Legacies Reborn Read Online Free PDF Page A

alien ship landing. The cars are headed right for it, right into the arms of the aliens. My blood pumps faster. How many obstacles stand between my mom and me? I shake the thought from my head and focus on continuing tomove. It’s only then that I realize how truly messed up this must be for Flashlight Boy and the others. If their families made some kind of stand or distraction back at the apartments, there’s a good chance they met the same fate as Benny. Or they were captured, which, hell, might even be worse for all I know. I’m just glad I have Mom to run to. Otherwise, what the hell would I even be doing right now?
    I turn off Amsterdam before I get to a bigger intersection. There are only a dozen people on the street, but I see lots of faces in windows looking out with wide eyes. I try to think about what this means. If the Moga-dicks are at the university and hit my block in Harlem, maybe they’re working their way down from the Bronx. They were in Midtown on the news, and I know they were at the UN. Maybe they haven’t gotten down to the Financial District.
    Halfway down the block, I hear a huge explosion from somewhere behind me. I look over my shoulder to see smoke rising from the area the church is in. I stop. My stomach cramps up. For a second I think about running back, but I bury that idea in my head and start towards the train again, telling myself that it must have been a car getting bombed or one of those alien ships going down. The church is probably fine. I have to keep focused. I can’t stop and help every person I see.
    Still, my heart’s in my throat.
    But it doesn’t stay there. Instead, it drops to my guts when I come to a corner and see dozens of Mogadorians four or five blocks up the street. There are tons of police cars too, their flashing lights reflected in the hulls of two spaceships hovering over the street. I can’t tell if there was some kind of police resistance that retreated into campus or if some kind of student revolt spilled out onto Broadway. Whatever’s happening, the Mogs are fighting back with everything they’ve got. The ships fire into the crowds. There are exploding bottles being thrown by the students and a steady pop of gunshots. It’s chaos. It’s hard to even take my eyes off the crumbling buildings and the faces of the people fighting back. But I do. A hundred feet in the other direction is a subway entrance at 110th. My goal. The trains still have to be operating, helping get people out of the city.
    Right?
    I practically slide down the stairs when I finally get to the entrance. For a second I actually wonder if I have my MetroCard on me, as if with everything that’s going on someone would try to stop me from hopping the turnstile.
    Only, that’s not a problem, because the subway station is packed full of people. It’s madness. If I were claustrophobic at all, it would be my worst nightmare. There have to be a hundred men, women and children between me and the turnstiles. A steady stream ofpanicked people leap over them, one by one, and jump down onto the tracks. They hold their cell phones out, using them as flashlights. Someone’s opened up the emergency gate, and a high-pitched alarm squeals as people shove through it.
    â€œWhat the hell?” I wonder out loud. “They’re going to get run over down there.”
    â€œOh, honey,” a woman beside me says. She’s got a handful of photos and a small, rat-looking dog pulled close to her chest. “This train hasn’t been running for hours.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” I ask. The trains have to be running. Shit .
    â€œThe aboveground tracks are out at 125th,” she says. The dog yaps. “Bastards destroyed them. Not that I’m guessing any of the other trains are running now either. Lord, I hope not if there are other people in the tunnels.”
    My pulse is pounding so hard that nothing’s computing