Hurricane Kiss by Deborah Blumenthal Page B

HOURS TO LANDFALL
    JILLIAN
    We’ve entered a tomb. Hot, stagnant air envelops us in the darkness. It’s hard to breathe. River slams the door and grimaces, nearly pitching to the floor.
    â€œWhat, what is it?”
    He leans over, bracing himself with his hands on his knees, his mouth open. He takes a deep breath, his eyes closed. “Just … dizzy.” When he finally stands up again he rubs his shoulder and tries to move it. “Ow, God,” he moans, squeezing his eyes shut, but he manages to stay upright. He takes a deep breath and keeps walking.
    Is it broken? Fractured? It has to be bad, considering the way he threw himself against the door. How can I help him? What can I do? I follow him along the dark hallway to the gym, our mud-soaked sneakers squishing with every step, as if an invisible tribe of ghouls were trailing us.
    I’m struck by the absolute silence. The surround-sound conversations, laughter, shrieking voices, band rehearsal music, locker doors slamming—all of the cacophony of everyday school sounds—are absent now.
    â€œBack in school.”
    River’s voice startles me. The bitter edge. His eyes search the corridor like a cop ready for whatever might come at him from behind a closed door. I follow him into the gym and then behind it into the locker room. He flicks a light switch. The neon lights go on with a low buzzing sound.
    â€œStill power,” he says. “Unreal.”
    He walks along the rows of blood red lockers, and then stops and falls silent, staring at one in front of him with no lock.
    â€œWas that yours?”
    He doesn’t seem to hear me. A moment later he kicks the door and then kicks it again, harder, cursing under his breath.
    â€œRiver, stop ! You’re scaring me.”
    He turns to me abruptly, as if he realizes for the first time that I’m there.
    â€œLet’s get out of here. We can go to the gym and get mats,” he says. “We need to sleep.”
    But first we stop at the water cooler, taking cup after cup of water until we can’t drink any more. The water cooler is nearly empty when we stop. River stares ahead for a few seconds, lost in thought, before turning away. As he’s about to shut the lights, he gives the locker room a last glance over his shoulder.
    We stop in the bathrooms and then go to the gym. Shafts of gray late-afternoon light filter through the gym windows. They reach almost to the ceiling, maybe fifteen feet high, protected by metal gates. Even if the glass shatters, only splinters can get through.
    River pulls two blue plastic mats from the top of a pile against the wall and tosses them on the wooden floor near the wall farthest from the window.
    â€œI’m wiped,” he says, dropping his backpack. He kicks off his sneakers and slides his wet T-shirt over his head, then unbuttons his muddy jeans, yanking them down and stepping out of them. His shoulder is already streaked red and purple like a tattoo gone wrong. I look away. He leaves on his shorts, and then spreads his clothes on the floor to dry. “When we get up we can hunt for food.”
    River eases down and stretches out on the mat. He turns away from me, groaning when his shoulder touches the mat. He needs ice, painkillers, but we have nothing, and we’re too exhausted now to search anyhow. I peel off my wet, mud-caked shorts, but leave my tank top on. Every muscle inside me is quivering, too stressed and exhausted to relax. I turn one way and then the other, my hip bone jabbing into the hard mat, skin sticking to the plastic. My deodorant gave up hours ago.
    I lie there with my hands tucked under my head. How will I know when we’re in the worst of it? Will the walls crash in, or is the building strong enough to withstand it?
    As if in answer, the wind whistles at a higher pitch as it forces itself through the branches of the trees. Crack! An arm of a tree breaking off. I sit up, on high alert, pressing my