Free Raging Sea by Michael Buckley Page A

Along the way, Duck tells us his life story. He and his father left Newport, Rhode Island, when it was ravaged by the Rusalka—who he calls the “frogs.” They packed all their belongings in the car, only to get stopped in their tracks at the Texas border. They were separated by the mobs, though, he admits, his dad might have ditched him.
    “I wasn’t his favorite child. Unfortunately I was his only one.”
    He laughs at his own expense, but it’s not loud enough to cover up the pain.
    Sloan says she’s from a little town in Delaware that was overrun by the monsters. She and her mother and father abandoned everything they had and took off in the family’s SUV. When they got to the Texas border, they were stopped and searched. The soldiers threatened to arrest the whole family, but her father bribed one with the car. He would only let Sloan pass through, all alone. That was a week ago. They were supposed to meet here but she hasn’t seen them since.
    Lucas, on the other hand, doesn’t offer much.
    “Are you from the Coast?” I ask.
    “Yeah.”
    That’s his answer for everything. He’s like a male version of Bex. Getting him to share is like pulling teeth.
    Finally we reach a ladder. Duck climbs up while Lucas shines his flashlight at him. When he gets to the top, he pounds his hand on a metal grate that blocks his way, first three times, then once, then four more times.
    “Secret codes.” Duck chuckles down to us.
    There is movement from above, and then the grate opens and the tunnel fills with light. Leaning down into the hole is the face of a dark-skinned boy with a shaved head and the beginnings of a sad, thin mustache.
    “What happened to your face?” he asks. He seems genuinely concerned for Duck, as if they were family.
    “Ferguson.”
    He frowns, then peers down at us.
    “Who are they?”
    “They need a place for the night,” Lucas replies. “Let us in.”
    “We don’t have room for three more,” Malik argues.
    “You know we do, Malik,” Lucas argues. “Let us in. I’m standing in sewage.”
    “We will only be here until morning, and then we’ll be gone,” I promise.
    “They got anything to contribute?”
    I take off my pack and hand it up. Malik snatches it and unzips it, peering inside. He rifles through it like it’s his own, pulling out the last of the protein bars and the cans of soup, then takes out the package of bologna and smells it.
    “One night,” he says sternly, then moves enough to let Duck finish his climb. We all follow until we find ourselves in what appears to be an ancient boiler room, not unlike the one we used to have in the basement of my apartment back in Brooklyn. Once we’re all out of the tunnel, Lucas closes the grate and then fastens a padlock to keep it shut. He hangs the key on a nail pounded into the nearest wall.
    “You’re gone by eight,” Malik commands like it’s the law of the land. He snatches the bread for himself, then hurries up a flight of stairs and vanishes from view.
    “Don’t mind him,” Lucas explains. “He’s sort of the mayor of this place, and he’s very protective.”
    “Paranoid is what he is,” Duck says.
    “He needs to be,” Sloan chastises.
    “What is this place, exactly?” Bex asks.
    Duck grins from ear to ear. “You’re going to love this.”
    He hurries us up the stairs until we’re standing in a room with soaring ceilings and a hardwood floor. Before us is a monstrous curtain that must be forty feet tall. There’s ancient electrical work on the walls and huge black panels filled with tiny bulbs. Ropes, pulleys, and catwalks hang from a ceiling that soars to dizzying heights. Duck pulls back one end of the heavy curtain and urges us to step through. Once there, I find myself on a stage in a huge sloping room with hundreds of velvet chairs.
    “It’s a theater,” I gasp.
    I don’t know how old this building is, but it was built with a lot of care and craftsmanship. The balconies are carved with cherubs,