The Forgotten Ones

Rex reaches for the door of the restaurant but I grab him by the shoulder. “Later.”



He makes a sour face, but drops the door handle. He knows as well as I do that we don’t have any money to pay for a meal. Food can wait. The first thing we need is cash. I’m still standing on the sidewalk, wondering how feasible it would be to rob a bank, when a stout, middle-aged couple exits the diner and brushes past me. They continue on down the street, and I watch as a skinny young guy carrying a tattered gray backpack bumps into the husband—and swipes his wallet.



It happens so fast that I almost can’t believe what I saw. For a second I consider running after the pickpocket, taking the wallet away from him and returning it to the couple.



But Rex has a different idea.



“We need money, right?” he asks, his eyes following the pickpocket, who’s now strolling down the street, the very picture of nonchalance. “Follow him, but not too close. We don’t want him seeing us.”



I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I nod, and together we start after the pickpocket. Whatever he has in mind, I hope it works.



The criminal works hard, I’ll give him that. From what I can see he swipes three more wallets and two purses over the course of the next hour, stuffing everything into his bag without pausing for a second. Somehow he never doubles back, never walks the same street twice.



At one point I spot a cop car, but the thief spots it too, and lays low until he’s well out of sight. This guy’s obviously a pro.



After the cops are gone and the guy’s just swiped his second purse, Rex nudges me. “Get ready.” He crosses the street, picks up the pace to get a block ahead of our prey and then cuts back over and starts heading towards me.



There’s an alley up ahead, and Rex times it perfectly—he’s just passing the pickpocket on the outside when they both reach the alley, and with a quick shove he sends the smaller guy tumbling sideways—right into the alley and temporarily out of sight. Or at least as close as we can manage. I hurry to catch up.



The thief doesn’t waste any time complaining, or asking what we want, or anything like that. Instead he bolts for the alley’s far side as I follow them both into the narrow brick corridor that dead-ends against a brick wall with one lonely dumpster. I can already see his plan—he’s going to spring up its side, launching himself partway up the wall, and then grab the top and lever himself over. Leaving us in the dust. Frustrated, I pick up my pace, as does Rex, but it’s obvious we’re not going to catch up to the pickpocket before he hits that dumpster.



I stop short—we don’t have much time and I can think of only one other way to stop this guy in his tracks. I channel my angry emotions, raise my hand and focus on the ground below that dumpster.



“Come on!” I mutter, gritting my teeth. And just as the thief makes that first jump, I feel a small tremor in the ground. The dumpster comes flying towards us. It slams into the pickpocket, hurling him against the alley’s side wall. He hits it hard enough that we hear the air escape his lungs as he collapses in a heap on the ground.



“What was that?” Rex says as he runs back.



“Looked to me like he was planning to go up and over,” I reply as I crouch down next to him. He’s still breathing, which is good—there’s a big difference between killing Mogs who are attacking you and killing some idiot who steals people’s wallets for a living. The impact just knocked him out. I glance over at the dumpster. “Guess he didn’t realize the dumpster was on wheels.” I rifle through his backpack, finding all of his stolen goods and passing them back to Rex one by one. “Grab the cash, leave the rest.” A minute later we’ve dropped the empty bags back in the guy’s lap and are on our way. We’ve now got about thirteen hundred dollars between us. Not too shabby.



“First things first,” I tell Rex as we exit the alley. “Supplies, a decent meal and then we’ll figure out how to get to Plum Island from here.”



Rex nods. “Supplies, food, transportation, check.”



It’s a little weird to find ourselves suddenly working together so easily—I could almost forget that we’re supposed to be enemies. And while I’m glad that Rex isn’t attacking me or trying to get in touch with Mog base command, I remind myself not to get too comfortable. It’s nice to finally have someone to talk to, but I can’t let myself think he’s my friend.



Still, it won’t hurt to get some food together, right?



We turn back towards the center of town, but as we’re looping around I’m distracted for a second by what looks like the shadow of a figure running past us. I jump a little, and Rex gives me a funny look.



I must just be tired and hungry. When I scan up and down the sidewalk, there’s no one at all in sight.



All the way back to the restaurant, though, I can’t quite shake the fear that we’re being followed. And I don’t mean by Dust, who’s currently circling overhead as a hawk.



In a booth at the diner, even the taste of French fries and a milk shake doesn’t help me shake the feeling that I’m being watched. And that can only mean one thing. Mogadorians.



CHAPTER EIGHT



TWO HOURS LATER, WE’RE SITTING ON HAY BALES in the back of a pickup truck, the wind whistling through our hair. We both ate well—and I got a doggie bag for Dust—and even picked up some new clothes, then rented a room at a motel to shower and change. I managed to snag a burner cell phone too when Rex wasn’t looking, but Malcolm didn’t answer his phone and I didn’t want to leave a message—just in case someone else gets their hands on his phone. I hope he and Sam are okay, but it’s impossible to know. Just another thing to worry about.



