Raging Sea (7 page)

To whom it may concern: We didn’t kill her,
I write.
A helicopter with a white tower painted on its belly fired on us. They’re responsible. I’m sorry. We’re not trying to hurt anyone. I just want my family back, and then I’ll disappear forever. You’ll never hear from me again. I promise.

A photograph rests on the dash. It’s a picture of the dead cop. She’s standing next to a tall man with a big, happy smile and a dark black mustache. Next to her is a little boy in a baseball jersey and hat, and next to them, an elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair. They are all overjoyed to be together. The cop looks so happy, she might cry.

She can’t anymore, so I sit in the car and do it for her, sobbing until my throat is raw.

We walk for hours, sometimes in pitch-black. Arcade’s night vision is incredible. Having spent her entire life underwater, her eyes have adapted to see even the faintest flickers. She guides us along, warning us of obstacles to avoid.

Eventually even she is tired, and we stop to make a camp. Arcade scans the horizon, then stomps off to find wood. When she comes back, we light the pile she’s collected with the flares. Soon we have a warm fire to huddle around. It doesn’t come a moment too soon. My clothes are thin, and my fingers are so cold, I can’t feel their tips any longer.

“Right about now, Ghost and I would lure fish out of the ocean to feed our people,” Arcade says of her time in the tent city back home. “It took some time to adjust to the taste of cooked meat, but I learned to tolerate it.”

“Yes, the protein bars are getting old,” I say, opening up one that is
packed with peanut buttery taste.

“You would be wise to get some rest,” she says to me. “There will be more fighting before we get to Tempest.”

Arcade takes a blanket for herself, and a few things to eat from the pack, then lies down by the fire.

“I am not killing anyone,” I announce. “Not after what we saw.”

“Good,” Bex whispers back to me.

Arcade sits up and looks at me. Her face is painted with red flames and surprise.

“If you do not kill them, they will kill you.”

“I won’t do it,” I argue.

She shakes her head, then lies back down, turning her back to us.

“You don’t even realize it, do you?” Arcade says.

“Realize what?”

“You’re already dead.”

Bex edges toward me, taking my hand and squeezing it tight. She huddles close in the cold, and I offer her the sheriff’s pants, since she’s in shorts. We wrap ourselves up in the blanket as best we can and lie there listening to the creatures scurrying in the wasteland around us.

“Are you back?” I ask her, basking in her closeness.

She whispers a yes to me. “Stop being a jerk.”

“I’m trying,” I say softly.

“She looked like Shadow’s mom,” Bex says.

I nod. I saw the resemblance myself. She had the same round face and complexion. She could have been Mrs. Ramirez’s sister.

I take out my phone and turn it on, flip through the photo file until I find what I want, and then hand it to Bex. The screen illuminates her cheeks in soft blue memories and changes her face, turning her mouth from a worried line to a careful smile. She turns the screen so I can see a picture of her and her boy, Shadow Ramirez, our Tito, our sidekick. In it the two of them stand back to back, showing off their matching Halloween costumes from last year. Both are tricked out in fat gold chains, Kangol hats, tracksuits, and bright white Adidas,
sans
the shoelaces. Run DMC never looked so good.

I can’t help but smile, but only because I can see what’s really going on behind the silliness. It was taken before they admitted the truth about how they felt to each other, but you can still see it in their faces.

“He loved you so much,” I tell her.

Bex’s smile vanishes. She bites her lower lip to hold back tears, then rolls her arm across her face to hide her grief.

“I miss him too,” I say.

I wrap my arms around her, pulling her tight, trying to take on some of the anguish that bends her backwards. She sobs quietly, and I do too, thinking about the friend we lost and the future he took with him.

She cleans herself up, then hands me back my phone.

“I saw his picture,” she whispers.

“Whose picture?”

“Fathom’s. Maybe you should let her see it,” she says, tilting her head toward Arcade. “It might help her mourn.”

“She’s not mourning,” I say.

“You know better than that.”

