by M. K. Krys
Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard the fence rattling behind him. Perry’s spiky yellow hair crowned the top of the fence. Everleigh’s painted fingernails gripped the wood.
Beacon was so tired and sore, all he wanted to do was find somewhere to lie down for around a century. But he needed to keep moving. Distance was all that mattered right now.
He pushed past the pain and ran toward the tree. One hand cradling the ARD, he scooped up his board and ran in a big arc around the church. He was at the top of the hill. Before him was a sloping road that dipped dangerously toward the ocean.
Beacon dropped his board and hopped on, pushing off hard. He looked behind him; his pursuers were much closer than he’d expected. Everleigh pumped her arms hard, her ponytail flying out behind her. Perry’s cheeks were stained red, and there was a fiery, grim determination in his eyes that make a spike of energy zip through him.
Beacon ducked low against the wind, willing his board to go faster. Perry surged forward and reached out, but his fingers only brushed Beacon’s arm before Beacon finally gained momentum. Beacon flew down the hill. The cold wind whipped his cheeks, and a smile broke out on his face. He couldn’t help it; he gave a jaunty wave as he sailed away from the kids.
But when he turned back around, the smile slid off his face.
Arthur was by the water, and he was surrounded. Beacon watched in mute horror as his friend ran left; a Gold Star blocked his path. Arthur turned right: another Gold Star. He backed up onto a thin, weathered pier that stretched out over the black water. Beacon had thought the harbor by the main square was the most disreputable he’d ever seen. But this one looked as if it were gasping for life. It was made out of rotten, sagging wood and was partially submerged in water. The shore was lined with razor-sharp rocks, churned mud, and garbage. He could just make out a sun-faded wooden sign staked into the grass that read “Deadman’s Wharf.”
Beacon was torn. He was supposed to get away and save the ARD, but he couldn’t just leave Arthur.
Gritting his teeth, he headed for the water.
When he reached the end of the road, he hopped off his board, leaving it lurched in the grass, and then he clutched the ARD against his chest as he ran toward the pier.
“There’s nowhere to go,” he could hear Nixon saying as Beacon stepped onto the end of the dock. Still, Arthur backed up, sending panicked glances all around him. The pier didn’t look stable enough to support a bird, let alone two twelve-year-old kids.
“Hey!” Beacon yelled. “Looking for this?”
He held up the ARD.
Nixon turned. Beacon saw the exact moment the Gold Star recognized the device. Nixon’s eyes flashed, right before he charged down the dock like a defenseman chasing a quarterback. The dock creaked and swayed violently under his thundering steps, water spraying up all around him. Arthur put his arms out for balance. Even from a distance, Beacon could see the terror in his eyes.
Just then there was a loud snap.
“Arthur!” Beacon yelled.
Nixon dived for the shore.
Beacon cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Get off the dock, Arthur!”
But it was too late.
Beacon watched helplessly as the pier split in half. The last thing he saw was Arthur’s arms flailing as his feet left the dock. Then he disappeared into the water with a colossal splash.
12
Drowning wasn’t anything like it was in the movies. Arthur didn’t yell for help. He didn’t splash in the water and flail his arms while people on shore scrambled to save him. He just . . . slipped under the water and never came back up.
“Arthur!” Beacon screamed.
He didn’t make it a step before two Gold Stars grabbed him. Someone ripped the ARD out of his hands—Jane. She held up the machine.
“No!” Beacon cried, right as Jane smashed the device onto the rocks. It splintered in two, coils and screws flying everywhere. Nixon crushed the remains under his boot heel.
Beacon jerked against their grip like a fish flipping back and forth on the end of a hook, but he was caught. There were more of them now—at least a dozen Gold Stars penning him in. Their eyes were narrowed and sharp, their faces twisted into masks of anger. Everleigh and Perry jogged up. His sister didn’t look remotely out of breath for having just chased him at top speed for the last ten minutes, or the least bit concerned that her brother was surrounded by a lot of angry kids.
“Let me go!” Beacon yelled. He cast an anxious look past the kids, to the water. The spot where Arthur went down rippled gently before the waves picked up again.
“He’s going to drown!” Beacon said. “Everleigh, you can’t let him drown!”
“Take him back to headquarters,” Jane said calmly.
Beacon sent his sister a pleading look, but Everleigh just scowled at him like she didn’t even recognize him. Whatever spark of hope he might have held that his sister hadn’t been brainwashed went out as if it had been doused with a bucket of water.
The Gold Stars started dragging Beacon away.
“What’s going on here?” A fisherman in chest waders shone a flashlight at the kids. The Gold Stars holding Beacon quickly let go of his arms. The fisherman stepped closer, his light dancing over the shore. The Gold Stars scattered in a burst of yellow and blue like fish darting away from a motorboat.
“There’s a boy in the water!” Beacon screamed, pointing.
“What’s that you say?” The fisherman cocked his head, putting a hand up to his ear.
“A kid is drowning!”
“I can call the authorities from my mobile,” the fisherman said after a pause.
Beacon ground his jaw so hard he thought the bones might crack. Arthur didn’t have time for that.
