Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

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.”

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!