Raging Sea (11 page)

“Oh, I hate watching this,” the waitress says, but before she can change the channel, Doyle stops her.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Leave it.”

“Suit yourself,” she says with a shrug, then wanders off in search of his dessert.

“I don’t want any more people to die while I work to keep you safe and alive.”

“Nothing you say makes any sense, Doyle,” I growl. “You and your company kidnapped my parents. You’ve got Alpha in a torture camp. You’re experimenting on them. Now you’re here to tell me you’re trying to protect me.”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Doyle says. “Lyric, you’re the most important person in the world.”

“Me?”

“You can put an end to the fighting, Lyric,” he says.

“It has nothing to do with me,” I say.

“It has everything to do with you,” he argues.

“No! You know what could have helped stop the fighting? Thirty thousand Alpha living in a tent city in Coney Island. Maybe if people like you hadn’t harassed them, they might have been willing to fight those things for us.”

“I completely agree, and when this is all said and done, a lot of people are going to lose their jobs and go to jail, but right now pointing fingers doesn’t solve the crisis.”

“And exactly why am I supposed to care?”

He takes a deep breath, fighting the urge to continue the pointless debate.

“I need you to come with me, Lyric. I will take you somewhere you can do some actual good with that weapon on your hand. You can help me save the world,” he says. “Look, there’s the Secretary of Defense. You should listen to this.”

Reporters gather in a room decorated with an American flag, blue curtain, and a podium with the government’s official seal. Front and center is a gray-haired man. He looks tired and grim.

“Secretary of Defense Harris Abramson admitted to reporters today what political pundits have been saying for days, that the U.S. military is not trained to handle an amphibious threat like the Alpha,” a reporter says.

“Navy SEALS have been working closely with National Guard and Marine command, but many of their efforts are stymied by the flooding and the tidal wave attacks on East Coast military bases.”

“What seems to be the problem?” a reporter shouts over the din of other questions.

“The enemy operate in relatively shallow waters that a submarine cannot reach,” Abramson says. “Or they move into depths no human being has ever attempted. The Alpha have lived their whole lives underwater, and their bodies are suited for high pressures, frigid temperatures, and strong currents. They’re physically more powerful and faster than human beings, even more so when submerged. Some, like the creatures with the teeth you’ve seen and read about, are particularly savage.”

“Are there fears that there might be other things in the water? Reports coming out of the United Kingdom talk about a gigantic creature surfacing near Scotland,” a reporter asks.

The secretary looks down at his notes, then wipes his brow.

“At this time, we have no information that would lead us to that conclusion.”

“He’s lying, Lyric,” Doyle says. “There are other things. He’s afraid of causing a panic.”

“Sir, you keep referring to these creatures as ‘Alpha,’ and I’m wondering if there is a distinction? Is there no difference between the community who lived on the beach in Coney Island and these monsters who don’t appear to be as intelligent? Can you please clear that up for us?”

“At this time, the State Department is not making a distinction. If it’s in the water, we’re shooting at it.”

“That’s all I need to know about your war,” I say. “I’m just another monster.”

The waitress returns with a smile.

“I’ve got one slice of cherry left.”

“I’ll take it,” he says, and then waves his cup in a circle. “And some more coffee. She’s going to have the turkey burger with bacon, sweet potato fries, and a chocolate milkshake. I’m going to have the stir-fry with tofu, and is the broccoli soup made with cream?”

She nods.

“Salad, then, and two big glasses of water.”

The waitress nods and jots it all down, her pencil bouncing around like a rabbit. She scoops up our plastic menus, and Doyle gives her a wink before she disappears again.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat something,” he says before I can argue further. “I need you strong and healthy.”

“You have my parents, and I want them back. I want Bex and Arcade!”

He nods. “I can make that happen, but you have to come to the camp with me.”

I place my gloved hand on the table, then will it to come to life. It radiates blue, turning the entire restaurant into a bright sky. I put it in his face, then command the coffee in his cup to swirl up and out and dance around his face. He retains his composure, but there’s fear in his eyes.

“You must think I’m stupid.”

