I Am Number Four: The Lost Files: Last Defense(10)

Below us the city seems eerily quiet, at least from what I can tell. No smoke rising from the buildings. No jets flanking the alien monstrosity blocking the twilight sky from our nation’s capital.

“Where’s the rest of the army?” I ask. “The National Guard? Where are our defenses?”

“Emphasis was put on the evacuation of high-value assets,” Briggs says. “Most of our targets were in the city. You’re one of the few we had to secure by air. Otherwise, we’re under orders to stay grounded. The chopper’s going to drop us near our destination. It’ll serve as a distraction if we need cover while we make the rest of the way on foot.”

“I don’t think we’re getting dropped anywhere if we can’t shake this skimmer.”

Briggs looks at me, confused.

“That’s what we’ve been calling those smaller Mog ships,” I say.

He considers this. “Beats UFOs, I guess.”

The chopper shakes again. Lujan’s yelling at the two men in the cockpit. Something about avoiding collateral damage. Briggs starts shaking his head.

“All right,” he says, leaning his hurt shoulder towards me and looking in the opposite direction. “Do it. Fix my arm.”

“You’re sure?” I ask.

“If we land in a hot zone I don’t want to be limping and unable to aim. Just get it over with.”

While I’m aware of how this should work physically, I’ve never actually put someone’s shoulder back into its socket. Briggs closes his eyes as I take my seat belt off, angling my body as best I can to get some leverage.

“I’m going to count to three,” I say, grabbing his arm. “One . . .”

“Hold on,” Lujan shouts back to us. “We’re going to try something, and this is gonna get bumpy.”

The helicopter veers, throwing me into Briggs. There’s a POP when I hit him.

“Shit!” he shouts.

I think I’ve accidentally reset his shoulder.

It takes a few seconds to understand what the pilot’s doing. Pulling back and slowing down has put the skimmer right beside us: in the perfect line of fire for our machine gun. Bullets rip through its hull, shredding the alien ship.

“Wahoo!” the gunner shouts.

The alien ship’s cockpit goes up in flames, smoke trailing out of it.

Briggs lets out a long breath. “That’s one way to lose a tail.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Lujan says. “You got the piece of shit. Looks like—”

He stops as we watch the skimmer veer to the side, heading right for us. Its pilot is making one final attempt to destroy his target. Our chopper shoots forward, but not in time. The skimmer hits the back of our craft, our tail rotor snapping. And then we’re spiraling down towards the grass below, a plummeting wreckage of glass and metal and screams.





CHAPTER FIVE

I’M AWOKEN BY A SLAP TO THE FACE. MY EYES shoot open, but the world is fuzzy and full of smoke, nothing but blurry shapes and disorienting darkness. For a few seconds I’m afraid I’m back inside the Mog containment pod and that everything that’s happened in the last few months—my escape, reuniting with Sam—was nothing more than one long dream in an induced coma.

Someone is shouting, but I can’t figure out what he’s saying, the sound distorted in my head. I feel myself falling forward and then before I can make sense of what’s happening, someone’s pulling me, dragging me.

Another slap to the face. This definitely isn’t Anu or Zakos: they both preferred needles and blades over getting their hands dirty with human subjects.

Slowly everything comes into focus, and I start to remember what’s going on. I prop myself up on my hands and knees in a soft patch of grass, coughing, trying to catch my breath. My lungs feel like they’re full of smoke and fire. The first things I see are the helicopter and skimmer, scorched mangles of twisted metal a hundred yards away. Lujan and Briggs stand over me, the latter leaning against a tree, taking as much weight off his injured leg as he can. Both their faces are smudged with something dark. The edge of the warship is overhead, blotting out the sky.

As I continue to gasp for air, my head spins. Getting to my feet is a wobbly process, Lujan stepping in to keep me from falling over. Finally, though, I feel grounded enough to assess our surroundings. That’s when I see it, lit up in front of us and blazing against what is now almost full-on night.

“That’s . . . ,” I start, but I can’t finish the thought. I’m too overwhelmed by the realization of where we are, of what’s happened.

“The Washington Monument,” Lujan says. “We’re lucky we went down here, otherwise we might have had civilian casualties. We’re not far from our destination.”

The fact that crash-landing in the middle of half a dozen national landmarks is considered a good thing is probably more telling about the current state of the world than it should be.

“The others?” I ask, remembering the men on board.

“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.”