Текст книги "The Infinite Sea"

Автор книги: Rick Yancey

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

42

OH, BROTHER. Guys.

I tossed Bear on the desk. “I’ve been here before,” I told the Macho Brigade. “Run equals die. Stay equals die. So before we go all O.K. Corral on this, let’s consider the third option: We blow it up.”

That suggestion sucked all the air from the room. Evan got it first, nodding slowly, but clearly not happy with the idea. Lots of variables. A thousand ways it can go wrong, only one way right.

Ben cut right to the gooey guts of the problem: “How? Who has the duty of breathing on it and getting vaporized?”

“I’ll do it, Sarge,” Dumbo said. His ears had turned red, like he was embarrassed by his own courage. He smiled shyly. He’d finally gotten it: “I’ve always wanted to see Dubuque.”

“Human breath isn’t the only source of CO2,” I pointed out to the National Merit Finalist.

“Coke!” Dumbo fairly shouted.

“Good luck finding one of those,” Ben said. It was true. Along with anything alcoholic, soft drinks were one of the first casualties of the invasion.

“A can or a bottle, yes,” Evan said. “Cassie, didn’t you tell me there was a diner next door?”

“The CO2 canisters for the fountain drinks,” I started.

“Are probably still there,” he finished.

“Attach the bomb to the canister . . .”

“Rig the canister to dispense the CO2 . . .”

“A slow leak . . .”

“In a confined space . . .”

“The elevator!” we said in unison.

“Wow,” Ben breathed. “Brilliant. But I’m a little unclear on how this solves the problem.”

“They’ll think we’re dead, Zombie,” Sam said. The five-year-old understood, but he lacked Ben’s burden of experience in outwitting Vosch and company.

“Then they check it out, they find no bodies, they know,” Ben said.

“But it will buy us time,” Evan pointed out. “And my guess is by the time they realize the truth, it’ll be too late.”

“Because obviously we’re just too darn clever for them?” Ben asked.

Evan smiled grimly. “Because we’re going to the last place they’d think to look.”

43

THERE WAS NO TIME for more debate; we had to pull the trigger on Operation Early Checkout before the 5th Wave pulled the trigger on us. Ben and Poundcake left to fetch a CO2 canister from the diner. Dumbo took hall patrol. I told Sam he had to watch Megan, her being a pal from the old days on the school bus. He asked for the gun back. I reminded him that having the gun didn’t help so much the last time: He’d emptied the magazine without even nicking the target. I tried to give him Bear. He rolled his eyes. Bear was so six months ago.

Then Evan and I were alone. Just him, me, and a little green bomb made three.

“Spill it,” I ordered him.

“Spill what?” Eyes all big and innocent as Bear’s.

“Your guts, Walker. You’re holding back.”

“Why do you—?”

“Because that’s your style. Your modus operandi. Like an iceberg, three-quarters under the surface, but there’s no way I’m letting you turn this hotel into the Titanic.”

He sighed, avoiding my glare. “Pen and paper?”

“What? Time for a tender love poem?” That was his style, too: Every time I edged too close to something, he deflected by telling me how much he loved me or how I saved him or some other swoony, pseudo-profound observation about the nature of my magnificence. But I grabbed the pad and pen from the desk and handed them over because, at the end of the day, who minds getting a tender love poem?

Instead he drew a map.

“Single-story, white—or used to be white—wood frame, I don’t remember the address, but it’s right on Highway 68. Next to a service station. Has one of those old metal signs hanging out front, Havoline Oil or something like that.”

He tore off the sheet and pressed it into my hand.

“And why is this the last place they’d look for us?” I was falling for the deflecting technique again, not that Havoline Oil had anything cloyingly poetical about it. “And why are you drawing me a map when you’re coming with us?”

“In case something happens.”

“To you. What if something happens to both of us?”

“You’re right. I’ll make five more.”

He started on the next one. I watched for two seconds, then grabbed the pad out of his hand and threw it at his head.

“You son of a bitch. I know what you’re doing.”

“I was drawing a map, Cassie.”

“Rigging a detonator from a soda fountain Mission: Impossible style, really? While we all run like hell for the Havoline sign with you in the lead on your broken ankle and stabbed leg, sporting a hundred-and-six-degree temperature . . .”

“If I had a hundred-and-six-degree temperature, I’d be dead,” he pointed out.

