[Lorien Legacies 06.1] The Lost Files: Legacies Reborn

by Pittacus Lore

  I see John move out of the corner of my eye. His hands are on fire.

  “Wait,” Sam says. “They aren’t Mogs.”

  One of them recognizes John as they shine flashlights in our faces. I notice that they don’t immediately put their guns away.

  “Friends of yours?” I ask.

  “Not sure,” John says.

  “Sometimes the government likes us, other times not so much,” Sam says.

  “Great,” I murmur. I’ve done a hell of a job picking my friends. “For a second there, I thought they were here to arrest me.”

  Some woman’s voice comes out of one of the military dude’s walkie-talkies. I see John stiffen a little when he hears it. The guy steps forward.

  “Please come with us,” he says. “Agent Walker would like a word.”

  I glance at John, who nods at me. I guess Walker is a friend.

  “Hey, where are we going?” I ask.

  “The Brooklyn evacuation zone,” the soldier says before turning around and heading back into the tunnel.

  I guess things are finally looking up.

  I don’t know how to explain my duffel bag to these dudes, so as much as it pains me to do so, I leave it.

  Somewhere between Spring and Canal, I repeat in my head. I’ll be back for you. Mom and I both will.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IN FRONT OF THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE I SEE TANKS in person for the first time. They’re bigger in real life, with their guns pointed into the city, like they’re going to fire on Manhattan.

  “Whoa,” I whisper as we walk by.

  I follow John and Sam, who follow some soldiers. They treat John like he’s hot shit, calling him “sir” and stuff. I can’t help but smirk every time they do. Don’t these fools realize John Smith is only sixteen? I get that he’s, like, the guy everyone knows about thanks to him fighting at the UN, but he should be going to prom or something, not getting treated like he’s the president.

  I guess it could mean I’m not the only one who feels a connection to John. Maybe these soldiers feel it too, and that’s why they treat him with so much respect. Or it could be that getting people to follow you comes with having Legacies. I’m still trying to catch on to how all this works.

  Heading away from the city, it’s almost like nothing bad ever happened. Brooklyn looks untouched in front of us. If it weren’t for all the people in uniform and the lack of tourists hanging out on the bridge, I could imagine that I was just out on a nice walk with Mom, clearing my head. Once we got to the Brooklyn side we’d have a slice of pizza and sit in the park and just look out at the water for a while. Quiet but together.

  It’s a nice image, but when I turn to look back at Manhattan, the whole dream falls apart. Plumes of smoke rise from all over the city, including downtown. The skyline looks different than it was the last time I was on the bridge months ago.

  I swallow down the lump that’s suddenly formed in my throat, hurrying to catch up with the others.

  On the other side of the bridge, the park’s been turned into some kind of combo hospital and military base for the National Guard and whoever else has shown up from the Pentagon or wherever all the military higher-ups hang out. There are people everywhere, in various states of injury and unrest. A few Red Cross stations have been set up, handing out supplies and bottles of water. Most everyone’s got dust and blood on them. Looking down, I realize I’m no different. Buses seem to be carting people off to somewhere else. Somewhere safer, I’d guess, farther away from the city.

  There are a few tables set up where people look like they’re signing in. My heart flutters.

  I turn to one of the soldiers.

  “They have a list or something I could check? I’m . . . looking for someone.”

  “Sure,” he says. “You could ask.”

  He’s not very helpful. I’m about to point that out when I realize John’s staring at me.

  “I’m gonna—,” I start.

  “Go,” John says. “I hope you find her.”

  I force a smile. I realize I don’t know when I’ll see him or Sam again. “Um, about that whole saving the world thing . . .”

  “When you’re ready, come find me.”

  “You’re assuming I’ll ever be ready,” I snort.

  “Yeah,” he says, eyes looking all serious. “I am.”

  I nod, raise my chin up at Sam and then run towards one of the sign-in stations. There’s a line dozens of people long, and it takes everything in me not to bat them all out of the way with my thoughts and jump straight to the front.

