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Make that several engines.
“Shit,” Wes spits, tightening his grip on my hand.
“Wes?”
“Bonys.”
My eyes snap open and jerk in the direction of the break in the fence and then back up the ramp the way we came.
“We gotta run for it,” Wes growls.
“It’s too far!”
“Now, Rain!”
“No! Just … just … just put this on!” I take the can of spray paint in his hand and swap it out with my oversize Franklin Springs High sweatshirt.
Wes glances over my shoulder toward the sound of the rumble, but he doesn’t argue. He yanks the hoodie on over his head in the time it takes to suck in one more steadying breath. It fits him perfectly, hugging his broad chest and shoulders, and I get to work, spraying neon-orange ribs across the front and back. Wes flips the hood over his head and pulls it down low to cover his eyes.
Tossing the empty can over the barbed wire, I stand with my back against the fence and pull Wes in front of me so that I’m mostly hidden from view.
“Kiss me!” I beg as five shiny street bikes crest the hill at the end of the street. “Like I don’t want it!”
Wes doesn’t hesitate, grabbing me by the throat and shoving his thigh between my legs. He angles his back toward the oncoming threat as he plunges his tongue into my mouth, and as much as I want to sag against the fence and let him, I have to pretend to fight him off.
I don’t bother screaming—they won’t hear me over the roar of those engines—but I make a show of shoving his immoveable chest and trying to push off the fence with my boot as he holds me in place. Wes rips my tank top halfway down the front and grabs my breast as the first motorcycle passes.
And, against my better judgment, I look.
The crew of madmen seems to move in slow motion as they take in the show. Their once-chromed-out choppers and slick black street bikes have been spray-painted with neon skulls and bones and bloody, flaming body parts just like the leather jackets and hoodies they wear. Each man has on a helmet or mask more terrifying than the one before it. Mohawked, blood-spattered, Day-Glo skulls eye us up and down as they drive by—machetes, nail-filled baseball bats, and sawed-off shotguns at the ready.
They sneer at me as I scream—for real this time—shoving Wes off of me just enough to break out into a full-on sprint.
Satisfied with our performance, the Bonys take off down the road as Wes chases after me, catching me by the wrist and spinning me around in his arms. He kisses me as furiously as he did the day I pulled him out of the Renshaws’ burning farmhouse.
I might know all of Carter’s smiles, but I’m quickly learning all of Wes’s kisses.
This is his post-near-death-experience kiss.
I hate this kiss.
I hate the Bonys.
I hate this new world.
But mostly, I hate how good the sun feels on my skin right now because, once we go back inside, I’m pretty sure I’m never going to feel it again.
May 5
Wes
“Bailiff, bring out the accused!”
Governor Fuckface is turning into more and more of a glorified game show host with every broadcast. He sweeps his ham hock of an arm out to gesture toward the five convicts being ushered out of the capitol building—each one bound, gagged, and wrapped in a matching burlap jumpsuit—as if he were Vanna White, revealing today’s grand prize on Wheel of Fortune.
I shovel a forkful of eggs into my mouth and wash it down with boiled rainwater as I watch them parade the guilty past the bloodsucking saplings that have already been planted. There must have been another execution while we were out yesterday because now there are three baby oak trees growing in Plaza Park.
In a few minutes, it will be eight.
