The 5th Wave (15 page)

THEY ENTERED THE CLEARING, and the first thing they saw was the body of Corporal Branch,
or whatever it was that called itself Corporal Branch.

“There’s one over there,” I heard one say.

The crunch of heavy boots in a bowlful of brittle bones.

“Dead.”

The cackle of a static frequency, then: “Colonel, we’ve got Branch and one unidentified
civilian. That’s a negative, sir. Branch is KIA, repeat Branch is KIA.” Now he spoke
to his buddy, the one standing by Crisco. “Vosch wants us back ASAP.”

Crunch-crunch
said the bones as he heaved himself out of the pit.

“She ditched this.”

My backpack. I tried to throw it into the woods, as far away from the pit as I could.
But it hit a tree and landed just inside the far edge of the clearing.

“Strange,” the voice said.

“It’s okay,” his buddy said. “The Eye will take care of her.”

The Eye?

Their voices faded. The sound of the woods at peace returned. A whisper of wind. The
warble of birds. Somewhere in the brush a squirrel fussed.

Still, I didn’t move. Each time the urge to run started to rise up in me, I squashed
it down.

No hurry now, Cassie. They’ve done what they’ve come to do. You have to stay here
till dark. Don’t move!

So I didn’t. I lay still inside the bed of dust and bones, covered by the ashes of
their victims, the Others’ bitter harvest.

And I tried not to think about it.

What I was covered in.

Then I thought,
These bones were people, and these people saved my life,
and then I didn’t feel so creeped.

They were just people. They didn’t ask to be there any more than I did. But they were
there and I was there, so I lay still.

It’s weird, but it was almost like I felt their arms, warm and soft, enfolding me.

I don’t know how long I lay there, with the arms of dead people holding me. It felt
like hours. When I finally stood up, the sunlight had aged to a golden sheen and the
air had turned a little cooler. I was covered head to toe in gray ash. I must have
looked like a Mayan warrior.

The Eye will take care of her.

Was he talking about the drones, an eye-in-the-sky thing? And if he was talking about
the drones, then this wasn’t some rogue unit scouring the countryside to waste possible
carriers of the 3rd Wave so the unexposed wouldn’t be infected.

That would definitely be bad.

But the alternative would be much, much worse.

I trotted over to my backpack. The deep woods called to me. The more distance I put
between myself and them, the better it was gonna be. Then I remembered my father’s
gift, far up the path, practically within spitting distance of the compound. Crap,
why hadn’t I stashed it in the ash pit?

It sure might prove more useful than a handgun.

I didn’t hear anything. Even the birds had gone mum. Just wind. Its fingers trailed
through the mounds of ash, flicking it into the air, where it danced fitfully in the
golden light.

They were gone. It was safe.

But I hadn’t heard them leave. Wouldn’t I have heard the roar of the flatbed motor,
the growl of the Humvees as they left?

Then I remembered Branch stepping toward Crisco.

Is he the one?

Swinging the rifle behind his shoulder.

The rifle. I crept over to the body. My footfalls sounded like thunder. My own breath
like mini explosions.

He had fallen facedown at my feet. Now he was faceup, though that face was still mostly
hidden by the gas mask.

His sidearm and rifle were gone. They must have taken them. For a second I didn’t
move. And moving was a very good idea at that juncture of the battle.

This wasn’t part of the 3rd Wave. This was something completely different. It was
the beginning of the 4th, definitely. And maybe the 4th Wave was a sick version of
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
. Maybe Branch wasn’t human and that’s why he was wearing a mask.

I knelt beside the dead soldier. Grasped the top of the mask
firmly, and pulled until I could see his eyes, very human-looking brown eyes, staring
sightlessly into my face. I kept pulling.

Stopped.

I wanted to see and I didn’t want to see. I wanted to know but I didn’t want to know.

Just go. It doesn’t matter, Cassie. Does it matter? No. It doesn’t matter.

Sometimes you say things to your fear—things like
It doesn’t matter
, the words acting like pats on the head of a hyper dog.

I stood up. No, it really didn’t matter if the soldier had a mouth like a lobster
or looked like Justin Bieber’s twin brother.

I grabbed Sammy’s teddy from the dirt and headed for the far side of the clearing.

Something stopped me, though. I didn’t head off into the woods. I didn’t rush off
to embrace the one thing with the best chance to save me: distance.

It might have been the teddy bear that did it. When I picked it up, I saw my brother’s
face pressed against the back window of the bus, heard his little voice inside my
head.

For when you’re scared. But don’t leave him. Don’t forget.

I almost did forget. If I hadn’t walked over to check Branch for weapons, I would
have. Branch had fallen practically on top of poor teddy.

Don’t leave him.

I didn’t actually see any bodies back there. Just Dad’s. What if someone had survived
those three minutes of eternity in the barracks? They could have been wounded, still
alive, left for dead.

