Raging Sea (12 page)

“Let me bring you up to date. You can probably tell by the state of my clothes and hair that things are kind of bad. I’m not blaming you. I made these mistakes. I know a lot of people think you get involved in our lives—you know, help people win football games and Grammy Awards—but I’ve always believed you are as surprised as anyone when a person gets hit by a bus or wins the lottery. My dad believes that you have some kind of plan for everyone. I don’t know. Maybe you do. So if that’s true, and part of your plan involves me dying in some horrible way, I’d like to offer an alternative. I could be the hero. Hear me out, ’cause this could be really exciting. First, you get me to Tempest. Second, I charge in, blow the place up, free a bunch of people, and then make an amazing escape. Sounds cool, huh? I’d pay to see that movie.”

I turn a little to work out a cramp in my leg.

“But, you know, if the script has already been written, then can I ask that my mom and dad get out and find a little place to be safe and happy, and Bex—let her grow really old and still be super hot and find someone who gets her to drop her guard? And Arcade. Get Arcade into some therapy and, well, if Fathom is really alive, then I guess they should be together, but only if she really loves him and appreciates him, because if she doesn’t, then let him find someone who will, but let that person look a little like me, so I can feel like he will never get over me. Yeah, that’s selfish. Sorry.

“I know it is probably against the rules to pray for a painful death for someone, but that Doyle guy? Can’t he choke to death on a cup of coffee?”

I know it’s just the changing angle of the moon, but Jesus looks slightly confused now.

“Yeah, I know. I sound crazy. I wonder if the Great Abyss hears Arcade’s rambling and thinks she’s lost her mind too. So, anything you can do would be awesome. I guess I should ask for world peace. You know, something selfless? World peace would be cool. Well, thanks for Lucas’s truck and this church and the bench and all.”

I can feel myself slipping into sleep.

“Please take care of everyone,” I beg.

Jesus looks noncommittal. I’m hoping it’s just the light.

I open my eyes to find another man hovering over me. Unlike the Jesus statue, he has deep brown eyes and skin, a shaved head, and a well-trimmed beard. He’s wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and a thin black tie. He smells like cocoa butter.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you are having a rough couple of days,” he says.

I sit up, feeling embarrassed and panicked.

“Don’t worry,” he continues. “I’m not going to call the police. We’d have to wait forty minutes for them to arrive from the next town. What do they call you?”

“Lyric,” I say.

“That’s lovely. Lyric, I’ve cooked some eggs. Will you have some breakfast with me?”

This is the second strange man to offer me a meal in as many days, but he has kind eyes and a smile to match. He gestures for me to follow him, and he walks to one of the doors behind the pulpit. Together we move down a long hall to a small cafeteria. There’s not much more than a big steel coffeepot, but there’s a little kitchen off to the side and a few tables made of Formica with matching plastic chairs. On one table are two plates of eggs, toast, and bacon. There are tall glasses of milk and bananas, too. My mouth waters like that of a dog eyeing a pork chop.

He pulls out a chair for me, and I take a seat.

“My name is Henry Tubbs,” he says. “I’m the preacher of this church. I come by a couple of times a week to check on it. We had some break-ins a few months back, mostly desperate people from the East Coast who crossed the borders in the night. The window repair budget is in the red this month.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, sincerely.

He waves it off, then sits across from me.

“I’d leave the place unlocked if I could. It’s kind of what God wants, but the congregation is a little more practical. So, dig in.”

I look down at the food, my stomach angrily reminding me of how much I’ve neglected it lately. My mind argues back that we don’t know if we can trust Henry Tubbs. The two of them fight about it. My stomach wins. I snatch the fork, and the first bite tastes like heaven. If it’s poisoned, it’s going to be a great way to go.

“So, I can assume you are one of our neighbors to the east?” he says.

I nod.

“Just passing through?”

I nod, tearing into the toast like I harbor a grudge against it.

He chuckles and slides his breakfast toward me.

“I’ll make more,” he says when I try to push it back. “You can eat all you want, but there’s a price. You have to tell me your story.”

“I’m looking for something,” I say, hoping it will satisfy his curiosity.

