The Last Star (The 5th Wave, #3)(34)

So I almost let Zombie do it. It was tempting. But a millisecond before the bullet exits the barrel, I ram my open palm into his elbow, throwing off the shot. His gun is in my hand by the time the report sounds.

He whirls around, his hand balled into a fist, which is aimed at my head. I catch it.

Zombie’s shoulder jerks on impact—as if he’s punched a brick wall—and then his mouth drops open and his eyes grow wide with astonishment and disbelief, a reaction so clichéd and predictable, he almost does it: He almost gets me to smile.

Almost.

“Ringer?” he says.

I nod. “Sergeant.”

His knees wobble. He falls into me and presses his face against my neck, and over his shoulder I can see Constance smiling at us. I’m not sure who’s holding up whom at this point.

Using the 12th System, I pour myself into him. Where there is pain, I give comfort. Where there is fear, hope. Where there is rage, peace.

“It’s all right,” I tell him, looking at Constance. “She’s with me. You’re safe now, Zombie. We’re all perfectly safe.”

My first lie to him. It won’t be the last.





30


HE PULLS OUT of my arms. His eyes wander over the starlit fields, the road beyond, the bare, uplifted arms of the trees. He wants to ask but doesn’t want to, either. I tense, waiting for the question. Is it cruel to make him say it aloud?

“Teacup?”

I shake my head.

He nods. Lets out the deep breath he’s holding. Finding me was a kind of miracle, and when one miracle happens, you expect another.

“The little shit,” he mutters. Looking away. Fields, road, trees. “She snuck off on me, Ringer.” He gives me a hard look. “How?”

I say the first thing that pops into my head. “One of them.” I nod toward the pit. The second lie. “We’ve been dodging them all winter.” The third. It’s like I’ve jumped off a cliff—or pushed Zombie off. With each lie, he recedes from me, accelerating as we fall.

“But not Cup.” He steps over to the pit and stares into the mass of decomposing remains. “Is she in here?”

Constance jumps into the conversation; I’m not sure why. “No. We gave her a proper burial, Ben.”

Zombie looks at her. Glowering. “Who. The f*ck. Are you?”

Her smile expands. “My name is Constance. Constance Pierce. I’m sorry. I know we’ve never met, but it feels like I know you. You’re practically all Marika talks about.”

He stares at her for a second. “Marika,” he echoes.

“That would be me,” I tell him.

Now staring at me. “You never told me your name was Marika.”

“You never asked.”

“I never . . . ?” He hiccups a humorless laugh and shakes his head. Then, without another word, he drops into the pit. I rush to the edge, thinking he’s lost his mind, gone Dorothy, that Teacup’s death was the final, tiny straw that broke his back. Why else would he jump in there? Then I see him grab his rifle, sling it over his shoulder, and crawl back to the edge. We lock our fingers around each other’s wrists and I pull him out.

“Where’re the others?” he demands.

“Others?” That loaded word.

“Survivors. Are they in the caves?”

I shake my head. “There are no other survivors, Zombie.”

“Just Marika and me,” Constance chirps. Why does she have to be so goddamned cheerful?

Zombie ignores her. “Dumbo’s been shot,” he informs me. “I left him in Urbana. Let’s go.”

He brushes past me and strides toward the road without looking back. Constance is watching me.

“My! Isn’t he a cutie?”

I tell her to f*ck off.





31


I FALL IN next to him. Constance trails several yards behind—out of normal human earshot, but Constance isn’t a normal human. Zombie walks with shoulders hunched, head thrust forward, eyes darting up, down, side to side. The road stretches before us, cutting across rolling farmland that will never be farmland again.

“What Teacup did was her choice,” I say. “Not your fault, Zombie.”

A sharp shake of his head, then: “Why didn’t you come back?”

Deep breath. Time to lie again. “Too risky.”

“Yeah. Well. It’s all about the risk, isn’t it?” Then: “Poundcake is dead.”

“Impossible.” I saw the surveillance tape. I counted the people in the safe house. If Poundcake’s dead, who’s the extra person?

“Impossible? Really?” he says. “How do you figure?”

“What happened?”

He waves his hand at me like he’s brushing away a gnat. “Had a little trouble after you left. Long story. Short story: Walker found us. Vosch found us. A Silencer found us. Then Cake blew himself up.” His eyes close briefly, snap open again. “We rode out the rest of the winter in the dead Silencer’s safe house. We have four days left, which is why Bo and I decided to come for you.” He swallows. “Why I decided.”

“Four days left till what?”

He glances at me, and the smile that crawls across his face is frightening. “The end of the world.”