by Rick Yancey
“My soup!” she cries, struggling to her feet, and I back farther away, keeping the gun on her, but it’s a hollow threat; we both know it. The old lady scoops the spoon from the floor and hobbles over to the bubbling pot. The sound of the wood knocking against the metal sides of the pot draws a dozen cats from their hiding places. My stomach tightens. I have eaten nothing but a power bar in over twelve hours.
Grandma gives me a sideways look that borders on sly, and asks if I’d like a taste.
“I don’t have time,” I tell her. “I have to get back to my friend.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “Five minutes, please? I’ve been so lonely.” She stirs the soup. “Ran out of the cans a month ago, but one makes do.” Glancing over again. A shy smile. “You could bring your friend here. I have medicines and we can pray for him. The Lord heals all who ask with a pure heart.”
My lips are dry, though my mouth is watering. The blood pounds in my ears. A cat rubs against my calf, having decided I’m not such a bad guy after all.
“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” I tell her. “It isn’t safe here.”
She gives me a startled look. “And there’s a place that is?”
I almost laugh. She’s old, but sharp. And tough. And fearless. And full of faith. She’d have to be to survive this long. Whoever’s left now will have her kind of spirit—what did Cassie call them? The bent but unbroken ones. For a desperate instant I consider taking her up on the offer, leaving Dumbo with her while I race to the caverns to find Cup and Ringer. It might be his best chance—no, his only chance.
I clear my throat. “You ran out of cans? So what’s in the soup?”
She raises the spoon to her lips, closes her eyes, sips the brownish broth. The cat at my feet lifts its mangy head and stares up at me with huge yellow eyes.
I know what she’s going to say a microsecond before she says it.
“Cat.”
In one fluid motion, she hurls the scalding liquid toward my face. I stumble backward, knock against a stack of magazines, and lose my balance. She’s on me before I hit the floor, her fingers locking around a fistful of my jacket, which she uses to hurl me across the room as easily as a kid throws a stuffed animal. The rifle falls from my shoulder when I hit the far wall. Lying on my side, I point my sidearm at the shimmering blob hurtling toward me.
She’s too fast or I’m too slow—she knocks the gun out of my hand. Her fingers lock around my throat. She yanks me upright, shoves my head against the wall and brings her face close to mine, her deep green eyes sparking with infinite malice.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she hisses. “It’s too soon.”
Her face swims into and out of focus. Too soon? Then I understand: She saw the eyepiece. She thinks I’m part of the 5th Wave, which won’t be launched for another week, after she returns to the mothership, after Urbana and every other city on Earth is gone.
I’ve found the Urbana Silencer.
18
“CHANGE OF PLANS,” I gasp. She’s allowing me just enough air. The grip of her icy fingers is so hard, the strength behind it so obvious, I’m sure she could snap my neck with a flick of her bony wrist. That would be bad. Bad for Dumbo, bad for Ringer and Teacup, and especially bad for me. The only thing that’s kept me alive is her surprise that I’m here, miles from the nearest base and in a place that won’t exist at week’s end.
Your fault, Zombie. You had the chance to neutralize her and you blew it.
Well. She reminded me of my grandmother.
Grandma Silencer cocks her head at my response, like a curious bird spying a tasty morsel. “Change of plans? That isn’t possible.”
“Air support’s already been called in,” I gasp, desperate to buy time. “Didn’t you hear the plane?” Each second I keep her off balance is another second of life. On the other hand, telling her that bombers are on their way may be the shortest path to the quickest death.
“I don’t believe that,” she tells me. “I think you’re a filthy little liar.”
My rifle lies a couple of feet away. Very close. Too far. Again she reminds me of a bird, the way she cocks her head when she looks at me, her head tilted to one side like a damned green-eyed crow, and then I feel it—the violent thrust of an invading consciousness, her consciousness, ripping into me like a drill into soft wood. I feel crushed and flayed open at the same time. There’s no part of me hidden from her, nothing safe or sacred. It’s like the Wonderland program, only it’s not my memories she’s mining, it’s me.
