“This is it,” he said, nodding at the empty corral with its mangled floor of sawdust and manure.
“What?”
“The future.”
She laughed as if he’d made a joke. “The world ends. The world ends and the world begins again. It’s always been that way.”
“You’re never afraid of what’s coming? Never?”
“Never.” Hugging the stuffed tiger in her lap. Her eyes seemed to take on the color of whatever she looked at. Now she was looking up at the darkening sky, and her eyes were a bottomless black.
They spoke for a few minutes in their native language, but it was difficult and they gave up quickly. Too many words were unpronounceable. He noticed that she was much calmer afterward, and he realized it wasn’t the future that frightened her; it was the past, the fact that she feared the entity inside her body was a figment of a young human girl’s shattered mind. Meeting Evan validated her existence.
“You’re not alone,” he told her. He looked down and discovered her hand in his. One hand for him, the other for the tiger.
“That’s been the worst part,” she agreed. “Feeling as if you’re the only person in the universe. That the whole thing is here,” touching her chest, “and nowhere else.”
Years later, he would read something quite similar in the diary of another sixteen-year-old girl, the one he found and lost, found, then lost again:
Sometimes I think I might be the last human on Earth.
24
THE CAR’S UNDERCARRIAGE against his back. The cold asphalt against his cheek. The useless rifle clutched in his hand. He was trapped.
Grace had several options. He had two.
No. If there was any hope of keeping his promise, he had just one:
Cassie’s choice.
She had made a promise, too. A hopeless, suicidal promise to the one person on Earth who still mattered to her—mattered to her more than her own life. She stood up that day to face the faceless hunter because her death was nothing compared to the death of that promise. If there was any hope left, it lay in love’s hopeless promises.
He crawled forward, past the front bumper, into the open air, and then, like Cassie Sullivan, Evan Walker stood up.
He tensed, waiting for the finishing round. When Cassie stood up that cloudless autumn afternoon, her Silencer had run. He did not think Grace would run. Grace would finish what she began.
But no finish came. No silencing bullet, connecting Grace to him as if by a silver cord. He knew she was there. Knew she could see him standing crookedly in front of the car. And he realized there was no escaping the past, no dodging inevitable consequences: Cassie’s terror, her uncertainty and pain, they belonged to him now.
Overhead, the stars. Straight ahead, the road that shone in the stars’ light. The tight grip of the freezing air and the medicinal smell of the ointment Grace had spread over his burns. Your heart is beating very fast.
She’s not going to kill you, he told himself. Not the goal. If killing you was the goal, she wouldn’t have missed that shot.
There could be only one answer: Grace intended to follow him. He was a riddle to her and following him was the way to solve the riddle. He had escaped the trap only to sink deeper into the pit. Keeping his promise now was not being faithful; it was an act of betrayal.
He couldn’t outrun her, not with the bad ankle. He couldn’t reason with her—he could barely articulate his own reasons anymore. He could wait her out. Stay here, do nothing . . . and risk Cassie being discovered by soldiers of the 5th Wave or abandoning the hotel before his stalemate with Grace ended. He coul
d force a confrontation, but he’d failed once and the odds were he would again. He was too weak, too hurt. He needed time to heal and there was no time.
He leaned against the hood of the car and looked up at the star-encrusted sky, undimmed by human lights, scrubbed clean of contaminants, and these the same stars that shone on the world before humankind walked upon it. For billions of years, these same stars, and what was time to them?
“Mayfly,” Evan whispered. “Mayfly.”
He shouldered the rifle and wormed his way through the pileup back to the backpack of supplies, which he threw over the other shoulder. Tucked the makeshift crutch beneath his arm. The going would be slow, painfully slow, but he would force Grace to choose between letting him go and following him, deserting her assigned territory at the moment when desertion could mean a serious setback in the carefully constructed timetable. He would swing north of the hotel—north toward the nearest base. North where the enemy had fled and retrenched and waited for spring to launch the final, finishing assault.
That’s where hope lay—where all hope had been from the beginning—on the shoulders of the brainwashed child-soldiers of the 5th Wave.
25