The 5th Wave (40 page)

I squat beside the truck’s fuel tank and grab hold of the metal cap, praying one of
those counterintuitive prayers that this bad boy is topped off—or better, half-full,
since fumes will give us the biggest bang for the buck. I don’t dare ignite the cargo,
but the few gallons of diesel contained beneath it should set it off. I hope.

The cap is frozen. I beat on it with the butt of my rifle, wrap both hands around
it, and give it everything I’ve got. It pops loose with a very pungent, very satisfying
hiss. I’ll have ten seconds. Should I count? Naw, screw it. I pull the pin on the
grenade, drop it in the hole, and take off down the hill. The snow whips fitfully
in my wake. My toe catches on something and I tumble the rest of the way, landing
on my back at the bottom, hitting my head on the asphalt of the paved walking trail.
I see snow spinning around my head and I can smell the river, and then I hear a soft
wuh-wuumph
and the tanker jumps about two feet into the air, followed by a gorgeous blossoming
fireball that reflects off the falling snow, a mini universe of tiny suns shimmering,
and now I’m up and chugging up the hill, my team nowhere in sight, and I can feel
the heat against my left cheek as I come even with the truck, which is still in one
piece, the tank intact. Dropping the grenade inside the fuel tank didn’t ignite the
cargo. Do I throw another? Do I keep running? Blinded by the explosion, the sniper
would rip off his night vision goggles. He won’t be blind for long.

I’m through the intersection and onto the curb when the gasoline ignites. The blast
throws me forward, over the body of the first Ted dropped by Ringer, right into the
glass doors of the office building. I hear something crack and hope it’s the doors
and not some important part of me. Huge jagged shards of metal rain down, pieces of
the tank torn apart by the blast hurled a hundred yards in every direction at bullet
speeds. I hear someone screaming as I fold my arms over my head and curl myself into
the tiniest ball possible. The heat is incredible. It’s like I’ve been swallowed by
the sun.

The glass behind me shatters—from a high-caliber bullet, not the explosion.
Half a block from the garage—go, Zombie.
And I’m going hard until I come across Oompa crumpled on the sidewalk, Poundcake
kneeling beside him, tugging on his shoulder, his face twisted in a soundless cry.
It was Oompa I heard screaming after the tanker blew, and it takes me only a half
second to see why: A piece of metal the size of a Frisbee juts out of his lower back.

I push Poundcake toward the garage—“Go!”—and heave Oompa’s round little body over
my shoulder. I hear the report of the rifle this time, two beats after the shooter
across the street fires, and a chunk of concrete breaks free of the wall behind me.

The first level of the garage is separated from the sidewalk by a waist-high concrete
wall. I ease Oompa over the wall, then hop over and duck down.
Ka-thunk
: A fist-size chunk of the wall blows back toward me. Kneeling beside Oompa, I look
up to see Poundcake hoofing it toward the stairwell. Now, as long as there isn’t another
sniper’s nest in this building, and as long as the infested who got away hasn’t taken
refuge here, too…

A quick check of Oompa’s injury isn’t encouraging. The sooner I can get him upstairs
to Dumbo, the better.

“Private Oompa,” I breathe in his ear. “You do not have permission to die, understood?”

He nods, sucking in the freezing air, blowing it out again, warm from the center of
his body. But he’s as white as the snow billowing in the golden light. I throw him
back onto my shoulder and trot to the stairs, keeping as low as I can without losing
my balance.

I take the stairs two at a time till I reach the third level, where I find the unit
crouched behind the first line of cars, several feet back from the wall that faces
the sniper’s building. Dumbo is kneeling beside Teacup, working on her leg. Her fatigues
are ripped, and I can see an ugly red gash where a bullet tore across her calf. Dumbo
slaps a dressing over the wound, hands her off to Ringer, then rushes over to Oompa.
Flintstone is shaking his head at me.

“Told you we should abort,” Flint says. His eyes glitter with malice. “Now look.”

I ignore him. Turn to Dumbo. “Well?”

“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.

“Aren’t they smart?” Ringer mutters, like she’s read my mind. “Put on a human face
so no human face can be trusted. The only answer: Kill everyone or risk being killed
by anyone.”

“He thinks we’re one of them?”

“Or decided it doesn’t matter. Only way to be safe.”

“But he fired on us—not on the three right below him. Why would he ignore the easy
shots to take the impossible one?”

Like me, she doesn’t have an answer to that question. Unlike me, it’s not high on
her list of problems to be resolved. “Only way to be safe,” she repeats pointedly.
I look over at Poundcake, who’s looking back at me. Waiting for my decision, but there
really isn’t a decision to make.

“Can you take him from here?” I ask Ringer.

She shakes her head. “Too far away. I’d just give away our position.”

I scoot over to Poundcake. “Stay here. In ten minutes, open up on him to cover our
crossing.” Staring up at me all doe-eyed and trusting. “You know, Private, it’s customary
to acknowledge an order from your commanding officer.” Poundcake nods. I try again:
“With a ‘yes, sir.’” He nods again. “Like, out loud. With words.” Another nod.

Okay, at least I tried.

When Ringer and I join the others, Oompa’s body is gone.
They stashed him in one of the cars. Flint’s idea. Very similar to his idea for the
rest of us.

“We’ve got good cover in here. I say we hunker down in the cars until pickup.”

“Only one person’s vote counts in this unit, Flint,” I tell him.

“Yeah, and how’s that working out for us?” he says, thrusting his chin toward me,
mouth curled into a sneer. “Oh, I know. Let’s ask Oompa!”

“Flintstone,” Ringer says. “At ease. Zombie’s right.”

“Until you two walk into an ambush, and then I guess he’s wrong.”

“At which point you’re the C.O., and you can make the call,” I snap. “Dumbo, you’ve
got Teacup duty.” If we can pry her off Ringer. She’s pasted herself back onto Ringer’s
leg. “If we’re not back in thirty minutes, we’re not coming back.”

And then Ringer says, because she’s Ringer, “We’re coming back.”

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