“So much pain,” she murmurs. “So much loss.” Her fingers tighten on my throat. “Who are you looking for?”
When I refuse to answer, she cuts off my air. Black stars begin to bloom within my sight. Out of the darkness, my sister calls my name. And I think, Christ, Sullivan, you were right. This she-witch wouldn’t have me in a chokehold if I hadn’t answered that call. My sister brought me here—not Teacup, not Ringer.
My fingertips brush the stock of the rifle. The old cat-eating Silencer is laughing in my face, sour-breathed and tooth-deprived, buzz-sawing into my soul, chewing up my life as she chokes it out of me.
I can still hear my sister, but now I see Dumbo curled up behind the counter in the coffee shop, crying out for me with his eyes because he has no strength left to speak.
I go where you go, Sarge.
I left him, left him like I left my sister, alone and defenseless. Jesus, I even took his gun.
Holy crap. The gun.
19
FIRST SHOT IS at point-blank range, right into her saggy, cat-filled gut.
The bullet doesn’t break her hold. Unbelievably, she hangs on to my throat, squeezing. I answer with a squeeze of my own: A second shot that lands in the vicinity of her heart. Her rheumy eyes widen slightly, and I’m able to worm my arm between our bodies and push her away. Her crabby fingers around my neck loosen, and I suck in a lungful of the sweetest sour-smelling dander-infested air I’ve ever breathed. Grandma Silencer isn’t down, though. She’s just catching her second wind.
She lunges at me. I roll hard to my right. Her head smacks the wall. I fire again. The round smashes through her rib cage, but still she pushes herself from the wall and crawls toward me, hacking up wads of bright red, oxygen-rich blood. What drives that ancient body is ten thousand years old and contains more hate than the oceans hold water. Plus she’s been augmented by technology that strengthens and sustains her—psh! What’s a bullet or two? Come here, sonny! Still, I don’t think it’s the technology that drives her.
It’s the hate.
I back up. She comes on. My heel knocks against a stack of paper and I drop to the floor with a bone-jarring thump. Her ragged claws scratch at my boot. I hold the gun with hands that are bloody at last.
Her back bows like a cat stretching on a windowsill. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out, a lot of blood, but no sound. She makes one last lunge. Her forehead knocks against the muzzle just as I squeeze the trigger.
20
I SCOOP UP my rifle—screw the pistol—and bolt from the room. Hall, stairs, bank lobby, street. Finally back at the coffee shop, I crawl behind the counter. You better be alive, you big-eared son of a bitch.
He is. Fluttery pulse, shallow breath, ashy skin, but he’s alive.
So now what?
Go back to the safe house? The safest option, the option of minimal risk. The one Ringer would recommend, and she’s the expert on risk. Don’t know what I’ll find at the caverns, even if we manage to reach them: There’s another Silencer out there. The odds are that Ringer and Cup are already dead, which means that I’m not only marching to my own execution, but bringing Dumbo to his.
Unless I leave him here and pick him up on my way back, assuming I make it back. Better for him, better for me. He’s a burden now, a liability.
So I’ll leave him behind after all. Hey, Dumbo, I know you
took a bullet for me and everything, but you’re on your own, pal. I’m outta here. Isn’t that how Ben Parish rolls?
Damn it, Zombie, decide already. Dumbo knew the risk and he came anyway. Taking that bullet for you was his call. Going back means he took the bullet for nothing. If he’s gonna die, at least give his death meaning.
I check the dressing for fresh bleeding. I gently lift his head and slide his rucksack beneath it for a pillow. I take the last syrette of morphine from the med kit and jab it into his forearm.
I lean down and whisper, “See, Bo, I came back.” Smoothing his hair with my hand. “I got her. The infested bitch who shot you. Popped her right between the eyes.” His forehead is blazing hot beneath my hand. “I can’t stay here right now, Bo. But I’m coming back for you. I’m coming back or I’ll die trying. Probably die, so don’t get your hopes up.”
