In one terrifying night, the peaceful community of Creek’s Cause turns into a war zone. No one under the age of eighteen is safe. Chance Rain and his older brother, Patrick, have already fended off multiple attacks from infected adults by the time they arrive at the school where other young survivors are hiding.
Most of the kids they know have been dragged away by once-trusted adults who are now ferocious, inhuman beings. The parasite that transformed them takes hold after people turn eighteen—and Patrick’s birthday is only a few days away.
Determined to save Patrick’s life and the lives of the remaining kids, the brothers embark on a mission to uncover the truth about the parasites—and what they find is horrifying. Battling an enemy not of this earth, Chance and Patrick become humanity’s only hope for salvation.
The Rains is the first young adult page-turner from New York Times bestselling author Gregg Hurwitz—available October 18th from Tor Teen.
It was past midnight. I was still working in the barn when I heard the rolling door lurch open. I started and lost my grip on a block of hay. It tumbled off the baling hooks.
It was creepy out here with the wind whipping across the roof, ﬂuttering loose shingles. Bits of hay strobed through the shafts of light from the dangling overheads, and the old beams groaned beneath the load of the loft. I was plenty tough, sure, but I was also a high-school sophomore and still got spooked more often than I’d want to admit.
I turned to the door, my ﬁsts clenched around the wooden handles of the baling hooks. Each hook is a wicked metal curve that protrudes about a foot from between the knuckles of my hand. The barn door, now open, looked out onto darkness. The wind lashed in, cutting through my jeans and ﬂannel shirt, carrying a reek that overpowered the scent of hay. It smelled as if someone were cooking rotten ﬂesh.
I clutched those baling hooks like a second-rate Wolverine, cleared my throat, and stepped toward the door, doing my best to deepen my voice. “Who’s there?”
Patrick swung into sight, his pump-action shotgun pointed at the ﬂoor. “Chance,” he said, “thank God you’re okay.”
My older brother’s broad chest rose and fell, his black cowboy hat seated back on his head. He’d been running, or he was scared.
But Patrick didn’t get scared.
“Of course I’m okay,” I said. “What are you talking about?” I let the baling hooks drop so they dangled around my wrists from the nylon loops on the handles. Covering my nose with a sleeve, I stepped outside. “What’s that smell?”
The wind was blowing west from McCafferty’s place or maybe even the Franklins’ beyond.
“I don’t know,” Patrick said. “But that’s the least of it. Come with me. Now.”
I turned to set down my gear on the pallet jack, but Patrick grabbed my shoulder.
“You might want to bring the hooks,” he said.
I should probably introduce myself at this point. My name is Chance Rain, and I’m ﬁfteen. Fifteen in Creek’s Cause isn’t like ﬁfteen in a lot of other places. We work hard here and start young. I can till a ﬁeld and deliver a calf and drive a truck. I can work a bulldozer, break a mustang, and if you put me behind a hunting riﬂe, odds are I’ll bring home dinner.
I’m also really good at training dogs.
That’s what my aunt and uncle put me in charge of when they saw I was neither as strong nor as tough as my older brother.
No one was.
In the place where you’re from, Patrick would be the star quarterback or the homecoming king. Here we don’t have homecoming, but we do have the Harvest King, which Patrick won by a landslide. And of course his girlfriend, Alexandra, won Harvest Queen.
Alex with her hair the color of wheat and her wide smile and eyes like sea glass.
Patrick is seventeen, so Alex is between us in age, though I’m on the wrong end of that seesaw. Besides, to look at Patrick you wouldn’t think he was just two years older than me. Don’t get me wrong—years of ﬁeld work have built me up pretty good, but at six-two, Patrick stands half a head taller than me and has grown-man strength. He wanted to stop wrestling me years ago, because there was never any question about the outcome, but I still wanted to try now and then.
Sometimes trying’s all you got.
It’s hard to remember now before the Dusting, but things were normal here once. Our town of three thousand had dances and graduations and weddings and funerals. Every summer a fair swept through, the carnies taking over the baseball diamond with their twirly-whirly rides and rigged games. When someone’s house got blown away in a tornado, people pitched in to help rebuild it. There were disputes and affairs, and every few years someone got shot hunting and had to get rushed to Stark Peak, the closest thing to a city around here, an hour and a half by car when the weather cooperated. We had a hospital in town, better than you’d think—we had to, what with the arms caught in threshers and ranch hands thrown from horses—but Stark Peak’s where you’d head if you needed brain surgery or your face put back together. Two years ago the three Braaten brothers took their mean streaks and a juiced-up Camaro on a joyride, and only one crawled out of the wreckage alive. You can bet Ben Braaten and his broken skull got hauled to Stark Peak in a hurry.
