The Water Queens (Keeper of the Water) (6 page)

I nod. John already heads over to the grime-encrusted windows, wiping away enough gunk so we can see outside.

“Over there,” John says.

He points toward the large fence across the road. I’d given it little thought during our run but realize an airport lay just beyond. Several large maintenance crews tend to a massive hole in the fence; it’s not hard to imagine an oversized swamp vehicle smashing through it. But the maintenance crews aren’t the only ones just inside the airport’s fence. Dozens of police cars and FBI vans litter the airport grounds and even more news vans are parked along the sides of the road, many from big-time TV stations.

“Something is seriously wrong,” John says.

“And I’ll give you one guess who caused the trouble.”

Even more police cars begin to swarm this area and a few pull into parking lots of nearby buildings. I realize it was a mistake to risk being spotted but I didn’t expect such heightened levels of security.

“It’s not safe to stay here,” I say.

John points to another gathering of vehicles just down the road.

“There,” he says. “Let’s go find out what happened.”

CHAPTER SIX

The small diner is old and rundown, most of the words in its neon sign having probably blown out years ago. It may have been in a good location when the surrounding buildings and warehouses were newer and occupied but I doubt that’s been the case for a long time. Still, considering the number of cars and TV vans parked outside, you’d think this was the most happening restaurant in town.

Our clothes aren’t exactly in the best shape to be out in public unless blood and arrow holes have suddenly become fashionable. But we all wear black, which covers up most of the bloody stains, and the tank tops Amelia and I have on underneath aren’t in bad shape. We store our bows and bloody clothing behind some old boxes on the side of the diner before heading in.

The interior is just as rundown as outside. Wobbly tables, mismatched chairs and faded wallpaper make this place cry out to be chosen for one of those restaurant makeover TV shows my mom used to watch. The air is so heavy with the smell of greasy food that I feel like I’ve gained five pounds just by smelling it. This isn’t the kind of food I’m used to eating – in this life or the past – but the smell makes my stomach rumble and reminds me I haven’t eaten in several days.

Most of the customers clearly aren’t locals. There are too many people dressed in fancy suits, others wearing clothes adorned with logos from different TV stations; press credentials are worn by all. A lone waitress looks frazzled as she runs around like crazy, trying to deliver food and drinks to people sitting in every booth or on every stool at the counter. I doubt this place has ever done so much business and by the look of the waitress, it doesn’t look like she wants it. Still, none of the customers look too concerned with the slow service. The crowd is loud and raucous, everyone calling out to everyone else; this is what I imagine a hectic newsroom to resemble.

A large group is huddled in the corner, where an old TV is blaring. John, Amelia and I make our way through the crowd, where we hear snippets of conversation.

“They’re running the same story over and over,” one of the reporters claims. “There hasn’t been anything new for hours. Sure it’s maybe the craziest story I’ve ever covered but it needs a new angle.”

“Who could’ve pulled off something like this?” another asks. “A rogue group of military special ops?”

“All the way in South Bumble Swamp? What’s the point of doing it here of all places?”

I want to know what they’re talking about so I step forward to ask for specifics. But John senses what I’m about to do and grabs my arm to stop me, shaking his head. I raise a questioning eyebrow and when he doesn’t respond, I pull my arm from his grasp, fully intending to ignore his unspoken warning.

“You saw the footage of them,” someone else calls out from across the way. “Do they look like any special ops unit you’ve ever seen or heard of?”

“If so, I want to join
that
unit!” another man says, causing a few chuckles.

“They look more like a bunch of hot young models,” another adds. “They’re probably the wet dream of every teenage boy in the country right now.”

An older reporter stands up, about the same age as my father. I expect this man to chastise the others for their vulgarity but a big smile crosses his lips.

“Trust me, they’re the wet dream for some
older
men, too,” the skeevy old man says, causing the tiny diner to erupt in laughter. The waitress drops a plate during the ruckus and everyone laughs even harder.

