Текст книги "The 5th Wave"

Автор книги: Rick Yancey

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

“Is that why they haven’t…?”

“Attacked us again? We think so. It seems their foremost desire is to preserve the planet for colonization. Now we are in a war of attrition. Our resources are limited; they can’t last forever. We know it. They know it. Cut off from supplies, with no means to marshal any significant fighting force, eventually this camp—and any others out there like it—will wither and die, like a vine cut off from its roots.”

Weird. He’s still smiling. Like something about this doomsday scenario turns him on.

“So what do we do?” I ask.

“The only thing we can do, Sergeant. We take the battle to them.”

The way he says it: no doubt, no fear, no hopelessness. We take the battle to them. That’s why he’s the commander. Standing over me, smiling, confident, his chiseled features reminding me of some ancient statue, noble, wise, strong. He is the rock against which the alien waves crash, and he is unbroken. We are humanity, the banner read. Wrong. We’re pale reflections of it, weak shadows, distant echoes. He is humanity, the beating, unbeaten, invincible heart of it. In that moment, if Commander Vosch had told me to put a bullet through my head for the cause, I would have. I would have without a second thought.

“Which brings us back to your assignment,” he says quietly. “Our recon flights have identified significant pockets of infested combatants clustered in and around Dayton. A squad will be dropped in—and for the next four hours, it will be on its own. The odds of making it out alive are roughly one in four.”

I clear my throat. “And two squads stay here.”

He nods. Blue eyes boring deep—to the marrow deep. “Your call.”

That same small, secretive smile. He knows what I’m going to say. He knew before I walked through the door. Maybe my Wonderland profile told him, but I don’t think so. He knows me.

I rise from the chair to full attention.

And tell him what he already knows.

52

AT 0900 the entire battalion musters in the yard, creating a sea of blue jumpsuits headed by the top four squads in their crisp new fatigues. Over a thousand recruits standing in perfect formation, facing east, the direction of new beginnings, toward the speakers’ platform erected the day before. Flags snap in the icy breeze, but we don’t feel the cold. We are lit from within by a fire hotter than the one that turned Tank into ash. The brass of Central Command moves down the first line—the winning line—shaking our hands and congratulating us for a job well done. Then a personal word of gratitude from the drill instructors. I’ve been dreaming of what to say to Reznik when he shakes my hand. Thanks for making my life a living hell…Oh, die. Just die, you son of a bitch… Or my favorite, short and sweet and to the point: Eff you. But when he salutes and offers me his hand, I almost lose it. I want to hit him in the face and hug him at the same time.

“Congratulations, Ben,” he says, which totally throws me off. I had no idea he even knew my name. He gives me a wink and continues down the line.

There’re a couple of short speeches by officers I’ve never seen before. Then the supreme commander is introduced and the troops go crazy, waving our hats, pumping our fists. Our cheers echo off the buildings encircling the yard, making the roar twice as loud and us seem twice as many. Commander Vosch raises his hand very slowly and deliberately to his forehead, and it’s as if he hit a switch: The noise cuts off as we raise our own hands in salute. I can hear quiet snuffling all around me. It’s too much. After what brought us here and what we went through here, after all the blood and death and fire, after being shown the ugly mirror of the past through Wonderland and facing the uglier truth of the future in the execution room, after months of brutal training that pushed some of us past the point of no return, we have arrived. We have survived the death of our childhood. We are soldiers now, maybe the last soldiers who will ever fight, the Earth’s final and only hope, united as one in the spirit of vengeance.

I don’t hear a word of Vosch’s speech. I watch the sun rising over his shoulder, framed between the twin towers of the power plant, its light glinting off the mothership in orbit, the sole imperfection in the otherwise perfect sky. So small, so insignificant. I feel like I can reach up and pluck it from the sky, throw it to the ground, grind it to dust beneath my heel. The fire in my chest grows white-hot, spreads over every inch of my body. It melts my bones; it incinerates my skin; I am the sun gone supernova.

I was wrong about Ben Parish dying on the day he left the convalescent ward. I’ve been carrying his stinking corpse inside me all through basic. Now the last of him is burned away as I stare up at the solitary figure who lit that fire. The man who showed me the true battlefield. Who emptied me so I might be filled. Who killed me so I might live. And I swear I can see him staring back at me with those icy blue eyes that see down to the bottom of my soul, and I know—I know—what he’s thinking.

We are one, you and I. Brothers in hate, brothers in cunning, brothers in the spirit of vengeance.

53

YOU SAVED ME.

Lying in his arms that night with those words in my ears, and I’m thinking, Idiot, idiot, idiot. You can’t do this. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t.

The first rule: Trust no one. Which leads to the second rule: The only way to stay alive as long as possible is to stay alone as long as possible.

