Twenty-five years ago, I self-published The River of Rain, a philosophical exploration of freedom, human nature, and the modern world. To mark its anniversary, I’m releasing a fully revised edition, one chapter every Wednesday. This is the novel as it was meant to be.
The first thing Victor did when he woke was look for Ariana. She wasn’t in the cave. He stepped out quickly and spotted her near the entrance of the sheltered inlet, moving toward the opening. “Where are you going?” he called.
She turned, her face flushed. “I was going to the river to take a bath. I feel icky!”
Victor smiled, then let out a short laugh as he sat down on the terrace. “That river drops off to ten feet at the edge, and the current will take you under in seconds.”
He watched as her expression shifted. She glanced out at the wide, churning water beyond the gap.
“The only place to wash around here is that pool,” he said, pointing to the basin beneath the waterfall. “Or the waterfall itself, if you want a shower.”
He laughed again.
“What?” she snapped. “I’m not getting naked in front of you. Turn around!”
She hurried toward the pool, her embarrassment plain in the way she moved. At the edge, she dipped her toes into the water, then added sharply, “And don’t touch me again. You’re not my kind of guy.”
Victor’s expression hardened. “Fine. I have things to do. I’m leaving you alone. I don’t care if you run.”
He went back into the cave and returned with his hunting gear. “Ingram!” he called to the bird.
Soon, Victor found the tree where Ariana had been two nights earlier. He had already sent Ingram ahead to search for any sign of the others she had mentioned—alive or dead.
He paused and drew in a breath. The air had that sharp, unsettled edge that came before rain.
The raven returned suddenly, screeching, circling once before veering back into the forest. Victor followed without a sound.
He moved carefully through the trees until he caught sight of a road in the distance. Drawing closer, he studied it from cover. Black skid marks scarred the pavement. Gravel along the shoulder had been churned up. Bushes were broken and bent. Pieces of metal, rubber, and glass lay scattered among the debris.
But there was no bus.
No bodies.
Victor slipped back into the trees, finding a place where he could watch without being seen. Thunder rumbled far off, low and steady. He settled in, and before long, sleep took him.
Ariana slipped out of her sweatpants and pulled off her t-shirt, shivering as the cool air touched her skin. It felt good to be rid of the filthy clothes.
She eased into the pool, wincing at the chill before it settled around her. The water was calmer here, a welcome contrast to the roar of the river beyond.
She glanced up at the darkening sky. Not good. She would have to be quick.
With nothing to wash with, she used her hands, rubbing at the grime on her arms and shoulders. She wished for something—soap, shampoo, anything at all. Instead, she worked at the dirt as if she could scrub it away by force alone.
She ducked her head beneath the waterfall, letting the stream run through her hair, then came up and splashed her face, scrubbing hard as though the filth were paint baked into her skin.
She was so intent on getting clean that she didn’t notice the first drops of rain striking the surface of the water.
In his dream, Victor moved through the woods, low and careful, until he heard it—voices carried on the wind. Footsteps, hushed talking, the faint sound of moaning. He pushed forward, eyes searching, until the trees opened just enough.
There it was.
A bus lay crumpled against a large tree, tipped onto its side. People were scattered around it. Some lay still, injured. Others sat or stood in shock, staring into nothing.
Victor raised his bow.
The air turned colder as the storm gathered. The survivors grew restless, their unease building with the wind. Victor understood why.
He drew the bowstring tight and chose his first target. The strongest one—the one most likely to protect the others. A broad-shouldered football player, older than the rest, the kind who had probably ruled the school halls.
Victor released.
The arrow struck the boy in the neck. He dropped hard, blood spraying, his body hitting the ground like a felled animal. Just like a deer, Victor thought.
The others froze, caught between disbelief and terror. He loosed another arrow. A second football player fell.
Then the panic broke. Those who could run did. Others screamed, or collapsed where they stood. A heavyset cheerleader staggered forward when an arrow struck her in the back, her fall awkward and sudden.
Victor set the bow aside and took up his spear. He hurled it at a limping man, one of the coaches, perhaps, trying to make his way down the road. The spear struck true. The man went down, writhing briefly before going still.
A strange exhilaration surged through Victor, sharp and consuming. Blood seemed to be everywhere. He could almost taste it. He drew his knife.
Time to finish it.
Above, Ingram circled beneath the gathering storm, screeching wildly, his movements frantic, almost eager.
Victor approached a man lying on the ground. He stood over him, towering, the blade catching what little light remained.
The boy whimpered, pleading for mercy, his voice breaking. Then he looked up, and something changed. “Stubbs?” he said.
The name struck like a blow.
For a moment, Victor saw him not as he was now, but as he had been. A sophomore back then, maybe a senior now. The one who had made Victor’s life unbearable. The one who had given him that name—Stubbs—and used it every day, over and over, until others joined in. Until the whole school had turned.
Victor had left because of him.
“It was just a joke!” the boy cried. “Please—don’t—”
Victor’s expression hardened. Then, slowly, he smiled. Rain began to fall, running down his face, his chest, his bare arms. He woke with a start, breathing heavily, rain washing away the sweat.
Shit.
Ariana looked up as the rain came down harder, cold and sudden. Her clothes lay in a heap on the ground, already soaked.
“Shit,” she whispered again, panic rising. She looked around for anything—anything dry—but there was nothing.
Victor could be back at any moment.
She sank deeper into the pool, the water rising to her shoulders as the rain beat down against her face. For a few minutes she stayed there, shivering, trapped between the cold water and the colder air. Finally, she forced herself out.
She stepped onto the sand, trying to cover herself as best she could, her arms tight against her body. Water ran down her skin in rivulets, dripping to the ground at her feet. She reached for her clothes—
—and froze.
Victor stood at the edge of the enclosure, having just come in at a run. He stopped short when he saw her.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Rain fell steadily between them.
Continued in Chapter 6…
M.A. Kleen 
What are your thoughts?