Our tiny town was behind on a lot. The whole valley didn’t get any cell-phone coverage. There was a rumor that AT&T was gonna come put in a tower, but what with our measly population they didn’t seem in a big hurry. Our parents said that made it peaceful here. I thought that made it boring, especially when compared to all the stuff we saw on TV. The hardest part was knowing there was a whole, vast world out there, far from us. Some kids left and went off to New York or La. to pursue big dreams, and I was always a bit envious, but I shook their hands and wished them well and meant it.
Patrick and I didn’t have the same choices as a lot of other kids.
When I was six and Patrick eight, our parents went to Stark Peak for their anniversary. From what we learned later, there was steak and red wine and maybe a few martinis, too. On their way to the theater, Dad ran an intersection and his trusty Chrysler got T-boned by a muni bus.
At the funeral the caskets had to stay closed, and I could only imagine what Mom and Dad looked like beneath those shiny maple lids. When Stark Peak PD released their personals, I waited until late at night, snuck downstairs, and snooped through them. The face of Dad’s beloved Timex was cracked. I ran my thumb across the picture on his driver’s license. Mom’s fancy black clutch purse reeked of lilac from her cracked-open perfume bottle. It was the smell of her, but too strong, sickly sweet, and it hit on memories buried in my chest, making them ring like the struck bars of a xylophone. When I opened the purse, a stream of pebbled windshield glass spilled out. Some of it was red.
Breathing the lilac air, I remember staring at those bloody bits scattered on the ﬂoorboards around my bare feet, all those pieces that could never be put back together. I blanked out after that, but I must have been crying, because the next thing I remember was Patrick appearing from nowhere, my face pressed to his arm when he hugged me, and his voice quiet in my ear: “I got it from here, little brother.”
I always felt safe when Patrick was there. I never once saw him cry after my parents died. It was like he ran the math in his head, calm and steady as always, and decided that one of us had to hold it together for both of us, and since he was the big brother, that responsibility fell to him.
Sue-Anne and Jim, my aunt and uncle, took us in. They lived just four miles away, but it was the beginning of a new life. Even though I wanted time to stay frozen like it was on Dad’s shattered Timex, it couldn’t, and so Patrick and I and Jim and Sue-Anne started over.
They didn’t have any kids, but they did the best they could. They tried their hardest to ﬁgure out teacher conferences and the Tooth Fairy and buying the right kind of toys at Christmas. They weren’t cut out to be parents but they did their damnedest, and at the end of the day that’s all that really matters. Patrick and I loved them for it, and they loved us right back.
That doesn’t mean my brother and I didn’t have to grow up in a hurry. There was plenty of work to be done around the ranch and more bellies to ﬁll. Jim had a couple hundred heads of cattle, and he bred Rhodesian ridgebacks and shipped them off across the country as guard dogs at two thousand a pop. Sue-Anne made sure to have hot food on the table three times a day, and she read to us every night. I vanished into those stories—the Odyssey, Huck Finn, The Arabian Nights. As we got older, Patrick grew tired of it all, but I kept on, raiding the bookshelf, reading myself to sleep with a ﬂashlight under the covers. I think I hid inside those ﬁctional worlds because they kept me from thinking about how much I’d lost in the real one.
By his early teens, Patrick was clearly a force to be reckoned with. He and I didn’t look much alike—strangers were usually surprised to ﬁnd out we were brothers. Not that I was ugly or weak or anything, but Patrick… well, he was Patrick. He got my dad’s wide shoulders and good looks, and he could ride herd and rope cattle alongside the best ranch hand, chewing a piece of straw and never breaking a sweat. The girls lost their mind over who got to wear his cowboy hat during lunchtime.
Until Alex. Then it was only her.
I didn’t like math so much, but I loved English and science. I didn’t have Patrick’s skills as a cattleman, but I wasn’t afraid of hard work. I was pretty good behind a hunting riﬂe, almost as good as Uncle Jim himself, but the one thing I was better at than anyone was raising those puppies. Ridgebacks are lion hunters from Africa, the most fearless and loyal creatures you’ll ever meet. Whenever we had a new litter, I’d play with the pups, training them up from day one. By the time they hit two months, they’d follow me anywhere, and by the time they were half a year old, I could put them on a sit-stay and they wouldn’t move if you tried to drag them from their spot. It was hard ﬁtting in all the work around school, but somehow I managed, and if there’s one thing Dad taught me, it’s that the Rains don’t complain.
