The Last Star (The Fifth Wave 3)
He shoved Cassie out of the way and slammed his shoulder into the door. It jerked on its hinges but did not give way.
“Cassie, Sam, basement, now,” he shouted.
They fled from the room. He brought up his good foot and slammed it into the middle of the door. The wood cracked. Again. Crack. Again. Crack! Three steps back and he lowered his shoulder into the crack. The door ripped down the middle and he stumbled through the opening into darkness. A pair of eyes wide with terror regarded him from the corner. He held out his hand.
“We’re about to be blown up, Megan.”
She shook her head. She wasn’t leaving. No way. He reached for her and her hands balled into fists and pummeled his face. She scratched at his eyes. She screamed as if she were being beaten to death.
He grabbed her wrist and yanked. She flew into his chest, then kicked his groin hard while reaching toward the back of the closet with her free hand. A teddy bear lay among the wads of clothes.
“Captain!”
He grabbed the bear. “Here, I’ve got him.”
The first Hellfire missile struck the house precisely two minutes and twenty-two seconds later.
42
CARRYING MEGAN, Evan was halfway down the basement stairs when the concussion from the blast hurled them into the air. He whipped his body around as he fell: He would take the force of the impact, not the little girl.
Slamming into the concrete floor knocked the wind out of him. Megan rolled off his chest and lay still.
Then the second missile struck.
Flames roared down from above. He saw them coming, a bright orange and red battering ram. He threw himself over the girl; the fire passed over them; he smelled his hair singe, felt the furnace-hot breath through his shirt.
He lifted his head. Across the basement he could see Cassie and Sam crouching beside Ben. He crawled over to them, dragging Megan behind him. Cassie’s eyes met his: Is she . . . ?
He shook his head: No.
“Where’s the launcher?” Ben asked.
Evan pointed at the ceiling. Upstairs. Or it used to be, when there was an upstairs.
Dislodged cobwebs and dust swirled around them. The ceiling was holding for now. He doubted it could withstand another hit. Ben Parish must have been thinking the same thing.
“Oh, that’s great.” Ben turned to Cassie. “Let’s everybody form a prayer circle, quick, because we have just been royally fucked.”
“It’ll be okay,” Evan assured him. He touched Cassie’s cheek. “It’s not the end. Not yet.” He stood up. “They came here for one thing,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible above the inferno over them. “They opened fire because they assumed they’d failed. They think I’m dead. I’m going to show them that they’re wrong.”
Mystified, Ben shook his head. He didn’t understand. Cassie did, though, and her face darkened with anger.
“Evan Walker, don’t you dare do this again.”
“Last time, Mayfly. I promise.”
43
HE PAUSED AT the base of the stairs that led up into the smoke and flame. Behind him, Cassie was screaming, calling his name, cursing him.
He climbed anyway.
Ringer called it: They don’t want us. They want him.
Halfway up, he wondered if he should have killed Ben Parish. He would be a liability to Cassie. Slow her down. Be a burden she may not be able to bear.
He pushed the thought from his mind. Too late now. Too late to turn back. Too late to run, too late to hide. Like Cassie beneath the car that day, like Ben beneath the imploding death camp, he had reached the moment of facing that which he thought he could not face. He had risked everything to save her before, but those times the risk was measured, calculated, and a small chance always remained that he would endure.