When the noise is on top of us, I see a group of soldiers, cops, and FBI agents rushing toward us. They push the crowd aside to make room for another group that marches behind them—the Alpha. It’s impossible to call them men. Men are not hulking, copper-skinned towers of muscle. Men do not charge down a street with spears raised and ready. They do not wear armor made from enormous shells and bones, monstrous lobster claws, and teeth. They do not use oysters the size of truck tires as shields. They do not chant in an ancient language in which every word sounds aggressive and hostile. They do not stretch their mouths as far as they can and bellow to the clouds, growl and threaten the sky like they are challenging the sun itself. These are not men.
The protestors have never seen anything like this. They fall back, tumbling to the ground, and shriek when the next group emerges. The newest additions to Hylan High’s student body have arrived.
Many have scales.
Others have jagged rows of teeth, and mouths like open wounds.
One of them is a teenaged mountain of power, a slightly smaller version of one of the giant warriors who led the way. He has sunken eyes and tiny spikes on his neck, shoulders, and forearms.
A girl with ghostly, gelatinous skin and eyes as big and black as plums steps serenely forward. If you look closely enough, you can see the blood coursing through her deep purple veins. Even closer and you can see the hint of bones.
Another boy is no taller than an eight-year-old and has a head like a gourd planted atop a thin, tottering body. He’s a skeleton shrink-wrapped in gray skin, with long fingers and black nails. His eyes are enormous chunks of coal, and his nose is nothing more than two wet slits.
The last three look almost human. One is a delicate beauty, slender and tall with tight red curls that cascade over her shoulders and bounce lightly at the base of her spine. Pink and blue scales freckle her throat, her shoulders, and the inside of her arms. She looks terrified.
The other two look as if they’ve never been afraid of anything in their lives. They’re golden gods, tall and strong with sculpted limbs. The female is close to my height and age, with cropped hair and a body that clearly skipped the awkward phase. Her face is a case study in symmetry, favored by dizzying cheekbones and bright, full lips, but it’s also unsettling, sharp, and serious. It’s not so much a face as it is a weapon, as deadly as the spears of the titans who guard her. The boy—well, he’s beautiful and troubling all at the same time. His face is strong and fierce but marred with bruises. Murky green highlights border a purple contusion on his right cheek. Yet who can focus on it when his eyes are so hypnotic? They’re violent whirlpools of green and blue, but just when I think I could get pulled into them, I notice his damaged forearms. They’re criss-crossed with scars like a Jackson Pollock painting, yet they pale in comparison to something way more gruesome. Starting at his wrists and going all the way up to his elbow is a jagged red gash in which sharp black blades sink in and out in an agitated rhythm. Their edges are serrated, like an old lumberjack’s saw, and each time they pop out, there is a sickening sucking sound, a Shhhtttiiikkkk! I’m unsure if he’s an angel or a monster.
Bachman lifts her megaphone. “Not one more step!” she shrieks.
And just like that, the world starts spinning again. A cop pushes past us and leaps up the stairs to put the governor in handcuffs. They tighten around her wrists with a click-click-click-click-click-click-click. Then he and another policeman take her by the arms and lead her down the stairs, through the barricades, and into a nearby squad car. As they put her into the back seat, Bachman turns and flashes the crowd a serpentine grin. It lights a fuse that snakes through the mob, crackling and popping as it goes, and with a jarring bang the crowd pushes forward, led by a gang of thugs in bright-red shirts. They toss trash cans into the mob. They smash bottles and tip over a cop car. They are the Coney Island Nine, the Niners for short, and they won’t be satisfied with anything less than a full-scale riot. The police leap into action, bringing batons down on their heads. A melee erupts. Boots grind fingers into the asphalt. Agonized cries rise above the din. There is blood and hate everywhere I look.
“Filthy animals! Go back to where you came from,” the Niners shriek as they hurl dead catfish at us. One slams into the wall next to me, leaving a sticky stain of scales and loose eyeballs. Another one crashes into my face and knocks my sunglasses off, leaving me stunned and blind. Someone shoves me through the front doors, and I stagger into the school alone, tripping over my own feet and falling hard on the marble floor. My hip screams like it’s on fire, but I have no time to recover. I’m in the midst of a stampede of fear and feet. A shoe comes down on my pinky finger, and I cry out but keep crawling, scampering through the mob with my senses failing. Eventually I find a wall and press myself against it, hoping I’m out of the way. I use my shirt to wipe the gunk out of my eyes, only to find all six of the Alpha kids standing over me. The tall boy with the bruises and the blades locks his eyes on me. They narrow with disdain and suspicion, his gaze falling on me like a fist. I am filth to him, a creepy-crawly he discovered under a rock. But then his eyes soften. There’s recognition there, but that can’t be possible. It was three years ago, and the beach was crazy that morning—but still, there’s something in his face that says he remembers me.
I remember him, too.
Chapter Four
People talk about Coney Island’s pre-Alpha days like they were magical, like we all lived in the Disneyland of Brooklyn. They forget our “Disneyland” was really a garishly painted slum in a crumbling neighborhood with rampant crime, a busy sex trade, a methadone clinic, and a school system in the toilet. Sure, the Alpha didn’t help. They turned the place into a police state. But it’s not like we were all out in the streets singing “Kumbaya” the day before.