They must’ve been heading to relieve Patrick on his lookout duty.
“Look who’s sneaking around behind his big brother’s back,” Dezi said.
“I’m not sneaking anywhere,” I said. “We were just talking.”
“Sure you were.”
“Don’t live down to your reputation, Mikey,” Alex said, breezing by him.
Mikey grabbed her by the biceps and spun her around. He was a husky kid, the starting center on our football team. His hand encompassed Alex’s arm; it looked like if he squeezed, it would snap.
“Watch your mouth, little girl,” he said.
Alex tried to twist away, and he yanked her into him, wrapping her in a bear hug from behind and lifting her off the floor so she couldn’t get traction with her feet.
My temper flared, and I charged at him.
Dezi blindsided me.
At least that was what I thought happened. I felt knuckles crush my cheek, and then I was lying on the floor and Dezi and Mikey were chuckling down at me. I started to get up, and Dezi kicked me in the stomach. My mouth was bleeding, the breath knocked out of me. I could hear Alex yelling and twisting in Mikey’s grasp.
Dezi set his hands on his knees, leaning over me. “C
’mon, Little Rain. Why don’t you get up?”
I tried to suck in air but couldn’t find any. Drops of blood fell from my bottom lip, tapping the tile. I tried to rise but was having trouble moving.
A voice issued from the darkness in the hall behind us. “I got it from here, little brother.”
Dezi whipped around just as Patrick melted into view, barely more than a dark form with a cowboy hat. I didn’t see what happened, but there was the sound of flesh hitting flesh, a grunt, a crack, and then Dezi spilled onto the floor next to me. Unconscious.
“Don’t you ever put your hands on my brother again,” Patrick said. “Or on Alex.”
Mikey released Alex, shoving her away. He swung at Patrick, but Patrick ducked, the punch sailing over his Stetson. As he rose, Patrick kicked out one of Mikey’s legs and hit him with a cross on his way down.
Mikey struck the floor next to Dezi.
The three of us, in a neat little row.
Patrick wasn’t winded. He hadn’t rushed, hadn’t even moved that fast. He’d just ambled in and taken care of business like he always did.
I didn’t think I could feel any worse about the guilty pleasure I’d felt from my talk with Alex, but there it was.
Patrick looked over at Alex. “You okay?”
She rubbed her biceps. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
He looked at me. “Good?”
“I am now.”
“Let’s go, then,” he said. “We got work to do.”
He offered me his hand, and I took it and stood up. Wiping my mouth, I followed my brother down the hall.
* * *
Eve and Chatterjee were waiting in the classroom, the Rebel helmet out and ready on his desk.
“What took you so long?” Chatterjee asked.
“I overslept,” I said.
Eve glanced at my split lip but didn’t say anything. I’m glad she didn’t, or I would’ve probably snapped at her. I felt guilty for betraying Patrick, even though I hadn’t really betrayed him. I felt embarrassed for getting my butt kicked by Dezi friggin’ Siegler. And I was envious of Patrick for how he’d coasted in and delivered an ass-whuppin’ like the High Plains Drifter.
The last one bugged me most of all, because I was never envious of my brother. That’s not how we worked. We looked out for each other, and we were happy for each other.
Five minutes on a swing with Alex had turned me into a jerk.
“Well,” Dr. Chatterjee said, “perhaps we should discuss procedures for—”
I grabbed the helmet and shoved it onto my head, partly to move things along, partly to hide my face. Before anything could happen, I said, “Pressure.”
The blue lights flared to life, that circular icon blinking in the middle of the face mask. Because the helmet wasn’t crushing my skull yet, I took a moment to study it. It had notches along the perimeter. A dial that seemed to be floating in the air about two feet from the helmet.
I reached out and twisted the virtual knob.
The insulation tightened around my neck, starting to cut off my circulation.
I twisted the dial the other way, and the pressure lessened.
I said, “Done,” and the dial vanished.
Progress.
I took a moment to be proud of myself. Okay. Now what? I hadn’t thought much past this. I suppose I’d figured that the helmet would give me some direction, but no. Just the blank face mask staring back at me.
“Message,” I said.
Nothing happened.
“Transmission,” I said.
More nothing.
“Phone home.”
Still nothing.
“Customer service.”
Through the face mask, I could see Alex shaking her head, her forehead lowered into her palm.
I chewed my lip, thinking, until the taste of blood reminded me that it was split.
“I am Chance Rain,” I said.
The helmet ignited with blue lights everywhere. And then a series of symbols appeared in a row, turning over like slot-machine reels. Fascinated, I watched them whir until they landed on English letters.
It was a note spelled out for me.
THIS CONDUIT NOW OPEN. A TRANSMISSION HAS BEEN SENT. CHECK BACK DAILY FOR RESPONSE.
The blue lights vanished.
I took off the helmet, looked at the expectant faces surrounding me. And I grinned.
For the first time in a long time, I’d done something right.
