Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(75)
“It takes a lot to put one down!” Jackson shouts to us as he continues running. “Everyone needs to be watching. If you spot a roamer, I need you to shout it loudly and clearly and then get out of my way. I can’t have you between me and them, understand?”
Georgia nods.
“Good shot, by the way,” he admits to her.
We climb over piles of trash and broken bicycles. This can’t be good for my father’s ribs, but he doesn’t complain. My mother helps him when he will let her. We race down a new street until we reach a place in the road where a yellow school bus has crashed. To me it looks like the soldiers have used a welding torch to cut a path right through its belly. It still requires a few awkward steps, but we get through. I help Chloe over every obstacle.
“Are you okay?” I ask Chloe.
Her eyes show panic, but she nods bravely.
On the next block, there are houses shoved off their foundations, now sitting squarely in the street. On the side of the road is a car from the Cyclone. Its blue paint is a shocking hue in this cold and gray world. I spot bicycles and baby carriages hanging in tree limbs high above the ground. Toys and books and photo albums lay strewn in the gutter. A discarded birthday hat is impaled on a twig, fluttering in the frosty breeze. There are empty lots where only the basement remains, filled to the top with murky, fuel-tainted muck. Everywhere I look, I see the death-count numbers. B8. B3. B5. B12. Some are painted on the sidewalk or a street lamp because the house that once stood there is gone.
We turn down a side road to get around the debris, and that’s when I see the fate of the Wonder Wheel. It lies flat on its back, having crushed several brownstones and a post office when it fell. It looks like a bully shoved it to the ground. The Wheel was a huge landmark, part of the neighborhood’s history. I used to use it to navigate the streets when I was a kid. It always pointed me south, toward the beach. The wave not only toppled it but dragged the whole thing right through the neighborhood. It’s far from where it once stood. I can’t even see the water from here.
We’re joined by two more soldiers, who keep up with Jackson’s sprint. One has a bulky bandage on his hand. The other has a fresh wound on his cheek.
“Are these them?” they shout to us in disbelief.
“That’s what showed up,” Jackson shouts back.
The other soldiers curse in frustration.
“Rusalka are flooding the beach. We’ve got a squadron handling it and bombers on the way,” the soldier with the bandage explains. “Command is pinned down in that abandoned building.”
A few blocks ahead, we come across a dozen more soldiers running perpendicular to us. Their gunshots ring through the air. I can’t see what they’re firing at, but it causes Jackson to tense up. He drags us off the road behind a burned-out semitrailer. While we wait, he calls out to someone on his radio. The voice on the other end tells him to hold his position. Moments later, I watch four fighter jets scream overhead, low enough to clip the tops of apartment buildings.
“Cover your ears!” Jackson orders.
The air rumbles and builds into a shocking catastrophe. It jostles my bones and organs.
“The bombers have just knocked a hole through the Rusalka, but we have to act fast. There are a few buildings about a quarter mile from here that the waves haven’t destroyed yet. They’re as close to the frontline as I can get you, and it’s where Major Kita is waiting for us. We need to get there and help. Are you kids up to this?”
“We are,” Priscilla says.
I turn and see that all the kids are nodding. Their faces are firm and serious. Each has taken a handgun from their packs. It’s unsettling, especially the little ones.
Jackson is off like a dart, and the children follow him into the battle zone. Gunfire comes from every direction. Bullets tear through the air and crash into the ground. Rusalka spring up everywhere we go, seemingly out of thin air, before the kids turn their guns on them. I watch one Rusalka fall, get up, fall again, then leap back to its feet as if the bullets were mere annoyances. No wonder the military has such a tough time with them. They won’t stay down.
Another Rusalka leaps into our path. Jackson raises his gun, but the monster swipes it out of his grip. Jackson falls backwards, scampering for some kind of footing, but the beast stalks him. He takes a look at us, then stops. There’s a crackling sound near my ear; then a geyser rises up from beneath the monster, sending the ugly thing flailing into the air. It slams to the ground in an unnatural position.
I turn and realize that Chloe’s glove is glowing and bright. She’s smiling proudly.
“Good girl,” I say, then turn to help Jackson stand. By the time he’s upright, there are thirty more Rusalka in our way.
Arcade and Fathom sprint ahead, faster and more agile than any human could hope to be. Their Kala pop out of their arms and flash in the gray sky. They bring them down on the monsters’ heads. Fathom tears into their bellies, spilling black blood into the street. Arcade goes for their limbs, and blood falls like rain. My mother hurries to join them, delivering punches that cripple Rusalka where they stand. She’s fast and vicious, breaking the creatures in half. My father swings at the beasts with a metal pipe he found in the road. All the while, the soldiers keep up their assault, firing at anything that gets close.
Jackson takes my arm. He points toward the beach amid the gun smoke and fires.