Gregg Hurwitz: The Rains

“Chance.” My brother’s voice was distorted through the mask. “Get up here now.” Leaning over, he stuck his hand out for me.

Scrambling to my feet, I grabbed it, and he hauled me up.

“Back onto the roof of the house,” he said. “Before others come.”

I ran down the length of the Airstream, dodging the open sunroof, gaining momentum to leap across the gap to the top of the carport. I made it easily. I turned to watch my brother.

The weight of the tank pulling down on him, Patrick sprinted across the Airstream after me. Just as he was about to leap, a clawlike hand shot through the sunroof, grabbing for his ankle, tripping him.

He stumbled, kept his feet, his force carrying him to the end of the Airstream. Somehow he managed to jump across the gap, but he landed hard, rolling over his shoulder.

One of the straps snapped, the tank spinning away from him. The mask pulled free of his mouth, yanked down below his chin, exhaling a hiss of oxygen. The tubing popped free. The tank rolled and rolled toward the edge of the carport roof.

Then it went over.

A second later I heard a clang as it hit the driveway below.

Patrick was holding his breath, his cheeks already turning red, veins standing out in his throat. The collision had knocked the air out of him. I was a few feet away, standing over him, paralyzed.

It was all happening so fast.

I saw his lips part.

Then he pulled in a breath.

We were frozen there atop the carport, me on my feet, Patrick knocked over.

He breathed the infected air again.

I didn’t know if we had two seconds or two minutes before he transformed.

“It’s okay.” He tugged the mask off over his head and tossed it to the side. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Anger and grief and denial crushed in on me, all mixed together. “But I got Alex,” I said. “I got her home safe.”

He gave a faint, sad smile. I could read the relief in it. And so much more.

“I know how you feel about her,” he said.

He did? I was shocked.

But my surprise was nothing next to what we were facing.

“Take care of her,” he said. “And make sure she takes care of you.”

He flipped the shotgun around, extending the stock to me.

“Now,” he said. “Are you ready?”

No.

I couldn’t get my mouth to answer.

“Chance,” he said, firmly. “This is gonna happen any second now. Are you ready?”

No.

I took the shotgun. He put his fist around the end of the muzzle, held the bore to his forehead, and looked up at me. Our eyes locked. I watched his lungs fill and contract, fill and contract.

I waited for that full-body shudder.

But nothing happened.

A minute passed. And then another.

Patrick let the shotgun bore slip from his face. “This is weird,” he said.

I coughed out something like a laugh. “This is impossible.”

Noises drifted up from below us, and we peered over the edge of the carport. Hosts were moving up the street from the town square, drawn by the blast.

Patrick stood, swiped the shotgun back from me, and hopped onto the roof of the house, heading back toward school. “Either way,” he said, “let’s get the hell out of here while we can.”

We entered the gym quietly, slipping through the double doors. The kids sat in rows on the basketball courts, the cots cleared to the side for the day. Alex sat on the lowest bleacher, having just finished talking to them all. Judging from the mood, it was clear what news she’d related.

The kids’ faces were as blank as dolls’, as blank as those of the Hosts themselves. Shock hung like a cloud in the room. It was so much to come to terms with, especially for the younger ones.

But they deserved the truth.

They deserved to know what was in store for them at the Lawrenceville Cannery if they were ever caught.

No one noticed me and Patrick standing at the back of the gym.

At last the spell broke. A few of the kids started crying. JoJo sat between the Mendez twins, trying to comfort them, but they were inconsolable.

“I don’t understand,” Eve said. “Why would they do this?”

Dr. Chatterjee rose unevenly on his braced legs, his hands clasped before him. “If these beings are indeed implanting offspring as Alex suggests…” He paused uneasily, cleared his throat. This was obviously difficult for him to talk about. “Then young specimens would provide the best… nutrients… for the growing offspring. Children have a lot of good healthy tissue for the offspring to…” He forced out the next words. “Feed off.” A deep breath. “As for the bones, the epiphyses-the growth plates-are most active in children, which could serve to accelerate maturation for a parasitic entity.” Seeming to lose his train of thought, he stopped briefly, his mouth wavering. “I’d hypothesize that the older kids are being used because hormone levels are highest during puberty, which would best support growth…” He took off his eyeglasses, wiped them on the hem of his shirt. For a moment he looked lost.

Then he did something that caught us all off guard. He lowered his eyes into the fold of his hand and wept. We remained silent while his sobs filled the gym.

“If you can’t handle this ,” Ben said, hopping up onto the bleachers and walking behind Chatterjee and Alex, “then you’re in serious trouble. Because kids getting implanted isn’t what we should be worried about right now.”

“What should we be worried about?” Dezi Siegler called out.

Ben took his time and looked at the crowd. The heel of his hand rested on the butt of his stun gun. “You should be worried about who’s gonna protect you when those things hatch.”

A chill of fear rippled through the kids.

Patrick broke the silence from the back of the gym: “Know what I’m worried about?”

Every head turned; every face lit with amazement.

There my brother stood, without a mask. Breathing real air.

“I’m worried about who loosened the valves on my tanks and let all the oxygen out,” Patrick said, striding forward. “I couldn’t have this conversation with you before, Ben. I was in too much of a rush to save my life. But turns out I don’t need the tanks after all.”

Ben looked shaken. Forgetting he was in the bleachers, he tried to take a step back, the bench behind him catching him at the calves. He sat down hard in the footwell.

At the sight of my brother, Alex stood, bearing most of her weight on her good leg. “Patrick? How are you breathing?”

As my brother threaded his way through the kids, they gazed up in wonderment. He reached the bleachers, and Alex threw her arms around his neck, squeezing him hard. They kissed.

I stood to the side, doing my best not to look.

Patrick and Alex broke apart, and he turned to face the others, his arm around her. Everyone clapped. I could feel heat rise to my face; I only hoped it didn’t show.

“I’m lucky to be alive,” Patrick said. “And I’m even luckier Chance is my brother.” He dipped his head, a rare show of embarrassment. “Thanks for bringing Alex back.”

Everyone’s attention swung to me. Eve watched me very closely.

I gave a dumb little wave because I didn’t know what else to do. Then I took the black cowboy hat off my head.

And put it back on Patrick’s where it belonged.

Moths swirled in the shafts of light falling through the windows of the biology lab. Once Dr. Chatterjee had examined Alex’s leg and prescribed ice, Advil, and rest, she’d curled up on her cot and fallen asleep. Then he’d asked to meet with me and Patrick privately. He’d led us to his old classroom. Sitting behind his dusty desk now, he played with a DNA model made of rubber.