Raging Sea (6 page)

Unfortunately it’s running on fumes, and when the engine finally ceases, we barely have enough to make it off the freeway and into a dusty gas station in the middle of nowhere. When we come to a stop, the motor pings and pops, then wheezes its final, dying breath.

The three of us are stuck. There is nothing out here for miles. Even this gas station is abandoned. By the look of the pumps, it filled its last car long before I was born.

“What now?” Bex asks.

“We walk,” Arcade says.

“It’s hundreds of miles!” I cry.

Arcade doesn’t respond. She opens the car door and steps out. I watch her walk along the road’s edge. Bex snatches her hoodie and does the same.

“Guys, this is insane,” I plead, but they are almost out of earshot. Exasperated, I grab the pack and step out of the car into the broiling heat. A hateful blister of a sun hangs in a jaundiced sky, melting everything into a Shrinky Dink. Thirsty trees lean forward, the crumbling sidewalk glows with angry sunburns, and everything is flat. We’re definitely going to die out here.

As they walk on without me, I write a quick apology to the owner of the Ford, but it comes out more like a fan letter. I rave about how it handles, how the engine feels like something that belongs in a rocket. I apologize for stealing the phone charger but promise that it couldn’t be helped.

I run a caressing hand on the Ford’s hood when I’m finished.

“I’m going to miss you, beast,” I whisper, because it’s true. If I live through this, I’m going to buy a car just like this one. It’s going to be ginormous. I might even mount a tusk where the hood ornament should be.

I do my best to catch up with Bex and Arcade. The heat and the running wind me, so I can hardly talk when I close the gap. I’m sure they don’t mind. I’m not feeling particularly welcome. Bex’s disappointment in me is palpable, and Arcade isn’t exactly chatty. I hang back and walk at my own pace on the pebbly ground. After a few hours in the heat, I am really feeling the pack. It’s bulky and awkward, and every step seems to add another pound. I’m regretting the bacon and the half gallon of milk and all the other stuff that is too impractical to carry on my back. Without asking the others, I slip it off and toss things onto the side of the road, where they are quickly attacked by a murder of crows. I probably should have talked to Bex and Arcade, but neither of them offered to help me with it. Unfortunately, when I hoist it onto my back, I can’t feel much of a difference in the weight. I debate sitting down in the dust for a big cry, but I need to keep going. My parents don’t care if the pack is heavy or if the sun is mean. I’m their only hope.

The sky is orange and purple, signaling the end of another day, when we come across a deserted ice cream shop. I kick through the overgrown grass and litter to a rusty metal picnic table and toss the pack on top. At some point the table was painted bright red with a big smiling clown logo in its center. Now the clown looks as if he’s been sleeping beneath an underpass. Maybe we’re related.

Bex digs into the pack greedily, pulling out everything. Neither she nor Arcade mentions the stuff I tossed out for the birds. Either they don’t care, or this game of “don’t talk to Lyric” is more important.

I snatch two protein bars and an apple and make myself a bologna sandwich, vacuuming them so fast, it’s startling. Bex and Arcade do much the same. It’s a silent affair. I look across the table at my besty, my partner-in-crime, my sister from another mister, and feel as if the tabletop is a million miles wide. I can’t take it anymore.

“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 drive 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.

B
EX 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.