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‘What if one of them dies while we’re on this mission of yours?’ Sam asks, his voice cracking a little at the thought. ‘What if they die because we didn’t rescue them when we had the chance?’
Adam pauses, thinking this over. ‘I know this must be hard for you,’ he says, looking between me and Sam. ‘I admit, it’s a calculated risk.’
‘Calculated risk,’ I repeat. ‘Those are our friends you’re talking about.’
‘Yeah,’ Adam replies. ‘And I’m trying to help keep them alive.’
Logically, I know Adam really is trying to help. But I’m stressed and I’ve been brought up not to trust his kind. Before I know what I’m doing, I take a step towards him and jab a finger into his chest.
‘This better be worth it,’ I tell him. ‘And if something happens in Florida …’
‘I’ll take responsibility,’ he replies. ‘It’ll be on me. If I’m wrong, John, you can dust me.’
‘If you’re wrong, I probably won’t need to,’ I say, staring into his eyes. Adam doesn’t look away.
Sarah loudly whistles between her fingers, getting everyone’s attention.
‘If we can put the whole macho posturing thing on hold for a second, I think you guys should take a look at this.’
I step around Adam, telling myself to cool down, and look over Sarah’s shoulder at the website she’s pulled up.
‘I was looking up news stories about Chicago and this popped up,’ she explains.
It’s a pretty slick-looking website, except for the all-caps headlines and sheer amount of flying saucer GIFs cluttering the sidebars. The stories listed under Most Popular, all of the links in a neon green that I guess is supposed to look alien, include: MOGADORIANS UNDERMINING GOVERNMENT and EARTH’S LORIC PROTECTORS DRIVEN INTO HIDING. The page Sarah currently has open features a picture of the burning John Hancock Center along with the headline MOG ATTACK IN CHICAGO: IS THIS THE ZERO HOUR?
The website is called They Walk Among Us.
‘Oh jeez,’ Sam groans, joining the huddle around Sarah’s computer. ‘Not these creeps.’
‘What is this?’ I ask Sarah, squinting at the story on the screen.
‘These dudes used to be strictly into the old-school black-and-white zine style,’ Sam says. ‘Now they’re on the internet? I can’t decide if that makes them better or worse.’
‘The Mogs killed them,’ I point out. ‘How does this even exist in any form?’
‘I guess there’s a new editor,’ Sarah says. ‘Check this out.’
Sarah clicks into the website’s archives, going back to the first story ever posted. The headline reads PARADISE HIGH SCHOOL ATTACK START OF ALIEN INVASION. Below that is a grainy cell-phone picture of the destruction around our high school’s football field. I quickly skim the article. The level of detail is astounding. It’s like whoever wrote this was there with us.
‘Who’s JollyRoger182?’ I ask, looking at the screen name credited in the post.
Sarah looks up at me with an odd smile, bewilderment mixing with something like pride.
‘You’re going to think I’m crazy,’ she says.
‘What’s a Jolly Roger, anyway?’ Sam asks, thinking out loud. ‘The pirate flag?’
‘Yeah,’ Sarah replies, nodding. ‘Like the Paradise High Pirates. Whose old quarterback happens to be one of the only other people outside our group to know what went down at the high school.’
I widen my eyes at Sarah. ‘No way.’
‘Yes way,’ she replies. ‘I think JollyRoger182 is Mark James.’
3
‘ “The Mogadorians, along with their cronies from the corrupted branches of national security, are believed to have fought a protracted battle in New Mexico against the heroic Garde,” ’ Sam reads aloud. ‘ “My sources believe the Mogadorians were forced to retreat after their leader sustained an injury. The whereabouts of the Garde remain unknown.” ’
‘He’s right on the money,’ Malcolm says, turning to me. ‘But where is he getting his information?’
‘No idea,’ I reply. ‘We didn’t exactly stay in touch after Paradise.’
I lean over Sam’s shoulder to check out the next story. I’m baffled by the amount of information Mark James – or whoever this is – has posted to They Walk Among Us. There are details of our battle at Dulce Base, early speculation about the attack in Chicago, frightening essays about what Mogs look like and what they’re capable of, and posts rallying humanity in support of the Loric. There are also articles covering topics that I’ve never considered, even ones about which members of the U. S. government are in league with the Mogadorians.
