The Last Star (The Fifth Wave 3)

“What if you’re wrong?” I ask Ringer. “What if nobody comes looking for the strike team?”

She shrugs. “Then we’re screwed.”

So bright and cheerful. Such a ray of sunshine. I wake Sam and Megan and make them eat while Ben and Ringer prep for the assault outside. Something’s up between those two. Something they’re keeping from me. Kind of makes me wish I had Evan’s old mind-mining abilities. I’d plunge into Ben Parish’s head and hack my way to the truth. I thought I busted Ringer with that part of her Silencers-are-ordinary-people-like-us-only-more-so theory. How did Evan’s spirit enter and mix with mine if he’s human? Her answer required advanced degrees in robotics, bionics, and electromagnetic physics to understand. The CPU attached to his brain interpreting my physiological biofeedback, creating an informational loop in which my data commingled with his, blah, blah, blah. Really, science is wonderful, but why does it tend to suck all the joyous mystery from the world? Love may be nothing more than a complex interaction of hormones, conditioned behavior, and positive reinforcement, but try writing a poem or song about that.

Preparations. Details.

I brief Sam and Megs on the plan. Sam’s all in. Although infiltrating the base would be his top choice, at least he’ll have some quality time with his beloved Zombie. Megan doesn’t say a word and I’m worried she might balk at the critical moment. Can’t blame her, though. The last time she trusted grown-ups, they stuffed a bomb down her throat.

I hand Bear to Sam for safekeeping, Sam’s as much as the bear’s. He hands it over to Megan. Oh Jesus. Too big for Bear now; they grow up so fast.

Blankets, I tell them. Everybody except Ringer gets a blanket.

Then there’s nothing left to do but climb the stairs one last time.

I take Sammy’s hand, Sammy takes Megan’s, Megan takes Bear’s, and together we rise toward the surface. The stairs jiggle and moan. They may collapse.

We won’t.

52

ZOMBIE

I WATCH AS Ringer carries the last two bodies into the bay of the old garage, one under each arm. I understand how that’s possible; still, it’s a little freaky to watch. I wait by the empty grave for her to come out. It doesn’t happen. Oh, boy. Now what?

Inside the garage the smell of gasoline and grease brings home the past. Before there was Zombie, there was this kid named Ben Parish who worked on cars with his old man on Saturday afternoons, the last being a cherry-red ’69 Corvette, his seventeenth birthday present from his dad, a guy who really couldn’t afford it and pretended it was for his only son, but they both knew the truth. Ben’s birthday was an excuse to buy the car, and the car was an excuse to spend time with his son as the clock wound down to graduation and then college and then grandkids and then the retirement home and then the grave. The grave leapt unexpectedly to the front of the line, not before the car, though; at least for a few Saturday afternoons, they had that car.

She’d laid her victims side by side in the center of the bay, crossing each one’s arms across their chest. Ringer herself is nowhere in sight. For a second, I panic. Every time I expect a zig, there’s a zag. I shift my weight to my good leg and drop the rifle from my shoulder into my hands.

From the deep shadows in the back, a low-pitched whine punctuated by a snuffling. I limp past rows of toolboxes and a cluster of oil drums, behind which I find her, sitting against the cinder-block wall, hugging her knees to her chest.

I can’t stay upright; the pain’s too much. I sit beside her. She wipes her cheeks. It’s the first time I’ve seen Ringer cry. I’ve never seen her smile and probably never will, but now I’ve seen her cry. That’s messed up.

“You didn’t have a choice,” I tell her. Digging up those bodies must have gotten to her. “And, anyway, they don’t know the difference, right?”

She shakes her head. “Oh, Zombie.”

“It isn’t too late, Ringer. We can call it off. Sullivan can’t do this without you.”

“She’d have nothing to do if you hadn’t stepped in front of Walker like that.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have if you’d trusted me with the truth.”

“The truth,” she echoes.

“The important word here is trusted.”

“I trust you, Zombie.”

“Funny way of showing it.”

She shakes her head. That dumb Zombie, wrong again. “I know you won’t tell.”

She stretches out her legs, and a plastic container flops from her chest onto her thighs. The bright green liquid inside it sloshes. It’s a jug of antifreeze.

“A capful should be enough,” she says, so softly I don’t think the words are directed at me. “The 12th System—it’ll protect me. Protect me . . .”

I grab the jug from her lap. “Goddamn it, Ringer, you didn’t already drink this, did you?”