puffyboa.xyz Speedreed

Speedreed

THE

5TH

WAVE

By

Rick

Yancey

For

Sandy,

whose

dreams

inspire

and

whose

love

endures

IF

ALIENS

EVER

VISIT

US,

I

think

the

outcome

would

be

much

as

when

Christopher

Columbus

first

landed

in

America,

which

didn’t

turn

out

very

well

for

the

Native

Americans.

—Stephen

Hawking

THE

1ST

WAVE:

Lights

Out

THE

2ND

WAVE:

Surf’s

Up

THE

3RD

WAVE:

Pestilence

THE

4TH

WAVE:

Silencer

INTRUSION:

1995

THERE

WILL

BE

NO

AWAKENING.

The

sleeping

woman

will

feel

nothing

the

next

morning,

only

a

vague

sense

of

unease

and

the

unshakable

feeling

that

someone

is

watching

her.

Her

anxiety

will

fade

in

less

than

a

day

and

will

soon

be

forgotten.

The

memory

of

the

dream

will

linger

a

little

longer.

In

her

dream,

a

large

owl

perches

outside

the

window,

staring

at

her

through

the

glass

with

huge,

white-rimmed

eyes.

She

will

not

awaken.

Neither

will

her

husband

beside

her.

The

shadow

falling

over

them

will

not

disturb

their

sleep.

And

what

the

shadow

has

come

for—the

baby

within

the

sleeping

woman—will

feel

nothing.

The

intrusion

breaks

no

skin,

violates

not

a

single

cell

of

her

or

the

baby’s

body.

It

is

over

in

less

than

a

minute.

The

shadow

withdraws.

Now

it

is

only

the

man,

the

woman,

the

baby

inside

her,

and

the

intruder

inside

the

baby,

sleeping.

The

woman

and

man

will

awaken

in

the

morning,

the

baby

a

few

months

later

when

he

is

born.

The

intruder

inside

him

will

sleep

on

and

not

wake

for

several

years,

when

the

unease

of

the

child’s

mother

and

the

memory

of

that

dream

have

long

since

faded.

Five

years

later,

at

a

visit

to

the

zoo

with

her

child,

the

woman

will

see

an

owl

identical

to

the

one

in

the

dream.

Seeing

the

owl

is

unsettling

for

reasons

she

cannot

understand.

She

is

not

the

first

to

dream

of

owls

in

the

dark.

She

will

not

be

the

last.

1

ALIENS

ARE

STUPID.

I’m

not

talking

about

real

aliens.

The

Others

aren’t

stupid.

The

Others

are

so

farahead

of

us,

it’s

like

comparing

the

dumbest

human

to

the

smartest

dog.

No

contest.

No,

I’m

talking

about

the

aliens

inside

our

own

heads.

The

ones

we

made

up,

the

ones

we’ve

been

making

up

since

we

realized

those

glittering

lights

in

the

sky

were

suns

like

ours

and

probably

had

planets

like

ours

spinning

around

them.

You

know,

the

aliens

we

imagine,

the

kind

of

aliens

we’d

like

to

attack

us,

human

aliens.

You’ve

seen

them

a

million

times.

They

swoop

down

fromthe

sky

in

their

flying

saucers

to

level

New

York

and

Tokyo

and

London,

or

they

march

across

the

countryside

in

huge

machines

that

look

like

mechanical

spiders,

ray

guns

blasting

away,

and

always,

always,

humanity

sets

aside

its

differences

and

bands

together

to

defeat

the

alien

horde.

David

slays

Goliath,

and

everybody

(except

Goliath)

goes

home

happy.

What

crap.

It’s

like

a

cockroach

working

up

a

plan

to

defeat

the

shoe

on

its

way

down

to

crush

it.

There’s

no

way

to

know

for

sure,

but

I

bet

the

Others

knew

about

the

human

aliens

we’d

imagined.

And

I

bet

they

thought

it

was

funny

as

hell.

They

must

have

laughedtheir

asses

off.

If

they

have

a

sense

of

humor…or

asses.

They

must

have

laughed

the

way

we

laugh

when

a

dog

does

something

totally

cute

and

dorky.

Oh,

those

cute,

dorky

humans!

They

think

we

think

like

they

do!

Isn’t

that

adorable?

Forget

about

flying

saucers

and

little

green

men

and

giant

mechanical

spiders

spitting

out

death

rays.

Forget

about

epic

battles

with

tanks

and

fighter

jets

and

the

final

victory

of

us

scrappy,

unbroken,

intrepid

humans

over

the

bug-eyed

swarm.

That’s

about

as

far

from

the

truth

as

their

dying

planet

was

from

our

living

one.

The

truth

is,

once

they

found

us,

we

were

toast.

2

SOMETIMES

I

THINK

I

might

be

the

last

human

on

Earth.

Which

means

I’m

the

last

human

in

the

universe.

I

know

that’s

dumb.

They

can’t

have

killed

everyone…yet.

I

see

how

it

could

happen,

though,

eventually.

And

then

I

think

that’s

exactly

what

the

Others

want

me

to

see.

Remember

the

dinosaurs?

Well.

So

I’m

probably

not

the

last

human

on

Earth,

but

I’m

one

of

the

last.

Totally

alone—andlikely

to

stay

that

way—until

the

4th

Wave

rolls

over

me

and

carries

me

down.

That’s

one

of

my

night

thoughts.

You

know,

the

three-in-the-morning,

oh-my-God-I’m-screwed

thoughts.

When

I

curl

into

a

little

ball,

so

scared

I

can’t

close

my

eyes,

drowningin

fear

so

intense

I

have

to

remind

myself

to

breathe,

will

my

heart

to

keep

beating.

When

my

brain

checks

out

and

begins

to

skip

like

a

scratched

CD.

Alone,

alone,

alone,

Cassie,

you’re

alone.

That’s

my

name.

Cassie.

Not

Cassie

for

Cassandra.

Or

Cassie

for

Cassidy.

Cassie

for

Cassiopeia,

the

constellation,the

queen

tied

to

her

chair

in

the

northern

sky,

who

was

beautiful

but

vain,

placed

in

the

heavens

by

the

sea

god

Poseidon

as

a

punishment

for

her

boasting.

In

Greek,her

name

means

“she

whose

words

excel.”

My

parents

didn’t

know

the

first

thing

about

that

myth.

They

just

thought

the

name

was

pretty.

Even

when

there

were

people

around

to

call

me

anything,

no

one

ever

called

me

Cassiopeia.Just

my

father,

and

only

when

he

was

teasing

me,

and

always

in

a

very

bad

Italian

accent:

Cass-ee-ohPEE-a.

It

drove

me

crazy.

I

didn’t

think

he

was

funny

or

cute,

and

it

made

me

hate

my

own

name.

“I’m

Cassie!”

I’d

holler

at

him.

“Just

Cassie!”

Now

I’d

give

anything

to

hearhim

say

it

just

one

more

time.

When

I

was

turning

twelve—four

years

before

the

Arrival—my

father

gave

me

a

telescope

for

my

birthday.

On

a

crisp,

clear

fall

evening,

he

set

it

up

in

the

backyard

and

showed

me

the

constellation.

“See

how

it

looks

like

a

W?”

he

asked.

“Why

did

they

name

it

Cassiopeia

if

it’s

shaped

like

a

W?”

I

replied.

“W

for

what?”

“Well…I

don’t

know

that

it’s

for

anything,”

he

answered

with

a

smile.

Mom

always

told

him

it

was

his

best

feature,

so

he

trotted

it

out

a

lot,

especially

after

he

started

going

bald.

You

know,

to

drag

the

other

person’s

eyes

downward.

“So,

it’s

for

anything

you

like!

How

about

wonderful?

Or

winsome?

Or

wise?”

He

dropped

his

hand

on

my

shoulder

as

I

squinted

through

the

lens

at

the

five

stars

burning

over

fifty

light-years

from

the

spot

on

which

we

stood.

I

could

feel

my

father’s

breath

against

my

cheek,

warm

and

moist

in

the

cool,

dry

autumn

air.

His

breath

so

close,

the

stars

of

Cassiopeia

so

very

far

away.

The

stars

seem

a

lot

closer

now.

Closer

than

the

three

hundred

trillion

miles

that

separate

us.

Close

enough

to

touch,

for

me

to

touch

them,

for

them

to

touch

me.

They’re

as

close

to

me

as

his

breath

had

been.

That

sounds

crazy.

Am

I

crazy?

Have

I

lost

my

mind?

You

can

only

call

someone

crazy

if

there’s

someone

else

who’s

normal.

Like

good

and

evil.

If

everything

was

good,

then

nothing

would

be

good.

Whoa.

That

sounds,

well…crazy.

Crazy:

the

new

normal.

I

guess

I

could

call

myself

crazy,

since

there

is

one

other

person

I

can

compare

myselfto:

me.

Not

the

me

I

am

now,

shivering

in

a

tent

deep

in

the

woods,

too

afraid

to

even

poke

her

head

from

the

sleeping

bag.

Not

this

Cassie.

No,

I’m

talking

about

theCassie

I

was

before

the

Arrival,

before

the

Others

parked

their

alien

butts

in

high

orbit.

The

twelve-year-old

me,

whose

biggest

problems

were

the

spray

of

tiny

freckles

on

her

nose

and

the

curly

hair

she

couldn’t

do

anything

with

and

the

cute

boy

who

saw

her

every

day

and

had

no

clue

she

existed.

The

Cassie

who

was

coming

to

terms

with

the

painful

fact

that

she

was

just

okay.

Okay

in

looks.

Okay

in

school.

Okayat

sports

like

karate

and

soccer.

Basically

the

only

unique

things

about

her

were

the

weird

name—Cassie

for

Cassiopeia,

which

nobody

knew

about,

anyway—and

her

ability

to

touch

her

nose

with

the

tip

of

her

tongue,

a

skill

that

quickly

lost

its

impressiveness

by

the

time

she

hit

middle

school.

I’m

probably

crazy

by

that

Cassie’s

standards.

And

she

sure

is

crazy

by

mine.

I

scream

at

her

sometimes,

thattwelve-year-old

Cassie,

moping

over

her

hair

or

her

weird

name

or

at

being

just

okay.

“What

are

you

doing?”

I

yell.

“Don’t

you

know

what’s

coming?”

But

that

isn’t

fair.

The

fact

is

she

didn’t

know,

had

no

way

of

knowing,

and

that

was

her

blessing

and

why

I

miss

her

so

much,

more

than

anyone,

if

I’m

being

honest.

When

I

cry—when

I

let

myself

cry

—that’s

who

I

cry

for.

I

don’t

cry

for

myself.

I

cry

for

the

Cassie

that’s

gone.

And

I

wonder

what

that

Cassie

would

think

of

me.

The

Cassie

who

kills.

3

HE

COULDN’T

HAVE

BEEN

much

older

than

me.

Eighteen.

Maybe

nineteen.

But

hell,

he

could

have

been

seven

hundred

and

nineteen

for

all

I

know.

Five

months

into

it

and

I’m

still

not

sure

if

the

4th

Wave

is

human

or

some

kind

of

hybrid

or

even

the

Others

themselves,

though

I

don’t

like

to

think

that

the

Others

look

just

like

us

and

talk

just

like

us

and

bleed

just

like

us.

I

like

to

think

of

the

Others

as

being…well,

other.

I

was

on

my

weekly

foray

for

water.

There’s

a

stream

not

far

from

my

campsite,

but

I’m

worried

it

might

be

contaminated,

either

from

chemicals

or

sewage

or

maybe

a

body

or

two

upstream.

Or

poisoned.

Depriving

us

of

clean

water

would

be

an

excellent

way

to

wipe

us

out

quickly.

So

once

a

week

I

shoulder

my

trusty

M16

and

hike

out

ofthe

forest

to

the

interstate.

Two

miles

south,

just

off

Exit

175,

there’re

a

couple

of

gas

stations

with

convenience

stores

attached.

I

load

up

as

much

bottled

water

as

I

can

carry,

which

isn’t

a

lot

because

water

is

heavy,

and

get

back

to

the

highway

and

the

relative

safety

of

the

trees

as

quickly

as

I

can,

before

night

falls

completely.

Dusk

is

the

best

time

to

travel.

I’ve

never

seen

a

drone

at

dusk.

Three

or

four

duringthe

day

and

a

lot

more

at

night,

but

never

at

dusk.

From

the

moment

I

slipped

through

the

gas

station’s

shattered

front

door,

I

knew

something

was

different.

I

didn’tsee

anything

different—the

store

looked

exactly

like

it

had

a

week

earlier,

the

same

graffiti-scrawled

walls,

overturned

shelves,

floor

strewn

with

empty

boxes

and

caked-in

rat

feces,

the

busted-open

cash

registers

and

looted

beer

coolers.

It

was

the

same

disgusting,

stinking

mess

I’d

waded

through

every

week

for

the

past

month

to

get

to

the

storage

area

behind

the

refrigerated

display

cases.

Why

people

grabbed

the

beer

and

soda,

the

cash

from

the

registers

and

safe,

the

rolls

of

lottery

tickets,

but

left

the

two

pallets

of

drinking

water

was

beyond

me.

What

were

they

thinking?

It’s

an

alien

apocalypse!

Quick,

grab

the

beer!

The

same

disaster

of

spoilage,

the

same

stench

of

rats

and

rotted

food,

the

same

fitful

swirl

of

dust

in

the

murky

light

pushing

through

the

smudged

windows,

every

out-of-place

thing

in

its

place,

undisturbed.

Still.

Something

was

different.

I

was

standing

in

the

little

pool

of

broken

glass

just

inside

the

doorway.

I

didn’t

see

it.

I

didn’t

hear

it.

I

didn’t

smell

or

feel

it.

But

I

knew

it.

Something

was

different.

It’s

been

a

long

time

since

humans

were

prey

animals.

A

hundred

thousand

years

or

so.

But

buried

deep

in

our

genes

the

memory

remains:

the

awareness

of

the

gazelle,

the

instinct

of

the

antelope.

The

wind

whispers

through

the

grass.

A

shadow

flits

between

the

trees.

And

up

speaks

the

little

voice

that

goes,

Shhhh,

it’s

close

now.

Close.