I look away from him. But there’s nothing else to look at. I’m all jacked up, about to lose it. I’m bouncing from one brutal death to another. Eventually, something very important inside is going to crack.
I pull his hand into mine. “Now, listen to me, you elephant-eared motherfucker. I’m gonna find Teacup and Ringer, and then we’re picking you up on our way back and we’re all going home together, and everything’s gonna be fine. Because I’m the sarge and that’s how I say it’s gonna be. You got that? Are you listening to me, soldier? You are not allowed to die. Understand? That’s a direct order. You are not allowed to die.”
His eyes jitter behind the lids; maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe he’s sitting in his room, playing Call of Duty; I hope so.
Then I leave him lying in coffee grounds and wads of paper napkins and scattered coins.
Dumbo’s alone now and so am I, plunging into the black, dead heart of Urbana. Squad 53 is gone, broken apart, dead or missing or dying or running.
RIP, Squad 53.
21
CASSIE
I HAVE TO get this straight. Now. Like, right now.
This being my head.
Four A.M. Jazzed up on too much chocolate (thanks, Grace) and too much Evan Walker. Or not enough Evan Walker. That’s an inside joke, if you can make inside jokes in a private journal. I’ll get to the private parts later. Ha! Another joke. You know you’ve reached a very sad place when the only person who can make you laugh is yourself.
The house is quiet, not even a whisper of wind against the boarded-up window, the silence of the void, as if the world stopped breathing and I’m the last person on Earth. Again.
Damn, I wish there was someone I could talk to.
Ben and Dumbo are gone. All I have left are Sam, Megan, and Evan. Two are asleep in their room. The other (Other, ha! it’s really pitiful) is awake and on watch and is someone with whom the more I talk, the more crooked my head gets. For over a month now he’s been fading away. Here and then not here. Talking, then saying nothing. Mr. Spaceman staring off into space. Damn it, Evan, where have you gone? I think I know, but knowing why doesn’t help my feelings of Evanlessness.
And somehow neither does the smell of his aftershave lingering in the room. After Ben left, Evan shaved. He washed his hair and scrubbed a week’s worth of grime from his body. He even trimmed his nails and addressed his neglected cuticles. When he came into this room, he looked like the old Evan, the first Evan, the Evan I believed to be a fully human Evan.
I miss that Evan, the one who pulled me frozen from the ice pack and thawed me out and made me hamburgers and pretended to be something he wasn’t and hid the thing he was.
The calm, quiet, steady, reliable, strong Evan. Not this Other-Evan, the tortured, haunted, conflicted Evan who clips off his sentences as if he’s afraid he’ll say too much, the Evan who’s already gone, already up there, two hundred miles up with no way back down. Not their Evan. My Evan. The imperfectly perfect guy.
Why do we always get the Evan we deserve instead of the Evan we want?
22
I DON’T KNOW why I bother writing this. No one will ever read it—and if you do, Evan, I will murder you.
I suppose I could turn to Bear. It was always easy to talk to him. We had hours of conversation, good conversation, during those weeks when it was just me and him hiding in the woods. Bear’s an excellent listener. He never yawns or interrupts or walks away. Never disagrees, never plays games, never lies. I go where you go, always, that’s Bear’s jam.
Bear proves that true love doesn’t have to be complicated—or even reciprocated.
Evan, in case you’re reading this: I’m dumping you for a teddy bear.
Not that you and I were ever a couple.
I was never one of those girls who daydreamed about her wedding day or meeting the perfect guy or raising 3.2 kids in the ’burbs. When I thought about the future, it usually involved a big city and a career or living in a cabin somewhere leafy, like Vermont, writing books and taking long walks with a dog I’d name Pericles or some other random Greek name to show people how educated and cultured I was. Or maybe I’d be a doctor treating sick kids in Africa. Something meaningful. Something worthwhile that maybe somebody someday would notice and then give me a plaque or an award or name a street after me. Sullivan Avenue. Cassiopeia Way. Guys didn’t enter into my daydreams much.
