Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

Oh, hey, Dad! I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up to make me feel guilty. Yeah, I’m shoplifting again, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and these are the desperate-est of the desperate times. I’m living in a car. I’m dead broke. I’m on the FBI’s most-wanted list.

The second aisle is where the term food is thrown about with loose abandon. Here I find peanuts coated in honey, peanuts coated in peanut butter, peanut-butter-flavored protein bars, yogurt-covered raisins, “diet” desserts. This is the stuff that’s killing me, but it’s easy to carry and never goes bad. I stuff as many as I can into the pack.

There’s not much happening in the next aisle. This is the Death Valley of all convenience stores: cans of motor oil, NASCAR T-shirts, dusty country and western CDs, and tattooed-girlie magazines. One shelf has a stack of those little tree-shaped car fresheners that smell like pine or green apples. I grab a couple and put them in the pack. The Caravan is getting pretty rank.

One more aisle and I’m out of here. I turn the corner and nearly fall over in shock. Food! Real food: apples, bananas, oranges, whole-wheat bread, cans of soup! In the refrigerator case nearby is milk, string cheese, bologna, pre-made tuna fish sandwiches, and a package of bacon. I have no idea how I’m going to cook it, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve got bacon! Getting it into the pack is a bigger problem. It’s almost full. Screw the toilet paper! I’ll suffer. Once the t.p. rolls are out, I surrender a bar of soap and the mouthwash. Sacrifices have to be made, but now I’ve got room for a half gallon of milk and a loaf of bread. The pack is now officially overflowing. I fight the zipper, then heft the whole thing onto my back.

It’s time to go. As I pass down the aisle, I notice a newspaper rack. USA Today has a picture of my hometown on its front page. Coney Island is a battlefield. Soldiers charge toward the sea, firing rifles at dark-skinned Rusalka leaping out of a massive wave. There are two figures rising above the whitecaps who don’t fit in with the monsters. I peer closer until I finally recognize them. The first is the prime, Fathom’s insane father and king of the Alpha. He was bent on an invasion of the mainland even when his people were at their most vulnerable, and now he’s got it. The second is his wife, Minerva, a cackling partner to his madness. More shocking to me is that it appears as if the prime is leading the Rusalka. How did the bitterest of enemies join forces?

Other papers and magazines give me more glimpses into the world I left behind. One reports on states rising up against one another, sending in their own militias to defend their borders. There are stories of lynchings and soldiers shooting people for trying to cross state lines. Food shortages are rampant, mobs, looting, and fires are a daily event. One paper speculates the tensions will lead to secession and to a second civil war.

But no matter what these papers are reporting, there is one thing they share: a hatred of Lyric Walker, teen terrorist-at-large. They use photos of me at my worst. Facebook shots when I was a little buzzed or a sweaty mess in the humid Coney Island heat. I look unhinged, a bad seed who’s been on the wrong path since she was born. I guess they can’t exactly use the picture of me in my tenth grade homecoming dress. I wore a vintage lace shift with rose appliqués that night. I rocked that dress. Nope, I’m public-enemy number one, and I have to look the part.

I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. I did what I could to stop everything that happened. They turned on me! They kidnapped my family and now I’m the villain? It’s more of the same old racism now that they know I’m only half human. I guess it makes me all monster in their eyes. Well, let the world burn. It looks to me like it’s getting exactly what it deserves.

Furious, I tear myself away from the papers only to find the cashier in my path.

“So, this little scam the two of you pull would probably work if not for one thing,” he says.

Bex is just over his shoulder. She frowns and throws her hands up in surrender.

“I’m not a total idiot,” he continues. “I’ve already pressed the silent alarm, so the police are on their way. Let’s stay calm and let them handle this.”

“How about if I put it all back?” I offer.

He hesitates, considering the notion, but it’s too late. Two squad cars pull into the parking lot outside and stop. Four cops squeeze out of them, seemingly quadruplets, or at least clones—goatees, shaved heads, aviator sunglasses. Two of them circle around the back. I assume they want to make sure Bex and I don’t sneak out a rear exit. The other two swagger through the front door and look around.

“Ladies, I’m Officer Perry and this is Officer Casto. Let me tell you what’s going to happen here,” he says as he takes off his sunglasses. Behind them are two oval-shaped patches of white skin in a sea of sunburn. “We’re placing the two of you under arrest for shoplifting. It’s best if you cooperate. It will go better for you when you go to court.”