Heart of the Storm

by Michael Buckley

  Johar nods. “Yes, we’re working on that.”

  I lean over and grab his hand. Fishing with a spear for three months has given me serious strength. I could break his fingers if I want.

  “Bachman killed the parents and the rest of my team,” I say, as low as I can. He squirms trying to free himself, but I hold tight. “And you knew.”

  “The kids needed to have their heads in the game. You have my apologies, but what good was it going to do to break their hearts with so much on the line?”

  I let him go. He’s making sense. It still sucks. I look back at the team I have left. My mother has Chloe’s hand in hers. The little girl looks drained. She is officially alone in this world. Both of her parents killed in Trident. The others stare out the window, listless. Renee’s eyes are still swollen and puffy from crying as we marched across the bridge. Samuel hurt us in a way he never expected. He used the truth.

  I lean forward again. “When this is over, you’re going to do me a few favors.”

  He nods. He’s smart not to fight me.

  Riley sits next to me, his face turned to the window. Every few moments, his body trembles. His poor hand is bloodied and bruised from fighting. I feel helpless. I’m so tired of feeling helpless, so exhausted by limitations and roadblocks. I’m just so over things getting in my way. I reach for his hand, slowly intertwining my fingers in his, fully ready to get a grenade in the face, but he lets it happen. He doesn’t look at me, but he lets it happen.

  The helicopter circles the camp, swooping over the grid of cages and temporary buildings. The gun towers do not fire on us, but their sights stay locked onto every turn we make. At any moment, they could shoot us down, but for some reason, no trigger has been pulled. That’s good, because we’ve been up here almost forty minutes.

  Johar shouts at someone in his headset. He’s demanding that we be allowed to land, threatening whoever is on the other end with an open attack on the camp by White Tower. It’s a surprising change in attitude. So far he’s seemed a little soft to me, but now he’s dropping f bombs between each word. If it’s all an act, he probably could win an Oscar.

  “Oh, you think so? All right, look on the other side of your fence. That little crowd out there is two hundred thousand strong. By nightfall, it will be more than a million. You’ve got satellite access. If you don’t believe me, take a look, but when you do, please keep in mind that with a single word, Ms. Walker can light the fuse on that crowd. Is your camp ready? Very good, sir. Very smart!” he shouts, then pulls the headset off his ears. He leans forward and taps the pilot on the shoulder. “We have clearance to land. Put her down right away.”

  I look over to him, stunned by what he’s accomplished.

  “What just happened?” my father says.

  “Someone pulled rank and gave us permission,” Johar explains.

  “Who do we thank?”

  “The president,” he says. “He’s waiting for us down there.”

  The chopper lands in a clearing near the beach. The propeller is still spinning when I spot fifty soldiers sprinting in our direction. They surround us, but unlike most of the soldiers we’ve met lately, they don’t have their guns drawn and aimed at my face.

  “Ms. Walker?” one of them shouts over the whir of the engine. He’s wearing dark sunglasses that hide his eyes. He reminds me of Doyle. If he had a cup of coffee to sip on, I’d swear he was his twin brother. “I’ve been asked to escort you to meet the president. Will you come with me?”

  I look to my parents, then Johar.

  “We’re all going,” I say. It’s not a request. It’s just a fact.

  The soldier doesn’t argue. He helps everyone out of the helicopters, then leads us across the sand. Soon, we come across the cages I have heard so much about. They’re frighteningly familiar, the same tiny little boxes Bex and I were forced into when we were in Trident. The whole layout is nearly identical too.

  “Do you guys have some creepy manual on how to set up and design these camps? Like an evil IKEA instruction book?” I ask Johar.

  He’s not as chatty as before. His eyes are wide and glassy as we follow the soldier down rows and rows of the cages. There are Alpha in each one, and Johar is getting to see their actual faces peering out at him. I guess the board members never tour the camps. I suppose that would challenge their business strategy. It’s probably not a good thing for the bottom line if your staff questions the moral nature of their jobs.

