Pittacus Lore - The Fall of Five

“Please don’t fight us,” I cry. “You’re just making it worse.”

Five screams again as his knuckles crack loudly. The small bones in his hand are probably shattered from our combined telekinetic assault. The two balls he was holding drop to the ground and roll beneath the roots of the tree. Five clutches his hand and drops down to his knees. He’s looking at me, like he knows I was the first one to attack his hand and it makes this defeat all the more bitter.

“It’s going to be all right,” I tell him, but my words sound hollow. I’m trying to talk him down but, when I look at him, I get the same feeling of revulsion that I do with the Mogs. He was going to kill Nine—one of his own people, one of us. How can we bring him back from that?

Eight steps forward and puts a hand on Five’s shoulder. It seems like the fight has gone out of him.

Five sobs, shaking his head. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this . . . ,” he says, quietly.

“Crying like a girl,” Nine says.

Immediately, Five’s expression darkens. Before we can stop him, he shoves Eight away from him. Eight stumbles, falls, and Five takes flight.

“Don’t!” I scream, but Five is already shooting towards Nine. The wrist-mounted blade he grabbed from his Chest extends with a harsh screech of metal; it’s a foot long and needle shaped, deadly and precise.

Nine tries to roll aside, but he’s badly hurt and can’t move. The grass around Nine is flattened to the ground and I realize that Five is holding him in place with telekinesis.

I try to use my telekinesis to pull Nine towards me, but he doesn’t budge. Five’s telekinetic grip is too powerful.

It all happens so fast.

Five plummets down with blade extended. Nine, teeth gritted, unable to move, watches the fatal blow descend.

Suddenly Eight appears in front of Nine—he’s teleported. “NO!” Nine screams.

Five’s blade drives right into Eight’s heart.

Five lurches backwards, shocked, as he realizes what he’s done. Eight’s eyes are wide, a spot of blood forming on his chest. He staggers away from Five, towards me, his hands outstretched. He tries to say something, but no words come out. He collapses.

I scream as the fresh scar burns across my ankle.

I walk through a decimated city. I’m right in the middle of the road, but there isn’t any traffic. Totaled cars are piled up on the sidewalks, many of them just burned-out shells. The buildings nearby—the ones still standing, anyway—are crumbling and covered in scorch marks. My sneakers crunch across a blanket of broken glass.

The city isn’t familiar to me. It isn’t Chicago. I’m somewhere else. How did I get here?

The last thing I remember is Ella grabbing my arm and then . . . this place. An acrid burning smell fills the air, inescapable. My eyes burn from the clouds of ash blown through the empty streets. I can hear crackling in the distance; somewhere, a fire is still burning.

I keep moving forward through the deserted war zone. At first, I don’t think there are any people. Then, I notice a handful of filthy men and women huddled inside the gutted remains of an apartment complex. They stand around a burning trash barrel, warming themselves. I raise my hand in greeting and shout.

“Hey! What happened here?”

Seeing me, the humans shrink back. They’re frightened, one by one disappearing into the shadows of the building. I guess I’d be wary of strangers too if I lived through whatever happened here. I keep moving.

The wind howls through the broken windows and sagging doorways. My ears perk up; if I strain to listen, I can almost hear a voice carried on the wind.

John . . . Help me, John. . . .

The voice is thin and distant, but I still recognize it. Ella.

I realize where I am—well, not where I am geographically, but where my mind is. Somehow, I’ve been pulled into Ella’s nightmare. It feels so real, but then so did those horrible taunting visions that Setrákus Ra used to inflict on me. I close my eyes, focus, and try to force myself awake. It doesn’t work. When I open my eyes, I’m still standing in this broken city.

“Ella?” I say, feeling a little silly speaking to the thin air. “Where are you? How do we get out of here?”

There’s no response.

A torn piece of newspaper blows across my path and I reach down to snatch it. It’s the front page of the Washington Post , so that must be where I am. The paper is dated a few years from now. This is a vision of the future and it’s one that I hope never comes to pass. I remind myself that this is how Setrákus Ra toys with us. Everything here is his creation.

Even knowing that, the picture on the front page causes my breath to catch. An armada of Mogadorian ships emerges from a cloudy Washington sky, hovering right over the White House. The headline is just one word, in bold capital letters.

INVASION .

I hear a rumbling sound from ahead of me, toss the newspaper away, and start jogging towards it. A dark military truck crosses through the intersection, moving slowly, flanked on all sides by Mogadorians. I quickly come to a stop and consider ducking into one of the nearby alleys for safety, but the Mogs don’t seem to notice me.

A crowd of people shuffles along behind the truck. They’re humans; gaunt and pale, their clothes torn rags, all of them looking dirty and hungry, many of them wounded. They walk along with their heads down, their faces grim, marching sullenly. Mogadorian warriors armed with cannons walk alongside them, the dark tattoos that cover their scalps displayed proudly. Unlike the humans, the Mogs are all smiling. Something is happening —an event of some kind, one that the Mogadorians want the humans to witness.

The wind picks up again. John . . . this way . . .

I slip into the crowd and walk along with the humans, keeping my head bowed. I steal an occasional glance around. The Washington Monument protrudes jaggedly on the horizon, the top half of it sheared off. A feeling of dread fills my stomach. This is what the future will look like if we fail.

The crowd is led to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. There are other people already there, waiting for this sick Mogadorian sideshow to begin. The American flags that would normally hang above the Memorial have been taken down, replaced by black flags bearing a red Mogadorian symbol. Even worse are the chunks of stone piled along the sides of the road—well, I think they’re stones at first. On closer inspection I make out the chiseled face of Lincoln, a huge crack running down the center of his forehead. The Mogadorians have broken down the statue and tossed it out of the Memorial.

I push my way to the front of the crowd. None of the humans seem all that eager to be at the front, so they let me through without a problem. A line of Mog warriors stands at the base of the steps, keeping watch on these dispirited people, their cannons pointed into the crowd.

Setrákus Ra lounges in a throne at the top of the Lincoln Memorial. His massive frame is clad in a black uniform, covered in epaulets and medals. A huge Mogadorian sword protected by an ornamental scabbard is laid across his lap. Seven Loric pendants hang from around his neck, their cobalt surfaces shimmering in the afternoon light. His black eyes idly scan the crowd. They pass right over me and I flinch, ready to run, but he doesn’t seem to notice me.

John . . . do you see me . . . ?

I have to stifle a gasp. Ella is seated in a smaller throne next to Setrákus Ra. She looks older and paler. Her hair is dyed jet black and bound in a tight braid worn down her shoulder. She’s wearing a dress so elegant that it almost seems meant to taunt the tattered humans that stare at her in awe. Her face is stony, like she’s long become immune to grim scenes like this one.