Now I’ve broken both.

Oh, they’re so clever. The harder survival becomes, the more you want to pull together. And the more you want to pull together, the harder survival becomes.

The point is I had my chance and I didn’t do so well on my own. In fact, I sucked. I would have died if Evan hadn’t found me.

His body is pressed against my back, his arm is wrapped protectively around my waist, his breath a delicious tickle against my neck. The room is very cold; it would be nice to climb under the covers, but I don’t want to move. I don’t want him to move. I run my fingers along his bare forearm, remembering the warmth of his lips, the silkiness of his hair between my fingers. The boy who never sleeps, sleeping. Coming to rest upon the Cassiopeian shore, an island in the middle of a sea of blood. You have your promise, and I have you.

I can’t trust him. I have to trust him.

I can’t stay with him. I can’t leave him behind.

You can’t trust luck anymore. The Others have taught me that.

But can you still trust love?

Not that I love him. I don’t even know what love feels like. I know how Ben Parish made me feel, which can’t be put into words, or at least any words I know.

Evan stirs behind me. “It’s late,” he murmurs. “You’d better get some sleep.”

How did he know I’m awake? “What about you?”

He rolls off the bed and pads toward the door. I sit up, my heart racing, not sure exactly why. “Where are you going?”

“Going to look around a little. I won’t be long.”

After he leaves, I strip off my clothes and slip on one of his plaid lumberjack shirts. Val had been into the frilly sleepwear. Not my style.

I climb back into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. Dang, it’s cold. I listen to the quiet. Of the Evanless house, that is. Outside are the sounds of nature unleashed. The distant barking of wild dogs. The howl of a wolf. The screech of owls. It’s winter, the time of year when nature whispers. I expect a symphony of wild things once spring arrives.

I wait for him to come back. An hour goes by. Then two.

I hear the telltale creak again and hold my breath. I usually hear him come in at night. The kitchen door slamming. The heavy tread of his boots coming up the stairs. Now I hear nothing but the creaking on the other side of the door.

I reach over and pick up the Luger from the bedside table. I always keep it near me.

He’s dead was my first thought. It isn’t Evan outside that door; it’s a Silencer.

I slide out of bed and tiptoe to the door. Press my ear against the wood. Close my eyes to focus. Holding the gun in the proper two-handed grip, the way he taught me. Rehearsing every step in my head, like he taught me.

Left hand on knob. Turn, pull, two steps back, gun up. Turn, pull, two steps back, gun up…

Creeaaaaaak.

Okay, that’s it.

I fling open the door, take just one step back—so much for rehearsal—and bring up the gun. Evan jumps back and smacks against the wall, his hands flying up reflexively when he sees the muzzle glinting in front of his face.

“Hey!” he shouts. Eyes wide, hands up, like he’s been jumped by a mugger.

“What the hell are you doing?” I’m shaking with anger.

“I was coming back to—to check on you. Can you put the gun down, please?”

“You know I didn’t have to open it,” I snarl at him, lowering the gun. “I could have shot you through the door.”

“Next time I’ll definitely knock.” He gives me his trademark lopsided smile.

“Let’s establish a code for when you want to go all creeper on me. One knock means you’d like to come in. Two means you’re just stopping by to spy on me while I sleep.” His eyes travel from my face to my shirt (which happens to be his shirt) to my bare legs, lingering a breath too long before returning to my face. His gaze is warm. My legs are cold.

Then he knocks once on the jamb. But it’s the smile that gets him in.

We sit on the bed. I try to ignore the fact that I’m wearing his shirt and that shirt smells like him and he’s sitting about a foot away also smelling like him and also that there’s a hard little knot in the pit of my stomach like a smoldering lump of coal.

I want him to touch me again. I want to feel his hands, as soft as clouds. But I’m afraid if he touches me, all seven billion billion billion atoms that make up my body will blow apart and scatter across the universe.

“Is he alive?” he whispers. That sad, desperate look is back. What happened out there? Why is he thinking about Sams?

I shrug. How can I know the answer to that?

“I knew when Lauren was. I mean, I knew when she wasn’t.” Picking at the quilt, running his fingers over the stitching, tracing the borders of the patches like he’s tracing the path on a treasure map. “I felt it. It was just me and Val then. Val was pretty sick, and I knew she didn’t have much time. I knew the timing, almost down to the hour: I’d been through it six times.”

It takes him a minute to go on. Something’s really spooked him. His eyes won’t stay still. They dart about the room, as if trying to find something to distract him—or maybe the opposite, something to ground him in the moment. This moment with me. Not the moment he can’t stop thinking about.

