Praying for Rain Read online

  PRAYING

  for RAIN

  BB EASTON

  Copyright © 2019 by BB Easton

  Published by Art by Easton

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-7327007-2-7

  e-book ISBN: 978-1-7327007-3-4

  Cover Design by BB Easton

  Cover Photographs licensed by Shutterstock

  Content Editing by Traci Finlay and Karla Nellenbach

  Copyediting by Jovana Shirley of Unforeseen Editing

  and Ellie McLove of My Brother’s Editor

  Formatting by Jovana Shirley of Unforeseen Editing

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, places, or actual events is purely coincidental. The characters and locale are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks, and word marks mentioned in this book.

  Due to themes of drug abuse, graphic violence, and explicit sexual content, this book is not intended for anyone under the age of eighteen.

  This book is dedicated to anyone who needs a reminder that

  none of this matters, and we’re all going to die.

  And also to T.M. Frazier, who is in charge of reminding me.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 1 of Fighting for Rain

  PLAYLIST

  BOOKS BY BB EASTON

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Rain

  I’m sitting in a booth at Burger Palace. I don’t remember how I got here, or when, but the empty seat across from me tells me that I came alone.

  The place smells like classic greasy burgers and fries. My stomach snarls in response.

  God, I’m starving.

  I glance across the bustling fast-food restaurant at the giant digital menu on the wall and notice four banners hanging on either side of the checkout counter. They’re huge, hanging from the ceiling all the way down to the floor. Only, instead of showing pretty models eating airbrushed cheeseburgers, these things look like propaganda for the Antichrist. Each one is bright red with the silhouette of a hooded figure on horseback in the middle. One is holding a massive sword over his head. Another one has a scythe, like the Grim Reaper. One is swinging a mace, and the fourth one is charging forward with a flaming torch. Even though I can’t see their faces, I almost feel like their demonic eyes are staring right at me.

  This is a fucked up marketing campaign, I think, searching the terrifying banners for more information.

  The only text I see on them anywhere is a simple date in bold white font at the top of each one.

  April 23.

  What the hell?

  I look around the restaurant for more clues, but all I find are happy little families sucking soda out of red cups with hooded horsemen on them. A little boy carries a Big Kid Box to his seat with an image of the Grim Reaper guy on it. A little girl licks blood-red ice cream out of a cracked black cone. And, on every wrapper, every poster, every napkin, straw, and ketchup packet, there’s the same date.

  April 23? I rack my brain. April 23. What the hell is going to happen on April twen­­­­—

  Before I can finish my thought, the lights flicker off and the doors burst open. Wind whips through the small restaurant like a tornado, sending drinks crashing and people scrambling, as four hooded figures on giant smoke-breathing horses charge in.

  Suddenly, the banners, the ad campaign—it all makes sense.

  Today is April 23.

  And we’re all gonna die.

  Smoke and screams and chaos fill the air as I scurry to the floor beneath my table, backing all the way up to the wall and hugging my knees to my chest.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t blink. I can’t think. All I can do it cover my ears and try to block out the screams of mothers and children as I peer into the darkness.

  Flames climb up the black-and-red banners, illuminating a wasteland before me. Furniture overturned. Bodies strewed about the wreckage. Severed heads, missing limbs, torsos impaled on table legs. My hands move from my ears to my mouth as I muffle a scream.

  Don’t let them hear you.

  Thick black smoke begins to curl and creep into my hiding spot, making my eyes water and my throat burn. I can hardly see past the table now, and suppressing the cough and the panic building in my throat is getting harder and harder to do.

  I know I need to run—I have to—but my legs won’t cooperate. I’m stuck in the fetal position, rocking like a child, as I pull my T-shirt over my mouth and nose.

  I scream at myself inside my head, but it’s my mother’s voice that finally gets my ass in gear. “Are you going to stay home all day and wallow, like your father, or are you gonna get out there and try to help somebody?” Her scolding from this morning rings in my ears louder than the cries of the burning, impaled women and children all around me.

  I want to help. Even if, right now, the only person I can help is myself.

  Placing my palms on the filthy floor, I slowly bring my knees down so that I’m on all fours.

  I can do this.

  Taking one last breath, I straighten my back and prepare to crawl to safety. I can’t see the exits through all the smoke, but I can see the two blood-spattered hooves that come to a stop directly in front of me when I take my first step.

  I wake up at the tail end of a scream, just like I do every morning. Just like we all do, ever since the nightmares began.

  Grabbing my cell phone off the charger, I hold my breath and read the date.

  April 20.

  I sigh and toss it back onto the nightstand.

  I used to feel so relieved when I woke up from the nightmare. Back when I still had hope that some scientist somewhere was gonna figure it out. But everybody on the planet has been dreaming about the four horsemen of the apocalypse coming on April 23 for almost a year now, and we still don’t have answers.

