The 5th Wave (35 page)

I nod seriously. “Oh, sure. That’s what I meant to say. Quantum mechanics.”

She turns her head away. To hide a smile? So I don’t see an exasperated eye roll?
When she turns back, all I get is that intense, stomach-tightening stare.

“Do you want to graduate?”

“I want to get the hell away from Reznik.”

“That isn’t enough.” She points across the field at one of the cutouts. The wind plays
with her bangs. “What do you see when you sight a target?”

“I see a plywood cutout of a person.”

“Okay, but who do you see?”

“I know what you meant. Sometimes I picture Reznik’s face.”

“Does it help?”

“You tell me.”

“It’s about connection,” she says. She motions for me to sit down. She sits in front
of me, takes my hands. Hers are freezing, cold as the bodies in P&D. “Close your eyes.
Oh, come on, Zombie. How’s your way been working for you? Good. Okay, remember, it’s
not you and the target. It’s not what’s between you, but what connects you. Think
about the lion and the gazelle. What connects them?”

“Um. Hunger?”

“That’s the lion. I’m asking what they share.”

This is heavy stuff. Maybe it was a bad idea, accepting her offer. Not only do I have
her thoroughly convinced I’m a lousy soldier, now there’s a real possibility that
I’m also a moron.

“Fear,” she whispers in my ear, as if she’s sharing a secret. “For the gazelle, fear
of being eaten. For the lion, fear of starvation. Fear is the chain that binds them
together.”

The chain. I carry one in my pocket attached to a silver locket. The night my sister
died was a thousand years ago; that night was last night. It’s over. It’s never over.
It isn’t a line from that night to this day; it’s a circle. My fingers tighten around
hers.

“I don’t know what your chain is,” she goes on, warm breath in my ear. “It’s different
for everyone. They know. Wonderland tells them. It’s the thing that made them put
a gun in your hand, and it’s the same thing that chains you to the target.” Then,
as if she’s read my mind: “It isn’t a line, Zombie. It’s a circle.”

I open my eyes. The setting sun creates a halo of golden light around her. “There
is no distance.”

She nods and urges me to my feet. “It’s almost dark.”

I bring up my rifle and tuck the butt against my shoulder. You
don’t know where the target will rise—you only know that it will. Ringer signals Oompa,
and the tall, dead grass rustles to my right a millisecond before the target pops,
but that’s more than enough time; it’s an eternity.

There is no distance. Nothing between me and the not-me.

The target’s head disintegrates with a satisfying
crack!
Oompa gives a shout and pumps his fist in the air. I forget myself and grab Ringer
around the waist, swinging her off the ground and twirling her around. I’m one very
dangerous second away from kissing her. When I set her down, she takes a couple of
steps back and tucks her hair carefully behind her ears.

“That was out of line,” I say. I don’t know who’s more embarrassed. We’re both trying
to catch our breaths. Maybe for different reasons.

“Do it again,” she says.

“Shoot or twirl, which one?”

Her mouth twitches. Oh, I’m so close.

“The one that means something.”

51

GRADUATION DAY.

Our new uniforms were waiting for us when we returned from morning chow, pressed and
starched and neatly folded on our bunks. And an extra special bonus surprise: headbands
equipped with the latest in alien detection technology, a clear, quarter-size disk
that slips over your left eye. Infested humans will light up
through the lens. Or so we’re told. Later that day, when I asked the tech exactly
how it worked, his answer was simple: Unclean glows green. When I politely asked for
a brief demo, he laughed. “You’ll get your demo in the field, soldier.”

For the first time since coming to Camp Haven—and probably for the last time in our
lives—we are kids again. Whooping it up and jumping from bunk to bunk, throwing high
fives. Ringer’s the only one who ducks into the latrine to change. The rest of us
strip where we stand, throwing the hated blue jumpsuits into a pile in the middle
of the floor. Teacup has the bright idea to set them on fire and would have if Dumbo
didn’t snatch the lit match from her hand at the last second.

The only one without a uniform is sitting on his bunk in his white jumpsuit, legs
swinging back and forth, arms folded over his chest, bottom lip stuck out a mile.
I’m not oblivious. I get it. After I’m dressed, I sit beside him and slap him on the
leg.

“You’ll get your turn, Private. Hang in there.”

“Two years, Zombie.”

“So? Think what a hardass you’ll be in two years. Put all of us to shame.”

Nugget’s being assigned to another training squad after we deploy. I promised him
he could bunk with me whenever I’m on base, though I have no idea when—or if—I’m ever
coming back. Our mission is still top secret, known only to Central Command. I’m not
sure even Reznik knows where we’re going. I don’t really care, as long as Reznik stays
here.

“Come on, soldier. You’re supposed to be happy for me,” I tease him.

“You’re not coming back.” He says it with so much angry conviction that I don’t know
what to say. “I’ll never see you again.”

“Of course you’re going to see me again, Nugget. I promise.”

He hits me as hard as he can. Again and again, right over my heart. I grab his wrist,
and he lays into me with his other hand. I grab that one and order him to stand down.

“Don’t promise, don’t promise, don’t promise! Don’t promise anything ever, ever, ever!”
His little face screwed up with rage.

“Hey, Nugget, hey.” I fold his arms over his chest and bend down to look him in the
eye. “Some things you don’t have to promise. You just do.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out Sissy’s locket. Undo the clasp. I haven’t done
that since I fixed it at Tent City. Circle broken. I draw it around his neck and hook
the ends together. Circle complete.

