The 5th Wave (The Fifth Wave #1)(77)

A tanker truck has stalled out in the middle of the intersection twenty yards away, blocking our view of the left-hand side of the street. I can’t see it, but I know from the mission briefing there’s a four-story building on that side, a prime sentry point if they wanted to keep an eye on the bridge. I motion for Ringer to keep to the right as we leave the bridge, putting the truck between us and the building.

She pulls up sharply at the truck’s front bumper and drops to the ground. The squad follows her lead, and I belly-scoot forward to join her.

“What do you see?” I whisper.

“Three of them, two o’clock.”

I squint through my eyepiece toward the building on the other side of the street. Through the cottony fuzz of the snow, I see three green blobs of light bobbing along the sidewalk, growing larger as they approach the intersection. My first thought is, Holy crap, these lenses actually work. My second thought: Holy crap, Teds, and they’re coming straight at us.

“Patrol?” I ask Ringer.

She shrugs. “Probably marked the chopper and they’re coming to check it out.” She’s lying on her belly, holding them in her sights, waiting for the order to fire. The green blobs grow larger; they’ve reached the opposite corner. I can barely make out their bodies beneath the green beacons on top of their shoulders. It’s a weird, jarring effect, as if their heads are engulfed in a spinning, iridescent green fire.

Not yet. If they start to cross, give the order.

Beside me, Ringer takes a deep breath, holds it, waits for my order patiently, like she could wait for a thousand years. Snow settles on her shoulders, clings to her dark hair. The tip of her nose is bright red. The moment drags out. What if there’s more than three? If we announce our presence, it could bring a hundred of them down on us from a dozen different hiding places. Engage or wait? I chew on my bottom lip, working through the options.

“I’ve got them,” she says, misreading my hesitation.

Across the street, the green blobs of light are stationary, clustered together as if locked in conversation. I can’t tell if they’re even facing this way, but I’m sure they don’t know we’re here. If they did, they’d rush us, open fire, take cover, do something. We have the element of surprise. And we have Ringer. Even if she misses with the first shot, the follow-ups won’t. It’s an easy call, really.

So what’s stopping me from making it?

Ringer must be wondering the same thing, because she glances over at me and whispers, “Zombie? What’s the call?”

There’s my orders: Terminate all infested personnel. There’s my gut instinct: Don’t rush. Don’t force the issue. Let it play out. And there’s me, squeezed in the middle.

A heartbeat before our ears register the high-powered rifle’s report, the pavement two feet in front of us disintegrates in a spray of dirty snow and pulverized concrete. That resolves my dilemma fast. The words fly out as if snatched from my lungs by the icy wind: “Take them.”

Ringer’s bullet smashes into one of the bobbing green lights, and the light winks out. One light takes off to our right. Ringer swings the barrel toward my face. I duck as she fires again, and the second light winks out. The third seems to shrink as he tears up the street, heading back the way he came.

I jump to my feet. Can’t let him get away to sound the alarm. Ringer grabs my wrist and yanks hard to bring me back down.

“Damn it, Ringer, what are you do—”

“It’s a trap.” She points at the six-inch scar in the concrete. “Didn’t you hear it? It didn’t come from them. It came from over there.” She jerks her head toward the building on the opposite side of the street. “From our left. And judging by the angle, from high up, maybe the roof.”

I shake my head. A fourth infested on the roof? How did he know we were here—and why didn’t he warn the others? We’re hidden behind the truck, which means he must have spotted us on the bridge—spotted us and held his fire until we were blocked from view and there was no way he could hit us. It didn’t make sense.

And Ringer goes, like she’s read my mind, “I guess this is what they meant by ‘the fog of war.’”

I nod. Things are getting way too complicated way too fast.

“How’d he see us cross?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Night vision, has to be.”

“Then we’re screwed.” Pinned down. Beside several thousands of gallons of gasoline. “He’ll take out the truck.”

Ringer shrugs. “Not with a bullet, he won’t. That only works in the movies, Zombie.” She looks at me. Waiting for my call.

Along with the rest of the squad. I glance behind me. Their eyes look back at me, big and bug-eyed in the snowy dark. Teacup is either freezing to death or shaking with complete terror. Flint is scowling, and the only one to speak up and let me know what the rest are thinking: “Trapped. We abort now, right?”

Tempting, but suicidal. If the sniper on the roof doesn’t take us down on the retreat, the reinforcements that must be coming will.

Retreating is not an option. Advancing is not an option. Staying put is not an option. There are no options.

Run = die. Stay = die.

“Speaking of night vision,” Ringer growls, “they might have thought of that before dropping us on a night mission. We’re totally blind out here.”