I haven’t been on the boardwalk since the Alpha arrived, and it’s clear no one is taking care of it. As the three of us walk up the wooden ramp that leads to the beach, I notice the planks are cracked and rotting and many sections have collapsed entirely. Some are covered in sheets of plywood and surrounded by orange cones. Others are wide open and ignored. Trash is piled in enormous heaps, and when a breeze sweeps through, it spins a hundred newspaper pages into a cyclone of filth.
We walk past abandoned food stands that once had lines for miles. Now they are shuttered and forgotten, their faded paint still tempting with promises of fried clams, corn on the cob, burgers, pizza, chili dogs, and Italian ices. Most of the rides were trucked away and sold long ago, but a few are still standing. The Cyclone can’t be moved. They tried. It’s still in working condition because the city and the owners are hopeful that the park will someday reopen. Some of the rides couldn’t be sold: Wild River, the Freefall, the Sea Serpent, all of them rusty and suffering from the bullying pull of gravity and the sand in the wind. A bumper car lies on its side like a dead beetle. It’s such a sad, helpless thing. I spot an ancient flyer stapled to a post advertising the date for the now-canceled Mermaid Parade. They put a stop to that right away. It wasn’t silly fun anymore.
Soldiers line up along the boardwalk’s five-mile stretch. Their guns are ready, but the men holding them are listless and bored. They were supposed to be weekend warriors in the National Guard. Now they’re full-time security guards watching a tall chainlink fence topped with coils of barbed wire. I guess after a while even the chaos on the other side gets dull. They don’t seem at all interested in the roars and cheers and the sounds of brutal battle. I don’t know how they can ignore the thrum.
“Stay calm, Lyric,” my father says. He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. I squeeze back as we approach the makeshift entrance that separates the Alpha from us. We’re spotted by a beefy soldier who holds up his hands and demands we stop.
“This is a restricted area,” he barks.
“We’re delivering the tutor,” Bonnie says.
“Doyle’s girl,” he says as he gives me a once-over. His name-tag reads foster. He’s got a doughy face and heavy lids that make him look sleepy. I can’t tell if he’s ogling, judging, or pitying me. Regardless, he gestures for us to approach, then puts up another hand when we’ve gotten as close as he’s comfortable with. “What’s your name, officer?”
“I’m Leonard Walker. I work out of the Sixtieth Precinct. This is my daughter, Lyric Walker.”
“If I were you, I’d keep an eye on your daughter, Leonard. His Majesty has some violent tendencies. He’s on that beach fighting a blood sport every night.”
“She wouldn’t be doing it if she didn’t have to,” my father says.
“That’s everyone’s story in the Zone.” Foster takes my tote and searches through the books I’ve brought for Fathom. He gives them back and then takes out his radio and clicks it on. “I’ve got the tutor here with her father for the prince.”
A voice crackles back. “He’s in the arena.”
“Can you go get him?”
There’s a long pause and then, “Screw you.”
Foster sighs. “Nice,” he says, then takes his gun off the strap around his shoulders. He cocks the chamber and gestures for us to follow him to a door in the chainlink fence. “I have to take you in. Stay close.”
“You’ll be fine, Lyric,” Bonnie says as she watches us enter. “I’ll be here when you come out.”
My father takes the brave first step through the door and onto the sand, and I follow. When Foster relocks the door, I look around at the seashore. There were summers I spent every day here, squeezing out a tiny place to lie on a blanket and read YA novels. Now it feels like a foreign country, a maze of huts, constructed from mud and sand, old sheets, and heavy pieces of driftwood pounded into the ground. Most of these little houses are no higher than my waist, and none of them has a roof. Alpha dwell within them and stare out at us, watching with suspicion as we walk past. Children of all shapes and sizes cling to their mothers when they see us. Old Nix shoot us the stink eye. A Sirena girl no more than nine stumbles back, startled by our presence. Her scales turn bright red just before she dashes away.