  Nix, Sirena, and Ceto are everywhere in this section, and the next aisle over is where they keep the larger Alpha—​the Triton and the Selkies. Their cages are a little bigger, but not much. None are big enough for the occupant to stand or stretch out. The prisoners in each are on their knees or curled up and trying to sleep.

  “I want to see Fathom and Arcade,” I shout to our escort.

  “I’ve been instructed to take you to the president without delay. He asks for only a few minutes of your time,” he says. “Afterward, arrangements can be made, depending on the outcome of the meeting.”

  “Outcome?” my father presses.

  “Certain things are above my pay grade. I’m sure it will all be clear very soon.”

  We hurry through the grid. As we go, our sudden appearance surprises the captives. Those who can rise to their feet cling to the chain-link fence that makes their habitat. They press their faces to the steel and watch me in amazement. My name starts as a whisper, but as we go farther, it is spoken in a rousing chorus.

  “I promise we will get all of you out soon,” I say.

  “Lyric Walker,” a voice shouts. It’s one I know. I turn to find Ghost poking a long white finger through the openings in his cage. His huge, melon-size head leans against the fence as if he is too tired to hold it up any longer. Even for a Nix he looks thin and pale.

  “I’m getting you out of here,” I say.

  “You weren’t exactly in a hurry,” he hisses. It’s nice to see that captivity hasn’t changed him.

  “Why didn’t you use your glove to fight?” I ask him. Ghost, like his lost love, Luna, could use the machines as well as the Rusalka. They were only a handful of Alpha members that weren’t rejected by the glove. Why wouldn’t he turn it on the guards? Was it a massive EMP like they had at Trident? The answer brings bile into my throat. He raises his hand, or rather, where his hand should be. What remains is a stump wrapped in a dirty bandage.

  I turn to Johar. His eyes tremble while the rest of his body fights for composure. “I didn’t authorize that,” he stammers. “That’s not our policy.”

  “Ghost, I’m getting you out,” I promise, but I’m seeing something I didn’t prepare for when we planned this fight. The Alpha are exhausted and sick. Most of them are starving. I don’t think I’ve seen a single one that doesn’t need medical care, and I know how sending in doctors will go over. This is no fighting force. It’s a hospital for invalids.

  We approach one of the long buildings Bex showed me on the computer. Johar called it a detention building. The soldier opens a door, then gestures with his head for us to enter. I step through to find a room just beyond, with a sand floor. There are pallets stacked up in a corner and cement blocks lining the base of each wall. A generator feeds electricity to the room’s sole fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling. I look up at it as it pops in and out, flickering as if the energy to stay on is just more than it can handle. In the center of the room is a man sitting in a folding metal chair. He wears a blue suit and tie, with a little steel flag pin on his lapel. He looks tired. His shoulders are hunched with the weight of some unseen burden, but when he sees us, he sits up straight and smiles. I can tell this version is for the voters. The real president is barely keeping it together.

  “Mr. President, I have brought Ms. Walker and Ms. Conrad, as well as the members of her organization.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” he says. “You can wait outside.”

  “Sir, I have been instructed not to leave you alone,” the soldier insists. />
  “I’m pulling rank, son,” he says, and gestures toward the door.

  The soldier grimaces, but leaves as he was instructed, closing the door behind him.

  The president stares at us for a long time. He examines each one of us, as if we are sculptures in an art museum. I’m expecting him to stand and get a peek from different angles.

  “There are thirteen of you,” he says, wearily. “Thirteen people. Ten of you are children. How did you do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “No, it’s not you. I’ve bungled this,” he admits, running his hand through his gray hair. “I broke this country apart.”

  Johar steps forward. “Sir, you have the opportunity to turn things around—”

  “Shut up, Johar,” he says, shaking his head. “I hate you White Tower people. Every last one of you has a stink like rotting garbage. I know all about my opportunities. I’m not here to talk to you. I’m here to talk to Ms. Walker and Ms. Conrad.”

