The Fugitive

by Pittacus Lore

  Huh?

  I pull back the quilt and find a solid sheet of metal that’s got a little rectangle of reddish-colored glass on the right side where a doorknob or handle might normally be. It looks just like the little fingerprint scanner on my netbook.

  “No way,” I murmur as I raise my thumb to the little port.

  There’s a beeping noise, and the glass lights up green. The door starts clicking loudly, and I take a few steps back, concerned about what I’m going to find on the other side.

  After a few seconds, the thick metal door swings open a bit, and I push it in farther as I enter the room. I immediately see about a dozen computer monitors covering one of the walls. Each of them is streaming footage from the areas in and around the house. There must be cameras located all over the grounds.

  So much for laughing at the lack of security.

  There’s a sleek-looking computer set up at a desk opposite the other monitors. A couple of burner phones sit beside it. I turn one on and find that GUARD’s number is already programmed into it, then pocket the burner.

  “What the hell is . . . ,” I say as I take everything in. But then I turn around and never finish the question.

  The wall behind me is lined with shelves. There are several handguns, rifles, and knives sitting on them, along with a few things that I assume are weapons but don’t immediately recognize. In the center is a folder with something written on it in black marker. I pick it up.

  I hope you’re ready for war.

  -G

  CHAPTER NINE

  I SETTLE IN.

  Well, as much as I can in a house where I feel completely out of place.

  I clean up the gash on my arm using a first aid kit I find in one of the bathrooms. The butterfly bandages don’t seem like they’re doing a great job of keeping the wound closed, so I try to figure out another way of dealing with it. After spending, like, an hour looking up advice on the internet, I dig through a bunch of drawers in the house until I find a tube of superglue, and then put a layer of the stuff over the graze. It feels weird as hell, but it’s the best I can do. As badass as I’ve been recently, I don’t think I have it in me to do my own stitches. Needles were never my thing.

  Then, I get straight to work.

  Whatever personal business GUARD was dealing with must be taken care of, because he’s almost always online now. I get Purdy’s computer hooked up to the big desktop in the back room, and GUARD uses his hacking skills to try to salvage any files that might be hidden on the hard drive, like the MogPro files that disappeared when the thing first shut down. He uploads basically everything from my computers to some secure cloud server. We start to build up evidence of what’s going on behind the scenes. We read files about the specifications of Mog weaponry that have obviously been written for human users—proof we need to show the Mogs and FBI are working together. I take some screen grabs and upload them to TWAU under the title “Uncovered: FBI Training Manual for Mog Weapons.” There’s also a ton of transcripts that could take months to sort through, many of which have speakers who are noted using initials only.

  The scariest thing I find repeated references to are upcoming “peace talks” with leaders from around the world. Could the Mogs be preparing to expose themselves and give Earth an ultimatum? Or have they already gotten to enough world leaders that they’re relying on the humans to do that for them?

  While GUARD focuses on recovering files from the hard drive, I go over Purdy’s old emails, update the blog and try to keep up with the insane amount of emails I’m getting on my JOLLYROGER182 account ever since the Chicago story went viral. Most people who write me are assholes who just want to make fun of us and ask if we know where Bigfoot is hiding, but every now and then I get something that’s worth following up on. A tattooed gang settling in the Everglades, weird-looking animals spotted flying overhead in Illinois—those sorts of things. I try to get as much info as I can from the sources, then scour local news stories, call police stations anonymously or anything else I can think of to back up any of the claims.

  Our most promising lead is this dude named Grahish Sharma over in India. I get a dozen emails from different sources all talking about this commander or priest from some religious group that has something to do with one of the Garde. I’m not exactly sure they’re legit, because a lot of the emails have contradictory information, which I’m guessing may have something to do with translation issues. All the messages have one thing in common, though: they all say Sharma shot down a Mog spacecraft and captured the pale-faced bastards inside alive.

  When I bring this to GUARD’s attention, he gets really excited about the idea of seeing one of the Mog ships up close—not to mention the fact that we could get footage of real-life Mogs. I respond to every email that mentions the Sharma guy, hoping that someone will be able to put me in contact with him.

  Our most important break is when GUARD manages to track down a recent photo of Secretary of Defense Bud Sanderson, the old, fat, bald guy who was getting Mog injections and plastic surgery done. Sure enough, the guy who looked more like a zombie than a human a few years ago suddenly has a full head of silver hair, smooth skin and a giant, shit-eating grin. If it wasn’t for his eyes and the way his nose crooks to the side, I wouldn’t believe it could possibly be the same dude.

  I write a short exposé and post it to the blog. Once again, I feel like I’m actually doing something to help the fight. I just wish we could get more definite proof, something to show the world that the Mogs are real. That we’re in danger.

  That’s why we need Sharma. Or Sarah.

  I work through the night. Reading, speculating and taking notes. By the time the sun comes up, I need to get out of the back room and get some fresh air in order to stay focused. So I grab one of the handguns with a silencer on it and head outside. I set up empty aluminum cans in the old barn and start knocking them down one by one. I’m not a bad shot—would probably be better if I wasn’t so jittery from caffeine.