He ran to the edge of the pier, leaning over the remains of the weathered dock. Staring at the black water, memories flooded back to him. Pale skin. Blue lips. Blond hair swaying gently in the cold, cold water.
His body seized up. He searched the shore for the fisherman, but the man was gone.
No one was coming for Arthur. No one was going to save him.
Beacon hesitated. One second. Two.
And then he kicked off his shoes, whipped off his hoodie, and dived into the sea.
Cold sliced through his body. Gritty seawater stung his eyes. He strained against the blackness, looking for any sign of his friend, but all he could see were floating particles and the blur of his own chaotic movements in the murky water.
Right away, Beacon realized he should have taken off all his clothes. His jeans made every action feel weighted, as if he wore a lead suit. But it was too late now. He pushed himself down, digging deeper, despite everything in his body screaming at him to move up toward the surface, toward air. He couldn’t see anything.
Finally, the lighthouse beacon passed over the surface of the water, and he saw a glimmer of white below. Could it be Arthur’s lab coat? He plunged down, his head pounding, his chest tight, every cell in his body begging for oxygen.
Was it like this for Jasper? he wondered. The coroner had told their dad that his brother didn’t struggle, that he’d hit his head on a rock and been knocked unconscious before water filled his lungs and he drowned. But Beacon had always wondered if that was just something he’d said out of kindness. He couldn’t imagine the coroner telling his dad that Jasper’s last moments had been filled with dread and panic and desperation, until oxygen deprivation stole all his thoughts and he faded away, floating like seaweed for hours until the rescue crews finally found his body.
Beacon needed to breathe.
With superhuman strength, he launched himself up. His head broke the surface and he was gasping, gulping, sucking in air. Pinpricks needled across his face as oxygen returned to his head in one big rush.
But Arthur was still down there.
With one
last big breath, Beacon dived under again.
It was so dark, he couldn’t see a thing. But then the lighthouse light roved over the water again, and he didn’t see just a slice of white that could have been Arthur’s lab coat. He saw Arthur. The boy was yanking on his lab coat, which was tangled up in a knot of seaweed that was growing through an old lobster trap covered in barnacles.
Just before the searchlight passed, Arthur looked up and met Beacon’s eyes. He could have sworn the boy smiled before they were plunged back into darkness. But that couldn’t be right. Beacon must have been seeing things. Lack of oxygen could do that to a person.
Beacon swam toward the spot where he saw his friend, pushing himself hard against the weight of the water and the growing pressure in his chest. Finally, his fingers bumped into something hard, and then he felt fingers clamp down on his shoulders.
Arthur.
He immediately went to work trying to untangle the boy. He wrenched on the seaweed, on the coat, on Arthur’s arms, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get his friend free. Finally, he yanked the coat off Arthur’s shoulders. When he got it free, he grabbed Arthur around the middle and rocketed off the old trap with every ounce of his dwindling strength, half swimming, half floating to the surface.
Beacon’s chest burned as if his lungs were on fire. They were moving too slowly. They weren’t going to make it. But just when Beacon was about to breathe water, their heads finally broke the surface.
Choking and coughing, Beacon and Arthur splashed toward the pier, then clambered up onto the broken dock. They crawled over the wood, onto the cool, damp grass. Misty wind blew across them, but Beacon didn’t even feel the cold.
The boys sat in the grass, breathing raggedly. For a solid minute, neither of them spoke. Beacon was glad that the fisherman had at least scared off the Gold Stars. There was no way Beacon and Arthur could outrun them in their current state.
Beacon wondered where the fisherman had gone. It was a good thing he hadn’t waited for him to get help. Then Arthur definitely would have been dead. As it was, Beacon couldn’t believe his friend was okay. He didn’t know how it was possible. He’d been under for so long.
“The investigation is ruined,” Arthur finally said. “They got the ARD, and now they know we’re onto them. We’ll never get any top secret info now. It’s all over.”
“A thank-you wouldn’t kill you,” Beacon said, swiping a sopping lock of hair out of his eye.
“Sorry,” Arthur said. “I’m just disappointed. I spent a whole year working on that thing.”
“At least you still have the prototype,” Beacon said.
“I guess.”
They sat in silence, the wind whistling through the wood of an old shed near the shore.
“Look, there’s something I have to tell you,” Arthur said, twisting to face Beacon. “Brace yourself, because it’s going to sound a little out-there.”
“More out-there than saying the Gold Stars are aliens?”
“Possibly,” he said.
Beacon sat up straighter.
“When I was underwater, I held my breath for as long as I could, but then I just had to breathe and when I did . . . it didn’t hurt or make me choke or anything. It was just normal, like breathing air.”
Beacon stared at his friend, trying to make sense of what he’d just said.
“Are you saying that you can . . .”
“Breathe underwater?” Arthur finished for him. “Yes. I mean, I think so. I know it sounds nuts, but think about it, Beacon—I should be dead right now. But I’m not. I’m totally fine. You don’t think that’s weird?”
He did think it was weird. He remembered the way Arthur had looked at him as Beacon struggled to reach him, a vise clamping tight around Beacon’s chest, pinching his airway. Arthur had looked calm. Patient. Comfortable, even. He hadn’t imagined that smile. There was something very strange going on with the kids in Driftwood Harbor . . . and with Arthur, too.