  “This where people are checking in?” I ask an older Asian guy in front of me.

  All he does is nod a little. His eyes are wide and he looks like he’s in shock, like he might pass out at any moment. He turns away from me. Others in the line are louder. Some cry. A few just keep talking about how they’re going to kill every alien they see as soon as they find a gun. I keep quiet, wishing I’d brought one of the phones with me or that I had my headphones. Even the broken ones, which are back in an apartment I might never get to return to. Without music or some kind of distraction, I’m left alone with my thoughts. I worry.

  After what feels like hours, I’m finally at the front of the line.

  “Can I get your name?” a woman asks. Her hair’s tied back in a black bandanna and there are dark bags under her eyes. I wonder how long she’s been at this.

  “Daniela Morales,” I say. “Look, I’m trying to find my mom.”

  “We’re just taking information here,” she says, looking up from her electronic tablet. “There are systems being put into place at our secondary evac site to connect missing persons. The bus will take you there once I have your info.”

  “But I need to know if she’s there,” I say. “If she’s not . . .” I’m not sure what to say next. I’ll go back to Manhattan? Would they even let me back across the bridge? Doubtful, but I could find a way.

  The woman’s eyebrows draw together and she purses her lips. She looks like she’s tired of hearing this. I’m guessing I’m not the first person trying to find someone I love.

  “If you’ll spell your full name—,” she starts.

  “You’re checking everyone in? My mom’s name is Roxanne Morales. She’s a waitress downtown. Please, can you just look?”

  She looks at me for a few seconds. I can feel my eyes stinging. Finally, she taps on the electronic screen a few times. After scrolling through some lists, she lets out a small sigh. She doesn’t say anything, just looks up at me and shakes her head.

  The stinging gets worse.

  “Morales,” I say again. “M-O-R-A-L-E-S.”

  “I’m sorry, Daniela, but there’s no Roxanne Morales in my database. Now, we’re only getting updates from the other sites every hour or so. Maybe she went to one of the other evacuation points farther uptown.”

  I shake my head. My fingers grip the edge of the table in front of me. I don’t want to leave. I can’t walk away.

  “No, she worked in the Financial District.”

  The woman’s eye twitches a little.

  “Where, exactly?” she asks. “Where does she work?”

  I tell her the location, just off Wall Street, not taking my eyes off hers. I’m so focused that I don’t even notice she’s moving her hand until it’s on top of mine.

  “That area was hit really hard in the initial attack, Daniela,” she says quietly but firmly. “We haven’t seen many survivors from that location. There’s always hope, but our rescue teams are still having trouble navigating much of downtown. The best thing for you to do is to give me the rest of your info and go to the secondary site. That way if your mom comes through here, she’ll—”

  I run. I don’t know where I’m going, I just go. The woman shouts my name but doesn’t follow. I pass a makeshift emergency room, doctors, injured bystanders, firemen, policemen who look like they haven’t slept in days. National Guardsmen and -women eye me as I pass by, but no one stops me. I keep going, until I
finally find myself down by the water, staring at the smoke rising from lower Manhattan.

  We haven’t seen many survivors from that location.

  She told me to go home. There was an explosion—of course it was an explosion, no matter how much I try to tell myself that it wasn’t—and then silence. We were disconnected. She was gone.

  Mom’s not here. She could be dead. She’s probably dead.

  My eyes start to water. I can feel them getting red as I clench my fists and think of all the things I’ve done to get to her, to get here, only to find that I’m no closer to reuniting with her. The people in the park, the bus, the bank, almost dying in a tunnel with Sam and John. Maybe I should have gone to the restaurant after all. Hell, maybe I should have stayed hidden in our apartment or somewhere in our neighborhood and waited for her to come back. I could have fought the Mogs off probably.

  Maybe.

  What would she have wanted me to do?

  And then, new words start to float through my head. Sam talking about his dad and how he didn’t give up hope.

