Gregg Hurwitz - The Rains

“I have no idea,” I said.

Cassius and I threaded quietly through the cots and across the court. Ben guarded the double doors, sitting on a metal folding chair like some kind of security guard. The set of his jaw showed just how much he dug the position of authority.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“Front lawn.”

“Front lawn? Now? What for?”

I gestured at Cassius. “He’s gotta go.”

“He can use the bathroom.”

“I don’t know how to break this to you, Ben, but dogs don’t generally use toilets.”

His face shifted, and for a moment I worried that I’d joked too hard. But instead he held out his hand. “Flashlight.”

“How am I supposed to-”

“I don’t care how you do anything. I’m not having you put the group at risk if a Host sees you out there. And a flashlight means you could be spotted from far away.”

I slapped the Maglite into his palm.

He leaned over me. “Don’t make a noise. And make sure your dog doesn’t either.”

He shoved the doors open and made me walk under his armpit to get out. I headed down the hall, hesitating by the front doors. Since setting foot inside the school, I hadn’t been back outside. It felt safe in here, sheltered and protected.

“You heard the jerk,” I told Cassius. “Not a sound.”

I pushed the doors open, and we eased out, the night breeze chilling my neck, my hands. Though we kept on the lawn close to the building, I shot nervous glances through the front gates to the parking lot and the street beyond. A few Mappers moved along. I couldn’t make out anything more than their shadowy forms, but I recognized the posture, the pattern of their steps.

One of them stopped and tilted his head back. His eyes, aimed at the heavens, began to glow. I watched, fascinated and horrified. If our theory was right, he was uploading data. Sending along the terrain he’d scanned to whoever that squirming virtual eye belonged to. The breeze wafted over the sound of throaty clicking, the same sound Sheriff Blanton had been making in Alex’s closet. It struck me that it sounded a bit like a fax machine trying for a connection or the noises I’d heard Internet dial-ups make in old movies.

Finally the Mapper lowered his head and continued on his course.

I urged Cassius onto the dewy lawn, and he darted along with his nose to the ground, sniffing.

“Come on,” I whispered. “Just go already.”

He moved closer to the edge of the lawn, toward the fence line.

“Hey, stop. Cassius. Cassius.”

I was gonna tug him back toward the building, but try telling a dog where to go to the bathroom. At last he lifted his leg and started peeing right on the fence.

As I looked up, a Host emerged from the darkness, the hollowed-out face right there on the far side of the chain-link. My insides froze. I opened my mouth to yell but somehow managed to stop the noise in my throat.

The Host was Mr. Tomasi, his elbow-patched corduroy blazer looking frayed, his eyeholes focused on the ground in front of him.

He swept past me, close enough that I could smell a lingering trace of his cologne. His loafer moved right through the spot where Cassius was peeing, but he kept on, never so much as raising his head.

I watched until he vanished back into the darkness, and at some point I remembered to close my mouth.

I looked down at Cassius, and he looked up at me, his forehead furrowed.

“Let’s not do that again,” I said.

We headed back up the broad stone steps to the front doors. When we stepped inside, a hand set down on my shoulder, hard, startling me.

Ben had snuck over from his post in the gym to spy on us.

“If you’d screwed up,” he said, tapping my chest with his stun gun, “I’d have killed you myself.”

I believed him.

I’m snuggled in the sheets, and Sue-Anne sits next to me, leaning against the headboard, reading from To Kill a Mockingbird. Patrick is down with Uncle Jim in the garage, helping him change out the brake pads on his truck. He’s eight and gets a whole other set of privileges, including coming up to bed later.

I lie as still as possible, hoping that if I’m good, she’ll read one more chapter, that she’ll keep going forever. But she doesn’t. She finishes the page and closes the book, and my heart sinks. It is my third month in their house, and this quiet time with her is my favorite time of all. Tonight I will figure out how to fall asleep alone. Tomorrow I will get up early to help on the ranch before school. Everything is different.

Sue-Anne leans over, kisses my forehead.

The words burn in my chest, and before I can catch them, they are out of my mouth. “I hate them,” I say.

On her way out the door, she pauses. “I don’t understand.”

“My parents.”

She takes a moment, her lips pouched out like she’s thinking real hard. “Why do you say that, Chance?”

“They didn’t have to get drunk and get in a stupid car crash. They had me and Patrick at home. They never even thought about us that night.”

She doesn’t say anything. She just nods-not like in agreement but to show she’s listening. I know I’m acting like a baby, but I can’t help it. Everything’s burning-my chest, my face, my eyes.

“And I don’t want to-” My breath catches in my throat, and I have to stop for a second. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I say it anyways. “And I don’t want to grow up yet.”

She nods again, and her eyes are wistful, and I realize that even though I’ve known her my whole life, maybe I don’t know her much at all. When she speaks, her tone is as soft and kind as I’ve ever heard it. “Sometimes what we want isn’t what we need .” I look up at her, confused. “What does that mean?” I say.

A commotion jarred me out of the dream memory.

Hushed whispers and quiet footfalls. But it wasn’t the noise that was alarming so much as the panic running through the room. I opened my eyes, disoriented by the tall ceiling, the bright light streaming through the high windows, the movement all around me. On a slight delay, reality flooded in.

The gym. With the survivors. Uncle Jim and Sue-Anne dead. Kids snatched. Hosts everywhere. Our town overrun.

I sat up and followed the current of hushed anxiety. It had direction to it, pointing at Patrick in the lookout post atop the bleachers. With Alex at his side, he was ducked beneath the windowsill, his eyes wide.

His stare found me among the kids, and he gestured for me to get up there. I didn’t like the expression on his face.

Keeping hunched over, I crept across the floor, then up the bleachers, wincing every time they creaked. At last I reached him. Beside him, Alex was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling as if trying to tamp something down.

“What’s going on?” I whispered.

Patrick pointed above his head. As slowly as I could, I raised myself up and peered over the sill.

Mappers lined the front fence. They stood shoulder to shoulder, blank faces peering through the chain-link. Their heads were nodding up and down in unison.

I dropped from sight, putting my back to the wall, and blew out a breath.

“Your mouth’s bleeding,” Patrick said.

I’d bitten down on my lip hard enough to draw blood.

Below, the other kids looked up at us expectantly. Chet Rogers chewed on the collar of his shirt nervously, his breaths starting to get that asthma rasp. Dr. Chatterjee leaned on the dry-erase board, light glinting off his eyeglasses. Ben Braaten cracked the double doors to peer out into the corridor, his shoulders raised. For once, even he looked nervous.

“What are they doing?” Patrick whispered.

I shook my head with bewilderment.