Pittacus Lore - The Power of Six

My last class is Spanish history. The teacher drones on about General Francisco Franco and the Spanish Civil War of the 1930s. I tune her out and instead write in my notebook about John, what I know based on the most recent article I read.

John Smith

Lived 4 months in Paradise, OH

Pulled over by an officer in Tennessee, driving west in a

pickup truck. Middle of the night, with 2 other people around

the same age.

Where were they driving?

One of the two people he was with is believed to be Sam

Goode, also from Paradise, originally thought to be a hostage,

now considered an accomplice.

Who is the third person? A girl with black hair. Girl in my

dream had black hair.

Where is Henri?

How did they get away from 2 helicopters and 35

police officers? How did the 2 copters crash?

How can I contact him OR the others?

Post something on internet?

Too dangerous. Is there a way to do so that eludes the Mogs?

If so, will any of the others even see it?

John is on the run. Ever checking internet?

Does Adelina know something that I don’t?

Can I bring it up to her without being obvious?

The pen hovers over the page. The internet and Adelina, my only two ideas, neither of which seems promising. What more can I do, though? Everything else seems as futile as walking up the mountain and sending smoke signals into the air. But I can’t help but feel like I’m missing something-some crucial element that’s so obvious it’s staring me right in the face.

The teacher drones on. I close my eyes and think it all through. Nine Garde. Nine Cepan. An airship that brought us to Earth, the same airship to take us back eventually, hidden somewhere on Earth. All I remember about it is that we landed in a remote place in the midst of a thunderstorm. A charm was cast to protect us from the Mogadorians, which went into effect only when we scattered, and that only works if we stay away from each other. But why? A charm that keeps us apart seems pretty counterintuitive in helping us fight and defeat the Mogadorians. What’s the point in it? While asking myself this question my mind stumbles on something else. I close my eyes and let the logic carry me.

We were meant to hide, but for how long? Until our Legacies developed and we had the tools to fight, to win. What’s the one thing we’re able to do when that first Legacy finally arrives?

The answer seems too obvious to be correct. With the pen still in my hand, I write the only answer I can come up with:

The Chest

I NO LONGER SLEEP WITHOUT NIGHTMARES. Every night I’m stricken by Sarah’s face, there for only a second before it’s swallowed by darkness, followed by her calling out for help. No matter how furiously I search, she’s nowhere to be found. She keeps calling, a scared voice, bleak and alone, but I can never find her.

And then there’s Henri, his body twisted and smoking as he looks at me, knowing our end together has finally come. It’s never fear I see in his eyes, or regret, or sadness, but rather pride, relief, and love. He seems to tell me to go on, to fight, to win. Then, right at the end, his eyes widen in a plea for more time. “Coming here, to Paradise, it wasn’t by chance,” he says again, and I still have no idea what he means. Then, “I wouldn’t have missed a second of it, kiddo. Not for all of Lorien. Not for the whole damn world.” This is my curse, that every time I dream of Henri I’m forced to watch him die. Over and over again.

I see Lorien, the days before the war, the jungles and oceans I’ve dreamed of a hundred times. Myself as a kid, running wild through the tall grass while those around me smile and laugh, unaware of the horrors to come. Then I see the war, the destruction, the killing, and the blood. Sometimes, on nights like tonight, I have distinct visions of what I believe is the future.

My eyes aren’t closed for long before I’m whisked away. And even as it begins, I feel myself entering a landscape I know I’ve never seen before, but still find familiar.

I run down a pathway lined with litter and debris. Broken glass. Burned plastic. Twisted, rusted steel. Acrid mist fills my nose and causes my eyes to water. Decaying buildings stand tall against the gray sky. A dark, stagnant river lurks to my right. There’s commotion up ahead. The sounds of yelling and metallic clattering swell in the thick air. I come to an angry mob surrounding a tarmac where a large airship prepares for takeoff. I go through a barbed-wire gate and enter the airstrip fenced off from the crowd.

The tarmac is marked with small rivulets the color of magma. Mogadorian soldiers keep the crowd at bay while swarms of scouts ready the ship, an onyx orb hovering in midair.

The crowd roars against the fence as soldiers knock them back. They’re smaller than the soldiers, but have the same ashy skin tone. A low rumble grows from somewhere beyond the ship. The crowd hushes, taking panicked steps backwards, while those on the tarmac file into orderly lines.

Then something drops from the hazy sky. A dark vortex absorbs the surrounding clouds, leaving a thick, black discharge in its wake. I cover my ears before the object crashes to the ground, shooting vibrations through the soil that nearly knock me off my feet. Everything falls silent as the dust clears, revealing a perfectly spherical ship, milky white like a pearl. A round door slides open, and a monstrous creature steps out. The same creature that tried to behead me in the rock castle.

A brawl breaks out along the fence, with everyone scrambling to get away from this monster. He’s even more enormous than I remember, with muscular, chiseled features and short, cropped hair. Tattoos crawl up his arms, scars are branded into his ankles, the largest of which stands out on his neck, grotesque and purple. A soldier retrieves a golden cane from the ship, its head curved like a hammer, a black eye painted on its side. When the creature holds it in his hand, the eye comes alive, rolling left and then right, taking in its surroundings, until it finds me.

The Mogadorian scans the crowd, sensing me nearby. His eyes narrow. He takes a giant step towards me, lifting the golden cane. Its eye pulses.

Just then an onlooker shouts at the Mogadorian, furiously rattling the fence. The Mogadorian turns towards the protester, thrusting the rod in his direction. The rod’s eye glows red and the man is instantly ripped to shreds, torn through the barbed-wired fence. Pandemonium erupts as everyone fights to get away.

The Mogadorian returns his attention to me, pointing the rod at my head. I’m hit with the sensation of falling. Weightlessness rises in my gut until I’m on the brink of vomiting. What I see around his neck is so disturbing, so haunting, that I’m jolted awake as though struck by a bolt of blue lightning.

Early dawn breaks through the windows, bathing the small room in the hard morning light. The shapes of things return. I’m sweat covered and out of breath. And yet I’m here, the ache and confusion in my heart telling me I’m still alive, no longer in a dreadful place where a man can be ripped through the small holes of a barbed-wired fence.

We found an abandoned house bordering a conservation area a few miles from Lake George. The kind of house Henri would have loved: isolated, small and quiet, offering security without any personality. It’s one story, the exterior painted lime green while the interior is various shades of beige, with brown carpeting. We couldn’t be luckier that the water hasn’t been turned off. By the heavy dust in the air, I can only assume it’s been a while since anyone lived here.