Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(32)

“That’s it, Lyric. You’re going in the right direction. You’re getting closer.”

After I step through the fence, I hear a mechanical hum and turn just in time to see the gate close on its own. Then I notice the sign.



WARNING! ELECTRIFIED FENCE!

CONTACT MAY LEAD TO SERIOUS INJURY OR DEATH!



I reach out to the voices, and the water comes, popping a hole in the tank buried beneath the ground and asking it to rise up through the sand. I send it flying toward the fence, only to watch the whole thing short-circuit in an explosion of sparks and fire.

“Now, Lyric, that’s not nice. Those fences are expensive,” he says. “There’s no need for weapons.”

“I want my family and friends. I want you to let all the Alpha loose!”

“I hear you loud and clear. Keep coming, and we will discuss everything.”

I walk farther along the road and reach a curve that blocks my view of what lies ahead. I stop. I’m certain that walking around the bend will make me a perfect target. I need to be prepared when I do it. If I see guns, I’m drowning everyone.

“All right, girl. Get ready,” I say to the glove. The massive tank roars eagerly. There’s so much chatter in the water.

I take a deep breath and turn the corner, bringing the camp into full view. I don’t know what I was expecting. A collection of tents? Long stables filled with broken people? Some kind of space-age evil lair complete with a bald supervillain and his hairless cat? No, it’s none of those things. It’s more of an office building buried in the ground with a roof that sticks out of the soil. The shingles are covered in dirt and flowers and stones to look exactly like the wastelands that surround it, something a plane wouldn’t spot if it flew overhead. It’s actually very clever.

Standing out front is a large group of men and women, about forty in all. There are soldiers in desert camouflage holding M-16s, but most of them look like scientists, wearing long white lab coats and carrying tablets. Standing in front of them all is a tall, thin man probably in his early thirties wearing tortoiseshell glasses and a smart, wavy haircut. He’s got on a pair of black skinny jeans, a suit jacket with a hoodie underneath, and, to complete the look, a pair of white Chuck Taylors. He looks like an aging hipster from Williamsburg.

“Welcome to Tempest, Lyric,” he says to me.

“Let them go,” I demand, but it comes out squeaky and childish. I wave my glove around a bit so they can see it’s on and powered.

“Now, now, Lyric,” he says. “No one has to get hurt.”

“That’s really up to you. Let everyone go, and I won’t fight you. We’ll leave, and you’ll never see us again.”

“Now, I know you’re not that naive. I can’t let anyone out of here. These people, if you can call them that, are dangerous. There’s a creature inside that has poisonous spikes that pop out of his skin. I know this might be disappointing to hear, Lyric, but the simple fact is that everyone inside is here because they pose a danger to our country.”

“You’re torturing them,” I argue.

“Torture? That’s an ugly word. We prefer the term enhanced interrogation technique. Isn’t that right, David?”

The crowd divides in two, revealing another tall figure. David Doyle flashes me a sad look, a final reminder that all of this could have been avoided.

“We certainly had to pay enough to get everyone to use that term,” Spangler continues. “Besides, terrorists torture people, Lyric. We’re a corporation, we offer a service.”

Two soldiers charge through the front door of the building. One has Bex; the other, Arcade. They push the girls into the sand, revealing that each has a noose around her neck. The nooses are connected to long steel poles the guards hold tightly. Bex and Arcade look drugged. Neither of them puts up a fight.

Something explodes inside me. I can’t say what it is—maybe the last part of me that thinks people are mostly good. I came here to save people, and I hoped that I wouldn’t have to hurt anyone to do it. I am not a killer. I know that for sure. But that doesn’t mean I can’t really hurt them. My mind calls out to water beneath Spangler’s feet.

What would you have us do?

“Get creative,” I whisper back.

The ground rumbles and quakes as something huge pushes to the surface, but Spangler is not concerned. In fact, he smiles at me as he taps away on his tablet, and all at once it’s as if the power I feel all around me has been switched to the off position. I can’t hear the voice. The whispers have been silenced, and my control over the water is gone as well.

“What did you do?” I ask.

“All right, people. Let’s get out of this heat,” he says.

A soldier steps forward and hands him a Taser rifle.

“Spangler, we talked about this,” Doyle shouts at him.

“We tried it your way, David,” Spangler says. He fires the weapon and there’s a pop! I feel a stabbing pain in my chest, and I fall to the ground. When I look down, I see wires sticking out of the wound leading all the way back to the rifle. I try to pull them out, knowing what is coming next, all while studying Doyle’s face. He stares down at me, disappointed and frustrated. His eyes say, I told you so.

I hear a zap, and suddenly I am on fire.