At the dock, the game is to try to push each other off it. Groups team up until they’re the only ones left, and then it’s every girl for herself. As the biggest and strongest at Santa Teresa, I used to think it’d be an effortless victory for La Gorda, but it rarely is; she’s often outsmarted by the smaller, more wily girls, and I don’t think anyone has won as many times as a girl named Bonita.
I didn’t want to play La Reina del Muelle, Queen of the Dock. I was content to sit on the side and let my feet dangle in the water, but Bonita shoves me hard from behind anyway, sending me headlong into the lake.
“Play the game or go back to shore,” Bonita says, flicking her hair over her shoulder.
I climb back up and rush straight towards her. I shove her as hard as I can, and she falls backwards and crashes into the lake.
I don’t hear La Gorda behind me, and suddenly two strong hands shove me hard from behind. My feet slip on the wet wood, and the side of my head and shoulder smack against the edge of the dock, clouding my vision with stars. I’m knocked unconscious for a second, and when my eyes open I’m underwater. I see nothing but darkness and instinctively kick upward, flailing my arms to reach the surface. But my head smacks against the bottom of the dock, and I realize there are only a few inches of space between the water and the wooden boards of the dock. I try to tilt my head backwards to put my nose and mouth above the surface, but water instantly laps into my nostrils. I panic, my lungs already burning. I scramble to the left but there’s nowhere to go; I’m trapped by the dock’s plastic barrels. Water fills my lungs while the absurdity of death by drowning pops into my head. I think of the others, how their ankles are about to be seared. Will they believe that Number Three has been killed, or will they somehow know it’s me? Will it burn differently than if I’d died at the hands of the Mogadorians instead of my own stupidity? My eyes slowly close and I begin to sink. Just as I feel the last stream of bubbles escape my lips, my eyes snap open, and an odd sort of calm sweeps in. My lungs are no longer burning.
I’m breathing.
The water tickles my lungs, but at the same time satisfies every desperate need I have to breathe, and that’s when I know I’ve discovered my second Legacy: the ability to breathe underwater. I’ve found it only because I was pushed to the brink of death.
I don’t want to be found just yet by the girls diving into the water looking for me, so I let myself drift down to the deep bottom, the world slowly fading to black until my feet finally sink into the cold mud. I can see through the brown, murky water once my eyes adjust. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Finally the girls swim away from the dock. I assume the lunch bell’s been rung. I wait until I’m absolutely sure they’ve all left, then I walk slowly along on the lake’s bottom towards shore, my feet sinking into the mud as I inch forward. After a while the icy water begins to warm and brighten and the mud segues to rocks and then to sand, and finally my head emerges. I listen to the girls, La Gorda and Bonita included, scream and splash towards me in relief. I take inventory of myself on shore, noticing a gash on my shoulder is bleeding, leaving a trail of blood down my arm in the shape of a subtle S.
The Sisters make me sit the rest of the afternoon at a picnic table under a tree, but I didn’t mind. I had another Legacy.
In the bathroom, Ella catches me watching the toothpaste run down her arm in the mirror. She looks embarrassed, and as she tries to replicate the way I brush my teeth, even more frothy toothpaste pours from her mouth.
“You’re like a bubble factory,” I say with a smile, grabbing a towel to clean her up.
We leave the bathroom as the others are arriving, dress quickly in the room and walk out of it as the others are coming in, keeping just ahead of the group, as I prefer to do. We grab our lunches from the cafeteria and head out into the cold morning. I eat my apple on the walk to school. Ella does the same. I’m about ten minutes early today, which will give me a little time to get on the internet to see if there’s anything new about John Smith. The thought of him makes me smile.
“Why are you smiling? Do you like school?” Ella asks. I look over at her. The half-eaten apple looks big in her small hand.
“It’s a nice morning, I guess,” I say. “And I have good company today.”
We walk through town as street vendors set up shop. The snow hasn’t melted and is piled along both sides of Calle Principal, but the road itself is clear. Up ahead on the right Héctor Ricardo’s front door opens, and out comes his mother in a wheelchair, being pushed by Héctor. She’s had Parkinson’s disease for a very long time. She’s been in a wheelchair for the last five years, and she’s been unable to speak for the last three. He positions her in a sliver of sunlight and applies her wheel brakes. While the sun seems to bring her some comfort, Héctor slinks away and sits in the shade, dropping his head.
“Good morning, Héctor,” I call out. He lifts his head and squints one eye open. He waves with a shaky hand.
“Marina, as of the sea,” he croaks. “The only limits of tomorrow are the doubts we have today.”
I stop and smile. Ella stops, too.
“That’s one of your better ones.”
“Don’t doubt Héctor; he has a few nuggets left,” he says.
“Are you doing okay?”
“Strength, confidence, humility, love. Héctor Ricardo’s four tenets of a happy life,” he says, which makes no sense whatsoever considering the question I asked, but it makes me feel good anyway. He turns his gaze on Ella. “And who’s this little angel?”
Ella grabs my hand and hides behind me.
“Her name is Ella,” I say, looking down at her. “This is Héctor. He’s my friend.”
“Héctor is one of the good guys,” he says, though Ella remains behind me.