“No matter what happens out there, I’ll come back for you,” I promise him.

Over his shoulder, I see Ringer come out of the bathroom, tucking her hair beneath
her new cap. I stand at attention and snap off a salute.

“Private Zombie reporting for duty, squad leader!”

“My one day of glory,” she says, returning the salute. “Everybody knows who’s making
sergeant.”

I shrug modestly. “I don’t listen to rumors.”

“You made a promise you knew you couldn’t keep,” she says matter-of-factly—which is
pretty much the way she says everything. The unfortunate thing is she says it right
in front of Nugget. “Sure you don’t want to take up chess, Zombie? You’d be very good
at it.”

Since laughing seems like the least dangerous thing to do at that moment, I laugh.

The door flies open, and Dumbo shouts, “Sir! Good morning, sir!”

We rush to the ends of our bunks and stand at attention as Reznik moves down the line
for what will be our final inspection. He’s subdued, for Reznik. He doesn’t call us
maggots or scumbags. He’s nitpicky as ever, though. Flintstone’s shirt is untucked
on one side. Oompa’s hat is crooked. He brushes off a speck of lint that only he can
see from Teacup’s collar. He lingers over Teacup for a long moment, staring down into
her face, almost comical in its seriousness.

“Well, Private. Are you ready to die?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Teacup shouts in her loudest warrior voice.

Reznik turns to the rest of us. “How about you? Are you ready?”

Our voices thunder as one: “Sir! Yes,
sir
!”

Before he leaves, Reznik orders me front and center. “Come with me, Private.” A final
salute to the troops, then: “See you at the party, children.”

On my way out, Ringer gives me a knowing look, as if to say,
Told you so
.

I follow two paces behind the drill sergeant as he marches across the yard. Blue-suited
recruits are putting the finishing touches on the speaker’s platform, hanging bunting,
setting up chairs for the high brass, unrolling a red carpet. A huge banner has been
hung across the barracks on the far side:
WE ARE HUMANITY
. And on the opposite side:
WE ARE ONE
.

Into a nondescript one-story building on the western side of the compound, passing
through a security door marked
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
. Through a metal detector manned by heavily armed, stone-faced soldiers. Into an
elevator that carries us four stories beneath the earth. Reznik doesn’t talk. He doesn’t
even
look at me. I have a pretty good idea where we’re going, but no idea why. I nervously
pick at the front of my new uniform.

Down a long corridor awash in fluorescent lighting. Passing through another security
checkpoint. More stone-faced, heavily armed soldiers. Reznik stops at an unmarked
door and swipes his key card through the lock. We step inside a small room. A man
in a lieutenant’s uniform greets us at the door, and we follow him down another hallway
and into a large private office. A man sits behind the desk, leafing through a stack
of computer printouts.

Vosch.

He dismisses Reznik and the lieutenant, and we’re alone.

“At ease, Private.”

I spread my feet, put my hands behind my back, right hand loosely gripping my left
wrist. Standing in front of the big desk, eyes forward, chest out. He is the supreme
commander. I’m a private, a lowly recruit, not even a real soldier yet. My heart is
threatening to pop the buttons on my brand-new shirt.

“So, Ben, how are you?”

He’s smiling warmly at me. I don’t even know how to begin to answer his question.
Plus I’m thrown by his calling me Ben. It sounds strange to my own ears after being
Zombie for so many months.

He’s expecting an answer, and for some stupid reason I blurt out the first thing that
pops into my head. “Sir! The private is ready to die, sir!”

He nods, still smiling, and then he gets up, comes around the desk, and says, “Let’s
speak freely, soldier to soldier. After all, that’s what you are now, Sergeant Parish.”

I see them then: the sergeant’s stripes in his hand. So Ringer was right. I snap back
to attention while he pins them on my collar. He claps me on the shoulder, his blue
eyes boring into mine.

Hard to look him in the eye. The way he looks at you makes you feel naked, totally
exposed.

“You lost a man,” he says.

“Yes, sir.”

“Terrible thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

He leans back against the desk, crosses his arms. “His profile was excellent. Not
as good as yours, but…The lesson here, Ben, is that we all have a breaking point.
We’re all human, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

He’s smiling. Why is he smiling? It’s cool in the underground bunker, but I’m beginning
to sweat.

“You may ask,” he says with an inviting wave of his hand.

“Sir?”

“The question you must be thinking. The one you’ve had since Tank showed up in processing
and disposal.”

“How did he die?”

“Overdose, as you no doubt suspected. One day after being taken off suicide watch.”
He motions to the chair beside me. “Have a seat, Ben. There’s something I want to
discuss with you.”

I sink into the chair, sitting on its edge, back straight, chin up. If it’s possible
to be at attention while seated, I’m doing it.

“We all have our breaking points,” he says, blue eyes bearing down on me. “I’ll tell
you about mine. Two weeks after the 4th Wave, gathering survivors at a refugee camp
about six kilometers from here. Well, not every survivor. Just the children. Although
we hadn’t detected the infestations yet, we were fairly confident whatever was going
on didn’t involve children. Since we couldn’t know who was the enemy and who wasn’t,
it was command’s decision to terminate any and all personnel over the age of fifteen.”

His face goes dark. His eyes cut away. Leaning back on the desk, gripping its edge
so hard, his knuckles turn white.