“Lyric, I’m not going to say the people I work with are good people, but we do have a good mission—saving the United States from an invading force. I can’t figure out how to make it a success without you.”

Filthy words line up in the back of my throat, jostling with one another to be the first to fly out of my mouth. Instead, I get up from my seat and head for the door.

“I’m trying to avoid a confrontation, Lyric. I told them that I could bring you in peacefully, and—”

I spin around to face him.

“Go to hell!”

He leaps from his seat and grabs me by the arm. I try to pull away and nearly fall from the effort. He’s too strong. I can’t get free.

The waitress peers out from the kitchen, and she’s not happy.

“What’s going on over there?” she says.

“He’s a murderer. He killed people. He kidnapped my friends and drugged me. Please, help me,” I beg.

“Jake, call 911,” she shouts to someone I can’t see.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s no need to call the police,” Doyle says, attempting to turn on his charm again. “My daughter was out all night with a bunch of boys, drinking and doing heaven knows what, and I thought I’d sober her up here before I took her home to her mother. I apologize for any trouble.”

He tosses a twenty on the table.

“I think we’ll let the sheriff figure this one out,” the waitress says. “Hey!”

Doyle pulls me out the door and into the hot parking lot. It’s completely empty except for one lone red pickup truck.

“What did you really do to Lucas? Did you kill him like the others?” I scream.

“Lyric, stop! You have to listen to me.”

“No, I don’t. Not as long as I have this,” I say, waving the glove at him once more. “Go back to your death camp, and let them know I’m coming. When I get there, I’m going to knock it down!”

“If you don’t give this a chance, I can’t help you later,” he begs.

“If I ever see you again, I will kill you,” I promise.

“Then I’m sorry, Lyric. I didn’t want it to go down like this, but you’re too important,” he says, waving his hands in the air. Before I know it, I’m surrounded by a dozen armed soldiers, all dressed in black and pointing rifles at my head. They look exactly like the soldiers that invaded the theater.

“Get out of my way!” I shout. Reaching down into the bottom of all my pain, I call to the whispers, demanding they be fast and furious and merciless. What comes is the most violent upheaval I have ever created, a shock wave of mud and concrete that cracks pavement. Thirteen spouts erupt beneath the soldiers, and the men flip into the air like rag dolls. Doyle is among them, and as he recovers, I dig into his pockets and find a set of keys. I assume they once belonged to Lucas, and I head toward the truck.

Doyle calls out to me.

“Fathom is there,” he chokes.

I spin around and stare at him. My body feels hot and nauseous. I shake like my blood sugar has bottomed out. “You lie,” I whisper.

“He’s alive, Lyric. He surrendered to the Navy three days ago, just a few miles away from Coney Island. They brought him to us. He’s at Tempest.”

“Fathom would never surrender,” I cry.

Doyle will not manipulate me. His words mean nothing. Fathom may be alive and well, but there’s no way he’s at Tempest. He’s too smart to get caught. Doyle knows I care about him, and he’s playing a game.

I will the water to pool around him and his thugs, then watch as they are swept away like they’ve fallen into a raging river. When they’re gone from my sight, I turn and see our waitress gaping at me through the window.

I hurry to Lucas’s truck and peel out of the parking lot. Once I hit the freeway, the truth slams into me head-on. The reason we were never caught, never arrested, was because Doyle cleared our path. He has always known where we were and has made it simple for us to get here—the road blocks, the border fence, maybe even the stolen cars. It was all part of getting me to this point.

I found a receipt for gas on the floor of Lucas’s truck, so I know Doyle filled the tank in Menard. It will get me pretty far, maybe all the way. It’s a long drive, but that’s fine. It will give me time to become as brave as I sounded in that parking lot. Everything is falling apart, and I don’t know how to stop it. Worse, I’m terrified that my bad luck has yet to run out.

