Undertow Page 22

  Another reporter raises his hands. “Are you telling us that the Alpha are going to go to war with America using spears and tridents?”

  “I do not know what will happen. I can only speak from experience. When our people are backed into a corner, the results have never been favorable for the challenger. Even our children fight for their honor as soon as they are able. We will fight because we must.”

  “Do the Alpha really think they can kill a kid in our schools and not face some kind of arrest?” one of the reporters says.

  “It’s not a matter of her arrest that we protest. It’s a matter of her current whereabouts.”

  He pauses for a long moment, looks right into the camera, then swallows hard.

  “Your government operates a facility that imprisons my kind. It’s a place where they’re conducting experiments—no, torture—on adults and children alike. I know because my family and I were imprisoned in one for three years.”

  The room explodes with questions. Reporters rush forward, but they are pushed back by cops. Terrance is surrounded.

  Someone is pounding on the door. When I open it, I find Mrs. Novakova outside, sweating and breathing hard. I snarl and slam the door, but she puts up one of her doughy hands and stops it from shutting completely.

  “What do you want?” I shout.

  “Your father!” she cries.

  “What do you want?” he echoes.

  “Do you know what is happening? There’s a mob outside,” she says. “I want to know what the police are going to do about it.”

  “Why don’t you call your heroes at the Coney Island Nine?” my dad says. “They’ll take care of it.”

  A reporter on television announces a “special report.” I can see an image of my neighborhood from the sky. Below, there are thousands of people marching through the streets, toward the beach. I can see the soldiers who guard the boardwalk preparing for a confrontation. Squad cars are flashing red and blue from all directions.

  I rush to my room and throw up the blackout blinds. The street is a wave of ugly humanity. They’re carrying bats and trash cans and shovels—anything they can get their hands on.

  I hear the door slam, so I hurry back into the living room. Dad shuts the door in Novakova’s face, and I can hear her cursing him from the hall.

  “I’ve got to go,” my father says as he straps on his gun.

  “No, stay here,” I beg. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’ll check in as soon as I can.” He kisses me on the forehead, and then he is gone. I lock the door and put on the chain, then shove a chair under the knob in case someone tries to get in. My phone is in my hand a moment later, and I furiously text Bex, begging her to either find somewhere safe or get back here if she can. Again, I get no reply.

  There’s nothing I can do but sit and watch the news coverage and wait for the people I love to call. The soldiers on the boardwalk fire rubber bullets into the crowd and resort to tear gas when that doesn’t work. People break windows, loot stores, and fight among themselves. Bachman is on TV every five minutes, beaming with satisfaction.

  “The American government does not negotiate with terrorists, and we are not going to subvert justice for the demands of thirty thousand illegal aliens. The child is safe and sound and in police custody.”

  “Do you think she’ll get her day in court?” a reporter asks.

  “Oh, no,” she says as she shakes her head. “Trials are for humans. You don’t give a dog a trial for biting a cat.”

  “Aren’t you concerned about the eight a.m. deadline?”

  She smiles. “If they want a fight, we’re eager to give them one.”

  At eight a.m. my father is still not home. Bex is still missing, and my mother stares out the window.

  “Well, it’s time,” I whisper as she eyes the clock.

  “Governor, the deadline has passed,” the reporter says to Bachman. She’s back on TV and looking as fresh as ever.

  “Of course it has,” she says, her words dripping with arrogance. “It was an empty threat. There are only thirty thousand of them on that beach. What did they think they would do against the full force of the New York City Police Department and the National Guard? No, they don’t want a fight, and it just goes to show that our hands-off approach with these creatures has been shortsighted. It’s time to get tough and take back Coney Island.”

  The reporter nods. “Governor, if you could hold that thought, we’re getting reports of something happening in the Zone. We go to Aaron Jones from our local affiliate in Brooklyn, New York, who is reporting from a helicopter over the Coney Island beachfront.”

  The image changes to a shaky camera high in the sky, and I see something that doesn’t seem possible. The tide has engulfed the entire beach, wiping out the tent city and lapping over the boardwalk. Many of the Alpha are swimming in the water, but at the center of it all, in a space of sand by the water, stands Arcade. At least I think it’s her, and there’s something on her hand that’s glowing. Fathom and the prime and his queen stand by her side, as does Terrance Lir, the older Selkie that Fathom fought the first time I entered the camp, and the old woman from their church. The water is churning violently around them, but they are untouched. How is that happening?

  “It appears the tide has come in at the beach. We’re talking with the weather service about a possible typhoon or weather front causing this unusual—whoa!”

  A huge wave crashes over the boardwalk. It slams into the abandoned bars and shops that line the other side, leaving mounds of black, broken refuse: old tires, baby carriages, lawn chairs, and millions of beer bottles.

  “Mom? Are they doing that?” I ask.

  My mother watches but looks just as bewildered. “If they are, I have no idea how.”

