The 5th Wave (The Fifth Wave 1)

A second explosion knocks me flat out on the floor. I manage to crawl a few inches before a third blast knocks me down again. Damn it, what are you doing up there, Vosch?

If it is too late, we’ll have no choice but to execute the option of last resort.

Well, guess that particular mystery is solved. Vosch is blowing up his own base. Destroying the village in order to save it. But save it from what? Unless it isn’t Vosch. Maybe Ringer and I are totally wrong. Maybe I’m risking my life and Nugget’s for nothing. Camp Haven is what Vosch says it is and that means Ringer walked into a camp of infesteds with her guard down. Ringer is dead. Ringer and Dumbo and Poundcake and little Teacup. Christ, have I done it again? Run when I should have stayed? Turned my back when I should have fought?

The next explosion is the worst. It hits directly overhead. I cover my head with both arms as chunks of concrete as big as my fist rain down. The concussions from the bombs, the drug lingering in my system, the loss of blood, the darkness…all of it conspires to pin me down. From a distance, I can hear someone screaming—and then I realize that it’s me.

You have to get up. You have to get up. You have to keep your promise to Sissy…

No. Not Sissy. Sissy’s dead. You left her behind, you stinking bag of regurgitated puke.

Damn, it hurts. The pain of the wounds that bleed and the pain of the old wound that will not heal.

Sissy, with me in the dark.

I can see her hand reaching for me in the dark.

I’m here, Sissy. Take my hand.

Reaching for her in the dark.

82

SISSY PULLS AWAY, and I’m alone again.

When the moment comes to stop running from your past, to turn around and face the thing you thought you could not face—the moment when your life teeters between giving up and getting up—when that moment comes, and it always comes, if you can’t get up and you can’t give up, either, here’s what you do:

Crawl.

Sliding forward on my stomach, I reach the intersection of the main corridor that runs the length of the complex. Have to rest. Two minutes, no more. The emergency lights flicker on. I know where I am now. Left to the air shaft, right to the central command hub and the safe room.

Tick-tock. My two-minute break is over. I push myself to my feet using the wall for support, and I nearly black out from the pain. Even if I grab Nugget without getting grabbed myself, how will I get him out of here in this condition?

Plus I sincerely doubt there are any buses left. Or any Camp Haven, for that matter. Once I grab him—if I grab him—where the hell are we going to go?

I shuffle down the corridor, keeping one hand on the wall to steady myself. Ahead, I can hear someone shouting at the kids in the safe room, telling them to stay calm and stay seated, everything was going to be okay and they were perfectly safe.

Tick-tock. Right before the final turn, I glance to my left and see something crumpled against the wall: a human body.

A dead human body.

Still warm. Wearing a lieutenant’s uniform. Half its face blasted away by a high-caliber bullet fired at close range.

Not a recruit. One of them. Has someone else figured out the truth here? Maybe.

Or maybe the dead guy was shot by a trigger-happy, jacked-up recruit, mistaking him for a Ted.

No more wishful thinking, Parish.

I pull the sidearm from the dead man’s holster and slip it into the pocket of the lab coat. Then I pull the surgical mask over my face.

Dr. Zombie, you’re wanted in the safe room, stat!

And there it is, straight ahead. A few more yards and I’m there.

I made it, Nugget. I’m here. Now you be here.

And it’s like he heard me, because there he is walking toward me, carrying—believe it or not—a teddy bear.

Only he isn’t alone. There’s someone with him, a recruit around Dumbo’s age in a baggy uniform and a cap pulled down low, the brim resting just above his eyes, carrying an M16 with some kind of metal pipe attached to its barrel.

No time to think it through. Because faking my way through this one will take too much time and rely too much on luck, and it isn’t about luck anymore. It’s about being hardcore.

Because this is the last war, and only the hardcore will survive it.

Because of the step in the plan I skipped over. Because of Kistner.

I drop my hand into the coat pocket. I close the gap. Not yet, not yet. My wound throws off my stride. I have to take him down with the first shot.

Yes, he’s a kid.

Yes, he’s innocent.

And, yes, he’s toast.

