Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

“They’re babies.”


“They’re hybrids, half human, but, more important, half Alpha.”

“You’re going to toss those kids into the war?” I seethe. “You’re going to get them killed.”

“Not if we give them their own gloves.”

Suddenly I understand what he’s planning. It’s so revolting, I have to take a step away from him.

“Lyric, all of them have migraines just like you did. They have the right genetics to activate the weapons. With a little training—”

“You want me to train them?”

“We recently got enough gloves for each of them. You will teach them how they work. I’ve done the rest. They’re near experts in hand-to-hand combat, survival techniques, and marksmanship—”

“Marksmanship? That kid down there is five!”

“I’ve prepared them for anything,” he says. “But I can’t help them with the gloves. That’s why we need you.”

“You’re insane. It will never work.”

“Lyric, it has to. Listen, this isn’t a movie. There isn’t a secret government organization filled with supertechnology that’s going to save the world. There aren’t any superheroes. There’s no plan B. You and those kids are all we have. I wish the brains in the tank could have figured out how to crack those gloves. I’d love to put them on some real soldiers. I’d love to have thousands of them, but what I want and what I have are two different things. You and those kids are the best chance we have.”

“Arcade would be better at this than me.”

“I think we both know she’s not going to cooperate.”

I stare down at the alien weapon wrapped around my wrist. Suddenly it doesn’t seem as powerful and scary as before. Now it feels tiny and impotent.

“I’m not good with this thing, and even if I was, you couldn’t convince me to help. Those are children down there, not soldiers. How many are there, thirty?”

“Thirty-two,” he says. “With you, it’s thirty-three.”

“Thirty-three babies against thousands of flesh-eating monsters, some of whom wear the same gloves. Plus, from what I hear, there are squid monsters that drink your insides now. And let’s not mention the prime, who is insane, and his wife, who makes him look healthy. You remember they threw a battleship at us, right?”

Doyle stares down at the children while their songs of laughter drift up to us.

“Desperate times,” he says. “Do you think anyone wants this to be our last, best hope? You heard Spangler. We’re desperate.”

“I won’t do it.”

“Then I can’t protect you and your family any longer.”

“If my time in here is what you call protecting me—”

“It is, Lyric.” he says. “You have no idea how hard it has been to keep you all alive. Your mom and dad and Bex? They’re just a drain on resources to him, a few more useless mouths to feed that seep profits and raise overhead. If you don’t cooperate . . . there are worse things than solitary confinement, Lyric.”

“You disgust me, Doyle. You’d let him kill us?”

“He won’t kill you, Lyric, but he’ll kill everyone you love, then he’ll send those kids to fight anyway. He’s made a deal with the Marines. He’s delivering thirty-three hybrid kids to the beach whether you are ready to fight or not. You have a chance at keeping them alive. You may not care about the soldiers who are fighting, or the people who have lost everything, but you have to care about your own kind, right? If you turn your back on them, they’re as good as dead.”

I look down at the children. A group of kids who should be in the second grade are running through a sprinkler. Their giggles float up to us like party balloons.

“But they’re just kids,” I say.

“No, Lyric, those are weapons. Once you’ve taught them all you can, you will lead them back to Coney Island to reclaim the beach, then move up and down the coastline until it is safe again.”



Doyle doesn’t take me back to my cell. Instead, he escorts me to a suite at the end of a long hallway. Inside, much to my surprise, is what looks like a spa—one as fancy as any I’ve seen in Manhattan. There’s a single chair with a drop-down hair dryer and a shampoo sink, a steam room and a sauna, a table for skin scrubs, and a Japanese soaking tub that must be three feet deep. Steamy water is pouring out of a tap while two Latino women with round faces smile at me.

“What’s this?”

“The beginning of something new, Lyric,” Doyle says. “By the way, these women are illegal immigrants and don’t speak a word of English. They’re only here because White Tower has promised green cards to them and their families in exchange for their silence about what they see and hear. They are not part of this place. Enjoy your bath.”