Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

I nod, and the first dusty path I see, I turn onto it, following the tracks of what looks like a large farm vehicle until I can’t see the road behind me any longer. I park and sit in the dark for a moment, suddenly feeling the emotions that have been in limbo since I saw the woman die. I kick the car, and punch and scream. Then it’s my turn to cry. Bex leans over and wraps me in a hug, the first affection she’s shown me in days. Arcade sits quietly. I suppose the greatest kindness she can give me is to hide her exasperation with my tears.

When I’m myself again, we search the sheriff’s car for anything useful. It feels terrible to steal from it, but we’re desperate. In the trunk we find riot-gear helmets and batons, extra speeding-ticket booklets, something called a meth kit, and rolls of crime-scene tape. There are a couple of thin wool blankets, a bottle of water, and a pair of leather gloves. There’s also a pair of pants that won’t fit any of us, but we take them anyway. It looks like we’re going to be sleeping in the desert tonight, and it’s going to get very cold.

“This might come in handy,” Bex says, snatching a small yellow case with the words ROAD FLARES printed on the side.

Bex and Arcade march out into the brush with whatever they can carry in their arms while I take a moment to leave a note in the car, knowing that its owner will never read it, but hoping someone will find it someday and understand.

To whom it may concern: We didn’t kill her, I write. A helicopter with a white tower painted on its belly fired on us. They’re responsible. I’m sorry. We’re not trying to hurt anyone. I just want my family back, and then I’ll disappear forever. You’ll never hear from me again. I promise.

A photograph rests on the dash. It’s a picture of the dead cop. She’s standing next to a tall man with a big, happy smile and a dark black mustache. Next to her is a little boy in a baseball jersey and hat, and next to them, an elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair. They are all overjoyed to be together. The cop looks so happy, she might cry.

She can’t anymore, so I sit in the car and do it for her, sobbing until my throat is raw.



We walk for hours, sometimes in pitch-black. Arcade’s night vision is incredible. Having spent her entire life underwater, her eyes have adapted to see even the faintest flickers. She guides us along, warning us of obstacles to avoid.

Eventually even she is tired, and we stop to make a camp. Arcade scans the horizon, then stomps off to find wood. When she comes back, we light the pile she’s collected with the flares. Soon we have a warm fire to huddle around. It doesn’t come a moment too soon. My clothes are thin, and my fingers are so cold, I can’t feel their tips any longer.

“Right about now, Ghost and I would lure fish out of the ocean to feed our people,” Arcade says of her time in the tent city back home. “It took some time to adjust to the taste of cooked meat, but I learned to tolerate it.”

“Yes, the protein bars are getting old,” I say, opening up one that is packed with peanut buttery taste.

“You would be wise to get some rest,” she says to me. “There will be more fighting before we get to Tempest.”

Arcade takes a blanket for herself, and a few things to eat from the pack, then lies down by the fire.

“I am not killing anyone,” I announce. “Not after what we saw.”

“Good,” Bex whispers back to me.

Arcade sits up and looks at me. Her face is painted with red flames and surprise.

“If you do not kill them, they will kill you.”

“I won’t do it,” I argue.

She shakes her head, then lies back down, turning her back to us.

“You don’t even realize it, do you?” Arcade says.

“Realize what?”

“You’re already dead.”

Bex edges toward me, taking my hand and squeezing it tight. She huddles close in the cold, and I offer her the sheriff’s pants, since she’s in shorts. We wrap ourselves up in the blanket as best we can and lie there listening to the creatures scurrying in the wasteland around us.

“Are you back?” I ask her, basking in her closeness.

She whispers a yes to me. “Stop being a jerk.”

“I’m trying,” I say softly.

“She looked like Shadow’s mom,” Bex says.

I nod. I saw the resemblance myself. She had the same round face and complexion. She could have been Mrs. Ramirez’s sister.

I take out my phone and turn it on, flip through the photo file until I find what I want, and then hand it to Bex. The screen illuminates her cheeks in soft blue memories and changes her face, turning her mouth from a worried line to a careful smile. She turns the screen so I can see a picture of her and her boy, Shadow Ramirez, our Tito, our sidekick. In it the two of them stand back to back, showing off their matching Halloween costumes from last year. Both are tricked out in fat gold chains, Kangol hats, tracksuits, and bright white Adidas, sans the shoelaces. Run DMC never looked so good.

I can’t help but smile, but only because I can see what’s really going on behind the silliness. It was taken before they admitted the truth about how they felt to each other, but you can still see it in their faces.

“He loved you so much,” I tell her.

Bex’s smile vanishes. She bites her lower lip to hold back tears, then rolls her arm across her face to hide her grief.