He was suddenly afraid of his friend.
Don’t be stupid, he told himself. This is Arthur. He isn’t dangerous.
“Okay, let’s just pretend that’s possible,” Beacon said thinly. “How come you didn’t know this before?”
“I can’t swim,” he said. “I never go in the water. And I don’t regularly go around testing to see if I have superpowers.”
“Do you think this is related to what’s going on with the Gold Stars?” Beacon asked.
Arthur started to answer, but a loud voice from behind them broke through.
“There they are!”
Beacon stiffened. When he turned, he saw Jane stabbing a finger right at them. Sheriff Nugent stood behind her. He walked toward the boys at a brisk, businesslike pace, the gold star on his jacket shining dully in the moonlight. Beacon stood up. Right as the sheriff raised his right arm and pointed a gun at him.
Beacon yelped, scrambling back and bumping into Arthur.
“Don’t shoot!” Beacon said, putting his hands up. But the sheriff didn’t stop. He trained his eyes on him, his aim never wavering.
Beacon turned around to run, but the sheriff fired. Beacon had just enough time to see two beams of blue light zap out of the end of the blocky barrel of the gun before everything went black.
13
It was the dream again, only it wasn’t. Jasper was lying in bright, spongy coral, wrapped up in a prison of seaweed as fish flitted all around him. His eyes were open and he was looking right at Beacon, almost as if he were waiting for him.
Beacon tried to get closer, but no matter how quickly he swam, his brother stayed exactly the same distance away.
Jasper opened his mouth, his lips forming a perfect O.
“Beacon.”
His brother’s voice ghosted over the water.
* * *
...............................
Beacon woke to a slow beeping noise and the heavy smell of antiseptic. He blinked his eyes open. He was lying on his back. Bright white lights shone from spotlights hanging from the ceiling. There were wires taped all over his chest, trailing out from underneath the hospital gown that someone had changed him into.
Beacon pushed himself up. The sudden movement made blood leave his head in one big rush, and he had to take deep breaths until the faint feeling passed. But when the fog cleared, he thought he might pass out again. Scary-looking medical equipment that he didn’t even want to begin to guess the use of sat next to his stretcher. A paper-thin computer monitor displayed his heart rate, breaths per minute, and oxygen saturation and beeped in time with his pulse. There were metal trays topped with scalpels and syringes and something that looked like a demented wine opener.
He was in some type of surgical suite.
Beacon leaped off the stretcher and spun in a circle on the cold concrete floor.
The room was circular. Half was lined with mirrors, while the other was covered with clean white cupboards. There was a desk area with a clipboard and papers on top and a leather chair tucked underneath. Next to it was a door. Beacon started toward it, but something else caught his attention first. A window. A single window, looking out into blackness. Movement flitted behind the glass. Beacon gasped, stepping back. It happened again, but this time, he saw what the movement was: a fish darting past the glass, into a patch of seaweed and coral.
He was underwater.
His breaths turned short and sharp, as if he were breathing through a straw.
What was happening? How did he get underwater?
He tried to think back. He remembered spying on the Gold Stars, being chased through the church and down to the water. He remembered Arthur nearly drowning and then . . . the sheriff shooting him. Only it hadn’t been regular bullets that shot out of the gun, but snapping blue laser beams. But that didn’t make sense. Had he dreamed that? Was he still sleeping now?
/> Beacon rubbed his eyes hard. When he blinked them open again, he was still inside the surgical suite.
Just then, he caught sight of his pale, skinny reflection in the wall of mirrors. He got the sudden, sinking feeling that the mirrors weren’t mirrors at all, but one-way glass—the same kind that police officers use in interrogation rooms so they can see the suspects, but the suspects can’t see them.
Beacon became uncomfortably aware of his heartbeat.
He had no idea where he was or how he got here; he just knew that he had to get away.
He ripped the wires off his chest, gasping at the bright, hot pain. The beeping stretched out, long and dull.
The door burst open.
Beacon leaped back, scrambling to put his body behind the stretcher. But he went still when he saw who had come in.
“Dad?”
His dad entered the room, smoothing down his red tie as he quietly closed the door behind him.
“What are you doing here?” Beacon asked. “What am I doing here? What is this place?”
“Have a seat,” his dad said. The calm tenor of his voice only made Beacon panic even more. Why wasn’t his dad freaking out about this?
Maybe Beacon was dead, he decided. Yes. That made sense. The sheriff had shot him. He was in the afterlife now.
He’d thought it would be better than this. He’d thought he’d see Jasper.
“I imagine you’re very confused.” His dad perched on the end of the stretcher. He patted the spot next to him, but Beacon stayed standing.
“How did you know I was here?” Beacon asked.
“I work here,” his dad responded.
“This is the CDC?” Beacon asked, looking around.
His dad shook his head. “No. I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely truthful about why we moved to Driftwood Harbor.”
Beacon shifted uncomfortably.
“I still work for the government,” his dad continued, “but it’s a different branch. The Central Intelligence Agency.”
“The CIA?!” Beacon cried.