Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

A loud buzz blasts the air.

“C’mon, I want to keep you out of sight for now,” he says. He walks me into a shadowy section, far from the lights, and he sits down on the edge of the catwalk, letting his boots hang over the side. He invites me to join him, but I refuse.

Below, two double doors open at the far end of the space. Dozens of kids run through it, grinning like it’s the last day of school, singing and dancing in their black jumpsuits with the White Tower logo on the back. They range in age, some as old as myself but others hovering around seven or eight. A couple could be as young as five. The little ones take to the monkey bars, swinging on swings, zipping down slides, riding teeter-totters, and laughing among themselves. The older kids ride skateboards on a professional fiberglass halfpipe. Others fall to the grass and braid one another’s hair. I peer down as best I can, recognizing a few faces. Angela Benningford’s eleven-year-old son, Cole, is shooting hoops on the basketball court.

“This is what I’ve been doing here, Lyric. White Tower was originally built to imprison these children and their Alpha parents. I believed the kids were special. When the first one morphed in the water, I realized they could be useful. I’ve battled a lot of CEOs—they come and go pretty fast around here—but I got my way. I built this park, and I’ve been training them ever since.”

“Training them for what?” I ask, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Remember in the diner when we watched the press conference? The Secretary of State said that we aren’t prepared to fight an amphibious threat? He’s right. We aren’t. Not with guns and boats and bombs, until now,” he says as he gestures to the children. “They’re our amphibious weapons, soldiers who can breathe underwater, who have been trained in combat. They’re our best chance at fighting the prime and his army. They can help put a stop to the devastation.”

“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.”