The Last Star (The 5th Wave, #3)(53)

I whip around and smash my forehead into the center of the face, crunch!, breaking a nose, and then there is blood. As in a lot of blood, practically a geyser, but the blow has no other effect. She doesn’t move an inch. She doesn’t even blink. She’s been—what word did she use to describe the incredibly creepy and scary thing Vosch did to her?—enhanced.

“Easy there, Sullivan,” Ringer says, turning her head to spit out a golf-ball-sized wad of blood.





56


RINGER

I PUSH SULLIVAN down into a seat and shout in her ear, “Get ready to bail!” She doesn’t say anything, just stares up into my bloody face uncomprehendingly. Arteries cauterized by the microscopic drones swarming in my bloodstream, pain receptors shut down by the hub; I may look horrible, but I feel great.

I climb over her to the cockpit and plop into the copilot’s seat. The pilot recognizes me immediately.

It’s Lieutenant Bob. The same Lieutenant Bob whose finger I broke in my “escape” with Razor and Teacup.

“Holy shit,” he shouts. “You!”

“Back from the grave!” I yell, which is literally true. I jab my finger at our feet. “Put her down!”

“Fuck you!”

I react without thinking. The hub decides for me—and that’s the terrifying thing about the 12th System: I don’t know anymore where it ends and I begin. Not fully human, not wholly alien, neither, both, something loosed within me, something unbound.

Afterward I realize the brilliance of it: The most precious commodity of any pilot is his sight.

I rip off his helmet and shove my thumb into his eye. His legs kick; his hand flies up to grab my wrist; and the chopper’s nose dips. I intercept his hand and guide it back to the stick as I pour myself into him: Where there is panic, calm. Where there is fear, peace. Where there is pain, comfort.

I know he won’t go all kamikaze on us, because no part of him is hidden from me. I know the desires he would deny even to himself, and there is no desire within him to die.

As there is no doubt in his mind that he needs me to live.





57


ZOMBIE WAS RIGHT all those months ago: As sanctuaries in the apocalypse went, the caverns of West Liberty were damn hard to beat.

No wonder the Silencer priest claimed them for his own.

Gallons of fresh water. An entire chamber stocked with dry and canned goods. Medical supplies, bedding, cans of heating fuel, kerosene, and gasoline. Clothes, tools, and enough weapons and explosives to outfit a small army. A perfect place to hide, even cozy, if you ignored the smell.

The Ohio Caverns reeked of blood.

The largest chamber was the worst. Deep underground and humid, with very little ventilation. The smell—and the blood—had nowhere to go. The stone floor still shimmers crimson in our lights.

A slaughter took place here. Either the false priest picked up the spent shell casings or he sliced his victims open, one by one. We find a spot against the wall with a sleeping bag, a stack of books (including a well-worn Bible), a kerosene lantern, a bag full of toiletries, and several rosaries.

“Of all the places he could bunk, he chose this spot,” Zombie breathes. He’s pressing a cloth against his face to filter the air. “Crazy SOB.”

“Not crazy, Zombie,” I tell him. “Sick. Infected with a virus before he was even born. That’s the best way to think of it.”

Zombie nods slowly. “You’re right. That is the best way to think of it.”

We’ve left Bob the pilot with Cassie and the two kids in another chamber, after packing and bandaging his wound and giving him antibiotics and a massive dose of morphine. He’s in no condition to fly any farther tonight. Just getting us as far as the caverns exceeded his endurance, but I sat beside him and kept him focused and calm, his ballast and his anchor.

Zombie and I retreat toward higher ground, and he navigates the narrow passages with one hand on my shoulder, awkwardly swinging his bad leg, wincing with every step. I make a mental note to check the wound before I leave. The round should probably be removed, but I worry the procedure will do more harm than good. Even with antibiotics, the risk of infection is high, and nicking a major artery would be catastrophic.

“Only two ways down here,” he says. “That works for us. We can block off one end, which leaves a single entrance to watch.”

“Right.”

“Think we’re far enough from Urbana?”

“Far enough from Urbana to what?”

“To avoid getting vaporized.” He smiles, and his teeth shine unusually bright in the lamplight.

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“You know what’s scary, Ringer? You seem to know more than any of us, but whenever a critical question comes up, like the issue of whether or not we’ll be vaporized in a couple of days, you never know the answer.”

The path is steep. He needs to rest. I’m not certain he knows that I can feel what he feels through the conduit of his hand touching my shoulder. I don’t know if that would comfort or terrify him. Maybe both.

“Hang on, Zombie.” Acting as if I need to catch my breath. “Gotta rest a minute.”

I lean against an outcropping. At first he tries to be tough and stay upright. But after a minute or two he can’t maintain the act; he eases himself onto the floor, grunting from the effort. Since we met, his near-constant companion has been pain, most of which I have delivered.