Raging Sea

by Michael Buckley

  She gestures to the guard, and Calvin jumps into action, walking over to Spangler’s body and taking his tablet. He hands it to the governor, who trades him the gun. She taps on the screen and hands it back to Calvin.

  “‘I’m the client,’” he reads. “‘If you understand that, then we can move on. We’ve got a lot of packing to do.’”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I SIT IN THE CAFETERIA, SHAKING UNCONTROLLABLY. Riley sits next to me, with my hand in his. He’s trying to comfort me, but I need more than a hand to feel better now.

  The governor sits at our table in her chair while Calvin empties the contents of a plastic bag into a cup. It’s a murky green substance that smells both sweet and foul at the same time. Calvin inserts a straw, and she slurps it. Most of it dribbles down her chin, and Calvin is there to wipe her clean after every attempt. All the while, she taps on her machine.

  “Everyone was captured and placed back into holding cells for their safekeeping,” Calvin explains.

  “What about my family and friends?” I ask.

  Bachman shakes her head.

  “She still needs you to live up to your commitment and suspects that taking them from you would only cause delays,” Calvin says. “The Rusalka attacks have escalated, and we no longer have time for a battle of wills. We’re leaving today.”

  “Today?” Riley cries.

  “What do you mean ‘escalated’?” I demand.

  Bachman presses some buttons and then spins her tablet so we can see. What appears are images of the prime walking onshore while hundreds, maybe even thousands, of Rusalka swarm behind him.

  “I don’t know what to believe,” Riley says, exasperated. “Who is telling the truth? Is any of this real? Are we really under attack?”

  Calvin nods. “The governor and I, along with several of our intelligence agents, will escort you to the front, where you will be placed under the command of Major Tom Kita of Marine Special Operations Forces.”

  “What about the others? What about our families?” Riley cries.

  Calvin takes Bachman’s tablet after she taps into it, then reads her response.

  “‘Your parents, along with Lyric’s, will accompany you. As will Ms. Conrad, the Triton prince, and the Triton girl. Everyone else stays.’”

  “No way!” Riley shouts. “Everyone goes free.”

  “Here is the deal on the table,” Calvin says. “You fight. You kill the monsters. Your Alpha and human parents go free. Everyone else stays. If you tell the other children any of this, we will kill all of the human parents. They are expensive to the bottom line of this company anyway.”

  “We can’t win!” I say.

  Bachman taps on her tablet.

  “‘I know,’” Calvin reads. “‘You are grotesque to me and the rest of America, but you may kill a few of them before they kill you.’”

  I stand up and lean over Bachman. “What did you do with Doyle?”

  She shifts uncomfortably.

  “If you bury him—all of him—then I’ll go,” I say. “He was a soldier. He deserves a burial.”

  She shrugs.

  “You got it,” Calvin says.

  “I’ve got your back,” Riley says as they escort us to our rooms.

  I lean in and kiss him. Maybe it’s inappropriate. Maybe it’s sending the wrong signals. Maybe I’m not thinking straight and I’m scared and in the middle of a nervous breakdown. Or maybe I just want to kiss somebody who wants to kiss me, somebody who’s not in a loser triangle. It’s a nice kiss. It doesn’t pull me into an undertow, but it’s got potential. It’s probably the last one I’ll ever have.

  The story Calvin tells the children is that Mr. Spangler and Mr. Doyle have the sickness and, during the crisis, Riley and I raced to get them to the infirmary. Only a moron would believe that story. It makes zero sense, but the kids don’t question it. Their blind acceptance makes me fear for them all the more.

  We gather in the park. The children, Riley’s family, my own, Bex, and Arcade. Fathom hovers in the shadows. Everyone is looking at me. I suspect they are holding their breath until I give them permission to breathe.

  “You need to say something to them,” Riley whispers to me. “They’re all afraid.”

  “They should be afraid,” I whisper back.

  “They don’t need to know that,” he says. “Give them some hope. Who knows what could happen? You survived the first attack, didn’t you? You didn’t think you’d survive this place, but you did. Miracles happen. I just had one happen to me.”

