‘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.’
I glance over the email headings – lots of exclamation points and capital letters. A few months ago
the idea of Mark James spamming my girlfriend would’ve gotten under my skin, but now it seems like
our rivalry was something that happened to someone else, something from another life.
‘When was the last time you checked this?’ I ask.
‘Weeks ago? I don’t really remember,’ Sarah replies. ‘I’ve been a little busy.’
She opens the most recent message from Mark and we all lean in to examine the contents.
Sarah –
I don’t know why I keep sending these emails. Part of me hopes that you’re reading them, using them to help the Loric, and can’t reply for your own safety. Another part of me worries that you aren’t even out there, that you’re gone. I refuse to believe that but …
I need to hear from you.
I thought I had a lead on you in New Mexico. All I found there was a deserted military base. It looked like a major battle went down. Way bigger and nastier than what happened in Paradise. I hope you guys got out safe. I hope like hell I’m not the only one left to fight these assholes. That would suck.