Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

Amy. That’s the nurse’s name. She’s the one who shaved my head. She stitched me up and inserted the IV needles. Amy. Such a nice name, a name that seems kind and pleasant, like it’s associated with springtime and flowers, and yet there’s such ugliness inside her.

“I’ve got a brother in the Guard, and he’s stationed in Brooklyn,” she snaps at him. “Those things nearly killed him this week, so excuse me for not being Little Ms. Sunshine.”

She reaches into her pocket and takes out a tube of lip gloss and spreads it across her ugly mouth. Then she selects a needle off the tray and injects it into my bag.

I would kill for lip gloss, I think, feeling their sedatives crawl through me.

“Oh, sorry. Is he okay?”

“He can’t tell me anything,” Amy says calmly. “My mother is in hysterics. She’s got two kids working around sea monsters. She keeps blaming herself, like she did something wrong.”

“You told her?” Calvin says. “I thought all this is classified.”

She shakes her head. Calvin is intolerable to her. I can’t help but laugh at her misery.

“It seems like every couple months something uglier crawls out of the ocean,” he adds. “Did you see what they brought in here the other day?”

Amy grunts. “Disgusting.”

“Did you read that story about the captain who spotted the giant squid?”

Amy scowls. “I had an uncle who was on a fishing boat. He was always drunk too.”

“Unless it’s true,” he argues.

“Jeez, you were right, Calvin. She does need a bath.”

“Can’t we hose her off or something?” he asks. “She’s not going to hurt anybody. She can’t even keep her eyes focused.”

Amy shrugs, grabs me by the jaw roughly, and flashes a penlight into my pupils.

“Yeah, get the hose.”

The nurse pulls the IV needle out of my arm, swabs my skin with alcohol, and puts a bandage on the wound.

Moments later, they’re blasting me with a stream of water so intense, I slam into the wall behind me and pass out cold.



“Inmate 114. Stand in the circle,” the voice says.

I rise, step into the circle, and hear the buzz.

“What, no sarcastic remark?” the voice asks.

“I’m a good dog,” I say, with a very mean bite.

Once I hear the click, I start my practice, beginning and ending with the warrior pose, then lie down to calm my mind and focus on my breathing. It isn’t long before I hear the slot open. I don’t even look as the bowl scrapes across the concrete floor. I just stand and retrieve it—the same as every day, and I eat, slowly and methodically, like it’s my favorite meal in the world—a grandma slice from Neptune pie. This is the last meal I’m going to eat at Tempest.

I’ve timed it so well, I know when the slot will open and the bowl will go, so I’m finished when it happens. I hear the buzz, but this time I give the bowl a swift kick. It flips up into the air and lands flat against the door, then scurries back and forth, unable to fit through the hole. I watch it move to the left and then to the right as the guard outside does his best to alter the angle of the magnet to no avail. It falls with a clang when his machine powers down.

“Inmate 114. Stand in the circle,” the voice demands.

I nod and do as I’m told. There’s a buzz, then a clanking sound as the door is unlocked, and it slowly swings open.

Fight! Fathom shouts in my ear. He’s joined by my father, and my mother, Bex, Shadow, Arcade, Lucas, Ghost, Luna, Rochelle, and Terrance—by everyone I have ever met, living or dead, all shouting for me to beat this guy’s ass. I leap forward and kick the door with everything I’ve got. It’s a gamble. I have never been able to figure out if the door will automatically lock when it closes, but it’s a chance I have to take. From the other side I hear an “oof,” and a cry of pain. The guard’s gun rattles to the ground as loud as a fireworks display and then settles, silent and waiting. The door slowly creeps open, and I step out into the hall.

His nose has exploded. There is blood all over it and a gash on his forehead leaking down his face. It’s Calvin, the soldier who is helping Amy experiment on me. His eyes meet mine as if he’s wondering whether I’ve got the guts to go for his pistol, and then they widen because he knows I do. We leap at the same time, scrambling for possession, but he’s faster, stronger—he’s not living in a box and eating gruel—so I slam my elbow into his nose with every ounce of aggression I can. He screeches. It’s enough for him to loosen his grip on the gun, and I snatch it away.

“Kid, you’re going to wind up shooting yourself with that,” the soldier warns, his hands up in front of his face.

I click off the safety, cock the hammer, and shake my head.

“My dad’s a cop in the Sixtieth Precinct. He taught me how to use this when I was fourteen. Get in the cell.”

“No.”

“Look at me, Calvin. I look pretty desperate, right?”

“You’ll never get out of here,” he warns as he surrenders to my demands.

“Just give me your keys.”

He unfastens his key ring from a chain around his waist. Among them is a keycard with a White Tower logo printed on its face.