30- part two
I’ve never dressed so quickly. My aching body complains about the haste, but my bruises haven’t gotten the memo that this hellish adventure isn’t over yet. I dash to the window and haul myself onto the fire escape—my only way out, with Rafette inside somewhere. I step over a dead houseplant with a few dozen cigarette butts stuck in the soil and hurry down the zigzagging steps and landings. It’s not quiet business. The rickety setup rattles under my feet like a metal skeleton. But slowing down isn’t an option.
Keep to high ground…
My feet hit pavement. The ankle hurts, but I run on it anyway. The alternative will hurt more. I would give anything to trade these miserable boots for something practical.
The only advantage here is that the rain has finally stopped. I run-limp across the parking lot, feeling absurd anger toward the handful of parked cars I don’t have keys to. I run straight over the spot where I watched that drunk guy crash his car—suddenly a lifetime ago—and scramble over the flattened chain link fence. It hadn’t been repaired, thankfully. The bloodstains are long since washed away, but as I race across the empty highway, the doomed driver’s skid marks are still visible on the pavement. That would have completely freaked me out a week ago. Now, I pass with barely a glance. The memory of that night is nothing in comparison to the past twenty-four hours, or what I’m likely to see in the next twenty-four.
I dart across the four deserted lanes. The whip-whip-whip of helicopters is constant, but they are too far away to see me. They come and go, circling the epicenter of the landslide. The only thought in my head is to get away and get to higher ground, but my options are pitiful. If I had headed toward town, I’d run into the other Beekeepers, and this way, it’s just the southern foothills of Mt. Franklin. I look back at the Mountain View Apartments and choke back a cry.
Rafette stands in the open window of the apartment I just came from. I throw myself behind a shrub and try to be still. It’s a good distance, but I can’t be sure he didn’t see me. Probably watched me the whole way. My stomach drops like a stone, and the thought invades: he’s stronger, faster than you. You stand no chance.
Rafette spreads his arms and tilts his head back. He looks like he’s worshipping a god, but then, all of a sudden, his body bursts apart in what looks like a cloud. I stare, mouth gaping, and wondering what the hell just happened, when that little dark cloud writhes in a weird way and begins moving toward me.
Wait. This isn’t a cloud. It’s a swarm of bees. Rafette just turned into a swarm of bees, and he’s coming for me. Just when I thought I’d seen it all. I cover my head with a whimper and hope the pain isn’t too bad. There’s no escaping this.
Suddenly, a chorus of caws fills the air. I look up to see several dark shapes diving toward the bees. The swarm breaks up as the crows swoop at them. They’re creating confusion.
They’re giving me a chance.
I look up at Franklin and steel myself. People hike this mountain. The view’s amazing, from what I hear, but they do it from the other side—where there’s a managed trail, a gentler slope, and pretty trees to walk through. Here, it’s just loose rock layered on a slippery incline. No one hikes this, but I don’t have time to trek a couple miles around to find the trailhead. I need to go up. Now.
I scrabble over a section of mud and stones and attack the steep slope. Behind me, the crows still battle the bees. The crows’ calls have grown desperate. I can see a ledge trail cut into the bank above me—maybe one used years ago by miners or currently by animals. It’s only about ten feet away. If I can get to it, I’d make up some ground and possibly find someplace to hide. It’s a long shot at best, but the crows are back there fighting for me, so I can’t give up. I shed my disguise and played my music for a crowd. I can climb a damn hill.
Slivers of wet shale slide out beneath my feet, and my knees crash on the rocks for the umpteenth time. I land on my belly, panting. Again. I don’t have the footwear for this, or the strength. My arms shake with fatigue. My stomach lets out an empty howl.
Then, for the second time, the sound of thunder cracks through the valley.
The crows go silent. The buzzing quiets to a dull hum. It’s as if they are waiting…
A terrible thundering unsettles the rock beneath me. It vibrates, shifts, with tremors as frightening as the crack of the landslide. The loose rock and soil beneath my fingers gives way. I slide down a few hard-won feet.
I wait, ribs heaving against the rocky surface. Nothing happens. My view of Cadence is limited from here. I can’t see anything, and for a second, my body sags with relief. It’s beautiful and brief, wiped away by a sound both unfamiliar and terrifying. It is a roar, quiet and relentless. It’s the sound of water.
I look to the bend in the highway, and a cry rips from my throat. A frothing tumble of water unrolls down the four lanes like a dark, filthy ribbon. The road is a deep groove cut into the landscape, making it act as a perfect funnel. Debris I can’t identify tumbles with it, and the water is deepening, thickening with each passing second. Reece was right—the water ran for the highway—but I don’t know what else it’s hitting. Whether it’s moving through the valley or found a path over and through the rubble. Either way, Lake Serenity is free of her restraints, and she’s moving fast.
