The Last Star (The 5th Wave, #3)(67)

I jam my hand into the pocket, pull out the pellet, and stuff it into my mouth. In the cluster of trees across the road, on the rooftop of the welcome center, and from wherever the hell else they might be, the shooters hold their fire when the green inferno that surrounds my head winks out.





79


CALL ME ZOMBIE.

Everything hurts. Even blinking hurts. But I’m getting up. That’s what zombies do.

We rise.

Maybe the shooters don’t notice at first. Maybe they’ve turned their attention elsewhere, looking for green targets. Whatever the reason, when I get up, nobody takes me down. No hobbling this time, no dragging my wounded leg, no shuffling in the dirt like a damned zombie. I run full out through the pain, calling Megan’s name now, fingers clawing in the dark until they wrap around her wrist.

Then I’ve got her outside. Her arm around my neck. Her breath in my ear.

I know the circle’s complete. I know the bill’s come due. Just let me save her first, dear Christ, suffer her not to die.

I don’t see it coming. Megan does. The teddy bear falls to the ground. Her mouth flies open in a silent scream.

Something smashes into the base of my skull. The world goes white, then there’s nothing, nothing at all.





80


CASSIE

YOU CAN SEE IT from miles away: The air base is an island of blazing light in a dark, horizonless sea, a white-hot ember of civilization glowing in the middle of a wasteland of black, though civilization is too nice a word for what it is. After all we dreamed and all those dreams we made real, all that’s left of us are these bases, the lighted fools to guide humanity’s way to dusty death.

Macbeth was never my favorite, but there you go.

The chopper banks to the left, bringing us toward the base from the east. We pass over a river, black water reflecting the conflagration of stars above it. Then the treeless buffer zone surrounding the camp that’s laced with trenches and razor wire and booby-trapped with land mines, protection against an enemy who will never come, who isn’t even here and maybe not even there—in the mothership that swings into view when we turn for the final approach. I look at it. It looks back at me.

What are you? What are you? The Others, my father called you, but aren’t we also that to you? Other-than-us, therefore not-worthy-of-us. Not worthy of life.

What are you? The shepherd culls the herd. The homemaker buys the bug spray. The blood of the lamb on its knees, the herky-jerky of the cockroach on its back. Neither has an inkling of the knife or the poison. The shepherd and the homemaker will lose no sleep. There’s nothing immoral about it. It’s murder without crime, killing without sin.

That’s what they’ve done. That’s the lesson they’ve brought home. We’ve been reminded who we are—not much—and what we were—too many. Roaches can scurry, sheep can run, it’s no matter. We’ll never get too big for our britches again; they’ll see to that. I’m looking at an object in our sky that will be there until our sky is gone.

Our escorts peel off as we shoot straight toward the landing zone. They’ll stay in the air to monitor the situation after we land. There’s a swarm of activity beneath us, trucks and armored Humvees racing toward the strip, troops swarming like ants from a kicked-over mound. Sirens blare, searchlights stab into the sky, antiaircraft guns swing into position. This should be fun.

Ringer pats Bob on the shoulder. “Good job, Bob.”

“Fuck you!”

Oh, Bob. Gonna miss you. Gonna miss you so bad.

Ringer climbs back into the hold with me, grabs the bag of Sammy-bombs, and plops into the seat across the aisle. Her dark eyes shine. She’s the bullet in the chamber, the powder in the hole. You can’t blame her. Evan pointed it out a long time ago: For any of this shit to mean anything, you gotta live long enough for your death to matter. Not necessarily make a difference—neither her death nor mine will—just to matter.

Suddenly I need to pee.

“VQP, Sullivan!” she shouts. We’ve taken off our headsets.

I nod. Give her the thumbs-up. VQP, you bet.

Our descent begins. The hold is lit up by searchlights. Motes of dust sparkle and spin around her head: Saint Ringer, the raven-haired angel of death. Outside the blue circle upon which Bob puts us down, a ring of soldiers inside a barricade of armored vehicles, surrounded by watchtowers manned by snipers, beneath four attack helicopters patrolling overhead.

We are so doomed.





81


RINGER LEANS BACK in the seat and closes her eyes like she’s going to grab a quick power nap before the big final exam. Bag in one hand, detonator in the other. I’ve got a rifle, a handgun, a very large knife, a couple of grenades, a half-full (think positive!) bottle of water, two high-energy bars, and a full bladder. Bob throttles the chopper down and now you can really hear those sirens blasting. Ringer’s eyes pop open and she stares at me like she’s memorizing my face—I decide that so I don’t obsess about my crooked nose.

Then she says so softly I can barely hear her: “See you at the checkpoint, Sullivan.”

One-Eyed Bob throws off his harness. He whips around and screams in Ringer’s face, “He wanted you to come back, you stupid bitch! Why do you think you’re still alive?” Then he flies out of the cockpit, his legs pumping cartoon-fast before his feet even touch the ground, waving his hands over his head and screaming loud enough to be heard over the sirens.