Текст книги "The Infinite Sea"

Автор книги: Rick Yancey

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“Right,” Ben said. “So how can we use that?”

“We can’t,” Ringer answered. “There’s nothing Sullivan’s told us that will help, unless this Evan person somehow survived the blast and can fill in the blanks.”

Ben was shaking his head. “Nothing could have survived that.”

“There were escape pods,” I said, grasping at the same straw I’d been reaching for since he said good-bye.

“Really?” Ringer didn’t sound like she believed me. “Then why didn’t he put you in one?”

I told her, “Look, I probably shouldn’t tell someone holding a high-powered semiautomatic rifle this, but you’re really starting to get on my nerves.”

She acted surprised. “Why?”

“We’ve got to get a handle on this,” Ben said sharply, cutting off my answer, which was a good thing: Ringer was holding an M16 and Ben had told me she was the best shot in the camp. “What’s the plan? Wait for Evan to show up or run? And if we run, where to?” Cheeks flaming with fever, eyes shining. It’s fourth and long with four seconds left. “Is there anything else Evan told you that might help? What are they going to do with the cities?”

“They’re not going to blow them up,” Ringer said. She didn’t wait for me to answer. Then she didn’t wait for me to ask how the hell she would know that. “If that was the plan, they would’ve blown them up first. Over half the world’s population lived in urban areas.”

“So they plan to use them,” Ben said. “Because they’re using human bodies?”

“We can’t hide in a city, Zombie,” Ringer said. “Any city.”

“Why?”

“Because it isn’t safe. Fires, sewage, disease from all the rotting corpses, other survivors who must know by now they’re using human bodies. If we want to stay alive as long as possible, we have to keep moving. Keep moving and stay alone as long as possible.”

Oh, boy. Where did I hear that rule before? My head felt light. My knee was killing me. The knee shot by a Silencer. My Silencer. I’ll find you, Cassie. Don’t I always find you? Not this time, Evan. I don’t think so. I sat on the bed next to Ben.

“She’s right,” I said to him. “Staying anywhere for more than a few days is not a good idea.”

“Or staying together.”

Ringer’s words hung in the icy air. Beside me, Ben stiffened. I closed my eyes. Heard that rule, too: Trust no one.

“Not going to happen, Ringer,” Ben said.

“I take Teacup and Poundcake. You take the rest. Our chances double.”

“Why stop there?” I asked her. “Why don’t we all split up? Our chances quadruple.”

“Septuple,” she corrected me.

“Well, I’m no math whiz,” Ben said. “But it seems to me splitting up plays right into their strategy. Isolate, then exterminate.” He gave Ringer a hard look. “Personally, I like the idea of someone having my back.”

He pushed himself from the bed and swayed for a second. Ringer told him to lie back down. He ignored her.

“We can’t stay, but we have nowhere to go. You can’t get to nowhere from here, so where do we go?” he asked.

“South,” Ringer said. “As far south as possible.” She was looking out the window. I understood—a decent snow and you’re trapped until it thaws. Ergo, get somewhere where it doesn’t snow.

“Texas?” Ben said.

“Mexico,” Ringer answered. “Or Central America, once the water recedes. You could hide in the rain forest for years.”

“I like it,” Ben said. “Back to nature. There’s just one little flaw.” He spread his hands. “We don’t have passports.”

He watched her, holding the gesture, like he was waiting for something. Ringer looked back at him, expressionless. Ben dropped his hands with a shrug.

“You’re not serious,” I said. This was getting ridiculous. “Central America? In the middle of winter, on foot, with Ben hurt and two little kids. We’ll be lucky to make it to Kentucky.”

“Beats hanging around here waiting for your alien prince to come.”

That did it. I didn’t care if she was holding an M16. I was grabbing a handful of those silky locks and slinging her out that window. Ben saw it coming and stepped between us.

“We’re all on the same team here, Sullivan. Let’s keep it together, okay?” He turned to Ringer. “You’re right. He probably didn’t make it, but we’re gonna give Evan a chance to keep his promise. I’m in no shape for a road trip anyway.”

“I didn’t come back for you and Nugget so we could be the featured guests at a turkey shoot, Zombie,” Ringer said. “Do what you think is right, but if things get hot, I’m out of here.”

