The 5th Wave

brothers in arms. He was bursting all over with excitement, like any second he would pee himself.

“All weapons accounted for and secured, Corporal.”

All except two, I thought. I looked at Dad. He didn’t move a muscle, except the ones around his eyes. Flick to the right, flick to the left. No.

There was only one reason I could think of that he’d do that. And when I think about it, if I think too much about it, I start to hate my father. Hate him for distrusting his own instincts. Hate him for ignoring the little voice that must have been whispering, This is wrong. Something about this is wrong.

I hate him right now. If he were here right now, I’d punch him in the face for being such an ignorant dweeb.

The corporal motioned toward the barracks. It was time for Colonel Vosch’s briefing.

Time for the world to end.

19

I PICKED OUT Vosch right away.

Standing just inside the door, very tall, the only guy in fatigues not cradling a rifle against his chest.

He nodded to Hutchfield when we stepped inside the old hospital/charnel house. Then Corporal Branch gave a salute and squeezed into the line of soldiers that ringed the walls.

That’s how it was: soldiers standing along three of the four walls, refugees in the middle.

Dad’s hand sought out mine. Sammy’s teddy in one hand, the other hanging on to his.

How about it, Dad? Did that little voice get louder when you saw the men with guns against the walls? Is that why you grabbed my hand?

“All right, now can we get some answers?” someone shouted when we stepped inside.

Everybody started to talk at once—everyone except the soldiers—shouting out questions.

“Have they landed?”

“What do they look like?”

“What are they?”

“What are those gray ships we keep seeing in the sky?”

“When do the rest of us get to leave?”

“How many survivors have you found?”

Vosch held up his hand for quiet. It only half worked.

Hutchfield gave him a smart salute. “All present and accounted for, sir!”

I did a quick head count. “No,” I said. I raised my voice to be heard over the din. “No!” I looked at Dad. “Crisco’s not here.”

Hutchfield frowned. “Who’s Crisco?”

“He’s this cree—this kid—”

“Kid? Then he left on the buses with the others.”

The others. It’s kind of funny when I think about it now. Funny in a sickening way.

“We need everyone in this building,” Vosch said from behind his mask. His voice was very deep, a subterranean rumble.

“He probably had a freakout,” I said. “He’s kind of a wuss.”

“Where would he go?” Vosch asked.

I shook my head. I had no clue. Then I did, more than a clue. I knew where Crisco had gone.

“The ash pit.”

“Where is the ash pit?”

“Cassie,” Dad spoke up. He was squeezing my hand hard. “Why don’t you go get Crisco for us so the colonel can start our briefing?”

“Me?”

I didn’t get it. I think Dad’s little voice was screaming by this point, but I couldn’t hear it, and he couldn’t say it. All he could do was try to telegraph it with his eyes. Maybe it was this: Do you know how to tell who the enemy is, Cassie?

I don’t know why he didn’t volunteer to go with me. Maybe he thought they wouldn’t suspect a kid of anything, and one of us would make it—or at least have a chance to make it.

Maybe.

“All right,” Vosch said. He flicked his finger at Corporal Branch: Go with her.

“She’ll be okay alone,” Dad said. “She knows those woods like the back of her hand. Five minutes, right, Cassie?” He looked at Vosch and smiled. “Five minutes.”

“Don’t be a dumbass, Sullivan,” Hutchfield said. “She can’t go out there without an escort.”

“Sure,” Dad said. “Right. You’re right, of course.”

He leaned over and gave me a hug. Not too tight, not too long. A quick hug. Squeeze. Release. Anything more would seem like a good-bye.

Good-bye, Cassie.

Branch turned to his commander and said, “First priority, sir?”

And Vosch nodded. “First priority.”

We stepped into the bright sunshine, the man in the gas mask and the girl with the teddy bear. Straight ahead a couple of soldiers were leaning against a Humvee. I hadn’t seen them when we passed the Humvees before. They straightened at the sight of us. Corporal Branch gave them a thumbs-up and then held up his index finger. First priority.

“How far is it?” he asked me.

“Not far,” I answered. My voice sounded very small to me. Maybe it was Sammy’s teddy, tugging me back to childhood.

He followed me down the trail that snaked into the dense woods behind the compound, rifle held in front of him, barrel down. The dry ground crunched in protest under his brown boots.

The day was warm, but it was cooler under the trees, their leaves a rich, late-summer green. We passed the tree where I’d stashed the M16. I didn’t look back at it. I kept walking toward the clearing.

And there he was, the little shit, up to his ankles in bones and dust, clawing through the broken remains for that last, useless, priceless trinket, one more for the road so whenever he got to where the road ended he’d be the Man.

His head came around when we stepped inside the ring of trees. Glistening with sweat and the crap he slopped in his hair. Streaks of black soot stained his cheeks. He looked like some sorry-ass excuse of a football player. When he saw us, his hand whipped behind his back. Something silver flashed in the sun.

“Hey! Cassie? Hey, there you are. I came back here looking for you because you weren’t in the barracks, and then I saw…there was this—”

“Is he the one?” the soldier asked me. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and took a step toward the pit.

It was me, the soldier in the middle, and Crisco in the pit of ash and bone.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s Crisco.”

“That’s not my name,” he squeaked. “My real name is—”

I’ll never know Crisco’s real name.

I didn’t see the gun or hear the report of the soldier’s sidearm. I didn’t see the soldier draw it from his holster, but I wasn’t looking at the soldier, I was looking at Crisco. His head snapped back, like someone had yanked on his greasy locks, and he sort of folded up as he went down, clutching the treasures of the dead in his hand.