Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

BEX FOUND AN UNLOCKED CAR PARKED IN THE BACK OF THE GROCERY STORE. It’s an ancient Ford Taurus, lime-green and as big as a boat. The shocks are spongy and the brakes shriek as soon as I turn on the engine. The back windows won’t roll down and there’s no air conditioning, but the keys were under the visor and it has a full tank of gas, so it’s our new ride. I have to assume its owner is some poor kid who never thought anyone would want the rusty eyesore. Whoever it belongs to is not making bank. I feel bad, but we have to get out of town fast.

While Bex and Arcade load our stuff, I leave the owner of the Caravan a heartfelt and anonymous apology for its current state, especially for the dents and dings that weren’t there when we “borrowed” it. I’ve smashed a few of these loaners in the last two weeks. I’m doing the best I can, but I don’t have a driver’s license. City kids don’t usually get them. We walk everywhere or hop on the bus or subway. I never took a driving class, and I confess as much to the owner. My apology includes a sincere hope that the damage will not affect his or her insurance premiums, and also a “my bad” for the stink we are leaving behind after sleeping in it for a couple days. I hang one of the pine-scented car fresheners I swiped at the store from the rearview mirror, but I know it’s not going to make a big difference. We’re disgusting.

I carefully steer our new ride out of the parking lot and head to the edge of town, driving within a hair’s breadth of the speed limit. We all have our eyes glued to the road, looking for cops, or for helicopters sent to track us from above. As many officers as there are on the road, none stop us or even give us a second look. I guess the police don’t think anyone would steal this car either.

We’re half an hour out of town when Bex discovers something in the glove compartment we have desperately needed for a long, long time—a phone charger. It plugs into the cigarette lighter and will work on both our phones.

“This solves, like, a million problems!” I say, selling the positive in hopes of changing Bex’s mood, but I didn’t need to. She can’t hide her excitement. We haven’t had phones in two weeks, which in teenage-girl years equals about a zillion.

She plugs the cable into the socket and then fishes her dead phone out of her shorts. Once it’s plugged in, I realize how much I want it to work. We’ve all made sacrifices to find Tempest, but Bex has made the most. She left Coney Island not knowing if her mother survived the attack. We haven’t heard from Tammy since. Is she alive? Is she looking for Bex? Plus, there are other people we both care about. Did they get out of the Zone before the disaster? It’s been hard being in limbo, waiting for word, when the only conduit to the truth has been dead for weeks. This charger might give her answers, and it couldn’t have come at a better time.

The screen lights up, and so does her face.

“C’mon,” I cry, scorning the phone’s snail-like pace. Where’s the shroom, and the apple, and the buzz?

“I know!” she groans.

But none of those things happen. Instead, the screen gets weird. A purple smear appears under the glass, then some ugly brown colors and lines, and then what looks like something important melting and spreading. Everything shuts down. Bex pushes the power button again—and again—but nothing happens. She tries to force a reboot, but the phone won’t respond. She unplugs the cord and tries it all over again, but there’s no response.

“It needs to charge,” I promise, ratcheting up the optimism until I sound like a cast member from Annie, but her face tells me the sun is not coming out tomorrow.

“It was in the water too long,” she whispers, reminding me that I found her half-dead in the water before I dragged her to safety. That phone was submerged for heaven only knows how long. So was mine. “Try yours.”

Dread hatches in my belly. My phone was soaked for even longer than Bex’s as I swam around trying to rescue people. It was still working when we got out of Brooklyn, but then I ran down the battery and couldn’t charge it. What if mine is busted too? I will lose every email my mom and dad ever sent me, every text message, and every single picture I have of the two of them. There are no photo albums back home. There is no “back home” anymore. Everything about our lives was washed away. All that’s left is on this little metal-and-glass machine.

I will lose the only picture I have of Fathom.

I plug the phone in with trembling hands like I’m cradling a baby sparrow I intend to nurse back to health. When I insert the plug, the screen is quiet and still. No shroom. No apple. No buzz. I don’t even get the light. I close my eyes and negotiate the terms of penance with God for my less-than-moral life as of late. I’ll do anything, I promise. All I want in exchange is one little electronic miracle.

Shroom.

Apple.

Buzz! Two weeks of messages and voicemails break through the levy and flood my inbox. Seven hundred and fifty-eight text messages appear before my eyes. The phone shakes like it’s having a seizure.