When Ash Rains Down (Kingdom Come #1)

by Cecelia Earl

  He grabs my shoulders, holds me, and forces me to look into his green, narrowed eyes.

  "I need you to come with me. Learn to fight the demons, demons like the robber. There are thousands more. Millions more. They're getting stronger, like you. And you're needed in the battles to come."

  He's scaring me. I remember how the robber's face transformed. His face is now starting to blur, to bend, to become something more. "I'm needed here," I whisper. Louder, I say, throwing my head up and shoulders back, "I'm going to the hospital. I need to be with my family tonight."

  He looks around again. The pressure in my back is mounting, becoming painful.

  "Fine. I'll give you twenty-four hours to decide, because there's a lot more danger beyond what happened today."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "That's a warning about what's to come." He repeats, "You have twenty-four hours to decide."

  "To change my mind, you mean. Which I won't. You aren't even making sense. You've given me no reason beyond craziness to listen to you."

  He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, but turns so I can brush past him and thunder down the stairs. As I slide into my car, he calls out, "I'll see you tomorrow night." I didn't even hear his footsteps follow me.

  Whatever.

  In the distance, sirens blare.

  -17-

  When I was little, at the sound of sirens, Dad taught me to say a prayer for whoever was in trouble. No thanks. I'm saving them all for myself and my family. I drive toward Mitch's place for a brainstorming session on the best way to get our lives back on track.

  After a steaming shower that Mitch's mom insists will take five minutes and won't make a difference in how quickly Mom and Noah recuperate that night, she hands me sweats, a T-shirt, socks, and undergarments through the door I've opened a crack.

  "Thanks, Frankie."

  "Anything, love. You just ask. Your work clothes are in the wash and will be ready whenever you need them next."

  Frankie is thirty-five, a professor at Shadow University, and married to Mitch's dad, who is usually in his office "writing novels,” though neither Mitch nor I have ever read a single word he's written. She wears flowing dresses and always has her curly auburn hair pulled up loosely atop her head. Come to think of it, she looks a little like Ms. Frizzle from The Magic School Bus. Maybe that influenced Mitch's sci-fi obsession.

  Once dressed, I don't bother to swipe the steam off the mirror to check my appearance. I feel for my necklace and touch it with my fingertips, now one of the only things I have from my old life. When I was little and the chain longer, I could hold the stone up to see it. I'd move it around, let the sun play with it, watching as its light gleamed through the stone, flaring up from the center. Dad said the light came from within, not from the sun, that the light was God's kiss, held deep and safe inside the stone. "And wherever God's love is," Dad said, "his angels will also be, singing and joyful, and guarding all His children."

  I laughed with him that morning, and we sang the songs angels sing, while running around in the backyard we used to own. How I loved to swing when he'd push me, higher and higher, trying to nudge the clouds with my toes, imagining how they'd break apart like the wind spreading dandelion seeds. Like my toes could break apart the clouds and spread more sunshine through the sky, like new bright yellow dandelions flashing like wildfire across the lawns. But now that I'm older, wiser, with no time to swing or laugh, I know they're nothing but weeds that choke and spread unwanted replicas, and that clouds are not really full of fluffy cotton. They're dark and filled deep with rain and storms.

  I run a brush through my long hair and pat it once more with a towel. I find Mitch and Frankie at a round table in the kitchen, both with coffee cups in hand.

  "You guys don't have to drink caffeine and stay up all night with me, you know."

  "We-we know," Mitch says, blinking hard in that way people with allergies do. Only, I'm not sure that's what causes it for him. It's almost like a tic. I've never asked him about it, since I usually don't notice. He's just Mitch, my best friend, who thinks so much and so fast his eyes and voice can't keep up with his thoughts.

  Frankie pours coffee in a mug and sets it in front of me. She takes a seat and says, "Okay. What's the plan? I know you already have one."

  "At eight o'clock, I'll call our insurance company and report the damage to the diner and the apartment. I'll see what they say.”

  “Good,” she says. “When you find out what you can get from them, call around to find three contractors who do renovations, get them over to draw up plans and give you quotes.”

