I Am Number Four: The Lost Files: Last Defense

by Pittacus Lore

  “They didn’t make it,” Briggs says.

  There’s something else nagging in the back of my mind, but my thoughts are a jumble. Blood drips down my face from my left temple. I must have hit my head in the crash. As if I didn’t have enough brain damage already.

  “We need to move,” Lujan says. “Now. There are hostiles patrolling the city, and there’s no way they missed our crash.”

  That’s when it hits me.

  “My bag!” I shout as I rush towards the wreckage. Gamera’s inside. What happened to him?

  “You can’t—” Briggs starts, but I ignore him. As far as we know, there are only a handful of Chimærae in existence now, and I won’t let one of them—my bodyguard—be burned alive.

  Lujan intercepts me, grabbing the back of my shirt with a firm grip and spinning me around before I can charge headfirst into the clearing.

  “Listen, Goode,” he snarls. “Briggs risked his life pulling you out of there, and I’ll be damned if I let you die of smoke inhalation or an explosion or get captured while trying to rescue your luggage. Our mission is to get you to the bunker, and that’s what we’re going to do come hell or high water.”

  “You don’t understand . . . ,” I begin, but then I hear a familiar screech in the air—the sound of a bird crying out. A big hawk is perched on a tree limb overhead, staring at me. It stretches its wings out as if to signal me.

  I shake my head a little, relieved. Obviously I’ve underestimated how resilient these animals are. Lujan stares at me like I’m an idiot and then pulls me back towards Briggs.

  “With any luck we can make it the rest of the way without raising any alarms,” Lujan says.

  “I wouldn’t exactly say luck has been on our side tonight,” Briggs mutters.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Union Station.” Lujan takes his sidearm out and checks to make sure that it’s loaded. “There’s transport there that’ll take us to a secure location.”

  “The trains are still running?”

  “No train the public knows about.”

  My mouth falls open a little. I remember reading conspiracy theories about secret tunnels that led to and from places like the White House and the Capitol, all connecting through DC’s Union Station. I didn’t realize they actually existed.

  I guess I shouldn’t really be surprised.

  Briggs steps forward with wide eyes.

  “Sir,” he whispers while taking the assault rifle from across his back. I turn and find another skimmer approaching the wreckage, a few miles off.

  “Move,” Lujan says, pointing in the opposite direction. “If they’re smart they’ll be looking for survivors.”

  He leads us through the National Mall, keeping to the trees lining the side instead of the open middle area. They offer a little overhead coverage but aren’t dense enough to hide us completely if the Mogs bring in a skimmer with a spotlight on it. At least the foliage makes a great pathway for Gamera, who jumps from limb to limb as a bushy-tailed squirrel. It’s a small miracle that we have at least some cover of darkness, but there’s enough ambient light around that we’re not exactly invisible. The US Capitol stands less than a mile ahead of us, its white facade gleaming in the darkness. It’s eerily quiet, especially for where we are. I’d feared the cities would be overrun with frantic people and military—or worse, squadrons of Mogadorians.

  “Where is everyone?” I whisper as we pass a series of museums. “Isn’t this place usually filled with tourists? What happened to all of them? Why wasn’t there immediately some kind of response team when we almost crashed into the Washington Monument?”

  “This area was a priority evacuation zone,” Lujan explains. “Blocks surrounding the White House and the Capitol have been cleared. After the resistance in New York turned into widespread destruction, the official military stance became to neither engage the Mogadorians nor interfere with the patrols they sent down from their warships. People are being dragged from their homes in Manhattan. We’re trying to keep that from happening here too.”

  I swallow hard at the mention of New York and tap my pocket to make sure my satellite phone is still there.

  Is Sam safe?

  “And what’s the unofficial stance?” I ask.

  “What does it look like? We’re covertly pooling our assets and readying countermeasures. Why do you think you’re here?”

  We’re almost to the Capitol when Briggs starts to fall behind. There’s blood leaking from the bandage around his leg.

  “Shit,” Lujan says when he notices. “How bad is it?”