I

don’t

remember

swinging

the

M16

from

my

shoulder.

One

minute

it

was

hanging

behindmy

back,

the

next

it

was

in

my

hands,

muzzle

down,

safety

off.

Close.

I’d

never

fired

it

at

anything

bigger

than

a

rabbit,

and

that

was

a

kind

of

experiment,

to

see

if

I

could

actually

use

the

thing

without

blowing

off

one

of

my

own

body

parts.

Once

I

shot

over

the

heads

of

a

pack

of

feral

dogs

that

had

gotten

a

little

too

interested

in

my

campsite.

Another

time

nearly

straight

up,

sighting

the

tiny,

glowering

speck

of

greenish

light

that

was

their

mothership

sliding

silently

across

the

backdrop

of

the

Milky

Way.

Okay,

I

admit

that

was

stupid.

I

might

as

well

have

erected

a

billboard

with

a

big

arrow

pointing

at

my

head

and

the

words

YOO-HOO,

HERE

I

AM!

After

the

rabbit

experiment—it

blew

that

poor

damn

bunny

apart,

turning

Peter

into

this

unrecognizable

mass

of

shredded

guts

and

bone—I

gave

up

the

idea

of

using

the

rifle

to

hunt.

I

didn’t

even

do

target

practice.

In

the

silence

that

had

slammed

down

after

the

4th

Wave

struck,

the

report

of

the

rounds

sounded

louder

than

an

atomic

blast.

Still,

I

considered

the

M16

my

bestest

of

besties.

Always

by

my

side,

even

at

night,burrowed

into

my

sleeping

bag

with

me,

faithful

and

true.

In

the

4th

Wave,

you

can’t

trust

that

people

are

still

people.

But

you

can

trust

that

your

gun

is

still

your

gun.

Shhh,

Cassie.

It’s

close.

Close.

I

should

have

bailed.

That

little

voice

had

my

back.

That

little

voice

is

older

thanI

am.

It’s

older

than

the

oldest

person

who

ever

lived.

I

should

have

listened

to

that

voice.

Instead,

I

listened

to

the

silence

of

the

abandoned

store,

listened

hard.

Somethingwas

close.

I

took

a

tiny

step

away

from

the

door,

and

the

broken

glass

crunched

ever

so

softly

under

my

foot.

And

then

the

Something

made

a

noise,

somewhere

between

a

cough

and

a

moan.

It

camefrom

the

back

room,

behind

the

coolers,

where

my

water

was.

That’s

the

moment

when

I

didn’t

need

a

little

old

voice

to

tell

me

what

to

do.

Itwas

obvious,

a

nobrainer.

Run.

But

I

didn’t

run.

The

first

rule

of

surviving

the

4th

Wave

is

don’t

trust

anyone.

It

doesn’t

matter

what

they

look

like.

The

Others

are

very

smart

about

that—okay,

they’re

smart

about

everything.

It

doesn’t

matter

if

they

look

the

right

way

and

say

the

right

things

and

act

exactly

like

you

expect

them

to

act.

Didn’t

my

father’s

death

prove

that?

Even

if

the

stranger

is

a

little

old

lady

sweeter

than

your

great-aunt

Tilly,

hugging

a

helpless

kitten,

you

can’t

know

for

certain—you

can

never

know—that

she

isn’t

one

of

them,

and

that

there

isn’t

a

loaded

.45

behind

that

kitten.

It

isn’t

unthinkable.

And

the

more

you

think

about

it,

the

more

thinkable

it

becomes.

Little

old

lady

has

to

go.

That’s

the

hard

part,

the

part

that,

if

I

thought

about

it

too

much,

would

make

me

crawl

into

my

sleeping

bag,

zip

myself

up,

and

die

of

slow

starvation.

If

you

can’t

trust

anyone,

then

you

can

trust

no

one.

Better

to

take

the

chance

that

Aunty

Tilly

is

one

of

them

than

play

the

odds

that

you’ve

stumbled

across

a

fellow

survivor.

That’s

friggin’

diabolical.

It

tears

us

apart.

It

makes

us

that

much

easier

to

hunt

down

and

eradicate.

The

4thWave

forces

us

into

solitude,

where

there’s

no

strength

in

numbers,

where

we

slowly

go

crazy

from

the

isolation

and

fear

and

terrible

anticipation

of

the

inevitable.

So

I

didn’t

run.

I

couldn’t.

Whether

it

was

one

of

them

or

an

Aunt

Tilly,

I

had

todefend

my

turf.

The

only

way

to

stay

alive

is

to

stay

alone.

That’s

rule

number

two.

I

followed

the

sobbing

coughs

or

coughing

sobs

or

whatever

you

want

to

call

them

till

I

reached

the

door

that

opened

to

the

back

room.

Hardly

breathing,

on

the

balls

of

my

feet.

The

door

was

ajar,

the

space

just

wide

enough

for

me

to

slip

through

sideways.

A

metal

rack

on

the

wall

directly

in

front

of

me

and,

to

the

right,

the

long

narrow

hallway

that

ran

the

length

of

the

coolers.

There

were

no

windows

back

here.

The

only

lightwas

the

sickly

orange

of

the

dying

day

behind

me,

still

bright

enough

to

hurl

my

shadow

onto

the

sticky

floor.

I

crouched

down;

my

shadow

crouched

with

me.

I

couldn’t

see

around

the

edge

of

the

cooler

into

the

hall.

But

I

could

hear

whoever—orwhatever

—it

was

at

the

far

end,

coughing,

moaning,

and

that

gurgling

sob.

Either

hurt

badly

or

acting

hurt

badly,

I

thought.

Either

needs

help

or

it’s

a

trap.

This

is

what

life

on

Earth

has

become

since

the

Arrival.

It’s

an

either/or

world.

Either

it’s

one

of

them

and

it

knows

you’re

here

or

it’s

not

one

of

them

and

he

needs

your

help.

Either

way,

I

had

to

get

up

and

turn

that

corner.

So

I

got

up.

And

I

turned

the

corner.

4

HE

LAY

SPRAWLED

against

the

back

wall

twenty

feet

away,

long

legs

spread

out

in

frontof

him,

clutching

his

stomach

with

one

hand.

He

was

wearing

fatigues

and

black

boots

and

he

was

covered

in

grime

and

shimmering

with

blood.

There

was

blood

everywhere.

On

the

wall

behind

him.

Pooling

on

the

cold

concrete

beneath

him.

Coating

his

uniform.

Matted

in

his

hair.

The

blood

glittered

darkly,

black

as

tar

in

the

semidarkness.

In

his

other

hand

was

a

gun,

and

that

gun

was

pointed

at

my

head.

I

mirrored

him.

His

handgun

to

my

rifle.

Fingers

flexing

on

the

triggers:

his,

mine.

It

didn’t

prove

anything,

his

pointing

a

gun

at

me.

Maybe

he

really

was

a

wounded

soldier

and

thought

I

was

one

of

them.

Or

maybe

not.

“Drop

your

weapon,”

he

sputtered

at

me.

Like

hell.

“Drop

your

weapon!”

he

shouted,

or

tried

to

shout.

The

words

came

out

all

cracked

and

crumbly,

beaten

up

by

the

blood

rising

from

his

gut.

Blood

dribbled

over

his

bottom

lip

and

hung

quivering

from

his

stubbly

chin.

His

teeth

shone

with

blood.

I

shook

my

head.

My

back

was

to

the

light,

and

I

prayed

he

couldn’t

see

how

badlyI

was

shaking

or

the

fear

in

my

eyes.

This

wasn’t

some

damn

rabbit

that

was

stupid

enough

to

hop

into

my

camp

one

sunny

morning.

This

was

a

person.

Or,

if

it

wasn’t,

it

looked

just

like

one.

The

thing

about

killing

is

you

don’t

know

if

you

can

actually

do

it

until

you

actually

do

it.

He

said

it

a

third

time,

not

as

loud

as

the

second.

It

came

out

like

a

plea.

“Drop

your

weapon.”

The

hand

holding

his

gun

twitched.

The

muzzle

dipped

toward

the

floor.

Not

much,

but

my

eyes

had

adjusted

to

the

light

by

this

point,

and

I

saw

a

speck

of

blood

run

down

the

barrel.

And

then

he

dropped

the

gun.

It

fell

between

his

legs

with

a

sharp

cling.

He

brought

up

his

empty

hand

and

held

it,

palm

outward,

over

his

shoulder.

“Okay,”

he

said

with

a

bloody

half

smile.

“Your

turn.”

I

shook

my

head.

“Other

hand,”

I

said.

I

hoped

my

voice

sounded

stronger

than

I

felt.My

knees

had

begun

to

shake

and

my

arms

ached

and

my

head

was

spinning.

I

was

also

fighting

the

urge

to

hurl.

You

don’t

know

if

you

can

do

it

until

you

do

it.

“I

can’t,”

he

said.

“Other

hand.”

“If

I

move

this

hand,

I’m

afraid

my

stomach

will

fall

out.”

I

adjusted

the

butt

of

the

rifle

against

my

shoulder.

I

was

sweating,

shaking,

trying

to

think.

Either/or,

Cassie.

What

are

you

going

to

do,

either/or?

“I’m

dying,”

he

said

matter-of-factly.

From

this

distance,

his

eyes

were

just

pinpricks

of

reflected

light.

“So

you

can

either

finish

me

off

or

help

me.

I

know

you’re

human—”

“How

do

you

know?”

I

asked

quickly,

before

he

could

die

on

me.

If

he

was

a

real

soldier,

he

might

know

how

to

tell

the

difference.

It

would

be

an

extremely

useful

bit

of

information.

“Because

if

you

weren’t,

you

would

have

shot

me

already.”

He

smiled

again,

his

cheeks

dimpled,

and

that’s

when

it

hit

me

how

young

he

was.

Only

a

couple

years

older

than

me.

“See?”

he

said

softly.

“That’s

how

you

know,

too.”

“How

I

know

what?”

My

eyes

were

tearing

up.

His

crumpled-up

body

wiggled

in

my

visionlike

an

image

in

a

fun-house

mirror.

But

I

didn’t

dare

release

my

grip

on

the

rifle

to

rub

my

eyes.

“That

I’m

human.

If

I

wasn’t,

I

would

have

shot

you.”

That

made

sense.

Or

did

it

make

sense

because

I

wanted

it

to

make

sense?

Maybe

hedropped

the

gun

to

get

me

to

drop

mine,

and

once

I

did,

the

second

gun

he

was

hiding

under

his

fatigues

would

come

out

and

the

bullet

would

say

hello

to

my

brain.

This

is

what

the

Others

have

done

to

us.

You

can’t

band

together

to

fight

without

trust.

And

without

trust,

there

was

no

hope.

How

do

you

rid

the

Earth

of

humans?

Rid

the

humans

of

their

humanity.

“I

have

to

see

your

other

hand,”

I

said.

“I

told

you—”

“I

have

to

see

your

other

hand!”

My

voice

cracked

then.

Couldn’t

help

it.

He

lost

it.

“Then

you’re

just

going

to

have

to

shoot

me,

bitch!

Just

shoot

me

and

get

it

over

with!”

His

head

fell

back

against

the

wall,

his

mouth

came

open,

and

a

terrible

howl

of

anguish

tumbled

out

and

bounced

from

wall

to

wall

and

floor

to

ceiling

and

pounded

against

my

ears.

I

didn’t

know

if

he

was

screaming

from

the

pain

or

the

realization

that

I

wasn’t

going

to

save

him.

He

had

given

in

to

hope,

and

that

will

kill

you.

It

kills

you

before

you

die.

Long

before

you

die.

“If

I

show

you,”

he

gasped,

rocking

back

and

forth

against

the

bloody

concrete,

“if

I

show

you,

will

you

help

me?”

I

didn’t

answer.

I

didn’t

answer

because

I

didn’t

have

an

answer.

I

was

playing

this

one

nanosecond

at

a

time.

So

he

decided

for

me.

He

wasn’t

going

to

let

them

win,

that’s

what

I

think

now.

He

wasn’t

going

to

stop

hoping.

If

it

killed

him,

at

least

he

would

die

with

a

sliver

of

his

humanity

intact.

Grimacing,

he

slowly

pulled

out

his

left

hand.

Not

much

day

left

now,

hardly

any

light

at

all,

and

what

light

there

was

seemed

to

be

flowing

away

from

its

source,

from

him,

past

me

and

out

the

halfopen

door.

His

hand

was

caked

in

half-dried

blood.

It

looked

like

he

was

wearing

a

crimson

glove.

The

stunted

light

kissed

his

bloody

hand

and

flicked

along

the

length

of

something

long

and

thin

and

metallic,

and

my

finger

yanked

back

on

the

trigger,

and

the

rifle

kicked

against

my

shoulder

hard,

and

the

barrel

bucked

in

my

hand

as

I

emptied

the

clip,

and

from

a

great

distance

I

heard

someone

screaming,

but

it

wasn’t

him

screaming,

it

was

me

screaming,

me

and

everybody

else

who

was

left,

if

there

was

anybody

left,

all

of

us

helpless,

hopeless,

stupid

humans

screaming,

because

we

got

it

wrong,

we

got

it

all

wrong,

there

was

no

alien

swarm

descending

from

the

sky

in

their

flying

saucers

or

big

metal

walkers

like

something

out

of

Star

Wars

or

cute

little

wrinkly

E.T.s

who

just

wanted

to

pluck

a

couple

of

leaves,

eat

some

Reese’s

Pieces,

and

go

home.

That’s

not

how

it

ends.

That’s

not

how

it

ends

at

all.

It

ends

with

us

killing

each

other

behind

rows

of

empty

beer

coolers

in

the

dying

light

of

a

latesummer

day.

I

went

up

to

him

before

the

last

of

the

light

was

gone.

Not

to

see

if

he

was

dead.

I

knew

he

was

dead.

I

wanted

to

see

what

he

was

still

holding

in

his

bloody

hand.

It

was

a

crucifix.

5

THAT

WAS

THE

LAST

PERSON

I’ve

seen.

The

leaves

are

falling

heavy

now,

and

the

nights

have

turned

cold.

I

can’t

stay

in

these

woods.

