I’m gonna need all the energy I can get.
Rain
I don’t know how many times in the last few weeks that I’ve woken up and had no idea where I was. I’ve woken up in my tree house, in a tree house inside of an abandoned bookstore, on the floor in my bathroom, on the floor of an abandoned mall, in Carter’s bed, and even tied up in my own garage. It usually only takes me a second or two to remember where I am and how I got there, but as I stare into the absolute darkness on this particular morning, I got nothing.
Not until I try to stretch.
My hands and feet don’t get more than a foot away from my body before they’re stopped by immovable walls. My eyes go wide as I reach out in front of me and hit a ceiling that’s just as close. My heart begins to race, and my lungs stop working altogether as I pat and slap and thrash against the box I’m locked inside of.
I kick the roof of my prison, hearing a metallic bang with every blow.
Then, I hear a similar banging coming from the other side.
“Help!” I scream, kicking harder. “I’m trapped! Help!”
“Pull the handle, dumbass!” a familiar voice calls back through the steel.
Handle?
Handle!
I reach up and feel around until I find a cord with a plastic grip attached. Then, I pull it as hard as I can. The trunk lid pops open, and morning sunlight blinds me as the events of last night come back in a rush—getting a ride from the Bonys to the capitol, getting swarmed by junkies and dealers and prostitutes as soon as they left, deciding to hide in the trunk of a wrecked Dodge Charger so that I could actually get some sleep.
Guess it worked.
As I sit up and stretch my arms over my head, I groan in appreciation. My muscles feel the kind of sore that only comes from a really good night’s sleep.
The gold dome of the capitol building looms over Lamar’s head as a steady stream of homeless, strung-out Atlantans shuffle past us on the sidewalk. Quint fits right in as he walks over from the busted blue Toyota he spent the night in. He’s been wearing the same clothes since April 23, his once-tightly-cropped hair is overgrown and matted, and for the first time in his life, he has a beard.
“Gotdamn, woman.” Lamar chuckles. “It’s, like, ten in the mornin’. I was about to bust in there to make sure you wasn’t dead.”
“Not dead yet.” I yawn. “How’d you guys sleep?”
“Like shit,” Quint and Lamar complain in unison.
Quint rolls his neck, careful not to stretch the side with the bandage too far, as Lamar sits down on the bumper next to me.
“Next time we decide to sleep in abandoned cars,” he huffs, “I’m findin’ me a Caddy or a Lincoln or somethin’ with some legroom.”
“Boy, you’re the same height as Rain,” Quint teases.
I grab my duffel bag out of the trunk and slam it shut.
“Not for long! I got them growin’ pains. I’mma be taller than Carter pretty soon!”
My stomach sours at the mention of his name. I drop the bag on the trunk lid and pull out a couple of cans of soup, each one less appetizing than the one before it, but Lamar snatches the chicken and dumplings like it’s made of solid gold.
“Dibs on the dumplin’s!”
When the Bonys offered to give us a ride down here last night, I managed to shove all the groceries I got from Huckabee Foods into my duffel bag before climbing onto the back of a perfect stranger’s dirt bike. I should have been terrified as we zigzagged through the crowded streets of Atlanta, but it just reminded me of the days I spent hugging Wes on the back of his dirt bike as we tore up the woods in Franklin Springs, looking for a bomb shelter.
Before I knew it, they were dropping us off right in front of the capitol building with nothing more than a, “Fuck ’em up, y’all,” and a pat on the back.
And here we are. We’ve got supplies, shelter, and a means of self-defense.
If only we had a damn can opener. The one I got from home was still in Agnes’s purse when it got stolen.
After scouring the abandoned cars nearby for tools and coming up empty, we end up trading a can of Mexican chicken and rice soup to an exceptionally crazy-looking homeless guy in exchange for the use of his sword.
Yeah, I said sword.
Over breakfast, the Jones brothers and I decide to start our search for Wes at the capitol building. Not for any real reason other than the fact that we are sitting right in front of it. As we walk up to the front steps, past marble life-size statues of men on horseback and toward actual, real-life men holding machine guns, I begin to get cold feet.
I stop in the middle of the cobblestone walkway and turn to face the guys.
“Uh … Rain? You okay?”
“What are we doing?” I whisper, trying to catch my breath. “The place is surrounded by cops. We can’t just walk through the front door.”
“First of all, we haven’t done anything wrong, and second of all—”
“Look!” Lamar finishes for him, pointing at something behind me.
I lift my head and follow his gaze to a small sign posted beside the front steps.
The Georgia State Capitol is open to the public for self-guided tours from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., Monday through Friday, and is closed on weekends and holidays.
I turn back to face Quint. “I don’t even know what day it is. Do you know what day it is?”
“Let’s go find out.” He smiles. “The worst they can do is tell us no.”
“Actually, the worst they can do is shoot us in the dick,” Lamar corrects.
“Boy, shut up.”
I swallow my panic, along with a mouthful of saliva, and follow them up the imposing staircase to the even more imposing guards waiting for us at the top.
“Mornin’, sir,” Quint says to the cop blocking our entrance at the top of the stairs, cranking his Southern accent all the way up to eleven. “We’ve been watchin’ the executions on TV and came all the way from Franklin Springs to see one in person. I noticed on your sign down there that y’all allow folks to tour the capitol. Is that right?”
The cop shares a glance with his buddy and then nods once.
“Well, ain’t that a treat!” Quint slaps his knee.
“Leave all weapons and personal belongings with the officer inside before going through the metal detector. Enjoy your visit,” he deadpans, eyeing my Bony sweatshirt. Then, he opens one of the heavy front doors and holds it for us.
The moment we walk over the threshold, it’s like stepping through a portal into the late 1800s. The foyer is three stories high with a sweeping marble staircase right in the center. The floors are marble. The columns are marble. The statues and busts of old white men are marble. But the doors lining every wall on all three floors? Those are dark and wooden and least eight feet tall each.
“Ma’am.” A woman’s voice snaps me out of my daze. “You need to check all bags, weapons, and outside food with me, please.”
I stare at the female officer in disbelief. It’s been so long since I’ve been somewhere with rules or uniforms—or employees for that matter. It’s actually kind of … nice.
I tuck my gun into my duffel bag and hand it to the cop. She gives me a ticket in return and motions toward the metal detector.