The Last Star (The 5th Wave, #3)(70)

Chill, Cassie. In situations like this, darkness is your friend.

Unless they’ve got IR, which of course they do. They’ve blinded me; they’re sure as hell not blind.

I keep moving. In haste. Not panic.

Halfway across the walkway now. I know I’m halfway across because I find the light and click on the damned elusive thing. The beam hits the frosted glass doors straight ahead, a blurry blob of shininess. I draw my sidearm. On the other side of those doors is the first checkpoint. I know this for a fact—or a Ringer-supplied fact. It’s also our rendezvous spot, basically because this is as far as I was going to get as a non-enhanced, ordinary mortal.

The command center is the most heavily fortified building on base, manned by elite troops and protected by state-of-the-art surveillance technology. After she set off her last diversionary IED, Ringer was hitting the center from the opposite end (penetrating was the word she used, which made me feel all icky) and meeting me here, after Ringer did what Ringer does best: kill people.

Are you killing Vosch before meeting me? I asked.

If I find him first.

Well, don’t go out of your way. The quicker we can get to Wonderland . . .

And she gave me a look like, Don’t tell me. So I responded with a look that said, I’m telling you.

Nothing to do now but wait. I sidestep to the wall. Switch out the handgun for the rifle. Try not to worry about where she is, if she is, and what’s taking her so long. Also, I need to pee.

So when I hear you set off the fifth bomb . . .

Fourth. I’m holding the fifth in reserve.

Reserve for what?

I’m going to stuff it in his mouth and light it.

She said it with no emotion. No hate or satisfaction or anticipation or anything. Sure, she says most things unemotionally, but this was one of those things where you expect a little passion to permeate.

You must really hate him.

Hate isn’t the answer.

I didn’t ask a question.

It isn’t hate and it isn’t rage, Sullivan.

Okay, then. What is the answer? Feeling like I’ve been manipulated into asking the question.

She turned away.

I wait beside the frosted glass doors. The minutes crawl. Dear God, how long could it take a superhuman WMD to overcome a few guards and foil a high-tech security system? After the furious rush to reach this spot, nothing. I’d be bored out of my mind if I wasn’t already scared out of it. Where the hell is Ringer?

Click. I turn off the light to save the batteries. The unfortunate by-product of my thriftiness is that darkness returns. Click. On. Click. Off. Click, click, click, click.

Hissssss. I hear the sound before I feel the water.

It’s raining.





83


CLICK. I SHINE THE LIGHT toward the ceiling. The sprinklers are running at full throttle. Cool water spatters my upturned face.

Great. One of Ringer’s bombs must have triggered the system.

I’m soaked in minutes. It totally isn’t fair, I know, but I blame her. I’m wet, I’m cold, I’m hyped on adrenaline, and now I really have to pee.

And still no Ringer.

How long do I wait for you?

I don’t know how long it will take.

Sure, but at some point, won’t it be obvious you’re not coming?

That would be the point when you stop waiting, Sullivan.

Well, right. I’m really regretting not popping her in the nose when I had the chance. Wait. I did pop her in the nose when I had the chance. Good. One less thing.

I can’t sit here forever hunched over in a wet, miserable ball. If it’s my doom to be wet and miserable, I’m going to meet it standing up. I’ll test those doors. Just a little push to see if they’ll open. There can’t be anyone close on the other side, otherwise they’d have seen my light or noticed my shadow and pounced on me in the dark.

The artificial rain drips down my forehead, hangs from the ends of my hair, traces my jaw like a lover’s finger. Water squishes beneath my boots. My wounded hand has begun to sting, sting bad, a thousand tiny needles stabbing into my skin, and then I notice the burning sensation on my scalp. The feeling spreads. My neck, my back, my chest, my stomach, my face. My entire body is on fire. I stumble from the doors back to my cozy spot against the wall. Something is not right. The ancient part of my brain is screaming its lungs out. Something is not right.

I click on the penlight and shine it on my hand. Huge welts crisscross the skin. Fresh blood seeps from the shrapnel holes and quickly turns a deep, velvety purple, as if my blood is reacting to something in the water.

Something in the water.

The heat is nearly unbearable, like I’ve been doused with scalding-hot water, only the liquid falling on me isn’t hot. I shine the light on my other hand. It’s covered with bright, dime-sized red polka dots. Hastily—not panicky—I yank open the jacket, pull up my shirt, and see a starfield of crimson suns burning against a backdrop of pale pink.

I’ve got three options: stand here stupidly beneath the poisoned spray, stupidly bust through the frosted glass doors into God-knows-what, or wisely get out of this complex before my skin liquefies and sloughs off my bones.

I decide to go with Option Three.

My little light slices through the mist, cutting rainbows as I run. I bang into the stairwell, bounce against the wall, slip on the slick concrete, and tumble down to the landing. The penlight flies from my hand and winks out. Gotta get outside, outside, outside. Once there, I’ll strip off my clothes and roll naked in the dirt like a pig. Hot matchsticks pressing against my eyes, tears streaming down my cheeks, hot coals searing my mouth and throat, and every other inch of my body puckering up into pestilential boils.