The Kids Aren't Alright

Chapter 70: Finn

When I wake up, I'm sinking.

My head feels funny. Like someone put my brain into a blender and liquidized it. I think I was unconscious for a few seconds; I don't know for sure. After I hit my head on the edge of the canoe everything went hazy.

I try to move my arms, but they don't want to work. Neither do my legs. I'm able to move my eyes around a little bit, but I don't see Owen— the last time I saw the counselor, he was clinging desperately to the canoe, the gun knocked clean out of his hand. He's not in the water. I think he managed to swim away. Part of me hopes he did— as much as I hate him for landing me in this shitty situation, I don't want him to die.

The motorboat's white hull shines like a full moon above my head, a pearl in an oyster of dark water. I keep my eyes open as I sink, even though the water burns and stings, watching the boat as it churns away, taking Becca Fisher and Ronan Lockwood with it.

The boat doesn't stop. I imagine that Owen's commandeered it by now— I didn't see him in the water, so it only makes sense that he made it on board. And if Owen is in control, then there's no way the boat is coming back for me. Why would the counselor put any effort into saving me, after trying so hard to shoot me in the first place?

All at once, I feel very alone.

The water is so quiet. A Kraken tentacle almost takes my legs off, but it doesn't make a sound, only swishes away calmly, conjuring up bubbles around my ankles. I try to kick away, but it feels like I'm swimming through glue.

Useless, a voice whispers in my head. Useless again.

But I don't have time to ponder over my inevitable death because, like a miracle, only a few seconds later I see the gun. It floats, suspended about three feet away, the barrel pointing upwards almost accusingly. I don't know why it's floating. But the lake doesn't seem to want to cooperate with the laws of physics, and it's right there, so I think to myself, why the hell not?

My counselor is a psychopath. My only other friends are on a motorboat hurtling off into the distance. And I'm slowly but surely drowning to death.

I manage to push myself forward, slowly, sluggishly, and reach for the gun.

Becca said the Kraken favored me. Wolseley said I was the only other person who could summon it. All of that sounds like bullshit to me. Why would I, out of all people, be chosen— especially by something as ancient and ponderous as the Kraken?

My finger brush against the cool metal. I strain forward and grab it, looping my pointer finger around the trigger. Do guns work underwater? Or is that only in movies?

But then, before I can get a real grip on the weapon, something stops me. It might have been my Jiminy Cricket conscious, or the angel dressed in white on my shoulder. It might have also been the fear of God, or— even more powerful— the fear of my mother. Maybe I finally realized I was never going to be Arnold Schwarzenegger. Or maybe I simply decided that I didn't need to get my hands on a killing machine. Whatever the something was, it swept through my body like a summer storm, washing away any urge to use Owen's weapon; and when I released the gun into the depths of the lake, I felt cleansed.

As soon as the metal leaves my palm, I hear a gentle whooshing behind me. I force myself to turn, my lungs reminding me painfully that I haven't breathed in at least a minute, my eyes stinging with lake water. The whooshing intensifies. In my peripheral, a tentacle flits in and out of the murk.

My heart pounds. I see Ronan's scared black eyes, Becca's braids dripping down her back, Owen's hand twitching around the trigger. I sink faster, wondering how far away the surface is, and how long I can survive without oxygen. Blood, guns, and black water. These are my only thoughts.

I see Ronan's heavy, dark eyes.

I see Becca's outstretched hand.

My feet hit the bottom of the lake. I complete my rotation.

And I see a single yellow eye staring back at me.