Raging Sea (18 page)

“No, it couldn’t,” I say defiantly. Soon we approach another elevator that requires his keycard. Once it’s activated, he pushes a button that says
SB
for subbasement.

The elevator stops, and we’re let out into a hallway with a concrete floor and cinder blocks for walls. Once again, I realize how practical things are here at Tempest. It’s not the evil fortress in a comic book. Everything except the device that jams my glove seems ordinary and familiar. Even the tanks look like something they bought at a hardware store.

“In the comic books, the bad guy’s secret lair is usually tricked out,” I say.

“You would be better off if you stopped thinking about all this as a war between the good guys and the bad guys,” Doyle says. “I’ve found that most people are a mixture of both.”

“That’s what the bad guy in comic books always says to the hero too. I’ll try to remember that the next time I walk by a tank full of human hands,” I hiss.

“Sometimes you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet,” he says when we get to the end of the hall.

“And that’s your problem. You think your job is making omelets. Sorry, Doyle. Your job is making sure this madhouse works. If it weren’t for people like you, none of this evil could happen.”

He swipes his keycard again, and the door opens into something my mind is not prepared to understand. As we step out onto a catwalk, I see a massive green space as big as a soccer field. The grass is bright and lush. The trees have fat pears hanging from the limbs. There are rows and rows of blooming flowers—marigolds, lilacs, tulips—in whites and blues and yellows and oranges. Everything is manicured and tidy, with a stone pathway beckoning to a swing set and a carousel. I see basketball and tennis courts, a baseball diamond, and a running track. There’s a trampoline and archery targets and places to picnic.

“What is this?” I ask.

“It’s many things. A military facility, a training center, a place for the children to feel special,” he says.

“Children? You mean the Alpha kids?”

A loud buzz blasts the air.

“C’mon, I want to keep you out of sight for now,” he says. He walks me into a shadowy section, far from the lights, and he sits down on the edge of the catwalk, letting his boots hang over the side. He invites me to join him, but I refuse.

Below, two double doors open at the far end of the space. Dozens of kids run through it, grinning like it’s the last day of school, singing and dancing in their black jumpsuits with the White Tower logo on the back. They range in age, some as old as myself but others hovering around seven or eight. A couple could be as young as five. The little ones take to the monkey bars, swinging on swings, zipping down slides, riding teeter-totters, and laughing among themselves. The older kids ride skateboards on a professional fiberglass halfpipe. Others fall to the grass and braid one another’s hair. I peer down as best I can, recognizing a few faces. Angela Benningford’s eleven-year-old son, Cole, is shooting hoops on the basketball court.

“This is what I’ve been doing here, Lyric. White Tower was originally built to imprison these children and their Alpha parents. I believed the kids were special. When the first one morphed in the water, I realized they could be useful. I’ve battled a lot of CEOs—they come and go pretty fast around here—but I got my way. I built this park, and I’ve been training them ever since.”

“Training them for what?” I ask, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Remember in the diner when we watched the press conference? The Secretary of State said that we aren’t prepared to fight an amphibious threat? He’s right. We aren’t. Not with guns and boats and bombs, until now,” he says as he gestures to the children. “They’re our amphibious weapons, soldiers who can breathe underwater, who have been trained in combat. They’re our best chance at fighting the prime and his army. They can help put a stop to the devastation.”

“They’re babies.”

“They’re hybrids, half human, but, more important, half Alpha.”

“You’re going to toss those kids into the war?” I seethe. “You’re going to get them killed.”

“Not if we give them their own gloves.”

Suddenly I understand what he’s planning. It’s so revolting, I have to take a step away from him.

“Lyric, all of them have migraines just like you did. They have the right genetics to activate the weapons. With a little training—”

“You want me to train them?”

“We recently got enough gloves for each of them. You will teach them how they work. I’ve done the rest. They’re near experts in hand-to-hand combat, survival techniques, and marksmanship—”

“Marksmanship? That kid down there is five!”

“I’ve prepared them for anything,” he says. “But I can’t help them with the gloves. That’s why we need you.”

“You’re insane. It will never work.”