ENTRY 18
In the dead of night, every night, I checked the helmet, but no message waited for me. By day we did our tasks, took our shifts, and tried to stay safe.
A week passed, and then another.
Our food rations got lower, our meals staler.
We grew sick of waiting, sick of hiding. Patrick and I might have been the key to the survival of the human species, but right now we had nothing to do except wash clothes, clean toilets, and check the perimeter fence.
One night, walking back from a late-night stretch watching the southwest quadrant from the second floor, I spotted Patrick and Alex on the swing set outside. The very same one that Alex and I had sat on. She was wearing his cowboy hat, they were twisted on their swings so they faced each other, and they were making out.
So much for their big fight. So much for Alex saying she could talk to me differently. Who was I kidding anyway? If I had to choose between me and Patrick, it would be no contest.
I felt creepy spying on them, and so I pulled back from the window, closed my eyes, and took a moment to get my head right.
These were my two favorite people on the planet. They belonged together. I was happy for them. These feelings were all genuine, and I kept my eyes closed until I felt them in my heart, strong and true.
Then I headed back to the gym.
Eve stirred as I moved toward my cot, poking her head up from the jacket she used as a blanket. “You drew the graveyard shift, huh?”
Her bangs formed a razor-straight line right above her eyes. Hair was always a problem for the girls these days, but for some reason Eve was able to keep hers looking perfect. It was a rich shade of brown that matched her eyes, though her irises had yellow flecks that lit them up.
I don’t know what came over me, but I leaned down and kissed her. At first she stiffened, caught off guard. And then she melted a little, her hand rising to my cheek. It felt good.
As in really good.
We pulled away. She took in a sip of air.
“Good night,” I said.
She smiled just barely, but it was enough to bring out that dimple in her right cheek. “Night.”
* * *
The next morning was back to business as usual. Eve worked the supply station, and when I walked by, we awkwardly said hi and went on with what we were doing. We didn’t make eye contact the rest of the day.
That’s me, Casanova-Pants.
Later I saw Alex checking the TV set on the bleachers, spinning through endless screens of static. She was leaning over, one foot up on the bottom bench, her forehead scrunched with focus.
I really wanted to not find her attractive.
I really wanted to not like her more than Eve.
I really wanted to choose which emotions to pluck out of my heart and flush down the toilet.
She looked up, caught me gawking and contemplating toilets. “Whatcha need, Little Rain?”
I mumbled out an excuse and took off.
Like I said, Casanova-Pants.
* * *
At dinner there was a confrontation in the cafeteria. Patrick and I heard the ruckus behind the serving counter and ran over.
Ben, Dezi, and Mikey surrounded Dr. Chatterjee in a half circle. His back was to the wall, but he didn’t look intimidated. He looked angry.
“I absolutely will not,” he was saying.
“We’re hungry,” Ben said. “We can eat more and then just go get more.”
“No,” Dr. Chatterjee said. “We will ration what we have as planned. I’v
e specified a calorie amount for everyone based on his or her weight and that’s what we will stick to. There’s a schedule we will maintain to minimize risk. When the food stores hit a certain level, we will run a foraging mission. We’re not going to throw out our entire plan because you and your compatriots want an extra sandwich, Mr. Braaten.”
“What if I don’t like that plan?”
“Then you’ll shut your mouth and go along with it regardless. We voted on it. And this is a democracy.”
“A democracy with you as the leader.”
“Yes, Mr. Braaten. That’s how democracies function. With leaders.”
“Give us the keys to the pantries,” Dezi said. His face sported a bruise from when Patrick had taken him down.
“I will not,” Chatterjee said. “And you will not speak to me that way, Mr. Siegler.”
“The key,” Dezi said again.
Mikey said, “We’re not asking.” He stepped forward, pressed a finger into Dr. Chatterjee’s chest, and gave a gentle push. Chatterjee stumbled back on his leg braces and bumped into the wall but kept his balance.
A ripple of excitement and discomfort moved across the tables. The others were on their feet, straining to see what was going on.
It struck me that there was much more at stake in this moment than food rations.
Patrick stepped behind Ben, his boots scuffing the cheap linoleum. Ben turned.
They faced each other. Years of tension simmered between them. You could practically feel the heat in the air.
Ben Braaten was the only person I’d ever seen fight Patrick to a draw. Patrick had called him out in their freshman year after Ben emptied out my backpack in the creek. Twenty minutes of punches and grappling behind Jack Kaner’s barn had ended with them bloody and exhausted, their clothes covered with dirt and bits of hay. Too worn out to keep at it, they’d finally limped off in opposite directions.
“Get your guys under control,” Patrick said to Ben. “Or I will.”
Ben studied him, his expression changing, making his scars shift and realign like living things. The round mark of damaged skin at his hairline looked like a bottle cap, right down to the crimped edges.
The air back here was so thick with the smell of lettuce and ketchup I felt like I was breathing in the food itself.
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