Franklin Highway cuts through the hundred-foot-tall Georgia pines like it’s always been there. The smooth curves and rolling hills help calm me down, much like the glowing blue lights on the instrument panel of Mr. Renshaw’s fancy new truck. There’s one red light that catches my attention, and as soon as my brain is able to process information again, I slam on the brakes and come to a screeching stop right in the middle of the highway.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, lowering the parking brake that I’ve driven over five miles without realizing was still on.
My hands shake as I wrap them around the steering wheel again, and I wonder if it’s from adrenaline or hunger. Probably both. I pull the flattened burger out of my hoodie pocket and peel back the crumpled yellow paper. It looks like roadkill, but my mouth waters at the sight of it anyway.
I devour it as I drive downhill through the darkening woods, careful to avoid all the twisted metal and broken glass that Quint’s bulldozer didn’t clear.
Quint.
I wonder how he and Lamar are doing.
Stuck at the mall with that psychopath, Q.
I bet she’s gonna make ’em scout for her now that Wes is gone.
Oh God. They won’t last five minutes outside of the mall. The Bonys are gonna eat them alive.
The truck’s headlights illuminate a charred, blackened bulldozer up ahead, right in front of the mangled, overturned eighteen-wheeler that exploded when Quint and Lamar tried to push it out of the way. Visions of yellow sparks and orange flames flicker before me in my mind. The sound of flying debris landing all around us fills the quiet cab. My heart begins to race as I remember finding Quint and Lamar, unresponsive in the wreckage, blanketed with broken glass. And when I pull off onto the Pritchard Park Mall exit ramp, I know what I have to do even before I drive over the flattened chain-link fence surrounding the mall.
The whole reason Wes was sentenced to death is because he helped me save Quint’s life.
If I leave him here, if Q makes him start scouting, all of that will be for nothing.
I turn my headlights off as I drive across the empty parking lot, pulling up to the curb directly in front of the main entrance. If I didn’t know better, I’d think this place was just as abandoned as it had been when they boarded it up ten years ago. But I do know better. There’s a whole community of armed runaways living inside, a whole farm’s worth of food growing on the roof, and a whole pecking order of power that starts with Q and ends with whoever is at the bottom dying at the hands of Bonys while trying to fulfill her list of demands.
I shut off the ignition, pocket the key, and pull the gun out of my waistband. Taking a deep breath, I look around to make sure there isn’t a murderous, spray-painted motorcycle gang coming my way. Then, I hop out of the truck, lock the doors behind me, and dash inside.
The building is dark and dank and smells like mildew. The sound of frogs croaking and crickets chirping echoes in the atrium up ahead, and the filthy, cracked floor tiles clatter under my boots. I can’t believe I considered this place home just a few days ago. I was so blinded by my fear of the outside world that I couldn’t see it for what it was.
A disgusting, disintegrating hellhole.
I creep down the darkened hallway and pull the gun out from my waistband, wishing it were a flashlight instead. I peek my head into the tuxedo rental shop where Quint and Lamar have been living ever since the accident, but no one’s home.
They’re probably in the food court, finishing dinner.
I consider waiting for them here to avoid a conflict with Q, but that thought lasts half a second before my feet turn and carry me straight toward the cafeteria.
Wes could be executed as soon as tomorrow. Time is a luxury I don’t have.
The sounds of laughing, shouting, accordion-playing, and obnoxious singing get louder and louder as I make my way through the atrium, past the crumbling fountain—with its murky water and random swamp plants—and around the broken escalators. I remember when the idea of seeing Q used to scare me to the point that I wouldn’t leave the tuxedo shop, but that feels like a lifetime ago. Back when my only goal was to avoid my own pain.
Well, there’s no avoiding it now. It’s here. It’s in my face and in my house and on my TV and buried in my backyard.
Q can’t hurt me worse than this.
Just before I walk through the food court doors, I shove the gun back into my waistband and cover it with Carter’s hoodie. I don’t want to cause trouble. I just want to get my friends and get the hell out of Pritchard Park. Forever.
The burn barrel in the center of the cavernous room is still smoking from tonight’s dinner, but nobody is manning it. Everyone is at their designated spots—Q and the runaways are at the back table, living it up like they’re at the Mad Hatter’s tea party, and the Jones brothers are sitting by themselves at a table off to the right, picking at their almost empty plates in silence. It’s weird to see the Renshaws’ table empty, but I refuse to think about them right now.
