The 5th Wave (53 page)

SCUTTLING FORWARD on my stomach, worrying that I’m too heavy for the supports and
that at any second the entire section of pipe will collapse, I scoot along the shaft,
pausing at each juncture to listen. Listen for what, I’m not really sure. The crying
of frightened children? The laughter of happy children? The air in the shaft is cold,
brought in from the outside and funneled underground, sort of like me.

The air belongs here; I don’t. What did Evan say?

Your best bet is the barracks that ring the parade grounds.

That’s it, Evan. That’s the new plan. I’ll find the nearest air shaft and climb up
to the surface. I won’t know where I am or how far I am from the parade grounds, and
of course the entire base is going to be in full lockdown, crawling with Silencers
and their brainwashed child-soldiers looking for the girl in the white jumpsuit. And
don’t forget the teddy bear. Talk about a dead giveaway! Why did I insist on bringing
this damn bear? Sam would understand if I left Bear behind. My promise wasn’t to bring
Bear to him. My promise was to bring me to him.

What is the deal with this bear?

Every few feet a choice: turn right, turn left, or keep going straight? And every
few feet a pause to listen and to clear the blood from my mouth. Not worried about
my blood dripping in here: It’s the bread crumbs that mark my way back. My tongue
is swelling, though, and throbs horribly with each beat of my heart, the human clock
ticking down, measuring out the minutes I have
left before they find me, take me to Vosch, and he finishes me the way he finished
my father.

Something brown and small is scurrying toward me, very fast, like he’s on an important
errand. A roach. I’ve encountered cobwebs and loads of dust and some mysterious slimy
substance that might be toxic mold, but this is the first truly gross thing I’ve seen.
Give me a spider or a snake over a cockroach any day. And now he’s heading right toward
my face. With very vivid mental images of the thing crawling inside my jumpsuit, I
use the only thing available to squash it. My bare hand. Yuck.

I keep moving. There’s a glow up ahead, sort of greenish gray; in my head I call it
mothership green. I inch toward the grate from which the glow emanates. Peek through
the slats into the room below—only calling it a room doesn’t do it justice. It’s huge,
easily the size of a football stadium, shaped like a bowl, with rows and rows of computer
stations at the bottom, manned by over a hundred people—only to call them people is
doing real people an injustice. They’re them, Vosch’s inhuman humans, and I have no
clue what they’re up to, but I’m thinking this must be it, the heart of the operation,
ground zero of the “cleansing.” A massive screen takes up an entire wall, projecting
a map of the Earth that’s dotted with bright green spots—the source of the sickly
green light. Cities, I’m thinking, and then I realize the green dots must represent
pockets of survivors.

Vosch doesn’t need to hunt us down. Vosch knows exactly where we are.

I wiggle on, forcing myself to go slowly until the green glow is as small as the dots
on the map in the control room. Four junctures down I hear voices. Men’s voices. And
the clang of metal on metal, the squeak of rubber soles on hard concrete.

Keep moving, Cassie. No more stopping. Sammy’s not down there and Sammy is the objective.

Then one of the guys says, “How many did he say?”

And the other one goes, “At least two. The girl and whoever took out Walters and Pierce
and Jackson.”

Whoever took out Walters, Pierce, and Jackson?

Evan. It has to be.

What the…? For a whole minute or two, I’m really furious at him. Our only hope was
in my going alone, sliding past their defenses unnoticed and snatching Sam before
they realized what was going on. Of course, it hadn’t quite worked out that way, but
Evan had no way of knowing that.

Still. The fact that Evan had ignored our carefully thought-out plan and infiltrated
the base also means that Evan is here.

And Evan does what he has the heart to do.

I edge closer to their voices, passing right over their heads until I reach the grating.
I peer through the metal slats and see two Silencer soldiers loading eye-shaped globes
into a large handcart. I recognize what they are right away. I’ve seen one before.

The Eye will take care of her.

I watch them until the cart is loaded and they wheel it slowly out of sight.

A point will come when the cover isn’t sustainable. When that happens, they’ll shut
down the base—or the part of the base that’s expendable.

Oh boy. Vosch is going all Ashpit on Camp Haven.

And the minute that realization hits me, the siren goes off.

78

TWO HOURS.

The minute Vosch leaves, a clock inside my head begins to tick. No, not a clock. More
like a timer ticking down to Armageddon. I’m going to need every second, so where
is the orderly? Right when I’m about to pull out the drip myself, he shows up. A tall,
skinny kid named Kistner; we met the last time I was laid up. He has a nervous habit
of picking at the front of his scrubs, like the material irritates his skin.

“Did he tell you?” Kistner asks, keeping his voice down as he leans over the bed.
“We’ve gone Code Yellow.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “You think they tell me anything? I just hope it doesn’t mean we’re taking
another bunker-dive.” No one in the hospital likes the air raid drills. Getting several
hundred patients underground in less than three minutes is a tactical nightmare.

“Better than staying topside and getting incinerated by an alien death ray.”