Bex curls up all embryo-like, and soon she’s asleep, leaving me alone with the dying fire and my thoughts. Across from me, Arcade slumbers. I pass Bex’s idea back and forth in my mind as I watch Arcade’s chest rise and fall, until I just can’t stand it any longer. I don’t want her to see that picture. It’s all I have of Fathom, all I will ever have. Arcade had a whole lifetime of memories with him. She knows his secrets and dreams and his favorite kind of ice cream, and I know that people who live underwater don’t eat ice cream, but that’s not the point. He was hers, and in the end he chose her, and all I got were a few kisses and longing looks and one lousy picture! I look terrible in it too—my hair is sticking to my forehead, and neither of us is smiling. But it’s mine. She wouldn’t appreciate it anyway. As far as I can tell, his loss doesn’t mean that much to her. No, I want to keep it all to myself. I know how to treasure things.

I take out my phone and look at him until I’m too tired to keep my eyes open. Then I sleep, and I dream of him.

I
T’S DAWN WHEN BEX SHAKES ME AWAKE.

“You were doing it again,” she says, referring to my dreams.

“Sorry. Was I talking?”

“Among other things.”

My face burns with embarrassment.

“Where’s Arcade?” I ask, looking around for her nervously. I want Arcade knowing what happens when I’m asleep even less than broadcasting it into the desert.

“She’s training. Give her some privacy,” Bex says. “I pulled up some maps and found a town about five miles from here. We should head in that direction. It’s called San Saba.”

San Saba is the Pecan capital of the world. A person can walk around it in about an hour and a half. There’s not much going on here except for the twenty or so businesses that sell pecans. The smell is everywhere. I could twirl it around my finger and plop it into my mouth.

There are a few two-story buildings lining the streets, a diner that hasn’t seen a customer in a long time, and a lot of empty storefronts and parking spaces. I don’t see a single person during our first silent stroll around town, which is good because we’re on the hunt for another loaner.

The cars don’t come. We try every door handle we come across, and all of them are locked. I do find a hatchback with keys in the ignition, but it’s a stick, and I’m barely managing automatic. We circle the town again, making friends with a stray mutt who follows close behind, clearly hoping for some food. He’s so skinny, we can see his ribs. Bex eventually breaks down and tosses him some crackers. Suddenly I feel bad for tossing out the bacon.

We eat our breakfast under the awning of an abandoned Woolworth, then our lunch beneath the awning of an abandoned Blockbuster Video. By dusk we’re still wandering aimlessly and the heat that pressed down on us all day lifts and makes room for its frosty cousin. Bex is shivering. I can’t hear myself think over my chattering teeth. We’ve got to find somewhere to stay.

“That park we passed might have something,” I say.

Bex and Arcade respond with grunts, too tired and cold to argue or agree. They follow me back down the street, into the shadows, where we hustle double-time, staying away from streetlights. The park is a lot bigger than it seemed each time we passed it. Inside, it is massive and fancy, considering the size of the town. It has a small lake, baseball diamonds, fountains, tennis and volleyball courts, and a nature trail. We run through it all on our way to a gazebo at the center. It’s an open-air building with a roof supported by sandstone pillars to keep rain and sun off, but not cold air. There we spot a couple of kids hanging around. One is using a picnic table as a skate ramp. The other kid is lying on top of another picnic table, staring up at the sky and burning a cigarette between her two fingers. I can’t really see what she looks like, but the skater is unforgettable. His arms are covered in tattoos. He’s also got piercings in his eyebrows and a huge one in his right earlobe. He’s got that urban wildness I used to see in the kids who lived on the boardwalk back home. It’s a combination of grime, nervous energy, and sunburns. I’m guessing they are probably homeless. They’ve got dogs with them, which is always a giveaway. Homeless kids love dogs. Maybe it’s the whole “unconditional love” a dog is happy to give. The kids back home paid for that love with loyalty. They would let themselves go hungry to buy kibble.

“Maybe they know a squat,” Bex whispers as we watch them from the safety of the shrubs.

“Can they be trusted?” Arcade asks.

I peer closely, wondering the same thing. My father told me that most of the homeless kids he dealt with were runaways trying to put distance between themselves and something back home. Others were dumped from the foster care rolls when they got too old and had nowhere else to go. They were all pretty harmless, he said, but he warned me that some had serious drug problems and mental health issues. But honestly, I’m more worried about how they might react to us. Bex and I come off pretty normal, if smelly, but one look at Arcade is all you need to know she’s not human. Her features are too perfect, too symmetrical, breathtaking and otherworldly. The scars on her forearms where her blades jut out aren’t exactly inconspicuous either. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.

