The 5th Wave (45 page)

I have a very vivid image of ramming the end of the rifle against Vosch’s temple and
blowing his head off his shoulders.

First I have to find him. And then politely ask him to stand still so I can ram the
end of my rifle against his temple and blow his head off his shoulders.

I find myself on the sofa next to Bear, and I cradle them both, Bear in one arm, my
rifle in the other, like I’m back in the woods in my tent under the trees that were
under the sky that was under the baleful eye of the mothership that was beneath the
explosion of stars of which ours is just one—and what are the freaking odds that the
Others would pick our star out of the 100 sextillion in the universe to set up shop?

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—”

I cut him off. “I’m only trusting you because you’re handy with a rifle and haven’t
killed me with it, even though you’ve had about a thousand opportunities. Don’t take
this personally, but there’s something I don’t get about you and this whole situation,
but that doesn’t mean I’m never going to get it. I’ll figure it out, and if the truth
is something that puts you on the other side of me, then I will do what I have to
do.”

“What?” Smiling that damned lopsided, sexy grin, shoulders up, hands stuffed deep
in his pockets with a sort of aw-shucks attitude, which I guess is meant to drive
me the good kind of crazy. What is it about him that makes me want to slap him and
kiss
him, run from him and to him, throw my arms around him and knee him in the balls,
all at the same time? I’d like to blame the Arrival for the effect he has on me, but
something tells me guys have been doing this to us for a lot longer than a few months.

“What I have to do,” I tell him.

I head upstairs. Thinking about what I have to do reminded me of something I meant
to do before we left.

In the bathroom, I poke around in the drawers until I find a pair of scissors, and
then proceed to lop off six inches of my hair. The floorboards creak behind me, and
I shout, “Stop lurking!” without turning around. A second later, Evan sticks his head
into the room.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Symbolically cutting my hair. What are
you
doing? Oh, that’s right. Following me, lurking in doorways. One of these days maybe
you’ll work up the courage to step over the threshold, Evan.”

“It looks like you’re actually cutting your hair.”

“I’ve decided to get rid of all the things that bug me.” Giving him a look in the
mirror.

“Why does it bug you?”

“Why are you asking?” Looking at my reflection now, but he’s there in the corner of
my eye. Damn it, more symbolism.

He wisely makes an exit.
Snip, snip, snip,
and the sink fills up with my curls. I hear him clumping around downstairs, then
the kitchen door slamming. I guess I was supposed to ask his permission first. Like
he owns me. Like I’m a puppy he found lost in the snow.

I step back to examine my handiwork. With the short cut and no makeup, I look about
twelve years old. Okay, no older than fourteen. But with the right attitude and the
right prop, someone
might mistake me for a tween. Maybe even offer me a ride to safety on their friendly
yellow school bus.

That afternoon a gray sheet of clouds draws itself across the sky, bringing an early
dusk. Evan disappears again and comes back a few minutes later carrying two five-gallon
containers of gasoline. I give him a look, and he says, “I was thinking a diversion
might help.”

It takes me a minute to process. “You’re going to burn down your house?”

He nods. He seems kind of excited about the prospect.

“I’m going to burn down my house.”

He lugs one of the containers upstairs to douse the bedrooms. I go out onto the porch
to escape the fumes. A big black crow is hopping across the yard, and he stops and
gives me a beady-eyed look. I consider pulling out my gun and shooting him.

I don’t think I’d miss. I’m a pretty good shot now, thanks to Evan, and also I really
hate birds.

The door opens behind me and a wave of nauseating fumes roars out. I step off the
porch and the crow takes off, screeching. Evan splashes down the porch, then tosses
the empty can against the side of the house.

“The barn,” I say. “If you wanted to create a diversion, you should have burned down
the barn. That way the house would still be here when we get back.”
Because I’d like to believe we’re coming back, Evan. You, me, and Sammy, one big happy
family.

“You know we’re not coming back,” he says, and lights the match.

67

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER and I’ve completed the circle that connects me and Sammy as
if by a silver cord, returning to the place where I made my promise.

Camp Ashpit is exactly how I left it, which means there is no Camp Ashpit, just a
dirt road cutting through woods interrupted by a mile-wide emptiness where Camp Ashpit
used to be, the ground harder than steel and bare of everything, even the tiniest
weed or blade of grass or dead leaf. Of course, it’s winter, but somehow I don’t think
when springtime comes this Other-made clearing will blossom like a meadow.