  I nod, staring into my coffee. “Okay. Other than that, I want to be at the hospital, so tomorrow will be shot." I look at Frankie and blink to keep the tears back. "Noah's going to need surgeries. Like, plural." I set my mug down. "I'll need to be there for those. After, though, I've decided to leave high school, work every shift possible for Molly, and find another full-time job to save money for the hospital bills and returning our place to better-than-before status."

  She circles the top of her mug with her fingertips. I know what she's thinking.

  "Maybe the dropping out won't be a forever thing, but I think it's what I'll need to do for now."

  "Hold off. See how the week plays out, and then we can brainstorm again. Maybe that will be the best option. Maybe you can apply for grants or scholarships. There may be ways to graduate and accomplish your goals. Ways we haven't considered yet," she says. Besides being brilliant, Frankie is never condescending. She takes everything Mitch and I have ever said or done into full consideration, even Mitch's freshman year plan to rid the world of killer red-winged blackbirds. In the end, though, she convinced us not to do a midnight raid, planting Alka-Seltzer in bread so the birds would consume it and explode. To this day, I know he still sometimes regrets not going through with it. He runs cross-country, and every time he's dive-bombed, I know he reconsiders.

  "H-here's my laptop. I have my iPad." Mitch sets his laptop bag at my feet. He takes a breath. "D-don't say no to-to what I'm about to say," he grumbles.

  I look between them, their matching honey-colored eyes on me.

  "Your heads are all tilted in sympathetic-style, like I'm at a pity party. This is not a pity party, right?" When they don't respond, I sigh. "What is it?"

  "I know you have your-your pride and all, but you have to say yes," Mitch tells me.

  "Toooo?"

  "Starting tomorrow after school, I'll take any shifts at the b-bowling alley you can't take. You don't know how much of your t-time the renovations will take, and I want you to-to be with your family when you can. I-I'll work for y-you. Molly w-will still deposit the checks into your account."

  I start to shake my head. "No." I grasp my coffee cup. "Can't do it."

  "Can and w-will," Mitch orders, as firm a look in his rigid body as I feel in mine.

  Frankie cuts in. "Love, he doesn't need the money. His college money is already in the bank waiting for him. Please."

  I slump and take a sip of coffee. "Fine," I mumble. "Who knows how much you'll even need to work for me anyway? I plan to be there."

  "B-but when you can't. I'll be there. Y-you don't want to let Molly down."

  "Pfft. Nice tactic. True that." I raise my mug and we toast. Molly already had to cover for me tonight, though she was more than willing and understanding. It broke her heart that she couldn’t rush right up to the hospital when I called her. Nothing she could do, though, but pray. It's up to God and me right now. Mom would tell me to find comfort in that, but I don't. I feel fear, anger, and less trust than I should. I feel weak.

  Frankie gets out the makings for sub sandwiches and we fill our bellies before Mitch follows me in his car back to the hospital.

  When we get back to the ER, all hell has broken loose. The waiting room is filled with people and lots of shouting. Panic is thick in the air. It smells acrid. I grit my teeth as the pain in my shoulder blades flares up. It feels like something is trying
to break through my skin. What is going on with me that every time I hear a siren or something odd happens, my back feels like this?

  "W-what is happening?" Mitch questions.

  I grab his hand and shove through to the receptionist, but the line of people waiting for her is too long. I can't even catch her eye. We stand by the door that leads to the back. We overhear words like "robbery" and "break-ins" and "knife wounds". Half the people in the room have bloodshot eyes and postures that are not steady. The wailing of an ambulance pierces through the air and stretchers galore race in. Somehow the mass of people creates an aisle, and together we collectively gasp when we see the blood-covered victims who are being rushed to the rooms in the back. Now words like "gunshots" and "mass shooting" fill the air.

  My heart is pounding so hard my ribs are going to break.

  "Let's get out of here," I say into Mitch's ear. We weave between bodies and get to the cool air outside. The parking lot is overflowing, and more sirens race down the street toward the hospital. What in the world is going on? Shady Creek is falling apart.