No

leaves

for

cover

from

the

drones,

can’t

risk

a

campfire—I

gotta

get

out

of

here.

I

know

where

I

have

to

go.

I’ve

known

for

a

long

time.

I

made

a

promise.

The

kindof

promise

you

don’t

break

because,

if

you

break

it,

you’ve

broken

part

of

yourself,

maybe

the

most

important

part.

But

you

tell

yourself

things.

Things

like,

I

need

to

come

up

with

something

first.

I

can’t

just

walk

into

the

lion’s

den

without

a

plan.

Or,

It’s

hopeless,

there’s

no

point

anymore.

You’ve

waited

too

long.

Whatever

the

reason

I

didn’t

leave

before,

I

should

have

left

the

night

I

killed

him.I

don’t

know

how

he

was

wounded;

I

didn’t

examine

his

body

or

anything,

and

I

should

have,

no

matter

how

freaked

out

I

was.

I

guess

he

could

have

gotten

hurt

in

an

accident,

but

the

odds

were

better

that

someone—or

something—had

shot

him.

And

if

someone

or

something

had

shot

him,

that

someone

or

something

was

still

out

there…unless

the

Crucifix

Soldier

had

offed

her/him/them/it.

Or

he

was

one

of

them

and

the

crucifix

was

a

trick…

Another

way

the

Others

mess

with

your

head:

the

uncertain

circumstances

of

your

certain

destruction.

Maybe

that

will

be

the

5th

Wave,

attacking

us

from

the

inside,

turning

our

own

minds

into

weapons.

Maybe

the

last

human

being

on

Earth

won’t

die

of

starvation

or

exposure

or

as

a

meal

for

wild

animals.

Maybe

the

last

one

to

die

will

be

killed

by

the

last

one

alive.

Okay,

that’s

not

someplace

you

want

to

go,

Cassie.

Honestly,

even

though

it’s

suicide

to

stay

here

and

I

have

a

promise

to

keep,

I

don’t

want

to

leave.

These

woods

have

been

home

for

a

long

time.

I

know

every

path,

everytree,

every

vine

and

bush.

I

lived

in

the

same

house

for

sixteen

years

and

I

can’t

tell

you

exactly

what

my

backyard

looked

like,

but

I

can

describe

in

detail

every

leaf

and

twig

in

this

stretch

of

forest.

I

have

no

clue

what’s

out

there

beyond

these

woods

and

the

two-mile

stretch

of

interstate

I

hike

every

week

to

forage

for

supplies.

I’m

guessing

a

lot

more

of

the

same:

abandoned

towns

reeking

of

sewage

and

rotting

corpses,

burnedout

shells

of

houses,

feral

dogs

and

cats,

pileups

that

stretch

for

miles

on

the

highway.

And

bodies.

Lots

and

lots

of

bodies.

I

pack

up.

This

tent

has

been

my

home

for

a

long

time,

but

it’s

too

bulky

and

I

need

to

travel

light.

Just

the

essentials,

with

the

Luger,

the

M16,

the

ammo,

and

my

trustybowie

knife

topping

the

list.

Sleeping

bag,

first

aid

kit,

five

bottles

of

water,

three

boxes

of

Slim

Jims,

and

some

tins

of

sardines.

I

hated

sardines

before

the

Arrival.

Now

I’ve

developed

a

real

taste

for

them.

First

thing

I

look

for

when

I

hit

a

grocery

store?

Sardines.

Books?

They’re

heavy

and

take

up

room

in

my

already

bulging

backpack.

But

I

have

athing

about

books.

So

did

my

father.

Our

house

was

stacked

floor

to

ceiling

with

every

book

he

could

find

after

the

3rd

Wave

took

out

more

than

3.5

billion

people.

While

the

rest

of

us

scrounged

for

potable

water

and

food

and

stocked

up

on

the

weaponry

for

the

last

stand

we

were

sure

was

coming,

Daddy

was

out

with

my

little

brother’s

Radio

Flyer

carting

home

the

books.

The

mind-blowing

numbers

didn’t

faze

him.

The

fact

that

we’d

gone

from

seven

billionstrong

to

a

couple

hundred

thousand

in

four

months

didn’t

shake

his

confidence

that

our

race

would

survive.

“We

have

to

think

about

the

future,”

he

insisted.

“When

this

is

over,

we’ll

have

to

rebuild

nearly

every

aspect

of

civilization.”

Solar

flashlight.

Toothbrush

and

paste.

I’m

determined,

when

the

time

comes,

to

at

least

go

out

with

clean

teeth.

Gloves.

Two

pairs

of

socks,

underwear,

travel-size

box

of

Tide,

deodorant,

and

shampoo.

(Gonna

go

out

clean.

See

above.)

Tampons.

I’m

constantly

worrying

about

my

stash

and

if

I’ll

be

able

to

find

more.

My

plastic

baggie

stuffed

with

pictures.

Dad.

Mom.

My

little

brother,

Sammy.

My

grandparents.

Lizbeth,

my

best

friend.

One

of

Ben

You-Were-Some-Kind-of-Serious-Gorgeous

Parish,clipped

from

my

yearbook,

because

Ben

was

my

future

boyfriend

and/or/maybe

future

husband—not

that

he

knew

it.

He

barely

knew

I

existed.

I

knew

some

of

the

same

peoplehe

knew,

but

I

was

a

girl

in

the

background,

several

degrees

of

separation

removed.

The

only

thing

wrong

with

Ben

was

his

height:

He

was

six

inches

taller

than

me.

Well,

make

that

two

things

now:

his

height

and

the

fact

that

he’s

dead.

My

cell

phone.

It

was

fried

in

the

1st

Wave,

and

there’s

no

way

to

charge

it.

Cell

towers

don’t

work,

and

there’s

no

one

to

call

if

they

did.

But,

you

know,

it’s

my

cell

phone.

Nail

clippers.

Matches.

I

don’t

light

fires,

but

at

some

point

I

may

need

to

burn

something

or

blow

it

up.

Two

spiral-bound

notebooks,

college

ruled,

one

with

a

purple

cover,

the

other

red.

My

favorite

colors,

plus

they’re

my

journals.

It’s

part

of

the

hope

thing.

But

if

I

am

the

last

and

there’s

no

one

left

to

read

them,

maybe

an

alien

will

and

they’ll

know

exactly

what

I

think

of

them.

In

case

you’re

an

alien

and

you’re

reading

this:

BITE

ME.

My

Starburst,

already

culled

of

the

orange.

Three

packs

of

Wrigley’s

Spearmint.

Mylast

two

Tootsie

Pops.

Mom’s

wedding

ring.

Sammy’s

ratty

old

teddy

bear.

Not

that

it’s

mine

now.

Not

that

I

ever

cuddle

with

it

or

anything.

That’s

everything

I

can

stuff

into

the

backpack.

Weird.

Seems

like

too

much

and

not

enough.

Still

room

for

a

couple

of

paperbacks,

barely.

Huckleberry

Finn

or

The

Grapes

of

Wrath?

The

poems

of

Sylvia

Plath

or

Sammy’s

Shel

Silverstein?

Probably

not

a

good

ideato

take

the

Plath.

Depressing.

Silverstein

is

for

kids,

but

it

still

makes

me

smile.

I

decide

to

take

Huckleberry

(seems

appropriate)

and

Where

the

Sidewalk

Ends.

See

you

there

soon,

Shel.

Climb

aboard,

Jim.

I

heave

the

backpack

over

one

shoulder,

sling

the

rifle

over

the

other,

and

head

down

the

trail

toward

the

highway.

I

don’t

look

back.

I

pause

inside

the

last

line

of

trees.

A

twenty-foot

embankment

runs

down

to

the

southbound

lanes,

littered

with

disabled

cars,

piles

of

clothing,

shredded

plastic

garbage

bags,

the

burned-out

hulks

of

tractor

trailers

carrying

everything

from

gasoline

to

milk.

There

are

wrecks

everywhere,

some

no

worse

than

fender

benders,

some

pileups

that

snake

along

the

interstate

for

miles,

and

the

morning

sunlight

sparkles

on

all

the

broken

glass.

There

are

no

bodies.

These

cars

have

been

here

since

the

1st

Wave,

long

abandoned

by

their

owners.

Not

many

people

died

in

the

1st

Wave,

the

massive

electromagnetic

pulse

that

ripped

through

the

atmosphere

at

precisely

eleven

A.M.

on

the

tenth

day.

Only

around

half

a

million,

Dad

guessed.

Okay,

half

a

million

sounds

like

a

lot

of

people,

but

really

it’s

just

a

drop

in

the

population

bucket.

World

War

II

killed

over

a

hundred

times

that

number.

And

we

did

have

some

time

to

prepare

for

it,

though

we

weren’t

exactly

sure

what

we

were

preparing

for.

Ten

days

from

the

first

satellite

pictures

of

the

mothership

passing

Mars

to

the

launch

of

the

1st

Wave.

Ten

days

of

mayhem.

Martial

law,

sit-ins

at

the

UN,

parades,

rooftop

parties,

endless

Internet

chatter,

and

24/7

coverage

of

the

Arrival

over

every

medium.

The

president

addressed

the

nation—and

then

disappeared

into

his

bunker.

The

Security

Council

went

into

a

lockeddown,

closed-to-the-press

emergency

session.

A

lot

of

people

just

split,

like

our

neighbors,

the

Majewskis.

Packed

up

their

camper

on

the

afternoon

of

the

sixth

day

with

everything

they

could

fit

and

hit

the

road,

joining

a

mass

exodus

to

somewhere

else,

because

anywhere

else

seemed

safer

for

some

reason.

Thousands

of

people

took

off

for

the

mountains…or

the

desert…or

the

swamps.

You

know,

somewhere

else.

The

Majewskis’

somewhere

else

was

Disney

World.

They

weren’t

the

only

ones.

Disneyset

attendance

records

during

those

ten

days

before

the

EMP

strike.

Daddy

asked

Mr.

Majewski,

“So

why

Disney

World?”

And

Mr.

Majewski

said,

“Well,

the

kids

have

never

been.”

His

kids

were

both

in

college.

Catherine,

who

had

come

home

from

her

freshman

year

at

Baylor

the

day

before,

asked,

“Where

are

you

guys

going?”

“Nowhere,”

I

said.

And

I

didn’t

want

to

go

anywhere.

I

was

still

living

in

denial,pretending

all

this

crazy

alien

stuff

would

work

out,

I

didn’t

know

how,

maybe

with

the

signing

of

some

intergalactic

peace

treaty.

Or

maybe

they’d

dropped

by

to

take

a

couple

of

soil

samples

and

go

home.

Or

maybe

they

were

here

on

vacation,

like

the

Majewskis

going

to

Disney

World.

“You

need

to

get

out,”

she

said.

“They’ll

hit

the

cities

first.”

“You’re

probably

right,”

I

said.

“They’d

never

dream

of

taking

out

the

Magic

Kingdom.”

“How

would

you

rather

die?”

she

snapped.

“Hiding

under

your

bed

or

riding

Thunder

Mountain?”

Good

question.

Daddy

said

the

world

was

dividing

into

two

camps:

runners

and

nesters.

Runners

headed

for

the

hills—or

Thunder

Mountain.

Nesters

boarded

up

the

windows,

stocked

up

on

thecanned

goods

and

ammunition,

and

kept

the

TV

tuned

to

CNN

24/7.

There

were

no

messages

from

our

galactic

party

crashers

during

those

first

ten

days.

No

light

shows.

No

landing

on

the

South

Lawn

or

bug-eyed,

butt-headed

dudes

in

silverjumpsuits

demanding

to

be

taken

to

our

leader.

No

bright,

spinning

tops

blaring

the

universal

language

of

music.

And

no

answer

when

we

sent

our

message.

Something

like,

“Hello,

welcome

to

Earth.

Hope

you

enjoy

your

stay.

Please

don’t

kill

us.”

Nobody

knew

what

to

do.

We

figured

the

government

sort

of

did.

The

government

had

a

plan

for

everything,

so

we

assumed

they

had

a

plan

for

E.T.

showing

up

uninvited

and

unannounced,

like

the

weird

cousin

nobody

in

the

family

likes

to

talk

about.

Some

people

nested.

Some

people

ran.

Some

got

married.

Some

got

divorced.

Some

madebabies.

Some

killed

themselves.

We

walked

around

like

zombies,

blank-faced

and

robotic,

unable

to

absorb

the

magnitude

of

what

was

happening.

It’s

hard

to

believe

now,

but

my

family,

like

the

vast

majority

of

people,

went

about

our

daily

lives

as

if

the

most

monumentally

mind-blowing

thing

in

human

history

wasn’t

happening

right

over

our

heads.

Mom

and

Dad

went

to

work,

Sammy

went

to

day

care,and

I

went

to

school

and

soccer

practice.

It

was

so

normal,

it

was

damn

weird.

Bythe

end

of

Day

One,

everybody

over

the

age

of

two

had

seen

the

mothership

up

close

a

thousand

times,

this

big

grayish-green

glowing

hulk

about

the

size

of

Manhattan

circling

250

miles

above

the

Earth.

NASA

announced

its

plan

to

pull

a

space

shuttleout

of

mothballs

to

attempt

contact.

Well,

that’s

good,

we

thought.

This

silence

is

deafening.

Why

did

they

come

billions

of

miles

just

to

stare

at

us?

It’s

rude.

On

Day

Three,

I

went

out

with

a

guy

named

Mitchell

Phelps.

Well,

technically

we

wentoutside.

The

date

was

in

my

backyard

because

of

the

curfew.

He

hit

the

drive-through

at

Starbucks

on

his

way

over,

and

we

sat

on

the

back

patio

sipping

our

drinks

and

pretending

we

didn’t

see

Dad’s

shadow

passing

back

and

forth

as

he

paced

the

living

room.

Mitchell

had

moved

into

town

a

few

days

before

the

Arrival.

He

sat

behind

me

in

World

Lit,

and

I

made

the

mistake

of

loaning

him

my

highlighter.

So

the

next

thing

I

know

he’s

asking

me

out,

because

if

a

girl

loans

you

a

highlighter

she

must

think

you’re

hot.

I

don’t

know

why

I

went

out

with

him.