“One day I was outside,” he says, “hanging up some sheets to dry on the clothesline, and this weird feeling came over me. Like something had popped me in the chest. I mean, it was totally physical, not mental, not a little voice inside my head telling me…telling me that Lauren was gone. It felt like someone had punched me hard. And I knew. So I dropped the sheet and hauled ass to her house…”

He shakes his head. I touch his knee, then pull my hand back quickly. After the first touch, touching becomes too easy.

“How’d she do it?” I ask. I don’t want to make him go someplace he’s not ready to go. So far he’s been an emotional iceberg, two-thirds hidden beneath the surface, listening more than he talks, asking more than he answers.

“Hung herself,” he says. “I took her down.” He looks away. Here with me, there with her. “Then I buried her.”

I don’t know what to say. So I don’t say anything. Too many people say something when they really have nothing to say.

“I think that’s the way it is,” he says after a minute. “When you love someone. Something happens to them, and it’s a punch in the heart. Not like a punch in the heart; a real punch in the heart.” He shrugs and laughs softly to himself. “Anyway, that’s what I felt.”

“And you think since I haven’t felt it, Sammy must be alive?”

“I know.” He shrugs and gives an embarrassed laugh. “It’s stupid. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“You really loved her, didn’t you?”

“We grew up together.” His eyes glow at the memory. “She was over here or I was over at her house. Then we got older and she was always over here or I was always over there. When I could sneak away. I was supposed to be helping my dad on the farm.”

“That’s where you went tonight, isn’t it? Lauren’s house.”

A tear falls onto his cheek. I wipe it away with my thumb, the way he wiped my tears away on the night I asked him if he believed in God.

He leans forward suddenly and kisses me. Just like that.

“Why did you kiss me, Evan?” Talking about Lauren, then kissing me. It feels weird.

“I don’t know.” He ducks his head. There’s enigmatic Evan, taciturn Evan, passionate Evan, and now shy little boy Evan.

“The next time you better have a good reason,” I tease him.

“Okay.” He kisses me again.

“Reason?” I ask softly.

“Um. You’re really pretty?”

“That’s a good one. I don’t know if it’s true, but it’s good.”

He cups my face in his soft hands, and then leans in for a third kiss that lingers, igniting the simmering lump in my belly, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and do a little happy dance.

“It is true,” he whispers, our lips brushing.

We fall asleep in the same spooning position we were in a few hours before, the palm of his hand pressing just below my neck. I wake in the dead hours of the night, and for a second I’m back in the woods inside my sleeping bag, just me, my teddy bear, and my M16—and some stranger pressing his body into mine.

No, it’s okay, Cassie. It’s Evan, the one who saved you, the one who nursed you back to health, and the one who’s willing to risk his life so you can keep some ridiculous promise. Evan, the noticer who noticed you. Evan, the simple farm boy of the warm, gentle, soft hands.

My heart skips a beat. What kind of farm boy has soft hands?

I ease his hand away from my chest. He stirs, sighing against my neck. Now the hairs tickled by his lips dance a different kind of jig. I lightly brush my fingertips over his palm. Soft as a baby’s bottom.

Okay, don’t panic. It’s been a few months since he did any farm work. And you know how nice his cuticles are…but can years of calluses be wiped away by a few months off hunting in the woods?

Hunting in the woods…

I dip my head slightly to sniff his fingers. It’s probably my overactive imagination, but do I detect the acrid, metallic smell of gunpowder? When did he fire a gun? He hadn’t gone hunting tonight, just to visit Lauren’s grave.

Lying wide awake in his arms as dawn breaks, feeling his heart beating against my back while my own heart pushes against his hand.

You must be a lousy hunter. You hardly ever come back with anything.

I’m actually very good.

You just don’t have the heart to kill?

I have the heart to do what I have to do.

What do you have the heart to do, Evan Walker?

54

THE NEXT DAY is agony.

I know I can’t confront him. Way too risky. What if the worst is true? That there is no Evan Walker farm boy, only Evan Walker human traitor—or the unthinkable (one word that pretty much sums up this alien invasion): Evan Walker, Silencer. I tell myself this last possibility is ridiculous. A Silencer wouldn’t nurse me back to health—much less give me nicknames and play snuggles in the dark. A Silencer would just—well, silence me.

Once I take that irreversible step of confronting him, it’s pretty much game over. If he isn’t who he claims to be, I’d be giving him no choice. Whatever his reason for keeping me alive, I don’t think I’d stay alive very long if he thought I knew the truth.

Go slow. Work it out. Don’t tear through it like you always do, Sullivan. Not your style, but you gotta be methodical for once in your life.

So I pretend nothing’s wrong. Over breakfast, though, I work the conversation around to his pre-Arrival days. What kind of work did he do around the farm? Name it, he says. Drove the tractor, baled hay, fed the animals, repaired equipment, strung barbed wire. My eyes on his hands while my mind makes excuses for him. He always wore gloves is the best one, but I can’t think of a natural-sounding way to ask. So, Evan, you have such soft hands to have grown up on a farm. You must have worn gloves all the time and been even more into hand lotion than most guys, huh?

