The Infinite Sea (The Fifth Wave #2)(37)

“That doesn’t answer my question,” I pointed out. “Can we remove it without blowing ourselves into orbit?”

“It’s feasible . . .”

“Feasible. Feasible.” Ben was laughing this weird, hiccupping kind of laugh. I was worried that he might be falling over the proverbial edge.

“Evan,” I said as softly and calmly as I could. “Can we do it without . . .” I couldn’t say it, and Evan didn’t make me.

“The odds of it not detonating are a lot better if you did.”

“Do it without . . . what?” Ben was having a hard time following. Not his fault. He was still flailing in the unthinkable place like a poor swimmer caught in a riptide.

“Killing her first,” Evan explained.

39

BEN AND I CONVENED the latest oh-we’re-screwed planning meeting in the hallway. Ben ordered everybody else to go across the parking lot and hide in the diner until he gave them the all-clear—or the hotel blew up, whichever came first. Sam refused. Ben got stern. Sam teared up and pouted. Ben reminded him that he was a soldier and a good soldier follows orders. Besides, if he stayed, who was going to protect Poundcake and Dumbo?

Before he left, Dumbo said, “I’m the medic.” He’d figured out what Ben was up to. “I should do it, Sarge.”

Ben shook his head. “Get out of here,” he said tersely.

Then we were alone. Ben’s eyes would not stay still. The trapped cockroach. The cornered rat. The falling man, off the cliff and no scrawny shrub to grasp.

“Well, I guess the big riddle’s been answered, huh?” he said. “What I don’t get is why they didn’t just waste us with a couple of Hellfire missiles. They know we’re here.”

“Not their style,” I said.

“Style?”

“Hasn’t it ever struck you how personal it’s been—from the beginning? There’s something about killing us that gets them off.”

Ben looked at me with sick wonder. “Yeah. Well. I can see why you’d want to date one of them.” Not the thing to say. He realized it immediately and quickly backed off. “Who’re we kidding, Cassie? There’s nothing really to decide, except who’s going to do it. Maybe we should flip a coin.”

“Maybe it should be Dumbo. Didn’t you tell me he trained in field surgery at the camp?”

He frowned. “Surgery? You’re kidding, right?”

“Well, how else are we . . . ?” Then I understood. Couldn’t accept, but understood. I was wrong about Ben. He had dropped farther than me into that unthinkable place. He was five thousand fathoms down.

He read the look on my face and dropped his chin toward his chest. His face was flushed. Not embarrassed so much as angry, intensely angry, the anger that’s past all words.

“No, Ben. We can’t do that.”

He lifted his head. His eyes shone. His hands shook. “I can.”

“No, you can’t.” Ben Parish was drowning. He was so far under, I wasn’t sure I could reach him, wasn’t sure I had the strength to pull him back to the surface.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said. “I didn’t ask for any of this!”

“Neither did she, Ben.”

He leaned close and I saw a different kind of fever burning in his eyes. “I’m not worried about her. An hour ago, she didn’t exist. Understand? She was nothing, literally nothing. I had you, and I had your little brother, and I had Poundcake and Dumbo. She was theirs. She belongs to them. I didn’t take her. I didn’t trick her into getting on a bus and tell her she was perfectly safe and then stuff a bomb down her throat. This isn’t my fault. It isn’t my responsibility. My job is to keep my ass and your ass alive for as long as possible, and if that means somebody else who is nothing to me dies, then I guess that’s what it means.”

I wasn’t holding up well. He was too deep, there was too much pressure, I couldn’t breathe.

“That’s it,” he said bitterly. “Cry, Cassie. Cry for her. Cry for all the children. They can’t hear you and they can’t see you and they can’t feel how really bad you feel, but cry for them. A tear for each of them, fill up the f**king ocean, cry.

“You know I’m right. You know I don’t have a choice. And you know Ringer was right. It’s about the risk. It’s always been about the risk. And if one little girl has to die so six people can live, then that’s the price. That’s the price.”

He pushed past me and limped down the hall to the broken door, and I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak. I didn’t lift a finger or frame an argument to stop him. I’d reached the end of words, and gestures seemed pointless.

Stop him, Evan. Please, stop him, because I can’t.

In the safe room underground, their faces lifted up to me, and my silent prayer, my hopeless promise: Climb onto my shoulders, climb onto my shoulders, climb onto my shoulders.

He wouldn’t shoot her. Because of the risk. He’d smother her. Place a pillow over her face and press until he didn’t need to press anymore. He wouldn’t leave her body there: the risk. He would carry it outside, but he wouldn’t bury it or burn it: the risk. He would take it far into the woods and toss it on the frozen ground like so much trash for the buzzards and crows and insects. The risk.