He

wasn’t

that

cute

and

he

wasn’t

thatinteresting

beyond

the

whole

New

Kid

aura,

and

he

definitely

wasn’t

Ben

Parish.

Nobodywas—except

Ben

Parish—

and

that

was

the

whole

problem.

By

the

third

day,

you

either

talked

about

the

Others

all

the

time

or

you

tried

not

to

talk

about

them

at

all.

I

fell

into

the

second

category.

Mitchell

was

in

the

first.

“What

if

they’re

us?”

he

asked.

It

didn’t

take

long

after

the

Arrival

for

all

the

conspiracy

nuts

to

start

buzzing

about

classified

government

projects

or

the

secret

plan

to

manufacture

an

alien

crisis

in

order

to

take

away

our

liberties.

I

thought

that’s

where

he

was

going

and

groaned.

“What?”

he

said.

“I

don’t

mean

us

us.

I

mean,

what

if

they’re

us

from

the

future?”

“And

it’s

like

The

Terminator,

right?”

I

said,

rolling

my

eyes.

“They’ve

come

to

stop

the

uprising

of

the

machines.

Or

maybe

they

are

the

machines.

Maybe

it’s

Skynet.”

“I

don’t

think

so,”

he

said,

acting

like

I

was

serious.

“It’s

the

grandfather

paradox.”

“What

is?

And

what

the

hell

is

the

grandfather

paradox?”

He

said

it

like

he

assumed

I

knew

what

the

grandfather

paradox

was,

because,

if

I

didn’t

know,

then

I

was

a

moron.

I

hate

when

people

do

that.

“They—I

mean

we—can’t

go

back

in

time

and

change

anything.

If

you

went

back

in

timeand

killed

your

grandfather

before

you

were

born,

then

you

wouldn’t

be

able

to

go

back

in

time

to

kill

your

grandfather.”

“Why

would

you

want

to

kill

your

grandfather?”

I

twisted

the

straw

in

my

strawberryFrappuccino

to

produce

that

unique

straw-in-a-lid

squeak.

“The

point

is

that

just

showing

up

changes

history,”

he

said.

Like

I

was

the

one

who

brought

up

time

travel.

“Do

we

have

to

talk

about

this?”

“What

else

is

there

to

talk

about?”

His

eyebrows

climbed

toward

his

hairline.

Mitchellhad

very

bushy

eyebrows.

It

was

one

of

the

first

things

I

noticed

about

him.

He

alsochewed

his

fingernails.

That

was

the

second

thing

I

noticed.

Cuticle

care

can

tell

you

a

lot

about

a

person.

I

pulled

out

my

phone

and

texted

Lizbeth:

help

me

“Are

you

scared?”

he

asked.

Trying

to

get

my

attention.

Or

for

some

reassurance.

Hewas

looking

at

me

very

intently.

I

shook

my

head.

“Just

bored.”

A

lie.

Of

course

I

was

scared.

I

knew

I

was

being

mean,but

I

couldn’t

help

it.

For

some

reason

I

can’t

explain,

I

was

mad

at

him.

Maybe

Iwas

really

mad

at

myself

for

saying

yes

to

a

date

with

a

guy

I

wasn’t

actually

interested

in.

Or

maybe

I

was

mad

at

him

for

not

being

Ben

Parish,

which

wasn’t

his

fault.

But

still.

help

u

do

wat?

“I

don’t

care

what

we

talk

about,”

he

said.

He

was

looking

toward

the

rose

bed,

swirlingthe

dregs

of

his

coffee,

his

knee

popping

up

and

down

so

violently

under

the

table

that

my

cup

jiggled.

mitchell.

I

didn’t

think

I

needed

to

say

any

more.

“Who

are

you

texting?”

told

u

not

to

go

out

w

him

“Nobody

you

know,”

I

said.

dont

know

why

i

did

“We

can

go

somewhere

else,”

he

said.

“You

want

to

go

to

a

movie?”

“There’s

a

curfew,”

I

reminded

him.

No

one

was

allowed

on

the

streets

after

nine

except

military

and

emergency

vehicles.

lol

to

make

ben

jealous

“Are

you

pissed

or

something?”

“No,”

I

said.

“I

told

you

what

I

was.”

He

pursed

his

lips

in

frustration.

He

didn’t

know

what

to

say.

“I

was

just

trying

to

figure

out

who

they

might

be,”

he

said.

“You

and

everybody

else

on

the

planet,”

I

said.

“Nobody

actually

knows,

and

they

won’t

tell

us,

so

everybody

sits

around

guessing

and

theorizing,

and

it’s

all

kind

of

pointless.

Maybe

they’re

spacefaring

micemen

from

Planet

Cheese

and

they’ve

come

for

our

provolone.”

bp

doesnt

know

i

exist

“You

know,”

he

said,

“it’s

kind

of

rude,

texting

while

I’m

trying

to

have

a

conversation

with

you.”

He

was

right.

I

slipped

the

phone

into

my

pocket.

What’s

happening

to

me?

I

wondered.

The

old

Cassie

never

would

have

done

that.

Already

the

Others

were

changingme

into

someone

different,

but

I

wanted

to

pretend

nothing

had

changed,

especially

me.

“Did

you

hear?”

he

asked,

going

right

back

to

the

topic

that

I

said

bored

me.

“They’rebuilding

a

landing

site.”

I

had

heard.

In

Death

Valley.

That’s

right:

Death

Valley.

“Personally,

I

don’t

think

it’s

a

very

smart

idea,”

he

said.

“Rolling

out

the

welcome

mat.”

“Why

not?”

“It’s

been

three

days.

Three

days

and

they’ve

refused

all

contact.

If

they’re

friendly,

why

wouldn’t

they

say

hello

already?”

“Maybe

they’re

just

shy.”

Twisting

my

hair

around

my

finger,

tugging

on

it

gently

to

produce

that

semipleasant

pain.

“Like

being

the

new

kid,”

he

said,

the

new

kid.

That

can’t

be

easy,

being

the

new

kid.

I

felt

like

I

should

apologize

for

being

rude.

“I

was

kind

of

mean

before,”

I

admitted.

“I’m

sorry.”

He

gave

me

a

confused

look.

He

was

talking

about

the

aliens,

not

himself,

and

then

I

said

something

about

me,

which

was

about

neither.

“It’s

okay,”

he

said.

“I

heard

you

don’t

date

much.”

Ouch.

“What

else

did

you

hear?”

One

of

those

questions

you

don’t

want

to

know

the

answer

to,

but

still

have

to

ask.

He

sipped

his

latte

through

the

little

hole

in

the

plastic

lid.

“Not

much.

It’s

not

like

I

asked

around.”

“You

asked

somebody

and

they

told

you

I

didn’t

date

much.”

“I

just

said

I

was

thinking

about

asking

you

out

and

they

go,

Cassie’s

pretty

cool.

And

I

said,

what’s

she

like?

And

they

said

you

were

nice

but

don’t

get

my

hopes

up

because

you

had

this

thing

for

Ben

Parish—”

“They

told

you

that?

Who

told

you

that?”

He

shrugged.

“I

don’t

remember

her

name.”

“Was

it

Lizbeth

Morgan?”

I’ll

kill

her.

“I

don’t

know

her

name,”

he

said.

“What

did

she

look

like?”

“Long

brown

hair.

Glasses.

I

think

her

name

is

Carly

or

something.”

“I

don’t

know

any…”

Oh

God.

Some

Carly

person

I

don’t

even

know

knows

about

me

and

Ben

Parish—or

the

lackof

any

me

and

Ben

Parish.

And

if

Carly-or-something

knew

about

it,

then

everybody

knew

about

it.

“Well,

they’re

wrong,”

I

sputtered.

“I

don’t

have

a

thing

for

Ben

Parish.”

“It

doesn’t

matter

to

me.”

“It

matters

to

me.”

“Maybe

this

isn’t

working

out,”

he

said.

“Everything

I

say,

you

either

get

bored

or

mad.”

“I’m

not

mad,”

I

said

angrily.

“Okay,

I’m

wrong.”

No,

he

was

right.

And

I

was

wrong

for

not

telling

him

the

Cassie

he

knew

wasn’t

theCassie

I

used

to

be,

the

pre-Arrival

Cassie

who

wouldn’t

have

been

mean

to

a

mosquito.

I

wasn’t

ready

to

admit

the

truth:

It

wasn’t

just

the

world

that

had

changed

with

the

coming

of

the

Others.

We

changed.

I

changed.

The

moment

the

mothership

appeared,

I

started

down

a

path

that

would

end

in

the

back

of

a

convenience

store

behind

some

empty

beer

coolers.

That

night

with

Mitchell

was

only

the

beginning

of

my

evolution.

Mitchell

was

right

about

the

Others

not

stopping

by

just

to

say

howdy.

On

the

eve

of

the

1st

Wave,

the

world’s

leading

theoretical

physicist,

one

of

the

smartest

guys

in

the

world

(that’s

what

popped

up

on

the

screen

under

his

talking

head:

ONE

OF

THE

SMARTEST

GUYS

IN

THE

WOR)L,

Dappeared

on

CNN

and

said,

“I’m

not

encouraged

by

the

silence.

I

can

think

of

no

benign

reason

for

it.

I’m

afraid

we

may

expect

something

closer

to

Christopher

Columbus’s

arrival

in

the

Americas

than

a

scene

from

Close

Encounters,

and

we

all

know

how

that

turned

out

for

the

Native

Americans.”

I

turned

to

my

father

and

said,

“We

should

nuke

’em.”

I

had

to

raise

my

voice

to

be

heard

over

the

TV—Dad

always

jacked

up

the

volume

during

the

news

so

he

could

hearit

over

Mom’s

TV

in

the

kitchen.

She

liked

to

watch

TLC

while

she

cooked.

I

called

it

the

War

of

the

Remotes.

“Cassie!”

He

was

so

shocked,

his

toes

began

to

curl

inside

his

white

athletic

socks.

He

grew

up

on

Close

Encounters

and

E.T.

and

Star

Trek

and

totally

bought

into

the

idea

that

the

Others

had

come

to

liberate

us

from

ourselves.

No

more

hunger.

No

more

wars.

The

eradication

of

disease.

The

secrets

of

the

cosmos

unveiled.

“Don’t

you

understand

this

could

be

the

next

step

in

our

evolution?

A

huge

leap

forward.

Huge.”

He

gave

me

a

consoling

hug.

“We’re

all

very

fortunate

to

be

here

to

see

it.”

Then

he

added

casually,

like

he

was

talking

about

how

to

fix

a

toaster,

“Besides,

a

nuclear

device

can’t

do

much

damage

in

the

vacuum

of

space.

There’s

nothing

to

carry

the

shock

wave.”

“So

this

brainiac

on

TV

is

just

full

of

shit?”

“Don’t

use

that

language,

Cassie,”

he

chided

me.

“He’s

entitled

to

his

opinion,

butthat’s

all

it

is.

An

opinion.”

“But

what

if

he’s

right?

What

if

that

thing

up

there

is

their

version

of

a

Death

Star?”

“Travel

halfway

across

the

universe

just

to

blow

us

up?”

He

patted

my

leg

and

smiled.

Mom

turned

up

the

kitchen

TV.

He

pushed

the

volume

in

the

family

room

to

twenty-seven.

“Okay,

but

what

about

an

intergalactic

Mongol

horde,

like

he

was

talking

about?”

I

demanded.

“Maybe

they’ve

come

to

conquer

us,

shove

us

into

reservations,

enslave

us…”

“Cassie,”

he

said.

“Simply

because

somethingcould

happen

doesn’t

mean

it

will

happen.

Anyway,

it’s

all

just

speculation.

This

guy’s.

Mine.

Nobody

knows

why

they’re

here.

Isn’t

it

just

as

likely

they’ve

come

all

this

way

to

save

us?”

Four

months

after

saying

those

words,

my

father

was

dead.

He

was

wrong

about

the

Others.

And

I

was

wrong.

And

One

of

the

Smartest

Guys

in

theWorld

was

wrong.

It

wasn’t

about

saving

us.

And

it

wasn’t

about

enslaving

us

or

herding

us

into

reservations.

It

was

about

killing

us.

All

of

us.

6

I

DEBATED

WHETHER

to

travel

by

day

or

night

for

a

long

time.

Darkness

is

best

if

you’reworried

about

them.

But

daylight

is

preferable

if

you

want

to

spot

a

drone

before

it

spots

you.

The

drones

showed

up

at

the

tag

end

of

the

3rd

Wave.

Cigar-shaped,

dull

gray

in

color,

gliding

swiftly

and

silently

thousands

of

feet

up.

Sometimes

they

streak

across

the

sky

without

stopping.

Sometimes

they

circle

overhead

like

buzzards.

They

can

turnon

a

dime

and

come

to

a

sudden

stop,

from

Mach

2

to

zero

in

less

than

a

second.

That’s

how

we

knew

the

drones

weren’t

ours.

We

knew

they

were

unmanned

(or

un-Othered)

because

one

of

them

crashed

a

couple

miles

from

our

refugee

camp.

A

thu-whump!

when

it

broke

the

sound

barrier,

an

ear-piercing

shriek

as

it

rocketed

to

earth,

the

ground

shuddering

under

our

feet

when

it

plowed

into

a

fallow

cornfield.

A

recon

team

hiked

to

the

crash

site

to

check

it

out.

Okay,

it

wasn’t

really

a

team,

just

Dad

and

Hutchfield,

the

guy

in

charge

of

the

camp.

They

came

back

to

report

the

thingwas

empty.

Were

they

sure?

Maybe

the

pilot

bailed

before

impact.

Dad

said

it

was

packed

with

instruments;

there

wasn’t

any

room

for

a

pilot.

“Unless

they’re

two

inches

tall.”

That

got

a

big

laugh.

Somehow

it

made

the

horror

less

horrible,

thinking

of

the

Others

as

being

two-inch

Borrower

types.

I

opted

to

travel

by

day.

I

could

keep

one

eye

on

the

sky

and

another

on

the

ground.

What

I

ended

up

doing

is

rocking

my

head

up

and

down,

up

and

down,

side

to

side,

then

up

again,

like

some

groupie

at

a

rock

concert,

until

I

was

dizzy

and

a

little

sick

to

my

stomach.

