Raging Sea

by Michael Buckley

  “Or when it’s against the law,” my father adds.

  “Yes, the ugly stuff is usually done by corporations. We’re difficult to prosecute for war crimes, at least in America. Here you can send a soldier to jail for atrocities, but who do you point the finger at when a business does it? Truth is, I find some of it a bit distasteful myself, but are we going to let the world go to hell in a handbasket waiting for bipartisan support? That’s why they need us. We’re in the business of results.”

  “We don’t care about your business plan. We want out of here,” my father growls.

  “But, Mr. Walker, Lyric is my business plan. Who’s hungry? I’m hungry.”

  As if on cue, two women dressed in pencil skirts, white shirts, black ties, and aprons enter with trays. Another woman places a napkin in each of our laps, then sets the table with plastic utensils and a real plate. We’re served roast beef and gravy, mashed potatoes with pesto, and string beans and almonds.

  Spangler looks down at his and smiles.

  “Look good? Go ahead, eat.”

  I stare down at my food. I’m not going to lie. I’m tempted to bury my face in it. An old shoe would be more delicious than what they’ve been feeding me. Bex and Dad look even hungrier. Still, they both push their plates away. It’s an act of strength and defiance like I’ve never seen, and I have never loved either of them as much as I do right now. I look back down at my plate, and as casually as I can, I fling it at Spangler. The china crashes to the table in front of him, and the food splatters his face. I catch my father’s grin as Donovan cleans himself.

  The waitress returns with another plate of food and sets it in front of me like nothing has happened. Before she can take a single step, I chuck it at our host.

  “Dammit, Lyric,” Doyle says. He’s got his face buried in his hands.

  A soldier steps in from the hallway with his gun ready, but Doyle commands him to leave. I suddenly don’t feel so brave, but I have no regrets.

  “Lyric, the temper tantrum is wasteful, and really, that kind of behavior is an obstacle to getting what you want,” Spangler says. “Someone bring her another plate.”

  “Maybe you should put it in a doggie dish,” I say.

  He takes a deep breath.

  “Yes, I had my doubts about that approach. It was the client’s idea, a bit dramatic, but you know that old saying, “The customer is always right”? I tried to explain that you wouldn’t be broken. I knew it the second you started your yoga practice. That’s defiance. I quietly cheered you.”

  My waitress is back with a new plate. When I reach for it, the waitress does the same. She’s much stronger, so I throw my hands up in surrender. She gives me a little look of triumph, but when she turns her back on me, I toss the plate and hit her right in the shoulder.

  Bex laughs.

  “Maybe Ms. Walker will have something to eat after our chat,” Spangler says, dismissing the irate waitress.

  “What do you want?” I say.

  I feel my father’s hand on my leg, his way of saying to tread carefully.

  Spangler flashes me a strained smile.

  “I’ve watched all the footage of that day in Coney Island. I not only saw what you can do, I saw what you tried to do. You’re not the terrorist they have painted you as. You’re a hero, and I’m offering you a second chance at it,” he says. “Before you can do that, I realize we have to start over. No more solitary confinement. No more whatever it is they are feeding you. I’ll free your mother. I’ll let the prince and the Triton girl out of their tanks. In return, you have to accept my job offer.”

  “Job offer?” I cry.

  “Saving the world, Lyric. You’ve seen the news. This country is on the verge of collapse. The attacks by the prime and his army have all but crippled our defenses. It’s maddening to everyone involved that a few thousand barely intelligent creatures have managed to decimate the greatest military power the world has ever seen. In the time you have been here, things have gotten much worse. Just yesterday, the air force dropped a small nuclear device into the water outside Norfolk, Virginia, in hopes of reclaiming a base. They used a low-grade weapon, a ‘bunker buster’ is what they call it. They’re meant to take out a village or a cave system, not to fight an amphibious army, but that’s how desperate things have gotten. Want to guess how it turned out? The prime smacked it back like a tennis ball. It leveled eight city blocks and destroyed the base entirely. Casualties were low, but no one will live in Norfolk for fifty years. That place is poison.”

  My father’s face turns pale.

  “The East Coast is rubble, and now we’re seeing new threats. Did you happen to notice the things with all the tentacles during your daring escape? There’s a spike under all those limbs. It leaps onto your head, jams it into your nervous system, and then drinks you like a milkshake. How do you think that’s affecting morale on the frontlines? Lyric, the prime is kicking our butts, and it’s not just a handful of cities with six feet of water, it’s farms and crops, industries, mining, oil production, and finance. Wall Street is in a no man’s land. Do you understand what that means? The financial center for the entire world is closed for business. There are food shortages, gasoline shortages, mobs, looting, and clashes between citizens and soldiers. This morning, West Virginia officially seceded from the rest of the country. They say Texas will be next. It’s my job to make sure it stops. You’re going to help me.”

  “I am, am I?”

  “Yes, because I am desperate.” Spangler’s eyes drill into my cranium. He’s not trying to charm me now. He’s done trying to manipulate me. He’s done torturing me. He’s a businessman, and none of this is good for business. “So if you’re not going to have lunch, perhaps you would like to go ahead and get started. David, why don’t you show Ms. Walker your park?”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “It’s easier to show you than to tell you,” Doyle says.

  Doyle has some of his soldiers take my father and Bex to the infirmary. They are both suffering from malnutrition, and my dad’s ribs are killing him. I could tell by the sweat on his face all during the meeting with Spangler. Doyle gives Amy a lecture on treating them well. She seems intimidated by him, but maybe it’s all an act. I can’t tell, and there’s nothing I can do about it anyway.

  “This could have been so much easier,” he says as he leads me down a hall.

  “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. Ev
erything 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 p
ain 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.