“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.”