The Fall of Five

35

I walk through a decimated city. I’m right in the middle of the road, but there isn’t any traffic. Totaled cars are piled up on the sidewalks, many of them just burned-out shells. The buildings nearby—the ones still standing, anyway—are crumbling and covered in scorch marks. My sneakers crunch across a blanket of broken glass.

The city isn’t familiar to me. It isn’t Chicago. I’m somewhere else. How did I get here?

The last thing I remember is Ella grabbing my arm and then . . . this place. An acrid burning smell fills the air, inescapable. My eyes burn from the clouds of ash blown through the empty streets. I can hear crackling in the distance; somewhere, a fire is still burning.

I keep moving forward through the deserted war zone. At first, I don’t think there are any people. Then, I notice a handful of filthy men and women huddled inside the gutted remains of an apartment complex. They stand around a burning trash barrel, warming themselves. I raise my hand in greeting and shout.

“Hey! What happened here?”

Seeing me, the humans shrink back. They’re frightened, one by one disappearing into the shadows of the building. I guess I’d be wary of strangers too if I lived through whatever happened here. I keep moving.

The wind howls through the broken windows and sagging doorways. My ears perk up; if I strain to listen, I can almost hear a voice carried on the wind.

John . . . Help me, John. . . .

The voice is thin and distant, but I still recognize it. Ella.

I realize where I am—well, not where I am geographically, but where my mind is. Somehow, I’ve been pulled into Ella’s nightmare. It feels so real, but then so did those horrible taunting visions that Setrákus Ra used to inflict on me. I close my eyes, focus, and try to force myself awake. It doesn’t work. When I open my eyes, I’m still standing in this broken city.

“Ella?” I say, feeling a little silly speaking to the thin air. “Where are you? How do we get out of here?”

There’s no response.

A torn piece of newspaper blows across my path and I reach down to snatch it. It’s the front page of the Washington Post, so that must be where I am. The paper is dated a few years from now. This is a vision of the future and it’s one that I hope never comes to pass. I remind myself that this is how Setrákus Ra toys with us. Everything here is his creation.

Even knowing that, the picture on the front page causes my breath to catch. An armada of Mogadorian ships emerges from a cloudy Washington sky, hovering right over the White House. The headline is just one word, in bold capital letters.

INVASION.

I hear a rumbling sound from ahead of me, toss the newspaper away, and start jogging towards it. A dark military truck crosses through the intersection, moving slowly, flanked on all sides by Mogadorians. I quickly come to a stop and consider ducking into one of the nearby alleys for safety, but the Mogs don’t seem to notice me.

A crowd of people shuffles along behind the truck. They’re humans; gaunt and pale, their clothes torn rags, all of them looking dirty and hungry, many of them wounded. They walk along with their heads down, their faces grim, marching sullenly. Mogadorian warriors armed with cannons walk alongside them, the dark tattoos that cover their scalps displayed proudly. Unlike the humans, the Mogs are all smiling. Something is happening —an event of some kind, one that the Mogadorians want the humans to witness.

The wind picks up again. John . . . this way . . .

I slip into the crowd and walk along with the humans, keeping my head bowed. I steal an occasional glance around. The Washington Monument protrudes jaggedly on the horizon, the top half of it sheared off. A feeling of dread fills my stomach. This is what the future will look like if we fail.

The crowd is led to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. There are other people already there, waiting for this sick Mogadorian sideshow to begin. The American flags that would normally hang above the Memorial have been taken down, replaced by black flags bearing a red Mogadorian symbol. Even worse are the chunks of stone piled along the sides of the road—well, I think they’re stones at first. On closer inspection I make out the chiseled face of Lincoln, a huge crack running down the center of his forehead. The Mogadorians have broken down the statue and tossed it out of the Memorial.

I push my way to the front of the crowd. None of the humans seem all that eager to be at the front, so they let me through without a problem. A line of Mog warriors stands at the base of the steps, keeping watch on these dispirited people, their cannons pointed into the crowd.

Setrákus Ra lounges in a throne at the top of the Lincoln Memorial. His massive frame is clad in a black uniform, covered in epaulets and medals. A huge Mogadorian sword protected by an ornamental scabbard is laid across his lap. Seven Loric pendants hang from around his neck, their cobalt surfaces shimmering in the afternoon light. His black eyes idly scan the crowd. They pass right over me and I flinch, ready to run, but he doesn’t seem to notice me.

John . . . do you see me . . . ?

