The Last Star (The 5th Wave, #3)(86)

ZOMBIE

I’VE REACHED THE GRAVEL PATH that borders the security fence when the sun breaks the horizon—no, not the sun, it can’t be, unless the sun’s decided to rise in the north and has swapped its gold for green. I whip to my right and see the stars winking out one by one, obliterated by a massive burst of light on the edge of the northern horizon, an explosion in the upper atmosphere that washes over the landscape in a flood of blinding green.

My first thought is for the kids. I don’t know what the hell is happening and I haven’t connected the projectile hurtling from the base to the enormous northern flare. It doesn’t occur to me that for the first time in a very long time, something might have actually gone our way. Honestly, when I saw the light, I thought the bombardment had begun and I was witnessing the first salvo in the destruction of every city on Earth. The idea that the mothership could actually be gone didn’t even cross my radar. How could it be gone? That ship’s unassailable as the moon.

I hesitate, trying to decide whether to keep going or turn back. But the green light fades, the sky glows rosy again, and no terrified children burst from the woods seeking rescue. I decide to maintain my heading. I’ve got faith in Nugget. He’ll know to stay put till I return.

Ten minutes inside the base and I find the first of many bodies. The place is a tomb. I walk through fields of the dead. They lie in piles, groups of six to ten, their bodies contorted into portraits of silent agony. I stop to examine every gruesome stack, looking for two familiar faces; I’m not going to rush, though a voice screams in my head with each passing minute to hurry, hurry. And in the back of my mind I’m remembering what happened at Camp Haven—how Vosch was willing to sacrifice the village in order to save it.

This might not be Ringer’s doing—it may be the result of Vosch exercising the final option.

It takes me hours to reach the last level, the bottom of this death pit.

She barely lifts her head when I open the stairwell door. I may have shouted her name; I don’t remember.

I also don’t remember stepping over Vosch’s body, but I must have: It was in my way. My boot hits the kill switch lying beside her. It skitters across the floor.

“Walker . . . ,” she gasps, pointing over my shoulder down the long hallway. “I think he’s—”

I shake my head. She’s hurt and still imagines I’d worry about him for even one second? I touch her shoulder. Her dark hair brushes the back of my hand. Her eyes shine. Their brightness goes all the way down.

“You found me,” she says.

I kneel beside her. I take her hand. “I found you.”

“My back is broken,” she says. “I can’t walk.”

I slide my arms beneath her. “I’ll carry you.”





BEN


THE LATE-AFTERNOON SUN polishes the dusty windows of the superstore a lustrous gold. Inside, the light has faded to gray. We’ve got less than an hour to beat the dark back to the house. The day may belong to us, but the night belongs to the coyotes and the packs of wild dogs that roam the banks of the Colorado and wander the outskirts of Marble Falls. I’m well-armed, I’ve got no love for coyotes, but I hate shooting the dogs. The older ones were somebody’s pet once; it feels like giving up all hope of redemption.

And it isn’t just dogs and coyotes. A couple of weeks after we crossed the border into Texas, back in late summer, Marika spotted escapees from some zoo drinking a few miles upriver—a lioness and her two cubs. Ever since then, Sam has been itching for a safari. He wants to capture and tame an elephant so he can ride on it like Aladdin. Or catch a monkey to domesticate. He isn’t picky.

“Hey, Sam,” I call down the aisle. He’s wandered off again in search of treasure. Lately it’s been LEGOs. Before that it was Lincoln Logs. He’s developed a love for building things. He’s made a fort, a tree house, and started on an underground bunker in the backyard.

“What?” he shouts back from the toy section.

“It’s getting late. We have to make a decision here.”

“I told you I don’t care! You decide!” Something crashes off a shelf and he curses loudly.

“Hey, what’d I tell you about that?” I call over to him. “Watch your language.”

“Fuckety f*ck f*ck, shithole.”

I sigh. “Come on, Sam, we gotta haul this thing back three friggin’ miles, which I’d rather not do in the dark.”

“I’m busy.”

I turn back to the display. Well, the prelits are useless. That leaves either the six, eight, or ten foot. The tens are too tall for the ceiling. Either the six or eight, then. A six would be easier to transport, but it looks like crap. The Texas heat has done a number on it. Needles bent and soft, big bare spots in some places where they fell off. The eights don’t look much better, but they’re not quite as scrawny. But eight damn feet! Maybe their storeroom has new ones in boxes.

I’m still debating with myself when I hear an all-too-familiar, all-too-sickening sound: a bullet racking into the chamber of a pistol.

“Don’t move!” Sam shouts. “Lemme see your hands! Hands!”

I draw my own weapon and race down the aisle as fast as my bum leg will allow, slipping on the carpet of rat droppings and hopping over fallen shelving and ripped-open boxes, until I reach the toy section and the kid who’s got a downed man at gunpoint.