“Breaking into a church is a good first step,” he says with a grin. “That’s the kind of thing every preacher dreams of hearing.”

I can’t help but smile. “Sorry, I’m already a believer. I’m looking for a camp.”

He gives me a hard stare, then looks into his plate, nodding gravely.

“I know of it. What makes a young woman like you want to visit a place like that?”

“My parents are locked inside it,” I say, too tired to make up a lie.

Henry peels a banana and cuts it in half with his knife, then spears it and plops it onto my plate.

“Are you like the people they lock inside it?”

I look up at him, dreading that face I have seen whenever anyone finds out what I am, but it’s not there. He’s just curious.

“I’m half Alpha,” I offer.

“That can’t be easy,” he says. “People who are different often walk the most difficult paths. I’m actually a big fan of a man who was different. Everywhere he went, he faced hostility. People threw rocks at him. They drove him out of town.”

“People suck,” I say, then burn with embarrassment. “Sorry, I’ve got a potty mouth these days.”

He shrugs. “Don’t give up on people. Most of us have good hearts. Some are just afraid of things that they don’t understand. I’m sure everyone got freaked out when they saw Jesus walk on water. Actually, it sounds like you two have something in common.”

I laugh.

“And you’re going to this camp to cause some trouble.”

I nod as confidently as I can.

“That’s a dangerous place,” he warns. “Lots of guns up there.”

I put my gloved hand on the table. “I’ve got this.”

He takes a drink of his milk, then points to my plate. “I’ll get you some more. You’re going to need a full belly for that kind of work. After that, I’ll drive you up there.”

“You know where it is?”

He nods. “Very hard to hide a thing like that.”

Two more helpings of everything make a big difference. The final effects of the tear gas have worn off, and the decent sleep from the night before has left me feeling better than I have in weeks. Henry looks through the donation box and finds me a fresh shirt and a warm parka that will come in handy if I have to sleep outside again.

We get into his rusty Ford Escort and putter down the highway. The engine struggles with the rising elevation, but Henry never lets up. He pushes the car onward into the craggy red mountain range.

“How does your gizmo work?”

“I really don’t know for sure. I turn it on just by thinking about it, and then I hear voices that ask me for directions.”

“Voices, huh? You know, lots of folks in the Bible heard voices.”

“So did a lot of folks living on the F train platform near my old house,” I say.

Henry chuckles.

“What do the voices say?” he continues.

“They offer me help. They seem to come from water, like there’s a voice for every drop in the ocean. I’m like their boss, and when I ask them to do something, they do it.”

“That might be a problem for you. The place they built this camp on is in the middle of a rain-shadow desert.”

“Which means?”

“These mountains here,” he says, waving out in front of us, “they block all the moisture from getting through. It’s probably the driest place in the whole country.”

“Predictable.” I sigh. “I don’t know why my luck should change now.”

“I’ll pray for you,” he says, and for the rest of the trip, he is quiet. Maybe he’s silently contemplating what a terrible idea this is, or maybe he really is having a one-on-one with God. Or maybe there isn’t anything left to say.

The drive takes almost an hour and a half, up and down peaks and into valleys, until Henry stops his car outside a huge chain-link fence that stands three stories tall, and we step out. A sign reads
CAUTION! PRIVATE PROPERTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE ARRESTED AND PROSECUTED
.

“I guess this is it,” I joke.

“Not at all subtle,” he says. “You sure you want to do this?”

I nod. “I don’t see any other option.”

“I assumed as much. I wish you luck, Lyric,” he says, cupping his hands together. I step into them, leaping onto the fence and climbing up effortlessly.

“You seem to have some experience climbing fences,” he calls up to me.

“Brooklyn girl,” I joke. “I’ve grown up surrounded by a few of them.”

The dirt road to the camp mocks me. It turns and doubles back over and over again, and what should really be a five-mile walk becomes a twenty-five-mile hike. I could be out here all day and night and still not reach the camp by morning.

Where is it you think you’re going? What happens when you get there? What is your plan?

