Aegis Incursion (3 page)

The guard watched for a few moments, then unclipped a radio from his belt. “It’s done,” he reported, sounding satisfied. He stared at the blazing wreckage for a moment longer before heading back to his vehicle. With a powerful roar of the engine, he drove away from the scene.

A dozen feet below the edge of the road, the battered and bruised driver of the van hung onto an exposed root that stuck out from the side of the ravine. He listened as the sound of the Charger’s engine grew distant. Then, mind racing, he looked down at his destroyed vehicle. Grateful as he was to be alive, his intuition told him that he’d stumbled upon something big in that facility; something clandestine and dark.

As he dug his fingers into the slope and clawed his way back up toward the road, dirt-stained and bleeding, he allowed himself a small, furtive smile. It seemed like a good time to do something he hadn’t done in ages: Reach out to the Council.

PART ONE

I
t was a scene of complete mayhem. Remains of destroyed buildings and vehicles were strewn across the mountaintop landscape. Shots rang out and bullets flew in the early hours of the misty morning. The heat of the battle drew cold sweat from the teenager who stood amidst it all. He watched, horrified, as a large, black-furred beast leapt and dug its massive fangs into a woman who was firing arrows from her bow. Unable to tear his eyes away from the ghastly sight, he watched as the woman’s life was taken right before his eyes.

He heard someone call out. At an agonizingly slow pace, the teenager turned to see a man running toward him. The stranger, perhaps in his mid-fifties, had flaming red hair with a matching beard, but what captured the teenager’s attention was the look of pure terror in the man’s gray eyes. Behind him, gouts of earth erupted as bullets struck the ground. The projectiles burst forth from the ramp of a strange, imposing aircraft that hovered above the site. The fire from the plane seemed to be specifically targeting the stranger.

The teenager found himself running toward the man. He willed himself to move as fast as he could, yet time seemed to have slowed. Everything became crystal-clear—he could see every little detail, from a minuscule piece of broken glass to broken arrowheads on the dirt—though his focus remained on the flame-haired man. He shouted to the stranger but his voice was drowned by the sounds of the aircraft’s thundering engines.

As the gap closed between them, the man let out a pained cry that rose above the noise. He lurched forward before falling to the ground and lay motionless as his blood began to stain the dirt.

The teenager screamed in terror and stumbled toward the man. Before he could reach him, everything went dark. Painful silence ensued. Then a voice spoke, rich and firm, with a touch of a peculiar accent:

The storm is gathering, Jag.

Wake up!

JAG!

Jag Sanchez bolted upright in his bed, gasping for air. As he caught his breath, he stared at the wall ahead, not realizing he was sweating but very aware that every part of him was trembling. He ran a hand over his face and shut his eyes tightly.

That voice. That voice had been haunting his dreams for the last nine months, since . . .

He looked at his phone beside his bed and yelped when he saw the time. Late for school,
again
. He leapt out of bed and stumbled around his room as he got ready then grabbed his bag and flew down the stairs toward the front door, not bothering to stop for breakfast. How was it that he lived only five minutes from the high school but was constantly late, even when he put his alarm on?

“Jag, you gotta quit waking up late,” his brother called from the living room where Jag could hear him playing on the Xbox.

“Easy for you to say, you’re done with school,” Jag growled. “When you decide to apply for college, Tristan, then you can talk.”

“Touché,” Tristan chuckled. “Have a good day, bro.”

“Have fun rotting your brains out playing Halo.”

“I will. And don’t act like you wouldn’t enjoy it, either.”

“Pfft!”

Jag was still jamming his feet into his shoes as he headed out the door. He hurried along the sidewalk that turned up into the school grounds. As he rounded the turn, he stopped short. A group of four guys his age were laughing and sneering at someone on the ground. To one side, a wheelchair had been overturned and the contents of a backpack were strewn over the grass.

When Jag took a closer look at the boy on the ground, his heart sank for a moment before fury overtook him and he made his way over. “What do you think you’re doing?” he snapped.