Sam clicks through to a story where Mark accuses the secretary of defense, a man named Bud Sanderson, of using his political clout to pave the way for a Mogadorian invasion. Another click yields a second article about Sanderson, one with the tabloid-friendly headline CORRUPT S.O.D. USING MOGADORIAN GENETIC TREATMENTS. The story is tied to an image of Sanderson from five years ago juxtaposed with one of him from a few months ago. In the first, Sanderson looks like a haggard man in his late seventies – his face is age-spotted and he has a double chin and a steep paunch. In the second, he’s lost weight and has a healthy glow and a full head of silver hair. It’s almost as if he’s time-traveled. In fact, I bet most people would think the picture was a hoax, like it’s a photo of Sanderson from twenty years ago with a fake time stamp. But if you take Mark at his word, something’s definitely changed with the secretary of defense – something way bigger than diet and exercise, or even plastic surgery.
Sam shakes his head, not buying it. ‘How would Mark possibly know all this? I mean, Sarah, you went out with him. Did he even know how to read?’
‘Yes, Sam,’ Sarah replies, rolling her eyes. ‘Mark could read.’
‘But he was never, uh, journalistically inclined, was he? This is like WikiLeaks over here.’
‘People tend to change when they find out aliens are real,’ Sarah responds. ‘It looks to me like he’s been trying to help.’
‘We don’t know for sure that it’s Mark,’ I say, frowning.
I look over at Adam. He’s been quiet since we started exploring the They Walk Among Us website, listening to us with a hand on his chin, thoughtful.
‘Could this be some kind of trap?’ I ask him, figuring it’s best to consult the expert.
‘Of course,’ he says without hesitation. ‘Although if it is, it’s an elaborate one. And, even for the sake of trapping you, I find it hard to believe Setrákus Ra would admit to being driven off from Dulce Base.’
‘Is it true?’ Malcolm asks. ‘What he’s written about the secretary of defense?’
‘I don’t know,’ Adam replies. ‘It very well could be.’
‘I’m going to email him,’ Sarah announces, opening up a new browser tab.
‘Hold on,’ Adam says quickly, a bit more polite than when he slammed my idea to try rescuing the others. ‘If this Mark person really does have access to all this highly secret intel –’
Sam chuckles.
‘– my people will almost certainly be monitoring his communications,’ Adam concludes, raising an eyebrow at Sam. He turns back to Sarah. ‘They’ll also definitely be monitoring your email.’
Sarah slowly lifts her hands away from the keyboard. ‘Can’t you do anything about that?’
‘I know how their cyber-tracking systems work. It was something I … excelled at during my training. I could write an encryption code, reroute our IP address through servers in different cities.’ Adam turns to me, like he wants permission. ‘They’d unravel it eventually. We’d have to leave this place within twenty-four hours to be safe.’
‘Do it,’ I tell him. ‘Better that we keep moving, anyway.’
Adam immediately begins typing commands into his laptop. Sam rubs his hands together and leans over Adam’s shoulder. ‘You should reroute them to as many crazy places as possible. Make them think Sarah’s in Russia or something.’
Adam smirks. ?
??Consider it done.’
It takes Adam about twenty minutes to write some code that will reroute our IP address through a dozen far-flung locations. I think back to the elaborate computer system Henri always had set up and the even more complicated grid that Sandor built in Chicago. Then, I imagine a hundred Mogadorians, just like Adam, hunched over keyboards, stalking us. I never doubted our Cêpans were justified in their paranoia, but seeing Adam work I finally realize just how necessary it was.
‘Whoa,’ Sarah says when she’s finally able to open her email. The list of boldfaced unread mail consists entirely of messages from Mark James. ‘It really is him.’
‘Or the Mogs hacked his email,’ Sam suggests.
‘Doubtful,’ Adam replies. ‘My people are thorough, sure, but this seems kind of … roundabout.’
