Legacies Reborn (6 page)

I WAKE UP WITH A START. TURNS OUT FIGHTING
aliens all night and then sleeping on a gross subway bench doesn't make for the best sleep. Half-realized nightmares about Mom linger in my head as I get over the initial shock of waking up in a strange place. My eyes burn from lack of sleep, and the pounding in my head is back. For some reason I think of school when we had to read
The Iliad
and learned about Greek gods and stuff. I remember that one of the goddesses broke out of her dad's skull. Aphrodite, maybe? Or Athena? Whoever it was, that's how my head feels: like someone's taking a bat to the inside of it, trying to get out.

It's weird the thoughts that cross your mind when you wake up on a stalled train with an alien and his super-powered human sidekick.

The subway car is pitch-black except for the faint glow of a cell phone in Sam's hands. He's sitting straight
up in one of the seats, passed the eff out. A handful of comic books have slid onto the floor in front of him. So much for keeping watch or waking me up.

I get up and stretch and walk over to him. There's drool coming out of one corner of his mouth. I wonder how he can sleep so soundly with everything that's going on, but I guess he's had more time to process the idea of aliens being real than I have. I slip the phone out of his hand, which doesn't get any kind of reaction from him at all. I probably couldn't wake him up if I tried.

The cell phone tells me it's just after 5 a.m. I don't know if the sun would be up aboveground yet. Don't even know if there is a sun still, actually. I turn the phone's flashlight on and wave it around our car. John hasn't moved. I keep the light on him long enough to make sure his chest is still moving up and down before turning my attention to the big duffel bag of cash sitting under the bench I slept on. I haven't actually looked through the bag, so I unzip it, in case there are weapons or something inside we can use. I find myself looking down at more money than I'd ever know what to do with. I pick up a wad of hundreds and think about what this money would have meant just twenty-four hours ago. Everything. And now . . . who knows? The future seems so uncertain.

The money's the only thing in the bag.

I stand, spreading a fat stack of cash out into a half circle and then fanning myself with it as I try to figure out how far away I am from Canal Street or whatever the next subway station is. But I don't know where I'm at. Not for certain. My light falls on the closed train doors. I could just leave now. Take my bag and go. These guys would be fine without me. It's not like when the tunnel was falling in around us. They'd wake up and move on. Keep fighting.

Keep fighting
.

Sam's words. Maybe it's because I only got a few hours of sleep, or maybe it's because
evil aliens attacked our city
—whatever it is, I suddenly feel so lost and alone. So much so that I almost shake Sam to try to wake him. I could just pretend to be ragging on him because he fell asleep.

But he needs his rest. They both do.

Regardless of whether I go out on my own or stay with them, I'm going to need some supplies. Even if I have a dozen phones on me, if I get lost in the tunnels I don't want to risk being stuck with a bunch of dead batteries. So I pocket the cash and start down the other half of the train that Sam and I didn't get to. It's pretty much the same scene as the cars we explored last night. A lot of trash on the floors. A couple of purses and grocery sacks every now and then with usable supplies. I find a few more phones and two giant Whole Foods bags full
of groceries—probably a hundred bucks' worth. My stomach growls. I dig out a jar of almonds and eat them by the handful as I continue.

Three cars into my search, I find a small blue book bag on one of the seats. There's a baggie of baby carrots and an applesauce pouch in the front pocket. The big zipper compartment holds a stuffed animal and some picture books. This is some elementary school kid's bag. Maybe even a preschooler. Left behind when the train stopped for whatever reason.

Suddenly I don't feel so hungry anymore.

I take a seat with the bag in my lap, feeling a little woozy.

I try to shine the light of the phone out the window, but it just reflects off the glass. There's nothing but darkness waiting for me outside, and the idea of going through the dark tunnels by myself seems crazy.

But then,
everything
seems crazy now. I concentrate on the book bag. It floats away from me and bobs in the air. I look down at my hands. This power. What am I supposed to do with it? I realize now that I've been running—mostly
literally—
ever since I first took out the Mogs with my telekinesis. I haven't had time to just sit and think about what all of this means. What my next steps are. I've had such tunnel vision about getting down to Mom's restaurant that I haven't let myself consider what happens if she's not there. That hasn't
really even been a possibility.

What would I give to go back to the diner eating waffles? To walk with Mom right now? I'd even be nice to Benny—would see him in a whole new light. How does life get so messed up so fast? Yesterday morning I was just a normal girl. My biggest concern was getting some new headphones. And now . . . now everything's different.
I'm
different. I'm powerful. And the world is falling apart.