I said to Ben, “Team player.”

“Maybe you’re forgetting who saved your life,” Ringer said.

“Oh, kiss my ass.”

“That does it!” Ben boomed in his best quarterback, I’m-the-guy-in-charge-here voice. “I don’t know how we’re making it through this unholy mess, but I do know that this is not the way. Stow the crap, both of you. That’s an order.”

He fell back onto the bed, gasping for air, a hand pressed against his side. Ringer left to find Dumbo, which left Ben and me alone for the first time since our reunion deep in the bowels of Camp Haven.

“Something weird,” Ben said. “You would think, with ninety-nine percent of us gone, the two percent would get along better.”

Um, that would be one percent, Parish. I started to point that out and then saw him smiling, waiting for me to correct his math, knowing it would nearly impossible for me to resist. He played with the stereotype of the dumb jock the way someone Sammy’s age played with sidewalk chalk: in broad, clumsy strokes.

“She’s a psycho,” I said. “Seriously, something’s off. You look in her eyes and there’s no one there there.”

He shook his head. “I think there’s a lot there. It’s just . . . real deep.”

He winced, hand tucked in the pocket of that hideous hoodie like he was doing a Napoleon impression, pressing on the bullet wound that Ringer had given him. A wound he asked for. A wound so he could risk everything to save my little brother. A wound that now may cost him his life.

“It can’t be done,” I whispered.

“Of course it can,” he said. He laid his hand on top of mine.

I shook my head. He didn’t understand. I wasn’t talking about us.

The shadow of their coming fell upon us and we lost sight of something fundamental within the absolute dark of that shadow. But simply because we couldn’t see it didn’t mean it wasn’t there: My father mouthing to me, Run! when he couldn’t. Evan pulling me from the belly of the beast before giving himself up to it. Ben plunging into the jaws of hell to snatch Sam from them. There were some things—well, there was probably only one thing—unblemished by the shadow. Confounding. Indefatigable. Undefeatable.

They can kill us, even down to the last of us, but they can’t kill—can never kill—what lasts in us.

Cassie, do you want to fly?

Yes, Daddy. I want to fly.

12

THE SILVER HIGHWAY that faded into the black. The black seared by starlight unleashed. The leafless trees with arms upraised like thieves caught in the act. My brother’s breath congealing in the frigid air as he slept. The window fogging as I breathed. And, beyond the frosty glass, beside the silver highway in the searing starlight, a tiny figure darting beneath the upraised arms of the trees.

Oh, crap.

I launched across the room and smashed into the hall, where Poundcake whipped around, rifle up, Relax, big boy, then busted into Ben’s room, where Dumbo leaned against the windowsill and Ben sprawled on the bed closest to the door. Dumbo stood up. Ben sat up. And I spoke up: “Where’s Teacup?”

Dumbo pointed at the bed next to Ben’s. “Right here.” Giving me a look like This crazy chick’s lost it.

I went to the bed and whipped aside the mound of covers. Ben cursed and Dumbo backed up against the wall, his face turning red.

“I swear to God she was just there!”

“I saw her,” I told Ben. “Outside—”

“Outside?” He rolled his legs off the side of the bed, grunting with the effort.

“On the highway.”

Then he understood. “Ringer. She’s going after Ringer.” He slapped his open hand on the mattress. “Damn it!”

“I’ll go,” Dumbo said.

Ben held up his hand. “Poundcake!” he hollered. You could hear the big kid coming. The floor protested his passage. He stuck his head in the room, and Ben said, “Teacup took off. After Ringer. Go grab her little butt and bring it back here so I can whale on it.”

Poundcake lumbered off and the floor went Thanks a lot!

Ben was strapping on his holster. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Taking Poundcake’s post until he gets back with that little shit. You stay with Nugget. I mean, Sam. Whoever. We need to pick one name and stick to it.”

His fingers were shaking. Fever. Fear. A little of both.

Dumbo’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Ben noticed. “At ease, Bo. Not your bad.”

“I’ll take the hall,” Dumbo said. “You stay here, Sarge. You shouldn’t be on your feet.”

He rushed from the room before Ben could stop him. Ben, now looking at me with sparkly eyes, fever bright. “I don’t think I told you,” he said. “After we went rogue in Dayton, Vosch dispatched two squads to hunt us down. If they were still in the field when the camp blew . . .”