“Lyric, it has to. Listen, this isn’t a movie. There isn’t a secret government organization filled with supertechnology that’s going to save the world. There aren’t any superheroes. There’s no plan B. You and those kids are all we have. I wish the brains in the tank could have figured out how to crack those gloves. I’d love to put them on some real soldiers. I’d love to have thousands of them, but what I want and what I have are two different things. You and those kids are the best chance we have.”

“Arcade would be better at this than me.”

“I think we both know she’s not going to cooperate.”

I stare down at the alien weapon wrapped around my wrist. Suddenly it doesn’t seem as powerful and scary as before. Now it feels tiny and impotent.

“I’m not good with this thing, and even if I was, you couldn’t convince me to help. Those are children down there, not soldiers. How many are there, thirty?”

“Thirty-two,” he says. “With you, it’s thirty-three.”

“Thirty-three babies against thousands of flesh-eating monsters, some of whom wear the same gloves. Plus, from what I hear, there are squid monsters that drink your insides now. And let’s not mention the prime, who is insane, and his wife, who makes him look healthy. You remember they threw a battleship at us, right?”

Doyle stares down at the children while their songs of laughter drift up to us.

“Desperate times,” he says. “Do you think anyone wants this to be our last, best hope? You heard Spangler. We’re desperate.”

“I won’t do it.”

“Then I can’t protect you and your family any longer.”

“If my time in here is what you call protecting me—”

“It is, Lyric.” he says. “You have no idea how hard it has been to keep you all alive. Your mom and dad and Bex? They’re just a drain on resources to him, a few more useless mouths to feed that seep profits and raise overhead. If you don’t cooperate . . . there are worse things than solitary confinement, Lyric.”

“You disgust me, Doyle. You’d let him kill us?”

“He won’t kill you, Lyric, but he’ll kill everyone you love, then he’ll send those kids to fight anyway. He’s made a deal with the Marines. He’s delivering thirty-three hybrid kids to the beach whether you are ready to fight or not. You have a chance at keeping them alive. You may not care about the soldiers who are fighting, or the people who have lost everything, but you have to care about your own kind, right? If you turn your back on them, they’re as good as dead.”

I look down at the children. A group of kids who should be in the second grade are running through a sprinkler. Their giggles float up to us like party balloons.

“But they’re just kids,” I say.

“No, Lyric, those are weapons. Once you’ve taught them all you can, you will lead them back to Coney Island to reclaim the beach, then move up and down the coastline until it is safe again.”

Doyle doesn’t take me back to my cell. Instead, he escorts me to a suite at the end of a long hallway. Inside, much to my surprise, is what looks like a spa—one as fancy as any I’ve seen in Manhattan. There’s a single chair with a drop-down hair dryer and a shampoo sink, a steam room and a sauna, a table for skin scrubs, and a Japanese soaking tub that must be three feet deep. Steamy water is pouring out of a tap while two Latino women with round faces smile at me.

“What’s this?”

“The beginning of something new, Lyric,” Doyle says. “By the way, these women are illegal immigrants and don’t speak a word of English. They’re only here because White Tower has promised green cards to them and their families in exchange for their silence about what they see and hear. They are not part of this place. Enjoy your bath.”

“Screw you!” I shout—well, I actually say a lot worse than that, but most of it he doesn’t hear once he’s left the room.

The ladies are somewhat dumbfounded by my anger and seem concerned. I realize what I must look like to them. I’m filthy, I’m covered in bruises and bandages, and I’ve got a shaved head. Plus, I was hand delivered by an armed soldier.

“Sorry,” I say, even though I suspect they don’t understand. I mime myself drawing a smile on my face and hope that helps.

The ladies try to help me out of my uniform, but I resist. It’s not some weird shame about my body; it’s that I’m tired of being vulnerable. Eventually, though, I surrender and take off the jumpsuit. The call of the tub and bubbles is too great. I step into the steamy water, which should be heavenly, but I’m covered in fresh wounds. Burn marks on my chest are bright red, and my knees are raw. All my damages sing with agony. Crimson welts and scars rise up where there were none.

