The Last Star (The 5th Wave, #3)(41)

Cassie nodded. She understood. She grabbed her little brother’s wrist and yanked him toward the hallway.

“No! I’m staying with Zombie!”

“Jesus Christ, Sam, come on . . .”

They fled down the hall. The chopper was getting closer; the sound of its engines flowed through the broken window like waves crashing on the beach. First things first, though. He heaved Ben over his shoulder and carried him toward the sofa, stepping over the body that lay amid the shattered remnants of the coffee table. He laid Ben on the sofa and glanced about for something to tie off the leg. The dead woman’s hoodie. Evan knelt beside her and ripped the hoodie open. He tore off a strip, from collar to hem, and swung back around. Ben was eyeing him from a colorless face, breath high in his chest, going into shock.

The bullet had entered Ben’s leg just above the kneecap. Any lower and he’d never walk again. Ben wasn’t lucky. Ringer had placed the shot carefully.

Ben opened his mouth and said, “My bad. I shouldn’t have brought them here.”

“You couldn’t know,” Evan assured him.

Ben shook his head violently. “No excuse.” He slammed his open palm against the cushions and dust exploded into the air. He coughed.

Evan lifted his eyes toward the ceiling and listened. How much time did they have? Hard to tell. Two minutes? Less? He looked back down at Ben, who said, “Basement.”

Evan nodded. “Basement.”

He pulled Ben from the sofa and slung him over his shoulder. Where was Cassie? He trotted down the stairs, Ben’s cheek bouncing against his back. He carried him to the far corner of the room and eased him onto the concrete floor.

“Don’t wait, Walker.” Ben jerked his head toward the weapons cache. “If you don’t take out that bird fast, it won’t matter if they’re down here.”

Evan lifted the missile launcher from the hook on the wall. The chopper must be in range by now. He raced back up the stairs, taking them two at a time, the launcher heavy as a steel girder in his hands. His bad ankle sang with pain. He pushed through it.

The hallway was empty. The air thrummed against his skin. The Black Hawk was circling directly above the house. Leave them up here and risk the shot? Or get them downstairs and risk the missile?

He dropped the launcher onto the floor.





41


CASSIE WAS POUNDING on the closet door and screaming Megan’s name. She whirled around when Evan burst into the room.

“She’s barricaded herself inside, the little bitch!”

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 f*cked.”

“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.”