Or ever again.
I glance at Q as I tiptoe across the room. Her head is thrown back in laughter. A cloud of pot smoke swirls above her head. She doesn’t see me … yet.
But Brangelina does. Brad and Not Brad elbow each other and jerk their prominent chins at me as I tear my eyes away and focus on what I came here to get.
Quint’s face lights up as I approach their table. Where there was once a shard of glass four inches long sticking out of the side of his neck, he now sports a single bandage. The beige color stands out against his dark skin.
Lamar turns his head but doesn’t give me the same warm welcome as his brother. He glares at me like I’m just one more mother figure who abandoned them, his fifteen-year-old authority problem stronger than ever.
“What are you doing here?” Quint asks, wincing as he tries to turn his neck to look in Q’s direction.
“I’ll tell you in the truck,” I whisper, crouching down next to their table. “C’mon. Let’s go before the queen decides to—”
“Ho. Lee. Shit,” a raspy voice announces from the back of the room. “Look what the fuck the cat dragged in, y’all.”
I sigh and stand up. Turning to face Q, I hold my head up but keep my posture loose, like Wes did as he faced the judge today.
Q stands and steps onto her chair before walking across the table and leaping down to the floor with the smug swagger of an untouchable kingpin. Her baggy black men’s T-shirt and dress pants, cut off at the knee, hang from her curves like high fashion as she tosses her faded green dreadlocks over her shoulder and levels me with an amused stare.
“I knew as soon as I saw Surfer Boy on TV today that yo’ ass would come crawlin’ back to Mama Q, and here you is. Couldn’t even make it a day on ya own, huh, princess?” Q stalks toward me like a jungle cat, but I hold my ground.
“I’m not here to stay. I just came back to get my friends.”
“You mean, you came back to snatch my scouts.” Her tone turns venomous as she moves in closer.
“Q, please,” I plead. “Just let them go. Wes scouted more than enough supplies to cover all four of our shares while he was here.”
“Well, he ain’t here no more, now is he?”
“No!” I shout, feeling my face get hot. “He’s not! And if you don’t let us go, you’re gonna get to watch him die on live TV in two days!” I shove my finger in the direction of the fast-food menu screens lining the left side of the food court.
Q’s dark eyebrows shoot up as she reaches out and grabs my face with her right hand. Her chunky silver rings collide with the fading bruise on my cheekbone, and her long, sharp fingernails dig into my flushed skin.
“Bitch,” she hisses, baring her teeth, “you done fucked up fo’ da last time. You think you can come up in my castle and talk shit to the queen?” Sinking her talons even deeper into my flesh, Q drags me by the face toward the food court entrance. “Errybody say, Bye, bitch.”
“Bye, bitch!” a chorus erupts behind us, followed by laughing and clanking and banging around.
I squeal into her palm, but she only tightens her grip on my face. My skin splits in all five places where her nails stab into it. I wrap my hands around her wrist—not to pull her hand away, but to pull it closer. Q cackles as she walks backward in front of me, dragging me down the hall, completely at her mercy. I consider pulling my gun out, but if Q saw me reach for my waistband, she’d probably grab my gun and stick it down my throat before I could even get a hand on it.
I grunt in frustration and dig my own nails into her wrist.
“Ow!” She jerks my face violently, opening the wounds even more. “Calm the fuck down, ho!”
“Let me go!” I scream, but it comes out as three muffled syllables against her palm.
Suddenly, Q shoves me away from her, and I land with a surprisingly soft thud. I open my eyes and find myself in a small room, sprawled out on a mattress on the floor. Q reaches behind a counter, and with a quiet click, a few strands of battery-powered Christmas lights come on. They snake back and forth across the ceiling, illuminating the small space just enough to indicate that it must have been a tiny boutique once, maybe even a candle store or a tobacco shop. Now, it just houses a wooden counter where the register once was, a mattress on the floor covered in black bedding, and an entire wall of shelves that now hold all of Q’s personal belongings.
Out of every store in the entire mall, I never would have pictured her choosing such a cozy, modest spot to claim as her bedroom.