  "I-it's like the end of the world," Mitch says. His eyes are wide and unblinking.

  "Mitch, get a grip," I tell him, even though he has a point. I pull him around the hospital until we get to another entrance, the east wing. We walk through to an elevator and I hope it's the right one. Thankfully, the ICU is listed. We enter and the doors shut us inside. I push the button. Nothing happens. I push the open doors button. Nothing happens.

  We're trapped.

  -18-

  The lights flicker and go out. It feels as though the air goes with them, because suddenly it's harder to breathe.

  "J-Jules?"

  "Right here." I reach out for Mitch and find his arm. I thread mine through his and we stand there facing the doors, waiting for them to open. When they don't, after thirty seconds of counting, I exhale. "Okay, so…"

  Based on everything we just saw and heard in the ER, I'm not feeling so good about this. My nerves were already shot from having stayed away from Mom and Noah so long. I figured it was okay to make a plan and fuel up for the long haul, but that was when I thought I'd be with them as soon as we'd finished. Now, I'm ready to scream. What's going on, and most importantly, are Mom and Noah okay where they are?

  "I need to get to them." I bang on the doors. "Mitch, what if they're in danger? Without lights or oxygen or whatever they need to stay alive?"

  "Yeah. W-what if there's a shooter or a robber..."

  "What would a robber want in the hospital?" I ask, but... a shooter?

  We break apart and start pounding with both fists.

  "Help!" we yell repeatedly.

  "What do you think will happen if we start pushing the elevator buttons? One of them has to be the emergency button, right? Wait." I pull out my phone. I illuminate it and hold it up to the panel with buttons for all the floors. "Here, emergency." I push it. I push it again.

  "Let-let me try," Mitch suggests, shoving me over with his right side. He pushes it. Then he pushes the open doors button, and then each floor, one-by-one.

  "Nothing. And my phone has no signal in here to call anyone."

  He pulls his out. "Mine-mine either."

  "Crap."

  "What would we do in one of your sci-fi movies?" I'm ready to try anything.

  "W-we'd be devoured by brain-eating aliens in v-velour space suits," he tells me.

  "Fabulous." I'm about to break into tears of frustration, when there is a horrendous sound, like metal crying. The doors in front of us part and distort, like they are melting open.

  When the metal is warped enough that a hole we can fit through forms, Cole is standing on the other side. Mitch and I practically fall over one another trying to get through the door first. His mom doesn't say we are like siblings for nothing. None of this, ‘You go first. No, you. Really, you,’ stuff for us.

  "Cole, what the heck?" I ask, looking back at the doors over my shoulder. "I thought you went home. How'd you know we were in there—"

  "And h-how'd you open that door?" Mitch finishes my question for me.

  Cole shrugs and tosses a metal rod toward the wall. "That's one strong crowbar," he says. "Come on. Let's go."

  I glance again at the doors and crowbar, unconvinced it could be that strong, but take off after him.

  The lights in the hallway are flickering. In between dark spasms, I watch Cole's even movements as he leads us down the hallway. His shoulders are broad and his biceps impressive, but strong enough to tear metal apart? Just, wow. The t-shirt that spreads over that worked-out frame is untucked and wrinkled over khaki shorts. His sandy brown hair is wet and sticking out every which way. He must have showered before coming.

  He tells us, "There were crazy sirens, so I got up and turned on the TV. As soon as they showed the hospital, I raced over. I couldn't even step foot in the ER. It's that packed. I decided to try another route, and that's when I heard you two. I broke open some safety glass and pulled out some equipment. If the crowbar didn't work, I was going to rig the fire extinguisher into a bomb to blow the doors open."

  "Glad you didn't have to resort to that," I say, not sure I like that he knows how to create a bomb. No, quite certain I don't like that. What if it was a bomb that caused our diner to explode? Could someone have rigged it? Could someone intentionally have harmed us?

  That robber? The one Cole's someone-or-other called a demon?

