“The Washington Monument,” Lujan says. “We’re lucky we went down here, otherwise we might have had civilian casualties. We’re not far from our destination.”
The fact that crash-landing in the middle of half a dozen national landmarks is considered a good thing is probably more telling about the current state of the world than it should be.
“The others?” I ask, remembering the men on board.
“They didn’t make it,” Briggs says.
There’s something else nagging in the back of my mind, but my thoughts are a jumble. Blood drips down my face from my left temple. I must have hit my head in the crash. As if I didn’t have enough brain damage already.
“We need to move,” Lujan says. “Now. There are hostiles patrolling the city, and there’s no way they missed our crash.”
That’s when it hits me.
“My bag!” I shout as I rush towards the wreckage. Gamera’s inside. What happened to him?
“You can’t—” Briggs starts, but I ignore him. As far as we know, there are only a handful of Chim?rae in existence now, and I won’t let one of them—my bodyguard—be burned alive.
Lujan intercepts me, grabbing the back of my shirt with a firm grip and spinning me around before I can charge headfirst into the clearing.
“Listen, Goode,” he snarls. “Briggs risked his life pulling you out of there, and I’ll be damned if I let you die of smoke inhalation or an explosion or get captured while trying to rescue your luggage. Our mission is to get you to the bunker, and that’s what we’re going to do come hell or high water.”
“You don’t understand . . . ,” I begin, but then I hear a familiar screech in the air—the sound of a bird crying out. A big hawk is perched on a tree limb overhead, staring at me. It stretches its wings out as if to signal me.
I shake my head a little, relieved. Obviously I’ve underestimated how resilient these animals are. Lujan stares at me like I’m an idiot and then pulls me back towards Briggs.
“With any luck we can make it the rest of the way without raising any alarms,” Lujan says.
“I wouldn’t exactly say luck has been on our side tonight,” Briggs mutters.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Union Station.” Lujan takes his sidearm out and checks to make sure that it’s loaded. “There’s transport there that’ll take us to a secure location.”
“The trains are still running?”
“No train the public knows about.”
My mouth falls open a little. I remember reading conspiracy theories about secret tunnels that led to and from places like the White House and the Capitol, all connecting through DC’s Union Station. I didn’t realize they actually existed.
I guess I shouldn’t really be surprised.
Briggs steps forward with wide eyes.
“Sir,” he whispers while taking the assault rifle from across his back. I turn and find another skimmer approaching the wreckage, a few miles off.
“Move,” Lujan says, pointing in the opposite direction. “If they’re smart they’ll be looking for survivors.”
He leads us through the National Mall, keeping to the trees lining the side instead of the open middle area. They offer a little overhead coverage but aren’t dense enough to hide us completely if the Mogs bring in a skimmer with a spotlight on it. At least the foliage makes a great pathway for Gamera, who jumps from limb to limb as a bushy-tailed squirrel. It’s a small miracle that we have at least some cover of darkness, but there’s enough ambient light around that we’re not exactly invisible. The US Capitol stands less than a mile ahead of us, its white facade gleaming in the darkness. It’s eerily quiet, especially for where we are. I’d feared the cities would be overrun with frantic people and military—or worse, squadrons of Mogadorians.
“Where is everyone?” I whisper as we pass a series of museums. “Isn’t this place usually filled with tourists? What happened to all of them? Why wasn’t there immediately some kind of response team when we almost crashed into the Washington Monument?”
“This area was a priority evacuation zone,” Lujan explains. “Blocks surrounding the White House and the Capitol have been cleared. After the resistance in New York turned into widespread destruction, the official military stance became to neither engage the Mogadorians nor interfere with the patrols they sent down from their warships. People are being dragged from their homes in Manhattan. We’re trying to keep that from happening here too.”
I swallow hard at the mention of New York and tap my pocket to make sure my satellite phone is still there.
Is Sam safe?
“And what’s the unofficial stance?” I ask.
“What does it look like? We’re covertly pooling our assets and readying countermeasures. Why do you think you’re here?”
We’re almost to the Capitol when Briggs starts to fall behind. There’s blood leaking from the bandage around his leg.