(After Last Chapter)
FOCUSING ON THE STORM I JUST CREATED, I send a lightning bolt straight down to the three-headed, alligator-like creature before it can attack Eight again. The bolt stuns the monster for a second and Nine jumps into the fray, hitting the beast with his staff. Out of the corner of my eye I see Marina helping Eight, putting her healing Legacy to use on his injured shoulder while the creature is distracted. Good—we can’t have any of us down for the count for too long.
As soon as
Nine is out of the way I fire off two more lightning strikes, knocking the
thing down once again. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times and what we hit
it with—it just keeps getting back up.
Suddenly a
strange whistle pierces the air, and I whip around to see Five blowing into
some weird flute. Where did he get that? And where has he been? Sitting this
battle out? The noise has done something to the mutant alligator, though—it has
laid down almost like it’s falling asleep.
I listen to
Nine and Five bicker as usual for a minute until I can’t stand it anymore.
“Would one of you just kill that thing so we can get out of here?” I look back
at the monster, keeping an eye on it to make sure it doesn’t suddenly rear up
and take us all by surprise again.
Boom!
Something slams into my head, and pain and darkness take me.
“Come on,
Six . . . ,” Marina whispers. “Wake up.” Her hands are cool on both sides of my
throbbing head, either from her Legacy or because my injury is making me feverish.
My head aches like someone is taking a sledgehammer to my skull. Repeatedly. I
don’t try to open my eyes yet because I can already tell that would be a really
bad idea. I can’t even move my lips to tell her I’m awake, that I’m conscious,
because everything hurts too much.
Whatever
Marina is doing seems to be working, though, and I can feel the pain starting
to lessen. After about a minute, Marina’s hands carefully slide my head off her
lap and onto the ground. I still can’t move but a small groan slips through my
lips.
I feel her
next to me, standing up and walking away. I take a deep breath and slowly flex
my hands and feet and focus on honing in on the areas that still hurt. I can
move my arms and legs, and nothing seems to be broken. I’m sore and will
probably be bruised all over, but my aching head and face seem to be the areas
that bore the brunt of whatever hit me. Marina’s healing Legacy to the rescue
once again.
Everything still hurts so much,
though, that returning to unconsciousness sounds very appealing, but I have to
stay awake. I need to figure out what the hell just happened to me. How I got
taken out.
What is the
last thing I can recall? I remember the old man by the dock where we rented our
boat. He reeked of booze and fuel, but he didn’t ask any questions so we didn’t
mind. He sold us a map of the area too. Our boat was the kind propelled by a
giant fan.
Nine was
driving. Marina and Eight were lookouts.
And I was
supposed to be navigating, but I couldn’t figure out how to read the tattered
old map.
But Five .
. . Five was scouting ahead and knew exactly where we were headed. We were
looking for something. . . .
Five’s
Chest. Hidden somewhere out here in the bayou backwaters.
We should
have been in and out.
Then I saw
a scaly hide and yellow fangs rise from the murky brown swamp water. I remember
shouting “Look out!” just as the creature swooped in for the attack. Another
Mogadorian monster, the latest in the line of freak-show entries they’ve sent
to kill us.
It attacked
us, and I must have gotten knocked out. So while everyone else is fighting that
humongous beast, I’m on the sidelines, injured.
Great. I swear I’m going to fry that
damn thing with the biggest, baddest lightning bolt I can muster. At the very
least, I owe it a sucker punch to the face. Now I just need to get up.
I may not
be able to move or look at the battle, but as I lie here trying to clear my
head, I can still hear what’s
happening. In a way, it’s like the combat game Katarina and I used to play on
our road trips, driving hours from tiny town to tiny town and back to stay
ahead of the Mogs, when we couldn’t take the time to stop, rest, stretch our
legs and get in some real, physical practice.
Shadow, we called it. She’d play the
part of a Mog attacker and lay out scenarios for me to respond to. I’d have to
fight back using my brain instead of just reflexes and gut instinct.
Now, the
physical fight is going on right around me, and I have to try to figure out
what’s happening without actually participating. Then I’ll know what to do when
I can finally get my feet back under me. I won’t help anyone by jumping in just
to get myself killed.
When I try
to focus, what I don’t hear is the
shrieking of that gigantic swamp monster. Did they finish it off, or has it only
retreated under the water, licking its wounds? One way or another, we need to
get out of here before Mogadorian reinforcements arrive. Because that was
definitely a Mog monster, and if it found us, the Mogs can’t be far behind.
I hear what
sounds like more fighting—shouting, grunting and the occasional noise of
impact. Maybe the Mogs have shown up already? I can’t tell. But I have to
imagine there would be a lot more fighting and explosions if the Mogs were
here. I listen for Marina but I’m having a hard time distinguishing the voices
from one another.
One of the
guys yells. “Shut up!”
Someone
else is laughing.
What the
hell is going on? What is there to laugh about? Did they defeat the beast?
There—that’s
Nine. That arrogant voice is unmistakably his: “Are you even listening to
yourself, bro?”
But who is
he talking to? Eight or Five? Or even Marina? I wouldn’t put it past him to
call her bro.
I need to
get up. I need to help. A dark pit of frustration forms somewhere in my
stomach, behind the sick feeling that’s keeping me stuck here. I’m no good at
waiting. It makes me feel so useless. No one’s going to die today because I was
here on the sidelines like some damsel in distress. That’s not me.