Plus

there

are

other

things

at

night

to

worry

about

besides

drones.

Wild

dogs,

coyotes,

bears,

and

wolves

coming

down

from

Canada,

maybe

even

an

escaped

lion

or

tiger

froma

zoo.

I

know,

I

know,

there’s

a

Wizard

of

Oz

joke

buried

in

there.

Shoot

me.

And

though

it

wouldn’t

be

much

better,

I

do

think

I’d

have

a

better

chance

against

one

of

them

in

the

daylight.

Or

even

against

one

of

my

own,

if

I’m

not

the

last

one.

What

if

I

stumble

onto

another

survivor

who

decides

the

best

course

of

action

is

to

go

all

Crucifix

Soldier

on

anyone

they

come

across?

That

brings

up

the

problem

of

my

best

course

of

action.

Do

I

shoot

on

sight?

Do

Iwait

for

them

to

make

the

first

move

and

risk

it

being

a

deadly

one?

I

wonder,

not

for

the

first

time,

why

the

hell

we

didn’t

come

up

with

some

kind

of

code

or

secret

handshake

or

something

before

they

showed

up—

something

that

would

identify

us

as

the

good

guys.

We

had

no

way

of

knowing

they

would

show

up,

but

we

were

pretty

sure

something

would

sooner

or

later.

It’s

hard

to

plan

for

what

comes

next

when

what

comes

next

is

not

something

you

planned

for.

Try

to

spot

them

first,

I

decided.

Take

cover.

No

showdowns.

No

more

Crucifix

Soldiers!

The

day

is

bright

and

windless

but

cold.

The

sky

cloudless.

Walking

along,

bobbingmy

head

up

and

down,

swinging

it

from

side

to

side,

backpack

popping

against

one

shoulder

blade,

the

rifle

against

the

other,

walking

on

the

outside

edge

of

the

median

that

separates

the

southbound

from

the

northbound

lanes,

stopping

every

few

strides

to

whip

around

and

scan

the

terrain

behind

me.

An

hour.

Two.

And

I’ve

traveled

no

more

than

a

mile.

The

creepiest

thing,

creepier

than

the

abandoned

cars

and

the

snarl

of

crumpled

metal

and

the

broken

glass

sparkling

in

the

October

sunlight,

creepier

than

all

the

trash

and

discarded

crap

littering

the

median,

most

of

it

hidden

by

the

knee-high

grass

so

the

strip

of

land

looks

lumpy,

covered

in

boils,

the

creepiest

thing

is

the

silence.

The

Hum

is

gone.

You

remember

the

Hum.

Unless

you

grew

up

on

top

of

a

mountain

or

lived

in

a

cave

your

whole

life,

the

Humwas

always

around

you.

That’s

what

life

was.

It

was

the

sea

we

swam

in.

The

constantsound

of

all

the

things

we

built

to

make

life

easy

and

a

little

less

boring.

The

mechanical

song.

The

electronic

symphony.

The

Hum

of

all

our

things

and

all

of

us.

Gone.

This

is

the

sound

of

the

Earth

before

we

conquered

it.

Sometimes

in

my

tent,

late

at

night,

I

think

I

can

hear

the

stars

scraping

againstthe

sky.

That’s

how

quiet

it

is.

After

a

while

it’s

almost

more

than

I

can

stand.

I

want

to

scream

at

the

top

of

my

lungs.

I

want

to

sing,

shout,

stamp

my

feet,

clap

my

hands,

anything

to

declare

my

presence.

My

conversation

with

the

soldier

had

been

the

first

words

I’d

said

aloud

in

weeks.

The

Hum

died

on

the

tenth

day

after

the

Arrival.

I

was

sitting

in

third

period

textingLizbeth

the

last

text

I

will

ever

send.

I

don’t

remember

exactly

what

it

said.

Eleven

A.M.

A

warm,

sunny

day

in

early

spring.

A

day

for

doodling

and

dreaming

and

wishing

you

were

anywhere

but

Ms.

Paulson’s

calculus

class.

The

1st

Wave

rolled

in

without

much

fanfare.

It

wasn’t

dramatic.

There

was

no

shock

and

awe.

The

lights

just

winked

out.

Ms.

Paulson’s

overhead

died.

The

screen

on

my

phone

went

black.

Somebody

in

the

back

of

the

room

squealed.

Classic.

It

doesn’t

matter

what

time

ofday

it

happens

—the

power

goes

out,

and

somebody

yelps

like

the

building’s

collapsing.

Ms.

Paulson

told

us

to

stay

in

our

seats.

That’s

the

other

thing

people

do

when

the

power

goes

out.

They

jump

up

to…To

what?

It’s

weird.

We’re

so

used

to

electricity,

when

it’s

gone,

we

don’t

know

what

to

do.

So

we

jump

up

or

squeal

or

start

jabbering

like

idiots.

We

panic.

It’s

like

someone

cut

off

our

oxygen.

The

Arrival

had

made

it

worse,

though.

Ten

days

on

pins

and

needles

waiting

for

something

to

happen

while

nothing

is

happening

makes

you

jumpy.

So

when

they

pulled

the

plug

on

us,

we

freaked

a

little

more

than

normal.

Everybody

started

talking

at

once.

When

I

announced

that

my

phone

had

died,

out

cameeveryone’s

dead

phone.

Neal

Croskey,

who

was

sitting

in

the

back

of

the

room

listening

to

his

iPod

while

Ms.

Paulson

lectured,

pulled

the

buds

from

his

ears

and

wondered

aloud

why

the

music

had

died.

The

next

thing

you

do

when

the

plug’s

pulled,

after

panicking,

is

run

to

the

nearest

window.

You

don’t

know

why

exactly.

It’s

that

better-see-what’s-going-on

feeling.

The

world

works

from

the

outside

in.

So

if

the

lights

go

off,

you

look

outside.

And

Ms.

Paulson,

randomly

moving

around

the

mob

milling

in

front

of

the

windows:

“Quiet!Back

to

your

seats.

I’m

sure

there’ll

be

an

announcement…”

There

was

one,

about

a

minute

later.

Not

over

the

intercom,

though,

and

not

from

Mr.

Faulks,

the

vice

principal.

It

came

from

the

sky,

from

them.

In

the

form

of

a

727

tumbling

end

over

end

to

the

Earth

from

ten

thousand

feet

until

it

disappeared

behind

a

line

of

trees

and

exploded,

sending

up

a

fireball

that

reminded

me

of

the

mushroom

cloud

of

an

atomic

blast.

Hey,

Earthlings!

Let’s

get

this

party

started!

You’d

think

seeing

something

like

that

would

send

us

diving

under

our

desks.

It

didn’t.

We

crowded

against

the

window

and

scanned

the

cloudless

sky

for

the

flying

saucer

that

must

have

taken

the

plane

down.

It

had

to

be

a

flying

saucer,

right?

We

knew

how

a

top-notch

alien

invasion

was

run.

Flying

saucers

zipping

through

the

atmosphere,

squadrons

of

F-16s

hot

on

their

heels,

surface-to-air

missiles

and

tracers

screaming

from

the

bunkers.

In

an

unreal

and

admittedly

sick

way,

we

wanted

to

see

something

like

that.

It

would

make

this

a

perfectly

normal

alien

invasion.

For

a

half

hour

we

waited

by

the

windows.

Nobody

said

much.

Ms.

Paulson

told

us

togo

back

to

our

seats.

We

ignored

her.

Thirty

minutes

into

the

1st

Wave

and

already

social

order

was

breaking

down.

People

kept

checking

their

phones.

We

couldn’t

connect

it:

the

plane

crashing,

the

lights

going

out,

our

phones

dying,

the

clock

on

the

wall

with

the

big

hand

frozen

on

the

twelve,

little

hand

on

the

eleven.

Then

the

door

flew

open

and

Mr.

Faulks

told

us

to

head

over

to

the

gym.

I

thoughtthat

was

really

smart.

Get

all

of

us

in

one

place

so

the

aliens

didn’t

have

to

waste

a

lot

of

ammunition.

So

we

trooped

over

to

the

gym

and

sat

in

the

bleachers

in

near

total

darkness

while

the

principal

paced

back

and

forth,

stopping

every

now

and

then

to

yell

at

us

to

be

quiet

and

wait

for

our

parents

to

get

there.

What

about

the

students

whose

cars

were

at

school?

Couldn’t

they

leave?

“Your

cars

won’t

work.”

WTF?

What

does

he

mean,

our

cars

won’t

work?

An

hour

passed.

Then

two.

I

sat

next

to

Lizbeth.

We

didn’t

talk

much,

and

when

wedid,

we

whispered.

We

weren’t

afraid

of

the

principal;

we

were

listening.

I’m

not

sure

what

we

were

listening

for,

but

it

was

like

that

quiet

before

the

clouds

open

up

and

the

thunder

smashes

down.

“This

could

be

it,”

Lizbeth

whispered.

She

rubbed

her

nose

nervously.

Dug

her

lacquerednails

into

her

dyed

blond

hair.

Tapped

her

foot.

Rolled

the

pad

of

her

finger

over

her

eyelid:

She

had

just

started

wearing

contacts

and

they

bugged

her

constantly.

“It’s

definitely

something,”

I

whispered

back.

“I

mean,

this

could

be

it.

Like

it

it.

The

end.”

She

kept

slipping

the

battery

out

of

her

phone

and

putting

it

back

in.

It

was

better

than

doing

nothing,

I

guess.

She

started

to

cry.

I

took

her

phone

away

and

held

her

hand.

Looked

around.

She

wasn’tthe

only

one

crying.

Other

kids

were

praying.

And

others

were

doing

both,

crying

and

praying.

The

teachers

were

huddled

up

by

the

gym

doors,

forming

a

human

shield

in

case

the

creatures

from

outer

space

decided

to

storm

the

floor.

“There’s

so

much

I

wanted

to

do,”

Lizbeth

said.

“I’ve

never

even…”

She

choked

backa

sob.

“You

know.”

“I’ve

got

a

feeling

a

lot

of

‘you

know’

is

going

on

right

now,”

I

said.

“Probably

right

underneath

these

bleachers.”

“You

think?”

She

wiped

her

cheeks

with

the

palm

of

her

hand.

“What

about

you?”

“About

‘you

know’?”

I

had

no

problem

with

talking

about

sex.

My

problem

was

talkingabout

sex

as

it

related

to

me.

“Oh,

I

know

you

haven’t

‘you

know.’

God!

I’m

not

talking

about

that.”

“I

thought

we

were.”

“I’m

talking

about

our

lives,

Cassie!

Jesus,

this

could

be

the

end

of

the

freakin’world,

and

all

you

want

to

do

is

talk

about

sex!”

She

pulled

her

phone

out

of

my

hand

and

fumbled

with

the

battery

cover.

“Which

is

why

you

should

just

tell

him,”

she

said,

fiddling

with

the

drawstrings

of

her

hoodie.

“Tell

who

what?”

I

knew

exactly

what

she

meant;

I

was

just

buying

time.

“Ben!

You

should

tell

him

how

you

feel.

How

you’ve

felt

since

the

third

grade.”

“This

is

a

joke,

right?”

I

felt

my

face

getting

hot.

“And

then

you

should

have

sex

with

him.”

“Lizbeth,

shut

up.”

“It’s

the

truth.”

“I

haven’t

wanted

to

have

sex

with

Ben

Parish

since

the

third

grade,”

I

whispered.The

third

grade?

I

glanced

over

at

her

to

see

if

she

was

really

listening.

Apparently,

she

wasn’t.

“If

I

were

you,

I’d

go

right

up

to

him

and

say,

‘I

think

this

is

it.

This

is

it,

andI’ll

be

damned

if

I’m

going

to

die

in

this

school

gymnasium

without

ever

having

sex

with

you.’

And

then

you

know

what

I’d

do?”

“What?”

I

was

fighting

back

a

laugh,

picturing

the

look

on

his

face.

“I’d

take

him

outside

to

the

flower

garden

and

have

sex

with

him.”

“In

the

flower

garden?”

“Or

the

locker

room.”

She

waved

her

hand

around

frantically

to

include

the

entire

school—or

maybe

the

whole

world.

“It

doesn’t

matter

where.”

“The

locker

room

smells.”

I

looked

two

rows

down

at

the

outline

of

Ben

Parish’s

gorgeoushead.

“That

kind

of

thing

only

happens

in

the

movies,”

I

said.

“Yeah,

totally

unrealistic,

not

like

what’s

happening

right

now.”

She

was

right.

It

was

totally

unrealistic.

Both

scenarios,

an

alien

invasion

of

theEarth

and

a

Ben

Parish

invasion

of

me.

“At

least

you

could

tell

him

how

you

feel,”

she

said,

reading

my

mind.

Could,

yes.

Ever

would,

well…

And

I

never

did.

That

was

the

last

time

I

saw

Ben

Parish,

sitting

in

that

dark,

stuffygymnasium

(Home

of

the

Hawks!)

two

rows

down

from

me,

and

only

the

back

part

of

him.

He

probably

died

in

the

3rd

Wave

like

almost

everybody

else,

and

I

never

told

him

how

I

felt.

I

could

have.

He

knew

who

I

was;

he

sat

behind

me

in

a

couple

of

classes.

He

probably

doesn’t

remember,

but

in

middle

school

we

rode

the

same

bus,

and

there

was

an

afternoon

when

I

overheard

him

talking

about

his

little

sister

being

born

the

day

before

and

I

turned

around

and

said,

“My

brother

was

born

last

week!”

And

he

said,

“Really?”

Not

sarcastic,

but

like

he

thought

it

was

a

cool

coincidence,

and

for

about

a

month

I

went

around

thinking

we

had

this

special

connection

based

on

babies.

Then

we

were

in

high

school

and

he

became

the

star

wide

receiver

for

the

team

and

I

became

just

another

girl

watching

him

score

from

the

stands.

I

would

see

him

in

class

or

in

the

hallway,

and

sometimes

I

had

to

fight

the

urge

to

run

up

to

him

and

say,

“Hi,

I’m

Cassie,

the

girl

from

the

bus.

Do

you

remember

the

babies?”

The

funny

thing

is,

he

probably

would

have.