Eventually, the pain dulls and I allow myself to melt like a slab of butter buried inside a stack of pancakes. The women wash me like I’m a helpless baby. They scrub my arms and back, my feet, my face and neck. It’s odd to be bathed, but I’m so tired, I let it happen. The women are gentle and kind, even when they gingerly remove the bandages from the back of my head.

They both gasp.

“Is it bad?” I ask in a panic, but I know they don’t understand.

One of them rushes to the door and pounds on it. A soldier opens up, but I can’t see what’s happening because my other helper has spread a gigantic towel in front of me to block his sight line. My other “stylist” shouts at him in rapid-fire Spanish, but he’s just as clueless as me. He calls for Doyle, who briefly speaks to her, then closes the door.

When she returns, she looks at me with a sad, sympathetic face and points to the back of her own head. I don’t need an interpreter to understand my wound is infected. The other lady holds my hand tight while the first pours hot water over it. It feels like lava, and I shriek and cry.

I hear an argument in the hall, and then the door opens. Nurse Amy steps in with a small medical kit. She approaches the tub like it’s full of venomous snakes. My ladies scream at her, shouting hostilities in her face, pointing to my head, telling her off in the universal language of “you suck.”

After she examines my wound, Amy tries to open a tube of ointment, but the women snatch it from her. Like before, one takes my hand and the other pours the water. It’s just as painful, but when they’re done, they let Amy apply the cream, supervising her every move until she wraps it in a fresh dressing. Then they take the ointment from her and point to the door. Amy stalks off, and I ease back into the bath and smile up at my saviors.

“I love you, ladies,” I say.

When I’m done, they help me out of the bath and rub moisturizer all over me—my back, my scalp, my feet and face. They apply more ointment to wounds and scratches Amy ignored, then help me into a robe and slippers. They lead me to the sink, where a tube of toothpaste and a brush await me. As they remove the toothbrush from the packaging, I stare into the mirror at someone I don’t recognize. I’m gaunt, tired, and pale, like a ghost who refuses to believe she is no longer alive. It’s a wonder that Fathom knew who I was when I saw him. I’m ashamed, which is stupid, but it kills me to know he saw me this weak and broken. I’m almost glad my mother didn’t wake up and see me too.

I squeeze some toothpaste onto the brush and go to work. The mint has a shocking bite. Dental floss feels like lasers shredding my mouth apart. Still, I force myself to do my best, spitting out one red mouthful after another. I turn the knob for water to wash it down the drain and watch it swirl around in the bottom of the sink. Odd that I’ve missed hearing its whisper in my ears. I suppose Spangler will have to turn off whatever it is that jams my glove if he wants me to train those kids. Wait! I’ll have an opportunity to get us all out of here this time, and not as some mad unplanned dash through a maze of hallways. I will have my power back.

I nearly sprint out of the bathroom, and I make my way to the door. I want the guard outside to know I’ll train the kids. I want him to tell Doyle right away, but before I can get there, I see my ladies smiling at me from ear to ear.

“What?” I ask.

They point to a chair in the corner. Fathom is here. He’s in shorts and a T-shirt, all with the same stupid logo, but who cares? He’s here. He’s alive and in my room, and I have suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

Neither of us waits for the women to leave. He’s out of the seat and wrapping me inside his arms before I can really process him. I don’t even hear the click of the closing door. All my attention is on his face, his eyes, his mouth.

“I thought you were—”

He stops me with a kiss. It’s firm but gentle, romantic but passionate, everything I have ever dreamed a kiss could be and a few ways I never dared all at once. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he pulls me in with his. Our mouths never part. I’m not sure they can.

I don’t know how long it lasts—minutes? Days? We might live out the rest of our lives connected by this kiss. Fine with me. Eventually he pulls back, rests his hands on my shoulders, and looks me up and down.

“Did they harm you, Lyric Walker?”

“Yes, but I’ll be okay. I’m just a little beat up,” I admit.

He blushes a little.

“What?”

“I’d like to see,” he says.

I’m stunned and taken aback. It’s my turn to blush, not because he’s flirting, but because I want to show him, but there are too many faults and scars and wounds and I’m too thin and my head is shaved and my lips are chapped and I would do almost anything for a tube of lip gloss.