Raging Sea (3 page)

There’s not much happening in the next aisle. This is the Death Valley of all convenience stores: cans of motor oil, NASCAR T-shirts, dusty country and western CDs, and tattooed-girlie magazines. One shelf has a stack of those little tree-shaped car fresheners that smell like pine or green apples. I grab a couple and put them in the pack. The Caravan is getting pretty rank.

One more aisle and I’m out of here. I turn the corner and nearly fall over in shock. Food! Real food: apples, bananas, oranges, whole-wheat bread, cans of soup! In the refrigerator case nearby is milk, string cheese, bologna, pre-made tuna fish sandwiches, and a package of bacon. I have no idea how I’m going to cook it, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve got bacon! Getting it into the pack is a bigger problem. It’s almost full. Screw the toilet paper! I’ll suffer. Once the t.p. rolls are out, I surrender a bar of soap and the mouthwash. Sacrifices have to be made, but now I’ve got room for a half gallon of milk and a loaf of bread. The pack is now officially overflowing. I fight the zipper, then heft the whole thing onto my back.

It’s time to go. As I pass down the aisle, I notice a newspaper rack.
USA Today
has a picture of my hometown on its front page. Coney Island is a battlefield. Soldiers charge toward the sea, firing rifles at dark-skinned Rusalka leaping out of a massive wave. There are two figures rising above the whitecaps who don’t fit in with the monsters. I peer closer until I finally recognize them. The first is the prime, Fathom’s insane father and king of the Alpha. He was bent on an invasion of the mainland even when his people were at their most vulnerable, and now he’s got it. The second is his wife, Minerva, a cackling partner to his madness. More shocking to me is that it appears as if the prime is leading the Rusalka. How did the bitterest of enemies join forces?

Other papers and magazines give me more glimpses into the world I left behind. One reports on states rising up against one another, sending in their own militias to defend their borders. There are stories of lynchings and soldiers shooting people for trying to cross state lines. Food shortages are rampant, mobs, looting, and fires are a daily event. One paper speculates the tensions will lead to secession and to a second civil war.

But no matter what these papers are reporting, there is one thing they share: a hatred of Lyric Walker, teen terrorist-at-large. They use photos of me at my worst. Facebook shots when I was a little buzzed or a sweaty mess in the humid Coney Island heat. I look unhinged, a bad seed who’s been on the wrong path since she was born. I guess they can’t exactly use the picture of me in my tenth grade homecoming dress. I wore a vintage lace shift with rose appliqués that night. I rocked that dress. Nope, I’m public-enemy number one, and I have to look the part.

I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. I did what I could to stop everything that happened. They turned on me!
They
kidnapped my family and now
I’m
the villain? It’s more of the same old racism now that they know I’m only half human. I guess it makes me all monster in their eyes. Well, let the world burn. It looks to me like it’s getting exactly what it deserves.

Furious, I tear myself away from the papers only to find the cashier in my path.

“So, this little scam the two of you pull would probably work if not for one thing,” he says.

Bex is just over his shoulder. She frowns and throws her hands up in surrender.

“I’m not a total idiot,” he continues. “I’ve already pressed the silent alarm, so the police are on their way. Let’s stay calm and let them handle this.”

“How about if I put it all back?” I offer.

He hesitates, considering the notion, but it’s too late. Two squad cars pull into the parking lot outside and stop. Four cops squeeze out of them, seemingly quadruplets, or at least clones—goatees, shaved heads, aviator sunglasses. Two of them circle around the back. I assume they want to make sure Bex and I don’t sneak out a rear exit. The other two swagger through the front door and look around.

“Ladies, I’m Officer Perry and this is Officer Casto. Let me tell you what’s going to happen here,” he says as he takes off his sunglasses. Behind them are two oval-shaped patches of white skin in a sea of sunburn. “We’re placing the two of you under arrest for shoplifting. It’s best if you cooperate. It will go better for you when you go to court.”

“Court,” I whisper to Bex.

We can’t go to court. We can’t get arrested, either. The moment I’m put into the system, the military will march into this town and drag me away, probably to Tempest. No, when I show up there, it’s not going to be in chains. Getting arrested is not an option today.

“Take off the backpack, please,” Perry continues.