Ben

Parish

couldn’t

be

satisfied

withbeing

the

most

gorgeous

guy

in

school.

Just

to

torment

me

with

his

perfection,

he

also

insisted

on

being

one

of

the

smartest.

And

have

I

mentioned

he

was

kind

to

small

animals

and

children?

His

little

sister

was

on

the

sidelines

at

every

game,

and

when

we

took

the

district

title,

Ben

ran

straight

to

the

sidelines,

hoisted

her

onto

his

shoulders,

and

led

the

parade

around

the

track

with

her

waving

to

the

crowd

like

a

homecoming

queen.

Oh,

and

one

more

thing:

his

killer

smile.

Don’t

get

me

started.

After

another

hour

in

the

dark

and

stuffy

gym,

I

saw

my

dad

appear

in

the

doorway.

He

gave

a

little

wave,

like

he

showed

up

at

my

school

every

day

to

take

me

home

after

alien

attacks.

I

hugged

Lizbeth

and

told

her

I’d

call

as

soon

as

the

phones

started

working

again.

I

was

still

practicing

pre-invasion

thinking.

You

know,

the

power

goes

out,

but

it

always

comes

back

on.

So

I

just

gave

her

a

hug

and

I

don’t

remember

telling

her

that

I

loved

her.

We

went

outside

and

I

said,

“Where’s

the

car?”

And

Dad

said

the

car

wasn’t

working.

No

cars

were

working.

The

streets

were

litteredwith

stalled-out

cars

and

buses

and

motorcycles

and

trucks,

smashups

and

clusters

of

wrecks

on

every

block,

cars

folded

around

light

poles

and

sticking

out

of

buildings.

A

lot

of

people

were

trapped

when

the

EMP

hit;

the

automatic

locks

on

the

doors

didn’twork,

and

they

had

to

break

out

of

their

own

cars

or

sit

there

and

wait

for

someone

to

rescue

them.

The

injured

people

who

could

still

move

crawled

onto

the

roadside

and

sidewalks

to

wait

for

the

paramedics,

but

no

paramedics

came

because

the

ambulances

and

the

fire

trucks

and

the

cop

cars

didn’t

work,

either.

Everything

that

ran

on

batteries

or

electricity

or

had

an

engine

died

at

eleven

A.M.

Dad

walked

as

he

talked,

keeping

a

tight

grip

on

my

wrist,

like

he

was

afraid

somethingmight

swoop

down

out

of

the

sky

and

snatch

me

away.

“Nothing’s

working.

No

electricity,

no

phones,

no

plumbing…”

“We

saw

a

plane

crash.”

He

nodded.

“I’m

sure

they

all

did.

Anything

and

everything

in

the

sky

when

it

hit.

Fighter

jets,

helicopters,

troop

transports…”

“When

what

hit?”

“EMP,”

he

said.

“Electromagnetic

pulse.

Generate

one

large

enough

and

you

knock

outthe

entire

grid.

Power.

Communications.

Transportation.

Anything

that

flies

or

drives

is

zapped

out.”

It

was

a

mile

and

a

half

from

my

school

to

our

house.

The

longest

mile

and

a

half

I’ve

ever

walked.

It

felt

as

if

a

curtain

had

fallen

over

everything,

a

curtain

painted

to

look

exactly

like

what

it

was

hiding.

There

were

glimpses,

though,

little

peeks

behind

the

curtain

that

told

you

something

had

gone

very

wrong.

Like

all

the

people

standing

on

their

front

porches

holding

their

dead

phones,

looking

up

at

the

sky,

or

bending

over

the

open

hoods

of

their

cars,

fiddling

with

wires,

because

that’s

what

you

do

when

your

car

dies—you

fiddle

with

wires.

“But

it’s

okay,”

he

said,

squeezing

my

wrist.

“It’s

okay.

There’s

a

good

chance

our

backup

systems

weren’t

crippled,

and

I’m

sure

the

government

has

a

contingency

plan,

protected

bases,

that

sort

of

thing.”

“And

how

does

pulling

our

plug

fit

into

their

plan

to

help

us

along

in

the

next

stage

of

our

evolution,

Dad?”

I

regretted

the

words

the

instant

I

said

them.

But

I

was

freaking

out.

He

didn’t

takeit

the

wrong

way.

He

looked

at

me

and

smiled

reassuringly

and

said,

“Everything’s

going

to

be

okay,”

because

that’s

what

I

wanted

him

to

say

and

it’s

what

he

wanted

to

say

and

that’s

what

you

do

when

the

curtain

is

falling—you

give

the

line

that

the

audience

wants

to

hear.

7

AROUND

NOON

on

my

mission

to

keep

my

promise,

I

stop

for

a

water

break

and

a

SlimJim.

Every

time

I

eat

a

Slim

Jim

or

a

can

of

sardines

or

anything

prepackaged,

I

think,Well,

there’s

one

less

of

that

in

the

world.

Whittling

away

the

evidence

of

our

having

been

here

one

bite

at

a

time.

One

of

these

days,

I’ve

decided,

I’m

going

to

work

up

the

nerve

to

catch

a

chickenand

wring

its

delicious

neck.

I

would

kill

for

a

cheeseburger.

Honestly.

If

I

stumbled

across

someone

eating

a

cheeseburger,

I

would

kill

them

for

it.

There

are

plenty

of

cows

around.

I

could

shoot

one

and

carve

it

up

with

my

bowie

knife.

I’m

pretty

sure

I’d

have

no

problem

slaughtering

a

cow.

The

hard

part

would

be

cooking

it.

Having

a

fire,

even

in

daylight,

was

the

surest

way

to

invite

them

to

the

cookout.

A

shadow

shoots

across

the

grass

a

dozen

yards

in

front

of

me.

I

jerk

my

head

back,

knocking

it

hard

against

the

side

of

a

Honda

Civic

I

was

leaning

against

while

I

enjoyedmy

snack.

It

wasn’t

a

drone.

It

was

a

bird,

a

seagull

of

all

things,

skimming

along

with

barely

a

flick

of

its

outstretched

wings.

A

shiver

of

revulsion

goes

down

my

spine.

I

hate

birds.

I

didn’t

before

the

Arrival.

I

didn’t

after

the

1st

Wave.

I

didn’t

after

the

2nd

Wave,

which

really

didn’t

affect

me

that

much.

But

after

the

3rd

Wave,

I

hated

them.

It

wasn’t

their

fault,

I

knew

that.

It

was

like

a

man

in

front

of

a

firing

squad

hating

the

bullets,

but

I

couldn’t

help

it.

Birds

suck.

8

AFTER

THREE

DAYS

on

the

road,

I’ve

determined

that

cars

are

pack

animals.

They

prowl

in

groups.

They

die

in

clumps.

Clumps

of

smashups.

Clumps

of

stalls.

Theyglimmer

in

the

distance

like

jewels.

And

suddenly

the

clumps

stop.

The

road

is

empty

for

miles.

There’s

just

me

and

the

asphalt

river

cutting

through

a

defile

of

half-naked

trees,

their

leaves

crinkled

and

clinging

desperately

to

their

dark

branches.

There’s

the

road

and

the

naked

sky

and

the

tall,

brown

grass

and

me.

These

empty

stretches

are

the

worst.

Cars

provide

cover.

And

shelter.

I

sleep

in

the

undamaged

ones

(I

haven’t

found

a

locked

one

yet).

If

you

can

call

it

sleep.

Stale,stuffy

air;

you

can’t

crack

the

windows,

and

leaving

the

door

open

is

out

of

the

question.

The

gnaw

of

hunger.

And

the

night

thoughts.

Alone,

alone,

alone.

And

the

baddest

of

the

bad

night

thoughts:

I’m

no

alien

drone

designer,

but

if

I

were

going

to

make

one,

I’d

make

sure

that

its

detection

device

was

sensitive

enough

to

pick

up

a

body’s

heat

signature

through

a

car

roof.

It

never

failed:

The

moment

I

started

to

drift

off,

I

imagined

all

four

doors

flying

open

and

dozens

of

hands

reaching

for

me,

hands

attached

to

arms

attached

to

whatever

they

are.

And

then

I’m

up,

fumbling

with

my

M16,

peeking

over

the

backseat,

then

doing

a

360,

feeling

trapped

and

more

than

a

little

blind

behind

the

fogged-up

windows.

Dawn

comes.

I

wait

for

the

morning

fog

to

burn

off,

then

sip

some

water,

brush

my

teeth,

doublecheck

my

weapons,

inventory

my

supplies,

and

hit

the

road

again.

Look

up,

look

down,

look

all

around.

Don’t

pause

at

the

exits.

Water’s

fine

for

now.

No

way

am

I

going

anywhere

near

a

town

unless

I

have

to.

For

a

lot

of

reasons.

You

know

how

you

can

tell

when

you’re

getting

close

to

one?

The

smell.

You

can

smell

a

town

from

miles

away.

It

smells

like

smoke.

And

raw

sewage.

And

death.

In

the

city

it’s

hard

to

take

two

steps

without

stumbling

over

a

corpse.

Funny

thing:

People

die

in

clumps,

too.

I

begin

to

smell

Cincinnati

about

a

mile

before

spotting

the

exit

sign.

A

thick

column

of

smoke

rises

lazily

toward

the

cloudless

sky.

Cincinnati

is

burning.

I’m

not

surprised.

After

the

3rd

Wave,

the

second

most

common

thing

you

found

in

cities,

after

the

bodies,

were

fires.

A

single

lightning

strike

could

take

out

ten

city

blocks.

There

was

no

one

left

to

put

the

fires

out.

My

eyes

start

to

water.

The

stench

of

Cincinnati

makes

me

gag.

I

stop

long

enoughto

tie

a

rag

around

my

mouth

and

nose

and

then

quicken

my

pace.

I

pull

the

rifle

off

my

shoulder

and

cradle

it

as

I

quickstep.

I

have

a

bad

feeling

about

Cincinnati.

The

old

voice

inside

my

head

is

awake.

Hurry,

Cassie.

Hurry.

And

then,

somewhere

between

Exits

17

and

18,

I

find

the

bodies.

9

THERE

ARE

THREE

OF

THEM,

not

in

a

clump

like

city

folk,

but

spaced

out

in

the

mediasntrip.

The

first

one

is

an

older

guy,

around

my

dad’s

age,

I

guess.

Wearing

blue

jeans

and

a

Bengals

warmup.

Facedown,

arms

outstretched.

He

was

shot

in

the

back

of

the

head.

The

second,

about

a

dozen

feet

away,

is

a

young

woman,

a

little

older

than

I

am

and

dressed

in

a

pair

of

men’s

pajama

pants

and

Victoria’s

Secret

tee.

A

streak

of

purple

in

her

short-cropped

hair.

A

skull

ring

on

her

left

index

finger.

Black

nail

polish,

badly

chipped.

And

a

bullet

hole

in

the

back

of

her

head.

Another

few

feet

and

there’s

the

third.

A

kid

around

eleven

or

twelve.

Brand-new

white

basketball

high-tops.

Black

sweatshirt.

Hard

to

tell

what

his

face

used

to

look

like.

I

leave

the

kid

and

go

back

to

the

woman.

Kneel

in

the

tall

brown

grass

beside

her.

Touch

her

pale

neck.

Still

warm.

Oh

no.

No,

no,

no.

I

trot

back

to

the

first

guy.

Kneel.

Touch

the

palm

of

his

outstretched

hand.

Look

over

at

the

bloody

hole

between

his

ears.

Shiny.

Still

wet.

I

freeze.

Behind

me,

the

road.

In

front

of

me,

more

road.

To

my

right,

trees.

To

my

left,

more

trees.

Clumps

of

cars

on

the

southbound

lane,

the

nearest

grouping

about

a

hundred

feet

away.

Something

tells

me

to

look

up.

Straight

up.

A

fleck

of

dull

gray

against

the

backdrop

of

dazzling

autumnal

blue.

Motionless.

Hello,

Cassie.

My

name

is

Mr.

Drone.

Nice

to

meet

you!

I

stand

up,

and

when

I

stand

up—the

moment

I

stand

up;

if

I

had

stayed

frozen

therea

millisecond

longer,

Mr.

Bengals

and

I

would

be

sporting

matching

holes—something

slams

into

my

leg,

a

hot

punch

just

above

my

knee

that

knocks

me

off

balance,

sending

me

sprawling

backward

onto

my

butt.

I

didn’t

hear

the

shot.

There

was

the

cool

wind

in

the

grass

and

my

own

hot

breathunder

the

rag

and

the

blood

rushing

in

my

ears—that’s

all

there

was

before

the

bullet

struck.

Silencer.

That

makes

sense.

Of

course

they’d

use

silencers.

And

now

I

have

the

perfect

namefor

them:

Silencers.

A

name

that

fits

the

job

description.

Something

takes

over

when

you’re

facing

death.

The

front

part

of

your

brain

lets

go,

gives

up

control

to

the

oldest

part

of

you,

the

part

that

takes

care

of

your

heartbeat

and

breathing

and

the

blinking

of

your

eyes.

The

part

nature

built

first

to

keep

your

ass

alive.

The

part

that

stretches

time

like

a

gigantic

piece

of

toffee,

making

a

second

seem

like

an

hour

and

a

minute

longer

than

a

summer

afternoon.

I

lunge

forward

for

my

rifle—I

had

dropped

the

M16

when

the

round

punched

home—andthe

ground

in

front

of

me

explodes,

showering

me

with

shredded

grass

and

hunks

of

dirt

and

gravel.

Okay,

forget

the

M16.

I

yank

the

Luger

from

my

waistband

and

do

a

sort

of

running

hop—or

a

hopping

run—toward

the

closest

car.

There

isn’t

much

pain—although

my

guess

is

that

we’re

going

to

get

very

intimate

later—

but

I

can

feel

the

blood

soaking

into

my

jeans

by

the

time

I

reach

the

car,

an

older

model

Buick

sedan.

The

rear

windshield

shatters

as

I

dive

down.

I

scoot

on

my

back

till

I’m

all

the

wayunder

the

car.

I’m

not

a

big

girl

by

any

stretch,

but

it’s

a

tight

fit,

no

room

to

roll

over,

no

way

to

turn

if

he

shows

up

on

the

left

side.

Cornered.