  He gives me that smile again, and I take it.

  “You’re that boy who pushes people to do things they’re not comfortable with, right?”

  He nods earnestly. “Talk to them.”

  I turn and look out on their faces. They stare back at me, waiting for some kind of guidance, but I have no idea what to say. I bet my dad would nail a speech like the one they need. Even Bex would be good at it. But it’s me.

  Breathe, Lyric.

  “Today is the day,” I stammer. “We’ve been training for it and now it’s here, and we’re going to save the world. I’m not going to lie and I’m not going to candy-coat it like Spangler and Doyle did. Some of us may die today. We are children going off to face monsters. There are only thirty-three of us. There are thousands of them. We are saddled with human feelings like mercy and fear and kindness. They make us weak. Our enemies aren’t burdened with things like that. They only know revenge and bloodlust.

  “So why send us? The answer is simple. We are special. We can do things that a normal person cannot, and we’re fighting something the world cannot deal with on its own. So it’s up to us. That’s a lot to put on our shoulders. But like I said, we’re special. We can breathe underwater. We have weapons that can break the ocean apart. And we’ve been trained to fight. But that’s not why we’re going to win. We’re going to beat those things because we have each other. Look around you. Look into the faces of your friends. We aren’t just a group of people thrown together to fight for a good cause. We’re family. In fact, we are related by blood now. We are our own Alpha clan.”

  “The Sons and Daughters of Lyric,” my mother shouts. The kids clap and cheer but I’m too embarrassed.

  “We’re going to stick together today and that’s how we’ll beat them, because our enemy may know how to do terrible things but it doesn’t feel like we do. It doesn’t know what it’s like to be part of a family. It doesn’t know that we will fight and die to protect one another.

  “Stay close to one another and stay close to me. Keep your eyes out for those around you. Make sure that if they fall, you pick them up. And stay close to me,” I say as Chloe steps forward to take my hand. “I will keep my eye on each and every one of you. You are my family now, and in my family if you want to pick a fight with one of us, you have to fight us all.”

  “We’re going to win because they have to fight us all,” Riley shouts.

  When everyone is packed and ready, we head outside to the airstrip, where a plane is waiting for us. My father hobbles along, a reminder that he is still not one hundred percent, but standing tall, nonetheless.

  Waiting for us are Terrance, Rochelle, and Samuel Lir. Gone is his wheelchair. Samuel has two walking canes now. He smiles at me, and I smile back, even though Bachman isn’t going to let him leave. The Lirs are too valuable to White Tower. I worry he will never escape this place. I promise myself that when this is done, I will come back and rescue everyone.

  “He’s feeding himself,” Terrance says to me.

  “It’s an amazing thing,” I say sincerely. “They’ll take him apart if they get the chance.”

  He nods grimly. “Come back for us.”

  Chloe joins me at the airstrip. She’s in a jumpsuit with her glove polished and a pack on her back.

  “Where’s Mr. Fluffer?” I ask when I notice the bunny is not in her hands.

  She smiles.

  “I don’t need him anymore. I have you.”

/>   “It’s cold in New York right now,” a guard shouts as he hands out hats and gloves. He gives everyone a jacket with the White Tower logo. It has an American flag patch on the shoulder and the words PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA stenciled on the back. “Put everything on, and keep it on.”

  Bex stands next to me, holding my hand. Riley is nearby, waiting in his jumpsuit. His mother and father look bewildered. He holds his mother’s thin hand like it’s the only thing keeping her standing.

  Calvin wheels Bachman into the crowd of children. Word spreads about her injuries, a fairy tale about how she was hurt fighting the Rusalka. They gape at her disfiguring scars. They can’t help themselves.

  “All right, let’s do this,” Darren says. He stands by the steps to the plane and helps the children climb them, one by one. Riley’s father gives the guard a shove when the guard tries to help his wife. Darren’s eyes alight with fear from his strength. I smile. I like Riley’s dad a lot. I do the same to the toady when it’s time to get Dad on board, though I doubt my skinny arms give him much pause.

