Raging Sea Page 10

  “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!

  CONTACT MAY LEAD TO SERIOUS INJURY OR DEATH!

  I reach out to the voices, and the water comes, popping a hole in the tank buried beneath the ground and asking it to rise up through the sand. I send it flying toward the fence, only to watch the whole thing short-circuit in an explosion of sparks and fire.

  “Now, Lyric, that’s not nice. Those fences are expensive,” he says. “There’s no need for weapons.”

  “I want my family and friends. I want you to let all the Alpha loose!”

  “I hear you loud and clear. Keep coming, and we will discuss everything.”

  I walk farther along the road and reach a curve that blocks my view of what lies ahead. I stop. I’m certain that walking around the bend will make me a perfect target. I need to be prepared when I do it. If I see guns, I’m drowning everyone.

  “All right, girl. Get ready,” I say to the glove. The massive tank roars eagerly. There’s so much chatter in the water.

  I take a deep bre
ath and turn the corner, bringing the camp into full view. I don’t know what I was expecting. A collection of tents? Long stables filled with broken people? Some kind of space-age evil lair complete with a bald supervillain and his hairless cat? No, it’s none of those things. It’s more of an office building buried in the ground with a roof that sticks out of the soil. The shingles are covered in dirt and flowers and stones to look exactly like the wastelands that surround it, something a plane wouldn’t spot if it flew overhead. It’s actually very clever.

  Standing out front is a large group of men and women, about forty in all. There are soldiers in desert camouflage holding M-16s, but most of them look like scientists, wearing long white lab coats and carrying tablets. Standing in front of them all is a tall, thin man probably in his early thirties wearing tortoiseshell glasses and a smart, wavy haircut. He’s got on a pair of black skinny jeans, a suit jacket with a hoodie underneath, and, to complete the look, a pair of white Chuck Taylors. He looks like an aging hipster from Williamsburg.

  “Welcome to Tempest, Lyric,” he says to me.

  “Let them go,” I demand, but it comes out squeaky and childish. I wave my glove around a bit so they can see it’s on and powered.

  “Now, now, Lyric,” he says. “No one has to get hurt.”

  “That’s really up to you. Let everyone go, and I won’t fight you. We’ll leave, and you’ll never see us again.”

  “Now, I know you’re not that naive. I can’t let anyone out of here. These people, if you can call them that, are dangerous. There’s a creature inside that has poisonous spikes that pop out of his skin. I know this might be disappointing to hear, Lyric, but the simple fact is that everyone inside is here because they pose a danger to our country.”

  “You’re torturing them,” I argue.

  “Torture? That’s an ugly word. We prefer the term enhanced interrogation technique. Isn’t that right, David?”

  The crowd divides in two, revealing another tall figure. David Doyle flashes me a sad look, a final reminder that all of this could have been avoided.

  “We certainly had to pay enough to get everyone to use that term,” Spangler continues. “Besides, terrorists torture people, Lyric. We’re a corporation, we offer a service.”

  Two soldiers charge through the front door of the building. One has Bex; the other, Arcade. They push the girls into the sand, revealing that each has a noose around her neck. The nooses are connected to long steel poles the guards hold tightly. Bex and Arcade look drugged. Neither of them puts up a fight.

  Something explodes inside me. I can’t say what it is—maybe the last part of me that thinks people are mostly good. I came here to save people, and I hoped that I wouldn’t have to hurt anyone to do it. I am not a killer. I know that for sure. But that doesn’t mean I can’t really hurt them. My mind calls out to water beneath Spangler’s feet.

  What would you have us do?

  “Get creative,” I whisper back.

  The ground rumbles and quakes as something huge pushes to the surface, but Spangler is not concerned. In fact, he smiles at me as he taps away on his tablet, and all at once it’s as if the power I feel all around me has been switched to the off position. I can’t hear the voice. The whispers have been silenced, and my control over the water is gone as well.

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  “All right, people. Let’s get out of this heat,” he says.

  A soldier steps forward and hands him a Taser rifle.

  “Spangler, we talked about this,” Doyle shouts at him.

  “We tried it your way, David,” Spangler says. He fires the weapon and there’s a pop! I feel a stabbing pain in my chest, and I fall to the ground. When I look down, I see wires sticking out of the wound leading all the way back to the rifle. I try to pull them out, knowing what is coming next, all while studying Doyle’s face. He stares down at me, disappointed and frustrated. His eyes say, I told you so.

  I hear a zap, and suddenly I am on fire.

  Chapter Eleven

  I COME BACK INTO THIS WORLD SWINGING. I am gnashing teeth and claws on throats. My body’s lust for damage burns like a dangerous fever. It takes several long moments of flailing before I realize that I am completely alone. Spangler, Doyle, and all their people are gone. I’m not even outside anymore. They’ve put me in a circular room with towering walls that soar high over my head. A steel door is built into a wall, but there are no windows on it and no windows in the room, either. The effect is not unlike being at the bottom of a well. Panic seeps into my thoughts. I’ve never been afraid of small spaces—I’m not claustrophobic in the least—but right now I want to scream and scratch and beg for help. My breath grows shallow. I start to wheeze. Everything is about to crush me into paste.