Smart,

Cassie,

real

smart.

Straight

As

last

semester?

Honor

roll?

Riiiiiight.

You

should

have

stayed

in

your

little

stretch

of

woods

in

your

little

tent

with

your

little

books

and

your

cute

little

mementos.

At

least

when

they

came

for

you,

there’d

be

room

to

run.

The

minutes

spin

out.

I

lie

on

my

back

and

bleed

onto

the

cold

concrete.

Rolling

myhead

to

the

right,

to

the

left,

raising

it

a

half

inch

to

look

past

my

feet

toward

the

back

of

the

car.

Where

the

hell

is

he?

What’s

taking

so

long?

Then

it

hits

me:

He’s

using

a

high-powered

sniper

rifle.

Has

to

be.

Which

means

he

could

have

beenover

a

half

mile

away

when

he

shot

me.

Which

also

means

I

have

more

time

than

I

first

thought.

Time

to

come

up

with

somethingbesides

a

blubbery,

desperate,

disjointed

prayer.

Make

him

go

away.

Make

him

be

quick.

Let

me

live.

Let

him

end

it…

Shaking

uncontrollably.

I’m

sweating;

I’m

freezing

cold.

You’re

going

into

shock.

Think,

Cassie.

Think.

It’s

what

we’re

made

for.

It’s

what

got

us

here.

It’s

the

reason

I

have

this

car

to

hide

under.

We

are

human.

And

humans

think.

They

plan.

They

dream,

and

then

they

make

the

dream

real.

Make

it

real,

Cassie.

Unless

he

drops

down,

he

won’t

be

able

to

get

to

me.

And

when

he

drops

down…when

he

dips

his

head

to

look

at

me…when

he

reaches

in

to

grab

my

ankle

and

drag

me

out…

No.

He’s

too

smart

for

that.

He’s

going

to

assume

I’m

armed.

He

wouldn’t

risk

it.Not

that

Silencers

care

whether

they

live

or

die…or

do

they

care?

Do

Silencers

know

fear?

They

don’t

love

life—I’ve

seen

enough

to

prove

that.

But

do

they

love

their

own

lives

more

than

they

love

taking

someone

else’s?

Time

stretches

out.

A

minute’s

longer

than

a

season.

What’s

taking

him

so

damn

long?

It’s

an

either/or

world

now.

Either

he’s

coming

to

finish

it

or

he

isn’t.

But

he

has

to

finish

it,

doesn’t

he?

Isn’t

that

the

reason

he’s

here?

Isn’t

that

the

whole

friggin’

point?

Either/or:

Either

I

run—or

hop

or

crawl

or

roll—or

I

stay

under

this

car

and

bleedto

death.

If

I

risk

escape,

it’s

a

turkey

shoot.

I

won’t

make

it

two

feet.

If

I

stay,

same

result,

only

more

painful,

more

fearful,

and

much,

much

slower.

Black

stars

blossom

and

dance

in

front

of

my

eyes.

I

can’t

get

enough

air

into

my

lungs.

I

reach

up

with

my

left

hand

and

yank

the

cloth

from

my

face.

The

cloth.

Cassie,

you’re

an

idiot.

I

set

the

gun

down

beside

me.

That’s

the

hardest

part—making

myself

let

go

of

the

gun.

I

lift

my

leg,

slide

the

rag

beneath

it.

I

can’t

lift

my

head

to

see

what

I’m

doing.I

stare

past

the

black,

blossoming

stars

at

the

grimy

guts

of

the

Buick

as

I

pull

the

two

ends

together,

cinch

them

tight,

as

tight

as

I

can,

and

fumble

with

the

knot.

I

reach

down

and

explore

the

wound

with

my

fingertips.

It’s

still

bleeding,

but

a

trickle

compared

to

the

bubbling

gusher

I

had

before

tying

off

the

tourniquet.

I

pick

up

the

gun.

Better.

My

eyesight

clears

a

little,

and

I

don’t

feel

quite

socold.

I

shift

a

couple

of

inches

to

the

left;

I

don’t

like

lying

in

my

own

blood.

Where

is

he?

He’s

had

plenty

of

time

to

finish

this…

Unless

he

is

finished.

That

brings

me

up

short.

For

a

few

seconds,

I

totally

forget

to

breathe.

He’s

not

coming.

He’s

not

coming

because

he

doesn’t

need

to

come.

He

knows

you

won’t

dare

come

out,

and

if

you

don’t

come

out

and

run,

you

won’t

make

it.

He

knows

you’ll

starve

or

bleed

to

death

or

die

of

dehydration.

He

knows

what

you

know:

Run

=

die.

Stay

=

die.

Time

for

him

to

move

on

to

the

next

one.

If

there

is

a

next

one.

If

I’m

not

the

last

one.

Come

on,

Cassie!

From

seven

billion

to

just

one

in

five

months?

You’re

not

the

last,

and

even

if

you

are

the

last

human

being

on

Earth—especially

if

you

are—you

can’t

let

it

end

this

way.

Trapped

under

a

goddamned

Buick,

bleeding

until

all

the

blood

is

gone—is

this

how

humanity

waves

good-bye?

Hell

no.

10

THE

1ST

WAVE

took

out

half

a

million

people.

The

2nd

Wave

put

that

number

to

shame.

In

case

you

don’t

know,

we

live

on

a

restless

planet.

The

continents

sit

on

slabs

of

rock,

called

tectonic

plates,

and

those

plates

float

on

a

sea

of

molten

lava.

They’re

constantly

scraping

and

rubbing

and

pushing

against

one

another,

creating

enormous

pressure.

Over

time

the

pressure

builds

and

builds,

until

the

plates

slip,

releasing

huge

amounts

of

energy

in

the

form

of

earthquakes.

If

one

of

those

quakes

happens

along

one

of

the

fault

lines

that

ring

every

continent,

the

shock

wave

produces

a

superwave

called

a

tsunami.

Over

40

percent

of

the

world’s

population

lives

within

sixty

miles

of

a

coastline.

That’s

three

billion

people.

All

the

Others

had

to

do

was

make

it

rain.

Take

a

metal

rod

twice

as

tall

as

the

Empire

State

Building

and

three

times

as

heavy.

Position

it

over

one

of

these

fault

lines.

Drop

it

from

the

upper

atmosphere.

You

don’t

need

any

propulsion

or

guidance

system;

just

let

it

fall.

Thanks

to

gravity,

by

the

time

it

reaches

the

surface,

it’s

traveling

twelve

miles

per

second,

twenty

times

faster

than

a

speeding

bullet.

It

hits

the

surface

with

a

force

one

billion

times

greater

than

the

bomb

dropped

on

Hiroshima.

Bye-bye,

New

York.

Bye,

Sydney.

Good-bye,

California,

Washington,

Oregon,

Alaska,British

Columbia.

So

long,

Eastern

Seaboard.

Japan,

Hong

Kong,

London,

Rome,

Rio.

Nice

to

know

you.

Hope

you

enjoyed

your

stay!

The

1st

Wave

was

over

in

seconds.

The

2nd

Wave

lasted

a

little

longer.

About

a

day.

The

3rd

Wave?

That

took

a

little

longer—twelve

weeks.

Twelve

weeks

to

kill…well,

Dad

figured

97

percent

of

those

of

us

unlucky

enough

to

have

survived

the

first

two

waves.

Ninety-seven

percent

of

four

billion?

You

do

the

math.

That’s

when

the

Alien

Empire

descended

in

their

flying

saucers

and

started

blasting

away,

right?

When

the

peoples

of

the

Earth

united

under

one

banner

to

play

David

versusGoliath.

Our

tanks

against

your

ray

guns.

Bring

it

on!

We

weren’t

that

lucky.

And

they

weren’t

that

stupid.

How

do

you

waste

nearly

four

billion

people

in

three

months?

Birds.

How

many

birds

are

there

in

the

world?

Wanna

guess?

A

million?

A

billion?

How

about

over

three

hundred

billion?

That’s

about

seventy-five

birds

for

each

man,

woman,

and

child

still

alive

after

the

first

two

waves.

There

are

thousands

of

species

of

bird

on

every

continent.

And

birds

don’t

recognize

borders.

They

also

crap

a

lot.

They

crap

five

or

six

times

a

day.

That’s

over

a

trillion

little

missiles

raining

down

each

day,

every

day.

You

couldn’t

invent

a

more

efficient

delivery

system

for

a

virus

that

has

a

97

percent

kill

rate.

My

father

thought

they

must

have

taken

something

like

Ebola

Zaire

and

geneticallyaltered

it.

Ebola

can’t

spread

through

the

air.

But

change

a

single

protein

and

you

can

make

it

airborne,

like

the

flu.

The

virus

takes

up

residence

in

your

lungs.

You

get

a

bad

cough.

Fever.

Your

head

starts

to

hurt.

Hurt

bad.

You

start

spitting

up

little

drops

of

virus-laden

blood.

The

bug

moves

into

your

liver,

your

kidneys,

your

brain.

You’re

packing

a

billion

of

them

now.

You’ve

become

a

viral

bomb.

And

when

you

explode,

you

blast

everyone

around

you

with

the

virus.

They

call

it

bleeding

out.

Like

rats

fleeing

a

sinking

ship,

the

virus

erupts

out

of

every

opening.

Your

mouth,

your

nose,

your

ears,

your

ass,

even

your

eyes.

You

literally

cry

tears

of

blood.

We

had

different

names

for

it.

The

Red

Death

or

the

Blood

Plague.

The

Pestilence.The

Red

Tsunami.

The

Fourth

Horseman.

Whatever

you

wanted

to

call

it,

after

threemonths,

ninety-seven

out

of

every

hundred

people

were

dead.

That’s

a

lot

of

bloody

tears.

Time

was

flowing

in

reverse.

The

1st

Wave

knocked

us

back

to

the

eighteenth

century.

The

next

two

slammed

us

into

the

Neolithic.

We

were

hunter-gatherers

again.

Nomads.

Bottom

of

the

pyramid.

But

we

weren’t

ready

to

give

up

hope.

Not

yet.

There

were

still

enough

of

us

left

to

fight

back.

We

couldn’t

take

them

head-on,

but

we

could

fight

a

guerilla

war.

We

could

go

all

asymmetrical

on

their

alien

asses.

We

had

enough

guns

and

ammo

and

even

some

transport

that

survived

the

1st

Wave.

Our

militaries

had

been

decimated,

but

there

were

still

functional

units

on

every

continent.

There

were

bunkers

and

caves

and

underground

bases

where

we

could

hide

for

years.

You

be

America,

alien

invaders,

and

we’ll

be

Vietnam.

And

the

Others

go,

Yeah,

okay,

right.

We

thought

they

had

thrown

everything

at

us—or

at

least

the

worst,

because

it

was

hard

to

imagine

anything

worse

than

the

Red

Death.

Those

of

us

who

survived

the

3rdWave—the

ones

with

a

natural

immunity

to

the

disease—hunkered

down

and

stocked

up

and

waited

for

the

People

in

Charge

to

tell

us

what

to

do.

We

knew

somebody

had

to

be

in

charge,

because

occasionally

a

fighter

jet

would

scream

across

the

sky

and

we

heard

what

sounded

like

gun

battles

in

the

distance

and

the

rumble

of

troop

carriers

just

over

the

horizon.

I

guess

my

family

was

luckier

than

most.

The

Fourth

Horseman

rode

off

with

my

mom,but

Dad,

Sammy,

and

I

survived.

Dad

boasted

about

our

superior

genes.

Not

somethingyou’d

normally

do,

brag

on

top

of

an

Everest

of

nearly

seven

billion

dead

people.

Dad

was

just

being

Dad,

trying

to

put

the

best

spin

he

could

on

the

eve

of

human

extinction.

Most

cities

and

towns

were

abandoned

in

the

wake

of

the

Red

Tsunami.

There

was

no

electricity,

no

plumbing,

the

shops

and

stores

had

long

since

been

looted

of

anything

valuable.

Raw

sewage

was

an

inch

deep

on

some

streets.

Fires

from

summer

lightning

storms

were

common.

Then

there

was

the

problem

of

the

bodies.

As

in,

they

were

everywhere.

Houses,

shelters,

hospitals,

apartments,

office

buildings,schools,

churches

and

synagogues,

and

warehouses.

There’s

a

tipping

point

when

the

sheer

volume

of

death

overwhelms

you.

You

can’t

bury

or

burn

the

bodies

fast

enough.

That

summer

of

the

Pestilence

was

brutally

hot,

and

the

stench

of

rotting

flesh

hung

in

the

air

like

an

invisible,

noxious

fog.

We

soaked

strips

of

cloth

in

perfume

and

tied

them

over

our

mouths

and

noses,

and

by

the

end

of

the

day

the

reek

had

soaked

into

the

material

and

all

you

could

do

was

sit

there

and

gag.

Until—funny

thing—you

got

used

to

it.

We

waited

out

the

3rd

Wave

barricaded

inside

our

house.

Partly

because

there

was

a

quarantine.

Partly

because

some

pretty

whacked-out

people

roamed

the

streets,

breaking

into

houses

and

setting

fires,

the

whole

murder,

rape,

and

pillaging

thing.

Partly

because

we

were

scared

out

of

our

minds

waiting

for

what

might

come

next.

But

mostly

because

Dad

didn’t

want

to

leave

Mom.

She

was

too

sick

to

travel,

and

hecouldn’t

bring

himself

to

abandon

her.

She

told

him

to

go.

Leave

her

behind.

She

was

going

to

die

anyway.

It

wasn’t

abouther

anymore.

It

was

about

me

and

Sammy.

About

keeping

us

safe.

About

the

future

and

hanging

on

to

the

hope

that

tomorrow

would

be

better

than

today.

Dad

didn’t

argue.

But

he

didn’t

leave

her,

either.

He

waited

for

the

inevitable,

keeping

her

as

comfortable

as

possible,

and

looked

at

maps

and

made

lists

and

gathered

supplies.

This

was

around

the

time

the

whole

book-hoarding,

we-have-to-rebuild-civilization

kick

started.

On

nights

when

the

sky

wasn’t

totally

blanketed

in

smoke,

we

went

into

the

backyard

and

took

turns

with

my

old

telescope,

watching

the

mothership

sail

majestically

across

the

backdrop

of

the

Milky

Way.

