Moments later, I walk along the concrete pier overlooking the East River and Manhattan. The air is crisp and cool, although still tinged with the acrid, burned smell that blows in from Manhattan. From here, I have a clear view of the destruction the Mogadorians wreaked on the city. Pillars of dark smoke rise into the bright blue sky, fires still burning. There are gaps in the city’s skyline, spaces where I know buildings should be, simply erased by the powerful energy weapons of the Anubis. Occasionally, I can make out a Skimmer zipping between buildings, the Mogs patrolling the streets.

Agent Walker stands alone at the railing, staring out at the city.

“How’d you find me?” I ask by way of greeting as I approach.

The FBI agent who once tried to have me imprisoned actually smiles at me.

“Some survivors trickling in mentioned seeing you,” Walker answers. “We sent teams out to the general area. Figured we’d start looking where the alpha warship was dropping heavy ordnance.”

“Good call,” I reply.

“Glad you’re alive,” she says brusquely.

Walker’s gray-streaked red hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. She looks exhausted, heavy bags under both of her eyes. At some point she traded in her customary FBI Windbreaker and pantsuit for a Kevlar vest and fatigues, probably borrowed from the large army contingent securing this area. Her left arm is in a sling, and there’s a hastily bandaged gash on her forehead.

“Do you want me to heal those?” I ask.

In response, Walker takes a look around. The two of us are alone for the moment, standing in the small park tucked under the Brooklyn Bridge. Or rather, alone as one can get in what’s basically become a refugee camp overnight. The hilly lawn behind us is cluttered with makeshift tents, wounded and frightened New Yorkers packed in tight. I guess these are the people who refused to be evacuated by the Red Cross, or else are too injured to make the trip. The tents spread out into the surrounding blocks, and I’m sure there are people squatting in the fancy riverfront apartment buildings nearby. Interspersed throughout the survivors, keeping order and tending to the wounded, are soldiers, cops and a few medics, just a small part of the force of thousands I saw gathered closer to the bridge. It’s essentially organized chaos.

“Those powers of yours have limits?” Walker asks, watching as a woman sprawled in the park’s grass has her severely burned arm treated by a harried doctor.

“Yeah. I hit them pretty hard yesterday,” I reply, rubbing the back of my neck. “Why do you ask?”

“Because much as I appreciate the offer, we’ve got thousands of injured here, John, with more trickling in every hour. You want to spend your whole day patching people up?”