The Last Star (The 5th Wave, #3)(40)

Constance sat up; Ringer rammed the heel of her hand into Constance’s nose. Pop! You could hear it break. Blood burst from her open mouth.

Fingers clawing at his shirt: Cassie’s. He pulled away. Cassie wasn’t part of a squad. She didn’t know what it meant to be a soldier. He did. He knew exactly what it meant.

No mercy ever.

He stepped over the broken pieces of the table and pointed the gun at the middle of the lady’s face. Her bloody mouth pulled into a soulless snarl of a smile, bloody lips and bloody teeth, and then he was back in his mother’s room, and she was dying of the plague, the Red Death, Cassie called it, and he was standing by her bed and she was smiling at him with bloody teeth, face stained with bloody tears; he saw it so clearly, the face he’d forgotten in the face he saw now.

In the instant before he pulled the trigger, Sammy Sullivan remembered his mother’s face, the face they had given her, and the bullet that tore down the barrel held his rage, bore his grief, contained the sum of all he had lost. It connected them as if by a silver cord. When her face blew apart, they became one, victim and perpetrator, predator and prey.

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39


RINGER

THE BLOOD SPRAY blinds me for a second, but the hub retains the data of Nugget’s location and the precise position of the gun. By the time that second expires, his hand is empty and mine isn’t.

At the end of the next second, the gun is trained at the face of Evan Walker.

Walker is the linchpin, the fulcrum upon which our survival rests. Alive, he’s an unacceptable risk. Pulling the trigger might cost my own life; I know that. Cassie—even Zombie—might kill me for killing him, but I don’t have a choice. We’re out of time.

None of them can hear it yet, but I can—the sound of the chopper bearing down from the north, loaded with Hellfire missiles and a squad of Vosch’s best sharpshooters. The loss of Constance’s signal can only mean one thing.

“Ringer,” Zombie cries hoarsely. “What the f*ck?”

A tiny figure rushes from my right. Nugget. I pull the punch so I don’t break his sternum, but the blow sends him flying off his feet and into Sullivan’s chest. They plop to the floor in a sprawl of arms and legs.

I stay focused on the target.

“Ben, don’t,” Walker says calmly, though Zombie hasn’t moved. “Let’s hear what she wants.”

“You know what I want.” Finger tightening on the trigger.

There’s no question that Walker has to die. It’s so obvious, even Nugget would agree if he knew the facts. His sister, too. Well, maybe not. Love blinds more than it reveals. Razor taught me that.

“Ben!” Walker shouts. “No.”

Zombie doesn’t dive for a weapon. He doesn’t leap toward me. He takes two very slow, very deliberate steps to put his body between me and Evan Walker.

“Sorry, Ringer,” Zombie says. Incredibly, he’s decided to whip out the slayer smile. “Not going to happen.” He raises his arms as if to offer a better target.

“Zombie, you don’t know . . .”

“Well, that’s a given. I don’t know shit.”

If it were anyone else.

Sullivan, even Nugget.

What is the cost, Marika? What is the price? “Zombie, there’s no time.”

“No time for what?”

He heard it then; they all heard it; it had come within range of normal human hearing. The chopper.

“Holy shit,” Sullivan gasped. “What have you done? What the hell have you done?”

I ignore her. Only Zombie matters. “They don’t want us,” I tell him. “They want him. We can’t let them have him, Zombie.”

If Zombie would just dip his head a half inch. That’s all I need, half an inch. The 12th System will do the rest.

I’m sorry, Zombie. There’s no time.

The hub locks in. I let loose the round. The bullet smashes into Zombie’s thigh.

He’s supposed to go down to clear the way for the next round—the kill shot to Evan Walker’s head. He doesn’t.

Instead, he falls back into Walker’s chest and Walker wraps his arms around him, holding him up or using him as a human shield. Beneath the faint sound of the rotors outside, an even fainter sound, the thu-wapp of a parachute deploying. Then another. Then another. Thu-wapp, thu-wapp, thu-wapp, thu-wapp, thu-wapp. Five in all.

It hits me I’ve been appealing to the wrong person.

“Drop him,” I say to Evan Walker. “If you care at all about what happens to Cassie, drop him.”

But he doesn’t and now I’m out of time. Drawn out any further, this stalemate will cost all our lives.

The 5th Wave is coming.





40


EVAN WALKER

THERE CAN BE only one explanation.

Her leap across the room. The speed of her hands, the acuity of her vision and hearing. Only one possibility.

She had been enhanced. A human had received the gift.

Why?

She propelled herself toward the front window, covering the length of the room in three strides, rolling her body in midair to strike the glass with her shoulder, then disappearing into a halo of pulverized glass and wood.

Cassie immediately started toward him—or toward Ben, whom he still held upright. “Megan,” Evan said. “Get her down to the basement.”