  I hear a rumbling crash outside and leap up to look out the kitchen window. Water is roaring down the streets, a river slapping the sides of apartment buildings and sweeping away everything that is not nailed down. The protestors unlucky enough to stand in its way run in vain, desperate to find some kind of hold to keep their heads above the drowning waters, but no one is safe. Parked cars are carried away. Street signs are bent over like blades of grass.

  The reporter on the television is freaking out. “I don’t know how much of this our viewers can see, but something is forming on the boardwalk. It’s like . . . It’s a wall made of garbage.”

  I run back to the TV to watch a structure of filth rise higher and higher right in the middle of the boardwalk and for miles in both directions. It’s full of broken boats and car parts and soda cans.

  “Bachman is getting her wall,” my mother says. She stands up and goes into her bedroom. A moment later she drags my father’s enormous backpack into the living room. Then she goes back for her own. “Get your pack.”

  I leap up, but there’s a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” my mother cries.

  “Let me in. It’s Bex.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  My mother tosses the chair aside and swings the door open. Bex looks exhausted and filthy. Her hair is a wet mess and she smells, but I grab her and wrap her in the biggest hug of her life. I might never let her go.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nods. “I am. I could use a bath.”

  I pull her into the apartment and lock the door tight in case Novakova creeps by to spy on us again.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Around,” she says. “Looks like we’re going somewhere.”

  My mother shakes her head. “Lyric, you have to tell her the truth. You can’t keep it from her any longer. She deserves to know what she’s getting into so she can make the right decision.”

  “What?” Bex says.

  I start, but the right words won’t cooperate. I’ve rehearsed this moment a million times and now it seems all wrong.

  “Bex, I’m . . . we’ve been keeping a—”

  My phone buzzes a text.

  I’M SORRY. SHE HAD A COURT O
RDER.

  Huh? I look at the number, but it’s blocked. I didn’t even think my phone could take a text from a blocked number.

  GOT INTO THE SCHOOL BEFORE I COULD STOP HER.

  Frustrated, I send one back.

  WHO IS THIS?

  A second later the answer comes.

  MR. COFFEE.

  “Doyle just sent me a text,” I say.

  “You two aren’t having some creepy thing, are you?” Bex says.

  I growl. “Gross.”

  “What does he want?” my mother asks.

  “I don’t know. It’s something about Bachman,” I say.

  Bachman’s face appears on the screen. She’s looking smug and satisfied, like a dog that stole the steak off the dinner table.

  “As you can see, the whole situation is a direct result of the president’s bad policy,” she says. “Those things should never have been placed in our schools in the first place. No one could have predicted what happened, but I’m not at all surprised. It was just a matter of time before one of them turned on the kids. Did they tell us that they were walking Tasers? It’s just more secrets, and this one was deadly.”

  “Well, there are a lot of factors that have led to this—” the interviewer begins.

  “No, this is very cut and dry. The Alpha are trouble, and they have help.”

  “You’re referring to the person in this tape you brought us?”

  “Yes, one of the students at the school conspired with the prince to set all of this in motion. Her name is Lyric Walker.”

  A migraine turns my brain into a punching bag. It jabs and jabs and jabs, a steady, rhythmic assault.

  “Lyric?” Bex is behind me. “What is she talking about?”

  “Ms. Walker had a secret love affair with the Alpha prince, and it is my belief that together they plotted the incident that killed Svetlana Wilder.”

  “That’s a very big accusation,” the reporter says. “I suppose this footage you brought is your evidence? You refused to let our producers see it in advance.”

  She nods. “I think you should warn your viewers, especially the little ones, that this might be shocking,” she says.

  “All right, let’s take a look,” he says.

  “What is this, Lyric?” my mother begs.

  “Mom, I’m sorry,” I say as a black-and-white me and a black-and-white Fathom hold each other and share a very hot kiss.

  “Lyric!”

  “I knew it!” Bex cries.

  The reporter returns with Bachman. She’s looking at the camera, and her eyes are talking right to me. You made the wrong enemy.

  “Governor, I don’t think these images are really proof of some kind of plot to create the tragedy that’s occurred in Coney Island this week. If this is your theory, it’s a little thin.”

  “Not by itself, but when you combine it with the fact that Lyric Walker and her mother are not human beings, things become a lot clearer.”

  “Not human?”

  “Lyric’s mother is a woman named Summer Walker, or at least that’s the name she uses. I can’t tell you what her real name is because Summer Walker doesn’t exist. I believe her husband, who is a Coney Island police officer, helped her hide this fact so that she could spy on us. She’s one of the originals.”

  I turn to Bex. She’s horrified.

  “Bex, give me a chance to explain.”

  “You’ve had our whole lives to explain,” she cries.

  “No, I didn’t know until a few years ago. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d freak out.”

  “I think I get to freak out about this,” she says. Her eyes dart toward my mother and then me. “Just tell me if it’s true.”

  “Some of it is true. My mother is Alpha. I’m half Sirena.”

  “You’re spies?”

  “We’re not spies,” my mother says.

  “And I didn’t conspire with Fathom. He doesn’t even know what I am.”

  “Your father?”