One of the boys, a stocky fellow with a gray ball cap, looked up in surprise. When he saw who the newcomer was, he smirked. “Hey, look who it is. One of the five Amnesiacs.”

Jag said nothing. He straightened the wheelchair as the undaunted black teenager who’d fallen off it sat up on the ground and glared defiantly up at his intimidators. He got a pat on the head from one of the guys.

Jag saw it and fought the powerful urge to throttle the boy. “Roderick isn’t a dog. Show some respect.”

The one who’d patted Roderick on the head laughed. “Roddy’s a tough guy, he can take a little shoving. You, on the other hand . . . heh . . . ”

“Don’t test me.”

“Jag, don’t bother,” Roderick said quietly.

“What’s up with you anyway, Jag? You don’t get into fights as much anymore.” The boy with the ball cap lowered his voice and whispered mockingly, “Was it the aliens? Did they take away your urge to fight? The same way they took away your memories of last summer?”

“Shut up.”

Roderick raised his voice. “It’s already been a freakin’ year, guys. Find some new material.”

The boy ignored him. “Did they probe you, too, Jag?” His friends guffawed.

Jag’s amber eyes were twin flames of anger as he stepped forward. “You’re garbage. You and the other rats around here have done nothing but harass my friends and me since we came back. If I hear another rotten word coming out of your filthy mouth, I’ll gladly make you eat your teeth.”

The boy in the ball cap stared at Jag for a few moments, then broke into an unkind grin. “I guess the aliens didn’t take the fight out of you after all.”

Jag struck without warning, his fist catching the other teenager squarely in the jaw. The boy fell back, stunned and in pain.

Jag snarled. “You want another? Keep talking and I’ll be more than happy to supply!”

“Oh-ho, tough guy!” The boy held his jaw, wincing. “Your hit’s harder than I remember . . . Did the aliens inject you with super strength? Were you and your friends a part of their experiments?”

Fists raised, Jag was about to throw himself at the other teenager when Roderick’s voice rang out. “Jag! Stop!”

Jag caught himself in time and slowly lowered his fists, but the flames in his eyes didn’t die. “Watch your mouth,” he muttered icily before turning his back on the group of boys and reaching down to help Roderick into his wheelchair. The teenager in the ball cap was about to utter a snarky comment but thought better and resorted to kicking Roderick’s backpack into the middle of the street. Then he and his friends left.

Their departure allowed both Jag and Roderick to breathe easier. Jag quickly went to retrieve Roderick’s bag and gathered the books that had been thrown out. As he zipped up the bag and passed it to Roderick, he asked, “What was that all about?”

Roderick waved his hand impassively. “It’s nothing.”

“Roddy . . . ”

“Don’t worry about it, man. It’s all good. Come on, we’re late.”

“It’s the second-to-last day of school—we can’t really get in trouble for not being on time anymore. We can talk for a bit.”

Roderick looked amused. “Says the guy who came running because he left home late. That may be your thinking, Jag, but I don’t like rolling into class after everyone else.” With that, he guided his wheelchair toward the school.

Jag kept pace with him. “Tell me what happened.”

Roderick sighed. “I don’t want it to bother you, Jag. Look, the school year is almost over—”

“Just tell me.”

Roderick was quiet for a moment, then said, “They were walking behind me on the way here and I heard them making fun of your . . . amnesia. All I did was turn around and tell them to back off.”

Jag flinched slightly.
Amnesia.
“I’m sorry.”

Roderick looked up at him with a frown. “Why?”

“Because . . . ”
Because I put you in a wheelchair and now you get pushed around for being friends with the amnesiac that got you paralyzed.

Roderick seemed to understand what he was thinking and offered a small laugh. “I hope you’re not still blaming yourself for the accident two years ago. The cam was defective. You didn’t know, it wasn’t your fault. Who ever said rock climbing was a safe sport?”