  “Calm down, Lyric, calm down, Lyric, calm down, Lyric,” I say between short, staccato gasps. “You need to think clearly. It’s the only way to get out of here.”

  Though I’m not sure there actually is a way out of here.

  I’m lying on my back on a paper-thin mattress tossed onto a cold concrete floor. It’s the only furniture in the room—no sink, no toilet, nothing. Only a hole in the floor. There’s a single light bulb dangling high above me that is so bright, it’s hostile. I suspect it can shine right through my body to the other side. It sings to me: Tick—tick-tick—tick—tick-tick.

  Suddenly, there’s a clang at the door.

  “Inmate 114. Stand in the circle,” a voice barks, but, as outside, I can’t find the speaker.

  “Where am I?”

  “Stand in the circle,” the voice repeats with growing impatience.

  I try to sit up, but my whole body revolts. I feel broken, and my limbs are uncooperative. My head is a soft avocado. On top of that, one of my shoes is missing and there’s blood on the big toe of my sock.

  “I’m hurt,” I say.

  “Last warning, inmate! Stand in the circle.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whimper, falling back to the mattress.

  There’s a loud clank, followed by an electronic buzz, and all at once my body becomes a herky-jerky marionette, thrashing in agony. My teeth grind together, holding back shrieks until the buzzing and the pain stop.

  “Stand in the circle painted on the floor of your cell,” the voice demands.

  I hear him, but my brain and body are too busy rebooting to obey. My eyes, the only part of me that’s not in full shutdown, find a circle on the floor painted in bright yellow. It’s wide enough to stand inside, but getting into it feels like an impossible request.

  “Stand in the circle, or I will shock you again!”

  “Please, I’m trying,” I beg, then weakly crawl in its direction. Every movement is a Herculean effort, but I somehow manage to get into the circle. It feels like hours before I can actually stand.

  “Confirmed,” the voice says, followed by a soft click, and then nothing.

  “I need a doctor!” I shout.

  There’s no response.

  “Let me out of here!” I shriek.

  I cry. I can’t help myself. The tears come out in violent convulsions, igniting a shaking fit that I can’t stop. Everything inside me rattles, bones crash against bones, organs shake like jelly, and my knees buckle. I tumble face-first, hard. Unable to brace myself, I hit the floor with a hard smack.

  Now I’m on my side, half on the mattress and half on the concrete, and I’m still alone. I sit up and feel a sticky pull on my face and arms. The mattress is damp and has a big red stain with a brown border. It’s blood—my blood—and there’s lots of it.

  I search my body, looking under my shirt, wondering if I really was shot, but there are only three tiny burns forming the corners of a pyramid. I gingerly remove my sock and see the nail on my big toe has been torn away. It wiggles when I touch it and delivers a shocking pain into my back. Still, there’s not enough blood to have caused what I’m seeing. I reach up to my scalp and slowly probe my hair until I find a lump as big as
a hard-boiled egg on the back of my head where my skull meets my spine. There’s a lot of crusty stuff too, which I guess is dried blood. Running along the top of the lump is a wound. It’s angry, and even a soft graze from my fingertip sends daggers into my skull. I cry out, and when I look at my fingers, there’s fresh blood on the tips.

  “I need a doctor!” I shout to silence. My stomach threatens an eviction of Henry’s breakfast. No. Calm down. Someone will come. Spangler will send a doctor. I’m important. Doyle said so. He won’t let me die. They’ll stitch up my head and clean me and bring me a new mattress and a pillow and a sheet. They will do these things because they are human beings.

  “Hello?” I shout.

  The only answer comes from the light bulb hanging over my head.

  Tick—tick-tick—tick—tick-tick.

  There’s a commotion at my door. I hear a rattle and the sound of keys. The slot at the bottom opens wide, and a silver bowl of food slides into the room.

  I crawl toward the slot and peer out into the hall, but I don’t see anyone.

  I have never been so hungry in my life. There’s bread and something that looks like mac and cheese, and two brown things in sticky syrup. When I look closely, I realize they are slices of rotting apple, but I am too ravenous to care. I tear at the bread and it crumbles in my hand, dry and stale. I nearly choke to death on it and have to slow down because they haven’t given me anything to drink. I eye the mac and cheese next and reach for a spoon, only to realize they haven’t given me that, either. I scoop it up with my fingers, feeling like an animal. It tastes gritty and definitely not like mac and cheese. I can’t place the taste at all. It’s a bit like Cream of Wheat, but there’s a vinegary flavor. I’m too hungry to care. I shovel it into my mouth and lick my fingers until I see something squirming on the tip of my finger. I eye it closely. It’s a maggot.

  I wretch and everything comes up, burning through all that’s left of my energy. I lie back down, pull my knees close to my chest, and rock back and forth. If my mother were here, she’d rub my back and tell me jokes until I laughed.