The 5th Wave

Yellow.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “You think they tell me anything? I just hope it doesn’t mean we’re taking another bunker-dive.” No one in the hospital likes the air raid drills. Getting several hundred patients underground in less than three minutes is a tactical nightmare.

“Better than staying topside and getting incinerated by an alien death ray.”

Maybe it’s psychological, but the minute Kistner pulls the drip, the pain sets in, a dull throbbing ache where Ringer shot me that keeps time with my heart. As I wait for my head to clear, I wonder if I should reconsider the plan. An evacuation into the underground bunker might simplify things. After the fiasco of Nugget’s first air raid drill, command decided to pool all noncombatant children into a safe room located in the middle of the complex. It’ll be a hell of a lot easier snatching him from there than checking every barracks on base.

But I have no idea when—or even if—that’s going to happen. Better stick to the original plan. Tick-tock.

I close my eyes, visualizing each step of the escape with as much detail as possible. I did this before, back when there were high schools and Friday night games and crowds to cheer at them. Back when winning a district title seemed like the most important thing in the world. Picturing my routes, the arc of the ball sailing toward the lights, the defender keeping pace beside me, the precise moment to turn my head and bring up my hands without breaking stride. Imagining not just the perfect play but the busted one, how I would adjust my route, give the quarterback a target to save the down.

There’s a thousand ways this could go wrong and only one way for it to go right. Don’t think a play ahead, or two plays or three. Think about this play, this step. Get it right one step at a time, and you’ll score.

Step one: the orderly.

My best buddy Kistner, giving somebody a sponge bath two beds down.

“Hey,” I call over to him. “Hey, Kistner!”

“What is it?” Kistner calls back, clearly annoyed with me. He doesn’t like to be interrupted.

“I have to go to the john.”

“You’re not supposed to get up. You’ll tear the sutures.”

“Aw, come on, Kistner. The bathroom’s right over there.”

“Doctor’s orders. I’ll bring you a bedpan.”

I watch him weave his way through the bunks toward the supply station. I’m a little worried I haven’t waited long enough for the meds to fade. What if I can’t stand up? Tick-tock, Zombie. Tick- tock.

I throw back the covers and swing my legs off the bed. Gritting my teeth; this is the hard part. I’m wrapped tight from chest to waist, and pushing myself upright stretches the muscles ripped apart by Ringer’s bullet.

I cut you. You shoot me. It’s only fair.

But it’s escalating. What happens on your next turn? You stick a hand grenade down my pants?

That’s a disturbing image, sticking a live grenade down Ringer’s pants. On so many levels.

I’m still full of dope, but when I sit up, the pain almost makes me black out. So I sit still for a minute, waiting for my head to clear.

Step two: the bathroom.

Force yourself to go slow. Take small steps. Shuffle. I can feel the back of the gown flapping open; I’m mooning the entire ward.

The bathroom is maybe twenty feet away. It feels like twenty miles. If it’s locked or if someone’s in there, I’m screwed.

It’s neither. I lock the door behind me. Sink and toilet and a small shower stall. The curtain rod is screwed into the wall. I lift the lid of the commode. A short metal arm that lifts the flapper, dull on both ends. Toilet paper holder is plastic. So much for finding a weapon in here. But I’m still on track. Come on, Kistner, I’m wide open.

Two sharp raps on the door, and then his voice on the other side.

“Hey, you in there?”

“I told you I had to go!” I yell.

“And I told you I was bringing a bedpan!”

“Couldn’t hold it anymore!”

The door handle jiggles.

“Unlock this door!”

“Privacy, please!” I holler.

“I’m going to call security!”

“All right, all right! Like I’m freaking going anywhere!”

Count to ten, flip the lock, shuffle to the toilet, sit. The door opens a crack, and I can see a sliver of Kistner’s thin face.

“Satisfied?” I grunt. “Now can you please close the door?”

Kistner stares at me for a long moment, plucking at his shirt. “I’ll be right out here,” he promises.

“Good,” I say.

The door eases shut. Now six slow ten-counts. A good minute.

“Hey, Kistner!”

“What?”

“I’m gonna need your help.”

“Define ‘help.’”

“Getting up! I can’t get off the damned can! I think I might have torn a suture…”

The door flies open. Kistner’s face is flushed with anger.

“I told you.”

He steps in front of me. Holds out both hands.

“Here, grab my wrists.”

“First can you close that door? This is embarrassing.”

Kistner closes the door. I wrap my fingers around Kistner’s wrists.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Step three: wet willy.

As Kistner pulls back, I drive forward with my legs, slamming my shoulder into his narrow chest, knocking him backward into the concrete wall. Then I yank him forward, pivot behind him, and pull his arm up high behind his back. That forces him to his knees in front of the toilet. I grab a handful of his hair, shove his face into the water. Kistner is stronger than he looks, or I’m a lot weaker than I thought. It seems to take forever for him to pass out.

I let go and stand back. Kistner does a slow roll and flops onto the floor. Shoes, pants. Pulling him upright to yank off the shirt. The shirt’s going to be too small, the pants too long, the shoes too tight. I rip off my gown, toss it into the shower stall, pull on Kistner’s scrubs. The shoes take the longest. Way too small. A sharp pain shoots through my side as I struggle to put them on. Looking down, I see blood seeping through the bandaging. What if I bleed through the shirt?

A thousand ways. Focus on the one way.

Drag Kistner into the stall. Fling the curtain closed. How long will he be out? Doesn’t matter. Keep moving. Don’t think ahead.

Step four: the tracker.

I hesitate at the door. What if someone saw Kistner come in and now sees me, dressed as Kistner, coming out?

Then you’re done. He’s going to kill you anyway. Okay, don’t just die, then. Die trying.

The operating room doors are the length of a football field away, past rows of beds and through what seems like a mob of orderlies and nurses and lab-coated doctors. I walk as quickly as I can toward the doors, favoring my injured side, which throws off my stride but it can’t be helped; for all I know, Vosch has been tracking me and he’s