Raging Sea

by Michael Buckley

  “I hate this,” I say, to both of them.

  They meet my eyes but then look away.

  “What is ‘this’ you speak of?” Arcade says.

  “The way neither of you are talking to me!”

  “I never speak to you, Lyric Walker, because the things you say make me angry and tempt me to kill you,” Arcade says as she stands. She walks off into the brush. “Do not disturb me. I am sharpening my Kala and praying.”

  “So let’s talk,” I say to Bex.

  Bex turns to watch Arcade settle in the dust, her back to us.

  “She prays to Fathom,” she tells me.

  “She thinks he’s dead,” I mutter.

  “Everyone grieves in their own way,” Bex scolds.

  “We’re all grieving,” I say, but it sounds selfish, and I can tell she hears it that way too. Bex lost the love of her life, then her mother. My family might be in danger, but they are still alive as far as I know.

  “I’m grieving for you,” she says.

  “Bex!”

  “What? Isn’t that your plan? Suicide?”

  “I don’t want to die!”

  “Good to hear,” she says. “Maybe you should act like it.”

  Tires screech, and we turn our attention to the road. A sheriff’s car has come to a skidding halt, and its driver is staring at us. I can see she’s talking on her radio. We’ve had this happen to us a few times: an officer gives us a look that lasts a little too long, but never like this. I can see the panic on her face.

  Bex shouts for Arcade while I slowly gather our things and put them back into the pack.

  “If she gets out of the car, run,” Bex demands.

  “Bex—”

  “I said run!” she shouts. “Split up and we’ll meet back here at dawn.”

  “If she gets out of her car, she will regret it,” Arcade says as she marches in our direction.

  “Just don’t!” Bex begs. “She’s not your enemy. She’s a cop trying to keep people safe. You don’t need to attack her.”

  “Nothing must stop us, Bex Conrad.”

  “Just calm down. Maybe she’ll keep going if we don’t look like we’re freaking out over here,” I say, but I’m worried Arcade’s right. If the sheriff gets out of her car, she’s going to arrest us. She might even fire at us if we run. In fact, she’s probably calling for backup right now so other cops can fire at us too. Attacking her might be our only hope of escape.

  The officer gets out of the car with her gun drawn. She’s a short woman, slightly round, with a broad brown face. Her eyes are huge and panicked, and her hands tremble. “Put your hands on your head right now or I will shoot!”

  Bex does as she’s told, like a normal person would do, so I take my cues from her, if reluctantly. Arcade, however, refuses and in defiance steps toward the cop.

  “Arcade—”

  “You will not stop us, woman,” Arcade growls. “Put your gun down and go, or there will be a confrontation.”

  “Please get in your car and drive away,” Bex begs.

  “I know who you girls are,” the cop says. “I know what you are.”

  “You don’t understand what’s going on,” I tell her. “You’ve been told a story about us, and it’s not true.”

  “I don’t need your life story. Just stay put. There will be more officers here in a moment,” the cop promises, then pulls the hammer back on her sidearm.

  “Please, let us walk away. We’re not out here to hurt anyone,” Bex cries.

  “You put three cops in the hospital yesterday.”

  “They took my parents, and I want them back,” I explain. “They’re good people, and I have to rescue them. You would do the same, right?”

  “You murdered thousands of people!” the cop shouts.

  “You don’t under—”

  “Shut up! I’m not here to negotiate with you,” the cop barks, her words bigger than her body. She fires her gun, and it spits up dirt at Arcade’s feet. “The next shot will not be a warning.”

  Arcade’s hand is swallowed in blue flames. Bex shouts at her to stop, but I can already hear the rumbling beneath my feet. The world slows down to a crawl, so that even the blink of my eye sounds like the slamming of a heavy door. Suddenly, a waterspout erupts beneath the sheriff’s car, forcing it off the ground. The geyser holds it there effortlessly, spinning it a little, until it comes slamming down on its side. The world speeds back to normal in a symphony of broken glass and smashed metal.

  The force knocks the cop off her feet, and she falls hard to the ground. Arcade stalks toward the woman, her Kala sliding out of her forearms and shining like the sharp edge of a guillotine.