“I’d promised you and the other guys that you’d be safe. That I’d look after you.”

“Jag, look at me. I’m alive! As long as I’m right here, you don’t have to be all down about me being unable to use my legs. God is good, man! Yeah, I can’t do some stuff anymore, but there’s a whole bunch more I can still experience. I can rock out at concerts, throw a football, get a date with a pretty girl—and I have!”

Roderick was confidently sitting in his wheelchair, a bright smile on his face as they made their way to the school’s main doors. Jag glanced at him and felt a surge of admiration. He didn’t know where his friend found the strength to look on the positive side of his life, but Roddy never wavered from his optimism.

They reached the main entrance and Jag held the door open for Roderick. As they parted ways to head to their classes, Jag said, “Roddy, can we talk at lunch?”

“Sure thing, man. See you in the cafeteria.” With another bright smile and a fist bump, Roderick rolled into his classroom.

* * *

Jag was sitting by himself at a table in the school’s cafeteria, fiddling with his phone, when Roderick rolled up. “Hey.”

Jag looked up from his phone. “Oh, hey.”

“You’re not having lunch?”

“Not really hungry.”

Roderick helped himself into a chair; Jag would have offered, but he knew Roderick wasn’t always fond of being assisted, especially with things he considered easy.

Once he was settled, he pulled out a sandwich from his bag and began eating meticulously. After a few mouthfuls, he looked Jag in the eye. “You look horrible,” he said. “You sleeping okay?”

“Yeah . . . I mean, no. That’s kind of why I wanted to talk—I need to get something off my chest.” Jag paused, hesitating. He’d wanted to talk about his disturbing dream, but was unsure now whether to even mention it. The more he thought, the more silly he felt for even wanting to speak about it.

Again, Roderick seemed to read his mind. “I’m all ears. You know that. I don’t laugh at your problems—you’ve never laughed at mine.”

Jag slid his phone into his jeans’ pocket and leaned back with a sigh. “It’s just . . . I’ve been having these dreams. And they’re
always
the same.”

Roderick frowned as he munched on his sandwich. “Is this a nightly thing?”

“No. Happens often enough to bug me, though.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since . . . since returning home last summer.”

Roderick stopped mid-munch. “Oh.” He put his sandwich down and cleared his throat. “I know I’ve asked before, and I know other people have, too, but you really can’t remember a thing, not even in the slightest?”

Jag shook his head and ran a hand through his dark brown hair. “The only thing I remember is the crash in Kody’s dad’s little Piper Comanche over Yukon, and then finding myself in a hospital. But there’s like a three-month gap in between and no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember a thing.”

“And you weren’t injured? Head trauma or something?”

“According to the doctors, no. Apparently we’d walked into the small town. I remember none of it. The other four say the same thing too.”

“That’s just strange.” Roderick picked up his sandwich again. “You and Tegan, Aari and the others don’t really hang out anymore, do you?”

“We’re a bigger target when we’re together in this place,” Jag said wistfully. “We do meet up after school sometimes, but it feels different, you know? Like a huge part of us is missing—which is true, I guess. And we’re all frustrated because of people like that idiot and his friends this morning.”

“They’re just a handful of dimwits who’re all bark. I mean, they’re loud and rude, but most people are sympathetic toward you guys.”

“Yeah. But sometimes it’s a handful of people that do the most damage.”

Roderick smiled sadly. “I understand.” He pushed the last piece of his sandwich into his mouth. “So, about that dream.”

“Right. Basically, I’m in the middle of some kind of—I dunno, it feels like a battleground. There are these people, two groups of them, and they’re fighting each other. One side has guns and the other is using bows and arrows. And there are these animals that I’m pretty sure spawned from the depths of hell; ruthless killing machines. And then . . . and then there’s this guy I keep seeing, an older guy, maybe in his late fifties. He moves really fast, but each time in my dreams, he gets shot down by a machine gun in a plane flying overhead. And each time, I can never save him.”