The 5th Wave (The Fifth Wave #1)(79)

“It’s not good, Sarge.”

“Then make it good.” I look over at Teacup, who’s buried her head into Ringer’s chest, whimpering softly.

“It’s superficial,” Ringer tells me. “She can move.”

I nod. Oompa down. Teacup shot. Flint ready to mutiny. A sniper across the street and a hundred or so of his best friends on their way to the party. I’ve got to come up with something brilliant and come up with it quickly. “He knows where we are, which means we can’t camp here long. See if you can take him.”

She nods, but she can’t peel Teacup off her. I hold out my hands wet with Oompa’s blood: Give her to me. Delivered, Teacup squirms against my shirt. She doesn’t want me. I jerk my head toward the street and turn to Poundcake, “Cake, go with Ringer. Take the SOB out.”

Ringer and Poundcake duck between two cars and disappear. I stroke Teacup’s bare head—somewhere along the way she lost her cap—and watch Dumbo gingerly pull on the fragment in Oompa’s back. Oompa howls in agony, his fingers clawing at the ground. Unsure, Dumbo looks up at me. I nod. It’s gotta come out. “Quick, Dumbo. Slow makes it worse.” So he yanks.

Oompa folds in on himself, and the echoes of his screams rocket around the garage. Dumbo tosses the jagged piece of metal to one side and shines his light on the gaping wound.

Grimacing, he rolls Oompa onto his back. His shirtfront is soaked. Dumbo rips the shirt open, exposing the exit wound: The shrapnel had entered through his back and slammed through to the other side.

Flint turns away, crawls a couple feet, and his back arches as he vomits. Teacup gets very still watching all this. She’s going into shock. Teacup, the one who screamed the loudest during mock charges in the yard. Teacup, the bloodthirstiest, the one who sang the loudest in P&D. I’m losing her.

And I’m losing Oompa. As Dumbo presses wadding against the wound in Oompa’s gut, trying to stem the flow, his eyes seek out mine.

“What are your orders, Private?” I ask him.

“I—I am not to—to…”

Dumbo tosses the blood-soaked dressing away and presses a fresh patch against Oompa’s stomach. Looking into my face. Doesn’t have to say anything. Not to me. Not to Oompa.

I ease Teacup from my lap and kneel beside Oompa. His breath smells like blood and chocolate.

“It’s because I’m fat,” he chokes out. He starts to cry.

“Stow that shit,” I tell him sternly.

He whispers something. I bring my ear close to his mouth. “My name is Kenny.” Like it’s a terrible secret he’s been afraid to share.

His eyes roll toward the ceiling. Then he’s gone.

58

TEACUP’S LOST IT. Hugging her legs, forehead pressed against her upraised knees. I call over to Flint to keep an eye on her. I’m worried about Ringer and Poundcake. Flint looks like he wants to kill me with his bare hands.

“You’re the one who gave the order,” he snarls. “You watch her.”

Dumbo is cleaning his hands of Oompa’s—no, Kenny’s—blood. “I got it, Sarge,” he says calmly, but his hands are shaking.

“Sarge,” Flint spits out. “That’s right. What now, Sarge?”

I ignore him and scramble toward the wall, where I find Poundcake squatting beside Ringer. She’s on her knees, peeking over the edge of the wall toward the building across the street. I lower myself beside her, avoiding Poundcake’s questioning look.

“Oompa’s not screaming anymore,” Ringer says without taking her eyes off the building.

“His name was Kenny,” I say. Ringer nods; she gets it, but it takes Poundcake a minute or two more. He scoots away, putting distance between us, and presses both hands against the concrete, takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“You had to, Zombie,” Ringer says. “If you hadn’t, we might all be Kenny.”

That sounds really good. It sounded good when I said it to myself. Looking up at her profile, I wonder what Vosch was thinking, pinning the stripes on my collar. The commander promoted the wrong squad member.

“Well?” I ask her.

She nods across the street. “Pop goes the weasel.”

I slowly rise up. In the light of the dying fire, I can see the building: a facade of broken windows, peeling white paint, and the roof one story higher than us. A vague shadow that might be a water tower up there, but that’s all I see.

“Where?” I whisper.

“He just ducked down again. Been doing that. Up, down, up, down, like a jack-in-the-box.”

“Just one?”

“Only one I’ve seen.”

“Does he light up?”

Ringer shakes her head. “Negative, Zombie. He doesn’t read infested.”

I chew on my bottom lip. “Poundcake see him, too?”

She nods. “No green.” Watching me with those dark eyes like knives cutting deep.

“Maybe he’s not the shooter…,” I try.

“Saw his weapon,” she says. “Sniper rifle.”

So why doesn’t he glow green? The ones on the street lit up, and they were farther away than he is. Then I think it doesn’t matter if he glows green or purple or nothing at all: He’s trying to kill us, and we can’t move until he’s neutralized. And we have to move before the one who got away comes back with reinforcements.