  The only drawback is that shooting the gun makes the wound on my arm hurt. How ironic. I just hope the superglue helps it heal like it’s supposed to.

  Shooting makes me think of my dad and the rest of my family. I wonder what they’re doing. If they’re still worried. I don’t open their emails because I know I’ll want to respond, and the last thing I want to do is put them in danger, or put myself in danger by saying something I shouldn’t. But it’s hard not to have them on my mind when I practice with the weapons. Dad taught me gun safety and used to take me hunting every year. He’s the reason I know how to shoot at all. I hope that these aren’t skills I’m going to have to put to use anytime soon, but if I do, in a weird way I think my dad would be proud of me, if he could see the big picture.

  It hasn’t been all that long since I left Paradise in the middle of the night, but it feels like an eternity. That freaks me out a little bit. I mean, I’m hidden away out in the middle of nowhere trying to track down an alien hunter in India instead of sitting at Nana’s kitchen table eating bacon while going over scholarship offers or something. College seems almost laughable given what’s going on. The future in general is too much to think about, too far away and unknowable.

  We might not even be able to save the future, or the world. GUARD and I are stuck going through data that’s weeks old. What if things have gotten so bad that we can’t stop the Mogs?

  I try to center myself. In Paradise, after everything went down at the school, I had Sarah to talk to, to keep me sane. And so after my shooting break, I go back inside and email her for the millionth time, knowing by now not to expect an answer.

  Sarah—

  I don’t know why I keep sending these emails. Part of me hopes that you’re reading them, using them to help the Loric, and can’t reply for your own safety. Another part of me worries that you aren’t even out there, that you’re gone. I refuse to believe that but . . .

  I need to hear from you.

  I start to write about Walker, but think be
tter of it. Even if she was a Mog henchwoman in Paradise, she let me go in Dulce. She’s working against them now. And if somehow the Mogs are intercepting my emails to Sarah, I don’t want to blow Walker’s cover if the aliens haven’t completely labeled her a traitor. So instead, I’m kind of vague about my whole trip out into the desert.

  I thought I had a lead on you in New Mexico. All I found there was a deserted military base. It looked like a major battle went down. Way bigger and nastier than what happened in Paradise. I hope you guys got out safe. I hope like hell I’m not the only one left to fight these assholes. That would suck.

  A friend of mine set up a safe house for me. Way off the grid. A place where we can work on exposing those pale freaks to the world. If you can get in touch, I’ll find a way to send you the coordinates. We’re on to something big. Something international. I don’t even know what to do with it.

  If you’re reading these, if you’re still in contact with John, now would be a really good time to show up. I need your help.

  —Mark

  I’m surprised my heart doesn’t explode when my email dings later that day and I see that she’s finally replied. Nothing long—just a note saying she’s sorry she hasn’t contacted me and that she’s with John, and where the hell am I, anyway?

  I type faster than I ever have in my life. I’m about to send her an email detailing exactly how she can get to me . . .

  And then I stop.

  I think again about how careful I’ve been not to give away too much about where I’ve been or what I’ve been up to since I left Paradise in the middle of the night. GUARD’s got my IP address completely blocked, but that doesn’t matter if I’m giving my location away in an email. My JOLLYROGER182 address at They Walk Among Us is on a secure server that GUARD himself designed, but my personal one is just a free email service. So is Sarah’s. The Mogs or FBI could be tapping them. The same thing goes for the phone: if she hasn’t been careful with burners, telling her where I am might be the same as calling up the FBI or the Mogs and giving them my address.

  There’s another possibility too. One I don’t even want to consider. What if it’s not even Sarah at all?

  Think, Mark. Don’t get lured into a trap again.

  I email her back.

  I’m okay. I was just about to make a pizza. What do you want on your half?

  —Mark

  The question is the first way I can think of to figure out if I’m talking to the real Sarah Hart. When we were dating, we had a standard order at the pizza place back in Paradise’s downtown square. Every Saturday night we’d slide into a booth together and order the same thing.

  I wait, staring at my in-box, hardly breathing as I will a new message to show up on the screen. Finally, it does.

  Mark,

  Things have been crazy here, but it sounds like it hasn’t been easy for you either.

  Veg for me, please. Don’t let any of your gross all-meat side cross the line. WHERE ARE YOU?

  Sarah

  It’s her. That’s our order. One medium half veggie, half meat. Soda for me, diet soda for her.

  But I can’t let my excitement about any of this cause me to make some kind of idiotic move that gives away my location. I take a deep breath, try to focus, and then pull up a map of Huntsville, the closest big city. I find a Waffle House on what looks like a busy intersection based on the size of the streets and email the address to Sarah.

  Can we meet here? I’ll have to make sure you don’t have a tail or anything. I’m kind of wanted by a bunch of different bad guys. Come every day at 2 p.m. I’ll be watching. When I’m sure everything’s okay, I’ll take you back to my base.

  Ten minutes pass. I wonder if she’s thinking about whether or not she wants to come. Or if she’s arguing with John about what to do.

  Whatever it is, she finally responds.

