I Am Number Four: The Lost Files: Last Defense(9)

Above us the skimmers have circled and are coming in for a pass. There’s a loud banging sound from across the lawn as one of the craft goes up in flames. I follow the trail of smoke from the explosion down to the helicopter. That’s when I realize it’s a gunship, likely full of all sorts of weaponry.

“Go!” Briggs shouts, opening fire again.

I sprint, focusing in on the chopper and ignoring everything else around me. For someone who’s spent the majority of the last decade in an induced coma, muscles atrophying and disintegrating, I make a hell of a good run for it. Ashwood is a blur, but I’m aware of gunfire all around me and can hear the sizzle and electric pulse of the Mogadorian blasters firing. There’s another bang from the chopper. In my peripheral vision, I see the Mog Humvee go up in flames.

It turns out Lujan is already in the helicopter, firing from what I think is a grenade launcher. He pulls me inside when I get there, half pushing me towards a seat in the back. I buckle in, wedging my bag between my feet, trying to weigh the pros and cons of unleashing Gamera now. The problem is that I don’t know these men, or where I’m even going. With all the pain and suffering that’s happened because of my actions in the past, I couldn’t stand the thought of Gamera or any of the Chim?rae ending up dissected on a lab table in some government research facility in the name of science.

Lujan yells into a walkie-talkie.

“Asset on board. We’re taking off in five seconds whether you’re here or not.”

It’s a command not only for Briggs, but for the pilot, who nods.

There’s a second soldier in the cockpit in addition to the pilot. I assume he’s the one targeting with the gunship’s main weapons. Another soldier is adjusting the mount on a huge machine gun pointing out the side of the chopper opposite where I entered. His eyes are on the sky, focused on the incoming skimmers, firing away.

Briggs practically throws himself into the chopper a few seconds later. He shouts when he lands, then scrambles to his knees. One of his boots is covered in blood, and his left arm dangles limply at his side.

“Get us the hell out of here!” Lujan barks at the pilot. He turns to the man on the gun. “Mark your targets.”

As the chopper shudders and begins to shoot up, I attempt to help Briggs into the seat beside me, asking if he’s okay. But he shakes me off, gritting his teeth as he buckles in. I lean forward, trying to get a glimpse of the incoming ships.

Three skimmers open fire at once. Our chopper veers to one side, throwing us all about as we narrowly evade being hit. Carnage rains down on Ashwood, and we’re caught in the cross fire. I brace myself and resist the urge to vomit. This is the first time I’ve been in a helicopter. At least that I’m aware of.

“Knock those bastards out of the sky!” Lujan shouts.

Machine gun fire fills the air, followed by the acrid, metallic smell of discharged rounds. A bigger weapon fires from somewhere near the front of the craft. I clench my jaw and grip the straps holding me in so hard I think I might be drawing blood.

Shock waves from an explosion somewhere outside rock the helicopter. A skimmer goes down in flames.

“Damn,” Briggs says. “One of those Bureau bastards must have been packing a Stinger.”

We fly forward. One skimmer circles Ashwood, but the other is in fast pursuit of us, darting and flying zigzag loops to avoid the shots still being fired from our helicopter.

“Whatever you found in that base,” Lujan says, shouting over the noise, “they must not want it to get out.”

What did we miss? Or what are we overlooking?

“I haven’t found anything,” I say.

“Yeah, but they probably don’t know that.”

“Could be they’re just pissed-off aliens,” Briggs mutters.

As he speaks, he awkwardly tries to pull up his blood-soaked left pant leg with his right arm.

“Let me help,” I offer.

He takes a few deep breaths, sweat beading on his forehead, before leaning back into his seat. I take that as an okay and manage to get his pant leg pulled out of his boot and up over a hole that’s been shot clean through his calf. He points to a med kit attached to the inner hull and then talks me through cleaning and covering the wound with a compression bandage.

“Caught me midsprint,” he says between instructions and long strings of profanity. “Came down hard on my shoulder. Think I knocked it out of the socket.”

“I can try to put it back in if you want.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“Technically . . . ,” I say, “I’m an astronomer.”

Briggs just stares back at me, wheels turning in his head as he thinks about how to respond. But he doesn’t get a chance to. One of the skimmer shots hits us, and we take a sudden dip, dropping what must be hundreds of feet in the air in the course of seconds. I’m sure we’re going to crash, but the pilot levels us out.

“Dammit,” I hear Lujan shout as he picks the gunner up off the floor and helps him get back to his post.

“We can’t outrun this thing!” the pilot shouts.

As Lujan confers with the other soldiers, I strain to look out the window. That’s when I see it: the Mogadorian warship hovering over Washington DC.

“Impossible,” I murmur, knowing full well it’s not, that it’s real. But seeing the giant ship in person is something I’m not prepared for, even after all the TV coverage. It’s awe inspiring in the worst possible way.