The Last Star (The 5th Wave, #3)(54)

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“What?”

He points at my nose. “Sullivan said she got you good.”

“She did.”

“It’s not even swollen. And no black eyes.”

I look away. “Thank Vosch.”

“Kind of hoping you’ll thank him for all of us.”

I nod. Then I shake my head. Then I nod again.

Zombie knows he’s on dangerous ground. He moves to safer territory quickly. “And it doesn’t hurt? There’s no pain?”

I look right into his eyes. “No, Zombie. There’s no pain.”

I squat, resting on my heels, and set the lamp on the floor. The space between us, less than a foot, feels more like a mile.

“Did you notice on our way in?” I ask. “Somebody built an outdoor shower. I think I’m going to take one before I leave.” Blood’s caked on my face, there’s dirt in my hair, and damp earth is smeared over every exposed inch. An eternity passed after Zombie buried me. I can still see their faces blank with astonishment and horror as I burst from the grave, the two recruits sent back to pick up the squadmates they left behind to kill us. Sullivan had a similar look after she smashed her head into my nose. I’ve become the stuff of wonder and nightmares.

So I want to be clean. I want to feel human again.

“Won’t matter if the water’s cold?” Zombie asks.

“I won’t feel it.”

He nods like he understands. “It should be me. Not in the shower. Ha, ha. I mean going with you. Not Cassie. I’m sorry, Ringer.” He pretends to study the cave’s jagged teeth jutting down over our heads, a dragon’s mouth frozen in midchomp. “What was he like? I mean. That guy. You know.”

I know. “Tough. Funny. Smart. He loved to talk. And he loved baseball.”

“What about you?” Zombie asks.

“I have no opinion about baseball.”

“Not what I meant and you know it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I answer. “He’s dead.”

“Still matters.”

“It’s something you’d have to ask him.”

“I can’t. He’s dead. So I’m asking you.”

“What do you want from me, Zombie? Seriously, what do you want? He was kind to me—”

“He lied to you.”

“Not when it mattered. Not about the important things.”

“He betrayed you to Vosch.”

“He sacrificed his life for me.”

“He murdered Teacup.”

“That’s it, Zombie. No more.” I rise. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Why did you?”

Because you’re my bullshit-free zone, but I’m not giving him that. Because you’re the one I came out of the wilderness for, no, not that, either. And not Because you’re the one person I still trust.

Instead, I say, “You caught me at a weak moment.”

“Well.” Then the Ben Parish smile, the smile it almost hurts to look at. “If you’re ever in need of an egotistical prick, I’m your man.” He waits two breaths, then adds, “Oh, come on, Ringer. Come on. Smile. That joke works on so many levels, it isn’t even funny.”

“You’re right,” I answer. “It’s not funny.”





58


I SLIDE OUT of my clothes beside the outdoor shower. The overhead container was empty, so I had to fill it from the cistern next to the welcome center. The cistern must have weighed over a hundred pounds, but I hoisted it onto my shoulder as if it weighed no more than little Nugget.

I know the water is cold, but like I told Zombie, I’m protected by Vosch’s gift. I feel nothing but wetness. The water bears away the blood and dirt.

I run my hands over my stomach. He sacrificed his life for me. The boy in the doorway lit up by a funeral pyre, carving letters into his arm.

I touch my shoulder. The skin is smooth and soft. The 12th System repaired the damage minutes after I inflicted it. I am like the water that runs over me, immune to permanence, recycling endlessly. I am water; I am life. The form may change, but the substance stays the same. Strike me down and I will rise again. Vincit qui patitur.

I close my eyes and see his. Sharp, glittering, brilliant blue, eyes that knife deeper than your bones. You created me, and now your creation is coming back for you. Like rain to parched earth, I come back.

And water bears away the blood and dirt.





59


CASSIE

HERE’S SOMETHING to chew on. Here’s the charming truth about the world the Others are creating:

My little brother has forgotten the alphabet, but he knows how to make bombs.

A year ago it was crayons and coloring books, construction paper and Elmer’s glue. Now it’s fuses and blasting caps, wires and black powder.

Who wants to read a book when you can blow something up?

Beside me, Megan watches him the way she watches everything else: silently. She clutches Bear to her chest, another silent witness to the evolution of Samuel J. Sullivan.

He’s working with Ringer, the two of them kneeling next to each other, a two-person assembly line. I guess they took the same IED class at camp. Ringer’s damp hair shines like a blacksnake’s skin in the lamplight. Her ivory skin gleams. A couple of hours ago, I smashed my forehead into her nose and broke it, but there’s no swelling, no sign I inflicted any damage at all. Unlike my nose, which will be crooked till the day I die. Life is not fair.