He didn’t finish the thought. Either he thought he didn’t need to or he couldn’t. He stood up. Staggered. I went to him and he threw his arm around my shoulders without embarrassment. There’s no nice way to say this: Ben Parish smelled sick. The sour odor of infection and old sweat. For the first time since I realized he wasn’t a corpse, I thought he might be one soon.

“Get back in bed,” I told him. He shook his head, then his hand loosed on my shoulder and he fell back, hitting the edge of the mattress with his butt and sliding down to the floor.

“Dizzy,” he murmured. “Go get Nugget and bring him in here with us.”

“Sam. Can we go with Sam?” Whenever I heard Nugget, I thought of the McDonald’s drive-thru and hot French fries and strawberry-banana smoothies and McCafé Frappé Mochas topped with whipped cream and drizzled with chocolate.

Ben smiled. And it broke my heart, that luminous smile on that wasted face. “We’ll go with it,” he said.

Sam barely sighed when I pulled him from the bed and carried him into Ben’s room. I laid him in Teacup’s vacated bed, tucked him in, touched his cheek with the back of my hand, an old habit left over from the plague days. Ben was still sitting on the floor, head thrown back, staring at the ceiling. I started toward him, and he waved me back.

“Window,” he gasped. “Now we’re blind on one side. Thanks a lot, Teacup.”

“Why would she take off like—?”

“Ever since Dayton, she’s been latched on to Ringer like a pilot fish.”

“All I ever saw them do is fight.” Thinking of the chess brawl, the coin smacking Teacup in the head, and I hate your fucking guts!

Ben chuckled. “It’s a thin line.”

I glanced down at the parking lot. The asphalt shone like onyx. Latched on to her like a pilot fish. I thought of Evan lurking behind doors and around corners. I thought of the unblemished thing, the thing that lasts, and I thought the only thing with the power to save us also had the power to slay us.

“You really shouldn’t be on the floor like that,” I scolded him. “It’s warmer up on the bed.”

“A half of a half of a half of a degree, right. This is nothing, Sullivan. A head cold next to the plague.”

“You had the plague?”

“Oh, yeah. Refugee camp outside Wright-Patterson. After they took over the base, they hauled me in, pumped me full of antivirals, then put a rifle in my hand and told me to go kill some people. How about you?”

A crucifix clutched in a bloody hand. You can either finish me or help me. The soldier behind the beer coolers was the first. No. The first was the guy who shot Crisco in a pit of ashes. That’s two, and then there were the Silencers, the one I shot right before I found Sam and the one right before Evan found me. Four, then. Was I missing somebody? The bodies pile up and you lose track. Oh God, you lose track.

“I’ve killed people,” I said softly.

“I meant the plague.”

“No. My mom . . .”

“How about your dad?”

“Different kind of plague,” I said. He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Vosch. Vosch murdered him.”

I told him about Camp Ashpit. The Humvees and big flatbed full of troops. The surreal appearance of the school buses. Just the kids. Room only for the little ones. The gathering of the rest in the barracks and Dad sending me with my first victim to find Crisco. Then Dad in the dirt, Vosch towering over him, while I hid in the woods, and Dad mouthing Run.

“Weird that they didn’t put you on a bus,” Ben said. “If the point was to build an army of brainwashed kids.”

“I saw mostly little kids, Sam’s age, some even younger.”

“At camp, they separated anyone under five, kept them in the bunker . . .”

I nodded. “I found them.” In the safe room, their faces lifted up to mine as I hunted for Sam.

“Which makes you wonder: Why keep them?” Ben said. “Unless Vosch expects a very long war.” The way he said it, as if he doubted that that was the reason. He drummed his fingers on the mattress. “What the hell is going on with Teacup? They should be back by now.”

“I’ll go check,” I said.

“Like hell you will. This is turning into every horror movie ever made. You know? Getting picked off one by one. Uh-uh. Five more minutes.”

We fell silent, listening. But there was only the wind whispering in the poorly sealed window and the constant undercurrent of rats scratching in the walls. Teacup was obsessed with them. I listened to hours of her and Ringer plotting their demise. That annoying lecturing tone of Ringer’s, explaining how the population was out of control: The hotel had more rats than we had bullets.