“No, and you want to know why? Because dead people have no temperature!”

He was nodding thoughtfully. “God, I’ve missed you.”

“There! There it is, right there! Just like the Walker homestead, just like Camp Ashpit, just like Vosch’s death camp. Whenever I’ve got you cornered . . .”

“You had me cornered the minute I laid—”

“Stop it.”

He stopped. I sat on the bed next to him. Maybe I was going about this all wrong. You catch more flies with honey, my grandmother always said. The problem was that womanly wiles weren’t something I carried in my wheelhouse. I took his hand. I looked deeply into his eyes. I considered unbuttoning my shirt a bit, but decided he might see through that little ploy. Not that my ploys were that little.

“I’m not letting you pull another Camp Haven on me,” I said, adding what I hoped to be an alluring purr to the timbre. “That isn’t going to happen. You’re coming with us. Poundcake and Dumbo can carry you.”

He reached up with his other hand and touched my cheek. I knew that touch. I’d missed it. “I know,” he said. The expression in his chocolatey (gah) eyes was infinitely sad. I knew that look, too. I’d seen it before, in the woods when he confessed who he really was. “But you don’t know everything. You don’t know about Grace.”

“Grace,” I echoed, pushing his hand from my cheek, forgetting all about the honey. I liked his touch too much, I decided. I needed to work on not liking it so much. And also work on not liking the way he looked at me as if I were the last person on Earth, which I actually thought I was before he found me. That’s a terrible thing, an awful burden to put on someone. You make your whole existence dependent on another human being and you’re asking for a world of trouble. Think of every tragic love story ever written. And I didn’t want to play Juliet to anybody’s Romeo, not if I could help it. Even if the only candidate available was willing to die for me and sitting right beside me holding my hand and looking deeply into my eyes with the not-so-gah-now eyes the color of melted chocolate. Plus being practically naked under those covers and possessing the body of a Hollister dude . . . but I’m not getting into all that.

“Grace again. You kept mentioning grace after I shot you,” I told him.

“You don’t know Grace.”

Well, that stung. I never knew he was so religious—or judgmental. The two usually go hand in hand, still . . .

“Cassie, I have to tell you something.”

“You’re a Baptist?”

“That day on the highway after I—let you get away, I was very afraid. I didn’t understand what happened, why I couldn’t . . . do what I came to do. Do what I was born to do. It didn’t make sense to me. And in a lot of ways, it still doesn’t make sense. You think you know yourself. You think you know the person you see in the mirror. I found you, but in finding you, I lost myself. Nothing was clear anymore. Nothing was simple.”

I nodded. “I remember that. I remember simple.”

“In the beginning, after I brought you back, I really didn’t know if you were going to make it. And I would sit there with you and I’d think, Maybe she shouldn’t.”

“Gee, Evan. That’s so romantic.”

“I knew what was coming,” he said, and that sure was something clear and simple. He grabbed both my hands and pulled me close, and I fell a thousand miles into those damn eyes, which is why the honey technique doesn’t fit me: I’m more the fly when I’m around him. “I know what’s coming, Cassie, and until now I thought the dead were the lucky ones. But I see it now. I see it.”

“What? What do you see, Evan?” My voice quivering. He was scaring me. Maybe it was the fever talking, but Evan was acting very un-Evanish.

“The way out. The way to finish it. The problem is Grace. Grace is too much for you—for any of you. Grace is the doorway and I’m the only one who can walk through it. I can give you that. And time. Those two things, Grace and time, and then you can finish it.”

44

THEN DUMBO, with perfect timing, popped his head into the room. “They’re back, Sullivan. Zombie said—” He stopped. Obviously he’d interrupted an intimate moment. Thank God I hadn’t unbuttoned my shirt. I pulled my hands from Evan’s and stood up.

“Did they find a canister?”

Dumbo nodded. “They’re putting it in the elevator now.” He looked at Evan. “Zombie said anytime you’re ready.”

Evan nodded slowly. “Okay.” But he didn’t move. I didn’t move. Dumbo stood there for a few seconds.

“Okay,” he said. Evan didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. Then Dumbo said, “See you guys later—in Dubuque! Heh-heh.” He backed out of the room.

I whirled on Evan. “All right. Remember what Ben said about the enigmatic alien thing?”

Then Evan Walker did something I’d never seen him do—or heard him say, to be accurate.