  She could still be out there. She could be fighting her way uptown to find me. Or hiding out somewhere safe, waiting for the right moment to run. Or she’s at another evacuation zone for all I know. I still have to have hope. I mean, shit, I’ve got telekinesis. Anything is possible.

  You have to honor the person who’s not there with your actions.

  What would Mom want me to do now?

  There’s screaming behind me, and I turn expecting to see a bunch of Mogs. Instead, I watch a stretcher rush by. There are two people in scrubs—young, nurses maybe—pushing it towards one of the medical tents. The woman lying on it is covered in blood. Another woman chases after them, holding her hand out in front of her, tears streaming down her face. I don’t know which of them screamed. It could have been the nurses, or someone else in the safe zone for all I know. There are plenty of reasons to be screaming or crying or shouting here.

  We’ve all lost something. Who knows how many people are just like me right now, trying to find someone who means the world to them in the middle of all this shit?

  I turn back to the city and wipe the hot tears from the sides of my eyes. My gaze lands on the giant spaceship hovering above the city, just waiting to attack us again. John and Sam called it the Anubis, I think. I have other words for it, most of which Mom would be pissed at me for saying out loud.

  My fists curl into balls at my sides.

  I know one thing for sure: if my mom is still alive, she’s not safe while those bastard aliens are here. None of us are.

  “I’m not giving up on you,” I say quietly, hoping that wherever my mom is she can hear me. “I’m going to see you again. But until then, I think I’m going to kick some alien ass. Help some people. Make you proud.”

  I turn and start running again. This time I know where I’m going. I have to find John Smith. I can’t just sit around here with the rest of the evacuees or I’ll lose my damn mind. I’m going to do some good. I’m going to fight.

  EXCERPT FROM THE FATE OF TEN

  DON’T MISS BOOK SIX IN THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING I AM NUMBER FOUR SERIES

  THE FRONT DOOR STARTS SHAKING. IT’S ALWAYS done that whenever the metal security gate two flights down bangs closed, ever since they moved into the Harlem apartment three years ago. Between the front entrance and the paper-thin walls, they are always aware of the comings and goings of the entire building. They mute the television to listen, a fifteen-year-old girl and a fifty-seven-year-old man, daughter and stepfather who rarely see eye to eye, but who have put their many differences aside to watch the aliens invade. The man has spent much of the afternoon muttering prayers in Spanish, while the girl has watched the news coverage in awed silence. It seems like a movie to her, so much so that the fear hasn’t truly sunk in. The girl wonders if the handsome blond-haired boy who tried to fight the monster is dead. The man wonders if the girl’s mother, a waitress at a small restaurant downtown, survived the initial attack.

  The man mutes the TV so they can listen to what’s happening outside. One of their neighbors sprints up the stairs, past their floor, yelling the whole way. “They’re on the block! They’re on the block!”

  The man sucks his teeth in disbelief. “Dude’s losing it. Those pale freaks ain’t gonna bother with Harlem. We’re safe here,” he reassures the girl.

  He turns the volume back up. The girl isn’t so sure he’s right. She creeps toward the door and stares out the peephole. The hallway outside is dim and empty.

  Like the Midtown block behind her, the reporter on TV looks trashed. She’s got dirt and ash smudged all over her face, streaks of it through her blond hair. There’s a spot of dried blood on her mouth where there should be lipstick. The reporter looks like she’s barely keeping it together.

  “To reiterate, the initial bombing seems to have tapered off,” the reporter says shakily, the man listening raptly. “The—the—the Mogadorians, they have taken to the streets en masse and appear to be, ah, rounding up prisoners, although we have seen some further acts of violence at—at—the slightest provocation . . .”

  The reporter chokes back a sob. Behind her, there are hundreds of pale aliens in dark uniforms marching through the streets. Some of them turn their heads and point their empty black eyes right at the camera.

  “Jesus Christ,” says the man.

  “Again, to reiterate, we are being—uh, we are being allowed to broadcast. They—they—the invaders, they seem to want us here . . .”

  Downstairs, the gate rattles again. There’s a screech of metal tearing and a loud crash. Someone didn’t have a key. Someone needed to knock the gate down entirely.