I try to
get up before I really think about it. I’ve had better ideas; I barely manage
to move an inch. Fortunately, the skull-splitting pain has been replaced by a
duller migraine. It’s still incredibly painful, but nowhere near as bad as it
should be based on how hard I got hit.
I finally
manage to open my eyes. My vision is a little hazy, but it clears when I blink
a few times. The sky is still dark with the thunderclouds I summoned, so not
much time must have passed. When I get up I should still be able to work with
the clouds, save myself some energy by not having to create a new storm. But
that will have to wait until I can see what’s going on. Nine can be annoying
and cocky, but that’s not worth accidentally frying him.
I take a
deep breath. I have one thing going for me: If I’ve been counted out or forgotten,
I’ll have the element of surprise on my side when I’m able to get back into the
fray. I can use my invisibility to move in close and get in a solid blow before
anyone even knows I’ve recovered.
All in all,
I’ve felt better. I mean, lying in squelching swamp mud with a recently
fractured skull isn’t exactly my idea of fun.
But while I
still feel groggy and achy, I know I can pull through and focus. After
surviving capture by the Mogadorians and everything else they’ve thrown at the
rest of us since then, I’m tough enough to get through a headache.
Here we go, I think, and brace myself
against the muddy ground as well as I can. One, two—
A wave of
nausea knocks me back onto the ground. Marina must not have been able to
finish. I don’t usually feel like this much of a mess when she’s had the proper
time and space to do her work.
That, or my
injuries are worse than we both thought.
There are
some things you can’t prepare for, no matter how much time you spend training.
I still
hear shouting, but it’s not clear who’s talking. I turn my head carefully
toward the voices, but I can’t see anyone from this completely useless angle on
the ground.
No, wait,
there’s Eight. He has his hands out in front of him and his voice is too quiet
to hear, almost like he’s trying to plead for calm.
But who is
he talking to? The Mogs? Talking to them will never work, so I don’t know why
he’s wasting his breath.
Where are
the others? I look around and try to piece together as much as I can. No sign
of the swamp beast after all; they must have put it down while I was out cold.
Good riddance. There are enough scaly, ugly Mogadorian monsters in the world.
I close my
eyes and concentrate on the voices. Suddenly, Marina’s higher-pitched voice
joins in with the others. I hear her shout, “His left hand!” I’m not sure what
she means—whose left hand? What is going on?
A pained
scream that sounds like it came from one of the guys jerks me to a sitting
position—are they fighting some new creature that emerged from the swamp? A second
scream sends a cold wave of fear through me.
And then,
nothing. Everything’s gone quiet, too quiet, I think—and more than anyone
shouting or screaming, that frightens me. When they were making noise, at least
I knew that they were alive and fighting back.
I’m
relieved when I hear Marina’s voice again and I lean back on my elbows,
conserving my energy for a moment. She’s speaking too softly to make out any of
the words. The worrisome thing is that she doesn’t sound happy, or triumphant,
or any other tone of voice I’d be remotely comforted to hear.
My palms
itch with the desire to get moving. I breathe deeply again, dig my heels into
the swampy ground underneath me. I’m bracing myself for another attempt to sit
up, fighting my body’s exhaustion and all its attempts, through pain and nausea
and an irritating stiffness in my mud-splattered limbs, to warn me to stay
still. Enough of that.
All at
once, before I can change my mind, I heave myself forward into a full sitting
position. My head swims for a moment, but the nausea doesn’t get worse.
I’m done
lying here in the mud. I’m done feeling sorry for myself. I’m done thinking
about the people I’ve lost—or might still lose.
Time to make sure that doesn’t
happen.
I grit my
teeth against the dull pain at the back of my head and look up. I must have
fallen somewhere off to the side. I can see the others through some tree
branches, all of them standing around tensely. But I can’t see who they’ve been
arguing with. It looks like Nine’s hurt, badly, and Marina clearly hasn’t had a
moment to work on him. Not good.
Suddenly
they all start moving but I can’t see them clearly enough to tell what’s
happening—is something attacking them? Where is it coming from?
Then I hear
Marina scream.
“Don’t!”
she yells, but I’m not sure who or what she’s yelling at—I need to get over
there now, yesterday. At this point,
it looks like Nine’s in worse shape than I am. And I’ll be more helpful over
there, in the battle where I belong.
I duck my
head and start to stand up, for real this time. I pull a few long strands of
hair from my eyes, wipe some mud off my face, and lever myself up onto stiff,
unsteady legs. Okay, so far so good. I pause for a minute before lurching
forward.
Something
is happening—I see a large shape in the air. Is a mutant bird attacking us?
Then I hear someone scream, “NO!”
And I’m
just about to clear the twisted old tree obstructing my view when it happens.
I’m too
late.
I’m too
late, and there’s a familiar, searing pain burning across my ankle. A pain I’ve
felt only three times before. A pain I’d hoped never to feel again.
It sweeps
my feet right back out from under me. I crumple to the ground, biting back a
scream of my own. I grab my ankle helplessly.
My fingers
dig into the gnarled tree bark, half to steady myself, half to distract me from
the intense pain in my leg.
I don’t need to look down. I know
all too well what that pain means.
It’s
happened. Just when we’d finally found each other, one of us is lost.
Another
Garde is dead.