“Shit,” he said.

Dumbo was back in the doorway, slack-jawed, red-eared, and in the grasp of a tall girl with a cascade of honey-blond hair and striking Norwegian-model-type features, piercing blue eyes, full, pouty, collagen-packed lips, and the willowy figure of a runway fashion princess.

“Hello, Evan,” Cosmo Girl said. And of course her voice was deep and slightly scratchy like every seductive villainess ever conceived by Hollywood.

“Hello, Grace,” Evan said.

45

GRACE: A PERSON, not a prayer or anything close to being connected to God. And armed to the teeth: She had Dumbo’s M16 in addition to the hefty sniper rifle hanging from her back. She shoved the kid into the room and then blew out my eyesight with her megawatt smile.

“And you must be Cassiopeia, queen of the night sky. I’m surprised, Evan. She’s nothing like I pictured. Kind of a ginger. Didn’t know that was your type.”

I looked at Evan. “Who the hell is this person?”

“Grace is like me,” Evan said.

“We go way back. Ten centuries, give or take. Speaking of taking . . .” Grace motioned for my rifle. I tossed it at her feet. “Sidearm, too. And that knife strapped to your ankle, under the fatigues.”

“Let them go, Grace,” Evan said. “We don’t need them.”

Grace ignored him. She gave my rifle a little kick and told me to toss it out the window with the Luger and the knife. Evan nodded at me as if to say, Better do it. So I did. My head was spinning. I couldn’t grab hold of a single coherent thought. Grace was a Silencer like Evan—that one I could hug tight. But how did she know my name and why was she here and how did Evan know she was coming and what did he mean by Grace is the doorway? The doorway to what?

“I knew she was human.” Grace was back on Evan’s favorite subject. “But I never imagined how completely human she was.”

Evan knew it was coming, but he tried to stop it anyway. “Cassie . . .”

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, you fucking alien motherfucker.”

“Colorful. Imaginative. Nice.” Grace motioned with Dumbo’s rifle for me to sit.

Again, Evan shot me a look: Do it, Cassie. So I sat on the bed next to his, beside Dumbo, who was breathing through his mouth like an asthmatic. Grace remained in the doorway so she could keep an eye on the hall. Maybe she didn’t know about Sam and Megan in the next room or Ben and Poundcake waiting for Evan in the elevator downstairs. I understood Evan’s strategy then: Stall. Buy time. When Ben and Poundcake came up to see what the hell was going on, that would be our chance. I remembered Evan taking out an entire squad of 5th Wavers, outgunned and outnumbered, in pitch darkness, and thought, No, when they show up, that will be her chance.

I studied her, the way she leaned against the jamb with one ankle thrown casually over the other, golden tresses flowing over one shoulder, her head turned slightly to display for our admiration her stunning Nordic profile, and I thought, Sure, makes sense. If you can download yourself into any sort of human body, why not pick an impeccable one? Evan, too. In that sense, he was nothing but a big phony. And that’s weird to think about. Deep down, the dude who gave me the Jell-O knees was an effigy, a mask over a faceless face that probably ten thousand years ago looked like a squid or something.

“Well, they did tell us there was risk, living so long as humans among humans,” Grace said. “Tell me something, Cassiopeia: Don’t you think he’s perfectly perfect in bed?”

“Why don’t you tell me,” I shot back. “You extraterrestrial slut.”

“Feisty,” Grace said to Evan with a smile. “Like her namesake.”

“They have nothing to do with this,” Evan said. “Let them go, Grace.”

“Evan, I’m not even sure I understand what this is.” She left her post and floated—there’s no other word for it—to his bedside. “And nobody is going anywhere until I do.” She leaned over and took his face in her hands and kissed him long and lingering on the lips. He fought her—I could see that—but she immobilized him with her otherworldly überwiles, which she carried in spades in her wheelhouse. “Did you tell her, Evan?” she murmured against his cheek, though she made sure I could hear. “Does she know how all of this ends?”

“Like this,” I said, and launched myself at her, leading, as I usually did, with my head, aiming the hard crown part of it at the soft temple part of hers. The impact knocked her sideways into the closet doors. I ended up sprawled across Evan’s lap. Perfectly perfect, I thought, a little incoherently.

I pushed myself up and Evan wrapped his arms around my waist and yanked me back down. “No, Cassie.”