Unless I didn’t leave. If there was someone still alive back there and the faux soldiers
had gone, then I would be the one leaving them for dead.

Ah, crap.

You know how sometimes you tell yourself that you have a choice, but really you don’t
have a choice? Just because there are alternatives doesn’t mean they apply to you.

I turned around and headed back, stepping around the body of Branch as I went, and
dove into the dusky tunnel of the trail.

23

I DIDN’T FORGET the assault rifle the third time around. I shoved the Luger into my
belt, but I couldn’t very well expect to fire an assault rifle with a teddy bear in
one hand, so I had to leave him on the trail.

“It’s okay. I won’t forget you,” I whispered to Sammy’s bear.

I stepped off the path and wove quietly through the trees. When I got close to the
compound, I dropped and crawled the rest of the way to the edge.

Well, that’s why you didn’t hear them leave.

Vosch was talking to a couple of soldiers at the doorway to the storehouse. Another
group was messing around by one of the Humvees. I counted seven in all, which left
five more I couldn’t see. Were they off in the woods somewhere, looking for me? Dad’s
body was gone—maybe the others had pulled disposal duty. There were forty-two of us,
not counting the kids who had left on the buses. That’s a lot of disposing.

Turns out I was right: It was a disposal operation.

It’s just that Silencers don’t dispose of bodies the way we do.

Vosch had taken off his mask. So had the two guys who were with him. They didn’t have
lobster mouths or tentacles growing out of their chins. They looked like perfectly
ordinary human beings, at least from a distance.

They didn’t need the masks anymore. Why not? The masks must have been part of the
act. We would expect them to protect themselves from infection.

Two of the soldiers came over from the Humvee carrying what looked like a bowl or
globe the same dull gray metallic color as the drones. Vosch pointed at a spot midway
between the storehouse and the barracks, the same spot, it looked like, where my father
had fallen.

Then everybody left, except one female soldier, who was kneeling now beside the gray
globe.

The Humvees roared to life. Another engine joined the duet: the flatbed troop carrier,
parked at the head of the compound out of sight. I’d forgotten about that. The rest
of the soldiers must have already loaded up and were waiting. Waiting for what?

The remaining soldier stood up and trotted back to the Humvee. I watched him climb
aboard. Watched the Humvee spin out in a boiling cloud of dust. Watched the dust swirl
and settle. The stillness of summer at dusk settled with it. The silence pounded in
my ears.

And then the gray globe began to glow.

That was a good thing, a bad thing, or a thing that was neither good nor bad, but
whatever it was, good, bad, or neither, depended on your point of view.

They had put the globe there, so to them it was a good thing.

The glow was getting brighter. A sickly yellowish green. Pulsing slightly. Like a…A
what? A beacon?

I peered into the darkening sky. The first stars had begun to come out. I didn’t see
any drones.

If it was a good thing from their point of view, that meant it was probably a bad
thing from mine.

Well, not probably. Leaning more toward definitely.

The interval between pulses shortened every few seconds. The pulse became a flash.
The flash became a blink.

Pulse…Pulse…Pulse…

Flash, flash, flash.

Blinkblinkblink.

In the gloom, the globe reminded me of an eye, a pale greenish-yellow eyeball winking
at me.

The Eye will take care of her.

My memory has preserved what happened next as a series of snapshots, like freeze-frame
stills from an art house movie, with those jerky, handheld camera angles.

SHOT 1: On my butt, doing a crab-crawl away from the compound.

SHOT 2: On my feet. Running. The foliage a blur of green and brown and mossy gray.

SHOT 3: Sammy’s bear. The chewed-up little arm gummed and gnawed since he was a baby
slipping from my fingers.

SHOT 4: Me on my second attempt to pick up that damned bear.

SHOT 5: The ash pit in the foreground. I’m halfway between Crisco’s body and Branch’s.
Clutching Sammy’s bear to my chest.

SHOTS 6–10: More woods, more me running. If you look closely, you can see the ravine
in the left-hand corner of the tenth frame.

SHOT 11: The final frame. I’m suspended in midair above the shadow-filled ravine,
taken right after I launched myself off the edge.

The green wave roared over my curled-up body at the bottom,
carrying along tons of debris, a rocketing mass of trees, dirt, the bodies of birds
and squirrels and woodchucks and insects, the contents of the ash pit, shards of the
pulverized barracks and storehouse—plywood, concrete, nails, tin—and the first couple
of inches of soil in a hundred-yard radius of the blast. I felt the shock wave before
I hit the muddy bottom of the ravine. An intense, bone-rattling pressure over every
inch of my body. My eardrums popped, and I remembered Crisco saying,
You know what happens when you’re blasted with two hundred decibels?

No, Crisco, I don’t.

But I’ve got an idea.

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