But maybe I can help stop that. I'm just not sure what I'm supposed to do.

Honor the person who's not there with your actions
.

My hands start to shake and I make the kid's bag return to my lap, where I hug it tightly. I wonder what its owner is doing now. I hope to God that he's safe. Maybe the kid and his parents made it to the Brooklyn safe zone John and the guy on the radio talked about.

Brooklyn
. I try to put things into perspective. This whole time I've been counting on Mom being down at her restaurant. Hiding. Safe. But realistically, that's not what she'd be doing, right? Not if she survived. She'd come looking for me. She'd try to make her way up to Harlem. She could be anywhere.

Or maybe she was taken to Brooklyn against her will. If she was hurt, they might have sent her there. Or if the army finally showed up they might have forced everyone to evacuate. She was pretty close to the Brooklyn
Bridge at work. Maybe she's there now, waiting for me.

Maybe Brooklyn is actually my best shot at finding my mom.

And John and Sam can help me get there.

I realize that I've started rocking in the seat, and at that moment the last place I want to be is all by myself in an abandoned subway car, alone with my thoughts. I've got to get moving again. If the sun's not up yet—if it's still there—it will be soon. A new day's starting; my mom will be wondering where I am.

I stand up, putting the little blue book bag on the bench carefully. Then I take a deep breath, gather up the rest of the stuff I've found and return to the car where my new weirdo friends are sleeping.

When I get back I try to sit still and wait for the boys to wake up on their own. I check the battery power on some of the cell phones I've collected, leaving a few fully charged ones on to try to make the inside of the train car feel less depressing. After a minute or two, though, I start to worry that they're both going to sleep all morning, and I'm too fired up to get going again to wait for that. So I cough a few times and chuck the fake Prada purse onto the seat over by John's head.

He bolts straight up.

“You're alive,” I say. I don't have to fake my smile.

John seems groggy, but that doesn't keep him from going pretty much straight into another recruitment
speech after giving me some shit for having a duffel bag full of money,
as if I'm some kind of common thug.
Like he even knows me. I don't know where he gets off with this “I know everything you should be doing with your life” tone. He gets all serious and tells me about how he was too young to fight back when the Mogs came for his planet, but that I'm not and can make a difference on Earth. The words make sense. Maybe if I wasn't so scared about Mom and the aliens and everything I'd jump at this chance. I don't know. It's hard to process right now.

John's not as smart as he thinks he is. He doesn't even know about the YouTube video of him they've been showing on the news, and he gets the dopiest look on his face when I tell him about it.

Eventually he wakes Sam up and tells us we should get moving. Before I agree to come along or even ask where they're going, I want to know everything he does about what's happening in Brooklyn.

“You mentioned getting some people out of New York. . . .”

“Yeah,” John says. “The army and the police have secured the Brooklyn Bridge. They're evacuating people from there. At least, they were last night.”

I nod. In my head, I try to figure the odds of where Mom could be. But it's all just guesswork. I could try to make it down to her restaurant alone, or I could go
to Brooklyn with two dudes who can move stuff with their minds and shoot fireballs and see if she's there first.

It would be nice not to be alone in this search. Especially if there are still Mog squads roaming the streets.

“I'd like to go there,” I say, getting to my feet. “Maybe see if my mom made it.”

“All right.” He gets a smile on his face like he
knew
I was going to ask something like that. I roll my eyes and start for the door. What a punk.

“We should head that way too,” he says.

“Whatever,” I murmur, even though a wave of relief crashes over me when he says this. I don't know that either of them heard me. That doesn't really matter. I'm glad they're coming along, that I don't have to go alone.

Sam yells at me not to forget my duffel bag. I lock eyes with John, ready for him to give me some spiel about how this money should go towards Earth's war fund or something. I know I said similar stuff to Jay about this earlier, but I do
not
need a lecture from John Smith about—

“Use your telekinesis,” he says, pointing at the bag. “It's good practice.”

Okay, maybe he's not such a Boy Scout after all. I shoot him a grin and head out the doors, the bag floating after me. Today is going to be different. Today I'm going to find Mom and we're going to pick up the pieces.

I'm one step out of the train car when I see guns pointed at me. My hands go up, and I'm ready to scream and use my telekinesis. Then I realize the guns aren't like the Mog blasters. These are human guns, held by human soldiers.

Oh shit, I'm under arrest. Earth's going to shit and I'm going to prison for taking money I technically didn't even steal.

“Whoa, whoa,” I say as I step back into the train, using my powers to try to hide the bag under one of the seats.

