Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

When I’m too tired to cry, I hoist myself up so I’m sitting against the wall. My cell can’t be wider than nine feet—just long enough for the mattress and a tiny bit of exposed floor space and that painted yellow circle, of course. I study everything closely, hoping for some way of escape. I can’t crawl up the wall to whatever is above me. It’s too smooth. There’s no lock on the door and it’s made of heavy steel. I peer into the drainage hole dug into the floor. I can’t see too deeply into it, maybe six inches at most. The light above will permeate only so far. It’s too narrow for my body to fit inside, but still, maybe there’s something useful about it. I lean forward, listening closely, praying for the familiar gurgle of water. Something shines down there. I activate my glove, realizing I can still use it as a flashlight, but it isn’t much help.

The things I could do if it still worked. Spangler shut it off, but how? I remember when the Rusalka attacked us on the beach, our gloves suddenly didn’t work. I know there was a moment when it seemed we combined our efforts and shut down theirs, but maybe it was White Tower all along. Doyle was in Coney Island that day. Anything is possible. I just don’t know what to do without it. When it’s activated and talking to me, I feel like a giant. Now that I can’t access its power, I’m like a kid with a broken toy. I am so screwed.



During the night, I feel something nudging my foot. I sit up to find a rat chewing at the heel of my sock. I shriek, but it’s not afraid of me. A moment later I discover why. It is just one of a flood of rats that pour out of the hole in the floor, each with a long, hairless tail and hungry pink eyes. I kick at them the best I can, knocking a few against the wall, but they don’t stop coming. Soon, there are so many, I can’t see the floor anymore.

Overwhelmed, I scream as they bite at my shoes and leap at my legs, and then, just like that, they all scurry back down the hole, crawling over each other as they go. When I finally find the bravery to sit back down, I look at my battered sock and realize the rat nearly chewed all the way into my heel. I drag my mattress so that it covers the hole, then huddle on the other side of the room to calm myself.



I wonder if there is a camera on me. I wonder if they are listening. I’m even afraid they might be able to hear my thoughts. If it’s true, then they know I hate the light. They know how much I want to destroy it. I spend hours concocting plans for how to get at it and smash the little person inside it that keeps making music.



Last night I tried to be clever. I unbuttoned my shirt and slipped it off. It was filthy, with caked black blood on the back, and barf on the sleeve, but I knew it could block out the light. I draped it over my eyes and enjoyed the closest thing to darkness I’ve felt in . . . I no longer know how long I’ve been in here.

I heard a clang, and then the door opened and men stomped into my space. I was shy. I tried to hide myself, but they were on me before I could. One of the soldiers kicked me in the chest and the other snatched my shirt. A moment later they were gone. The pain spread in hot waves across my ribs, but the despair was more agonizing.

The light still shines, still watches, still ticks. I know it is part of Spangler’s plan. The mattress, the hole, the sleep deprivation, and even the rats are to torment me. He’s training me to be submissive. He’s turning me into a dog.



The door rattles. Now I jump up and prepare to get into the circle. I’ve gotten very fast at following their orders. This time, however, the door opens all the way. On the other side are three armed soldiers, two of whom have M-16s pointed right at my head. A third one is carrying a long pole with a noose attached to the end. It’s exactly like the ones they used on Bex and Arcade the last time I saw them. They’ve come to kill me. They’ve had it with my begging. They are pissed that I’ve been looking for their secret eyes. They know I want to murder the light bulb. I’m tempted to scurry back into the corner and push my mattress between them and me, but I put out my hands. I submit.

“Don’t move,” one of them barks. Suddenly the noose is around my throat, cutting off the air and my voice as they drag me to my feet. They lead me through the door and into the hallway, and I stumble along, panicked that I will trip and hang myself. The noose is unforgiving. It feels like it’s shredding skin and muscle. My lungs tighten. Spots float in my eyes.

Suddenly we’re through a door and in a room as wide and as high and long as an airplane hangar. The lights in here are so bright, I can barely see, but I can make out a maze of chain-link fences in every direction, forming tiny little cages barely big enough for a full-grown man to stand. I’m pushed along the path, passing each cage, and inside I see the contorted faces of people I used to know. They are all adults, men and women, all with broken spirits and sad eyes. I hear someone say my name, but the guards keep pushing me along, so I can’t stop. They shove me deeper into the labyrinth, finally tossing me into an empty cage of my own. They force me to my knees, and the noose comes off. Finally I can take a ragged, desperate breath.

“Turn around and face me,” one of the soldiers demands.

I do as I’m told, fully expecting to see his gun in my face, but instead I find him with his smartphone aimed right at me.

“Smile, freak,” he says, and then I hear a click.

“Get one with me,” the other soldier says, stepping into the shot. I can see he’s grinning as he gives the camera the thumbs-up sign. Everyone gets a picture with me as I stand shaking and bewildered.

“What is this place?” I ask.