Raging Sea Page 11

  “Where’s my mom?” I whimper. “I want my mom.”

  Is she in a cell like this one? Could she be across the hall? I know I am not alone in this prison. There are shouts and screams seeping in from beneath the crack in the door. Someone is slamming metal on metal. I hear footsteps and an argument that turns into a fight that turns into an agonized scream. The noises never stop. They bear down on me, grind at my skull. Every shout is a punch in the gut. Every cry for mercy is a stab in the heart. They’re proof that I am not alone, but they are no comfort to me. I wonder if that person is Bex. What if it’s Arcade? What if it’s my father? What if it’s Fathom?

  I failed them all.

  I hear a rattling, and the slot opens. There’s a hum that terrorizes me. I brace for electrocution, but instead the bowl rattles around on the floor, then skids toward the door as if seized by an invisible hand. It slams against the door, bounces around a bit, then zips through the narrow space. The slot closes. Footsteps fade away.

  I must have fallen asleep, because suddenly Spangler is in my cell. He taps on his tablet, but when he notices I’m awake, he puts it away.

  “Lyric, do you know what an alpha is?” Spangler asks. “Not the people, of course. I’m talking about in the animal kingdom. Alphas are the leaders of the pack. Apes, lions, even birds, have them. Sled dogs are a great example of animals that have an alpha. They get their name because they are the most dominant animals in the group. The alpha isn’t born into the position. Usually it has to fight for its power, and then it has to train the others to be submissive using sheer aggression and intimidation. Every once in a while, one of the dogs on the sled forgets its place in the pack and it challenges the alpha. Do you know what usually happens? The alpha rips the other dog’s throat out. Here at Tempest, I am the alpha dog. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  I nod.

  “Good. Your parents didn’t get it at first. I’d hate for you to have to learn the way they did,” he explains.

  My heart beats hard enough to blow out of my chest.

  “Are they alive?”

  “You could be a great help to our little sled-dog pack. I’m confident that you can learn to cooperate, but my patience will go only so far.”

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask him.

  “I want you to be a good dog.”

  Panic attacks rise up and batter my mind. The trembling strips me of my strength even more. I sob unexpectedly until my face is smeared in mucus. I don’t have the energy to care. I curse myself for being here, for not having a plan, for not preparing myself for this kind of fight, for being afraid. I curse myself for assuming I would be killed if I didn’t rescue my people. I never thought I’d be locked up inside with them.

  When I’m too tired to cry, I hoist myself up so I’m sitting against the wall. My cell can’t be wider than nine feet—just long enough for the mattress and a tiny bit of exposed floor space and that painted yellow circle, of course. I study everything closely, hoping for some way of escape. I can’t crawl up the wall to whatever is above me. It’s too smooth. There’s no lock on the door and it’s made of heavy steel. I peer into the drainage hole dug into the floor. I can’t see too deeply into it, maybe six inches at most. The light above will permeate only so far. It’s too narrow for my body to fit inside, but still, maybe there’s something useful about it. I lean forward, listening closely, praying for the familiar gurgle of water. Something shines down there. I activate my glove, realizing I can still use it as a flashlight, but it isn’t much help.

  The things I could do if it still worked. Spangler shut it off, but how? I remember when the Rusalka attacked us on the beach, our gloves suddenly didn’t work. I know there was a moment when it seemed we combined our efforts and shut down theirs, but maybe it was White Tower all along. Doyle was in Coney Island that day. Anything is possible. I just don’t know what to do without it. When it’s activated and talking to me, I feel like a giant. Now that I can’t access its power, I’m like a kid with a broken toy. I am so screwed.

  During the night, I feel something nudging my foot. I sit up to find a rat chewing at the heel of my sock. I shriek, but it’s not afraid of me. A moment later I discover why. It is just one of a flood of rats that pour out of the hole in the floor, each with a long, hairless tail and hungry pink eyes. I kick at them the best I can, knocking a few against the wall, but they don’t stop coming. Soon, there are so many, I can’t see the floor anymore.