In college, I was going to have sex. Not drunken sex or sex with the first guy who asked or sex just to say Hey, I had sex the way people try exotic food, like, Hey, I had fried grasshopper. It would be with someone I cared about. Love wasn’t necessary, but mutual respect and curiosity and tenderness would be nice. And he would also be someone I found attractive. Too much sex is wasted on people who aren’t. Why would you sleep with someone who didn’t turn you on? But people do. Or they used to. No, they probably still do.
Why am I thinking about sex?
Okay, that’s insincere. That’s a lie. Dear God, Cass, if you can’t be honest in your own private journal, where can you be? Instead of saying what’s true, you make inside jokes and sly references like one day a million years from now somebody will read this and embarrass the hell out of you.
Seriously.
At least when he showed up tonight, he knocked first. Evan always had an issue with boundaries. He rapped on the door, then entered in stages: head, shoulders, torso, legs. Stood there in the doorway for a minute: Is it okay? I noticed the change immediately: newly shaven, hair still wet, wearing a fresh pair of jeans and an Ohio State T-shirt. I can’t remember the last time—or really the first time—I saw Evan exercise his Second Amendment right to bare arms.
Evan Walker has biceps. It’s not important to mention this fact, as biceps are muscles most people have. I just thought I’d mention it.
I was kind of hoping for an aw-shucks look—I’d seen it often enough in the old farmhouse back in the day, when that was his go-to expression. Instead, I got the furrowed brow and the slightly downturned mouth and the dark, troubled eyes of a poet contemplating the void, which I guess he was—not a poet but a contemplator of the void.
I made a space for him on the bed. There was nowhere else to sit. Though we’d never done the deed, it felt like we were old lovers forced into an awkward post-split negotiation over who gets the silverware and how the souvenirs from all their trips together are going to be divvied up.
Then I smelled the Ralph Lauren aftershave.
I don’t know why Grace kept a stash of men’s grooming products. Maybe they belonged to the former owners of the house and she never bothered to get rid of them. Or maybe she had sex with her victims before chopping off their heads or ripping out their hearts or eating them alive like a black widow spider.
He’d nicked his chin shaving; there was a dab of white styptic stuff on the cut, a tiny mar in his otherwise otherworldly beautiful face. Which was a relief. Flawlessly beautiful people annoy the hell out of me.
“I checked on the kids,” he said, as if I’d asked if he’d checked on the
kids.
“And?”
“They’re okay. Sleeping.”
“Who’s on the watch?”
He stared at me for a couple of uncomfortable seconds. Then he looked down at his hands. I looked, too. He was so perfectly put together when we met that I thought I’d lucked into the most narcissistic person left on the planet. It makes me feel more human, he told me, meaning grooming. Later, when I found out he wasn’t quite human, I thought I understood what he was getting at. Even later—and by even later I mean now—I realized cleanliness isn’t necessarily next to godliness, but it is damn near indistinguishable from humanness.
“It’ll be okay,” he said softly.
“No, it won’t,” I shot back. “Ben and Dumbo are going to die. You’re going to die.”
“I’m not going to die.” Leaving out Ben and Dumbo.
“How are you getting out of the mothership once you set the bombs?”
“The same way I got in.”
“The last time you took a ride in one of your little pods, you broke several bones and nearly died.”
“It’s a hobby,” he said with a crooked smile. “Nearly dying.”
I looked away from his hands. The hands that lifted me when I fell, held me when I was cold, fed me when I was hungry, healed me when I was hurt, washed me when I was covered in forest filth and blood. You’re going to destroy your entire civilization, and for what? For a girl. You would think a sacrifice like that would make me feel just a little bit special. It didn’t. It felt weird. Like one of us was batshit crazy and that person wasn’t me.
I couldn’t see a single romantic element in genocide, but maybe that’s just my lack of insight into the nature of love, having never been in love. Would I wipe out humanity to save Evan? Not likely.
Of course, there’s more than one kind of love. Would I kill everyone in the world to save Sam? That’s not an easy question to answer.