  “Go on without me.” Briggs leans against a tree. He’s sweating profusely now, his adrenaline probably beginning to wear off. “I’ll be fine here. Any of ’em come across me, I won’t engage.”

  Lujan stares him down for a few seconds and then nods.

  “We can’t just leave him here,” I protest.

  “Our mission is to get you to the bunker safely,” Lujan says for what feels like the tenth time since I met him. He’s already starting to jog away.

  “Well, I’m not going without him.”

  The colonel turns to me, sneering a bit.

  “At this point that’s not your decision.”

  I look back and forth between the two of them, but neither seems like he’s going to budge on this. So I keep talking.

  “You don’t know the enemy like I do. That’s the whole reason the president wants me, right? If we leave Briggs here and the Mogs find him, what do you think will happen? A wounded, lone soldier near the wreckage of one of their ships? Best-case scenario they kill him immediately. More likely they’ll take him prisoner. I’m guessing he knows where we’re going. You’d be leading them straight to the president.”

  “I won’t talk,” Briggs says.

  “You think that matters?” I ask, raising two fingers to the side of my head where the Mogs used to attach electrodes. “They’ll rip everything you know out of your mind. They have technology you’ve never dreamed of. You’ll tell them every secret you know and only then will they start to really hurt you.”

  Lujan grits his teeth. For a second I worry that I’ve actually doomed Briggs to an early death, and I mentally start readying arguments against putting the man down. Eventually, Lujan points a thick finger in my face.

  “Don’t move. I’m going to scout ahead.” He glances at Briggs. “When I get back, be prepared to run.”

  Then he’s gone. Briggs stares at the ground, seething. He looks angry, but I’m not sure if it’s at the Mogs, me or himself. Likely a combination of all three.

  “You should just leave me behind,” he finally mutters.

  “You pulled me out of the wreckage, right?” I ask.

  “I was doing my job.”

  “Well, now we’re even.”

  He gets quiet and keeps his eyes on the grass. I take my satellite phone out and make sure I haven’t missed a call from Sam and that it’s still intact after the crash. Then I pat my pockets to see if I have anything else useful that I’ve forgotten about.

  “Lose something?” Briggs asks.

  “The Mogadorian blaster, in the crash. I’d stashed one in my bag.”

  He shrugs and pulls a pistol from a holster on his back.

  “Know how to use one of these?” he asks.

  “I’m better with a sniper rifle, but I think I can manage.”

  He lets out a single laugh and hands over the weapon. It’s got “Beretta” engraved across the side.

  “It’s not an alien gun,” he says, “but it’ll get the job done.”

  Briggs has some extra gauze in his pocket, and I talk him into letting me re-bandage his leg. He needs some kind of real medical attention, but right now I’m all he’s got.

  I’m just finishing up when Lujan returns.

  “We’re pretty clear up ahead,” he says. “I saw one Mog patrol booking it towards the crash site. They must have been called in to search for survivors. Hopefully the bastards aren�
�t very good at tracking.”

  He notes the pistol in my hand.

  “Don’t fire that thing unless you have to. Stealth is our greatest advantage right now.”

  There’s a noise above. Gamera’s bouncing on one of the branches, chittering in strange rodent squeaks and looking back and forth between me and the rows of trees we’ve already walked through.

  “Let’s get—,” Lujan starts.

  But whatever he says after that is drowned out by the bellowing roar coming from the trees behind us.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SOME KIND OF ANIMAL MOVES OUT OF THE SHADOWS. No, more like a demon. Even in the relative darkness I can make out its grotesque face. There’s something bat-like about its features. Black eyes sit above what looks like a row of four or five quivering nostrils—perhaps the creature found us by scent? Its jaws open so wide that they look unhinged, showing off rows of jagged teeth that drip thick saliva onto the grass below. Its arms and legs are too long and muscular to be mistaken for an animal of Earth, each elbow or joint capped with a jagged horn. In the dim light I can’t tell if its slick-looking body is gray or a dark blue.

  “What the fuck is that?” Lujan asks.