  “It’s them,” the girl says.

  “Shut up,” the man replies. He turns down the TV again. “I mean, keep quiet. Damn.”

  They hear heavy footfalls coming up the stairs. The girl backs away from the peephole when she hears another door get kicked in. Their downstairs neighbors start to scream.

  “Go hide,” the man says to the girl. “Go on.”

  The man’s grip tightens on the baseball bat that he retrieved from the hall closet when the alien mother ship first appeared in the sky. He inches closer to the shaking door, positions himself to one side of it, his back to the wall. They can hear noise from the hallway. A loud crash, their neighbor’s apartment door being knocked off its hinges, harsh words in guttural English, screaming, and finally a sound like compressed lightning being uncorked. They’ve seen the aliens’ guns on television, stared in awe at the sizzling bolts of blue energy they fire.

  The footsteps resume, stopping outside their shaky door. The man’s eyes are wide, his hands tight on the bat. He realizes that the girl hasn’t moved. She’s frozen.

  “Wake up, stupid,” he snaps. “Go.”

  He nods toward the living room window. It’s open, the fire escape waiting outside.

  The girl hates when the man calls her stupid. Even so, for the first time she can remember, the girl does what her stepfather tells her. She climbs through the window the same way she’s snuck out of this apartment so many times before. The girl knows she shouldn’t go alone. Her stepfather should flee, too. She turns around on the fire escape to call to him, and so she’s looking into the apartment when their front door is hammered down.

  The aliens are much uglier in person than on television. Their otherness freezes the girl in her tracks. She stares at the deathly pale skin of the first one through the door, at his unblinking black eyes and bizarre tattoos. There are four aliens altogether, each of them armed. It’s the first one that spots the girl on the fire escape. He stops in the doorway, his strange gun leveled in her direction.

  “Surrender or die,” the alien says.

  A second later, the girl’s stepfather hits the alien in the face with his bat. It’s a powerful swing—the old man made his living as a mechanic, his forearms thick from twelve-hour days. It caves in the alien’s head, the creature immediately disintegrati
ng into ash.

  Before her stepfather can get his bat back over his shoulder, the nearest alien shoots him in the chest.

  The man is thrown backwards into the apartment, muscles seizing, his shirt burning. He crashes through the glass coffee table and rolls, ends up facing the window, where he locks eyes with the girl.

  “Run!” her stepfather somehow finds the strength to shout. “Run, damn it!”

  The girl bounds down the fire escape. When she gets to the ladder, she hears gunfire from her apartment. She tries not to think about what that means. A pale face pokes his head out of her window and takes aim at her with his weapon.

  She lets go of the ladder, dropping into the alley below, right as the air around her sizzles. The hair on her arms stands up and the girl can tell there’s electricity coursing through the metal of the fire escape. But she’s unharmed. The alien missed her.

  The girl jumps over some trash bags and runs to the mouth of the alley, peeking around the corner to see the street she grew up on. There’s a fire hydrant gushing water into the air; it reminds the girl of summer block parties. She sees an overturned mail truck, its undercarriage smoking like it could explode at any minute. Farther down the block, parked in the middle of the street, the girl sees the aliens’ small spacecraft, one of many she and her stepfather saw unleashed from the hulking ship that still looms over Manhattan. They played that clip over and over on the news. Almost as much as they played the video about the blond-haired boy.

  John Smith. That’s his name. The girl narrating the video said so.

  Where is he now? the girl wonders. Probably not saving people in Harlem, that’s for sure.

  The girl knows she has to save herself.

  She’s about to run for it when she spots another group of aliens exiting an apartment building across the street. They have a dozen humans with them, some familiar faces from around the neighborhood, a couple of kids she recognizes from the grades below her. At gunpoint, they force the people onto their knees on the curb. A big alien freak walks down the line of people, clicking a small object in his hand, like a bouncer outside of a club. They’re keeping a count. The girl isn’t sure she wants to see what happens next.