When it came time to stack the hay, Patrick always ﬁnished his part early and offered to help me on my share, but I made sure I ﬁnished it myself. Even if it was at the end of a long day. Even if it meant I had to stay up past midnight, working alone in the barn.
Which was what I was doing after the Dusting, the ﬁrst time I’d seen Patrick nervous for as far back as my memory could stretch.
Considering everything that had been going on lately, I couldn’t blame him.
But hang on. Let me start where it makes sense, one week ago. Not that any of it makes sense, but if I lay out some of what I learned later, maybe you’ll be able to keep up.
I do need you to keep up.
Your life depends on it.
It began with a hard, slanting rain. And soon there was ﬁre, too, but it wasn’t ﬁre. Not really. It was the pieces of Asteroid 9918 Darwinia breaking up above Earth, ﬂaming as they entered the atmosphere.
It exploded twenty-four kilometers up, a bright ﬂash that turned night into day. There was a boom above Creek’s Cause and a wave of heat that evaporated the drops right out of the air. Jack Kaner’s garret win dow blew out, and the rickety shed behind Grandpa Donovan’s house fell over. The surge of warmth dried the pastures and the irrigated soil.
Fist-size fragments kicked up the powdered dirt in the ﬁeld lying fallow behind Hank McCafferty’s place, embedding themselves deep below the earth. A late winter had pushed back harvest, and so the ﬁelds were still full. McCafferty had been working sweet corn and barley through the fall, but this one empty plot, depleted by a recent planting, had been layered with manure to set up a double crop of alfalfa and oats for the next summer.
The soil was rich, primed for roots to take hold.
Or something else.
One of the meteorites struck Pollywog Lake at the base of the rocky ridge and burned off a foot of water. Another rocketed straight through Grandpa Donovan’s cow, leaving a Frisbee-width channel through the meat as clean as a drill. The cow staggered halfway across the marshy back meadow before realizing it was dead and falling over. The coyotes ate well that night.
We came out of our farmhouses and ranch homes, stared at the sky in puzzlement, then went back inside, ﬁnishing the dinner dishes, watching TV, getting ready for bed. Living in a land of tornadoes and deadly storms, we were used to Mother Earth’s moods.
We’d learn soon enough that Mother Earth had nothing to do with this.
Creek’s Cause was originally called Craik’s Cause, after James Craik, George Washington’s personal physician. Sometime in the early 1800s, someone screwed up transcribing a map, and the wrong name took hold. But to this day we shared a pride in the purpose for which our town was named. After all, Craik had kept Washington healthy through the Revolutionary War and the following years, remaining at the ﬁrst president’s side until he ﬁnally died on that damp December night.
Standing there in the sudden heat of the night air, blinking against the afterimpressions of those bursts of ﬂame in the sky, we couldn’t have known that more than two hundred years later the opening salvo of a new revolutionary war had been ﬁred.
And that my brother and I would ﬁnd ourselves on the front lines.
The rains continued through the night, pounding the earth, turning our roofs into waterfalls. At the edge of town, Hogan’s Creek overﬂowed its banks, drowning the Widow Latrell’s snow peas until minnows swam shimmering ﬁgure eights through the vines.
Since McCafferty’s farm was on higher ground, his crops weren’t deluged. Narrow, bright green shoots poked up from the moist soil of his fallow ﬁeld, thickening into stalks by the third day. At the top of each was a small bud encased in a leafy sheath. McCafferty lifted his trucker’s cap to scratch his head at them, vowing to borrow Charles Franklin’s undercutter to tear those strange-looking weeds from his land, but Franklin was not a generous man, and besides, there was corn to harvest, and so it waited another day and then another.
The rains ﬁnally stopped, but the stalks kept growing. The townsfolk went to check out the crazy growths rising from the soil where the meteorites had blazed deep into the ground. Patrick and I even stopped by one day after school to join the gawkers. By the end of the workweek, the stalks were taller than Hank himself. On the seventh day they towered over ten feet.
And then they died.
Just like that, they turned brittle and brown. The pods, which had grown to the size of corncobs, seemed to wither.
Some of the neighbors stood around, spitting tobacco into the dirt and saying it was indeed the damnedest thing, but there was nothing to do until McCafferty ﬁnished his harvest and tamped down his pride enough to ask Franklin for the loan of that undercutter.