  Bex is looking at me. She says nothing, but her eyes shout clearly enough. This is my responsibility. If Arcade kills this woman, she will blame me forever.

  “Calm down,” I say, stepping between Arcade and the officer.

  Arcade’s eyes widen in surprise.

  “Are you challenging me, half-breed?”

  “I’m making sure you don’t do something you’ll regret,” I say.

  “I have few regrets,” she brags. “Get out of my way.”

  “Then I’m going to fight you if I have to,” I say, hoping it sounds more confident to her than it does to my own ears.

  The sheriff retrieves her weapon and climbs to her feet. She’s shaken, working on instinct, and I know that at any moment she might fire again. I turn to her, bracing for the bullet, but her eyes are confused. She looks dazed and set upon.

  “Do you hear that?” she asks, and then my ears are pounded by the sound of a whipping wind, and from out of nowhere swoops a black helicopter directly overhead. It’s not like the kind they use on the news for traffic and weather. This one is long and sleek, like a bird of prey, and mounted on its sides are what look like rockets. From below I can see a logo painted on its belly—a white tower.

  There’s a single shot. I hear it drill through the air toward us, and then I watch the sheriff’s body buckle. Her head flies forward, and she falls face-down into the dirt. The back of her head is gone, and there is blood everywhere.

  Bex screams. I’m sure I would too if I weren’t in shock. The people in the helicopter just killed a cop. Wait! The people in the helicopter just killed a cop! That means they are definitely not with law enforcement. But then who?

  “Tempest,” I gasp.

  Arcade is the only one of us who has her wits about her. She sends another funnel of water up into the sky, and it plows into the chopper, knocking it out of its hovering position just as a second bullet screams toward us. This one crashes into the dirt inches from where Bex is standing. She’s next.

  I scan our surroundings for an escape. There is nothing out here, nowhere to go and hide that isn’t open ground, except for the ice cream parlor, but getting to it keeps us out in the open, and then how do we get out? No, we’re going to have to make a run for it.

  I activate my weapon and concentrate on the water beneath the earth. It’s there, deep—several feet down in fact, but I can hear it and it can hear me.

  “Come!” I shout.

  It blasts through the soil, eager to please, forming a powerful spray that smacks into the underside of the cop car. The big machine totters back onto all four wheels with a heavy crash.

  “Get in!” I shout to Bex, and we dart to the car. The passenger-side door is crushed and won’t open, so we hurry around to the driver’s side. Bex scurries in and I follow, happy to find a set of keys still in the ignition. I have no idea if the engine will start, but I have to try. It gurgles and groans but won’t turn over. I try again with the same results.

  “Keep trying,” Bex says, staring out through the remains of her broken window. When I look past her, I see Arcade is still attacking the chopper and narrowly avoiding its gunfire.

  I give the key another turn, and this time, with some grinding and sputtering, the engine comes to life. I rev the motor loud, just to let the car know my intentions are to driv
e it hard and fast. It doesn’t stall out, so I take that as permission just as Arcade lands as nimbly as a cat on the hood. She leaps off and opens the back door.

  “Go!” she shouts.

  The helicopter falls out of the sky behind us. The propellers smack into the ground, break apart, and fly in every direction. The helicopter’s tail end spins around toward us, threatening to saw off the back of the car.

  “Drive!” Bex shouts.

  I stomp the gas pedal and steer us all over the place, fighting a bent alignment. I manage to get it on the road just in time to watch the chopper explode into a ball of fire and fuel in my rearview mirror.

  Chapter Six

  BEX CRIES. ARCADE STARES OUT THE WINDOW. I’m too shell-shocked to know how to feel. I just saw a woman die in front of me, and I know it was my fault. She died because of me, but why would they kill an innocent police officer and let me go? Why not just kill me instead?

  “What was that?” Bex cries.

  “I don’t know, but they shot her on purpose,” I say.

  Arcade leans forward.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It makes no sense to me.”

  “I believe they were trying to kill Bex Conrad and me as well,” Arcade says.