Get yourself together, I tell myself. You’ve come this far. Just put one foot in front of the other. This is important.



And what I’m doing is important. I’m sure it is. I’ve already seen how powerful Dust is just on his own. Finding the rest of the Chimæra and reuniting them with the Garde might turn the tide in their favor. It could easily mean the difference between victory and defeat, not just for the Loric but for all of Earth.



However, if my people crack the genetic code allowing them to breed an endless supply of new vatborn soldiers with the Chimæra’s shape-shifting abilities, the fight is as good as over.



One’s death will have been for nothing. My betrayal will have been for nothing too.



So even though I’m tired, lonely and feel like I’m starting to go a little bit crazy, I know that I have to get to Plum Island. I have to free the Chimæra. If I can do it without getting myself killed in the process, that will be a bonus.



Before I can do any of that, though, I have to get out of New Mexico.



It turns out that’s easier said than done. There’s a train. Unfortunately it only makes three stops—one here, one in Colorado and a final stop in Wyoming. None of that was going to bring us anywhere near New York.



The bus isn’t an option either. The nearest Greyhound station turns out to be in Colorado as well, a town named Alamosa, about forty or fifty miles from here. That’s one hell of a walk.



Rex suggested stealing a car, but besides the fact that it’s something I have no idea how to do, it feels too risky. You can’t save the world if you’re in jail for carjacking. I briefly consider trying to rent a car, but without any credit cards or ID, I doubt we’d get very far with that plan.



That leaves hitchhiking. Rex and I have the pallid, whiter-than-white skin of Mogadorians, and Rex has his military tattoo on his skull, none of which makes us particularly appealing passengers. But we both pull the hoods of our new sweatshirts up and hope to hide our more recognizable alien features.



I’m not sure how well it works, but we also have a secret weapon: Dust has had the good sense to turn himself into the world’s most appealing golden retriever. The kind of dog people slow down just to look at.



Before long, it works. The third vehicle to pass us is a slightly battered pickup truck. It pulls right up ahead of us on the shoulder of the road. The middle-aged driver who rolls down the window has “rancher” written all over him, from the weathered skin to the callused hands to the worn flannel shirt and blue jeans. “Give you fellas a lift?” he asks.



“That’d be great, thanks,” I answer, stepping up to the passenger side. “We’re trying to get to Alamosa.”



“Easy enough,” he assures me. “Don’t think I can fit all three of you up here with me, but you’re welcome to hop in back.”



I glance down at the passenger seat, which is covered with a bunch of packed grocery bags. “Back sounds good, thanks,” I assure him. I gesture for Rex to climb in, and Dust hops over the side after him. I jump in last, and then we’re off.



We’re in Alamosa an hour later. “Where’re you going in town?” he calls back through his open window as we pull up to a stoplight. “Anywhere in particular?”



“The bus station,” I shout back, and he nods. Ten minutes later he brakes in front of a small redbrick building with a big Greyhound sign out front.



“Thanks again,” I tell him as we all clamber out. “Can I give you some money for gas?”



He waves that off. “I was heading this way anyway,” he assures me. “You boys get home safe now!” I wave back as he drives off.



He didn’t have to take us here or turn down our money. He could have taken one look at us and figured us for hoodlums. But this isn’t Mogador. Here, it’s not considered weak to help someone else.



This driver is exactly the kind of person One and the other Garde are fighting to protect. The kind of person my race wants to enslave or slaughter.



I can’t—I won’t—let that happen. So I buy two tickets to Kansas City.



Dust is safely tucked away in my pocket, in lizard form, and we all settle in for the trip.



As our bus speeds off down the highway, Rex closes his eyes. I look over at him and wonder what he’s thinking. Part of me wants to believe that spending time with me and Dust has changed him. That maybe he’s struggling with himself the way I once did, questioning the tenets of the Good Book that have been drilled into his head since he learned to walk.



I wonder too if he wants to know why no one’s out looking for him. If he’s angry to learn exactly how disposable he is to the Mogadorians. I know how it feels.



Eventually I drift off to sleep. As I do, One appears to me again. I know it’s not really her. Sometimes a dream is just a dream. But she speaks to me in her own voice for the first time in ages. “You’re different from him,” she reminds me. “You can’t trust him. Hate is in his blood. It always will be.”



“It’s in my blood too,” I say.



“Was in your blood. Until you met me.”



When I wake up, I wonder if she’s right. I honestly don’t know the answer. Maybe I never will.



Almost exactly a day later, we pull into Kansas City. Union Station is a big, imposing stone building, easily a city block in every direction, and I gaze up at it as we step out of our bus.