  He swings open a door, and for a brief moment there is moonlight, but then we are bounding up stairs until he opens another door. We shuffle through it and into another hallway. This floor is dark, too. Dim rays from flashlights outline a reception desk area and the quick movements of what I assume are hospital staff members. Without lights, I'm not sure how the machines keeping my family alive are working. My heart is hammering away, making my stomach sick. Following so closely I can smell Cole's minty scent, when he stops in front of an open door, I crash into him. I rest there a moment longer than necessary, resisting the urge to lay my head into the curve of his back. He's warm and I'm tingling from the contact, or lack of sleep. Maybe both.

  "Sorry," I mumble, backing away.

  He turns and wraps his strong arms around me, loaning me some of his strength. His fingers massage my shoulders and neck, and he kisses the top of my head. Strange that the kneading increases the pressure in my back instead of releases it. Lights begin to flicker on this floor, too. Dark, light, dark, light. Hospital staff are bustling about with flashlights and walkie-talkies. They are rushing in and out of rooms. I turn and realize we've lost Mitch.

  "This is your mom's room," Cole tells me. His voice is low and his lips are next to my ear. I swallow and nod. When I take a step to enter, a nurse rushes at me.

  "Miss, miss, stop." She grabs my arm. "You shouldn't go in there. How did you get on this floor? This is a restricted area." The flashlight she holds illuminates her face so that her features are a mixture of light and shadow. I realize how eerie the soft bobbing glows of dozens of flashlights make the ICU. Cold fear grips me.

  "None of the security doors are locked anymore." I rip my arm away from her. "This is my mom. I need to see her."

  "We have one staff member with every patient in the ICU, working the machines by hand, or doing everything they can. You shouldn't disturb anyone."

  "By hand?" I'm trembling with fear... and anger. Cole tightens his hands around my arms.

  "We have small generators in some of the rooms, so patients have everything they need. The ones who don't need the large machines are being monitored. Everyone is doing just fine, but you need to let us do our job. Go down to the family waiting area. We'll come get you when you can come back up. Trust us." When I don't speak, she must think she's convinced me, because she rushes away.

  "Stay at the door," I tell Cole. "Mom needs to know I'm here."

  I squeeze my hands into tight fists, furious the hospital is not better equipped for emergencies. Small generators? Where's the big generator that s
hould take over the entire hospital when the power goes out? And why is the power even out? There's no storm.

  A lantern on Mom's food tray provides a small circumference of light, enough that I can see a nurse manually pumping air into Mom's lungs every few seconds. The bag dripping fluids into her arm continues to provide her with liquid. The sounds make me cringe. Panic freezes my lungs when I picture my brother in an even worse predicament than this. My will to do something sends a fiery fury through my chest and out, down to my fingertips, melting the icy fear from only moments before. The nurse tightens her lips and narrows her eyes at me, but says nothing. She continues her rhythmic duty. I slip my hand under Mom's and fold her fingers into my own.

  "Mom," I whisper close to her cheek. "I'm still here. I love you." I touch my lips to her skin and say a silent prayer for her to wake up. Her eyes don't flinch, though. She doesn't tighten her grip. I sigh. "You're not ready to wake up yet, Mom, but I know you will be soon. Don't worry. I'll take care of everything while you rest." I stay there for minutes, or maybe an hour, just breathing and praying. I alternate between pleas to God and harsh words, angry at Him for everything. "I'll be back," I warn the nurse. She doesn't look away from Mom.

  Cole is standing with his back to the door, arms crossed. He turns and gives me half a smile when I sneak out by him. I nod my head in the direction of my brother's room and make my way there via dim flickering lights. Noah is alone, except for the constant hum of the generator keeping all his machines running. That he is one of the patients who gets his own generator relieves me. That he is one of the patients who needs his own generator scares me. His chest is moving up and down and his eyelids twitch every so often. His hands are still cool and I try to warm them up in mine. I run my fingers through his hair and over his forehead. I touch the tip of his nose with my finger.

  "Hey, Muff. You still here?" I kiss his hand and allow a few tears to drip down onto his knuckles. "I'm so sorry," I tell him.