A Hero in the Dark: 2nd Edition

Chapter 2: Border Patrol

It's 11 a.m. I've been waiting in line for twenty minutes. It's not that I'm impatient, but I have a school to get to, and I'm on a ticking clock to its destruction.

"Next please," says the middle-aged man in the booth, finally. I approach and hand him my passport, to which he begins looking it over. "Reason for entry?"

"Visiting," I answer. "Friends, that is."

"Duration of stay?"

"30 days," I say, though I don't really know. But it's part of the cover story I've been roleplaying over and over in my head on the drive here.

He asks for my fingerprints, tells me to lay each finger on my right hand on the scanner to my right, one at a time, including my thumb. I oblige, and when all is done, he checks his monitor. Soon there's a mighty schunk. "Welcome to America," he says. "Enjoy your visit."

I take the passport and head back to the taxi. Hank, my driver, meets me as I approach. He's an older white man with wrinkles and a shade to his brown eyes. "I'm going to use the restroom before we head out," he says and runs off. I lean against the car with my arms crossed, taking in the fresh air that actually smells like 90% car emissions.

There are others too; families, parents, kids, kids with dogs, and security and law officers surveying the common area even though it's just a rundown parking lot next to the highway. An officer smiles at me and I straighten; that's when I notice them.

Farthest away from the others, impossible to miss—if you're looking for them, that is—are three tall men outside a black pickup truck. They're unusually pale, wearing dark trench coats that touch the ground and black sunglasses to match even though there's hardly any sun at all. One of them meets my gaze. I must be a hundred feet away and I don't like the way he's watching me; it's like they're on patrol. He smiles, a smirk that should be friendly, but for some reason, doesn't seem like it at all. I swallow, finally realizing who they are: Mogadorians. They must be.

"Shit," I mutter.

***

"Hank, we need to go," I snap when he returns, an unfamiliar panic rising in my voice.

"Ya, sure. Why?" I shut the door before he can say more.

Hank heads back onto the highway while I keep a keen eye on any activity behind us. I swear my heart plummets when I find the truck on our tail. They're following us.

Of course they are.

"Step on it," I tell him, who raises an eyebrow at the request but otherwise does as he's told. We speed down the freeway going well over fifty kilometres over the limit. I keep checking if they're behind us, and after what feels like only a few long minutes, I'm relieved to see that they're not.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

But as I turn back around in my seat, the truck's at my side. They drive the same speed. I see the driver; he sees me. I swear time freezes as we stare into each other's eyes.

Pittacus was right. Everything in his novels... everything he wrote... is true. I gulp as a layer of dread washes into my soul.

The Mogadorians... they're real. They found me. How hard will it be to escape?

They swerve, and we swerve. Hank loses control of the steering, curses under his breath, and the car veers off the road. I scream a short scream as we rocket down a ditch and come to a stop at the base of a tree. His airbag activates, throwing a fat pillow into Hank's face, and I catch my face on the driver's headrest. Glass is sprayed over the front seats. My ears ring.

By the time my hands linger on the buckle of my seatbelt, I click it out and it withers to my side. I open the door slowly, my breathing ragged and fingers fumbling, falling when my shoes connect to the ground. There're faint voices, but I can't make any of them out. They're gruff, deep, echoing, distancing—closer than it sounds...?

I hold my head, check for blood, but there's nothing. But the truck—it's parked at the edge of the freeway now; cars honk to get past it and only then does panic return.

Its passenger door opens, and I hurry to Hank. "Hank," I try, shaking the old man's shoulder with a desperate need to run. "Hank c'mon, we need to go!"

But the man is delirious. He only groans. There's blood dripping down his forehead. It's wet and sticky; the impact must've hit him worse than me.

I don't want to leave him, but with the sound of heavy footsteps crunching behind me and the panic rising in my throat, I grab my backpack and run into the forest, falling into the nearest bush.

I'm sorry, Hank.

I watch the freakish men near the totalled car whilst trying to pull my cell silently from the bag. My hands are shaky; I fumble over it, but eventually manage to dial 9-1-1. "911, what's your emergency?" Shit. What do I say? I'm being chased by a group of aliens? These weird guys in black plan are after me? Plan on killing me? They'll never believe that. "Hello?" says the lady again. "Are you still there? Are you hurt?"

"I—I need an ambulance," I blurt out in a whisper, thinking of Hank.

I hear a keyboard typing, nothing more, then: "Paramedics are on route to your location."

I end the call before she says any more. Through the trees, the aliens reach for Hank, who still lies limp in the driver's seat. They take him by the shirt, hold him an inch from the ground. He reacts to the pull; nothing more. "Where is the girl?" the alien snarls.

Hank's head bounces back then forward. "Hey, easy man, I dunno."

"Don't do it," I mutter, knowing well what likely happens to people that the Mogadorians find from Pittacus Lore's telling. Either they'll kill him here and now or take him into captivity. Best case scenario: They leave him there to die—or be found.

I regret ever leaving his side. I should've never called for a cab. How could I be so stupid?

I rifle through my backpack for something to use in my defense, but in my urgency to find John, I realize I haven't packed a knife or weapon of any sort. I curse under my breath.

There's a loud thud when the alien drops Hank and a sigh of relief pours out of my system. "Search the trees!" the alien yells. "Find her! She couldn't have gotten far."

Enough of that. I pick up my bag, swing it over my shoulder, and run. I don't care where I run or how much noise I make; I just run.