But he was weak and I was strong and I ripped free easily and jumped from the bed onto her back. That was a big mistake: She grabbed my arm and hurled me across the room. I smashed against the wall beside the window and plopped straight down on my ass, sending a hot jolt of pain up my back. From the hallway, I heard a door fly open, and I shouted, “Get out, Sam! Get Zombie! Get—”

She was gone before I got the second get out. The last time I saw someone move that fast was at Camp Ashpit, when the phony soldiers from Wright-Patterson spotted me hiding in the woods. Like, cartoon fast, which might be humorous if not for the reason she bolted.

Oh no you don’t, bitch. Not my little brother.

I raced past Dumbo, past Evan, who had thrown off the covers and was struggling to swing his badly wounded self out of bed, into the hall, which was empty, not a good thing, not good at all, then two steps to Sam’s room, and when my fingers touched the handle, a wrecking ball smashed into the back of my head and my nose smacked into the wood. Something went crunch, and it wasn’t the wood. I stepped backward, blood pouring down my face. I could taste my blood and somehow it was the taste that kept me upright—I didn’t know till then that rage had a taste and it tasted like your own blood.

Cold fingers locked around my neck and I watched my feet leave the ground through a shower of red rain. Then I was soaring down the length of the hallway, coming down hard on my shoulder, and rolling to a stop a foot from the window at the far end.

Grace: “Stay there.”

She was standing by Sammy’s door, a lithe shadow down a dimly lit tunnel, shimmering on the other side of the tears that welled uncontrollably and spilled down my cheeks to mix with blood.

“Leave. My. Brother. Alone.”

“That adorable little boy? He’s your brother? I’m sorry, Cassiopeia, I didn’t know.” Shaking her head in mock sadness. Like they mocked every decent human thing.

“He’s already dead.”

46

THREE THINGS HAPPENED then, all at the same time. Four, if you counted my heart blowing apart.

I ran—not away but toward. I was going to rip her cover-model face off. I was going to tear her pseudo-human heart from between her perfectly shaped human boobs. I was going to open her up with my fingernails.

That was the first thing.

The second was the stairway door flying open and Poundcake entering the hall in anything but Eeyore fashion, shoving me back with one arm as the other brought his rifle to bear on Grace. Not an easy shot by any means, but Poundcake was the squad’s best marksman after Ringer, according to Ben.

The third thing was a shirtless, boxer-shorts-wearing Evan Walker, crawling out of the room behind Grace. Expert marksman or not, if Poundcake missed . . . or if Grace dived out of the way at the last second . . .

So I did the diving, wrapping my arms around the kid’s ankles. He toppled forward, his rifle discharged, and then I heard the stairway door again and Ben shouting, “Freeze!” just like they used to in the movies, but nobody froze, not me, not Poundcake, and not Evan—and certainly not Grace, who was gone. She was there and then she wasn’t. Ben hopped over me and Poundcake and limped down the hall to the room opposite Sam’s.

Sam.

I jumped up and raced down the hall. Ben was motioning to Poundcake, saying, “She’s in there.”

I yanked on the handle. Locked. Thank you, God! I pounded on the door. “Sam! Sam, open up! It’s me!”

And from the other side, a voice no louder than a mouse’s squeak: “It’s a trick! You’re tricking me!”

I lost it. Pressed my bloody cheek against the door and had a good, solid, and very satisfying mini-breakdown. I’d let my guard down. I’d forgotten how cruel the Others could be. Not enough to punch a hole through my heart with a bullet. No, first you have to pummel it and stomp on it and crush it in your hands until the tissue oozes from between your fingers like Play-Doh.

“Okay, okay, okay,” I whimpered. “Stay in there, okay? No matter what, Sam. Don’t come out till I come back.”

Poundcake was standing to one side of the door across the hall. Ben was helping Evan to his feet—or trying to. Every time he loosened his grip, Evan’s knees buckled. Ben finally decided to lean him against the wall, where Evan rocked, gasping for air, his skin the color of the ashes at the camp where my father died.

Evan looked over at me and he hardly had the breath for the words: “Get out of this hallway. Now.”

