Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

“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.”

“Screw you!” I shout—well, I actually say a lot worse than that, but most of it he doesn’t hear once he’s left the room.

The ladies are somewhat dumbfounded by my anger and seem concerned. I realize what I must look like to them. I’m filthy, I’m covered in bruises and bandages, and I’ve got a shaved head. Plus, I was hand delivered by an armed soldier.

“Sorry,” I say, even though I suspect they don’t understand. I mime myself drawing a smile on my face and hope that helps.

The ladies try to help me out of my uniform, but I resist. It’s not some weird shame about my body; it’s that I’m tired of being vulnerable. Eventually, though, I surrender and take off the jumpsuit. The call of the tub and bubbles is too great. I step into the steamy water, which should be heavenly, but I’m covered in fresh wounds. Burn marks on my chest are bright red, and my knees are raw. All my damages sing with agony. Crimson welts and scars rise up where there were none.

Eventually, the pain dulls and I allow myself to melt like a slab of butter buried inside a stack of pancakes. The women wash me like I’m a helpless baby. They scrub my arms and back, my feet, my face and neck. It’s odd to be bathed, but I’m so tired, I let it happen. The women are gentle and kind, even when they gingerly remove the bandages from the back of my head.

They both gasp.

“Is it bad?” I ask in a panic, but I know they don’t understand.

One of them rushes to the door and pounds on it. A soldier opens up, but I can’t see what’s happening because my other helper has spread a gigantic towel in front of me to block his sight line. My other “stylist” shouts at him in rapid-fire Spanish, but he’s just as clueless as me. He calls for Doyle, who briefly speaks to her, then closes the door.

When she returns, she looks at me with a sad, sympathetic face and points to the back of her own head. I don’t need an interpreter to understand my wound is infected. The other lady holds my hand tight while the first pours hot water over it. It feels like lava, and I shriek and cry.

I hear an argument in the hall, and then the door opens. Nurse Amy steps in with a small medical kit. She approaches the tub like it’s full of venomous snakes. My ladies scream at her, shouting hostilities in her face, pointing to my head, telling her off in the universal language of “you suck.”

After she examines my wound, Amy tries to open a tube of ointment, but the women snatch it from her. Like before, one takes my hand and the other pours the water. It’s just as painful, but when they’re done, they let Amy apply the cream, supervising her every move until she wraps it in a fresh dressing. Then they take the ointment from her and point to the door. Amy stalks off, and I ease back into the bath and smile up at my saviors.