“Rats,” Ben said, as if he read my mind. “Rats, rats, rats. Hundreds of rats. Thousands of rats. More rats than us now. Planet of the rats.” He laughed hoarsely. Maybe he was delirious. “You know what’s been bugging the hell out of me? Vosch telling us they’ve been watching us for centuries. Like, how is that possible? Oh, I get how it’s possible, but I don’t get why they didn’t attack us then. How many people were on Earth when we built the pyramids? Why would you wait until there’re seven billion of us spread out over every continent with technology a little more advanced than spears and clubs? You like a challenge? The time to exterminate the vermin in your new house isn’t after the vermin outnumber you. What about Evan? He say anything about that?”

I cleared my throat. “He said they were divided over whether to exterminate us.”

“Huh. So maybe they debated it for six thousand years. Dicked around because nobody could make up his mind, until someone said, ‘Oh, what the hell, let’s just off the bastards.’”

“I don’t know. I don’t have the answers.” I was feeling a little defensive. As if knowing Evan meant I should know everything.

“Vosch could have been lying, I guess,” Ben mused. “I don’t know, to get in our heads, mess with us. He messed with me from the start.” He looked at me, then looked away. “Shouldn’t admit this, but I worshipped the guy. I thought he was, like . . .” He twirled his hand in the air, searching for the words. “The best of us.”

His shoulders began to shake. At first, I thought it must be the fever, and then I thought it could be something else, so I left my spot by the window and went to him.

For guys, breaking down is a private thing. Never let them see you cry, means you’re weak, means you’re soft, a baby, a wuss. Not very manly and all that BS. I couldn’t imagine the pre-Arrival Ben Parish crying in front of anyone, the guy who had everything, the boy who all the other boys wanted to be, the one who broke others’ hearts and never suffered his own to be broken.

I sat beside him. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t speak. He was where he was and I was where I was.

“Sorry,” he said.

I shook my head. “Don’t be.”

He wiped the back of his hand against one cheek, then the other cheek. “You know what he told me? Well, more like promised. He promised he would empty me. He would empty me and fill me up with hate. But he broke that promise. He didn’t fill me with hate. He filled me with hope.”

I understood. In the safe room, a billion upraised faces populating the infinite, and the eyes that sought mine, and the question in those eyes too horrible to put into words, Will I live? It’s all connected. The Others understood that, understood it better than most of us. No hope without faith, no faith without hope, no love without trust, no trust without love. Remove one and the entire human house of cards collapses.

It was like Vosch wanted Ben to discover the truth. Wanted to teach him the hopelessness of hope. And what could be the point of that? If they wanted to annihilate us, why didn’t they just go ahead and annihilate us? There must be a dozen ways to wipe us out quickly, but they drew it out in five waves of escalating horror. Why?

Up to now, I always thought that the Others felt nothing toward us except disdain with maybe a little disgust mixed in, the way we feel about rats and cockroaches and bedbugs and other nasty lower forms of life. Nothing personal, humans, but you gotta go. It never occurred to me that it could be entirely personal. That simply killing us isn’t enough.

“They hate us,” I said, as much to myself as to him. Ben looked at me, startled. And I looked back at him, scared. “There’s no other explanation.”

“They don’t hate us, Cassie,” he said gently, the way you talk to a frightened little kid. “We just had what they want.”

“No.” Now my cheeks were wet with tears. The 5th Wave had one explanation and only one. Any other possible reason was absurd.

“This isn’t about ripping the planet away from us, Ben. This is about ripping us.”

13

“THAT’S IT,” Ben said. “Time’s up.”

Then he was up, but he didn’t get very far. Halfway to his feet before plopping down hard on his butt. I put a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll go.”

He smacked his thigh with his palm. “Can’t let it happen,” he muttered as I opened the door and poked my head into the hallway. Can’t let what happen? Losing Teacup and Poundcake? Losing all of us one by one? Losing the battle against his injuries? Or losing the war in general?

The hall was empty.

First Teacup. Then Poundcake. Now Dumbo. We were disappearing faster than campers in a slasher movie.