I scramble to my feet and reach for my gun, but Q beats me to it, pulling hers out even faster.
“Goddamn, you suck at this. Put it in the front of yo’ pants or somethin’. I coulda shot yo’ ass fifteen times by now.”
“Why haven’t you?” I snap.
“’Cause it’s mo’ fun to fuck wit’ you than it would be to mop you up.” She shoves her gun back into the pocket of her baggy shorts and smirks. “Put that thing down, bitch. You ain’t gonna shoot nobody.”
I sigh and wrestle the gun into the front of my jeans, the waistband already starting to feel a little bit tighter than usual.
Q walks behind the checkout counter and opens a cabinet underneath. “You really gon’ try to bust Surfer Boy outta jail?”
“Um … yeah. I guess.” I shrug, losing confidence by the second.
“Good. Here.” A pink bundle flies across the room, hitting me square in the chest.
I groan as I catch it, smelling a hint of cigarette smoke and hazelnut coffee wafting off the shiny fabric.
“Is this … my duffel bag?” I hold it out and look it over in the dim light. I haven’t seen it since Carter dumped it out in front of Q yesterday—God, was that only yesterday?—when he tried to bust Wes for hoarding supplies. It feels like everything must still be in here.
“Take ya shit, and go get my boy. Hawaii Five-Oh’s too damn pretty to get turned into muhfuckin’ plant food.” Q shakes her head with sincerity. “Best scout I eva had.”
I don’t even know what to say. I thought she was going to kill me—or at least beat the crap out of me—and here she is … helping me?
“What about Quint and Lamar?”
“Who, them?” Q flicks her chin at something over my shoulder.
I turn my head to find the Jones brothers standing on the other side of the hall, huddled together but still watching my back.
“I ain’t got no use for those pussies. I hope you fuckin’ take ‘em.”
“But you said—”
“Listen, bitch. I said what I said ’cause you was disrespectin’ me in front of my crew. I snatched ya face ’cause you was disrespectin’ me in front of my crew. But the truth is, the faster y’all get the fuck up out my castle, the betta. I got enough mouths to feed.”
“Thank you, Q. Really. I don’t—”
“Eh, eh, eh, eh,” she cuts me off with an aggravated wave of her hand. “Get the fuck outta here. Go on now, ’fore I change my mind and shoot yo’ ass.”
I nod at the dreadlocked lioness and turn around to claim my last remaining friends.
Quint’s and Lamar’s eyes go wide as I walk out of the queen’s lair with blood dripping down my face and a pink duffel bag in my arms.
“Y’all wanna take a ride downtown?” I ask with an exhausted smile.
“Fuck yeah!” Lamar punches the air in front of him.
“You sure about this?” Quint asks, his eyebrows pulling together as we turn and walk toward the main entrance.
“Quint,” I warn. “Without Wes, you’d be—”
“I know; I know. I’m in. I just wanna make sure you thought about—oh shit. Look!” Quint raises a finger, and I follow his stare down the hall to the main entrance doors.
Right outside, perfectly visible through all the panes of missing glass, a swarm of Bonys has descended upon the Renshaws’ truck like it’s a two-ton piñata. Hoots and hollers and glass breaking and metal smashing echo down the corridor as they take their crowbars and spray-paint cans and steel-toed boots to the massive GMC.
“No!” I scream, shoving my duffel bag into Lamar’s arms as I take off running down the hallway.
“Rain! Stop!”
But I can’t. This is the moment when Wes would chastise me for being “impulsive.” Yell at me for “not listening.” Tell me I have “a death wish.” But Wes isn’t here. And the only hope I have of getting to him before he’s not here for good is that damn truck.
Crash!
A man in a leather jacket and a motorcycle helmet with nails drilled through it from the inside out smashes the driver’s side window as his buddy in a zombified clown mask spray-paints the words DEATH TO SHEEP in two-foot-tall letters on the side of the dented white truck. A third guy wearing a Scream mask climbs up onto the hood and holds a crowbar over his head in a stabbing motion aimed at the windshield. All three of them have on black jackets with neon-orange skeleton bones spray-painted on them.
“Stop!” I scream, pushing through the exit door and waving my hands in the air. “Stop! Stop! Stop!”
