The Fugitive (5 page)

“What the—” he starts.

I muster all the strength inside me—every weight lifted and drill run and tackle practiced—and break free from the agents’ grips.

I hit the cement floor just as the grenade goes off.

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.

I WAKE UP TO SOMEONE POUNDING ON MY HOTEL
room door and am on my feet and throwing clothes on in record time, ready to fly out the bathroom window and disappear into the woods. I forget that I have a damned gunshot wound on my arm until I pull my bag over my shoulder and end up wincing in pain, grinding my teeth together to keep from shouting. I’m just about to make a dash towards the window in the bathroom when I notice that I’m still logged onto the blog’s chat client—I remembered to keep the computer plugged in this time—and that GUARD has sent me like a dozen messages telling me to expect someone, and to answer when they come knocking and to not use my real name or info when they ask for it.

Reluctantly, I look through the door’s peephole. There’s a man with a clipboard. He’s wearing the kind of shirt that has his name sewed onto a patch on his
chest. I slowly open the door, keeping it chained.

“Hey,” I say through the few inches of space.

“You expecting a big delivery?” he asks. He smells like a cigar and is sweaty, even though it can’t be very hot outside.

“Uh . . . yeah?” This must be another one of GUARD’s care packages.

He holds the clipboard out in front of himself, obviously waiting for me to open up the door so that he can hand it to me. Instead, I squeeze my right hand out and grab it, sliding it in through the crack. The man sighs loudly and mutters something about what a pain in the ass this job has been today.

“I need you to sign the top one and fill out the one underneath,” he says.

“Okay. Give me a second.”

The top form on the clipboard is from some towing-and-cargo service that wants a signature as proof of delivery. The other page has something to do with a title, and wants my name and home address.

GUARD’s message suddenly makes sense.

Still trying to wrap my brain around what’s happening, I rely on the name GUARD used in his first package delivery and that I’ve been using at motels. I sign “Jolly Roger” on the forms. As for my address, I think of the dogs waiting for me at home: 182 Abby St. in Dozer, OH, with a random assortment of numbers as a zip code.

When I hand back the forms, I actually open the door. The man takes a look at the pages.

“Interesting name,” he says.

“It’s, uh, a family thing.” I shrug.

I’m expecting him to hand me a box, but instead he holds out a pair of keys.

“It’s gassed up,” he says as I take the keys and stare at them dumbly. “Per the instructions we received.”

“Instructions?” I ask, but the man’s already halfway to a big tow truck parked right in front of my room.

“Make sure you get her insured,” he calls back to me. “They’re not supposed to let you drive off without proof of insurance, but . . . hell, whatever you said on the phone to the boss at the dealership must have been pretty convincing to drag me out of bed so early.”

He starts to walk away as I stand dumbfounded in the doorway to my hotel room. I click the Unlock button on the keys in my hand, and a shiny, blue, extended-cab truck honks in the parking lot.

I run back inside to the computer.

Me: You’re kidding me with this right?

GUARD: It should get you to where you need to go.

Me: This is crazy.

GUARD: As crazy as invaders from Mogadore?

GUARD: I figured I might owe you after everything you’ve been through.

Me: What about my other truck?

GUARD: A separate towing company is picking it up in an hour and taking it to a secure location. Get anything you need out of it now.

Something clicks in my brain, even over the rush of the fact that
I have a new truck
.

Me: Wait. How did u kno where I am?

GUARD: I’ve been monitoring the netbook I sent you. I can track it, even when it’s powered down. Once I knew the place you were staying, I just had to nudge the front desk for your room number.

A weird feeling overtakes me—something I haven’t felt since Sarah started dating John. A particular sort of anger that can only come from realizing that I’ve been betrayed by someone I thought was looking out for me.

GUARD has been keeping tabs on me this whole time. Why? I start to worry that this whole “drive towards Alabama” thing is just a prank.

Me: What the hell man?

GUARD: Apologies. I had to make sure we were working towards the same goal. There’s a lot of double-crossing going on in the world right now.

GUARD: If it makes any difference, I trust you.

Before I can respond, he messages me an address in Alabama.

Me: Is this where you’re at?

GUARD: It’s what I’ve gotten set up for you. Home sweet home. I’ll be stopping by to see you soon.

GUARD: Now if I were you, I’d get the hell out of Louisiana.

I sign off. I’m about to pack up my netbook when I realize that I didn’t write to Sarah yesterday, so I sit back on the bed and open up my email.

Sarah—

I don’t even know what to say about the last twenty-four hours. You know what’s funny? When we were both still in Paradise, I actually thought that maybe we’d go to prom together. Not dating or anything, just together. I was worried about prom. Getting a tux and corsage and crap.

Yesterday I got shot at by a bunch of FBI agents. Sarah, I hope you’re okay. . . .