  Overwhelmed, I scream as they bite at my shoes and leap at my legs, and then, just like that, they all scurry back down the hole, crawling over each other as they go. When I finally find the bravery to sit back down, I look at my battered sock and realize the rat nearly chewed all the way into my heel. I drag my mattress so that it covers the hole, then huddle on the other side of the room to calm myself.

  I wonder if there is a camera on me. I wonder if they are listening. I’m even afraid they might be able to hear my thoughts. If it’s true, then they know I hate the light. They know how much I want to destroy it. I spend hours concocting plans for how to get at it and smash the little person inside it that keeps making music.

  Last night I tried to be clever. I unbuttoned my shirt and slipped it off. It was filthy, with caked black blood on the back, and barf on the sleeve, but I knew it could block out the light. I draped it over my eyes and enjoyed the closest thing to darkness I’ve felt in . . . I no longer know how long I’ve been in here.

  I heard a clang, and then the door opened and men stomped into my space. I was shy. I tried to hide myself, but they were on me before I could. One of the soldiers kicked me in the chest and the other snatched my shirt. A moment later they were gone. The pain spread in hot waves across my ribs, but the despair was more agonizing.

  The light still shines, still watches, still ticks. I know it is part of Spangler’s plan. The mattress, the hole, the sleep deprivation, and even the rats are to torment me. He’s training me to be submissive. He’s turning me into a dog.

  The door rattles. Now I jump up and prepare to get into the circle. I’ve gotten very fast at following their orders. This time, however, the door opens all the way. On the other side are three armed soldiers, two of whom have M-16s pointed right at my head. A third one is carrying a long pole with a noose attached to the end. It’s exactly like the ones they used on Bex and Arcade the last time I saw them. They’ve come to kill me. They’ve had it with my begging. They are pissed that I’ve been looking for their secret eyes. They know I want to murder the light bulb. I’m tempted to scurry back into the corner and push my mattress between them and me, but I put out my hands. I submit.

  “Don’t move,” one of them barks. Suddenly the noose is around my throat, cutting off the air and my voice as they drag me to my feet. They lead me through the door and into the hallway, and I stumble along, panicked that I will trip and hang myself. The noose is unforgiving. It feels like it’s shredding skin and muscle. My lungs tighten. Spots float in my eyes.

  Suddenly we’re through a door and in a room as wide and as high and long as an airplane hangar. The lights in here are so bright, I can barely see, but I can make out a maze of chain-link fences in every direction, forming tiny little cages barely big enough for a full-grown man to stand. I’m pushed along the path, passing each cage, and inside I see the contorted faces of people I used to know. They are all adults, men and women, all with broken spirits and sad eyes. I hear someone say my name, but the guards keep pushing me along, so I can’t stop. They shove me deeper into the labyrinth, finally tossing me into an empty cage of my own. They force me to my knees, and the noose comes off. Finally I can take a ragged, desperate breath.

  “Turn around and face me,” one of the soldiers demands.

  I do as I’m told, fully expecting to see his gun in my face, but instead I find him with his smartphone aimed right at me.

  “Smile, freak,” he says, and then I hear a click.

  “Get one with me,” the other soldier s
ays, stepping into the shot. I can see he’s grinning as he gives the camera the thumbs-up sign. Everyone gets a picture with me as I stand shaking and bewildered.

  “What is this place?” I ask.

  “We call it the kennel,” one of the soldiers says.

  “Looks good,” the cameraman says as he stares down at the phone. Then they lock the door and leave me alone.

  “Let me out of here!” I whimper.

  The soldiers ignore my plea, then turn and walk away.

  “Lyric?” a voice crackles from the next cage.

  I turn to my left and find a rag doll of a girl with dark rings around her eyes. Her skin is ashen and her lips chapped. Her fingers poke through the fence, eager for human contact.

  “Do I know you?” I ask.

  I kneel down so our faces are close, then nearly fall back when I recognize her.

  “Bex!” I cry, “Where are they keeping you?”