  “He’s human. I’m mostly human. I don’t have any of the Alpha traits. I’m just like you,” I say as I try to take her hands, but she jerks them away.

  “Governor, if you have all this information, why are you sharing it here? Why aren’t the police involved?” the reporter asks.

  “The police in Coney Island have problems of their own right now. I wouldn’t call them a reliable source for justice. There are alternative organizations better suited for this kind of thing, groups that the locals trust and respect.”

  “Are you suggesting the community should handle this? Civilian justice?”

  “Oh, no. I would never condone vigilantism. Though I could totally understand if the people in the Zone decided to take matters into their own hands.”

  “Lyric, we’re going—now,” my mother says. “Bex, you have to decide. Are you coming with us or not?”

  She’s huddled behind the table like a frightened animal. “What else are you hiding?”

  “Nothing, Bex. Nothing. Try to see it from my point of view. I didn’t want to be arrested and disappear. I didn’t want you to have to carry this crap around too. It sucks being me, and if I had to do it without you by my side, I don’t know what I’d do.”

  As I try to explain, my mother’s phone buzzes.

  “Your father is on his way,” she says, then shoves the couch aside. It flies against the wall and breaks into four different pieces.

  “I am not going to miss the IKEA furniture,” she says.

  Bex’s eyes are bigger than hubcaps.

  “She works out,” I say. I can explain all the weird things about my mother later.

  Mom gets the money from the toilet tank and stuffs it into her bag. As she’s returning, I hear a knock at the door.

  “Is that him?” I ask.

  My mother shakes her head. “He’s halfway across town,” she whispers.

  The second knock sounds like someone is slamming the door with a bat.

  “We know you’re in there, so just open the door,” a man shouts from the other side. Something about his voice is ex­cited, almost maniacal. “It will go a lot easier if you don’t fight.”

  “For us,” someone else shouts, and then I hear a large group of men laugh.

  “Open the door, Mrs. Walker,” says another voice. It belongs to Mrs. Novakova.

  “What do we do?” I whisper.

  “Do you still have the gun?” my mother asks Bex.

  She shakes her head. “It’s gone.”

  “What are you doing in there?” someone shouts from outside.

  “We’re coming out,” my mother says, then looks to us. “Stay behind me.”

  “What if they have guns?” Bex asks. “Can you dodge bullets, too?”

  She shakes her head. “This is the only way out.”

  Each pound on the door sounds like an explosion, and they shake my stomach.

  “There’re three of us in here,” my mother shouts. “Two young girls and me. The girls have nothing to do with any of this. Don’t hurt them. They’re innocent.”

  “Just open the door, freak,” another voice shouts impatiently.

  Someone starts kicking the door in and gets help from his goon squad. We watch in horror as the deadbolt is torn out of the wood and the door flies open. In walks a man with a bat. He’s got a shaved head and a paunchy belly, but his arms are thick as tree trunks. He’s wearing his red shirt, just like the seven other thugs he brought with him. Mrs. Novakova stands in the hall, peering in and looking defiant and justified.

  “No more hiding, fish head,” the leader says.

  “Who is hiding?” my mother asks.

  He grins and slaps the end of the bat into the palm of his hands. “This is going to be fun.”

  My mother moves so fast, I squeak with surprise. She’s a blur, and before the man can react, she has his bat. She breaks it over her knee and throws the two ends across the room. As his eyes bulge in shock, she snatches him by the front of his red shirt and gives him a sho
ve. He flies through the doorway, crashes into the hallway wall, and explodes through the plaster into the apartment on the other side.

  His gang charges into the room, swinging their weapons and stabbing at her with knives. She weaves away from every attack, ducking and dodging, and delivering her own vicious destruction. Bones crack, noses are broken, and kneecaps are crushed. She kicks one of the punks so hard in the leg, it snaps and the man topples over.

  A lucky swing with a pipe slams into her shoulder, and she hunches over, gripped with pain. She may be as strong as Superman, but she does not have skin like steel, and while she’s recovering, the others pile on, tackling her in an effort to drag her to the floor. If they get her down, she won’t be able to fight back. I cry out for her, sure that they will kill her, but again she races across the room at a speed my eyes can’t track. There’s a flurry of punches and the men fly across our apartment. They smash into our cheap furniture, turning it into trash and splinters. One man flies headfirst into the air conditioner, and it tumbles out the window, vanishing from view.

  “C’mon,” my mother demands, grabs my father’s pack, and leads us through the door and into the hall, tossing men twice her size out of our way. Soon it’s just the three of us and Mrs. Novakova. The old woman cowers before us, her eyes full of terror but still full of disgust.

  “I did what I had to,” she barks.

  My mother rears back and kicks the old woman. Her fleshy pudge of a body flies down the hall ten yards and slams into the wall, toppling a potted plant.

  “Bex, decide,” my mother says as she pushes the Down button to call the elevator.

  My friend looks from her to me, dumbfounded, afraid, probably convinced she’s going crazy.

  “Come with us!” I plead.

  “No more secrets?” she asks.

  “There’s a lot to tell, but I won’t keep anything from you,” I promise.