THE CONCUSSIVE WAVE PASSES OVER ME AND presses me into the concrete floor so hard I’m afraid my ribs are going to snap. There’s no fire, just pressure, like some telekinetic force pushing anything and everything away from the detonation site. Agents fly through the air. The lights go out almost immediately. All around me there’s the sound of breaking glass as the force of the weapon shatters the windows of the building and van.
And then it’s over. I’d probably think the whole thing was pretty awesome if I wasn’t in the middle of it.
I get to my feet as fast as I can and run towards the rectangle of moonlight where the front doors had been earlier—the blast must have blown them out. My head is all fuzzy, like I’ve just stuck it inside a subwoofer. I can hear people groaning and moving about in the rest of the building, but I can’t tell where any of them are or how hurt they might be. All I can do is run.
I’m almost to the door when I realize I can’t leave without my bag. It’s got my computers and my notes—everything, really—in it.
Including my keys.
Luckily, the blast blew out all the dirty windows and the boards that’d been covering half of them, so there’s at least some moonlight, and it only takes me a minute to locate the messenger bag. I find it piled up with a bunch of debris. But this detour is enough time for a few of the agents to get back to their feet—I can hear their boots pounding against the concrete floor. Which is great, because it means that I didn’t accidentally kill anybody, but also means I’m one step closer to getting shot, arrested or both. I sprint towards the door. I just have to make it outside and into my truck.
The lead agent steps in front of the doorway when I’m just a few yards away. He holds his gun up directly at my chest.
“You smug little asshole,” he says. “Didn’t you know stealing classified intel is considered treason?”
He lowers the gun to my legs and pulls the trigger. I brace for impact, ready for my knee to be destroyed. It’s all over now.
Only, nothing happens. I see him pull the trigger again and again, but there’s no bullet or laser or even wisp of smoke. Just a little click each time he tries to shoot me. It’s only then that I realize the gun’s not lit up anymore. I take a quick glance around and don’t see any of the purple lights anywhere. Whatever that grenade did must have screwed with the Mog weapons.
Which means the only thing standing between me and freedom is an unarmed man.
The lead agent is still trying to pull the trigger when I lunge forward. I may not be the best spy or computer geek or liar, but I do throw a hell of a right hook. All the fights I got into back in Paradise taught me that. And while John Smith may have been able to kick my ass with his alien kung fu, this guy is very much a human. He tries to move too late, and my fist connects with the bottom of his jaw. He drops like a stone, and by the time he actually hits the floor, I’m jumping over his legs and then running down the stairs, digging through my bag with one hand as I make a beeline for my truck.
I’m starting the engine when the first shot is fired—the other agents must have realized the Mog weapons weren’t working and dug out their normal guns. I hear the bullet bounce off the metal of my hood. Then there’s another one, and my back windshield shatters.
“Shit!” I shout, crouching down as much as I can. I shift into gear and slam my right foot down on the gas, peeling out as I hear more shots go whizzing through my tailgate. I think I’m out of harm’s way when suddenly I feel a burning pain in my left arm, causing me to swerve and almost crash into a cement pylon. I look down and see blood pouring through my shirtsleeve.
Oh my God. You just got shot, Mark. Holy shit.
I think the bullet just grazed me, but it still hurts like hell, and there’s a lot of blood. As I barrel onto the highway, keeping one eye on my rearview mirror, I find a dirty T-shirt from the back cab and wrap it around the wound to try to stop the bleeding. I’m just glad that the sun hasn’t come up yet. This early in the morning, there’s hardly anyone on the road to notice my terrible driving as I try to figure out how injured I am while the wind roars through my truck thanks to the shattered back windshield.
After ten minutes or so, I take an exit at random and enter a neighborhood. I figure if the FBI called in reinforcements or police or anything, the highway is the first place they’d look, and a bullet-ridden truck missing a back windshield isn’t exactly the kind of thing you can easily hide from a police chopper on a deserted highway. I buzz through dark streets, just trying to get as far away from the city center as I can.
I drive, and try not to completely freak out. My heart pounds in my chest so hard I’m afraid I’m going to have a heart attack, which would be the biggest joke ever—I survived fights with the FBI and alien invaders; but in the end, the excitement was all too much for me, and my heart exploded in some godforsaken little town in Louisiana.
I want to text GUARD, to tell him I’m okay, but I’ve just realized I left both my phones back at the warehouse. Plus, my netbook is dead.
I am completely alone right now.
The T-shirt around my arm at least seems to have stopped the bleeding for now, so I keep driving and try to make sense of what just happened and not vomit, which feels like something I might do at any moment. Walker was right: not everyone in the FBI is as smart as she is. There’s fighting within the Bureau. And if the FBI is breaking into factions, it might be like that in other government agencies across the country, right? Maybe even the world. At first this thought gets me excited, to know that people aren’t just following along blindly with the Mogs. But then I realize that if we’re fighting each other, it’ll make Earth that much easier for them to take over when they’re done with the Loric. What we need is a strong defense. A united human front.