At least
almost
everyone. One of the few women reporters stands up and glares at the rest of the men. I’m surprised that I recognize her; I don’t recall her name but I’m sure I’ve seen her on TV before. She appears distinguished and strong, unlike the rest of the men in here. I can tell right away that she’s a woman of principle, even before she addresses the diner of men without fear.

“How can any of you speak about these women as sex symbols?” she says, her voice full of disgust. “They’re murderers and thieves and nobody should find them – or what they do – to be attractive. I’m worried this story will set a bad example for all the girls watching out there.”

Though a few lighter chuckles follow her diatribe, most of the men quiet down as the woman shakes her head. I happen to make unintentional eye contact with the skeevy old reporter who winks at me. He grosses me out but then makes me nervous when he glances at the TV – which shows a grainy still photo of Cassie and the queens taken from security footage – and then turns back to me.

“Friends of yours, sweetheart?” he asks.

I’m sure he means it as a joke but he has no idea how close he is to the truth, not that
any
of those women are my friends. A few other reporters turn to look at us so Amelia leads us farther from them and closer to the small TV. The video was taken at night and the security cameras aren’t exactly made for filming entertainment. But as the scene unfolds and switches angles from different cameras across the airport grounds, we get the general idea of what happened.

Security camera footage is shown of the huge swamp buggy crashing through the airport’s gate. Numerous police cars follow but keep a safe distance back once the buggy drives onto the tarmac. I haven’t gotten the whole story yet but I’m suddenly hopeful that it ends with the queens crashing; I can’t imagine any other conclusion to such insanity. Whenever the police get too close, the queens open fire, shooting arrows and hurling spears at the cars. It’s tough to make out specific details of the crazy chase but one of the cop cars hit with an arrow suddenly swerves out of control and crashes into another, sending it rolling across the runway, flipping onto the grass before bursting into flames.

I’m appalled by the amount of death and destruction the queens caused but it’s nothing compared to what happens next. The camera switches views and shows the swamp buggy speeding head-on toward an airplane; they look to be playing the world’s unlikeliest game of chicken. At the last second, both vehicles turn. The swamp buggy goes up on two wheels for a moment before steadying itself; I’m surprised nobody in the Queen Clan tumbled over the side of the open-topped vehicle. The plane wasn’t so lucky. It veers onto the open field beside the runway, careening across the grass until finally turning sideways. It tilts onto its side, the wing snapping off before skidding to a stop.

“I can’t believe Cassie was so blatant,” I whisper to Amelia and John. “I understand the queens being in the jungle so long that they don’t understand modern technology. But Cassie
had
to know there’d be cameras and media coverage.”

“Do you
know
those girls?”

The woman reporter suddenly stands behind us, apparently overhearing what I said. I turn and look at her, my mouth slightly agape in surprise, my brain unable to come up with an answer. I’m a terrible liar but luckily – or
unluckily
for me – John
is
good at lying.

“No, we don’t,” he tells her. “Excuse us.”

He takes me by the hand and leads Amelia and me closer to the counter. I should be paying attention to the story on TV but I glance back at the familiar reporter. She still watches me and our eyes meet. I feel like she can tell we’re lying and I have a strange urge to talk to her, like she can help us somehow. I finally look away when I hear the TV over noise from the diner crowd.

On screen, the buggy skids to a stop near a passenger jet parked beside its terminal. The women easily leap down from the high vehicle and instantly form a protective barrier around Cassie. Only a few police cars are left and pull to a stop, opening fire. One of the Amazons is hit but she doesn’t fall.

“According to one of the surviving officers, at least one woman was hit in the firefight but did not seem fazed. Though the women moved with speed and grace, the police assume they were wearing heavy duty body armor to avoid taking serious damage,” explains a female reporter on TV.

Though the footage is dark, it’s easy to see a spark of bright blue as the injured queen puts a vial of special water to her lips. A hail of arrows is then fired at the police just off screen and the gunshots come to a sudden halt.

“The woman appears to drink some type of liquid, which authorities believe might be a new kind of drug. Emergency response teams were already busy dealing with the other crashes so the band of women faced little opposition as they hijacked the nearby plane. A sky marshal aboard must’ve tried to stop the woman but was ultimately overwhelmed. This scene has aired several times the last few days but we want to remind our sensitive viewers that the following image depicts violence of a graphic nature.”