I have to stifle a gasp. Ella is seated in a smaller throne next to Setrákus Ra. She looks older and paler. Her hair is dyed jet black and bound in a tight braid worn down her shoulder. She’s wearing a dress so elegant that it almost seems meant to taunt the tattered humans that stare at her in awe. Her face is stony, like she’s long become immune to grim scenes like this one.

Setrákus Ra holds her hand.

I fight back the urge to rush up the steps and try to kill him, reminding myself that none of this is real. And anyway, even if it was, I wouldn’t stand a chance. An entire army of Mogadorians stands between me and Setrákus Ra.

The crowd parts to let the military truck I saw before pull up to the Lincoln Memorial’s steps. The back of the truck is open and I can see two prisoners huddled inside, their heads down and hands shackled. There’s something familiar about them.

Setrákus Ra stands up when the truck parks. A hush falls across the crowd.

“Bring them forward,” he shouts.

A stout Mogadorian warrior steps out of the ranks. He’s not like the others; he’s not so pale and the dark tattoos across his scalp seem almost new. He wears a patch over one eye and his working eye isn’t the soulless black of a Mogadorian. I take an involuntary step backwards as I realize that I’m not looking at a Mogadorian at all.

It’s Five. What the hell is going on here? Why is he wearing their uniform?

Five leads the first prisoner down from the back of the truck. He’s a little older and there’s a long scar running horizontal across his nose and cheeks, but I still immediately recognize Sam. He keeps his head down, not making eye contact with Five, looking haunted and defeated. I notice Sam has a bad limp that becomes all the more apparent when he’s forced to climb the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. He stumbles, almost falls, and some of the Mogadorian onlookers chuckle at the humiliating display. I feel rage bubbling up inside me and have to take a deep breath as I feel my Lumen starting to activate.

The second prisoner doesn’t go as meekly as Sam. Even with her hands and feet shackled, Six stands tall. Her blond hair has been shorn into boyish spikes and her face is contorted into a perpetual mask of anger, yet she’s still strikingly beautiful. She sweeps her eyes across the crowd of humans and many of them look down in response, ashamed. Five says something to her that I can’t hear, but his soft features are almost apologetic. In response, Six spits in his face. As Five wipes the spit off his cheek, a group of Mogadorian guards grab Six and drag her up the steps. She’s a fighter until the very end.

Six and Sam are made to kneel before Setrákus Ra. He glowers at them for a moment, then turns to address the crowd.

“Behold,” he shouts, his voice carrying above the silent masses. “The last of the Loric resistance! Today our society celebrates a great victory over those who would stand in the way of Mogadorian progress.”

The Mogs all cheer. The humans stay quiet.

My mind is racing. If Six and Sam are the last remaining, then that means, in this future, I’m already dead and so are all the others. Those pendants dangling from Setrákus Ra’s neck—one of those is mine. I remind myself again that none of this is real, but I feel terrified all the same.

Five walks up the steps and stands beside Setrákus Ra. He holds the ornamental sheath as Setrákus pulls free his glowing broadsword. Setrákus brandishes the sword for all to see, then takes a practice swing just above Sam’s head. Someone in the crowd screams and is quickly silenced.

“Today, we cement a lasting peace between humans and Mogadorians,” continues Setrákus. “At last, we will finally stamp out the final threat to our glorious existence.”

This sure doesn’t look glorious. The humans have clearly been beaten down over months and months of Mogadorian occupation. I wonder how many would join me if I tried to charge Setrákus Ra. Probably none. I don’t feel angry at them, but angry at myself. I should’ve saved them, should’ve prepared them better for what’s coming.

Setrákus isn’t done giving his speech. “On this historic day, I have chosen to bestow the honor of sentencing to she who will one day succeed me as your Beloved Leader.” With a grand gesture, Setrákus Ra motions to Ella. “Heir? How do you rule?”

Heir? That doesn’t make any sense. Ella isn’t a Mogadorian, she’s one of us.

I don’t have time to figure out what this all means. I watch as Ella rises shakily from her throne, seeming almost drugged. She stares down at Six and Sam, her eyes dark and impassive. Then, she gazes into the crowd, her eyes settling on me.

“Execute them,” Ella says.

“Very well,” Setrákus replies.

He bows deeply and then, in one fluid motion, chops off Six’s head with his sword. The crowd is deathly silent as her body topples over, so quiet that I can hear Sam screaming. He falls across Six’s body, crying and yelling.

I feel the searing pain on my ankle. A new scar is forming. I close my eyes as Five lifts up Sam, turning him towards Setrákus Ra’s blade. I don’t want to see what happens next, how badly I’ve failed them all. It’s not real, I repeat to myself.

It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real. . . .