I Am Number Four: The Lost Files: Last Defense(26)

Joe—I guess—squints at us. “I’m not due for a break for another hour.”

Briggs snorts. “You want to keep working, that’s fine with me.”

The man’s nose twitches as he turns his attention to me, raising an eyebrow.

“Our guest’s a science guy.” Briggs shrugs. “He’s interested in the software we’re using. Plus, it’s boring as shit down here, and he’s keeping me entertained with stories about ETs.”

“Fine, whatever,” Joe says. He gets up and leaves, muttering something about how bad the food is here. Briggs glares at him as he exits.

“We go way back,” he mutters. “That guy’s such a prick.”

“Come with me,” I say. “You’re going to be in trouble when they find out you helped me.”

He shakes his head. “I’d be in more trouble if I deserted. Besides, technically you’re not a prisoner. I’ll just tell them you manipulated me into helping you and I fell for it. Which . . . probably isn’t far from the truth. Unless you want to hit me over the head with my gun or something, but I think I’d rather them think you outsmarted me than overpowered me. No offense.”

“Briggs, I . . .” But I don’t know what else to say. “Thank you.”

He taps on the controls. I scrawl a number down on a notepad I find lying nearby.

“This is my number. See if you can get it to Richards. Tell him this is how Jackson can reach me. Tell them . . . it’s a family matter. Believe it or not, I think the president might understand.”

On the wall opposite us, a metal panel slides away, revealing a small elevator.

“That’ll take you topside,” Briggs says, pocketing the note. “Eventually someone will come looking for you. Better not be in the area when they do. They might insist you come back.”

“I think I’ve run more in the last few days than in my entire life,” I say as I jog to the elevator. Gamera buzzes after me.

It’s only when the door starts sliding shut that I realize I don’t know what’s waiting for me above. “Wait, where are we?”

“Didn’t Richards tell you? Liberty Base.” He gets a little grin before he disappears behind the closing metal door.

I’m shot up what feels like several stories before I finally come to a stop. The door opens, and for a moment the sunshine is blinding. I step out onto a bed of grass and pine needles as my eyes adjust.

I turn in time to see the wall behind me slide shut, until it looks like nothing but another section of the giant white stone wall in front of me—a dam of sorts. I take a few steps away, trying to figure out where I am. That’s when I see a faded brochure and map on the ground, half buried. “Liberty Reservoir,” it reads. I dust it off. According to the map on the back, I’m north of DC, not that far from Baltimore.

“All right,” I say, glancing at the dragonfly on my shoulder. “Let’s find a road.”

I start to jog. Gamera zips forward, morphing in midair, until he’s turned into a horse. He rears back and then stands in front of me, shaking his mane.

I think I’ve found a faster way to get away from the bunker.

My phone rings as I hoist myself onto Gamera’s back. Sam’s on the other end of the line when I answer.

“Hi, Dad,” he says.

“Son,” I say as Gamera starts to gallop. “Where am I going?”





EXCERPT FROM THE FATE OF TEN


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





PROLOGUE

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 . . .”