“Dumbo!” I called softly. The ridiculous name echoed in the cold, stagnant air. My mind raced through the possibilities. Least likely to most: Somebody quietly neutralized him and stashed his body; he was captured; he saw or heard something and went to investigate; he had to pee.

I lingered in the doorway for a couple of seconds in case the last possibility was true. When the hall stayed empty, I stepped back into the room. Ben was upright, checking the magazine of his M16.

“Don’t make me guess,” he said. “Never mind. I don’t need to guess.”

“Stay here with Sam. I’ll go.”

He shuffled to a stop an inch from my nose. “Sorry, Sullivan. He’s your brother.”

I stiffened. The room was freezing; my blood was colder. His voice was hard, flat, without any feeling at all. Zombie. Why do they call you Zombie, Ben?

Then he smiled, a very real, very Ben Parish–y smile. “Those guys out there—they’re all my brothers.”

He sidestepped me and stumbled toward the door. The situation was escalating quickly from impossibly dangerous to dangerously impossible. I couldn’t see any other way: I scrambled over Ben’s bed and grabbed Sam by the shoulders. Shook him hard. He woke up with a soft cry. I slammed my hand over his mouth to stopper the noise.

“Sams! Listen! Something’s wrong.” I pulled the Luger from the holster and pressed it into his little hands. His eyes widened with fear and something that unnervingly resembled joy. “Ben and I have to check it out. Put on the night latch—you know what a night latch is?” Big-eyed nod. “And put a chair under the knob. Look through the little hole. Don’t let . . .” Did I need to spell out everything? “Look, Sams, this is important, very important. Very, very important. You know how we tell the good guys from the bad guys? The bad guys shoot at us.” Best lesson my father ever taught me. I kissed the top of Sam’s head and left him there.

The door clicked shut behind me. I heard the night latch slide into the notch. Good boy. Ben was halfway down the hall. He motioned for me to join him. He pressed his lips, fever-hot, against my ear.

“We clear the rooms, then we go down.”

We worked together. I took the point while Ben covered me. The Walker Hotel had an open door policy: Every lock had been busted at some point as survivors sought refuge during the waves. Also helpful was the fact that the Walker was perfect for the family on a budget. The rooms were roughly the size of Barbie’s Dreamhouse. Thirty seconds to check one. Four minutes to clear them all.

Back in the hall, Ben crushed his lips into my ear again.

“The shaft.”

He dropped to one knee in front of the elevator doors. Gestured for me to cover the stairway door, then pulled out his ten-inch combat knife and shoved the blade into the crack. Ah, I thought. The old hide-in-the-elevator trick! So why was I covering the stairs? Ben pushed open the doors and waved me over.

I saw rusty cables and a lot of dust and smelled what I assumed to be dead rat. I hoped it was dead rat. He pointed at the darkness pooling below, and then I understood. We weren’t checking the shaft—we were using it.

“I’m clearing the stairs,” he breathed in my ear. “You stay in the elevator. Wait for my signal.”

He placed his foot against one door and leaned back against the other to hold them open. Patted the tiny space between his hip and the edge. Mouthed, Let’s go. Carefully I eased over his legs, planted my butt in the space, and dropped my legs over the side. The top of the elevator looked twenty miles down. Ben smiled reassuringly: Don’t worry, Sullivan. I won’t let you fall.

I inched forward until my butt dangled in open space. Nope, that won’t work. I swung back to the edge, then maneuvered onto my knees. Ben grabbed my wrist and gave me a thumbs-up with his free hand. I knee-walked down the shaft wall, gripping the edge until my arms were fully extended. Okay, Cassie. Time to let go now. Ben’s got you. Yeah, dumbass, and Ben’s hurt and about as strong as a three-year-old. When you let go, your weight is going to pull him off his perch and you’ll both drop. He’ll land on top of you and break your neck and then he’ll slowly bleed to death all over your paralyzed body . . .

Oh, what the hell.

I let go. I heard Ben grunt softly, but he didn’t drop me and he didn’t tumble down on top of me. Bending from the waist as he lowered me down, until I saw his head silhouetted in the opening, his face masked in shadow. My toes brushed against the roof of the elevator. I gave him a thumbs-up, though I wasn’t sure if he could see it. Three seconds. Four. And then he let go.

