Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

“They offer me help. They seem to come from water, like there’s a voice for every drop in the ocean. I’m like their boss, and when I ask them to do something, they do it.”


“That might be a problem for you. The place they built this camp on is in the middle of a rain-shadow desert.”

“Which means?”

“These mountains here,” he says, waving out in front of us, “they block all the moisture from getting through. It’s probably the driest place in the whole country.”

“Predictable.” I sigh. “I don’t know why my luck should change now.”

“I’ll pray for you,” he says, and for the rest of the trip, he is quiet. Maybe he’s silently contemplating what a terrible idea this is, or maybe he really is having a one-on-one with God. Or maybe there isn’t anything left to say.

The drive takes almost an hour and a half, up and down peaks and into valleys, until Henry stops his car outside a huge chain-link fence that stands three stories tall, and we step out. A sign reads CAUTION! PRIVATE PROPERTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE ARRESTED AND PROSECUTED.

“I guess this is it,” I joke.

“Not at all subtle,” he says. “You sure you want to do this?”

I nod. “I don’t see any other option.”

“I assumed as much. I wish you luck, Lyric,” he says, cupping his hands together. I step into them, leaping onto the fence and climbing up effortlessly.

“You seem to have some experience climbing fences,” he calls up to me.

“Brooklyn girl,” I joke. “I’ve grown up surrounded by a few of them.”



The dirt road to the camp mocks me. It turns and doubles back over and over again, and what should really be a five-mile walk becomes a twenty-five-mile hike. I could be out here all day and night and still not reach the camp by morning.

Where is it you think you’re going? What happens when you get there? What is your plan?

I don’t know, Dad. I am seventeen and sheltered and stupid, but it’s a little late to fix any of that now. I can’t turn around, can’t fight the magnetic pull the camp has on me. It won’t let me abandon my family and friends.

I hear the roar of an engine approaching, so I dart into the brush and huddle behind a couple of tall cacti. A murky green army jeep careens into the scenery. There are two men in it, both wearing white T-shirts and jeans and sneakers. There are rifles strapped to their chests. They remind me of Doyle with their serious faces. Luckily they don’t spot me, and they continue onward.

I hop back onto the road, unsure of how long it will be before they come back around or if there are more jeeps on the way. I do know it’s time to pick up the pace. My walk turns into a jog—good and steady. I’m not an athlete, so I have to take breaks, but once I’m fine, I keep going.

Not to say that I’m high on determination. This totally sucks. My legs and stomach are cramping. My back hurts, and I’m definitely wearing the wrong bra for this marathon. I’ve got a blister forming on the outer parts of both big toes, too. All these aches and pains have illuminated something about me. I am a ridiculous human being, spoiled, soft, and lazy—just like Arcade used to say. Why didn’t I take up a sport in high school? Why didn’t I go for a run on the beach every single day? My mother was a great athlete. People paid her to teach them yoga! My dad is in perfect condition. He can chase down a shoplifter half his age. Where is the Olympic decathlon gene they should have passed on to me? Why did I get the binge-watching-Netflix DNA?

You’re a force of nature. You’re a wild thing. My mother urges me onward.

“Oh, hi, Mom. Thanks for showing up. Where were you when Dad was lecturing me about my sins?”

“Lyric Walker!”

My name booms from the sky. I scamper off the road, startled and confused. Huddling behind a thin tree, I search for the source of the voice, but I can’t find it.

“My name is Donovan Spangler. Welcome to Area Eleven, part of White Tower Securities Incorporated, a joint agreement with the Department of Justice, the Department of Defense, the Central Intelligence Agency, and the United States Marines. White Tower has been contracted to operate this facility.

“I know why you’re here and what you plan to do, but I’m hoping we can have a conversation first. I think we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement free of violence and drama. How does that sound?”

From my vantage point I can see the top of a watchtower, and I realize I’m closer than I thought. I don’t see anyone in it, but I suspect that’s where the speaker is amplifying Spangler’s voice.

“Come on out, Lyric,” he says cheerfully. “Let’s be friends.”