  A Mogadorian monster, I think, remembering Sam and Adam and the others talking about such creatures. But I don’t have time to explain. The beast roars again and then charges on all fours, propelled by its oversize limbs. I raise my gun and pull the trigger. There’s only a click, no bullet.

  “Take the goddamn safety off!” Briggs shouts as he opens fire. Lujan joins him, shooting a giant revolver that looks like it could take down an elephant.

  The creature seems unfazed, or possibly just isn’t hit by any of the shots. Whatever the case, it bats me out of the way with one massive arm as it flies by, sending me rolling into the trunk of a nearby tree. Briggs manages to outmaneuver it, dodging its next swipe and hustling backwards. A barrage of bullets from his assault rifle shreds one of the creature’s legs. It hits the ground hard.

  I hear someone barking a command behind me in a language that causes every muscle in my body to tense. There are a dozen Mogs—maybe more—darting towards us through the trees, trying to catch up to the beast. Several in front are already aiming our way.

  “Mogs! Take cover!” I shout, scrambling to my feet.

  Briggs ducks behind another tree near me as blaster fire sends smoking bits of bark falling all around us. I get the safety off my pistol, and we fire into the approaching squad. A few of the Mogs disintegrate. Behind me and several yards to my left, Lujan fires in a steady rhythm, Mogs turning to dust after every shot. His gun thunders like a cannon each time he pulls the trigger.

  At some point the monster must have disappeared. I don’t see it anywhere. Or maybe it’s turned to dust, destroyed by Lujan.

  “I’m out,” I say as my weapon starts clicking with an empty chamber. Briggs tosses me a clip, and I fumble to reload.

  That’s when a roar sounds over my shoulder and I turn just in time to see the creature leap out of the trees, using its remaining muscular leg to send itself flying straight for me. I’m too slow and can’t get my handgun loaded and turned in time. The monster holds one of its elbows in the air, ready to plunge the spiked joint into me.

  I whistle.

  It’s a reflex—in my panic I’d forgotten all about my bodyguard, but some primal part of my consciousness must realize that whistling is the only thing that will save me now. Gamera descends in a split second, obviously having been waiting in the trees for his moment to strike, moving so fast that I wonder if he was already in the air when I whistled. He takes the form of a panther, intercepting the Mog beast in midair, gnashing sharp teeth around its one good leg.

  “What the hell is going on?” Lujan shouts, aiming his gun at the animals fighting tooth and nail in front of him.

  “Don’t! The cat’s with me!”

  He looks at me in confusion. That’s when a blaster shot hits him in the stomach. He groans, clutching his gut as his knees hit the ground.

  “Shit!” Briggs shouts. He starts forward, but there’s a tangle of beasts between us and Lujan, not to mention half a dozen Mogs still firing at anything that moves.

  “Gamera!”

  I don’t know how much the Chimærae understand anyone who’s not a Garde, but the panther looks my way, ripping off the monster’s good leg as he does so. I point towards where the blaster fire is coming from in the trees.

  “Attack.”

  He must understand some of that, because suddenly he’s a bird shooting overhead. Moments later I hear a roar, followed by the sound of a Mogadorian scream. It only lasts for a few seconds before going silent.

  I take a few steps forward, sticking to the trees for cover. When I’m close to the Mog beast, it roars at me, struggling to get up using only its arms.

  I raise my pistol and fire over and over again. Each bullet finds a home in the bastard’s head. Dark, viscous mucus spurts onto the trees and grass behind it. After a few seconds my pistol starts to click again.

  The monster falls to the grass. Lifeless. Then it slowly starts to dissolve, until it’s nothing but a pile of ash.

  Despite being in a shootout with invaders who’ve come to take my planet, I can’t help but feel exhilaration every time one of them turns to dust.

  Maybe I’m not so useless after all.

  “Dammit, I’m almost out of ammo,” Briggs says.

  That’s when I realize all the blaster fire has stopped.

  Gamera darts out of the trees, back in the form of a black panther, his gleaming coat covered in ash.