I do as he says, mainly because it will slow me down when we make a run for it.

“We promise we won’t do anything like this again,” Bex begs, still hoping this will end well.

“Sounds like we have a couple of Coasters, partner.” Perry says to Casto.

Casto looks us up and down, then shakes his head like we’re an infestation of vermin.

Coasters. That word pops up everywhere we go, like a hateful jack-in-the-box. It hangs in storefronts and gas stations. I’ve seen it on T-shirts and the front page of newspapers. We come from the East, places that people used to move to so they could be near the ocean. Boston, Savannah, New Haven, Providence, Norfolk, Miami, Fort Lauderdale, New York City, they’re all devastated, destroyed by floods and tidal waves and monsters from the deep. People watch the tides. They leave everything they own when the Rusalka arrive. They run for their lives, but before they can get very far, cops and roadblocks try to stop them. The governors of places like Texas and Alabama tell us we are not welcome. They claim Coasters pose a threat to public health. They say it with a smirk. You don’t have to read a history book to know that half of this country has been waiting a few hundred years for a chance to screw the other half. Now they’ve got their chance.

“That could have been a possibility if you weren’t in violation of the governor’s executive order,” Casto says in answer to Bex’s offer. “No one from outside the state is permitted within Texas borders without the proper identification. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you don’t have it.”

He pauses for Perry’s laugh. It’s a joke only he and his partner find funny.

“I’m going to search you now,” Perry says. “Do you have anything dangerous in your pockets? Needles? Anything sharp I should know about before I put my hands inside? Drug paraphernalia? If I reach into that pocket and something sticks me, things are gonna get unpleasant.”

“Really, you don’t have to do this,” Bex begs, but she’s not looking at the cops. She’s looking at me.

Perry pats me down and mutters something about “Coaster filth” and how I smell. He’s “had it up to here” with “illegals” sneaking into his state, causing problems, “sleepin’ in the parks.” He’s not having it in his town, “no, sirree, Bob.” He’s “drawin’ a line in the sand” before the place he grew up in turns into another “stinkin’ refugee camp.”

“What is this?” he barks as he snatches my gloved hand and lifts it up to my face as if I have no idea it’s wrapped around my wrist.

“It’s jewelry,” Bex lies. “She made it.”

“Take it off,” Perry orders.

“I can’t. It’s locked on tight.”

It’s the truth. This thing won’t come off. I’ve tried vegetable oil, butter, soap, prying it open with a knife, smashing it with a hammer, everything short of amputating my hand.

“What are these markings?” he asks, twisting my hand roughly as he peers closer. “What is this? A wave or something?”

He looks into my face, maybe for the first time, and there’s a burst of recognition. Yep, it’s me. He’s befuddled and turns pale as chalk, then falls backwards like I slugged him. On his way down, he knocks over a rack of candy bars, then a container filled with bottles of soft drinks in ice.

“Perry?” his partner cries. “What the heck? Get up.”

“Casto, she’s that girl from New York,” he croaks while fumbling for his gun. When he finds it, he points the muzzle right into my face. “The terrorist!”

“Holy crap! The mermaid?” Casto cries. He aims his gun at me too.

Perry snatches for his radio with his free hand and drags it to his mouth. He pushes the buttons over and over again, like it’s the first time he’s used it, then screams for backup like there are thousands of me, all with bazookas and machetes.

A door at the back of the store opens, and the other two officers enter. Neither of them is expecting to find this scene, but in a flash, they’ve got their revolvers out as well.

“I thought this was a snatch-and-run,” one of them cries.

“These are those girls from New York!” Perry explains. “The ones everybody’s looking for.”

I turn to Bex and give her a little “I’m sorry” frown. I have to break my promise. She flashes me an angry look, but what choice do I have? We can’t go to jail. There are too many people counting on us. I will my weapon to life, admiring how it crackles, and quietly giggle when I hear four grown men gasp. Yes, I am awesome, thank you very much.

The whispers call out from every corner of the store, in the plumbing, behind the refrigerator doors, dripping out of the soda machine. There is so much water here, and all of it is as eager as a child waving her hand in class and hoping the teacher will call her name. All I have to do is ask for its help. So I do.