  The inside of the plane is not what I was expecting. Whenever I’ve seen movies set on planes, there are flight attendants and overhead space and little trays for drinks. This plane is stripped down like it’s designed for flying packages more than people. My mother sits with my dad, and I take a seat behind them with Bex. Riley sits across the row from us and gives me a fist bump. It’s so corny, but I grin.

  Bex shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

  “Your next boyfriend can’t have fins,” she whispers.

  “None of my boyfriends have ever had fins. Besides, I’m giving up on boys. It’s you and me, Conrad,” I tease. “If we survive, I’m thinking we move in together and be crazy cat ladies.”

  “Deal.” She sighs.

  Arcade boards, followed by Fathom. They are silent and pass us on their way to the back. She doesn’t look at me at all, and when he passes, my face burns and I look to the floor. I notice Riley watching, but he plays it cool and doesn’t say anything, even when I crane my neck to take a peek at them. Arcade finds a seat first and Fathom tries to sit next to her, but she shoots him a look and he’s smart enough to sit a few rows farther back.

  Fathom closes his eyes and leans into his headrest. He looks nervous and lonely. Despite everything he has done, part of me wants to walk back there and hold his hand during takeoff, but a bigger part tells the first part that it’s stupid. Soon enough, both parts resume hating him.

  Bex takes my hand when they close the airplane door.

  “Have you ever been on a plane before?” she asks.

  I laugh, remembering how cheaply we used to live back in Coney Island. A plane ride was much too fancy, and we never went anywhere on vacation anyway.

  I shake my head.

  “With our luck, this thing will crash,” she whispers.

  “Oh, now, we’re not going to get that lucky,” I say when the engines rumble so loud, I can feel them in my legs. “We’ll get there. Coney Island is worse than a plane crash.”

  We descend into JFK five hours later, and I am startled to see snow flurries. Bex is as troubled by it as I am. It’s a painful reminder of how long we have been away from our home and how long we have been locked in the camp.

  We touch down, then taxi to a small hangar on the far side of the airport. Outside the window, I see something disturbing. There are soldiers everywhere, real ones, in the hangar, guarding the tarmac and waiting for us. Military vehicles are parked all over. Planes have been pushed together in an awkward jumble to get them out of the way. I’ve never been to JFK but I know this isn’t right. Looks like the airport is now the property of the United States military.

  The pilot parks the plane and then opens the cabin door. A blast of early-winter air dances down the aisle, and I zip up my jumpsuit. We’re definitely going to need those hats and gloves.

  A huge green bus waits for us at the bottom of the steps. Its driver is a tall, broad-chested soldier who can’t be more than a couple of years older than me. His face is set and serious but slightly confused. I have a feeling he didn’t know he was going to chauffer the “terrorist” and a bunch of children around today. When they bring Bachman down the steps, he can’t hide his shock.

  “Yeah, the freaks have landed,” I say to him.

  We board his bus, and he drives us south on the Belt Parkway. The whole road is ours. Never in my life have I seen an empty street in New York City, especially at this time of day. There should be bumper-to-bumper deadlock, cars creeping along like snails, but today it’s barren and lonely. A few military jeeps drive on the other side, but other than that, nothing—all the way through Queens and into Brooklyn. It’s sobering. Even the children who haven’t seen their hometown in years appear to know this is wrong. They press their faces against the windows and stare out at a dead city.

  The drive to Coney Island takes about half an hour. We pull off at the Cropsey Avenue exit, several exits before the beach. These roads are as barren of cars as the highway but overflowing with rubbish and devastated by monstrous potholes. We bounce up and down as the driver weaves around craters. I look out the window and see a burned-out car sitting on its side like roadkill.

