The Infinite Sea (The Fifth Wave #2)(18)

The door clicked shut behind me. I heard the night latch slide into the notch. Good boy. Ben was halfway down the hall. He motioned for me to join him. He pressed his lips, fever-hot, against my ear.

“We clear the rooms, then we go down.”

We worked together. I took the point while Ben covered me. The Walker Hotel had an open door policy: Every lock had been busted at some point as survivors sought refuge during the waves. Also helpful was the fact that the Walker was perfect for the family on a budget. The rooms were roughly the size of Barbie’s Dreamhouse. Thirty seconds to check one. Four minutes to clear them all.

Back in the hall, Ben crushed his lips into my ear again.

“The shaft.”

He dropped to one knee in front of the elevator doors. Gestured for me to cover the stairway door, then pulled out his ten-inch combat knife and shoved the blade into the crack. Ah, I thought. The old hide-in-the-elevator trick! So why was I covering the stairs? Ben pushed open the doors and waved me over.

I saw rusty cables and a lot of dust and smelled what I assumed to be dead rat. I hoped it was dead rat. He pointed at the darkness pooling below, and then I understood. We weren’t checking the shaft—we were using it.

“I’m clearing the stairs,” he breathed in my ear. “You stay in the elevator. Wait for my signal.”

He placed his foot against one door and leaned back against the other to hold them open. Patted the tiny space between his hip and the edge. Mouthed, Let’s go. Carefully I eased over his legs, planted my butt in the space, and dropped my legs over the side. The top of the elevator looked twenty miles down. Ben smiled reassuringly: Don’t worry, Sullivan. I won’t let you fall.

I inched forward until my butt dangled in open space. Nope, that won’t work. I swung back to the edge, then maneuvered onto my knees. Ben grabbed my wrist and gave me a thumbs-up with his free hand. I knee-walked down the shaft wall, gripping the edge until my arms were fully extended. Okay, Cassie. Time to let go now. Ben’s got you. Yeah, dumbass, and Ben’s hurt and about as strong as a three-year-old. When you let go, your weight is going to pull him off his perch and you’ll both drop. He’ll land on top of you and break your neck and then he’ll slowly bleed to death all over your paralyzed body . . .

Oh, what the hell.

I let go. I heard Ben grunt softly, but he didn’t drop me and he didn’t tumble down on top of me. Bending from the waist as he lowered me down, until I saw his head silhouetted in the opening, his face masked in shadow. My toes brushed against the roof of the elevator. I gave him a thumbs-up, though I wasn’t sure if he could see it. Three seconds. Four. And then he let go.

I sank to my knees and felt around for the service hatch. Some grease, some dirt, and a lot of greasy dirt.

Before electricity, they measured brightness in candlepower. The light down here was about one half of one half of one candle.

Then the doors above me closed and the candlepower dropped to zero.

Thanks, Parish. You could have waited till I found the hatch.

And, when I did, the latch was stuck, probably rusted shut. I reached for my Luger with the thought of using the butt end as a hammer, then remembered I’d entrusted my semiautomatic pistol to a five-year-old’s care. I pulled the combat knife from my ankle holster and gave the latch three hard whacks with the handle. The metal screeched. A very loud screech. So much for stealth. But the latch gave. I pulled the hatch open, which resulted in another very loud screech, this time from the rusty hinge. Well, sure, this sounds really loud to you, kneeling right next to it. Outside the shaft, probably only a tiny mouselike squeaky-squeak. Don’t get paranoid! My father had a saying about paranoia. I never thought it was very funny, especially after hearing it two thousand times: I’m only paranoid because everyone is against me. Only a joke, I used to think. Not an omen.

I dropped into the utter dark of the elevator car. Wait for my signal. What signal? Ben neglected to cover that. I pressed my ear to the crack between the cold metal doors and held my breath. Counted to ten. Breathed. Counted to ten again. Breathed. After six ten counts and four breaths and hearing nothing, I started getting a little antsy. What was happening out there? Where was Ben? Where was Dumbo? Our little band was being ripped apart one person at a time. A big mistake splitting up, but each time we didn’t have a choice. We were being outplayed. Someone was making this look foolishly easy.

Or multiple someones: After we went rogue in Dayton, Vosch dispatched two squads to hunt us down.

That was it. That had to be it. One or possibly both squads had found our hiding place. We waited here too long.

That’s right, and why did you wait, Cassiopeia “Defiance” Sullivan? Oh yeah, because some dead guy promised he’d find you. So you closed your eyes and jumped off the cliff into that emptiness, and now you’re shocked there’s no big fat mattress at the bottom? Your fault. Whatever happens now. You’re responsible.

The elevator was not large, but in the pitch dark it seemed the size of a football stadium. I was standing in a vast underground pit, no light, no sound, a lifeless, lightless void, frozen to the spot, paralyzed by fear and doubt. Knowing—without understanding how I knew—that Ben’s signal wasn’t coming. Understanding—without knowing how I understood—that Evan wasn’t coming, either.

You never know when the truth will come home. You can’t choose the time. The time chooses you. I’d had days to face the truth that now faced me in that cold, black space, and I’d refused. I wouldn’t go there. So the truth decided to come to me.