  She shrugs. “It’s a maze, and I can’t keep track of it. I’m in a cell by myself.”

  “Me too.”

  “This is the first time I’ve seen you here. We get an hour a day in the cages. I think it’s so they can clean our rooms,” Bex says. “Lyric, we all thought you were dead.”

  “We?”

  Bex gestures to the other cages. I peer into one and realize I’m looking at another familiar face. I don’t know his name, but I know he is married to a Sirena. I used to see him on the boardwalk when I was a kid. He liked flying kites. Yeah, I know him! In the next cage is another familiar face—Rochelle Lir! I call out to her, but she doesn’t respond. I ask her if she’s seen Terrance or Samuel, but she’s sleeping, I hope.

  “Have you seen my mom and dad?”

  “I’ve seen the Big Guy,” Bex whispers, as if talking saps her strength.

  “He’s here?” I stand and study the cages for as far as I can see. I don’t see him, but they go on forever.

  “Dad!”

  A few people stir, but no one responds.

  “Leonard Walker?” I shout.

  There’s a long pause.

  “Lyric?” the voice comes from the other side of the room and echoes off the ceiling. “Is that you, Lyric?”

  “Dad?”

  “Thank you, God!” he cheers.

  “Mom?”

  “They don’t keep the Alphas in here, honey,” he explains. “Are you okay?”

  The man in the cage across from me hisses. “Keep it down—they’ll come back.”

  I ignore him. “I’m banged up but all right. How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” he says. I know he’s lying. The last time I saw him, we were dragging ourselves out of a car crash. He was hurt so bad, he couldn’t even walk. I’m sure he’s got a couple of broken ribs but he doesn’t want me to worry. “Keep quiet. It’s not safe to draw their attention.”

  “Dad, what are we going to do?”

  His pause haunts me.

  “Lyric, I love you.”

  “I love you!”

  The next few moments hover with anticipation. One of us should shout that we have a plan and that the other shouldn’t worry because we will all be safe and together soon. We should be sharing hope with one another right now, but all we have to offer is silence and uncertainty.

  I sit back down next to Bex, pushing myself against the fencing so that I am as close to her as possible.

  “Bex, I’m—”

  “I’m sorry, Lyric,” she says, then breaks into a coughing fit. “I’m sorry for what I did.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” I say. “I was being an ass.”

  “I was so afraid of losing you, I held you back. If I had kept my mouth shut, maybe we—”

  “We never had a chance, Bex. Doyle orchestrated everything. We were always going to end up here. Now we need to concentrate on getting out. Have you seen Arcade?”

  She shakes her head.

  “They keep saying I’m important. They want something from me,” I explain.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, but if it gets us out of here, they can have it.”

  “Don’t trust them,” she begs. “They’re all liars.”

  I’m not always in a cage next to Bex. Sometimes I’m next to someone completely new, like Jacques, who hasn’t seen his son, Pierre, or his Sirena wife, Anna, in a year and a half. Sadie is a pale-skinned lady who was probably very pretty before they captured her. She tells me she’s thirty-two, but she looks closer to sixty. She hasn’t seen her husband, Mark, or her daughter, Breanne, in almost three years. Bruce is forty, and he and his wife, Raina, were friends with my mother. He hasn’t seen his wife or his three girls, Alexa, Dallas, and Priscilla, in a long while. He’s lost track of time since they locked him up. Robin was a schoolteacher who didn’t even know his wife, Beth, was an Alpha. He’s bitter about the deception and resentful that he doesn’t have a picture of his daughters, Tess, Emma, and Jane.

  And then there are the ones teetering on the edge of mental illness, who can’t trust anyone or anything. They watch me, suspicious of my every move. They accuse me of being a spy.

  “I don’t want to talk to you about what I’ve seen,” Kirsten whispers angrily. “You can’t fool me, Lyric. I know you tell them every word.”

  “I’m not telling anyone anything. You have to trust me. We need to work together to get out of here,” I say. “You might know something that can help.”