  It’s all a maze to me, the way he backtracks and makes turn after turn to avoid roadblocks, downed power lines, and abandoned cars. I recognize only little things—a storefront, a street corner where we used to meet, but it doesn’t look like my home. Everywhere, I see a brown stain that runs parallel on all the buildings, marking how high the water was after the tidal wave came. It’s above the second-story windows here, and we’re still nearly two miles from the beach.

  The homes we pass look empty and deserted. Some have burned to the ground. Big letter B’s are painted on the walls with numbers—some kind of code—B2, B5, B7.

  “What’s with the numbers?” I call out to the driver.

  “That’s how many bodies were found inside,” he says, his eyes meeting mine in his rearview mirror. He blames me for this.

  Bachman sits at the front in a special space for wheelchairs. She turns her head and flashes me the same look the soldier did.

  Eventually, the driver takes us as far as he can. He explains that the roads beyond are for emergency vehicles only. We’re walking the rest of the way.

  “We’re not an emergency vehicle?” my father asks.

  “Roads are dedicated to vehicles in retreat from the battle zones, sir,” the soldier explains.

  As we step off into the road, I hear rapid-fire pops that come in short bursts, pause, and then repeat. There’s a huge explosion, and the guns resume again. Bex and my father give me wary looks, but the children seem fine. Doyle told me he taught them how to use firearms, so maybe they’re used to the noise they make. It’s not like I haven’t heard gunshots before, just not so many.

  Waiting for us is a tall African American soldier, maybe in his early thirties, with dark, tired eyes that look like they haven’t seen a lot of sleep lately. He’s wearing sandy-colored camouflage and heavy boots and has an M-16 in his hands. He tells us his name is Jackson, but I can’t be certain if that’s his first or last.

  Calvin wheels Governor Bachman forward.

  “Are you authorized to sign for this delivery?” Calvin asks.

  “Are you from White Tower? What happened to Spangler?”

  “He’s pursuing other opportunities,” Calvin says. “Allow me to introduce you to former New York State governor and now acting CEO of White Tower Pauline Bachman. If you would be so kind as to sign this acceptance form, we can transfer ownership to you.”

  He hands Jackson the tablet, but the soldier doesn’t take it. Instead, he shoots Calvin a dismissive look that sours even more on its way to Bachman.

  “These are babies,” he says, gesturing to my team.

  “You’re mistaken,” Calvin says, pushing the tablet at Jackson again. “These are thirty-three human-Alpha hybrids who can breathe underwater. They are trai
ned in combat and equipped with fully functioning Oracles.”

  “What?” Jackson balks.

  Calvin reaches over and snatches Tess by the wrist, waving her glove in front of Jackson.

  “The devices that allow them to control water, sir. They are also armed with handguns and ammunition. Ms. Bachman is so pleased with the relationship that White Tower has with the U.S. military, she is also throwing in four full-blooded Alphas, two Tritons, and two Sirena at no extra charge. We appreciate your patronage. All you need to do is sign the screen with your finger.”

  Jackson studies us once more, and looks confused and irritated by this unwelcome surprise. He sees what I’ve seen all along. We’re a bunch of children sent to war. He lifts his radio to his mouth and walks a few yards away, telling someone more important than himself what White Tower has tried to dump in his lap. After a moment, he returns. I can also see he has no choice. He signs Bachman’s tablet.

  As he finishes, Calvin steps forward with a metal box and places it on the ground at Jackson’s feet.

  “This is a portable EMP. It’s set on a timer right now that will shut off in fifteen minutes. Only then will their weapons activate.”

  “Long enough for you to get far, far away from me,” I say.

  Bachman locks her eyes on mine. She wears what might be an obviously triumphant smile if her features weren’t so mangled.

  “Fourteen minutes, Governor,” I whisper to her. “And then I can throw another battleship at you.”

  She blanches, then gestures for Calvin to wheel her back to the bus. It’s heartbreaking, but she won. I’m here with the kids in the most dangerous town on earth, and she gets to go back to her mad scientists’ lab. She still has the parents and the Alpha and the Lirs. She’s still the boss. Doyle was right. White Tower replaced Spangler with someone worse.