  “Holy Jesus,” Briggs keeps repeating. “What’s happening?”

  I don’t get to answer. Lujan’s groaning in front of me, clutching his stomach. There’s smoke rising from holes in his chest. He must have been hit a few times when we weren’t looking. There’s blood everywhere.

  I kneel beside him, but it’s too late. He points in the direction of Union Station and then his breathing stops. All I can do is close his eyes and mutter an apology that he got dragged into this, telling myself that he’ll be the last casualty of this war, even though of course I know that’s not true.

  “He’s . . . ,” Briggs says.

  I nod my head.

  “This thing . . . ,” He aims his rifle at Gamera, who stalks the trees around me, sniffing the air. “This . . . this animal . . . it’s an alien too?”

  “That animal is on our side. He just saved our lives.”

  Briggs steps across from me, not taking his eyes off Gamera until he’s standing over Lujan. There’s a flash of remorse on his face.

  “We need to get to the station,” he says quietly. “That gunfire probably alerted every hostile within half a mile. They’ll be here in no time.”

  “What do we do with his body?” I ask.

  Briggs just shakes his head.

  “He’d want to make sure the mission was completed.”

  I understand where he’s coming from, but the colonel lost his life trying to get me to the president. I can’t just leave him here, out in the open. So I drag Lujan to a dense thicket of bushes nearby and try to hide him as best I can. It’s all I can think of. I tell myself that when we get to wherever we’re going I might be able to send someone to get his body, but in the back of my mind I know that there are much more important things to worry about.

  I don’t realize how shaky my hands are until I put him down. Despite all the fighting I’ve been a part of, I am still not used to death. But then, no one should be.

  Briggs crouches beside me, collecting Lujan’s gun and ammo. When he’s done, he nods to me and then we’re moving again. Briggs has to be in excruciating pain with every other step, but he doesn’t say a word or even slow his pace. I follow behind him, wondering how the hell things got this bad. And about my son.

  Is Sam safe?

  And I can’t help but think of the others as well. Adam, the rest of the Garde, Sarah—even Noto and the agents who we left be
hind at Ashwood.

  What’s become of them? What’s going to become of all of us?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WE KEEP MOVING WITHOUT MUCH INCIDENT, though the journey is a bit of a blur to me. The shock of everything that’s going on coupled with my lack of sleep has me running on nothing but adrenaline. A squadron of Mogs races by us in Humvees at one point, but Briggs and I stick to the parks and trees and somehow manage to avoid detection. Questions fill my mind. Who’s supplying the Mogs with transportation? What are they doing now that they have seemingly free rein to move about the city?

  I call Sam along the way but get no answer.

  I try my best not to think about what that means, but worry for his safety continues to beat through my mind.

  Eventually Briggs and I arrive at Union Station, a giant structure full of shops, restaurants and rail lines. We avoid the main entrance. Briggs ushers me through a side door and pulls an earpiece out of his pocket as we stand in an empty, narrow hallway.

  “Major Briggs reporting in.” His voice is a whisper. “I’ve got the asset. Do you have a visual?”

  He points to a camera mounted on the wall. Someone must respond.

  “Negative,” he says. “It’s just the two of us.” He turns to me. “All rails and buses are suspended. The place should be evacuated, but I’m guessing there might still be hostiles patrolling inside. Our route won’t take us anywhere near the main lobbies, though.”

  “Who are you—,” I start, but Briggs puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head twice. Somewhere down the corridor I can hear the faint echo of Mogadorian voices. They’re inside.

  Briggs limps through a connecting hallway and eventually to a series of twisting staircases, hesitating only a few times to figure out where to go next, holding a finger to his earpiece and, I assume, listening to directions. I’m not sure if our path is chosen to avoid Mogadorians or if it’s just necessarily convoluted. He communicates only in hand signals, eyes constantly searching for signs of movement as we dart through the maze of behind-the-scenes hallways and rooms most people never see. Gamera follows, buzzing along as an insect, ready to shift at a moment’s notice.