He doesn’t want to talk about the past; it’s the future he’s worried about. He wants details about the mission. Like every footstep between the farmhouse and Wright-Patterson has to be mapped out, every contingency considered. What if we don’t wait till spring and another blizzard hits? What if we find the base abandoned? How do we pick up Sammy’s trail then? When do we say enough is enough and give up?

“I’ll never give up,” I tell him.

I wait for nightfall. I was never very good at waiting, and he notices my restlessness.

“You’re going to be okay?” Standing by the kitchen door, rifle dangling from his shoulder. Cupping my face tenderly in those soft hands. And me gazing upward into those puppy-dog eyes, brave Cassie, trusting Cassie, mayfly Cassie. Sure, I’ll be fine. You go out and bag a few people, and I’ll pop some corn.

Then locking the door behind him. Watching him step lightly off the back porch and trot toward the trees, heading west, toward the highway, where, as everyone knows, fresh game like deer and rabbit and Homo sapiens like to congregate.

I tear through every room. Four weeks locked up inside it like someone under house arrest, you think I would have poked around a little.

What do I find? Nothing. And a lot.

Family photo albums. There’s baby Evan in the hospital wearing the striped newborn hat. Toddler Evan pushing a plastic lawnmower. Five-year-old Evan sitting on a pony. Ten-year-old Evan on the tractor. Twelve-year-old Evan in a baseball uniform…

And the rest of his family, including Val—I pick her out right away, and seeing the face of the girl who died in his arms and whose clothes I’ve taken brings the whole shitty thing back to me, and suddenly I’m like the lowest person left on Earth. Seeing his family in front of the Christmas tree, gathered around birthday cakes, hiking along a mountain trail, forces it down my throat: the end of Christmas trees and birthday cakes and family vacations and the ten thousand other taken-for-granted things. Each photograph the tolling of a bell, a timer clicking down to the end of normal.

And she’s in some of the pictures, too. Lauren. Tall. Athletic. Oh, and blond. Of course, she would have to be. They make a very attractive couple. And in more than half the pictures, she isn’t looking at the camera; she’s looking at him. Not the way I would look at Ben Parish, all squishy around the eyes. She looks at Evan fiercely, like, This here? It’s mine.

I put the albums away. My paranoia is fading. So he has soft hands, so what? Soft hands are a nice thing. I build a roaring fire to heat up the room and push back the shadows that crowd in on me. So his fingers smell like gunpowder after visiting her grave, so what? There are wild animals running around everywhere. And it wasn’t the kind of moment where you go, Yeah, I went to her grave. Had to shoot a rabid dog coming back, by the way. Ever since he found you, he’s taken care of you, kept you safe, been there for you.

But no matter how much I lecture myself, I can’t calm down. I’m missing something. Something important. I pace back and forth in front of the fireplace, shivering despite the roaring flames. It’s like having an itch you can’t scratch. But what could it be? I know in my gut I’m not going to find anything incriminating, even if I tear through every inch of the house.

But you haven’t searched everywhere, Cassie. You haven’t looked in the one place he wouldn’t expect you to look.

I limp into the kitchen. Not much time now. Grab a heavy jacket from the hook by the door and a flashlight from the cupboard, tuck the Luger into my waistband, and step outside into the bitter cold. Clear sky, the yard bathed in starlight. I try not to think about the mothership a few hundred miles over my head as I shuffle toward the barn. I don’t click on the light until I step inside.

The smell of old manure and mildewed hay. The scampering of rats’ feet on the rotting boards over my head. I swing the light around, over the empty stalls and across the dirt floor, into the hayloft. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, but I keep looking. In every creepy movie ever made, the barn is the prime nesting ground for the things you don’t know you’re looking for and always regret finding.

I find what I’m not looking for under a pile of ratty blankets heaped against the back wall. Something long and dark glinting in the circle of light. I don’t touch it. I reveal it, tossing aside three blankets to reach its resting place.

It’s my M16.

I know it’s mine. I can see my initials in the stock: C.S., scratched there one afternoon while I hid in the little tent in the woods. C.S. for Completely Stupid.

I’d lost it on the median when the Silencer struck from the woods. Left it there in my panic. Decided I couldn’t go back for it. Now here it is, in Evan Walker’s barn. My bestie had found its way back to me.

Do you know how to tell who the enemy is in wartime, Cassie?

I back away from it. Back away from the message it sends. Back all the way to the door while I keep the light shining on its glossy black barrel.

Then I turn and run smack into his rock-hard chest.