  “They weren’t police or military. I think they were from Tempest.”

  “They know we are coming,” Arcade says.

  “We have to get off the roads, I think,” Bex suggests.

  I nod, and the first dusty path I see, I turn onto it, following the tracks of what looks like a large farm vehicle until I can’t see the road behind me any longer. I park and sit in the dark for a moment, suddenly feeling the emotions that have been in limbo since I saw the woman die. I kick the car, and punch and scream. Then it’s my turn to cry. Bex leans over and wraps me in a hug, the first affection she’s shown me in days. Arcade sits quietly. I suppose the greatest kindness she can give me is to hide her exasperation with my tears.

  When I’m myself again, we search the sheriff’s car for anything useful. It feels terrible to steal from it, but we’re desperate. In the trunk we find riot-gear helmets and batons, extra speeding-ticket booklets, something called a meth kit, and rolls of crime-scene tape. There are a couple of thin wool blankets, a bottle of water, and a pair of leather gloves. There’s also a pair of pants that won’t fit any of us, but we take them anyway. It looks like we’re going to be sleeping in the desert tonight, and it’s going to get very cold.

  “This might come in handy,” Bex says, snatching a small yellow case with the words ROAD FLARES printed on the side.

  Bex and Arcade march out into the brush with whatever they can carry in their arms while I take a moment to leave a note in the car, knowing that its owner will never read it, but hoping someone will find it someday and understand.

  To whom it may concern: We didn’t kill her, I write. A helicopter with a white tower painted on its belly fired on us. They’re responsible. I’m sorry. We’re not trying to hurt anyone. I just want my family back, and then I’ll disappear forever. You’ll never hear from me again. I promise.

  A photograph rests on the dash. It’s a picture of the dead cop. She’s standing next to a tall man with a big, happy smile and a dark black mustache. Next to her is a little boy in a baseball jersey and hat, and next to them, an elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair. They are all overjoyed to be together. The cop looks so happy, she might cry.

  She can’t anymore, so I sit in the car and do it for her, sobbing until my throat is raw.

  We walk for hours, sometimes in pitch-black. Arcade’s night vision is incredible. Having spent her entire life underwater, her eyes have adapted to see even the faintest flickers. She guides us along, warning us of obstacles to avoid.

  Eventually even she is tired, and we stop to make a camp. Arcade scans the horizon, then stomps off to find wood. When she comes back, we light the pile she’s collected with the flares. Soon we have a warm fire to huddle around. It doesn’t come a moment too soon. My clothes are thin, and my fingers are so cold, I can’t feel their tips any longer.

  “Right about now, Ghost and I would lure fish out of the ocean to feed our people,” Arcade says of her time in the tent city back home. “It took some time to adjust to the taste of cooked meat, but I learned to tolerate it.”

  “Yes, the protein bars are getting old,” I say, opening up one that is packed with peanut buttery taste.

  “You would be wise to get some rest,” she says to me. “There will be more fighting before we get to Tempest.”

  Arcade takes a blanket for herself, and a few things to eat from the pack, then lies down by the fire.

  “I am not killing anyone,” I announce. “Not after what we saw.”

  “Good,” Bex whispers back to me.

  Arcade sits up and looks at me. Her face is painted with red flames and surprise.

  “If you do not kill them, they will kill you.”

  “I won’t do it,” I argue.

  She shakes her head, then lies back down, turning her back to us.

  “You don’t even realize it, do you?” Arcade says.

  “Realize what?”

  “You’re already dead.”

  Bex edges toward me, taking my hand and squeezing it tight. She huddles close in the cold, and I offer her the sheriff’s pants, since she’s in shorts. We wrap ourselves up in the blanket as best we can and lie there listening to the creatures scurrying in the wasteland around us.

  “Are you back?” I ask her, basking in her closeness.

  She whispers a yes to me. “Stop being a jerk.”

  “I’m trying,” I say softly.

  “She looked like Shadow’s mom,” Bex says.

  I nod. I saw the resemblance myself. She had the same round face and complexion. She could have been Mrs. Ramirez’s sister.