After Cassie and Catherine lead the woman up the stairs into the plane, the timestamp on the footage jumps ahead a few minutes. Catherine emerges from the doorway and tosses the body of a much larger man – his body and neck riddled with arrows – down the stairs. The darkened security footage cuts off, switching to a female reporter standing just outside the airport’s gate.

I instinctively turn to the woman from earlier, who still watches me across the diner. She’s the one reporting the news on TV, obviously shot a few hours earlier. The CNN logo appears at the bottom of the screen as well as her name, Ashley Lutz.

“Local authorities are assisting the FBI in their search for the owners of the swamp buggy driven by the women,” she reports. “The vehicle is assumed to be stolen but I’m told these types of recreational vehicles often go unregistered so it may take a while to find any link with the women. Despite having significant footage of every woman involved in this despicable hijacking, I’m told the FBI has yet to receive a single credible tip to their identities. But they’re still encouraging the public to call with any – ”

Ashley’s earlier report suddenly cuts off, replaced with in-studio footage of an older distinguished news anchor, Jonathan Kanty. A large monitor behind him shows footage of the hijacked plane flying low to the ocean. Several fighter jets flank the larger passenger plane but keep a safe distance.

“Finally, something
new
,” someone in the diner calls out.

“We switch to live footage of Florida Air Flight 206, hijacked more than twenty-four hours ago,” the news anchor says. “By now, the world knows all about the daring hijacking of the plane in southern Florida by a band of primitively-armed women. The plane sat on the runway for nearly a day while a peaceful settlement was attempted. But the identity of the women was still not known, nor did authorities have any idea about their ideology. When it became clear a peaceful resolution would not be reached, the women began executing passengers one by one, tossing their bodies out of the plane as a warning to authorities. Three innocent people were killed before police and FBI finally relented and allowed the plane to takeoff.”

I turn to Ashley, who remains close by. Though I feel John’s eyes burning a hole in my back, I head toward her to get some answers.

“Where are they headed?” I ask her.

“Do you know something about these women?” she whispers, making sure none of the men overhear her scoop.

“I’m not telling you anything until you answer my question,” I say.

“In that case, we should find a quieter place to talk,” Ashley says.

She takes me by the arm and begins leading me toward the diner’s exit. Amelia and John both see this and rush toward us but I hold up a hand to stop them.

“I know what I’m doing,” I tell them.

At least I
hope
I do. We’d hoped Cassie and the Queen Clan’s journey to the Amazon would take a long time. But while we were busy healing and escaping the swamp, the queens took much more drastic action. I want nothing more than to leave this place and start running toward the jungle; it’s a journey I made several times on foot while recruiting women for our tribe. Those trips hadn’t required tight time constraints, though. I have to be smarter now and rely on more than just my natural instincts if we’re going to stop Cassie.

Outside, I still see police cars driving around and I turn my head. I don’t think they could’ve gotten a clear enough look earlier to identify me but I’m not taking that chance. The reporter notices the way I shy away.

“Any reason they’d be searching for you?” she asks.

I shake my head; it’s much easier to lie when I don’t need to actually say anything.

“Before I say a word,
you
need to tell me where that plane is going,” I say.

“Haven’t you been watching TV the last few days?” she asks. “Or have you been busy doing something else?”

I frown and raise an eyebrow.

“Sorry, I guess I’m used to being the one asking questions,” Ashley says. “Nobody knows for sure about their ultimate destination but as soon as they took off, they turned south, heading toward South America.”

This news should come as no surprise but the answer still sickens me.

“They already landed in Venezuela to refuel,” she continues. “You don’t know any of this?”

I shake my head.

“The Venezuelan army blockaded the plane once they landed. The women responded by killing more passengers and tossing them out. The killings were enough warning to finally get more fuel but the authorities still stalled the plane from taking off, leading to even more sacrifices. This allowed enough time for the U.S. to send in their own authorities, which was a major unexpected step in relations between our country and Venezuela – sorry, that’s off topic.