It starts with a banging in the refrigerator case behind the four cops, causing everyone to jump with surprise. A fizzy bottle of orange soda slams against the glass door, dancing a hyperactive jig.

“Lyric, no,” Bex whimpers.

“Don’t worry. I got this,” I say to her as more bottles join the fun.

“Are you doing that?” Casto shouts at me. “Turn that thing off or I’ll shoot!”

“You should have let us go,” I remind him.

All the bottles shake violently, a deafening crescendo that cracks the air. There is an explosion of broken glass. Syrupy drinks splatter the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. Before the cops can react, they are soaked in water, beer, and sports drinks. Bottles rocket across the room like missiles, zinging past my head. A jug of coconut water tags Casto in the head and knocks him completely off his feet. He lands with a painful thud. His gun skips across the slippery floor just as a bottle of cola clobbers one of his colleagues in the jaw. A jug of iced tea streaks through the air and hits the cashier in the chest. A dozen cans of energy drink track the third officer like drones, hitting him in the temple, the back, and the gut. He slips and falls fast on the wet linoleum, face-planting the microwave counter on the way down and knocking himself unconscious.

Perry finally scrambles to his feet. The gun that he holds in his hands shakes like a leaf in a strong breeze.

“What are you?” he asks. It’s a good question.

“I’m a Coaster, don’t you remember?” I say, then urge a two-liter bottle of mineral water to barrel into the back of his skull. He falls forward and his pistol fires. I hear the bullet whiz past me. It tugs the tail of my shirt, and when I look down, I see a faint trail of smoke drift out of the hole it made. My hands reach underneath frantically searching for a wound and the tacky traces of blood, but I can’t find anything. He missed me, but now I’m angry. I stalk over to him, lying on the floor, terror in his eyes, and suddenly knocking him down doesn’t feel like it was enough. This one needs to learn a lesson, one he can tell the whole world when the reporters come to ask him about his meeting with the terrorist teen, the Alpha monster, the girl who killed Coney Island. I can make sure he tells them all what I want them to hear:
Don’t be stupid enough to get in my way.

My hand glows as bright as my rage.

Bex grabs the pack, then me, and pulls me through the door and out into the parking lot.

“No!” I cry, trying to free myself.

“C’mon!” she screams. “There will be more cops any minute.”

I’m frustrated, but she’s right. We need to go. We sprint across the road, where Arcade is still sitting on the hood.

“You were attacked?” Her glove blazes to life. “Why are you running?”

“We have to go now,” Bex shouts.

“A Daughter of Triton does not run from challengers!” Arcade says, releasing her second weapon, two jagged blades she calls her ‘Kala,’ serrated on their edges, which live in her forearms. They slide out with a
shhhkkkttt!

“They’re not challengers. They’re police officers, and Lyric attacked them.”

Arcade gives me a pleased expression. It’s not a smile. She doesn’t do that, but it still makes me proud.

“More are on the way,” Bex continues as she pushes me into the driver’s-side seat, “and thanks to that stupid stunt, every cop in the world is going to join them. Get in the car!”

Bex opens Arcade’s door for her. The two of them share an unspoken battle of wills, then Bex throws up her hands in surrender and rushes around to the other side. She hops into the passenger seat and slams her door shut. Then she stuffs the key into the ignition and turns the car over for me.

“Lyric! Drive!” Bex shouts at me.

“This is shameful,” Arcade mutters, then begrudgingly gets into her seat. Once her door is closed, I throw the car into drive and stomp the gas pedal all the way to the floor. Tires scream on asphalt, and we shoot down the road, steering haphazardly as Bex calls out turn-for-turn directions. Arcade watches the windows, her gauntlet glowing and ready.

“Turn that off,” I shout to her. “You can see the light halfway down the road.”

Just as Bex predicted, the air fills with sirens. Police cars tear down every street. Some streets are so crowded with squad cars that we have to double back, and there’s a moment when we almost have to drive past the Piggly Wiggly again.

“Pull in there,” Bex cries, pointing to an IGA grocery store. I make an insane hairpin turn that nearly causes us to fishtail into another car, but I manage to right us before an accident happens. I burn up an aisle and into an empty parking space. Bex reaches over, throws the car into park, and turns off the engine, then forces me to duck down below the steering wheel.