  Bex reaches over and takes my hand.

  “You’ve caused an awful lot of trouble,” he says.

  I look to Bex, half expecting her to say something hilarious, but she seems dumbstruck, or maybe it’s starstruck. He is, after all, the president. Even I’m having a hard time remembering to breathe. Despite everything that’s happened, Bex and I are a couple of kids from the ghetto.

  “I have a question, and I’m hoping you will be completely honest with me,” he says.

  Bex nods.

  “All right,” I say.

  “Are you behind the things that are coming onshore?”

  We both shake our heads.

  “We weren’t behind anything that happened,” Bex says. “Neither of us is responsible. Lyric tried to stop the invasions. I’ll admit we stole a few cars and some candy bars, but sea monster attacks are not our fault.”

  “We came here to try to stop this one,” I say. “Just like we tried to stop the previous two.”

  The president stands and steps toward me. “This afternoon they landed in Newark, Delaware, and attacked a naval compound. I just got a casualty report. The National Guard has stopped counting dead soldiers. What do they want from us?”

  I shake my head. “They want you to die.”

  “And this is where you plan to fight them? What happens if you can’t stop them?”

  “I think that’s a question for you,” my father says.

  The president’s face grows dark with worry. “What do you need to win?”

  “You can start by taking down the fence,” Bex says.

  “Actually, sir, I have a very thorough list of actions that will ensure our success,” Johar interrupts.

  “I have no doubt you do,” the president says with a grimace, then turns his attention back to me. “I should have met with you sooner.”

  “It has actually been difficult to get on my calendar lately,” I whisper. I look to my friends and family, then back to him. “Aside from Mr. Johar’s list, I have a few things I need from you—​assurances, really, that will determine whether we stay or get back on the chopper.”

  “And what would they be, Ms. Walker?”

  “Hold up.” Bex reaches into her pocket and removes her digital video camera. She flicks it on, and the red light glows. She points it into the president’s face.

  “Ms. Conrad, you don’t need the camera. You can trust my word,” the president promises.

  Bex shrugs. “Maybe. All I know is that when I post this, I’m going to get at least a billion hits on the site.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I RUN THROUGH THE CAMP, SEARCHING EACH AISLE FOR ROW nine, section two.

  “Where is it, Johar?” I shout over my shoulder. He’s behind me with a clipboard, flipping through a massive list of detainees and where they are being held.

  “There,” he says, pointing to a handful of cages closest to the biggest detention building. My legs fight me. They know what I’m going to see, and they are trying to stop me. I almost fall. The best I can do is a slow, deliberate shuffle until I am there.

  In the first cage I find Flyer, Fathom’s cousin. He is dirty and haggard. Even the smile he has worn every time I have seen him is gone. His head hangs off his shoulders like it is no longer connected to his spine. It takes him considerable effort to raise it and look at me. When he does, he whispers a name.

  “Arcade.”

  At first I think he’s asking me where she might be, but then I realize he’s calling to her. Arcade is in the next cage, cross-legged, her eyes closed, her hands in her lap. She’s much thinner than I remember. She opens her eyes and looks at me. There’s no surprise, no flash of confusion or urgency. I can’t help but smile at how unemotional she is at my appearance.

  “Your Majesty,” she says, bowing her head slightly.

  “You know?”

  “There is no other possible conclusion I could make. You are here, returned to the surface. Minerva must be dead. How did the little minnow find the strength to fight her?”

  “I had a good coach. We’re letting everyone out,” I promise, then look at the cage next to hers. It’s empty. “Where is Fathom?”

  “He spends his days inside the building,” Flyer says. There’s foreboding in his voice.

  “They’re torturing him?” I say, turning to eye the evil structure. It looks a lot like a barn, but painted gray. It’s just one of many. A buzzer sounds, and I hear a click. The president promised to release all the Alpha, and he’s lived up to his word. The doors on the cages swing open. I rush into Arcade’s cage and help her to stand. Flyer staggers to his feet to join her, and they wrap around each other. I sprint around more rows of cages and into the detention buildings. The interior is divided into huge stalls, almost like a horse barn. When I peer into one, I see a dozen or so metal cots without mattresses. I also see dried blood on the ground.

