Rain From Hell || ONC 2024

Chapter Five

{Wayne's POV}

"Oh my God!" Ross's face turned beet red. "He isn't that bad."

I titled my head to the side, contemplating exactly what point Ross had popped the balloon of social anxiety, and joined Scott's conversation about people, especially preppers. "Your brother is so paranoid, Like can't leave the house before checking the oven is off, five times, kind of paranoid."

"Says the guy whose parents have an entire storage room of canned goods and those military ration things."

"An MRE? They taste like literal horse–"

"We did not need to know that!" Ross jabbed Scott with his elbow.

Clicking my against the roof of my mouth, I drew a short breath. "The better question: why do you know what that tastes like?"

Both of their faces burned crimson.

I howled with laughter, turning a few heads and deepening their red-faced predicament. They could have blended into the walls by now.

The next few seconds passed, me choking back my laughter and wiping tears from my eyes. "I don't even want to know," I finally said, my composure lurking somewhere nearer.

"You don't want to. That I assure you of." If Scott had glasses, I would have bet he would be adjusting them against the bridge of his nose now. "It's not the kind of adventure that should be repeated. Some things never should be."

"Okay, okay. But there has to be some merit in—"

A squeak pierced my ears. I coiled back against the wall—even more ungraceful than when Gemma last saw me before I got on my flight.

"Attention! Attention please!" The guy who had been leading the national conference information sessions stood on the stage, megaphone in hand. He rubbed his short black beard and ran a hand through his equally short hair. The next second, the megaphone was soaring across the stage into a woman's hands.

Almost immediately, the chatter died away.

I could pop bubble wrap in here and everyone would notice. And I think I actually have bubble wrap in my... I fought the urge to pull the plastic packaging from my new water bottle out.

"We are sorry for the inconvenience caused by the delay, especially for those with travel plans." I nodded along with the guy speaking. Yeah, almost eight hours now according to the analog clocks on the wall. "The UnitiyConnect Initiative is actively arranging transportation services to ensure a safe and efficient travel experience. We appreciate your patience and cooperation. While we await further updates, food has been delivered. We will call you by row to get some. Does anyone have any questions/?"

Multiple hands shot up and murmuring within the crowd skyrocketed. Ross and Scott shared another look, then nodded at each other, whatever that was supposed to mean.

The guy onstage pointed at a kid in the front. "Why can't we catch our flights?"

A chorus of similar questions and agreements swarmed the room, traveling in an easy descent to the front.

Waving his hands, the guy cleared his throat, looked at the woman beside him, and nodded at no one. "You may have been wondering why your phones haven't been working..." With this start of a sentence, the guy appeared to be regretting his life choices. "This is the same reason we are unable to arrange transportation on flights, trains, or nearly any model of car with electrical components."

"Why?" the same kid at the front shouted. "What happened?"

The crowd roared. Teens my age with varying obsessions with archery stared at the guy like he was the next target of their arrows.

Deep down, my heart ached for the man on the stage. What did he do to deserve this? To tell us all this? What we already knew but didn't want to believe? Because, in all reality, I'm sure we all knew, deep, deep down. We just needed to grasp the string.

Hesitation encased the man onstage. He rubbed his face and adjusted his black suit around his stocky form like a blanket of protection. "According to our sources... Our sources tell us the United States has declared war on... declared war on..."

The woman with the megaphone stepped beside the man, blue eyes piercing the crowd. She cleared her throat, yelling over the constant uneasy mutters. "There have been multiple nuclear bombs dropped upon the east coast. We do not know yet where, but we, the members of the UnityConnect Initiative, are determined to maintain decorum and stability within our community. There is nothing to currently worry about as we know we have constant surveillance of certain districts. Enjoy the food. We will have more updates shortly about how we are to proceed."

Her black hair trailed behind her as she hopped off the stage. Those seated on the floor, like myself, scooted out of her path.

Standing to my full height again, I came face to face with her. "Excuse me, Miss!"

"Yes." She gestured to me.

Scott raised a brow at me, and Ross leaned forward, peering at my probably indecisive looking face.

"I was curious" —I started walking, the hungry crowd of teens moving with me— "Do you know where the... bombs have dropped?"

The words fell from my mouth like a weight attached to the base of a balloon. Seamlessly, the balloon drifted back and forth, idly, as if waiting to be popped.

A deep intake of breath was required, or the woman made it seem like it. After all, it was a repeated question with a different answer unlikely. "We are piecing news together, but it is difficult. UnityConnect will have the information back to you as soon as possible. Thank you for your patience."

She didn't leave another gap in the question answer session, striding to the door faster than I anticipated. I barely caught the door with her exit, slipping through the crowd making a much slower trek to the outside world. Or, I guess not outside world, outside this world.

Back of her pantsuit clad back sticking out from the land of casually dressed teens, it was simple, stupid easy to spot her retreating form. She waltzed out the wide area and glass door with undeniable purpose. I guess it's because she had a ride, a car that looked like it should be locked up in a museum, probably vintage, red with a metal body round in all the weird places someone in the 1940s might find attractive. It had to be almost one hundred years old, that, or a replica or something.

The engine started, an obnoxious roar no car or truck or anything of this day and age would make. It was an awful, grating sound, and I wished for it to cease immediately. No car would ever be manufactured that way.

And like any other dream out of a movie, the ancient dinosaur car was off, the woman behind the dash, wheeling away with any hope I might have gained in the span of ten minutes. She may have brought us food, but my hunger couldn't be resolved. No, not yet.

A putrid smell invaded my nostrils.

To my left, card tables lined with boxes upon boxes of food laid. Preservatives, peanut butter, protein bars, granola, all things that would fight to their death before spoiling.

Except on one table most everyone flocked. That is where the aggressor sat, in all its glory, an egg salad sandwich. The most disgusting smelling item, the most appetizing looking of them all.

I inhaled the smell deeply, a million questions zipping through my brain, no answers at the ready, and walked forward, toward the blank faced and worry lined crowd.