Barbossa called her a "child of the sea." Bella figured that even if she sucked at naval combat, she should at least know how to swim properly.
Quick prep. Hit the school's indoor pool. And holy shit.
Her speed was terrifying. The water barely resisted her—felt more like it was pushing her forward. She crushed the underclassmen in their swimming lessons without even trying. Half strength. Easy.
She could probably shatter the world record with one leg tied behind her back.
Before the swimming coach could yell "genius," she bolted.
Back home, she reminded Pika-Shaw to stay hidden, called Charlie with some excuse about college paperwork, and caught a flight to Florida.
Pirates of the Caribbean. The name said it all—Caribbean Sea. In the US, Florida was the closest thing.
The flight was uneventful. No hijackings. No explosions. No zombie outbreaks. But they didn't land in Miami. Diverted to Atlanta instead.
Bella rented a car and followed the compass south.
She didn't find out why until she was leaving Atlanta—hurricane tearing through Florida. No planes allowed.
Hurricanes were new to Bella. For locals? Just another Tuesday.
America was tornado central. One to two thousand a year. Roughly three per day. Land had wind; sea had worse. Hurricane formation involved geography, climate, atmospheric pressure... and that's where Bella's knowledge ended. She studied the supernatural, not weather patterns.
The closer she got to Florida, the worse it got.
She'd never experienced a real hurricane before. Now she had.
Rain hammered the windows like bullets. Wind bent trees and traffic signs like they were made of cardboard. She'd killed Death once, but this still made her nervous. She kept eyeing the buildings, waiting for a tree or chunk of debris to flatten her.
Compass pointed south. Straight into the storm.
She gritted her teeth and kept driving.
Gainesville.
North-central Florida. Fruits, vegetables, tobacco. Regional trade hub. Decent industry. Without the hurricane, it ranked among the most livable cities on the East Coast.
National Guard and local cops were evacuating everyone. Radio said over a million people had already fled.
Rain got heavier. Wind got stronger. Road conditions tanked. Visibility dropped to almost nothing. She had to stop constantly to recalibrate the compass. Progress slowed to a crawl.
At a fork, she pulled over. One sign pointed south—Gainesville. Another pointed southeast, decorated with a cartoon alligator. Apparently some kind of gator farm.
She checked the compass.
Southeast. Of course.
"You ancestors are screwing me on purpose!" Bella yanked the wheel and turned onto the side road.
Three kilometers in, she had to stop. Rain so heavy the road was underwater. Rental car. Couldn't afford to wreck it.
Raincoat on. Out of the car. On foot.
The downpour killed her vision and hearing. Flashlight in hand, she pushed forward through the flooded road.
No rapier on short notice. She grabbed a steel rod from the roadside, sharpened one end. Good enough.
Rain intensified. Water rose past her waist. She tried sticking to high ground—jumping between buildings like a ninja—but water still flooded her shoes.
Rain gear. Flashlight. Weapon. No waterproof boots.
Who plans for rain like this?
Up ahead—an inflatable rescue boat. Police markings. Stranded in the middle of the road. She waded over, climbed in, tested the controls. Easy enough to operate.
Then she noticed the bloodstains near the motor.
Her eyes swept the area.
Wind and rain churned the surface. Debris everywhere—pieces of people's homes floating past. But beneath all that, she sensed it.
Something moving underwater.
From a distant house, faint cries for help. Bella ignored them. Eyes locked on the water.
The shapes below weren't fast, but they were well hidden. And there were a lot of them.
Road sign. Environment. Location.
She knew exactly what she was dealing with.
Alligators. A whole damn swarm.
Which idiot built an alligator farm here?! When this is over, I'm suing that bastard!
She tried psychic communication—always better to avoid a fight if possible. But all she sensed was hatred. Deep. Festering. Ancient.
They wouldn't stop until they'd torn some humans apart.
Two possibilities:
Calypso's divine influence had driven them mad.
Or
Some moron had been skinning gators for handbags and belts, and now the whole species wanted payback.
Either way—berserk gators.
"Fine. Talking won't work? Then die."
Murky water. No X-ray vision. She had to rely on subtle sensory perception to track their positions.
Alligators crawled along the bottom rather than swimming. She waited. Patient. The moment one surfaced—
She struck.
The steel rod drove down with brutal force.
Pfft.
Gator hide was tough. Serious resistance. But her strength punched straight through.
Nearly three meters long. Eight hundred kilos, easy.
The rod pierced its spine and burst out the belly. The gator thrashed in shock and rage. Bella didn't grapple—she used a fencing transition, stepping back smoothly as she pulled the rod free.