I’m not saying my old truck was a piece of crap or anything, but this new one is kind of the shit. I’m still pissed that GUARD’s been secretly tracking me this whole time, but my new wheels help make up for that.

I plug the address GUARD sent me into the truck’s GPS system and head towards Alabama. My destination is about eight hours away. I can make it to my new home base by the late afternoon. That leaves me with plenty of time to figure out what the hell has happened in the last few days. Time to digest—just me, an energy drink and eight hours of open road and news radio.

Some of the FBI is working with the Mogs. I don’t know how many agents, or what percentage. Actually, if the FBI is working with them, then there are probably other agencies on their side as well. And some of the
government
is in on it too. Sanderson is proof enough of that. There are some people rebelling, but again, it could be just Walker and her team or half the FBI. There are so many variables that it’s impossible for me to even begin to imagine things like odds or stats. All I know for sure is that the majority of the world knows nothing about what’s really going on. If they did . . .

That’s where my focus should be. Trying to convince people that there’s an actual threat here. That there are aliens who will think nothing of destroying our planet if it means getting what they want—whatever that is. Who might even be gearing up for a full-scale invasion or something. I need to find more proof of what’s happening. I need to turn They Walk Among Us into a movement. Maybe even an
army
.

And it all goes back to Sarah again. Not just because
I promised—and
want
—to protect her, but because we need her to get to the other Garde. She’s our connection. But I still have no idea how to find her. I need to step my search for her up to the next level. I think about posting a message to her on TWAU but realize that the dumbest thing I could do is get her face or name out there where some assclown might see her and try to tell me where she is, only to alert other authorities. I should discuss options with GUARD. Maybe he can pull some hacker moves and break into her email account or something. Maybe he can even track her face using security cameras.

We have to find her. Not for her sake or mine, but for the world’s. So we can create a united front with the Loric.

And it would be great to have someone helping me out. In person. Someone I knew and trusted and cared for. Someone to keep me from being lost and alone in all this.

At a little drugstore just across the Alabama border, I stop to buy butterfly bandages. I try to remember a time when I didn’t have problems like taking care of gunshot wounds or running from government agencies. It wasn’t that long ago. Just a few months. A weird thing happens as I think about Friday nights under stadium lights and hanging out with my buddies after games. Usually when I do this, I wish I could go back
and enjoy not knowing what’s going on in the world. But now I’m glad I have a much bigger purpose. I can do great things.

Not that I wasn’t great before. I’m just in a position now where I can do some truly capital-
A
Awesome shit.

The address GUARD gave me takes me through Huntsville, which looks like a pretty good-sized town, and then out into nothingness and a series of back roads and dirt trails that lead me closer and closer to the edge of a national park. I start to worry that the GPS has completely failed at its job of getting me to the base until a structure finally comes into view. It’s almost completely hidden by hills and trees, set back from a dirt path. The GPS tells me that I’ve arrived at my destination just as I stop in front of a giant wrought-iron gate topped with the words “Yellowhammer Ranch.”

It doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in a long time.

There’s no lock on the gate, which is good for me right now but also means that the place probably has shit security. As I drive over a cattle guard and onto the property, my stomach starts to clench up a little bit. This whole thing feels really weird—as if I’m trespassing on someone else’s property.

The house is one story and looks like a big log cabin.

Great. I’m attending Fugitive Camp.

I stay alert. I’m not going to do what I did at the warehouse and just barge in—though, at this point, the
FBI or Mogs would have to go pretty far out of their way in order to track me to this remote location. I knock on the front door since I have no idea if I’m actually in the right place or not. When no one answers, I circle the house just to make sure there’s not some rancher out herding sheep or whatever it is people do in places like this. But there’s only overgrown fields marked off by barbed-wire fences and a barn out back that’s missing almost all of one side and is obviously empty. A big patch of grass in front of it has been flattened and burned in places, like something really big was sitting on top of it that was only recently moved. I shrug and look around, guessing that there was a tractor or something there that got hauled off.

Back on the front porch, I try the doorknob. The house is unlocked.

“Hello?” I call, but there’s no sound or movement, so I head in and find a light switch. The place looks like I’d expect a country home to look. There’s a lot of oversized furniture, mostly made out of wood. A cow skull hangs over the fireplace. A leather couch sits in front of a projector-style big-screen TV that’s probably as old as I am and I’m guessing weighs a ton. I open up the refrigerator in the kitchen out of curiosity and see that it’s stocked with essentials: milk, water, and even a few steaks. The pantry’s got a bunch of food in it too. Everything looks fresh.

Thanks, GUARD, for making sure I don’t starve.

I check out a few of the bedrooms, but there’s nothing really interesting until I stop in front of a quilt hanging at the end of a hallway near the back of the house. There’s a note on it that says
“Look behind me.”

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