McCafferty was at the bottle that night again after dinner. I can picture the scene like I was there—him in his rickety rocker on his rickety porch, the cool night ﬁlled with the sweet-rot smell of old wood. He had put his true love in the ground three summers ago, and you could see the grief in the creases of his face. His newer, younger wife fought like hell with his two kids, turning his house into a battleground, and he hid in the ﬁelds by day and in the bars by night. On this night he was rocking and sipping, letting a sweet bourbon burn away memories of his dear departed Lucille, when over the sound of the nightly bedtime squabble upstairs he heard a faint popping noise.
At ﬁrst he probably thought it was a clearing of his ears or the drink playing tricks on him. Then it came again, riding the breeze from the ﬁelds, a gentle popping like feather pillows ripping open.
A moment later he tasted a bitter dust coating his mouth. He spit a gob over the railing, reached through his screen door, grabbed his shotgun, and lumbered down the steps toward the ﬁelds. From an upstairs window, his son watched the powerful beam of a ﬂashlight zigzag across the ground, carving up the darkness.
The bitter taste grew stronger in McCafferty’s mouth, as if a waft of pollen had thickened the air. He reached the brink of his fallow ﬁeld, and what he saw brought him up short, his mouth gaping, his boots sinking in the soft mud.
A dried-out pod imploded, releasing a puff of tiny particles into the air. And then the seven-foot stalk beneath it collapsed, disintegrating into a heap of dust above the soil. He watched as the neighboring pod burst, its stalk crumbling into nothingness. And then the next. And the next. It was like a haunted-house trick—a ghost vanishing, leaving only a sheet ﬂuttering to the ground. The weeds collapsed, row after row, sinking down into the earth they’d mysteriously appeared from.
At last the pollen grew too strong, and he coughed into a ﬁst and headed back to his bottle, hoping the bourbon would clear his throat.
Early the next morning, McCafferty awoke and threw off the sheets. His belly was distended. Not ribs-and-coleslaw-ata-Fourth-of-July-party swollen, but bulging like a pregnant woman ﬁve months in. His wife stirred at his side, pulling the pillow over her head. Ignoring the cramps, he trudged to the closet and dressed as he did every morning. The overalls stretched across his bulging gut, but he managed to wiggle them up and snap the straps into place. He had work to do, and the hired hands weren’t gonna pay themselves.
As the sun climbed the sky, the pain in his stomach worsened. He sat on the motionless tractor, mopping his forehead. He could still taste that bitter pollen, feel it in the lining of his gut, even sense it creeping up the back of his throat into his head.
He knocked off early, a luxury he had not indulged in since his wedding day, and dragged himself upstairs and into a cold shower. His bloated stomach pushed out so far that his arms could barely encircle it. Streaks ﬁssured the skin on his sides just like the stretch marks that had appeared at Lucille’s hips during her pregnancies. The cramping came constantly now, throbbing knots of pain.
The water beat at him, and he felt himself grow foggy. He leaned against the wall of the shower stall, his vision smearing the tiles, and he sensed that pollen in his skull, burrowing into his brain.
He remembered nothing else.
He did not remember stepping from the shower.
Or his wife calling up to him that dinner was on the table.
Or the screams of his children as he descended naked to the ﬁrst ﬂoor, the added weight of his belly creaking each stair.
He couldn’t hear his wife shouting, asking what was wrong, was he in pain, that they had to get him to a doctor.
He was unaware as he stumbled out into the night and scanned the dusk-dimmed horizon, searching out the highest point.
The water tower at the edge of Franklin’s land.
Without thought or sensation, McCafferty ambled across the ﬁelds, walking straight over crops, husks cutting at his legs and arms, sticks stabbing his bare feet. By the time he reached the tower, his ribboned skin was leaving a trail of blood in his wake.
With nicked-up limbs, he pulled himself off the ground and onto the ladder. He made his painstaking ascent. From time to time, a blood-slick hand or a tattered foot slipped from a rung, but he kept on until he reached the top.
He crawled to the middle of the giant tank’s roof, his elbows and knees knocking the metal, sending out deep echoes. And then he rolled onto his back, pointing that giant belly at the moon. His eyes remained dark, unseeing.
His chest heaved and heaved and then was still.
For a long time, he lay there, motionless.
There came a churning sound from deep within his gut. It grew louder and louder.
And then his body split open.
The massive pod of his gut simply erupted, sending up a cloud of ﬁne, red-tinted particles. They rose into the wind, scattering through the air, riding the current toward his house and the town beyond.
What happened to Hank McCafferty was terrible.
What was coming for us was far, far worse.
Excerpted from The Rains © Gregg Hurwitz, 2016