We need to support the Garde.
Sarah. Where are you?
Somewhere on the outskirts of a suburb, I notice the first hint of smoke coming out from under the hood of my truck. I tell myself it’s probably just dust or something, but after a few more miles, there’s more smoke or steam pouring out of the bullet holes. The fact that I even have bullet holes in my hood is a pretty good indicator that something is screwed up inside.
“No, no, no, no,” I say. It starts in a whisper, but each word gets louder, until I’m shouting at my truck.
When the engine starts to make a clicking noise, I pull into a strip mall parking lot and get all the way behind a liquor store before the truck just up and dies. I have enough momentum to sort of hide it behind a wall of Dumpsters. When I lift the hood up, smoke billows out.
There’s no way I’m going to be able to fix this.
I’m completely overwhelmed. Lost. No phone. No computer. A gunshot wound.
And no one in the world knows where I am.
I let the hood fall back down. Anger, fear, confusion—my blood is boiling. I bring my right fist down onto the hood, denting it a little. It feels good to do so. And then suddenly I’m kicking at the headlights and slamming my knuckles into the side of the truck over and over again. The wound in my arm hurts with each impact, but I’m so overcome with rage that I keep on beating the crap out of this vehicle, this thing that has let me down and stranded me in the middle of nowhere. I don’t even care about the noise I’m making, all the grunting and shouting and banging.
Finally, I stop, exhausted. I let my head rest against the driver’s-side door. My breathing is fast and shallow, making me a little lightheaded. The knuckles on my right hand are bloody, and my skin feels clammy.
Calm down, Mark. Get your shit together.
I take a deep breath. In the distance, I see a sign for a hotel. That at least gives me a destination. I can’t exactly walk in with a bloody arm, so I fish my letter jacket out of the backseat, grimacing as I slide my injured limb through it. I gather all my important belongings and shove them into the messenger bag, then start out on foot, walking the half a dozen blocks to the hotel. Before I go in, I tiptoe through the side gate where there’s a pool and dunk my hands into the cool water to wash them off. A dark-red cloud drifts away from my fingers as I rub them together, and I wonder how the hell I ended up in this situation.
Inside, I feed the front-desk girl a story about how I was mugged and just left the police station and don’t have any ID but, luckily, still have a stack of cash I’d hidden in my shoe that can pay for the night. She seems hesitant at first, but I put on my best pouting face and practically beg her to get me a room. This must work, because she relents, and then suddenly I’m inside a decent hotel room that looks like heaven after some of the shit-box motels I’ve been staying in lately. I’ve got an exterior room, meaning the front door opens up to the parking lot and a window in the bathroom leads to a wooded area out back. After the last hour of my life, it’s good to know I have multiple escape routes if I need them.
On the bed, I take stock of everything in my bag. The computers are a little scuffed up but don’t look too damaged. I plug the little netbook in, fire it up, and then log on to TWAU’s secure chat client. GUARD messages me right away.
GUARD: I thought you were a goner.
Me: How do I kno this is the real u?
GUARD: I come from the planet Schlongda.
I actually laugh. I can’t help it. The planet Schlongda appeared in one of the first issues of They Walk Among Us—the old print version I took from Sam Goode’s house—and was supposed to be the home of a bunch of krakens or something. When I’d read the name of the planet, I’d immediately forwarded a scan of the article to GUARD and laughed about the fact that someone had obviously made it up to screw with the editors there.
This is the real GUARD.
I give him the short story of what happened, being sure to point out the fact that I just faced half a dozen evil FBI agents and survived while he was hiding behind a computer somewhere. Eventually, I get to the real issue: I’m kind of stuck here now, and as soon as someone finds my truck, they’ll start looking for me in this area.
GUARD: Stay there for the night. I’ll have directions for you in the morning. I’ll work something out.
Me: What the hell was that grenade?
GUARD: Combination specialized EMP and concussion blast.
I stare at the computer, wondering yet again who it is that’s on the other end of this chat. All I know about GUARD is his screen name and that he’s someone who can deliver a bunch of cash and military-grade weapons at a moment’s notice.
GUARD notices that I haven’t responded.
GUARD: Are we cool?
Me: Yeah. Sure.
I close the netbook and carefully peel off my jacket. The left sleeve is stained with blood. Ruined, I’m guessing. But that’s okay. It’s not like Paradise High even exists anymore.
In the bathroom, I inspect the wound on my arm, cleaning it off using some cold water and a plastic hotel cup. There’s a two-inch gash just under my delt. A little higher and it would have totally screwed up my shoulder. It probably needs stitches, but the last thing I can do is go to a hospital right now. Not here, where the FBI is surely looking for me. So I tie a hotel towel around it and hope for the best.
At least it’s not your passing arm, a voice inside me says, as if that even matters now.
I sit on the bed. I should sleep. I need to get as much rest as possible. But all I can do is stare at the door, listening for the sounds of people who’ve tracked me down and have come to drag me away to some hell I’ll never be able to escape from.