“That’s one idea,” I say, looking up at the sky to see how much daylight we have left. Not much. “Or, we could go out into that jungle, track down Phiri Dun-Ra and get our part back.”

Adam nods. “I prefer that plan.”

I look at Marina. “What about you?”

I don’t even have to ask. The sweat on my arms tingles—she’s radiating an aura of cold.

“Let’s go hunting,” Marina says.

Chapter THREE

UNDER IDEAL CONDITIONS, THE WALK TO UNION Square should take about forty minutes. It’s only a mile and a half. But these are far from ideal conditions. Sam and I are backtracking along the same blocks we spent the afternoon fighting through. Back to where the Mogadorian presence is heavier.

Hopefully, Nine and Five don’t kill each other before we get there. We need them if we’re going to have any shot at winning this war.

Both of them.

Sam and I stick to the shadows. Some blocks still have electricity, so the streetlights are on, shining like it’s a normal evening in the big city, as if the roads aren’t littered with overturned cars and broken chunks of pavement. We avoid those blocks¸ knowing it will be too easy for the Mogs to spot us.

We pass through what used to be Chinatown. It looks like a tornado touched down here. The sidewalks are impassable on one side, an entire block’s worth of buildings collapsed to rubble. There are hundreds of dead fish in the middle of the street. We have to pick our way carefully through the obstacles.

On our way down from the UN, there were still people on nearly every block. The NYPD were trying to manage an orderly evacuation, but most were fleeing haphazardly, just trying to stay ahead of the Mog squadrons that seemed equally likely to slaughter civilians as take them prisoners. Everyone was panicked and shell-shocked at their new horrific reality. Sam and I picked up the stragglers, the ones who didn’t manage to leave quick enough, or whose groups got blown apart by Mog patrols. There were a lot of them. Now, after ten blocks, we haven’t seen another living soul. Maybe most of the people in lower Manhattan made it to the evacuation point on the Brooklyn Bridge—if the Mogs haven’t attacked it by now. Anyway, I figure that anyone who managed to survive the day is smart enough to spend the night in hiding.

As we sneak down the next desolated block, Sam and I skirting cautiously around an abandoned ambulance, I hear whispering from a nearby alley. I put my hand on Sam’s arm and, when we stop walking, the noise cuts off. I can tell we’re being watched.

“What is it?” Sam asks, his own voice low.

“There’s someone out there.”

Sam squints into the darkness. “Let’s keep going,” he says after a few seconds. “They don’t want our help.”

It’s hard for me to leave anyone behind. But Sam’s right—whoever’s out there is doing perfectly fine in their hiding spot, and we’d only be putting them in more danger taking them with us.

Five minutes later, we turn a corner and see our first Mogadorian patrol of the night.

The Mogs are at the opposite end of the block, so we have the space to safely observe them. There are a dozen warriors, all carrying blasters. Above them, a Skimmer hums along, sweeping the street with a spotlight mounted on the ship’s underbelly. The patrol moves methodically down the block, a group of four warriors periodically breaking off from the rest to enter darkened apartment buildings. I watch them go through this routine twice, and both times I breathe a sigh of relief when the warriors return without any human prisoners.

What would happen if these Mogs found a human in one of these buildings and pulled them screaming into the street? I couldn’t just let that happen, right? I’d have to fight.

What about after Sam and I move on? They’re predators. If we leave them alive, eventually they’ll find prey.

As I’m considering this, Sam nudges me, pointing towards a nearby alley that will let us avoid the Mogs. “Come on,” he says quietly. “Before they get too close.”

I stay rooted in place, considering our odds. There are only twelve of them, plus the ship. I’ve fought bigger groups before and won. Granted, I’m still fatigued from an afternoon spent battling nonstop, but we’d have the element of surprise on our side. I could take down the Skimmer before they even realize they’re under attack, and the rest would fall easily.

“We can take them,” I conclude.

“John, are you nuts?” Sam asks, grabbing my shoulder. “We can’t fight every Mog in New York City.”

“But we can fight these ones,” I reply. “I’m feeling stronger now and if something goes wrong I’ll just heal us after.”

“Assuming we don’t, you know, get shot in the face and killed outright. Battle to battle, healing us right after—how much of that can you take?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s too many of them. We have to pick our battles.”

“You’re right,” I admit grudgingly.

We dart down the alley, hop a chain-link fence and emerge on the next block over, leaving the Mogadorian patrol to its hunting. Logically, I know Sam is right. I shouldn’t be wasting my time with a dozen Mogs when there’s a greater war to be won. After an exhausting day, I should be conserving my strength. I know all this is true. Even so, I can’t help feeling like a coward for avoiding the fight.

Sam points up at a sign for First Street and Second Avenue. “Numbered streets. We’re getting closer.”