The 5th Wave (The Fifth Wave #1)(41)

The floorboards rattle as below me someone slams a door. The kulump, kulump of heavy boots on bare wood. Then silence. A very heavy silence, if you don’t count my heart knocking against my ribs, which you probably should since it sounds as loud as one of Crisco’s sonic bombs.

Thunk-thunk-thunk. Growing louder with each thunk.

Someone is coming up the stairs.

I try to sit up. Not a smart idea. I get about four inches off the pillow and that’s it. Where’s my rifle? Where’s my Luger? Someone is just outside the door now, and I can’t move, and even if I could all I have is this damned stuffed toy. What was I going to do with that? Snuggle the dude to death?

When you’re out of options, the best option is to do nothing. Play dead. The possum option.

I watch the door swing open through slits for eyes. I see a red plaid shirt, a wide brown belt, blue jeans. A pair of large, strong hands and very nicely trimmed fingernails. I keep my breath nice and even while he stands right beside me, by the metal pole, checking my drip, I guess. Then he turns and there’s his butt and then he turns again and his face lowers into view as he sits in the rocker by the mirror. I can see his face, and I can see my face in the mirror. Breathe, Cassie, breathe. He has a good face, not the face of someone who wants to hurt you. If he wanted to hurt you, he wouldn’t have brought you here and stuck an IV in you to keep you hydrated, and the sheets feel nice and clean, and so what, he took your clothes and dressed you in this cotton nightie, what did you expect him to do? Your clothes were filthy, like you, only you’re not anymore, and your skin smells a little like lilacs, which means holy Christ he bathed you.

Trying to keep my breath steady and not doing a very good job at it.

Then the owner of the good face says, “I know you’re awake.”

When I don’t say anything, he goes, “And I know you’re watching me, Cassie.”

“How do you know my name?” I croak. My throat feels like it’s lined with sandpaper. I open up my eyes. I can see him clearer now. I wasn’t wrong about the face. It’s good in a clean-cut, Clark Kent kind of way. I’m guessing eighteen or nineteen, broad through the shoulders, nice arms, and those hands with the perfect cuticles. Well, I tell myself, it could be worse. You could have been rescued by some fifty-year-old perv sporting a spare tire the size of a monster truck’s who keeps his dead mother in the attic.

“Driver’s license,” he says. He doesn’t get up. He stays in the chair with his elbows resting on his knees and his head lowered, which strikes me as more shy than menacing. I watch his dangling hands and imagine them running a warm, wet cloth over every inch of my body. My completely na**d body.

“I’m Evan,” he says next. “Evan Walker.”

“Hi,” I say.

He gives a little laugh like I said something funny.

“Hi,” he says.

“Where the hell am I, Evan Walker?”

“My sister’s bedroom.” His deep-set eyes are a chocolate brown, like his hair, and a little mournful and questioning, like a puppy’s.

“Is she…?”

He nods. Rubbing his hands together slowly. “Whole family. How about you?”

“Everyone except my baby brother. That’s, um, his bear, not mine.”

He smiles. It’s a good smile, like his face. “It’s a very nice bear.”

“He’s looked better.”

“Like most things.”

I assume he’s talking about the world in general, not my body.

“How did you find me?” I ask.

He looks away. Looks back at me. Chocolate-colored, lost-puppy eyes. “The birds.”

“What birds?”

“Buzzards. When I see them circling, I always check it out. You know. In case—”

“Sure, okay.” I didn’t want him to elaborate. “So you brought me here to your house, stuck me with an IV—where’d you get the IV, anyway? And then you took off all my…and then you cleaned me up…”

“I honestly couldn’t believe you were alive, and then I couldn’t believe you’d stay alive.” He’s rubbing his hands together. Is he cold? Nervous? I’m both. “The IV was already here. It came in handy during the plague. I shouldn’t say this, I guess, but every day I came home I honestly expected you to be dead. You were in pretty bad shape.”

He reaches into his shirt pocket, and for some reason I flinch, which he notices, and then smiles reassuringly. He holds out a chunk of knotty-looking metal the size of a thimble.

“If this had hit you practically anyplace else, you would be dead.” He rolls the slug between his index finger and thumb. “Where’d it come from?”

I roll my eyes. Can’t help it. But I leave out the duh. “A rifle.”

He shakes his head. He thinks I don’t understand the question. Sarcasm doesn’t appear to work on him. If that’s true, I’m in trouble: It’s my normal mode of communication.

“Whose rifle?”

“I don’t know—the Others. A troop of them pretending to be soldiers wasted my father and everybody in our refugee camp. I was the only one who made it out alive. Well, not counting Sammy and the rest of the kids.”

He’s looking at me like I’m completely whacked. “What happened to the kids?”