I dig in my hands and feet and scrabble upward with desperation. My feet find a slippery patch of loose rock, and I slide down more. The water is not deep, but it surges up the base of the slope and tugs at my feet. I can’t climb up the muddy mess I’m clinging to. It’s like climbing up mashed potatoes. I am no match for the water’s power. Ice cold fingers pull my legs, yanking me with terrifying force.
The swift current jerks me into its turbulent rush. In an instant, the mountain is gone. Gravity is gone. Sky and earth, shaken senseless. I’m capable of swimming, but not in this. I am nothing. A small, breakable toy being tossed around by nature’s force.
I won’t survive this. I grab one last lungful of air before being sucked under again, bumping and scraping against rocks and earth and things once owned by people. This is how I’m going to die. It’s a neutral thought. I can’t even summon emotion. It’s just simple fact.
Something big and solid slams against my back. Pain shoots up my spine, around my ribs. I gasp in a lungful of water and reach back for the rough, layered thing against my spine. Shingles. A house? With the last of my strength, I haul myself onto the object behind me. It is a roof—part of one, anyway. It’s buoyant enough to stay steady in the rushing current. I drag myself as high as I can and collapse against the peak, gasping, coughing up filthy water from aching lungs. The pain in my ribs makes me retch. Or maybe it’s all the river I choked in. Hard to tell. Harder to care.
How long did that whole thing take? Five seconds? Fifty? It felt like an eternity. I open my eyes and see a woman, facedown, being pushed along by the current. I shut my eyes and don’t open them again. That could have been me. It should have been me. At this moment, Reece should be very thankful of his ability to turn into a bird. I’d rather be a bird right now.
The ride slows. Lake Serenity is large, but it isn’t an ocean. As the water spreads out, the urgent push of it eases. The roof grinds to a halt, and now, for some reason, I feel like crying. And I would, if I had anything left. But I do have to open my eyes. Face whatever post-apocalyptic hellscape is waiting for me on the other side of my lids.
So I look, half expecting to see fires, destruction, a sea of corpses. But no. The air isn’t thick with grit here, but clear. The body I saw before is nowhere to be found. In fact, there are no bodies anywhere in sight. I push myself to sit and blink in confusion. Am I having a delusion? There’s no piles of rubble or ruined buildings. I’m not on the highway anymore. At some point, the water changed course, eased around Mount Franklin, following gravity’s pull, spreading out and dispersing. Aside from the six-or-so inches of gently moving muddy water, this cross street is intact—houses, trees, everything is as it was before the landslide. I know this because I know precisely where I am. My roof has run aground in the parking lot of Reilly’s Gas and Variety on Route 12. My heart stutters off beat. I’m close to home. I shouldn’t be surprised. Cadence is a small town. I’m not too far from the entrance to Mount Franklin Estates.
Walking a few miles uphill is unthinkable, but oh…home. I wondered if I’d see it again. I climb off the roof and stagger to my feet. My body is unevenly heavy, as if different weights are tied to my limbs. I try to take stock, figure out what might be broken. Pretty much everything hurts, but not so terribly that I’m debilitated. I’m standing, after all.
I eye the front door of Reilly’s and begin to slosh toward it. There’s food in there. Water. My throat feels coated in sand. I’m dragging my left foot a little, reducing my progress to a plodding shuffle. A hysterical laugh shudders out of my belly, unbidden.
I climb the step and push open the convenience store’s door, admitting a thin spread of water. A sour smell hits my nose, making my spirits drop. Someone’s been through here. A glance to the right shows empty refrigerator cases with doors hanging open. A smashed gallon of milk spreads sticky and white over the floor. So much for water. That was surely what was looted first. My thoughts focus on the aisles. Food. Something must still be left.
I turn at the sound of a light moan. A girl around my age lies on the floor, folded into a ball, her back to me. Her hair is caked with blood and dirt. I hurry to her side and lay a hand on her shoulder. The girl whimpers and curls tighter. There are bruises up her bare arms. Her hands clutch at her torn T-shirt, printed with the words Reilly’s Variety across the chest. She must be a worker here.
“Shh,” I soothe. “I’m not here to hurt you. Can you sit up?”
The girl hesitantly rolls. Both her eyes are swollen—one is blackened—but she can open the other one a bit. “They’re still here,” she whispers. Her eye turns toward the back room.
A loud crash sounds from there, followed by rowdy, feverish laughter. At least two males, as far as I can tell. My heart races. Fresh fear sweeps adrenaline into my wiped-out system. “They did this to you?”
The girl just closes her eye. The rest of her face is streaked with dirt, puffed and purpled with bruises. A gash runs from her eyebrow into her hair. The men in the back room laugh again. It’s a high, demented sound. Not sane. I would bet good money that they have been stung.
I slide an arm under her and gently lift her to sitting. “Can you walk?”
Her brow knits. “If I could walk, do you think I would still be here?”
Her reply is so snappish, I pause. Then it’s so familiar, I almost drop her like a rock. Only one person has that voice. “Kiera Shaw?”