I see John move out of the corner of my eye. His hands are on fire.

“Wait,” Sam says. “They aren't Mogs.”

One of them recognizes John as they shine flashlights in our faces. I notice that they don't immediately put their guns away.

“Friends of yours?” I ask.

“Not sure,” John says.

“Sometimes the government likes us, other times not so much,” Sam says.

“Great,” I murmur. I've done a hell of a job picking my friends. “For a second there, I thought they were here to arrest
me
.”

Some woman's voice comes out of one of the military dude's walkie-talkies. I see John stiffen a little when he hears it. The guy steps forward.

“Please come with us,” he says. “Agent Walker would like a word.”

I glance at John, who nods at me. I guess Walker
is
a friend.

“Hey, where are we going?” I ask.

“The Brooklyn evacuation zone,” the soldier says before turning around and heading back into the tunnel.

I guess things are finally looking up.

I don't know how to explain my duffel bag to these dudes, so as much as it pains me to do so, I leave it.

Somewhere between Spring and Canal
, I repeat in my head.
I'll be back for you. Mom and I both will.

IN FRONT OF THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE I SEE
TANKS
in person for the first time. They're bigger in real life, with their guns pointed into the city, like they're going to fire on Manhattan.

“Whoa,” I whisper as we walk by.

I follow John and Sam, who follow some soldiers. They treat John like he's hot shit, calling him “sir” and stuff. I can't help but smirk every time they do. Don't these fools realize John Smith is only sixteen? I get that he's, like, the guy everyone knows about thanks to him fighting at the UN, but he should be going to prom or something, not getting treated like he's the president.

I guess it could mean I'm not the only one who feels a connection to John. Maybe these soldiers feel it too, and that's why they treat him with so much respect. Or it could be that getting people to follow you comes with
having Legacies. I'm still trying to catch on to how all this works.

Heading away from the city, it's almost like nothing bad ever happened. Brooklyn looks untouched in front of us. If it weren't for all the people in uniform and the lack of tourists hanging out on the bridge, I could imagine that I was just out on a nice walk with Mom, clearing my head. Once we got to the Brooklyn side we'd have a slice of pizza and sit in the park and just look out at the water for a while. Quiet but together.

It's a nice image, but when I turn to look back at Manhattan, the whole dream falls apart. Plumes of smoke rise from all over the city, including downtown. The skyline looks different than it was the last time I was on the bridge months ago.

I swallow down the lump that's suddenly formed in my throat, hurrying to catch up with the others.

On the other side of the bridge, the park's been turned into some kind of combo hospital and military base for the National Guard and whoever else has shown up from the Pentagon or wherever all the military higher-ups hang out. There are people everywhere, in various states of injury and unrest. A few Red Cross stations have been set up, handing out supplies and bottles of water. Most everyone's got dust and blood on them. Looking down, I realize I'm no different. Buses seem to be carting people off to somewhere else. Somewhere
safer, I'd guess, farther away from the city.

There are a few tables set up where people look like they're signing in. My heart flutters.

I turn to one of the soldiers.

“They have a list or something I could check? I'm . . . looking for someone.”

“Sure,” he says. “You could ask.”

He's not very helpful. I'm about to point that out when I realize John's staring at me.

“I'm gonna—,” I start.

“Go,” John says. “I hope you find her.”

I force a smile. I realize I don't know when I'll see him or Sam again. “Um, about that whole saving the world thing . . .”

“When you're ready, come find me.”

“You're assuming I'll ever be ready,” I snort.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes looking all serious. “I am.”

I nod, raise my chin up at Sam and then run towards one of the sign-in stations. There's a line dozens of people long, and it takes everything in me not to bat them all out of the way with my thoughts and jump straight to the front.

“This where people are checking in?” I ask an older Asian guy in front of me.

All he does is nod a little. His eyes are wide and he looks like he's in shock, like he might pass out at any moment. He turns away from me. Others in the line are
louder. Some cry. A few just keep talking about how they're going to kill every alien they see as soon as they find a gun. I keep quiet, wishing I'd brought one of the phones with me or that I had my headphones. Even the broken ones, which are back in an apartment I might never get to return to. Without music or some kind of distraction, I'm left alone with my thoughts. I worry.

After what feels like hours, I'm finally at the front of the line.

“Can I get your name?” a woman asks. Her hair's tied back in a black bandanna and there are dark bags under her eyes. I wonder how long she's been at this.

“Daniela Morales,” I say. “Look, I'm trying to find my mom.”