  I take out my phone and turn it on, flip through the photo file until I find what I want, and then hand it to Bex. The screen illuminates her cheeks in soft blue memories and changes her face, turning her mouth from a worried line to a careful smile. She turns the screen so I can see a picture of her and her boy, Shadow Ramirez, our Tito, our sidekick. In it the two of them stand back to back, showing off their matching Halloween costumes from last year. Both are tricked out in fat gold chains, Kangol hats, tracksuits, and bright white Adidas, sans the shoelaces. Run DMC never looked so good.

  I can’t help but smile, but only because I can see what’s really going on behind the silliness. It was taken before they admitted the truth about how they felt to each other, but you can still see it in their faces.

  “He loved you so much,” I tell her.

  Bex’s smile vanishes. She bites her lower lip to hold back tears, then rolls her arm across her face to hide her grief.

  “I miss him too,” I say.

  I wrap my arms around her, pulling her tight, trying to take on some of the anguish that bends her backwards. She sobs quietly, and I do too, thinking about the friend we lost and the future he took with him.

  She cleans herself up, then hands me back my phone.

  “I saw his picture,” she whispers.

  “Whose picture?”

  “Fathom’s. Maybe you should let her see it,” she says, tilting her head toward Arcade. “It might help her mourn.”

  “She’s not mourning,” I say.

  “You know better than that.”

  Bex curls up all embryo-like, and soon she’s asleep, leaving me alone with the dying fire and my thoughts. Across from me, Arcade slumbers. I pass Bex’s idea back and forth in my mind as I watch Arcade’s chest rise and fall, until I just can’t stand it any longer. I don’t want her to see that picture. It’s all I have of Fathom, all I will ever have. Arcade had a whole lifetime of memories with him. She knows his secrets and dreams and his favorite kind of ice cream, and I know that people who live underwater don’t eat ice cream, but that’s not the point. He was hers, and in the end he chose her, and all I got were a few kisses and lon
ging looks and one lousy picture! I look terrible in it too—my hair is sticking to my forehead, and neither of us is smiling. But it’s mine. She wouldn’t appreciate it anyway. As far as I can tell, his loss doesn’t mean that much to her. No, I want to keep it all to myself. I know how to treasure things.

  I take out my phone and look at him until I’m too tired to keep my eyes open. Then I sleep, and I dream of him.

  Chapter Seven

  IT’S DAWN WHEN BEX SHAKES ME AWAKE.

  “You were doing it again,” she says, referring to my dreams.

  “Sorry. Was I talking?”

  “Among other things.”

  My face burns with embarrassment.

  “Where’s Arcade?” I ask, looking around for her nervously. I want Arcade knowing what happens when I’m asleep even less than broadcasting it into the desert.

  “She’s training. Give her some privacy,” Bex says. “I pulled up some maps and found a town about five miles from here. We should head in that direction. It’s called San Saba.”

  San Saba is the Pecan capital of the world. A person can walk around it in about an hour and a half. There’s not much going on here except for the twenty or so businesses that sell pecans. The smell is everywhere. I could twirl it around my finger and plop it into my mouth.

  There are a few two-story buildings lining the streets, a diner that hasn’t seen a customer in a long time, and a lot of empty storefronts and parking spaces. I don’t see a single person during our first silent stroll around town, which is good because we’re on the hunt for another loaner.

  The cars don’t come. We try every door handle we come across, and all of them are locked. I do find a hatchback with keys in the ignition, but it’s a stick, and I’m barely managing automatic. We circle the town again, making friends with a stray mutt who follows close behind, clearly hoping for some food. He’s so skinny, we can see his ribs. Bex eventually breaks down and tosses him some crackers. Suddenly I feel bad for tossing out the bacon.

  We eat our breakfast under the awning of an abandoned Woolworth, then our lunch beneath the awning of an abandoned Blockbuster Video. By dusk we’re still wandering aimlessly and the heat that pressed down on us all day lifts and makes room for its frosty cousin. Bex is shivering. I can’t hear myself think over my chattering teeth. We’ve got to find somewhere to stay.