My hands drop to my sides in relief when they actually do stop, but then my heart climbs into my throat as I look for an escape route when all three of their heads turn toward me like snakes spotting a mouse.
“Please,” I say, holding my hands up. “There’s a purse on the passenger seat. Take it. Take whatever you want, just … please leave the truck.”
Pinhead and the undead clown glance at each other with a chuckle, which turns into full-blown maniacal laughter as they turn and walk toward me in unison.
“Take whatever we want, huh?” the guy with the nails sticking out of his helmet asks with a snaggletooth sneer.
The rotting clown makes a slurping sound as he flicks his tongue in and out of the rubbery mouth hole on his mask.
I don’t even realize I’ve been walking backward until my heel hits one of the metal doors behind me.
“Whoa!” the guy in the Scream mask exclaims from somewhere near the truck.
His friends turn, and I watch as he pulls my dad’s Smith & Wesson revolver out of Agnes’s purse. She must have stashed it in there after she swiped it from me yesterday.
“Holy shit, bro!” Pinhead exclaims. “That looks like the gun from Dirty Harry!”
“Who the fuck carries a .44 Magnum?” The creepy clown chuckles. “Fuckin’ thing weighs, like, six pounds and only shoots six bullets!”
The guy holding the revolver lifts his mask to reveal the rounded baby face of a kid no older than Lamar. But these guys don’t treat him like a kid. They step aside so that he can approach me, eyes narrowed, gears turning.
“I know a dude who carries a gun just like this,” he says, lifting the revolver in his hand. “You know him?”
I don’t have to ask who he’s talking about. There’s a sadness in his tone, a fondness, a sense of loss that I recognize.
“Yeah.” I nod, this single ounce of compassion making my chest ache and my eyes sting.
“I saw him on TV today,” the kid says, softening his tone.
“Oh shit! The nerd?” Pinhead asks.
“No, dumbass,” the boy snaps back. “The dude from the sentencing. He was the one who used to come into the CVS all the time and pay me in hydro.”
“Ohhhh, that guy. Yeah, he cool.”
“That’s …” I clear my throat, hoping they won’t hear my voice shaking. “That’s why I need the truck. I’m gonna go to the capitol, and … I don’t know … try to …” I can’t even say it out loud. It sounds so stupid. It is stupid.
But it wouldn’t be if I had help.
“Hey … you guys could come too.” I try to smile, but it feels like a grimace. “Since you knew him. Know him, I mean. You could help me—”
The zombified clown snorts into his rubber mask as his helmeted buddy erupts into hysterics.
“Do we look like muhfuckin’ customer service to you?” The clown chuckles.
“Yeah,” Pinhead blurts out through his hyena-like laughter, clicking his heels together and giving me a salute. “Do we look like fuckin’ Captain America and shit?”
As his friends keel over, laughing, the kid shakes his head and levels me with a sympathetic stare. “Listen, I’m sorry your man caught a case, but we ain’t exactly in the helpin’ business.”
“We in the stayin’ the fuck alive bidness, and bidness is gooood.” The clown flicks his tongue at me again.
“Tell you what … I keep the bag, you keep the truck, and if anybody fucks with you”—the kid sets the purse and the gun on the hood of the GMC and picks up a can of orange spray paint one of them had tossed aside—“just tell ’em you’re reppin’ Pritchard Park.”
I stand, petrified by a potent mixture of fear and shock and gratitude, as this Bony kid spray-paints stripes across my chest and down my arms to match his.
Dropping the can to the ground, the boy grabs Mrs. Renshaw’s purse and climbs onto a motorcycle parked in front of the truck. He slides his Scream mask back into place and motions with his head for the two guys who had to be twice his age to follow.
“Dude”—the clown elbows Pinhead, and they walk over to their bikes—“did you see somebody spray-painted the highway sign to say Bitch-Ass Park?”
“Fuck yeah! I did that shit, man.”
As the Bonys cackle and pull out of the parking lot on squealing tires, I stand like a newly decorated Christmas tree and wait for Quint and Lamar to come out from their hiding places.
When the door beside me finally squeaks open, Lamar is the one who speaks first, “I just want you to know, we totally had your back, Rainy Lady.”
“A hundred percent,” Quint chimes in.
“Just shut up and get in the truck,” I snap.
“Yes, ma’am.”