The 5th Wave (The Fifth Wave #1)(110)

Now you’ve done it, Cassie. Blown the one chance you had, and you were so close.

I can’t just leave Officer Alien where he fell. They might miss all the blood in the hurly-burly of battle, and it’s nearly invisible anyway in the spinning red light, but not the body. What am I going to do with the body?

I’m close, so close, and I’m not going to let some dead guy keep me from Sammy. I grab him by the ankles and drag him back down the corridor, into another passageway, around another corner, and then drop him. He’s heavier than he looks. I take a moment to stretch out the kink in my lower back before hurrying away. Now if someone stops me before I can reach the safe room, my plan is to say whatever is necessary to avoid killing again. Unless I’m given no choice. And then I will kill again.

Evan was right: It does get a little easier each time.

The room is packed with kids. Hundreds of kids. Dressed in identical white jumpsuits. Sitting in big groups spread over an area about the size of a high school gymnasium. They’ve quieted down some. Maybe I should just shout out Sam’s name or borrow Major Bob’s bullhorn. I pick my way through the room, lifting my boots high to avoid stepping on any little fingers or toes.

So many faces. They begin to blur together. The room expands, explodes past the walls, extending to infinity, filled with billions of little upturned faces, and oh those bastards, those bastards, what have they done? In my tent I cried for myself and the silly, stupid life that had been taken from me. Now I beg forgiveness from the infinite sea of upturned faces.

I’m still stumbling around like a zombie when I hear a little voice calling my name. Coming from a group I had just passed, and it’s funny he recognized me and not the other way around. I go still. I do not turn. I close my eyes, but can’t bring myself to turn around.

“Cassie?”

I lower my head. There is a lump the size of Texas caught in my throat. And then I turn and he’s staring at me with something like fear, like this might be the last straw, seeing a dead ringer for his sister tiptoeing around dressed up like a soldier. Like he’s reached the outer limits of the Others’ cruelty.

I kneel in front of my brother. He doesn’t rush into my arms. He stares at my tear-streaked face and brings his fingers to my wet cheek. Across my nose, forehead, chin, over my fluttering eyelids.

“Cassie?”

Is it okay now? Can he believe? If the world breaks a million and one promises, can you trust the million and second?

“Hey, Sams.”

He cocks his head slightly. I must sound funny to him with the bloated tongue. I fumble with the clasp of the leather satchel.

“I, um, I thought you might want this back.”

I pull out the battered old teddy bear and hold it toward him. He frowns and shakes his head and doesn’t reach for it, and I feel like he’s punched me in the gut.

Then my baby brother slaps that damned bear out of my hand and crushes his face against my chest, and beneath the odors of sweat and strong soap I can smell it, his smell, Sammy’s, my brother’s.

81

THE GREEN EYE looked at me and I looked back at it, and I don’t remember what snatched me back from the edge between the blinking eye and what came next.

My first clear memory? Running.

Lobby. Stairwell. Basement level. First landing. Second landing.

When I hit the third landing, the concussion of the blast slams into my back like a wrecking ball, hurling me down the stairs and into the door that opens to the bomb shelter.

Above me, the hospital screams as it’s torn apart. That’s what it sounds like: a living thing screaming as it’s being ripped to pieces. The thunderous crack of mortar and stone shattering. The screech of nails snapping and the shriek of two hundred windows exploding. The floor buckles, splits open. I dive headfirst into the hallway of reinforced concrete as the building above me disintegrates.

The lights flicker once, and then the corridor plunges into darkness. I’ve never been to this part of the complex, but I don’t need the luminescent arrows on the walls to show me the way to the safe room. All I have to do is follow the terrified screams of the children.

But first it would be helpful to stand.

The fall has completely torn open the sutures; I’m bleeding heavily now, from both wounds: where Ringer’s bullet went in and where it came out. I try to stand up. I give it my best shot, but my legs won’t hold me up. I get halfway up and then down again I go, head spinning, gasping for air.

A second explosion knocks me flat out on the floor. I manage to crawl a few inches before a third blast knocks me down again. Damn it, what are you doing up there, Vosch?

If it is too late, we’ll have no choice but to execute the option of last resort.

Well, guess that particular mystery is solved. Vosch is blowing up his own base. Destroying the village in order to save it. But save it from what? Unless it isn’t Vosch. Maybe Ringer and I are totally wrong. Maybe I’m risking my life and Nugget’s for nothing. Camp Haven is what Vosch says it is and that means Ringer walked into a camp of infesteds with her guard down. Ringer is dead. Ringer and Dumbo and Poundcake and little Teacup. Christ, have I done it again? Run when I should have stayed? Turned my back when I should have fought?

The next explosion is the worst. It hits directly overhead. I cover my head with both arms as chunks of concrete as big as my fist rain down. The concussions from the bombs, the drug lingering in my system, the loss of blood, the darkness…all of it conspires to pin me down. From a distance, I can hear someone screaming—and then I realize that it’s me.