Five's Legacy Read Free

in there—it all seems so long ago. I know that I was Carson when Rey’s cough first appeared, along with the dark hollows under his eyes. We were camping in the Appalachians. He thought it was the cold that was making him sick, so we started moving south, making our way through the United States and towards a warmer climate. Eventually—after a few sketchy boat rides Rey arranged for us—we set up camp in Martinique, where we stayed for a while. But Rey’s cough just got worse. He kept telling me he was feeling better, but at some point I stopped believing him.
    I was always the better liar.
    As a kid, I thought of lies as little stories or games. Sometimes people we came across would ask questions—Where were my parents? Where was I born?—and I’d just start talking, making up these elaborate histories for Rey and me. Having secrets means you do a lot of lying. Not because you’re evil or a bad person or anything like that, but out of necessity.
    Really, Rey trained me to lie about all those morning runs and hikes. I make a mental note to tell him this later.
    Sometimes I wonder if Rey is crazy. Like, what if he’s just a really messed-up old guy who stole me from a loving, normal home and all of this alien stuff is simply made up? Maybe he gave me drugs or brainwashed me into having fake memories of some place that couldn’t possibly exist. All my life I’ve heard about Lorien, but the only proof I have that any of it is true is a few weird-looking guys who came after me in Canada.
    Well, that plus two scars that appeared like magic on my ankle and a Chest that’s supposed to house all kinds of treasures. A Chest that doesn’t open no matter how much you prod at it—I know, because I’ve tried about a million times to find out what’s inside over the years.
    The treasure of Lorien. Sure. A lot of good it’s doing out here in the middle of nowhere.
    I don’t mind the beach, really. I mean, I get why people go there on vacation. When we first got to the Caribbean, we stuck to the bigger, more populated resorts, just living on the fringes. We’d watch the tourists roll in every year, their brand-new beach clothes a parade of bright colors as they sipped drinks out of giant coconuts and pineapples that weren’t even native to the islands (not that they’d have known). But when One died—when that first scar formed on my ankle—Rey flipped out. I was nine years old and it was like the final string keeping him in check snapped, and he went into full-on survival mode. No more people. We’d have to live life completely off the grid. And so he’d cashed in whatever possessions we had, bought a few supplies and a small sailboat, and headed out to find the most deserted, godforsaken place he could. Gone were the restaurants and air-conditioning. No more TV, video games, or hot showers. Just a beach and a shack. I don’t know what kind of deal Rey must have struck to find this island, but I’ll give him one thing—it must be hidden away pretty well. A few times a year people mistakenly wash ashore here, but Rey always gets rid of them fast.
    And that’s where I am now. Washing up in the ocean. A dark cloud forms around my body as I scrub the pig shit off in the clear water at the shoreline. That’s what the future holds for the great Number Five, one of the seven most important people left on the planet.
    It’s not fair.
    I remember watching old kung fu movies on cable right before we came out here. The main characters were always going to the tops of mountains to train with ancient masters who taught them to throw ninja stars and kill people with chopsticks and stuff. When One died and Rey moved us to the island, he told me he was no longer the grandfather he’d pretended to be, but my teacher. I’d be his disciple. And I was excited about this at the time. I thought I was going to live out one of those old movies or something. And at first, I did do the training—Rey could still walk and move well,