He waves at us as we walk the rest of the way to school.
“Do you know where you’re going?” I ask her.
“I have Señora Lopez’s class,” she says, smiling.
“Ahh, you’re a lucky girl. I had her, too. She’s one of the good ones in this town, like Héctor,” I say.
I’m devastated; all three of the school computers are occupied, a trio of younger girls from town are desperately trying to finish a science assignment, their fingers flying across the keyboards. I coast through the day, keeping to myself as one thing runs through my mind. John Smith, on the run in America, somehow staying ahead of the law, and I’m stuck here, in Santa Teresa, an old, moldy town where nothing happens. I’d always thought I’d leave when I turned eighteen. But now that John Smith is out there, being hunted, I know I have to leave as soon as I can, to join him. The only question now is how to find him.
My last class is Spanish history. The teacher drones on about General Francisco Franco and the Spanish Civil War of the 1930s. I tune her out and instead write in my notebook about John, what I know based on the most recent article I read.
John Smith
Lived 4 months in Paradise, OH
Pulled over by an officer in Tennessee, driving west in a
pickup truck. Middle of the night, with 2 other people around
the same age.
Where were they driving?
One of the two people he was with is believed to be Sam
Goode, also from Paradise, originally thought to be a hostage,
now considered an accomplice.
Who is the third person? A girl with black hair. Girl in my
dream had black hair.
Where is Henri?
How did they get away from 2 helicopters and 35
police officers? How did the 2 copters crash?
How can I contact him OR the others?
Post something on internet?
Too dangerous. Is there a way to do so that eludes the Mogs?
If so, will any of the others even see it?
John is on the run. Ever checking internet?
Does Adelina know something that I don’t?
Can I bring it up to her without being obvious?
&n
bsp; The pen hovers over the page. The internet and Adelina, my only two ideas, neither of which seems promising. What more can I do, though? Everything else seems as futile as walking up the mountain and sending smoke signals into the air. But I can’t help but feel like I’m missing something—some crucial element that’s so obvious it’s staring me right in the face.
The teacher drones on. I close my eyes and think it all through. Nine Garde. Nine Cêpan. An airship that brought us to Earth, the same airship to take us back eventually, hidden somewhere on Earth. All I remember about it is that we landed in a remote place in the midst of a thunderstorm. A charm was cast to protect us from the Mogadorians, which went into effect only when we scattered, and that only works if we stay away from each other. But why? A charm that keeps us apart seems pretty counterintuitive in helping us fight and defeat the Mogadorians. What’s the point in it? While asking myself this question my mind stumbles on something else. I close my eyes and let the logic carry me.
We were meant to hide, but for how long? Until our Legacies developed and we had the tools to fight, to win. What’s the one thing we’re able to do when that first Legacy finally arrives?
The answer seems too obvious to be correct. With the pen still in my hand, I write the only answer I can come up with:
The Chest
Chapter Ten
I NO LONGER SLEEP WITHOUT NIGHTMARES. Every night I’m stricken by Sarah’s face, there for only a second before it’s swallowed by darkness, followed by her calling out for help. No matter how furiously I search, she’s nowhere to be found. She keeps calling, a scared voice, bleak and alone, but I can never find her.
And then there’s Henri, his body twisted and smoking as he looks at me, knowing our end together has finally come. It’s never fear I see in his eyes, or regret, or sadness, but rather pride, relief, and love. He seems to tell me to go on, to fight, to win. Then, right at the end, his eyes widen in a plea for more time. “Coming here, to Paradise, it wasn’t by chance,” he says again, and I still have no idea what he means. Then, “I wouldn’t have missed a second of it, kiddo. Not for all of Lorien. Not for the whole damn world.” This is my curse, that every time I dream of Henri I’m forced to watch him die. Over and over again.
I see Lorien, the days before the war, the jungles and oceans I’ve dreamed of a hundred times. Myself as a kid, running wild through the tall grass while those around me smile and laugh, unaware of the horrors to come. Then I see the war, the destruction, the killing, and the blood. Sometimes, on nights like tonight, I have distinct visions of what I believe is the future.
My eyes aren’t closed for long before I’m whisked away. And even as it begins, I feel myself entering a landscape I know I’ve never seen before, but still find familiar.
I run down a pathway lined with litter and debris. Broken glass. Burned plastic. Twisted, rusted steel. Acrid mist fills my nose and causes my eyes to water. Decaying buildings stand tall against the gray sky. A dark, stagnant river lurks to my right. There’s commotion up ahead. The sounds of yelling and metallic clattering swell in the thick air. I come to an angry mob surrounding a tarmac where a large airship prepares for takeoff. I go through a barbed-wire gate and enter the airstrip fenced off from the crowd.
The tarmac is marked with small rivulets the color of magma. Mogadorian soldiers keep the crowd at bay while swarms of scouts ready the ship, an onyx orb hovering in midair.
The crowd roars against the fence as soldiers knock them back. They’re smaller than the soldiers, but have the same ashy skin tone. A low rumble grows from somewhere beyond the ship. The crowd hushes, taking panicked steps backwards, while those on the tarmac file into orderly lines.
