Read Online The Fugitive by Pittacus Lore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pittacus Lore
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GUARD focuses on recovering files from the hard drive, I go over Purdy’s old emails, update the blog and try to keep up with the insane amount of emails I’m getting on my JOLLYROGER182 account ever since the Chicago story went viral. Most people who writeme are assholes who just want to make fun of us and ask if we know where Bigfoot is hiding, but every now and then I get something that’s worth following up on. A tattooed gang settling in the Everglades, weird-looking animals spotted flying overhead in Illinois—those sorts of things. I try to get as much info as I can from the sources, then scour local news stories, call police stations anonymously or anything else I can think of to back up any of the claims.
Our most promising lead is this dude named Grahish Sharma over in India. I get a dozen emails from different sources all talking about this commander or priest from some religious group that has something to do with one of the Garde. I’m not exactly sure they’re legit, because a lot of the emails have contradictory information, which I’m guessing may have something to do with translation issues. All the messages have one thing in common, though: they all say Sharma shot down a Mog spacecraft and captured the pale-faced bastards inside alive.
When I bring this to GUARD’s attention, he gets really excited about the idea of seeing one of the Mog ships up close—not to mention the fact that we could get footage of real-life Mogs. I respond to every email that mentions the Sharma guy, hoping that someone will be able to put me in contact with him.
Our most important break is when GUARD managesto track down a recent photo of Secretary of Defense Bud Sanderson, the old, fat, bald guy who was getting Mog injections and plastic surgery done. Sure enough, the guy who looked more like a zombie than a human a few years ago suddenly has a full head of silver hair, smooth skin and a giant, shit-eating grin. If it wasn’t for his eyes and the way his nose crooks to the side, I wouldn’t believe it could possibly be the same dude.
I write a short exposé and post it to the blog. Once again, I feel like I’m actually doing something to help the fight. I just wish we could get more definite proof, something to show the world that the Mogs are real. That we’re in danger.
That’s why we need Sharma. Or Sarah.
I work through the night. Reading, speculating and taking notes. By the time the sun comes up, I need to get out of the back room and get some fresh air in order to stay focused. So I grab one of the handguns with a silencer on it and head outside. I set up empty aluminum cans in the old barn and start knocking them down one by one. I’m not a bad shot—would probably be better if I wasn’t so jittery from caffeine.
The only drawback is that shooting the gun makes the wound on my arm hurt. How ironic. I just hope the superglue helps it heal like it’s supposed to.
Shooting makes me think of my dad and the rest of my family. I wonder what they’re doing. If they’restill worried. I don’t open their emails because I know I’ll want to respond, and the last thing I want to do is put them in danger, or put myself in danger by saying something I shouldn’t. But it’s hard not to have them on my mind when I practice with the weapons. Dad taught me gun safety and used to take me hunting every year. He’s the reason I know how to shoot at all. I hope that these aren’t skills I’m going to have to put to use anytime soon, but if I do, in a weird way I think my dad would be proud of me, if he could see the big picture.
It hasn’t been all that long since I left Paradise in the middle of the night, but it feels like an eternity. That freaks me out a little bit. I mean, I’m hidden away out in the middle of nowhere trying to track down an alien hunter in India instead of sitting at Nana’s kitchen table eating bacon while going over scholarship offers or something. College seems almost laughable
Our most promising lead is this dude named Grahish Sharma over in India. I get a dozen emails from different sources all talking about this commander or priest from some religious group that has something to do with one of the Garde. I’m not exactly sure they’re legit, because a lot of the emails have contradictory information, which I’m guessing may have something to do with translation issues. All the messages have one thing in common, though: they all say Sharma shot down a Mog spacecraft and captured the pale-faced bastards inside alive.
When I bring this to GUARD’s attention, he gets really excited about the idea of seeing one of the Mog ships up close—not to mention the fact that we could get footage of real-life Mogs. I respond to every email that mentions the Sharma guy, hoping that someone will be able to put me in contact with him.
Our most important break is when GUARD managesto track down a recent photo of Secretary of Defense Bud Sanderson, the old, fat, bald guy who was getting Mog injections and plastic surgery done. Sure enough, the guy who looked more like a zombie than a human a few years ago suddenly has a full head of silver hair, smooth skin and a giant, shit-eating grin. If it wasn’t for his eyes and the way his nose crooks to the side, I wouldn’t believe it could possibly be the same dude.
I write a short exposé and post it to the blog. Once again, I feel like I’m actually doing something to help the fight. I just wish we could get more definite proof, something to show the world that the Mogs are real. That we’re in danger.
That’s why we need Sharma. Or Sarah.
I work through the night. Reading, speculating and taking notes. By the time the sun comes up, I need to get out of the back room and get some fresh air in order to stay focused. So I grab one of the handguns with a silencer on it and head outside. I set up empty aluminum cans in the old barn and start knocking them down one by one. I’m not a bad shot—would probably be better if I wasn’t so jittery from caffeine.
The only drawback is that shooting the gun makes the wound on my arm hurt. How ironic. I just hope the superglue helps it heal like it’s supposed to.
Shooting makes me think of my dad and the rest of my family. I wonder what they’re doing. If they’restill worried. I don’t open their emails because I know I’ll want to respond, and the last thing I want to do is put them in danger, or put myself in danger by saying something I shouldn’t. But it’s hard not to have them on my mind when I practice with the weapons. Dad taught me gun safety and used to take me hunting every year. He’s the reason I know how to shoot at all. I hope that these aren’t skills I’m going to have to put to use anytime soon, but if I do, in a weird way I think my dad would be proud of me, if he could see the big picture.
It hasn’t been all that long since I left Paradise in the middle of the night, but it feels like an eternity. That freaks me out a little bit. I mean, I’m hidden away out in the middle of nowhere trying to track down an alien hunter in India instead of sitting at Nana’s kitchen table eating bacon while going over scholarship offers or something. College seems almost laughable
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