The Infinite Sea (The Fifth Wave 2)

“Vosch could have been lying, I guess,” Ben mused. “I don’t know, to get in our heads, mess with us. He messed with me from the start.” He looked at me, then looked away. “Shouldn’t admit this, but I worshipped the guy. I thought he was, like . . .” He twirled his hand in the air, searching for the words. “The best of us.”

His shoulders began to shake. At first, I thought it must be the fever, and then I thought it could be something else, so I left my spot by the window and went to him.

For guys, breaking down is a private thing. Never let them see you cry, means you’re weak, means you’re soft, a baby, a wuss. Not very manly and all that BS. I couldn’t imagine the pre-Arrival Ben Parish crying in front of anyone, the guy who had everything, the boy who all the other boys wanted to be, the one who broke others’ hearts and never suffered his own to be broken.

I sat beside him. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t speak. He was where he was and I was where I was.

“Sorry,” he said.

I shook my head. “Don’t be.”

He wiped the back of his hand against one cheek, then the other cheek. “You know what he told me? Well, more like promised. He promised he would empty me. He would empty me and fill me up with hate. But he broke that promise. He didn’t fill me with hate. He filled me with hope.”

I understood. In the safe room, a billion upraised faces populating the infinite, and the eyes that sought mine, and the question in those eyes too horrible to put into words, Will I live? It’s all connected. The Others understood that, understood it better than most of us. No hope without faith, no faith without hope, no love without trust, no trust without love. Remove one and the entire human house of cards collapses.

It was like Vosch wanted Ben to discover the truth. Wanted to teach him the hopelessness of hope. And what could be the point of that? If they wanted to annihilate us, why didn’t they just go ahead and annihilate us? There must be a dozen ways to wipe us out quickly, but they drew it out in five waves of escalating horror. Why?

Up to now, I always thought that the Others felt nothing toward us except disdain with maybe a little disgust mixed in, the way we feel about rats and cockroaches and bedbugs and other nasty lower forms of life. Nothing personal, humans, but you gotta go. It never occurred to me that it could be entirely personal. That simply killing us isn’t enough.

“They hate us,” I said, as much to myself as to him. Ben looked at me, startled. And I looked back at him, scared. “There’s no other explanation.”

“They don’t hate us, Cassie,” he said gently, the way you talk to a frightened little kid. “We just had what they want.”

“No.” Now my cheeks were wet with tears. The 5th Wave had one explanation and only one. Any other possible reason was absurd.

“This isn’t about ripping the planet away from us, Ben. This is about ripping us.”

13

“THAT’S IT,” Ben said. “Time’s up.”

Then he was up, but he didn’t get very far. Halfway to his feet before plopping down hard on his butt. I put a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll go.”

He smacked his thigh with his palm. “Can’t let it happen,” he muttered as I opened the door and poked my head into the hallway. Can’t let what happen? Losing Teacup and Poundcake? Losing all of us one by one? Losing the battle against his injuries? Or losing the war in general?

The hall was empty.

First Teacup. Then Poundcake. Now Dumbo. We were disappearing faster than campers in a slasher movie.

“Dumbo!” I called softly. The ridiculous name echoed in the cold, stagnant air. My mind raced through the possibilities. Least likely to most: Somebody quietly neutralized him and stashed his body; he was captured; he saw or heard something and went to investigate; he had to pee.

I lingered in the doorway for a couple of seconds in case the last possibility was true. When the hall stayed empty, I stepped back into the room. Ben was upright, checking the magazine of his M16.

“Don’t make me guess,” he said. “Never mind. I don’t need to guess.”

“Stay here with Sam. I’ll go.”

He shuffled to a stop an inch from my nose. “Sorry, Sullivan. He’s your brother.”

I stiffened. The room was freezing; my blood was colder. His voice was hard, flat, without any feeling at all. Zombie. Why do they call you Zombie, Ben?

Then he smiled, a very real, very Ben Parish–y smile. “Those guys out there—they’re all my brothers.”

He sidestepped me and stumbled toward the door. The situation was escalating quickly from impossibly dangerous to dangerously impossible. I couldn’t see any other way: I scrambled over Ben’s bed and grabbed Sam by the shoulders. Shook him hard. He woke up with a soft cry. I slammed my hand over his mouth to stopper the noise.

“Sams! Listen! Something’s wrong.” I pulled the Luger from the holster and pressed it into his little hands. His eyes widened with fear and something that unnervingly resembled joy. “Ben and I have to check it out. Put on the night latch—you know what a night latch is?” Big-eyed nod. “And put a chair under the knob. Look through the little hole. Don’t let . . .” Did I need to spell out everything? “Look, Sams, this