Then something drops from the hazy sky. A dark vortex absorbs the surrounding clouds, leaving a thick, black discharge in its wake. I cover my ears before the object crashes to the ground, shooting vibrations through the soil that nearly knock me off my feet. Everything falls silent as the dust clears, revealing a perfectly spherical ship, milky white like a pearl. A round door slides open, and a monstrous creature steps out. The same creature that tried to behead me in the rock castle.
A brawl breaks out along the fence, with everyone scrambling to get away from this monster. He’s even more enormous than I remember, with muscular, chiseled features and short, cropped hair. Tattoos crawl up his arms, scars are branded into his ankles, the largest of which stands out on his neck, grotesque and purple. A soldier retrieves a golden cane from the ship, its head curved like a hammer, a black eye painted on its side. When the creature holds it in his hand, the eye comes alive, rolling left and then right, taking in its surroundings, until it finds me.
The Mogadorian scans the crowd, sensing me nearby. His eyes narrow. He takes a giant step towards me, lifting the golden cane. Its eye pulses.
Just then an onlooker shouts at the Mogadorian, furiously rattling the fence. The Mogadorian turns towards the protester, thrusting the rod in his direction. The rod’s eye glows red and the man is instantly ripped to shreds, torn through the barbed-wired fence. Pandemonium erupts as everyone fights to get away.
The Mogadorian returns his attention to me, pointing the rod at my head. I’m hit with the sensation of falling. Weightlessness rises in my gut until I’m on the brink of vomiting. What I see around his neck is so disturbing, so haunting, that I’m jolted awake as though struck by a bolt of blue lightning.
Early dawn breaks through the windows, bathing the small room in the hard morning light. The shapes of things return. I’m sweat covered and out of breath. And yet I’m here, the ache and confusion in my heart telling me I’m still alive, no longer in a dreadful place where a man can be ripped through the small holes of a barbed-wired fence.
We found an abandoned house bordering a conservation area a few miles from Lake George. The kind of house Henri would have loved: isolated, small and quiet, offering security without any personality. It’s one story, the exterior painted lime green while the interior is various shades of beige, with brown carpeting. We couldn’t be luckier that the water hasn’t been turned off. By the heavy dust in the air, I can only assume it’s been a while since anyone lived here.
I roll to my side and glance at the phone beside my head. Having seen what I just did, the only thing that could take it all away is Sarah. I remember the time in my room when she’d just returned from Colorado—the way we’d held one another. If I’m allowed to save a single moment with her then I choose that one. I close my eyes and imagine what she’s doing at this very moment, what she’s wearing, who she’s talking to. The news reported that each of the six school districts surrounding Paradise absorbed a portion of the displaced students until a new building is built. I wonder which of them Sarah’s attending, if she’s still taking photographs.
I reach for my cell phone, the one prepaid and registered under the name Julius Seazar. Henri’s sense of humor. I turn it on for the first time in days. All I have to do is dial her number to hear her voice. It’s that simple. I press the familiar numbers one by one until reaching the last. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then turn the phone off and flip it shut. I know I can’t punch the tenth number. Fear for Sarah’s safety, for her life—and all of ours, too—stops me.
Out in the living room, Sam streams CNN with one of Henri’s laptops on his thighs. Luckily Henri’s wireless internet card, under whatever pseudonym he chose at the time, still works. Sam furiously scribbles notes on a legal pad. It’s been three days since the mess in Tennessee, and we only arrived in Florida last night, having hopped aboard three different semis—one of which carried us two hundred miles in the wrong direction—before jumping a train that brought us here. Without the use of our Legacies—our speed, Six’s invisibility— we would have never made it. It’s our intent to lie low for a bit and let the news dissipate. We’ll regroup, start training, and avoid any further mishaps like the one involving the helicopters at all costs. First order of business, find a new car. Second order of business, figure out
what to do next. None of us really knows for sure. Again, I feel the enormity of Henri’s absence.
“Where’s Six?” I ask, stumbling into the living room.
“Out back swimming laps or something,” Sam replies. The one cool thing about the house is the pool in the backyard, which Six immediately filled by directing a heavy rainstorm overhead.
“I’d think you’d want to catch a glimpse of Six in her bathing suit.” I nudge Sam.
His face reddens. “Shut up, dude. I wanted to check the news. You know, be productive.”
“Anything?”
“Aside from now being considered an accomplice and having the reward for me increased to a half million dollars?” Sam asks.
“Oh come on, you know you love it.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool,” he says, grinning. “Anyway, no, nothing new. I don’t see how Henri kept up with all this. There’re literally thousands of stories every day.”
“Henri never slept.”
“Don’t you want to go check out Six in her bathing suit?” Sam asks, turning back to the screen. I’m surprised by the lack of sarcasm in his voice. He knows how I feel about Sarah. And I know how he feels about Six.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I see the way you look at her,” Sam says. He clicks on a link about a plane crash in Kenya. One survivor.
“And how do I look at her, Sam?”
“Never mind.” The survivor is an old woman. Definitely not one of us.
“The Loric fall in love for life, man. And I love Sarah. You know that.”
The Power of Six (I Am Number Four) Page 8