I don’t know, Dad. I am seventeen and sheltered and stupid, but it’s a little late to fix any of that now. I can’t turn around, can’t fight the magnetic pull the camp has on me. It won’t let me abandon my family and friends.

I hear the roar of an engine approaching, so I dart into the brush and huddle behind a couple of tall cacti. A murky green army jeep careens into the scenery. There are two men in it, both wearing white T-shirts and jeans and sneakers. There are rifles strapped to their chests. They remind me of Doyle with their serious faces. Luckily they don’t spot me, and they continue onward.

I hop back onto the road, unsure of how long it will be before they come back around or if there are more jeeps on the way. I do know it’s time to pick up the pace. My walk turns into a jog—good and steady. I’m not an athlete, so I have to take breaks, but once I’m fine, I keep going.

Not to say that I’m high on determination. This totally sucks. My legs and stomach are cramping. My back hurts, and I’m definitely wearing the wrong bra for this marathon. I’ve got a blister forming on the outer parts of both big toes, too. All these aches and pains have illuminated something about me. I am a ridiculous human being, spoiled, soft, and lazy—just like Arcade used to say. Why didn’t I take up a sport in high school? Why didn’t I go for a run on the beach every single day? My mother was a great athlete. People paid her to teach them yoga! My dad is in perfect condition. He can chase down a shoplifter half his age. Where is the Olympic decathlon gene they should have passed on to me? Why did I get the binge-watching-Netflix DNA?

You’re a force of nature. You’re a wild thing.
My mother urges me onward.

“Oh, hi, Mom. Thanks for showing up. Where were you when Dad was lecturing me about my sins?”

“Lyric Walker!”

My name booms from the sky. I scamper off the road, startled and confused. Huddling behind a thin tree, I search for the source of the voice, but I can’t find it.

“My name is Donovan Spangler. Welcome to Area Eleven, part of White Tower Securities Incorporated, a joint agreement with the Department of Justice, the Department of Defense, the Central Intelligence Agency, and the United States Marines. White Tower has been contracted to operate this facility.

“I know why you’re here and what you plan to do, but I’m hoping we can have a conversation first. I think we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement free of violence and drama. How does that sound?”

From my vantage point I can see the top of a watchtower, and I realize I’m closer than I thought. I don’t see anyone in it, but I suspect that’s where the speaker is amplifying Spangler’s voice.

“Come on out, Lyric,” he says cheerfully. “Let’s be friends.”

I crawl through the scrub on hands and knees, fighting the urge to stand and run back the way I came. I feel exposed, like I’m a little white mouse and someone is peering into my hidey-hole. I find a large boulder and hunch down behind it, pressing my back to it while I catch my breath and contemplate my next move.

It’s clear they can see me, so I might as well throw out the sneak-in-and-free-everyone plan. No, now all that’s left to me is a face-to-face confrontation. I think about Deshane back at school. He barreled through the halls, terrorizing people. Every day was a demonstration of his aggression. I can see he did it to avoid fights. Only the bravest of the brave called him out, but most of them were terrified of what he might do. Fear kept people at bay. On the other hand, he could have been a psychopath. Still, it worked. I might as well give it a try. My thoughts turn on the glove, and I reach out with my mind, sensing a huge well of water buried in a tank not far from here. It must be the camp’s primary water supply. There’s enough to level this place if I get close enough to it, but for now I need a little to put on my show.

“Now, there’s no reason to turn on your Oracle,” Spangler says.

Oracle? What’s that?
I look down at the glove. Is that what this thing is called?

“No one is going to hurt you, so come on in,” he continues. “It gets hot out here around lunchtime. We’ve got air conditioning and showers, and the chef can make you anything you want for dinner.”

I round a corner and see another huge fence in front of me. Its gate is wide open, inviting me to pass through. I whip my head around in every direction, searching for soldiers to pop out of nowhere and gun me down, but I don’t see a soul.

“That’s it, Lyric. You’re going in the right direction. You’re getting closer.”

After I step through the fence, I hear a mechanical hum and turn just in time to see the gate close on its own. Then I notice the sign.

WARNING! ELECTRIFIED FENCE!