Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(73)
Bex shakes her head and rolls her eyes.
“Your next boyfriend can’t have fins,” she whispers.
“None of my boyfriends have ever had fins. Besides, I’m giving up on boys. It’s you and me, Conrad,” I tease. “If we survive, I’m thinking we move in together and be crazy cat ladies.”
“Deal.” She sighs.
Arcade boards, followed by Fathom. They are silent and pass us on their way to the back. She doesn’t look at me at all, and when he passes, my face burns and I look to the floor. I notice Riley watching, but he plays it cool and doesn’t say anything, even when I crane my neck to take a peek at them. Arcade finds a seat first and Fathom tries to sit next to her, but she shoots him a look and he’s smart enough to sit a few rows farther back.
Fathom closes his eyes and leans into his headrest. He looks nervous and lonely. Despite everything he has done, part of me wants to walk back there and hold his hand during takeoff, but a bigger part tells the first part that it’s stupid. Soon enough, both parts resume hating him.
Bex takes my hand when they close the airplane door.
“Have you ever been on a plane before?” she asks.
I laugh, remembering how cheaply we used to live back in Coney Island. A plane ride was much too fancy, and we never went anywhere on vacation anyway.
I shake my head.
“With our luck, this thing will crash,” she whispers.
“Oh, now, we’re not going to get that lucky,” I say when the engines rumble so loud, I can feel them in my legs. “We’ll get there. Coney Island is worse than a plane crash.”
We descend into JFK five hours later, and I am startled to see snow flurries. Bex is as troubled by it as I am. It’s a painful reminder of how long we have been away from our home and how long we have been locked in the camp.
We touch down, then taxi to a small hangar on the far side of the airport. Outside the window, I see something disturbing. There are soldiers everywhere, real ones, in the hangar, guarding the tarmac and waiting for us. Military vehicles are parked all over. Planes have been pushed together in an awkward jumble to get them out of the way. I’ve never been to JFK but I know this isn’t right. Looks like the airport is now the property of the United States military.
The pilot parks the plane and then opens the cabin door. A blast of early-winter air dances down the aisle, and I zip up my jumpsuit. We’re definitely going to need those hats and gloves.
A huge green bus waits for us at the bottom of the steps. Its driver is a tall, broad-chested soldier who can’t be more than a couple of years older than me. His face is set and serious but slightly confused. I have a feeling he didn’t know he was going to chauffer the “terrorist” and a bunch of children around today. When they bring Bachman down the steps, he can’t hide his shock.
“Yeah, the freaks have landed,” I say to him.
We board his bus, and he drives us south on the Belt Parkway. The whole road is ours. Never in my life have I seen an empty street in New York City, especially at this time of day. There should be bumper-to-bumper deadlock, cars creeping along like snails, but today it’s barren and lonely. A few military jeeps drive on the other side, but other than that, nothing—all the way through Queens and into Brooklyn. It’s sobering. Even the children who haven’t seen their hometown in years appear to know this is wrong. They press their faces against the windows and stare out at a dead city.
The drive to Coney Island takes about half an hour. We pull off at the Cropsey Avenue exit, several exits before the beach. These roads are as barren of cars as the highway but overflowing with rubbish and devastated by monstrous potholes. We bounce up and down as the driver weaves around craters. I look out the window and see a burned-out car sitting on its side like roadkill.
It’s all a maze to me, the way he backtracks and makes turn after turn to avoid roadblocks, downed power lines, and abandoned cars. I recognize only little things—a storefront, a street corner where we used to meet, but it doesn’t look like my home. Everywhere, I see a brown stain that runs parallel on all the buildings, marking how high the water was after the tidal wave came. It’s above the second-story windows here, and we’re still nearly two miles from the beach.
The homes we pass look empty and deserted. Some have burned to the ground. Big letter B’s are painted on the walls with numbers—some kind of code—B2, B5, B7.
“What’s with the numbers?” I call out to the driver.
“That’s how many bodies were found inside,” he says, his eyes meeting mine in his rearview mirror. He blames me for this.
Bachman sits at the front in a special space for wheelchairs. She turns her head and flashes me the same look the soldier did.
Eventually, the driver takes us as far as he can. He explains that the roads beyond are for emergency vehicles only. We’re walking the rest of the way.
“We’re not an emergency vehicle?” my father asks.
“Roads are dedicated to vehicles in retreat from the battle zones, sir,” the soldier explains.
As we step off into the road, I hear rapid-fire pops that come in short bursts, pause, and then repeat. There’s a huge explosion, and the guns resume again. Bex and my father give me wary looks, but the children seem fine. Doyle told me he taught them how to use firearms, so maybe they’re used to the noise they make. It’s not like I haven’t heard gunshots before, just not so many.