I sank to my knees and felt around for the service hatch. Some grease, some dirt, and a lot of greasy dirt.

Before electricity, they measured brightness in candlepower. The light down here was about one half of one half of one candle.

Then the doors above me closed and the candlepower dropped to zero.

Thanks, Parish. You could have waited till I found the hatch.

And, when I did, the latch was stuck, probably rusted shut. I reached for my Luger with the thought of using the butt end as a hammer, then remembered I’d entrusted my semiautomatic pistol to a five-year-old’s care. I pulled the combat knife from my ankle holster and gave the latch three hard whacks with the handle. The metal screeched. A very loud screech. So much for stealth. But the latch gave. I pulled the hatch open, which resulted in another very loud screech, this time from the rusty hinge. Well, sure, this sounds really loud to you, kneeling right next to it. Outside the shaft, probably only a tiny mouselike squeaky-squeak. Don’t get paranoid! My father had a saying about paranoia. I never thought it was very funny, especially after hearing it two thousand times: I’m only paranoid because everyone is against me. Only a joke, I used to think. Not an omen.

I dropped into the utter dark of the elevator car. Wait for my signal. What signal? Ben neglected to cover that. I pressed my ear to the crack between the cold metal doors and held my breath. Counted to ten. Breathed. Counted to ten again. Breathed. After six ten counts and four breaths and hearing nothing, I started getting a little antsy. What was happening out there? Where was Ben? Where was Dumbo? Our little band was being ripped apart one person at a time. A big mistake splitting up, but each time we didn’t have a choice. We were being outplayed. Someone was making this look foolishly easy.

Or multiple someones: After we went rogue in Dayton, Vosch dispatched two squads to hunt us down.

That was it. That had to be it. One or possibly both squads had found our hiding place. We waited here too long.

That’s right, and why did you wait, Cassiopeia “Defiance” Sullivan? Oh yeah, because some dead guy promised he’d find you. So you closed your eyes and jumped off the cliff into that emptiness, and now you’re shocked there’s no big fat mattress at the bottom? Your fault. Whatever happens now. You’re responsible.

The elevator was not large, but in the pitch dark it seemed the size of a football stadium. I was standing in a vast underground pit, no light, no sound, a lifeless, lightless void, frozen to the spot, paralyzed by fear and doubt. Knowing—without understanding how I knew—that Ben’s signal wasn’t coming. Understanding—without knowing how I understood—that Evan wasn’t coming, either.

You never know when the truth will come home. You can’t choose the time. The time chooses you. I’d had days to face the truth that now faced me in that cold, black space, and I’d refused. I wouldn’t go there. So the truth decided to come to me.

When he touched me on our last night together, there was no space between us, no spot where he ended and I began, and now there was no space between me and the darkness of the pit. He promised he would find me. Don’t I always find you? And I believed him. After distrusting everything he said from the moment I met him, for the first time, in the last words he spoke, I believed.

I pressed my face against the cold metal doors. I had the sensation of falling, miles upon miles of empty air beneath me. I would never stop falling. You’re a mayfly. Here for a day and then gone. No. I’m still here, Evan. You’re the one who’s gone.

“You knew from the moment we left the farmhouse what would happen,” I whispered into the void. “You knew you were going to die. And you went anyway.”

I couldn’t stay upright anymore. I had no choice. I slid down to my knees. Falling. Falling. I would never stop falling.

Let go, Cassie. Let go.

“Let go? I’m falling. I’m falling, Evan.”

But I knew what he meant.

I’d never let him go. Not really. I told myself a thousand times a day he couldn’t have survived. Lectured myself that our holing up in this fleabag motel was useless, dangerous, crazy, suicidal. But I clung to his promise because letting go of the promise meant I was letting go of him.

“I hate you, Evan Walker,” I whispered to the void.

From inside the void—and from the void inside—silence.

Can’t go back. Can’t go forward. Can’t hold on. Can’t let go. Can’t, can’t, can’t, can’t. What can you do? What can you do?

I lifted my face. Okay. I can do that.

I stood up. That, too.

I squared my shoulders and slipped my fingertips into the place where the two doors met.

I’m stepping out now, I told the silent deep. I’m letting go.

I forced the doors apart. Light flooded into the void, devouring the smallest shadow, down to the last one.