Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

I crawl through the scrub on hands and knees, fighting the urge to stand and run back the way I came. I feel exposed, like I’m a little white mouse and someone is peering into my hidey-hole. I find a large boulder and hunch down behind it, pressing my back to it while I catch my breath and contemplate my next move.

It’s clear they can see me, so I might as well throw out the sneak-in-and-free-everyone plan. No, now all that’s left to me is a face-to-face confrontation. I think about Deshane back at school. He barreled through the halls, terrorizing people. Every day was a demonstration of his aggression. I can see he did it to avoid fights. Only the bravest of the brave called him out, but most of them were terrified of what he might do. Fear kept people at bay. On the other hand, he could have been a psychopath. Still, it worked. I might as well give it a try. My thoughts turn on the glove, and I reach out with my mind, sensing a huge well of water buried in a tank not far from here. It must be the camp’s primary water supply. There’s enough to level this place if I get close enough to it, but for now I need a little to put on my show.

“Now, there’s no reason to turn on your Oracle,” Spangler says.

Oracle? What’s that? I look down at the glove. Is that what this thing is called?

“No one is going to hurt you, so come on in,” he continues. “It gets hot out here around lunchtime. We’ve got air conditioning and showers, and the chef can make you anything you want for dinner.”

I round a corner and see another huge fence in front of me. Its gate is wide open, inviting me to pass through. I whip my head around in every direction, searching for soldiers to pop out of nowhere and gun me down, but I don’t see a soul.

“That’s it, Lyric. You’re going in the right direction. You’re getting closer.”

After I step through the fence, I hear a mechanical hum and turn just in time to see the gate close on its own. Then I notice the sign.



WARNING! ELECTRIFIED FENCE!

CONTACT MAY LEAD TO SERIOUS INJURY OR DEATH!



I reach out to the voices, and the water comes, popping a hole in the tank buried beneath the ground and asking it to rise up through the sand. I send it flying toward the fence, only to watch the whole thing short-circuit in an explosion of sparks and fire.

“Now, Lyric, that’s not nice. Those fences are expensive,” he says. “There’s no need for weapons.”

“I want my family and friends. I want you to let all the Alpha loose!”

“I hear you loud and clear. Keep coming, and we will discuss everything.”

I walk farther along the road and reach a curve that blocks my view of what lies ahead. I stop. I’m certain that walking around the bend will make me a perfect target. I need to be prepared when I do it. If I see guns, I’m drowning everyone.

“All right, girl. Get ready,” I say to the glove. The massive tank roars eagerly. There’s so much chatter in the water.

I take a deep breath and turn the corner, bringing the camp into full view. I don’t know what I was expecting. A collection of tents? Long stables filled with broken people? Some kind of space-age evil lair complete with a bald supervillain and his hairless cat? No, it’s none of those things. It’s more of an office building buried in the ground with a roof that sticks out of the soil. The shingles are covered in dirt and flowers and stones to look exactly like the wastelands that surround it, something a plane wouldn’t spot if it flew overhead. It’s actually very clever.

Standing out front is a large group of men and women, about forty in all. There are soldiers in desert camouflage holding M-16s, but most of them look like scientists, wearing long white lab coats and carrying tablets. Standing in front of them all is a tall, thin man probably in his early thirties wearing tortoiseshell glasses and a smart, wavy haircut. He’s got on a pair of black skinny jeans, a suit jacket with a hoodie underneath, and, to complete the look, a pair of white Chuck Taylors. He looks like an aging hipster from Williamsburg.

“Welcome to Tempest, Lyric,” he says to me.

“Let them go,” I demand, but it comes out squeaky and childish. I wave my glove around a bit so they can see it’s on and powered.

“Now, now, Lyric,” he says. “No one has to get hurt.”

“That’s really up to you. Let everyone go, and I won’t fight you. We’ll leave, and you’ll never see us again.”

“Now, I know you’re not that naive. I can’t let anyone out of here. These people, if you can call them that, are dangerous. There’s a creature inside that has poisonous spikes that pop out of his skin. I know this might be disappointing to hear, Lyric, but the simple fact is that everyone inside is here because they pose a danger to our country.”

“You’re torturing them,” I argue.

“Torture? That’s an ugly word. We prefer the term enhanced interrogation technique. Isn’t that right, David?”

The crowd divides in two, revealing another tall figure. David Doyle flashes me a sad look, a final reminder that all of this could have been avoided.