“You need something?” a voice says from behind me. Startled, we spin around and find a tall, broad-shouldered Asian kid in baggy camouflage shorts, a Burger King T-shirt, and road rash on his forearm. His hoodie is strewn with patches from hardcore bands I’ve never heard of, and like the other kids, he’s got a beat-up skateboard under his arm.

“We need a squat for the night,” Bex says bravely.

He studies each one of us, as if we’re wearing little signs that read
TRUSTWORTHY
or
UNTRUSTWORTHY
. Oddly enough, Arcade doesn’t seem to intrigue him. He spends a lot of time on me.

“Are you Coasters?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you get dumped too?”

“Um, no,” I say, confused by his question.

“You got through the roadblocks?” he cries.

“Yes,” I say, though he doesn’t need to know we used our magical mittens to make it happen.

He nods approvingly.

“You got anything to eat in that pack?”

“Plenty.”

“Yeah, I got a place,” he says with a smile, then gestures for us to follow him as he joins his friends at the pavilion.

The dogs are the first to notice us, and their barks are shocking and loud, like thunderclaps on a clear day. All their hostility is aimed at Arcade. A golden retriever charges at her and bares its teeth, then circles around her slowly, sniffing and snapping. A German shepherd takes the opposite approach, lying on its belly, a sign of submission. Even the dogs know Arcade’s an Alpha.

“Easy now, Phil,” Tattoo Boy says as he hops off his board and hurries to the retriever’s side. He’s calm and loving, caressing the animal’s great golden head and neck.

The girl sits up and turns to us. She’s beautiful in a way that’s hard to define, with long black dreads that hang like ropes, light skin, freckles, big green eyes, and full brown lips. Unfortunately, all those amazing features are twisted and annoyed.

“You’re scaring our dogs,” she complains.

“Which city?” Tattoo Boy says as he rolls up to join us. He kicks off his board and it pops up into his hands.

“What do you mean?” Bex asks.

“You’re Coasters, right? What city are you from?”

Bex flashes me a look, and I shrug. What’s the point of lying?

“Brooklyn.”

“Whoa!” he cries. “Near Coney Island?” our host begs.

I nod. “Near.”

“Criminals or refugees?” Tattoo Boy presses.

Bex and I share a look, which makes him laugh.

“My favorite combination. They call me Duck,” he says, and then he gives me a hug. Bex is next, but when he tries it with Arcade, she growls. He tosses his hands into the air in surrender. “Not a hugger. That’s cool.”

“Duck?”

“Yep. Do you like it?” he says, then lets his face unfold into a grin. Oh, boy, he’s flirting.

“I’m Bex. This is Lyric and . . . Jill.”

“Jill?” Arcade growls.

The Asian boy offers his fist for a pound. “Lucas. That’s Sloan with the sour expression. Jill doesn’t talk?”

“Jill doesn’t talk. Will you take us to this squat or not?” Arcade cries.

“What did you do?” Sloan asks suspiciously.

“What did we have to do? We’re Coasters,” Bex says.

It seems like a good enough answer for Sloan. She shrugs and turns to lead us away when the retriever launches into panicked barking. The shepherd joins him, and this time their attention is on the road. As if on cue, a cop car cruises slowly by, shining a bright spotlight into the park.

“Is he looking for you?” Lucas asks.

“Maybe,” I confess.

“I think that’s Ferguson,” Sloan warns us.

Lucas points toward a playground to the left of the pavilion. There, among the slides and swings, is a kids’ tree fort. It looks like something out of the frontier age, with little windows and a rope ladder. It could be a great hiding place, or the perfect cage if one of these kids decides to rat us out. Sloan looks eager to get rid of us. Lucas and Duck, however, seem sincere.

“C’mon,” I say, and Bex and Arcade and I race across the grass. We scamper up the ladder, then duck out of sight inside the tiny tower. It was designed for little kids, and scrawny little kids at that, not a gang of tall teenage girls.

“More hiding,” Arcade growls.

“Shush,” I say.

“You see any other kids out here tonight?” a voice booms. It has to belong to the cop they call Ferguson. “You, speak up. Have you seen anyone?”