Gregg Hurwitz - The Rains

Patrick’s voice cut in on my thoughts. “Let’s make sure all the other doors and windows are locked,” he said. “Secure the school as a base.”

That was Patrick, grace under pressure, burying the horrific present beneath What Had to Be Done. I thought about his reassuring hand on my shoulder when he’d found me downstairs, crying over the bloody spill of windshield glass from Mom’s purse. I remember wondering if I’d ever be that grown up.

I wondered it again now. I bit down on my lower lip and put my hand on JoJo’s shoulder, as Patrick had put his on mine. If I couldn’t be as brave as him, at least I could fake it.

We moved as a group, going corridor by corridor, floor by floor, checking that everything was secure. We spread out to get the job done faster but stayed within eyeshot-or at least within shouting distance. Everything looked to be empty. We moved as quietly as we could. We reached the humanities wing and disappeared through different doorways. In Mr. Tomasi’s English classroom, alone, I paused by my desk. I ran my fingers across the graffiti scratched into the wood, some bad joke by a student who’d sat there before me-LURNING SUKS. I wondered where that kid was now. Trapped in one of our dog crates in the bowels of the church?

I crossed to the windows and made sure all the latches were thrown. They were. Through the tall chain-link fence hemming in the school’s front lawn, I could see a few men in the neighborhood walking their bizarre spirals. I stood watching them, pins and needles pricking my skin. It felt as though I’d landed on Mars and was staring out at an exotic landscape populated with alien beings.

Turning for the door, I weaved between the empty chairs, giving my desk a little tap with my knuckles as I passed. I suppose it was a good-bye to all the learning I’d done in that plastic chair, all the great books we’d talked about, the homework I’d read aloud from nervously but with bits of pride shining through whenever Mr. Tomasi nodded his shaggy head.

I stepped out into the hall at the same time Patrick and Alex emerged from their respective classrooms. We waited for Rocky and JoJo to come out from their room with Cassius, the delay making us nervous. I was just about to head after them when Cassius padded out, his tail wagging, the kids behind him. We all flashed one another thumbs-ups and gestured at the next set of rooms we would tackle.

I headed through the open door into shop class, the biggest of the rooms, filled with slumbering machines. It was creepy, the air thick with the scent of grease and sawdust. Half-finished projects lay on shelves to the side. Pig-shaped cutting boards, the hind legs still trapped in wood. An unsanded back scratcher. A model of a jalopy missing a roof and two wheels. They’d never be finished. They’d just lie there, incomplete, collecting dust. Heading for the windows, I passed between the belt sander and the band saw. That’s when I heard it.

The faintest clank.

Inside the room with me.

I froze, one boot inches above the dusty floor.

It came again. Clank-clank.

I bit my lip, lowered my weight. Was it one of the machines, shuddering with a dying jolt of electricity?

I leaned around the band saw. The vertical blade cut my view in half, but I could still make out a man hunched over the workbench across the room. Though his back was turned, I could see his hand to the side, hovering over various tools, deciding which one to grab. Wrench… Phillips head… clawhammer.

The hand closed around the clawhammer.

The man straightened up and started to turn, his legs swinging stiffly. I dropped behind the base of the band saw, my knees rising to touch my chin. I heard another clank and realized that the sound came from leg braces.

Dr. Chatterjee.

The footsteps neared. Clank-clank. Clank-clank.

I debated shouting for Patrick, but if there were other Hosts all around us, that would only alert them. I braced myself, hoping Chatterjee would change course. My baling hooks were at the ready, but I hadn’t killed anyone yet and prayed that I wouldn’t have to now. Sweat stung my eyes. My heartbeat came so loud I thought he might hear it.

Clank-clank. Clank-clank.

A worn loafer set down in view- clank -and I knew his next step would bring me into full sight. I set my feet and sprang.

But my boot skidded on a slick of sawdust, and I fell forward, dropping the baling hooks, my palms jarring the floor. I rolled over onto my back, arms raised over my face. Dr. Chatterjee stood nearly on top of me, the hammer swaying at his side.

With my wrists I jerked at the baling hooks’ nylon loops, trying to tug the handles into my palms. They bounced off my fingers. I couldn’t look away, not even as Dr. Chatterjee leaned over me. For an instant the faint light from outside hit his wire-rimmed eyeglasses at the perfect angle, turning the lenses to mirrored circles. I knew that once he moved another inch, the glint would vanish and I would see what lay beneath.

I steeled myself for those tunnels, two circular views through to the ceiling above, and I wondered if this would be the last thing I’d ever see.

Dr. Chatterjee looked down at me.

With real eyes.

I let out a garbled sound, choking on a gasp.

His gentle voice descended on me with that great lilting accent. “Chance? Is that you?”

It took two tries before I could find any words. “Dr. Chatterjee,” I said. “Wait-you’re a grown-up. Why aren’t you infected?”

He held out a trembling hand to pull me up to my feet. “That isn’t the question,” he said. “It’s the answer.”

We all headed down the long school hallway clustered together, Dr. Chatterjee moving at a decent pace despite his leg orthotics. I was still breathing hard, relieved that I hadn’t had my skull caved in by my favorite teacher.

“White matter!” Dr. Chatterjee announced excitedly. “It’s the key.”

“Like brain white matter?” I asked.

“Shouldn’t we keep our voices down?” Patrick said.

Dr. Chatterjee waved him off. “It’s safe in here. Now, look.” He unclipped an electronic unit swaying from his belt like a holstered gun. We all crowded around to see it in the dim hall.

“Wait,” Rocky said. “That’s the carbon monoxide detector thing, right?”

We looked at him, surprised.

“What?” he said. “I was emergency room captain in Mrs. Rauch’s class last year.”

“That’s right,” Dr. Chatterjee said. “It detects carbon monoxide, natural gas, other hazardous leaks. But check this out.” He clicked a button, backlighting the screen, which blinked code red. Beneath it two words flashed: UNIDENTIFIED PARTICULATE.

His face, shiny with sweat, held equal parts worry and excitement. “So my hypothesis is that this airborne particulate enters the human body-”

“Tell him about the spores,” Patrick said to me.

Dr. Chatterjee stiffened. “What spores?”

“Like the zombie ants,” I said.

His lips quivered a little. He scratched at the side of his face, the stubble giving off a rasping sound. It occurred to me that I’d never seen him not perfectly clean-shaven. “What do you mean, Chance?”

“Well, we saw Hank McCafferty-” I caught myself, feeling a surge of remorse. I glanced nervously at Rocky and JoJo.

Rocky’s eyes glimmered, but he kept his chin up. “It’s okay,” he said. “I want to know.”

I took a deep breath. Then I continued, filling in Dr. Chatterjee, starting with when Patrick had interrupted me in the barn. The acrid smell on the wind. The hammering noises and screams carrying over from the McCafferty place. When I got to the part about Mrs. McCafferty in the grain silo, JoJo buried her and Bunny’s faces in her brother’s chest. I described climbing to the top of the water tower and the sight waiting for us, Hank blown wide open, releasing spores to the wind.