The Mogadorians are here. I’m going to die.
I can’t imagine what Rey is doing back at the shack. How many Mogs are here? How many can he take on? I hope I’m right, and it’s just a single scout. I realize I haven’t heard any gunshots. Is that a good sign, or does it mean the bastards got to him before he was able to fire off a single round?
Keep going, I tell myself, and then start out again. My calves are burning and my lungs feel like they’re about to split open every time I inhale. I stumble, hitting the ground hard and knocking what little breath I had out of me.
Somewhere behind me, I can hear movement in the trees.
I glance around. Without a clear view of the sky, I can’t even tell which direction I’m going anymore. I’m totally screwed. I have to do something.
I abandon the plan to cross the island. I’m in no shape to do so. For a moment I think of burrowing down into the brush—maybe finding something to hide in until I can slip through the forest—but then I think of all the fist-sized spiders and ants and snakes that could be waiting there for me, and imagine a Mogadorian scout stepping on me by accident.
So I head up instead. Gathering every ounce of strength I have, I use a few sturdy vines to pull myself hand over hand up to a low branch on a nearby tree. All I can think of are the many different types of beasts Rey’s told me the Mogs can command, any one of which would like nothing more than to tear me apart.
Why don’t we have giant hell-beasts to fight for us?
My arms are shaking by the time I squat on the limb, the wood creaking under my weight as I stare into the blackness, hoping over and over again that nothing will emerge from it. That I can just wait this out.
That it will all just go away.
There’s no telling how much time passes. If I’d been more put together or hadn’t been so taken by surprise, I might have remembered to grab my watch on the way out the window. It’s weird—time always seemed like it didn’t mean anything on the island, and now it means everything. How many minutes before more of them arrive? How many seconds before they find me? I try to keep from trembling, and my stomach from turning over—between the running, my fear, and the damp smell of pig that clings to me in a thick coat of sludge, I’m teetering on the edge of vomiting. Maybe the stinking layer of crap will help keep me camouflaged, at least.
It’s not a very reassuring silver lining.
Finally, a silhouette starts to take shape in the darkness. I draw in closer to the tree. The figure is human sized. Maybe even a little hunched over, leaning on a cane as he steps into the dim moonlight. He’s wearing a blue linen shirt, khaki cargo pants, and sneakers that might have been white at some point. His beard is white, streaked with black, his wild hair almost silver.
I recognize him immediately, of course. Rey.
He’s got something held against him, wrapped in a piece of cloth. I start to call down to him, but he’s already staring holes into me, his lips quivering, as if he’s fighting every urge to yell. He simply stands there, the silence hanging in the thick air between us. Finally, I break it.
“Well? Did you get him?”
Rey doesn’t respond immediately, just looks away, staring down at the ground.
“What’d you forget?” His voice has a slight rattle to it.
“What?” I ask, my breath short.
He throws his parcel down on the ground. Part of the cloth falls back, and I can make out a familiar corner.
“The Chest?” I ask. My Loric Chest. The most sacred thing I own. The treasure I’m not actually allowed to look into. The container that supposedly holds my inheritance and the tools to rebuild my home planet, and I can’t even peek inside until Rey thinks I’m ready to—whatever that means.
“The Chest.” Rey nods.
I scramble down the tree, half falling to the earth.
“We should get going, right?” I ask. My words are spilling out now, my tongue stumbling over the letters as I try to say a million things at once. “You don’t have any weapons? Or our food? Where are we going now? Shouldn’t we be—”
“Your Chest is the second most important thing you have to protect after your own life. It was stupid to leave it. Next time, it’s your priority to keep it safe.”
“What are you—”
“You made it half a mile into the forest,” he says, ignoring me. His voice is getting louder now, filled with barely restrained anger. “I didn’t want to believe it, but I guess this is proof. You haven’t been doing your training. You’ve been lying to me about it. Every day.”
“Rey . . .”
“I already knew that, though.” He sounds sad now. “I could tell just by looking at you.”
My mind is racing, trying to figure out why we’re still standing here. Why he’s worried about my training when there could be a whole fleet of Mogs on their way after us. Unless . . .
“There aren’t any Mogs here,” I say quietly.
Rey just shakes his head and stares at the ground.
This was a test. No, worse than that: This was Rey’s way of trapping me and catching me in a lie. And even though, yes, I technically have been less than honest about my training regimen, I can’t believe Rey would scare me like this.
“Are you kidding me?” Unlike Rey, I don’t have the power to keep my anger from clouding my voice. “I was running for my life. I thought I was going to die.”
“Death is the least of your worries for now,” he says, pointing at my ankle. Underneath the layer of mud and crap is an ugly red mark that appeared a few days ago. A mark that’s starting to scab over, and will soon turn into a scar. The mark that—thanks to some otherworldly charm—shows me that another one of my fellow Garde has been murdered. Two is dead. Three and Four are all that stand between death and me.