The 5th Wave (The Fifth Wave #1)(89)

It’s too much for me to handle. I can’t defeat the Others. I’m a cockroach. Okay, I’ll go with Evan’s mayfly metaphor; mayflies are prettier, and at least they can fly. But I can take out a few of the bastards before my single day on Earth is over. And I plan to start with Vosch.

A hand falls on my shoulder. “Cassie, why are you crying?”

“I’m not. It’s my allergies. This damn bear is full of dust.”

He sits down next to me, on the bear side, not the gun side.

“Where were you?” I ask to change the subject.

“Checking out the weather.”

“And?” Full sentences, please. I’m cold and I need your warm-blanky voice to keep me safe. I draw my knees up to my chest, resting my heels on the edge of the sofa cushion.

“I think we’re good for tonight.” The morning light sneaks through a crack in the sheets hung over the window and paints his face golden. The light shimmers in his dark hair, sparkles in his eyes.

“Good.” I snuffle loudly.

“Cassie.” He touches my knee. His hand is warm; I feel its heat through my jeans. “I had this weird idea.”

“All of this is just a really bad dream?”

He shakes his head, laughs nervously. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, so hear me out before you say anything, okay? I’ve been thinking a lot about this, and I wouldn’t even mention it if I didn’t think—”

“Tell me, Evan. Just—tell—me.” Oh God, what’s he going to tell me? My body tightens up. Never mind, Evan. Don’t tell me.

“Let me go.”

I shake my head, confused. Is this a joke? I look down at his hand on my knee, fingers gently squeezing. “I thought you were going.”

“I mean, let me go.” Giving my knee a tiny shake to get me to look at him.

Then I get it. “Let you go by yourself. I stay here, and you go find my brother.”

“Okay, now, you promised to hear me out—”

“I didn’t promise you anything.” I push his hand off my knee. The thought of his leaving me behind isn’t just offensive—it’s terrifying. “My promise was to Sammy, so drop it.”

He doesn’t. “But you don’t know what’s out there.”

“And you do?”

“Better than you.”

He reaches for me; I put my hand against his chest. Oh no, buddy. “Then tell me what’s out there.”

He throws up his hands. “Think about who has a better chance of living long enough to keep your promise. I’m not saying it’s because you’re a girl or because I’m stronger or tougher or whatever. I’m saying if just one of us goes, then the other one would still have a chance of finding him in case the worst happens.”

“Well, you’re probably right about that last part. But it shouldn’t be you who tries first. He’s my brother. Like hell I’m going to wait around here for a Silencer to knock on the door and ask to borrow a cup of sugar. I’ll just go by myself.”

I push myself off the sofa like I’m heading out at that very second. He grabs my arm; I yank it back.

“Stop it, Evan. You keep forgetting that I’m letting you go with me, not the other way around.”

He drops his head. “I know. I know that.” Then a rueful laugh. “I also knew what your answer would be, but I had to ask.”

“Because you think I can’t take care of myself?”

“Because I don’t want you to die.”

66

WE’VE BEEN PREPARING for weeks. On this last day, there wasn’t much left to do except wait for nightfall. We’re traveling light; Evan thought we could reach Wright-Patterson in two or three nights, barring an unexpected delay like another blizzard or one of us getting killed—or both of us getting killed, which would delay the operation indefinitely.

Despite keeping my supplies to a bare minimum, I have trouble getting Bear to fit into the backpack. Maybe I should cut off his legs and tell Sammy they were blown off by the Eye that took out Camp Ashpit.

The Eye. That would be better, I decided: not a bullet to Vosch’s brain, but an alien bomb jammed down his pants.

“Maybe you shouldn’t take him,” Evan says.

“Maybe you should shut up,” I mutter, pushing Bear’s head down into his stomach and tugging the zipper closed. “There.”

Evan is smiling. “You know, when I first saw you in the woods, I thought he was your bear.”

“Woods?”

His smile fades.

“You didn’t find me in the woods,” I remind him. Suddenly the room feels about ten degrees colder. “You found me in the middle of a snowbank.”

“I meant I was in the woods, not you,” he says. “I saw you from the woods a half mile away.”

I’m nodding. Not because I believe him. I’m nodding because I know I’m right not to.

“You’re not out of those woods yet, Evan. You’re sweet and you have incredible cuticles, but I’m still not sure why your hands are so soft, or why you smelled like gunpowder the night you supposedly visited your girlfriend’s grave.”

“I told you last night, I haven’t helped around the farm in two years, and I was cleaning my gun earlier that day. I don’t know what else I can—”