  I’ll be there. I’ll head that way tonight.

  I laugh, grinning to myself in the back room of the cabin out in the middle of nowhere.

  Sarah’s still alive and fighting. She’s okay.

  And she’s coming to Alabama.

  I know I told her she’d have to come to the Waffle House a few times before I took her back to home base, but as soon as I see her getting out of the taxi the next day, I know that’s not going to happen. It takes everything I have not to burst out of my truck—which I’ve parked in a grocery store parking lot across the street—and cross six lanes of traffic to get to her. Instead, I try to play it cool, because I know I can’t jump into this. We need to play everything as safe as possible.

  But I can’t just watch her leave the restaurant when she’s done eating. I won’t let her slip away again.

  So I wait ten minutes and then call the diner. I describe Sarah to the woman who answers and manage to sweet-talk her into handing the phone over.

  “Hello?” Sarah’s voice comes out of the receiver, and it’s glorious.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Mark, where are you?”

  “What’s the nickname those asswipes in Helena gave you?” I ask. I have to be sure.

  “Huh?”

  “I think they were from your bio class.”

  “Oh,” she says. “Sarah Bleeding Hart?”

  I grin.

  “There’s a parking garage two blocks north of here. I’ll be on the second floor. Look for a blue truck.”

  “Can’t you just . . .” But she must know how important it is to stay underground. To be incognito. If she’s been with John since she left Dulce, she has to have caught on by now. “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

  I hang up and jet over to the parking garage—the one I scoped out after Sarah finally emailed me back. There I wait, texting GUARD to let him know she’s shown up.

  The waiting is terrible. I’ve been trying to rescue, find or even just be in contact with Sarah for weeks—ever since she disappeared—but the minutes it takes for her to walk from the Waffle House to the parking garage feel like years. With every second that ticks by, I can’t help but imagine some terrible scenario that keeps her from getting to me, or some way that I’ve screwed up and doomed us both.

  Finally, I see her wandering up the ramp and onto the second floor of the garage. I flash my lights, and she hurries towards me.

  And then I’m out of the truck and running. It’s like my body is operating outside of my brain’s control. Everything in my head is saying Get in the truck. Get both of you to safety. Keep your heads down and don’t even talk until you’re back at the base. But my legs are moving, pumping on their own accord and bringing me sailing towards Sarah.

  We practically collide in the middle of the parking garage, wrapping our arms around each other.

  Finally. I’m not alone in this anymore. It’s not just me and GUARD’s messages.

  “Mark,” she says into my shoulder.

  The way she squeezes me makes my arm hurt like hell, but I ignore it. I feel like some huge weight has been lifted off me.

  “Jesus, Mark,” she says again, her arms still around me. “What have you been doing?”

  “You’d think I was joking if I told you,” I say, squeezing the back of her neck.

  “Try me.”

  “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  She pulls away and takes a good look at me. I can see concern cross her face as she stares into my eyes.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she says. “But have you been sleeping at all? It looks like—”

  But she stops and gasps. My fists automatically clench as I look around.

  “What?” I ask. Shit. I knew I should have just got us in the truck and then out of here. “What is it?”

  “Mark,” she says, pointing at my left arm. There’s blood dripping out from under my T-shirt sleeve. “Are you okay?”

  I push the cotton of my T-shirt down onto the wound, hoping that stops the bleeding until we get back to home base.

  “Would you believe me if I said I was shot while escaping from
a bunch of crooked FBI agents?” I ask.

  She nods, her eyes wide.

  “I’ve been shot at a lot lately,” she says quietly. “A few days ago I was stabbed by a Mog.”

  And then we just stare at each other. This is the moment when, months or even a few weeks ago, I’d probably have tried to kiss her. Or at least wished that was what I was doing. I’d have ignored the fact that I promised John Smith I’d keep her safe—ignored the fact that he existed at all. But in the parking garage, I look at her and she looks at me, and there’s some kind of joint understanding. The dynamic has changed between us. We’ve changed. I can’t be some hotshot football star trying to win back his ex when the fate of the world could rest on us. And she . . . there’s something different about her. Something fierce. She looks more like a soldier than the girl who used to wander around campus snapping pictures of flowers.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” I say. “And that you’re okay. I’m fine. I’ll patch up back at base.”

  “That wound is supergross, Mark,” she says, her nose wrinkling a little. “You should probably see a doctor. . . .”

  Her voice trails off. She knows that’s not really an option.

  “I should have brought a healing stone or something with me.” She’s eyeing my arm, shaking her head. I stare back at her, not knowing what she’s talking about.

  “We have a lot to catch up on,” I say. I put out my arm, ushering her towards my truck.

  “Let’s start with why you’re in Alabama,” she says.

  “Um, that’s kind of a long story.” I open the passenger’s-side door for her. She’s halfway inside before she stops and turns to me.

  “Wait, when did you get this truck?”

  I start to answer, but a huge bird lands on the hood of the truck with a loud thump. I jump, instinctively raising a fist.

  “Jesus, what the hell?” I ask.

  “Oh,” Sarah says, smiling. “Do you remember Bernie Kosar?”