Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(13)

When we hit a town called Goldthwaite, we lose the sixteen-lane superhighways that run through Texas, along with the eighty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit. This is where the poor carve out their lives. Gone are the monstrous SUVs and pickup-truck mutations designed to speed up climate change. These roads belong to the beekeepers and the day workers and the fruit pickers, to the Mexicans who work the oil wells, and to the people who live on “the res.” The folks I pass have faces baked by hard work and years in the sun. They send me friendly waves when we pass one another. At least, I think they’re waving at me. It might be the Ford they’re waving at. It fits in nicely in this part of the country.

Unfortunately it’s running on fumes, and when the engine finally ceases, we barely have enough to make it off the freeway and into a dusty gas station in the middle of nowhere. When we come to a stop, the motor pings and pops, then wheezes its final, dying breath.

The three of us are stuck. There is nothing out here for miles. Even this gas station is abandoned. By the look of the pumps, it filled its last car long before I was born.

“What now?” Bex asks.

“We walk,” Arcade says.

“It’s hundreds of miles!” I cry.

Arcade doesn’t respond. She opens the car door and steps out. I watch her walk along the road’s edge. Bex snatches her hoodie and does the same.

“Guys, this is insane,” I plead, but they are almost out of earshot. Exasperated, I grab the pack and step out of the car into the broiling heat. A hateful blister of a sun hangs in a jaundiced sky, melting everything into a Shrinky Dink. Thirsty trees lean forward, the crumbling sidewalk glows with angry sunburns, and everything is flat. We’re definitely going to die out here.

As they walk on without me, I write a quick apology to the owner of the Ford, but it comes out more like a fan letter. I rave about how it handles, how the engine feels like something that belongs in a rocket. I apologize for stealing the phone charger but promise that it couldn’t be helped.

I run a caressing hand on the Ford’s hood when I’m finished.

“I’m going to miss you, beast,” I whisper, because it’s true. If I live through this, I’m going to buy a car just like this one. It’s going to be ginormous. I might even mount a tusk where the hood ornament should be.

I do my best to catch up with Bex and Arcade. The heat and the running wind me, so I can hardly talk when I close the gap. I’m sure they don’t mind. I’m not feeling particularly welcome. Bex’s disappointment in me is palpable, and Arcade isn’t exactly chatty. I hang back and walk at my own pace on the pebbly ground. After a few hours in the heat, I am really feeling the pack. It’s bulky and awkward, and every step seems to add another pound. I’m regretting the bacon and the half gallon of milk and all the other stuff that is too impractical to carry on my back. Without asking the others, I slip it off and toss things onto the side of the road, where they are quickly attacked by a murder of crows. I probably should have talked to Bex and Arcade, but neither of them offered to help me with it. Unfortunately, when I hoist it onto my back, I can’t feel much of a difference in the weight. I debate sitting down in the dust for a big cry, but I need to keep going. My parents don’t care if the pack is heavy or if the sun is mean. I’m their only hope.



The sky is orange and purple, signaling the end of another day, when we come across a deserted ice cream shop. I kick through the overgrown grass and litter to a rusty metal picnic table and toss the pack on top. At some point the table was painted bright red with a big smiling clown logo in its center. Now the clown looks as if he’s been sleeping beneath an underpass. Maybe we’re related.

Bex digs into the pack greedily, pulling out everything. Neither she nor Arcade mentions the stuff I tossed out for the birds. Either they don’t care, or this game of “don’t talk to Lyric” is more important.

I snatch two protein bars and an apple and make myself a bologna sandwich, vacuuming them so fast, it’s startling. Bex and Arcade do much the same. It’s a silent affair. I look across the table at my besty, my partner-in-crime, my sister from another mister, and feel as if the tabletop is a million miles wide. I can’t take it anymore.

“I hate this,” I say, to both of them.

They meet my eyes but then look away.

“What is ‘this’ you speak of?” Arcade says.

“The way neither of you are talking to me!”

“I never speak to you, Lyric Walker, because the things you say make me angry and tempt me to kill you,” Arcade says as she stands. She walks off into the brush. “Do not disturb me. I am sharpening my Kala and praying.”

“So let’s talk,” I say to Bex.

Bex turns to watch Arcade settle in the dust, her back to us.

“She prays to Fathom,” she tells me.

“She thinks he’s dead,” I mutter.

“Everyone grieves in their own way,” Bex scolds.

“We’re all grieving,” I say, but it sounds selfish, and I can tell she hears it that way too. Bex lost the love of her life, then her mother. My family might be in danger, but they are still alive as far as I know.

“I’m grieving for you,” she says.

“Bex!”

“What? Isn’t that your plan? Suicide?”

“I don’t want to die!”