The drywall in front of Poundcake blew apart in a rain of fine white dust and chunks of moldy wallpaper. He staggered backward. His rifle fell from his limp fingers. He knocked into Ben, who grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him into the room with Dumbo. Ben reached for me next, but I slapped his hand away and told him to grab Evan before picking up Poundcake’s rifle and opening up on Grace’s door. The sound was deafening in the narrow hall. I emptied the magazine before Ben got hold of me and pulled me back.

“Don’t be an idiot!” he shouted. He slapped a full magazine into my hand and told me to watch the door but stay down.

The scene played out like a TV show going on in another room: just voices. I was flat on my stomach, resting my upper body on my elbows, the rifle trained on the door directly across from me. Come on, ice maiden. I have a little something for you. Running my tongue over my bloody lips, hating the taste, loving the taste. Come on, you creepy Swede.

Ben: Dumbo, how is it? Dumbo!

Dumbo: It’s bad, Sarge.

Ben: How bad?

Dumbo: Pretty bad . . .

Ben: Oh, Christ. I can freaking see that it’s bad, Dumbo!

Evan: Ben—listen to me—you have to listen to me—we have to get out of here. Now.

Ben: Why? We got her contained—

Evan: Not for long.

Ben: Sullivan can handle her. Who the hell is she, anyway?

Evan: (unintelligible)

Ben: Well, sure. The more the merrier. Guess we’re well into Plan B. I’ve got you, Walker. Dumbo, you have Poundcake. Sullivan will take the kids.

Ben eased down beside me, placing his hand on the small of my back. He nodded toward the door.

“We can’t bug out until the threat’s neutralized,” he whispered. “Hey, what happened to your nose?”

I shrugged. Swipe, swipe went the tongue. “How?” I sounded like I had a bad head cold.

“Pretty simple. Somebody takes the door, one low, one high, one to the right, one to the left. Worst part the first two and a half seconds.”

“What’s the best part?”

“The last two and a half seconds. Ready?”

“Cassie, wait.” Evan, on his knees behind us like a pilgrim at the altar. “Ben doesn’t know what he’s dealing with—but you do. Tell him. Tell him what she’s capa—”

“Shut up, lover boy,” Ben growled. He tugged on my shirt. “Let’s roll.”

“She’s not even in there anymore—I guarantee you,” Evan said, raising his voice.

“What? She jumped two stories?” Ben laughed. “That’s great. I’ll pop her broken-legged ass when I get down there.”

“She probably has jumped—but she didn’t break anything. Grace is like me.” Evan was talking to both of us but looking desperately at me. “Like me, Cassie.”

“But you’re human—I mean, your body is,” Ben said. “And no human body could—”

“Her body could. Not mine anymore. Mine has . . . crashed.”

“You getting all this?” Ben asked me. “Because to me, this sounds like more of Mr. E.T.’s bullshit.”

“What do you suggest we do, Evan?” I asked. Despite the mighty tasty blood in my mouth, the rage was draining out of me, replaced by the very uncomfortable and, by now, very familiar feeling of being in five thousand fathoms over my head.

“Get out. Now. It isn’t you she wants.”

“Sacrificial goat,” Ben said with a nasty smile. “I like it.”

“She’ll just let us walk away,” I said, shaking my head. My sense of drowning was growing more acute. Could Ben be right? What was I thinking, trusting Evan Walker with my life and the life of my brother? Something was off here. Something was wrong. “Just like that.”

“I don’t know,” Evan answered, which was a point in his favor. He could have said, Sure, she’s an okay person once you get past her itsy-bitsy sadism problem. “But I do know what will happen if you stay.”

“Good enough for me,” Ben announced. He backed into the room. “Change of plans, boys. I’ll handle Poundcake. Dumbo, you take Megan. Sullivan’s got her brother. Drop your trunk and grab your junk, we’re goin’ to a party!”

“Cassie.” Evan scooted beside me. He turned my face toward his, ran his thumb over my bloody cheek. “It’s the only way.”

“I’m not leaving you, Evan. And I’m not letting you leave me. Not again.”

“And Sam? You made a promise to him, too. You can’t keep both. Grace is my problem. She . . . she belongs to me. Not the way that Sam belongs to you; I don’t mean that . . .”

“Really? I’m surprised, Evan. You’re usually so clear about everything.”

I sat up, took a deep breath, and slapped his beautiful face. I could have shot him but decided to let him off easy.

And that’s when we heard it, like the slap was the signal it had been waiting for: the sound of an attack helicopter, coming in fast.