I search the truck’s glove compartment and find a spiral-bound road atlas of Texas highways that allows me to trace a path with my fingers to my very best guess of the camp’s location. I assume it would be in the desert’s remotest area, maybe even on the very border of the U.S. and Mexico. It’s a shot in the dark, but it’s the only one I’ve got. After that, it’s anybody’s guess. The uncertainty sends me into despair. I think about how afraid Bex must be and how little help Arcade will be to her. I think about my parents in that camp with Doyle watching them every single day. I can’t shake my certainty that he’s watching me now, that there are cameras in the truck and my escape was part of the plan.

And then I think about Fathom. Not knowing if Doyle was lying to me or not is excruciating. I whimper for hours as I drive through Eldorado, Iraan, and Fort Stockton, where I take Highway 67 south toward the Texas border.

It’s here in this barren landscape, the rocky climb into copper-stained mountains, that I feel loneliness for the first time. I expect Bex to lean over and change the radio station. She and Arcade are like a couple of phantom limbs. Their absence feels wrong. It needs to be corrected. Arcade wanted me to have a reason to fight, maybe even to kill. Doyle just gave me one.

It’s nighttime when Lucas’s car runs out of gas, half a mile from the nearest town. I let it roll off the freeway and as far into the scrub as it will go. Hopefully no one will spot it.

I find a blanket in the truck bed and a bottle of water under the seat, then spend ten minutes debating whether or not to leave Lucas a note. I doubt he’ll ever see this car again. There’s a good chance that he’s not even alive, but it seems right to say something.

I’m sorry that you got mixed up in my problems. I had no idea the bad guys would go so far. I hope you are alive. You’re good all around, and the world needs more people like you, Lucas.

I place the note on the dash, wrap the blanket around my shoulders, and walk through the chilly night. When I get back to the road, I realize there are no streetlights out here. My only guide is the moon, so I use the light it reflects off the paint on the pavement to steer my course.

Half an hour later I walk into Shafter, Texas. The sign says the population is twenty-seven. I think it’s exaggerating. Shafter is so small, I don’t think it should be allowed to call itself a town. There are a handful of tiny homes surrounding a large white stucco church. It’s imposing in the night, a white behemoth surrounded by black mountains. It’s also quiet and a good place to camp for the night. I circle the outside and find a silver camper in the back. I listen at the door for signs of life, but there’s nothing. I try the door, but it’s locked tight. I consider breaking a window, but I doubt I’d fit through it.

The church has two entrances, one in the front and one in the back, but both are locked as well. I consider going back to the truck to sleep, because breaking into God’s house seems really wrong—maybe so bad that my father’s nagging voice might give up on me entirely. Still, it’s so cold and I need to lie down. So I make the sign of the cross as best as I can remember and whisper a pre-crime apology into the sky. I find a heavy rock, wrap it in my hoodie, and smash a window. It was loud. I bet all twenty-seven residents are rushing down here in their pajamas to investigate. I wait for a light to come on or a police siren. After ten minutes, I reach my hand through the sharp edges and unlock the window.

The room I’ve broken into is a dank, stuffy place filled with rows and rows of pews and folding chairs. There are racks on the back of each seat where Bibles, hymnals, and paper fans wait for worshippers. A plaque on the wall explains how much money the church collected last month and how much more they need to meet their goals. There’s a life-size sculpture of Jesus on the cross standing behind the pulpit. It’s not fancy, not like the church Dad used to take me to, with the towering ceiling and the stained-glass windows and the little cushioned benches you could fold down when you knelt to pray. This is church without the special effects.

There are a couple of doors behind the pulpit. There could be a cot in the back. Heck, there could be a California King back there, but exploring feels icky. Instead, I choose one of the hard wooden pews and stretch out as best I can. There’s something lovely about being able to lie all the way down after two weeks in a car, even if my back is going to kill me in the morning. It’s all the pampering I need.

Once I’m settled, I look up and realize the statue of Jesus is hanging directly over me. He stares down as if waiting for me to go to sleep.

“Hey.”

Like I said, he’s not much of a talker. Still, I can’t help but think about what Arcade said to me, how I needed to talk to the person in charge of my universe. I guess it couldn’t hurt.

“So, we haven’t talked in a while,” I continue.

Jesus’s eyes shine like moonbeams. He looks uncomfortable, but that could be the whole crucifixion thing he’s dealing with at the moment.