Maybe it’s psychological, but the minute Kistner pulls the drip, the pain sets in,
a dull throbbing ache where Ringer shot me that keeps time with my heart. As I wait
for my head to clear, I wonder if I should reconsider the plan. An evacuation into
the underground bunker might simplify things. After the fiasco of Nugget’s first air
raid drill, command decided to pool all noncombatant children into a safe room located
in the middle of the complex.
It’ll be a hell of a lot easier snatching him from there than checking every barracks
on base.

But I have no idea when—or even if—that’s going to happen. Better stick to the original
plan. Tick-tock.

I close my eyes, visualizing each step of the escape with as much detail as possible.
I did this before, back when there were high schools and Friday night games and crowds
to cheer at them. Back when winning a district title seemed like the most important
thing in the world. Picturing my routes, the arc of the ball sailing toward the lights,
the defender keeping pace beside me, the precise moment to turn my head and bring
up my hands without breaking stride. Imagining not just the perfect play but the busted
one, how I would adjust my route, give the quarterback a target to save the down.

There’s a thousand ways this could go wrong and only one way for it to go right. Don’t
think a play ahead, or two plays or three. Think about this play, this step. Get it
right one step at a time, and you’ll score.

Step one: the orderly.

My best buddy Kistner, giving somebody a sponge bath two beds down.

“Hey,” I call over to him. “Hey, Kistner!”

“What is it?” Kistner calls back, clearly annoyed with me. He doesn’t like to be interrupted.

“I have to go to the john.”

“You’re not supposed to get up. You’ll tear the sutures.”

“Aw, come on, Kistner. The bathroom’s right over there.”

“Doctor’s orders. I’ll bring you a bedpan.”

I watch him weave his way through the bunks toward the
supply station. I’m a little worried I haven’t waited long enough for the meds to
fade. What if I can’t stand up?
Tick-tock, Zombie. Tick-tock.

I throw back the covers and swing my legs off the bed. Gritting my teeth; this is
the hard part. I’m wrapped tight from chest to waist, and pushing myself upright stretches
the muscles ripped apart by Ringer’s bullet.

I cut you. You shoot me. It’s only fair.

But it’s escalating. What happens on your next turn? You stick a hand grenade down
my pants?

That’s a disturbing image, sticking a live grenade down Ringer’s pants. On so many
levels.

I’m still full of dope, but when I sit up, the pain almost makes me black out. So
I sit still for a minute, waiting for my head to clear.

Step two: the bathroom.

Force yourself to go slow. Take small steps. Shuffle.
I can feel the back of the gown flapping open; I’m mooning the entire ward.

The bathroom is maybe twenty feet away. It feels like twenty miles. If it’s locked
or if someone’s in there, I’m screwed.

It’s neither. I lock the door behind me. Sink and toilet and a small shower stall.
The curtain rod is screwed into the wall. I lift the lid of the commode. A short metal
arm that lifts the flapper, dull on both ends. Toilet paper holder is plastic. So
much for finding a weapon in here. But I’m still on track.
Come on, Kistner, I’m wide open.

Two sharp raps on the door, and then his voice on the other side.

“Hey, you in there?”

“I told you I had to go!” I yell.

“And I told you I was bringing a bedpan!”

“Couldn’t hold it anymore!”

The door handle jiggles.

“Unlock this door!”

“Privacy, please!” I holler.

“I’m going to call security!”

“All right, all right! Like I’m freaking going anywhere!”

Count to ten, flip the lock, shuffle to the toilet, sit. The door opens a crack, and
I can see a sliver of Kistner’s thin face.

“Satisfied?” I grunt. “Now can you please close the door?”

Kistner stares at me for a long moment, plucking at his shirt. “I’ll be right out
here,” he promises.

“Good,” I say.

The door eases shut. Now six slow ten-counts. A good minute.

“Hey, Kistner!”

“What?”

“I’m gonna need your help.”

“Define ‘help.’”

“Getting up! I can’t get off the damned can! I think I might have torn a suture…”

The door flies open. Kistner’s face is flushed with anger.

“I told you.”

He steps in front of me. Holds out both hands.

“Here, grab my wrists.”

“First can you close that door? This is embarrassing.”

Kistner closes the door. I wrap my fingers around Kistner’s wrists.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Step three: wet willy.

As Kistner pulls back, I drive forward with my legs, slamming my shoulder into his
narrow chest, knocking him backward into the concrete wall. Then I yank him forward,
pivot behind him, and pull his arm up high behind his back. That forces him to his
knees in front of the toilet. I grab a handful of his hair, shove his face into the
water. Kistner is stronger than he looks, or I’m a lot weaker than I thought. It seems
to take forever for him to pass out.

I let go and stand back. Kistner does a slow roll and flops onto the floor. Shoes,
pants. Pulling him upright to yank off the shirt. The shirt’s going to be too small,
the pants too long, the shoes too tight. I rip off my gown, toss it into the shower
stall, pull on Kistner’s scrubs. The shoes take the longest. Way too small. A sharp
pain shoots through my side as I struggle to put them on. Looking down, I see blood
seeping through the bandaging. What if I bleed through the shirt?