Follow the road, follow the road, follow the dusty dirt road…
After a couple miles it veers to the west, connecting with Highway 35. Another few miles on Highway 35 to the junction of 675. I can take cover at the overpass there and wait for the buses. If the buses still run on Highway 35. If they’re still running at all.
At the end of the dirt road, I pause long enough to scan the terrain behind me. Nothing. He’s not coming. He’s letting me go.
I head a few feet into the trees to catch my breath. The minute I sink to the ground, everything I’ve been running from catches up to me long before my breath.
I am a shark who dreamed he was a man…
Someone is screaming—I can hear her screams echoing through the trees. The sound goes on and on. Let it bring a horde of Silencers down upon me, I don’t care. I press my hands against my head and rock back and forth, and I have this weird sensation of floating above my body, and then I’m rocketing into the sky at a thousand miles an hour and watching myself dwindle into a tiny spot before the immensity of the Earth swallows me. It’s as if I’ve been loosed from the Earth. As if there were nothing to hold me down anymore and I’m being sucked into the void. As if I were bound by a silver cord and now that cord has snapped.
I thought I knew what loneliness was before he found me, but I had no clue. You don’t know what real loneliness is until you’ve known the opposite.
“Cassie.”
Two seconds: on my feet. Another two and a half: swinging the M16 toward the voice. A shadow darts between the trees on my left and I open up, spraying bullets willy-nilly at tree trunks and branches and empty air.
“Cassie.”
In front of me, about two o’clock. I empty the clip. I know I didn’t hit him. Know I don’t have a prayer of hitting him. He’s a Silencer. But if I keep shooting, maybe he’ll back off.
“Cassie.”
Directly behind me. I take a deep breath, reload, and then deliberately turn and pump some more lead into the innocent trees.
Don’t you get it, dummy? He’s getting you to use up your ammo.
So I wait, feet wide, shoulders square, gun up, scanning right and left, and I can hear his voice in my head, giving instruction back at the farm: You have to feel the target. Like it’s connected to you. Like you’re connected to it…
It happens in the space of time between one second and the next. His arm drops around my chest, he rips the rifle from my hands, then relieves me of the Luger. After another half second, he’s locked me in a bear hug, crushing me into his chest and lifting my feet a couple inches off the ground as I kick furiously with my heels, twisting my head back and forth, snapping at his forearm with my teeth.
And the whole time his lips tickling the delicate skin of my ear. “Cassie. Don’t. Cassie…”
“Let…me…go.”
“That’s been the whole problem. I can’t.”
71
EVAN LETS ME KICK and squirm until I’m exhausted, then he plops me down against a tree and steps back.
“You know what happens if you run,” he warns me. His face is flushed. He’s having a hard time catching his breath. When he turns to retrieve my weapons, his movements are stiff, deliberate. Catching me—after taking the grenade for me—has cost him. His jacket hangs open, exposing his denim shirt, and the pants he took from the dead kid are two sizes too small, tight in all the wrong places. It looks like he’s wearing a pair of capris.
“You’ll shoot me in the back of the head,” I say.
He tucks my Luger into his belt and swings the M16 over one shoulder.
“I could have done that a long time ago.”
I guess he’s talking about the first time we met. “You’re a Silencer,” I say. It takes everything in me not to jump up and tear off through the trees again. Of course, running from him is pointless. Fighting him is pointless. So I have to outsmart him. It’s like I’m back under that car on the day we first met. No hiding from it. No running from it.
He sits down a few feet away, resting his rifle across his thighs. He’s shivering.
“If your job is to kill us, why didn’t you kill me?” I ask.
He answers without hesitating, as if he’s decided long before I asked the question what his answer would be.
“Because I’m in love with you.”
My head falls back against the rough bark of the tree. The bare branches overhead are hard-edged against the bright blue sky. “Well, this is a tragic love story, isn’t it? Alien invader falls for human girl. The hunter for his prey.”
“I am human.”
“‘I am human…but.’ Finish it, Evan.” Because I’m finished now, Evan. You were the last one, my only friend in the world, and now you’re gone. I mean, you’re here, whatever you are, but Evan, my Evan, he’s gone.
“Not but, Cassie. And. I am human and I’m not. I’m neither and I’m both. I am Other and I am you.”
I look into his eyes, deep-set and very dark in the shadowy air, and say, “You make me want to puke.”
“How could I tell you the truth when the truth meant you would leave me and leaving me meant you would die?”
“Don’t preach to me about dying, Evan.” Wagging my finger at his face. “I watched my mother die. I watched one of you kill my father. I’ve seen more death in six months than anyone else in human history.”
He pushes my hand down and says through gritted teeth, “And if there had been something you could have done to protect your father, to save your mother, wouldn’t you have done it? If you knew a lie would save Sammy, wouldn’t you lie?”
You bet I would. I would even pretend to trust the enemy to save Sammy. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around Because I’m in love with you. Trying to come up with some other reason he betrayed his species.
Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. Only one thing matters. A door slammed closed behind Sammy the day he got on that bus, a door with a thousand locks, and I realize sitting in front of me is the guy with the keys.
“You know what’s at Wright-Patterson, don’t you?” I say. “You know exactly what happened to Sam.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t nod yes. Doesn’t shake his head no. What’s he thinking? That it’s one thing to spare a single measly random human but something seriously different to give away the master plan? Is this Evan Walker’s under-the-Buick moment, when you can’t run, can’t hide, and your only option is to turn and face?
“Is he alive?” I ask. I lean forward; the rough tree bark is cutting into my spine.
He hesitates for a half breath, then: “He probably is.”
“Why did they…why did you bring him there?”
“To prepare him.”
“To prepare him for what?”
Waits a full breath this time. Then: “The 5th Wave.”
I close my eyes. For the first time, looking at that beautiful face is too much to endure. God, I’m tired. So frigging tired, I could sleep for a thousand years. If I slept for a thousand years, maybe I’d wake up and the Others would be gone and there’d be happy children frolicking in these woods. I am Other and I am you. What the hell does that mean? I’m too tired to chase the thought.
I open my eyes and force myself to look at him. “You can get us in.”
He’s shaking his head.
“Why not?” I ask. “You’re one of them. You can say you captured me.”
“Wright-Patterson isn’t a prison camp, Cassie.”
“Then what is it?”
“For you?” Leaning toward me; his breath warms my face. “A death trap. You won’t last five seconds. Why do you think I’ve been trying everything I can think of to keep you from going there?”
“Everything? Really? How about telling me the truth? How about something like, ‘Hey, Cass, about this rescue thingy of yours. I’m an alien like the guys who took Sam, so I know what you’re doing is absolutely hopeless’?”
“Would it have made a difference if I had?”
“That isn’t the point.”
“No, the point is your brother is being held at the most important base we—I mean, the Others—have established since the purge began—”
“Since the what? What did you call it? The purge?”
“Or the cleansing.” He can’t meet my eyes. “Sometimes it’s called that.”
“Oh, that’s what you’re doing? Cleaning up the human mess?”
“That’s not my word for it, and purging or cleansing or whatever you want to call it wasn’t my decision,” he protests. “If it makes you feel any better, I never thought we should—”
“I don’t want to feel better! The hatred I’m feeling at this moment is all I need, Evan. All I need.” Okay, that was honest, but don’t go too far. He’s the guy with the keys. Keep him talking. “Never thought you should do what?”
He takes a long drink from the water flask, offers it to me. I shake my head. “Wright-Patterson isn’t just any base—it’s the base,” he says, weighing each word carefully. “And Vosch isn’t just any commander—he’s the commander, the leader of all field operations and the architect of the cleans—the one who designed the attacks.”