“We're just taking information here,” she says, looking up from her electronic tablet. “There are systems being put into place at our secondary evac site to connect missing persons. The bus will take you there once I have your info.”

“But I need to know if she's there,” I say. “If she's not . . .” I'm not sure what to say next. I'll go back to Manhattan? Would they even let me back across the bridge? Doubtful, but I could find a way.

The woman's eyebrows draw together and she purses her lips. She looks like she's tired of hearing this. I'm guessing I'm not the first person trying to find someone I love.

“If you'll spell your full name—,” she starts.

“You're checking everyone in? My mom's name is Roxanne Morales. She's a waitress downtown. Please, can you just look?”

She looks at me for a few seconds. I can feel my eyes stinging. Finally, she taps on the electronic screen a few times. After scrolling through some lists, she lets out a small sigh. She doesn't say anything, just looks up at me and shakes her head.

The stinging gets worse.

“Morales,” I say again. “M-O-R-A-L-E-S.”

“I'm sorry, Daniela, but there's no Roxanne Morales in my database. Now, we're only getting updates from the other sites every hour or so. Maybe she went to one of the other evacuation points farther uptown.”

I shake my head. My fingers grip the edge of the table in front of me. I don't want to leave. I can't walk away.

“No, she worked in the Financial District.”

The woman's eye twitches a little.

“Where, exactly?” she asks. “Where does she work?”

I tell her the location, just off Wall Street, not taking my eyes off hers. I'm so focused that I don't even notice she's moving her hand until it's on top of mine.

“That area was hit really hard in the initial attack, Daniela,” she says quietly but firmly. “We haven't seen many survivors from that location. There's always hope, but our rescue teams are still having trouble
navigating much of downtown. The best thing for you to do is to give me the rest of your info and go to the secondary site. That way if your mom comes through here, she'll—”

I run. I don't know where I'm going, I just go. The woman shouts my name but doesn't follow. I pass a makeshift emergency room, doctors, injured bystanders, firemen, policemen who look like they haven't slept in days. National Guardsmen and -women eye me as I pass by, but no one stops me. I keep going, until I finally find myself down by the water, staring at the smoke rising from lower Manhattan.

We haven't seen many survivors from that location.

She told me to go home. There was an explosion—of course it was an explosion, no matter how much I try to tell myself that it wasn't—and then silence. We were disconnected. She was gone.

Mom's not here. She could be dead. She's
probably
dead
.

My eyes start to water. I can feel them getting red as I clench my fists and think of all the things I've done to get to her, to get here, only to find that I'm no closer to reuniting with her. The people in the park, the bus, the bank, almost dying in a tunnel with Sam and John. Maybe I should have gone to the restaurant after all. Hell, maybe I should have stayed hidden in our apartment or somewhere in our neighborhood and waited
for her to come back. I could have fought the Mogs off probably.

Maybe.

What would she have wanted me to do?

And then, new words start to float through my head. Sam talking about his dad and how he didn't give up hope.

She could still be out there. She could be fighting her way uptown to find me. Or hiding out somewhere safe, waiting for the right moment to run. Or she's at another evacuation zone for all I know. I still have to have hope. I mean, shit, I've got
telekinesis.
Anything is possible.

You have to honor the person who's not there with your actions
.

What would Mom want me to do
now
?

There's screaming behind me, and I turn expecting to see a bunch of Mogs. Instead, I watch a stretcher rush by. There are two people in scrubs—young, nurses maybe—pushing it towards one of the medical tents. The woman lying on it is covered in blood. Another woman chases after them, holding her hand out in front of her, tears streaming down her face. I don't know which of them screamed. It could have been the nurses, or someone else in the safe zone for all I know. There are plenty of reasons to be screaming or crying or shouting here.

We've all lost something. Who knows how many people are just like me right now, trying to find someone who means the world to them in the middle of all this shit?

I turn back to the city and wipe the hot tears from the sides of my eyes. My gaze lands on the giant spaceship hovering above the city, just waiting to attack us again. John and Sam called it the
Anubis
, I think. I have other words for it, most of which Mom would be pissed at me for saying out loud.

My fists curl into balls at my sides.

I know one thing for sure: if my mom is still alive, she's not safe while those bastard aliens are here. None of us are.

“I'm not giving up on you,” I say quietly, hoping that wherever my mom is she can hear me. “I'm going to see you again. But until then, I think I'm going to kick some alien ass. Help some people. Make you proud.”

I turn and start running again. This time I know where I'm going. I have to find John Smith. I can't just sit around here with the rest of the evacuees or I'll lose my damn mind. I'm going to do some good. I'm going to fight.