The Lost Files: Six's Legacy(4)

Katarina is straining to keep her composure. She doesn’t want to frighten me. But she also wants to do the right thing, to honor her responsibilities as a Cêpan. I can tell she’s torn between every possible reaction, from outright panic to philosophical cool; whatever is the best for me and for the fate of the Garde.

She cradles my head, wipes the sweat from my brow. The water and the salve have taken the sharpest edge off the pain, but it still hurts as bad as the first time, maybe worse. But I won’t comment on it. I can see that my pain, and this evidence of Two’s passing, is tormenting Katarina enough.

“We’ll be okay,” says Katarina. “There are still many others. . . .”

I know she is speaking carelessly. She doesn’t mean to put the lives of the Garde before me—Three, Four, and Five—ahead of my own. She is just grasping for consolation. But I won’t let it pass.

“Yeah. It’s so great others have to die before me.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I can see my words have upset her.

I sigh, putting my head against her shoulder.

Sometimes, in my heart of hearts, I use a different name for Katarina. Sometimes to me she’s not Katarina or Vicky or Celeste or any of her other aliases. Sometimes—in my mind—I call her “Mom.”





CHAPTER FOUR



We’re on the road an hour later. Katarina white-knuckles the steering wheel of our truck through country roads, cursing her choice of hideaway. These roads are too rough and dusty to go faster than forty miles per hour, and what we both want is the speed of a highway. Anything to put as much distance as possible between us and our now abandoned shack. Katarina did what she could to scrub our tracks, but if what we imagine is true—the Mogadorians killing Two seconds after we saw her fatal blog post—then they moved fast, and they could be racing towards our abandoned home right now.

As I watch the fields and the hills pass through the passenger window, I realize that they could already be at the shack. In fact, they could already be following us on the road. Feeling like a coward as I do it, I crane my neck and look through the rear window, through the dust trail our truck kicks up in our wake.

No cars trail us.

Not yet, at least.

We packed light. The truck was already loaded with a first-aid kit, a lightweight camping set, bottled water, flashlights, and blankets. Once I was ready to walk again, all I had to do was pick out a few items of clothing for the road and retrieve my Chest from the lockbox under the shack.

The panic of flight gave me little time to feel the searing pain of my second scar, but it returns to me now, lacerating and insistent.

“We shouldn’t have responded,” says Katarina. “I don’t know what we were thinking.”

I look at Katarina for signs of judgment on her face—after all, I’m the one who insisted we write back—and I’m relieved to find none. All I see is her fear, and her determination to get us as far away as possible.

I realize that in the confusion and haste to flee I forgot to notice if we turned north or south at the crossing at the edge of Puerto Blanco.

“U.S.?” I ask.

Katarina nods, pulling our most recent passports from the inside pocket of her army jacket, tossing mine into my lap. I flip it open and peer at my new name.

“Maren Elizabeth,” I say aloud. Katarina puts a lot of time into her forgeries, though I usually complain about the names she chooses for me. When I was eight and we were moving to Nova Scotia, I begged and begged to be named Starla. Katarina vetoed the suggestion. She thought it was too “attention getting,” too exotic. I almost laugh to think about it now. A Katarina in Mexico is about as exotic as you can get. And of course she’s keeping it. Katarina has grown attached to her own name. Sometimes I suspect that Cêpans aren’t so different from parents after all.

Maren Elizabeth . . . it’s no Starla, but I like how it sounds.

I reach down and cradle my calf, just above the throbbing scars on my ankle. By squeezing my calf I can muffle the pain of my sizzled flesh.

But as the pain fades, the fear returns. The fear of our present situation, the horror of Two’s death. I decide to let go of my calf, and I let my leg burn.

Katarina refuses to stop the car for anything but gas and pee breaks. It’s a long trip, but we have ways to pass the time. Mostly we play Shadow, a game that Katarina made up during our previous travels, out of our desire to keep training even when we couldn’t do physical drills.

“A Mogadorian scout races at you from two o’clock, wielding a twenty-inch blade in his left arm. He swings.”

“I crouch,” I say. “Dodge left.”

“He swings around, the blade above your head.”

“From the ground, a kick to the groin. A leg sweep, from his right side to his left.”

“On his back, but he grabs your arm.”

“I let him. I use the force of his grip to swing my legs free, up, and then down to his face. Step on his face, pull my hand free.”

It’s a strange game. It forces me to separate the physical from reality, to fight with my brain and not my body. I used to complain about games of Shadow, saying it was all made up, that it wasn’t real. Fighting was fists, and feet, and heads. It wasn’t brains. It wasn’t words.

But the more Shadow we played, the better I got at drills, especially hand-to-hand drills with Katarina. I couldn’t deny that the game made good practice. It made me a better fighter. I have come to love it.