  “Fathom!” My voice echoes off the walls and back into my ears, so I can hear the panic twice. It startles a few pigeons who have built a nest in the rafters. Their flapping wings compete with my cry.

  I move along the stalls, some so dark I have to step inside them to make sure they’re empty. I quicken my pace, searching willy-nilly, racing from one pen to the next. When I’m almost certain Arcade has the wrong building, I race out the other side and around the back. There, I find him, his hands tied with a rope strung to a post on the roof. His back has been savaged by fresh wounds. His chest is no better. Someone has been whipping him, mercilessly. Whatever decisions I made about my future with this kid are temporarily forgotten.

  “Fathom, I’m here,” I cry, trying to get him on his feet so I can untie the ropes. They are too tight with him hanging from them, but the boy is as solid and heavy as a tree.

  His eyes peek open, but it’s several moments before they focus on me. There’s no smile, only sorrow.

  “Lyric Walker. They captured you, too,” he says. He sounds defeated.

  “No, I came here to rescue you.” Damn, that feels good to say.

  “No,” he argues. “Do not dishonor me.”

  “Shut up,” I say.

  He tries to balance himself while I manage to get him untied, then I drape his arm around my shoulders, even though the pain from my own wounds is still intense. I bite my lip and guide him back around the building.

  Take notes, buddy. This is how you love someone.

  I wait outside the Red Cross tent and try to pump myself up for what I’m about to say. I have no idea how Fathom will react, a frustrating fact about our relationship rearing its head once again. I just can’t predict what he will say, and it’s exhausting. How are we going to raise a child together?

  A nurse steps out and gestures to me. “He’s finally calmed down. You can see him.”

  “Calmed down?”

  “He fought everything we tried to do. If there’s any silver lining to how bad his condition is, it’s that he was too exhausted to stop the treatment.”

  Inside, Fathom sits in a chair. He has an IV ins
erted into his arm and a drip bag on a post is leaking fluids into his body. His eyes are clearer than before. He even looks stronger. When he turns to me, I can see he is angry about the doctors. I’m too swept up in his face. This boy—​he knocks me out.

  There’s a doctor standing over him listening to his heart rate.

  “It’s high,” I say. “That’s normal. We all have it.”

  The doctor makes a note and smiles before ducking out to give us some privacy. Fathom nearly pulls his tubes out of his arm when he notices me.

  “Sit, please,” I beg. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself more. I need you healthy.”

  He does, but reluctantly.

  “You are changed,” he says.

  “Yes.” I can feel myself playing self-consciously with my hair, so I force my hand back to my side.

  “You are the warrior I always knew you could be, Lyric Walker.” He reaches up to run a finger along the back of my neck. “You even have trophies. Now we can be together. The others will recognize you as an Alpha.”

  He doesn’t know I’m the prime. I’m tempted to tell him, but I don’t want him to go into “loyal subject” mode like Husk. I need him to be real with me.

  “That’s what you wanted?” I ask.

  He peers up at me, confused. “Of course.”

  I snatch a folding chair leaning against the tent wall and sit down next to him. He takes my hand and smiles. It feels rationed, like he only has so many. Now that I’m deserving, I guess they’re free. A rush of anger bubbles up, but I tamp it down. This is not the time.

  “Funny, back in the day, the boys seemed to love me the way I was.”

  I can’t help but think of Riley and what he said outside the SUV. Wow, did I ruin it.

  “You are angry,” he says, and he looks genuinely surprised.

  “Another time. I have to tell you something important.”

  He reaches for my hand, but I take it back. I can’t get drunk on his touch; that’ll cause me to make bad decisions. “I don’t want you to freak out, because it’s going to be okay. I think it’s going to be okay. I really don’t know, but it is what it is, and we’ll be fine.”