The 5th Wave

Long sigh. His eyes lift up to mine. I don’t need him to speak; I can see the answer in his eyes. “Not much, no.”

“Because you don’t have the heart to kill, but you have the heart to do what you have to do.” I hold my breath. He must know where I’m going with this.

He hesitates. Nods. I can see the pain in his eyes. I look away so he can’t see the pain in mine. But you started down this road, Cassie. No turning back now.

“And you’re very good at what you have the heart to do, aren’t you?”

Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Yours, too: What do you have the heart to do, Cassie?

He saved my life. How could he also be the one who tried to take it? It doesn’t make sense.

Do I have the heart to let him bleed to death because now I know he lied to me—that he isn’t gentle Evan Walker the reluctant hunter, the grieving son and brother and lover, but something that might not even be human? Do I have what it takes to follow the first rule down to its final, brutal, unforgiving conclusion and put a bullet through his finely sculpted forehead?

Oh, crap, who are you kidding?

I start to unbutton his shirt. “Got to get these clothes off,” I mutter.

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that.” Smile. Lopsided. Sexy.

“You’re not charming your way out of this one, buddy. Can you sit up a little? A little more. Here, take these.” A couple of pain pills from the first aid kit. He swallows them with two long gulps of water from a bottle I hand him.

I pull off his shirt. He’s looking up into my face; I avoid his gaze. While I tug off his boots, he unbuckles his belt and pulls down the zipper. He lifts his butt, but I can’t get his pants off—they’re plastered to his body with tacky blood.

“Rip them,” he says. He rolls over onto his stomach. I try, but the material keeps slipping through my fingers when I pull.

“Here, use this.” He holds up a bloody knife. I don’t ask him where the blood came from.

I cut from hole to hole slowly; I’m terrified of cutting him. Then I strip the pants away from each leg, like peeling a banana. That’s it, the perfect metaphor: peeling a banana. I have to know what the truth is, and you can’t get to the tasty fruit without stripping off the outer layer.

Speaking of fruit, I’m down—I mean, he’s down—to his underwear.

Confronted with them, I ask, “Do I need to look at your butt?”

“I’ve been wondering about your opinion.”

“Enough with the lame attempts at humor.” I slice the material at both hips and peel back the underwear, exposing him. His butt is bad. I mean bad as in peppered with shrapnel wounds. Otherwise, it’s pretty good.

I dab at the blood with some gauze from the kit, fighting back hysterical giggles. I blame it on the unbearable stress, not on the fact that I’m wiping Evan Walker’s ass.

“God, you’re a mess.”

He’s gasping for air. “Just try to stop the bleeding for now.”

I pack the wounds on this side of him the best I can. “Can you roll back over?” I ask.

“I’d rather not.”

“I need to see the front.” Oh my God. The front?

“The front’s okay. Really.”

I sit back, exhausted. Guess that’s one thing I’ll take his word for. “Tell me what happened.”

“After I got you out of the ravine, I ran. Found a shallow spot to climb out. Circled around them. The rest you probably heard.”

“I heard three shots. You said there were four guys.”

“Knife.”

“This knife?”

“That knife. This is his blood on my hands, not mine.”

“Oh, thanks.” I scrub my cheek where he touched me. I decide to just come out with the worst explanation for what’s going on. “You’re a Silencer, aren’t you?”

Silence. How ironic.

“Or are you human?” I whisper. Say human, Evan. And when you say it, say it perfectly so there’s no doubt. Please, Evan, I really need you to take the doubt away. I know you said you can’t make yourself trust—so, damn it, make somebody else trust. Make me trust. Say it. Say you’re human.

“Cassie…”

“Are you human?”

“Of course I’m human.”

I take a deep breath. He said it, but not perfectly. I can’t see his face; it’s tucked beneath his elbow. Maybe if I could see his face that would make it perfect and I could let this awful thought go. I pick up some sterile wipes and begin to clean his blood—or whoever’s—from my hands.

“If you’re human, why have you been lying to me?”

“I haven’t lied to you about everything.”

“Just the parts that matter.”

“Those are the parts I haven’t lied about.”

“Did you kill those three people on the interstate?”

“Yes.”

I flinch. I didn’t expect him to say yes. I expected an Are you kidding? Stop being so paranoid. Instead I get a soft, simple answer, as if I asked him if he ever skinny-dipped.

Next question is the hardest yet: “Did you shoot me in the leg?”

“Yes.”

I shudder and drop the bloody wipe between my legs. “Why did you shoot me in the leg, Evan?”

“Because I couldn’t shoot you in the head.”

Well. There you have it.

I pull out the Luger and hold it in my lap. His head is about a foot from my knee. The one thing that puzzles me is the person with the gun is shaking like a leaf and the one at her mercy is perfectly calm.

“I’m going now,” I tell him. “I’m going to leave you to bleed to death the way you left me under that car.”

I wait for him to say something.

“You’re not leaving,” he points out.

“I’m waiting to hear what you have to say.”

“This is complicated.”

“No, Evan. Lies are complicated. The truth is simple. Why were you shooting people on the highway?”

“Because I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” I ask.

“Afraid they weren’t people.”

I sigh and fish out a bottle of water from my backpack, lean back against the fallen tree, and take a deep drink.

“You shot those people on the highway—and me, and God knows who else; I know you weren’t going out every night hunting animals—because you already knew about the 4th Wave. I’m your Crucifix Soldier.”

He nods into the crook of his elbow. Muffled voice: “If you want to put it that way.”

“If you wanted me dead, why did you pull me out of the snow instead of letting me freeze to death?”

“I didn’t want you dead.”

“After shooting me in the leg and leaving me to bleed to death under a car.”

“No, you were on your feet when I ran.”

“You ran? Why did you run?” I’m having trouble picturing it.

“I was afraid.”

“You shot those people because you were afraid. You shot me because you were afraid. You ran because you were afraid.”