  I alienate more than a few of them with my persistence. A tall, graying man actually rats me out to a guard when they come to take us back to our cells.

  “She’s planning an escape!” he shouts, pointing a wild finger at me. “Tell Mr. Spangler that I told you. Tell him I’m not a troublemaker. Ask him for more rations, please.”

  “Good dog!” I shout at him, then feel remorse. We’re all doing things that aren’t in character these days. I should be more sympathetic.

  A guard listens to the man, then eyes me closely, finally laughing as if he’s heard the funniest joke ever.

  “Good luck, kid,” he sneers as he slips the noose around my neck. “The only way you’re getting out of this place is in a body bag, or maybe, in your case, we’ll flush you down the toilet, fish girl.”

  One day I find Bex next to me again. She looks worse than the last time I saw her. She’s getting thinner and has trouble keeping her head up.

  “You’re rocking the pixie cut,” she whispers to me, her voice no louder than a breeze.

  I have to get her out of here.

  Getting to go to the cages feels like a treat. They take me in the same rough way as always, dragging me like a wild beast and tossing me in before I can fight back. One day, as they lock the gate, one of the soldiers swats me on the nose with a newspaper, then throws it into the cage.

  “What’s this?” I say.

  “You’re front-page news.” He laughs.

  I snatch up the paper and find a picture of a young girl. Her eyes are hollow, her cheeks thin and sucking. She’s wearing ragged, filthy clothes and is desperately skinny. There’s a feral look in her eyes. I’m confused. I don’t understand what this is about. I stand and bang on the gate, demanding that he explain it to me, but he laughs and walks away.

  I look at it again, hoping for some clue, and then I read the headline.

  CONEY ISLAND TERRORIST APPREHENDED. 17-YEAR-OLD LYRIC WALKER ARRESTED IN TEXAS. PUBLIC CALLS FOR DEATH PENALTY.

  The girl in the picture is me. It’s the photo the guards took of me. I look like I’ve lost my mind.

  A woman is standing over me wearing a long white lab coat. She’s got red hair and a pinched face. At first I think she’s a dream, but she yelps when my eyes focus on her. Dreams aren’t startled by the dreamer. I try to bolt upright, but I’m strapped to a bed. I’m not in my cell. I’m in something similar to an emergency room, though it doesn’t look very sterile. The walls and floor are concrete, and it’s cold. My nurse is not happy.

  “She needs more Pentothal.” Her voice is tin
ged with panic.

  A soldier is on me, holding down my arms while she injects something into my shoulder. I want to fight back, but I feel like I’m melting.

  “The gas should have done the job,” the solider barks at her. “You said it would work.”

  “Well, it didn’t! She’s like one of the kids,” she snaps. “She’s tougher than a normal person. Just relax. I’ve got it covered. Now help me. We’ve got to get her ready.”

  “Please help me,” I beg, but I’m already sinking into sleep as the nurse and the soldier look down on me.

  “She hurt her head,” the soldier says.

  The woman sighs.

  There’s a gurgling sound nearby that causes me to jerk. The rats must be coming up the hole again. I struggle, but the guard holds me still. The tinkling is coming from bubbles rising inside a bag of liquid that swings back and forth above my head.

  “Where am I?” I say, but my voice sounds slow and flimsy.

  “She’s not supposed to be talking, is she?” another voice asks. “Give her another dose.”

  “And stop her heart?”

  “If she wakes all the way up—”

  “Calm down, Calvin,” the nurse demands. “She doesn’t have the strength of a pureblood.”

  “How do you know? Just because the others seem normal, that doesn’t mean she is. She’s got one of those gloves,” the guard warns.

  “They’ve turned it off, so relax. You make this job impossible sometimes.”

  “I didn’t sign on for this,” Calvin complains.

  “Who did?” the woman snaps. “If you hate it so much, ask for a transfer. I hear there’s an opening in the tank. You can feed those things. They’ll give you your own bucket of chum.”

  The guard growls. “Don’t even joke about that.”

  “Then stop whining and do your job,” the nurse scolds.