  After a few months, most of the world’s top researchers either resigned in defeat, died from heart attacks, or went crazy from the stress of trying to figure it out. Every day, the news got worse, the crime rate skyrocketed, and eventually, the newscasters just stopped reporting. Without answers or hope or, hell, even fake news to calm us down, most people have just accepted that the world is going to end on April 23.

  Myself included.

  I still feel relieved when I wake up from the nightmare, but now, it’s only because I can’t wait for it to be over.

  Three more days. I only have to do this shit for three more days.

  I drag myself out of bed and groan at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Choppy, chin-length black hair frames my pale face, the same way that yesterday’s smudged eyeliner frames my sunken blue eyes.


  Where the fuck did my hair go?

  My eyes scan the filthy countertop for a brush and land on my long black braid, still bound with an elastic band, lying in a heap next to an empty bottle of codeine cough syrup.

  Way to go, Rain. Get high and cut all your hair off. Real original.

  I try to remember what happened last night, but it’s not even a blur. It’s just gone. Like the hair that I pick up and toss onto my overflowing trash can on my way to turn on the shower.

  We’ve been advised to use our bathtubs for water storage in case our town’s supply gets cut off, but the way I see it, if we’re all going to die anyway, why not enjoy a hot shower first?

  And by enjoy, I mean cry under the stream until the water turns cold.

  I towel-dry my hack job of a hairdo, throw on a tank top and a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants, and shove my feet into an old pair of cowboy boots. I used to want to look cute when I left the house. Now, I just want to look homeless. Bronzer, beachy waves, cleavage, cutoff jeans—all those things attract attention. The bad kind. The kind that gets you robbed or raped. At least, around here.

  As much as I’d like to spend the next three days in bed with my head under the covers, I’m fucking starving, and all we have here is dried spaghetti noodles, a can of lima beans, and a bottle of expired pancake syrup. Our supplies have been running low ever since the gangs took over the neighborhood grocery stores. They’ll let you shop, but you have to be willing to pay in their preferred currency, which, when you’re a nineteen-year-old girl…

  Let’s just say I haven’t gotten that desperate yet.

  Luckily, Burger Palace is still serving. And they take cash. I just have to get in and out without drawing too much attention to myself.

  I pick the Twenty One Pilots hoodie up off my floor and resist the urge to bury my nose in the soft cotton like I used to. I know Carter’s scent is long gone, just like him—and thank God for that. The last thing I need is another reminder that my stupid boyfriend chose to spend his last few weeks on earth in Tennessee with his family instead of here with me.

  Asshole.

  I yank the sweatshirt on over my head, completing my frumpiest look yet, and stomp down the stairs. The scene in the living room is pretty much the same as it is every morning. My father is passed out in his recliner, facing the front door, with a fifth of whiskey tucked in the crook of his elbow and a shotgun across his lap. I’d probably take more pity on him if he hadn’t always been a mean-ass drunk.

  But he has.

  He’s just a paranoid mean-ass drunk now.

  I can’t even bear to look at him. I cover my mouth with the sleeve of my sweatshirt to keep from gagging on the smell of piss as I snatch his prescription bottle of hydrocodone off the table.

  I think you’ve had enough, old man.

  Popping one of the little white pills into my mouth, I pocket the rest and cross the living room.

  I grab my dad’s keys off the hook by the front door and lock the doorknob on my way out. Even though I know how to drive, I don’t bother taking my dad’s truck. The roads are so clogged with wrecked and abandoned vehicles that they’re basically impassable now.

  Traffic laws were one of the first things to go after the nightmares began. Everybody started driving a little faster, having a few extra drinks, ignoring those pesky red lights and stop signs, and forgetting that turn signals had ever existed. There were so many accidents that the tow trucks and traffic cops and ambulance drivers couldn’t keep up, so eventually, they just quit trying. The wrecks piled up and caused more wrecks, and then, when the gas stations closed, people started leaving their vehicles wherever they ran out of gas.

  Franklin Springs, Georgia, has never exactly been a classy place, but now, it looks like one big demolition derby arena. I would know. I live right off the main two-lane highway that cuts through town. In fact, the Welcome to Franklin Springs sign hangs right across the street from my house. Of course, somebody recently spray-painted a giant UC over the RAN in Franklin, so the sign reads Welcome to Fucklin Springs now.

  Can’t imagine who would do such a thing.

  The quickest way into town would be to walk along the highway about a mile or so, but it also feels like the quickest way to get raped or robbed, frumpy outfit or not, so I stick to the woods.

  As soon as my feet hit the pine needle–covered trail behind my house, I feel like I can finally relax. I inhale the humid spring air. I listen to the birds chattering away up in the trees. I try on a smile; it doesn’t feel right. And I pretend, for just a moment, that everything’s okay again, like it used to be.