83

I WANT TO DRINK IN his sweet Sammy smell forever, but I can’t. The place is crawling with armed soldiers, some of them Silencers—or anyway, not teens, so I have to assume they’re Silencers. I lead Sammy over to a wall, putting a group of kids between us and the nearest guard. I scrunch down as low as possible and whisper, “Are you okay?”

He nods. “I knew you’d come, Cassie.”

“I promised, right?”

He’s wearing a heart-shaped locket around his neck. What the heck? I touch it, and he pulls back a little.

“Why are you dressed like that?” he asks.

“I’ll explain later.”

“You’re a soldier now, aren’t you? What squad are you in?”

Squad? “No squad,” I tell him. “I’m my own squad.”

He frowns. “You can’t be your own squad, Cassie.”

This isn’t really the time to get into the whole ridiculous squad thing. I glance around the room. “Sam, we’re getting out of here.”

“I know. Major Bob says we’re going on a big plane.” He nods toward Major Bob, starts to wave at him. I push his hand down.

“A big plane? When?”

He shrugs. “Soon.” He’s picked up Bear. Now he examines him, turning him over in his hands. “His ear’s ripped,” he points out accusingly, like I’ve shirked my duty.

“Tonight?” I ask. “Sam, this is important. You’re flying out tonight?”

“That’s what Major Bob said. He said they’re vaculating all nonessentials.”

“Vaculating? Oh. Okay, so they’re evacuating the kids.” My mind is racing, trying to work through it. Is that the way out? Just stroll on board with the others and take our chances when we land—wherever we land? God, why did I ditch the white jumpsuit? But even if I kept it and was able to sneak onto the plane, that wasn’t the plan.

There’s going to be escape pods somewhere on the base—probably near the command center or Vosch’s quarters. Basically they’re one-man rockets, preprogrammed to land you safely at some spot far from the base. Don’t ask me where. But the pods are your best bet—not human technology, but I’ll explain how you operate one. If you can find one, and if both of you can fit in one, and if you live long enough to find one to fit in.

That’s a lot of ifs. Maybe I should beat up a kid my size and take her jumpsuit.

“How long have you been here, Cassie?” Sam asks. I think he suspects I’ve been avoiding him, maybe because I let Bear’s ear get torn.

“Longer than I wanted to be,” I mutter, and that decides it: We’re not staying here a minute longer than we have to, and we’re not taking some one-way flight to Camp Haven II. I’m not trading one death camp for another.

He’s playing with Bear’s torn ear. Not his first injury by a long shot. I’ve lost count of how many times Mom had to patch him up. He has more stitches in him than Frankenstein. I lean over to get Sammy’s attention, and that’s when he looks right at me and asks, “Where’s Daddy?”

My mouth moves, but no sound comes out. I hadn’t even thought about telling him—or how to tell him.

“Dad? Oh, he’s…” No, Cassie. Don’t get complicated. I don’t want him having a meltdown right as we’re preparing to make our getaway. I decide to let Dad live a little longer.

“He’s waiting for us back at Camp Ashpit.”

His lower lip starts to quiver. “Daddy isn’t here?”

“Daddy is busy,” I say, hoping to shut him down, and I feel like crap doing it. “That’s why he sent me. To get you. And that’s what I’m doing, right now, getting you.”

I pull him to his feet. He goes, “But what about the plane?”

“You’ve been bumped.” He gives me a puzzled look: Bumped? “Let’s go.”

I grab his hand and head for the tunnel, keeping my shoulders back and my head up, because skulking toward the nearest exit like Shaggy and Scooby tinkle-toeing is sure to draw attention. I even bark at some kids to get out of the way. If someone tries to stop us, I won’t shoot them. I’ll explain that the kid is sick and I’m getting him to a doctor before he pukes all over himself and everybody else. If they don’t buy my story, then I shoot them.

And then we’re in the tunnel and, incredibly, there is a doctor walking straight at us, half his face hidden behind a surgical mask. His eyes widen when he sees us, and there goes my clever cover story, which means if he stops us I’ll have to shoot him. As we draw closer, I see him casually drop his hand into the pocket of his white coat, and the alarm sounds inside my head, the same alarm that went off in the convenience store behind the beer coolers right before I pumped an entire clip into a crucifix-holding soldier.