  But, when I step out of the woods and feel the heat of a nearby car fire on my face, I remember.

  Life sucks, and we’re all gonna die.

  I flip my hood over my head and tiptoe around the corner of the library, watching out for the three Rs: rioters, rapists, and rabid dogs. The dogs don’t really have rabies, but so many people have died in the weeks leading up to April 23 that their pets are starting to band together and hunt as a team.

  So. Many. People.

  Images of those I’ve lost flicker behind my eyes, dim and grainy, fighting to get a feeling past the hydrocodone. But the painkiller does its job, and within moments, I’m fuzzy and numb again.

  When the coast is clear, I shove my hands in the front pocket of my hoodie to keep all my shit from falling out and scurry across the street. Cars and trucks are lurched on the curbs, overturned in the ditches, and abandoned with doors wide open in the middle of the lanes. I try not to think about how many of those cars might still have people in them as I reach out and pull open the Burger Palace door.

  When I walk in, I half-expect to see flaming banners and demons slaying people on horseback, but it’s just the entire miserable town of Franklin, crammed inside and yelling at each other.

  God, it’s loud. People who’ve lived here their whole lives are shoving fingers in each other’s faces, arguing about who was next in line. Babies are crying. Mothers are crying. Toddlers are screaming and running around like wild animals. And everybody smells like liquor.

  I sigh and begin to make my way to the back of the line when I notice that my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Frazier, is standing at a cash register. It’s her turn to order, but she’s too busy cursing out Pastor Blankenship, who’s behind her in line, to get on with it. I’m sure Mrs. Frazier wouldn’t mind if I—

  I slip in front of her at the cash register, hoping she keeps screaming long enough for me to order.

  “Hi, and welcome to Burger Palace!” A girl wearing a Burger Palace cap and polo shirt beams at me from across the counter. “May I take your order?”

  I glance down the line and notice three more employees, all sporting the same exaggerated grin.

  What the hell are they giving these people? Molly? Crystal meth?

  “Uh … yeah.” I keep my voice low. “I’ll have a soda and a large fry.”

  “Would you like to Apocasize that?”

  I blink. Twice. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Apocasize it!” She gestures up at one of the digital screens behind her, where an animated thirty-two-ounce drink and bucket of fries are holding hands and skipping around a fire. “It’s not like we have to worry about carbs anymore, am I right?”

  My eyebrows pull together. “Uh … no, I guess not.” I hear Mrs. Frazier call Pastor Blankenship a cunt behind me and know I’d better wrap it up. “Sure, whatever. How much does that cost?”

  Perky Polly on Molly taps her monitor a few times. “That’ll be forty-seven fifty.”

  “For a soda and fries?” I blurt.

  She shrugs, never letting her smile slip.

  “Jesus,” I mutter under my breath as I dig in my hoodie pocket for some cash.

  Price-gouging pieces of—

  I set the contents of my pocket on the counter to sort through them, and with that one simple, absentminded gesture, all holy hell breaks loose. Perky Polly leaps across the counter, clawing at my
little orange prescription bottle, at the exact same moment that Pastor Blankenship swipes one long arm out to grab it. Their fists collide, knocking the plastic bottle to the floor, which I manage to get a foot on before it can roll away. But, as I kneel down to pick it up, Mrs. Frazier launches herself at my back and sends us both crashing into the counter.

  The entire crowd surges forward, pinning us to the stainless steel surface as they push and pull and claw at the salvation in my fist with greedy, desperate hands. I scream as one of them rips out a chunk of my hair. I hiss as another rakes her nails across my cheek. I bite and elbow as many others as I can. Howls and grunts and frustrated curses pour out of me as I struggle against the mob. The weight of them is crushing, pushing me down. I curl into a ball on the floor, clutching the bottle to my chest with both fists as I wince and take their beating.

  Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stops. The ringing in my ears registers a moment later. Someone fired a gun. Or a freaking cannon from the sound of it.

  The room goes quiet, and the crowd freezes, but I don’t look up.

  It could be a trick. It could be somebody just trying to distract me so that somebody else can snatch my pills. It could be—

  I wince as the hot metal muzzle of a gun sears my temple.

  “I’ll be taking this.” I hear the stranger’s voice just before a firm hand wraps around my upper arm and yanks me to my feet.

  I stand in a daze and face my attackers. They don’t even have the decency to look ashamed. In fact, they don’t look at me at all. Their eyes, a few pistols, and at least one rifle are all trained on the person holding a gun to my head. They’re not mad that he’s about to kidnap me. They’re mad that he’s kidnapping my pills.

  “Who the hell are you?” Mr. Lathan, our former postman, growls from the back of the crowd. One of his eyes is squeezed shut as he stares down the length of his rifle, ready to fire.

  My abductor shrugs as he walks me backward toward the door. “Doesn’t really matter, does it?”