The

stars

were

brighter

now,

brilliantly

bright,

without

our

man-made

lights

to

dim

them.

“What

are

they

waiting

for?”

I

would

ask

him.

I

was

still

expecting—like

everybodyelse—the

saucers

and

the

mechanical

walkers

and

the

laser

cannons.

“Why

don’t

they

just

get

it

over

with?”

And

Daddy

would

shake

his

head.

“I

don’t

know,

pumpkin,”

he

would

say.

“Maybe

it

is

over.

Maybe

the

goal

isn’t

to

kill

all

of

us,

just

wean

us

down

to

a

manageable

number.”

“And

then

what?

What

do

they

want?”

“I

think

the

better

question

is

what

they

need,”

he

said

gently,

as

if

he

were

breaking

some

really

bad

news.

“They’re

being

very

careful,

you

know.”

“Careful?”

“To

not

damage

it

more

than

absolutely

necessary.

It’s

the

reason

they’re

here,

Cassie.

They

need

the

Earth.”

“But

not

us,”

I

whispered.

I

was

about

to

lose

it—again.

For

about

the

trillionth

time.

He

put

his

hand

on

my

shoulder—for

about

the

trillionth

time—and

said,

“Well,

we

had

our

shot.

And

we

weren’t

handling

our

inheritance

very

well.

I

bet

if

we

could

somehow

go

back

and

interview

the

dinosaurs

before

the

asteroid

struck…”

That’s

when

I

punched

him

as

hard

as

I

could.

Ran

inside.

I

don’t

know

which

is

worse,

inside

or

outside.

Outside

you

feel

totally

exposed,

constantly

watched,

naked

beneath

the

naked

sky.

But

inside

it’s

perpetual

twilight.

Boarded-up

windows

that

block

out

the

sun

during

the

day.

Candles

at

night,

but

we’re

running

low

on

candles,

can’t

spare

more

than

one

per

room,

and

deep

shadows

lurk

in

once-familiar

corners.

“What

is

it,

Cassie?”

Sammy.

Five.

Adorable.

Big

brown

teddy-bear

eyes,

clutchingthe

other

member

of

the

family

with

big

brown

eyes,

the

stuffed

one

I

now

have

stowed

in

the

bottom

of

my

backpack.

“Why

are

you

crying?”

Seeing

my

tears

got

his

started.

I

brushed

past

him,

headed

for

the

room

of

the

sixteen-year-old

human

dinosaur,

Cassiopeia

Sullivanus

extinctus.

Then

I

went

back

to

him.

I

couldn’t

leave

him

crying

like

that.

We’d

gotten

pretty

tight

since

Mom

got

sick.

Nearly

every

night

bad

dreams

chased

him

into

my

room,

and

he’d

crawl

in

bed

with

me

and

press

his

face

against

my

chest,

and

sometimes

he

forgot

and

called

me

Mommy.

“Did

you

see

them,

Cassie?

Are

they

coming?”

“No,

kiddo,”

I

said,

wiping

away

his

tears.

“No

one’s

coming.”

Not

yet.

11

MOM

DIED

ON

A

TUESDAY.

Dad

buried

her

in

the

backyard,

in

the

rose

bed.

She

had

asked

for

that

before

she

died.

At

the

height

of

the

Pestilence,

when

hundreds

were

dying

every

day,

most

of

the

bodies

were

hauled

to

the

outskirts

and

burned.

Dying

towns

were

ringed

by

the

constantly

smoldering

bonfires

of

the

dead.

He

told

me

to

stay

with

Sammy.

Sammy,

who’d

gone

zombielike

on

us,

shuffling

around,

mouth

hanging

open

or

sucking

his

thumb

like

he

was

two

again,

with

this

blankness

in

his

teddy-bear

eyes.

Just

a

few

months

ago,

Mom

was

pushing

him

on

a

swing,

takinghim

to

karate

classes,

washing

his

hair,

dancing

with

him

to

his

favorite

song.

Now

she

was

wrapped

in

a

white

sheet

and

riding

on

his

daddy’s

shoulder

into

the

backyard.

I

saw

Dad

through

the

kitchen

window

kneeling

by

the

shallow

grave.

His

head

was

down.

Shoulders

jerking.

I’d

never

seen

him

lose

it,

not

once,

since

the

Arrival.

Thingskept

getting

worse,

and

just

when

you

thought

they

couldn’t

get

any

worse,

they

got

even

worse,

but

Dad

never

freaked.

Even

when

Mom

started

showing

the

first

signs

of

infection,

he

stayed

calm,

especially

in

front

of

her.

He

didn’t

talk

about

what

was

happening

outside

the

barricaded

doors

and

windows.

He

laid

wet

cloths

over

her

forehead.

He

bathed

her,

changed

her,

fed

her.

Not

once

did

I

see

him

cry

in

front

of

her.

While

some

people

were

shooting

themselves

and

hanging

themselves

and

swallowing

handfuls

of

pills

and

jumping

from

high

places,

Dad

pushed

back

against

the

darkness.

He

sang

to

her

and

repeated

stupid

jokes

she’d

heard

a

thousand

times,

and

he

lied.

He

lied

the

way

a

parent

lies

to

you,

the

good

lie

that

helps

you

go

to

sleep.

“Heard

another

plane

today.

Sounded

like

a

fighter.

Means

some

of

our

stuff

must

have

made

it

through.”

“Your

fever’s

down

a

bit,

and

your

eyes

look

clearer

today.

Maybe

this

isn’t

it.

Might

just

be

your

garden-variety

flu.”

In

the

final

hours,

wiping

away

her

bloody

tears.

Holding

her

while

she

barfed

up

the

black,

viral

stew

her

stomach

had

become.

Bringing

me

and

Sammy

into

the

room

to

say

good-bye.

“It’s

all

right,”

she

told

Sammy.

“Everything

is

going

to

be

all

right.”

To

me

she

said,

“He

needs

you

now,

Cassie.

Take

care

of

him.

Take

care

of

your

father.”

I

told

her

she

was

going

to

get

better.

Some

people

did.

They

got

sick,

and

then

suddenlythe

virus

let

go.

Nobody

understood

why.

Maybe

it

decided

it

didn’t

like

the

way

you

tasted.

And

I

didn’t

say

she

was

going

to

get

better

to

ease

her

fear.

I

really

believed

it.

I

had

to

believe

it.

“You’re

all

they

have,”

Mom

said.

Her

last

words

to

me.

The

mind

was

the

last

thing

to

go,

washed

away

in

the

red

waters

of

the

Tsunami.

The

virus

took

total

control.

Some

people

went

into

a

frenzy

as

it

boiled

their

brains.

They

punched,

clawed,

kicked,

bit.

Like

the

virus

that

needed

us

also

hated

us

and

couldn’t

wait

to

get

rid

of

us.

My

mother

looked

at

my

dad

and

didn’t

know

him.

Didn’t

know

where

she

was.

Who

shewas.

What

was

happening

to

her.

There

was

this,

like,

permanent,

creepy

smile,

cracked

lips

pulled

back

from

bleeding

gums,

her

teeth

stained

with

blood.

Sounds

came

out

of

her

mouth,

but

they

weren’t

words.

The

place

in

her

brain

that

made

words

was

packed

with

virus,

and

the

virus

didn’t

know

language—it

knew

only

how

to

make

more

of

itself.

And

then

my

mother

died

in

a

fury

of

jerks

and

gargled

screams,

her

uninvited

guests

rocketing

out

of

every

orifice,

because

she

was

done,

they’d

used

her

up,

time

to

turn

off

the

lights

and

find

a

new

home.

Dad

bathed

her

one

last

time.

Combed

her

hair.

Scrubbed

the

dried

blood

from

her

teeth.

When

he

came

to

tell

me

she

was

gone,

he

was

calm.

He

didn’t

lose

it.

He

held

me

while

I

lost

it.

Now

I

was

watching

him

through

the

kitchen

window.

Kneeling

beside

her

in

the

rose

bed,

thinking

no

one

could

see

him,

my

father

let

go

of

the

rope

he’d

been

clinging

to,

loosened

the

line

that

had

kept

him

steady

all

that

time

while

everyone

around

him

went

into

free

fall.

I

made

sure

Sammy

was

okay

and

went

outside.

I

sat

next

to

him.

Put

my

hand

on

hisshoulder.

The

last

time

I’d

touched

my

father,

it

was

a

lot

harder

and

with

my

fist.

I

didn’t

say

anything,

and

he

didn’t,

either,

not

for

a

long

time.

He

slipped

something

into

my

hand.

Mom’s

wedding

ring.

He

said

she’d

want

me

to

have

it.

“We’re

leaving,

Cassie.

Tomorrow

morning.”

I

nodded.

I

knew

she

was

the

only

reason

we

hadn’t

left

yet.

The

delicate

stems

onthe

roses

bobbed

and

swayed,

as

if

echoing

my

nod.

“Where

are

we

going?”

“Away.”

He

looked

around,

and

his

eyes

were

wide

and

frightened.

“It

isn’t

safe

anymore.”

Duh,

I

thought.

When

was

it

ever?

“Wright-Patterson

Air

Force

Base

is

just

over

a

hundred

miles

from

here.

If

we

pushand

the

weather

stays

good,

we

can

be

there

in

five

or

six

days.”

“And

then

what?”

The

Others

had

conditioned

us

to

think

this

way:Okay,

this,

and

then

what?

I

looked

to

my

father

to

tell

me.

He

was

the

smartest

man

I

knew.

If

he

didn’t

have

an

answer,

there

was

no

one

who

did.

I

sure

didn’t.

And

I

sure

wanted

him

to.

I

needed

him

to.

He

shook

his

head

like

he

didn’t

understand

the

question.

“What’s

at

Wright-Patterson?”

I

asked.

“I

don’t

know

that

anything’s

there.”

He

tried

out

a

smile

and

grimaced,

like

smiling

hurt.

“Then

why

are

we

going?”

“Because

we

can’t

stay

here,”

he

said

through

gritted

teeth.

“And

if

we

can’t

stayhere,

we

have

to

go

somewhere.

If

there’s

anything

like

a

government

left

at

all…”

He

shook

his

head.

He

hadn’t

come

outside

for

this.

He

had

come

outside

to

bury

his

wife.

“Go

inside,

Cassie.”

“I’ll

help

you.”

“I

don’t

need

your

help.”

“She’s

my

mother.

I

loved

her,

too.

Please

let

me

help.”

I

was

crying

again.

He

didn’tsee.

He

wasn’t

looking

at

me,

and

he

wasn’t

looking

at

Mom.

He

wasn’t

looking

at

anything,really.

There

was,

like,

this

black

hole

where

the

world

used

to

be,

and

we

were

both

falling

toward

it.

What

could

we

hold

on

to?

I

pulled

his

hand

off

Mom’s

body

and

pressed

it

against

my

cheek

and

told

him

I

loved

him

and

that

Mom

loved

him

and

that

everything

would

be

okay,

and

the

black

hole

lost

a

little

of

its

strength.

“Go

inside,

Cassie,”

he

said

gently.

“Sammy

needs

you

more

than

she

does.”

I

went

inside.

Sammy

was

sitting

on

the

floor

in

his

room,

playing

with

his

X-wingstarfighter,

destroying

the

Death

Star.

“Shroooooom,

shroooooom.

I’m

going

in,

Red

One!”

And

outside,

my

father

knelt

in

the

freshly

turned

earth.

Brown

dirt,

red

rose,

graysky,

white

sheet.

12

I

GUESS

I

have

to

talk

about

Sammy

now.

I

don’t

know

how

else

to

get

there.

There

being

that

first

inch

in

the

open,

where

the

sunlight

kissed

my

scraped-up

cheek

when

I

slid

out

from

under

the

Buick.

That

first

inch

was

the

hardest.

The

longestinch

in

the

universe.

The

inch

that

stretched

a

thousand

miles.

There

being

that

place

on

the

highway

where

I

turned

to

face

the

enemy

I

couldn’t

see.

There

being

the

one

thing

that’s

kept

me

from

going

completely

crazy,

the

thing

the

Others

haven’t

been

able

to

take

from

me

after

taking

everything

from

me.

Sammy

is

the

reason

I

didn’t

give

up.

Why

I

didn’t

stay

beneath

that

car

and

wait

for

the

end.

The

last

time

I

saw

him

was

through

the

back

window

of

a

school

bus.

His

foreheadpressing

against

the

glass.

Waving

at

me.

And

smiling.

Like

he

was

going

on

a

field

trip:

excited,

nervous,

not

scared

at

all.

Being

with

all

those

other

kids

helped.

And

the

school

bus,

which

was

so

normal.

What’s

more

everyday

than

a

big,

yellow

school

bus?

So

ordinary,

in

fact,

that

the

sight

of

them

pulling

into

the

refugee

camp

after

the

last

four

months

of

horror

was

shocking.

It

was

like

seeing

a

McDonald’s

on

the

moon.

Totally

weird

and

crazy

and

something

that

just

shouldn’t

be.

We’d

been

in

the

camp

only

a

couple

of

weeks.

Of

the

fifty

or

so

people

there,

ours

was

the

only

family.

Everybody

else

was

a

widow,

a

widower,

an

orphan.

The

last

ones

standing

in

their

family,

strangers

before

coming

to

the

camp.

The

oldest

was

probably

in

his

sixties.

Sammy

was

the

youngest,

but

there

were

seven

other

kids,

none

except

me

older

than

fourteen.

The

camp

lay

twenty

miles

east

of

where

we

lived,

hacked

out

of

the

woods

during

the

3rd

Wave

to

build

a

field

hospital

after

the

ones

in

town

had

reached

full

capacity.

The

buildings

were

slapped

together,

made

out

of

hand-sawed

lumber

and

salvaged

tin,

one

main

ward

for

the

infected

and

a

smaller

shack

for

the

two

doctors

who

tended

the

dying

before

they,

too,

were

sucked

down

by

the

Red

Tsunami.

There

was

a

summer

garden

and

a

system

that

captured

rainwater

for

washing

and

bathing

and

drinking.

We

ate

and

slept

in

the

big

building.

Between

five

and

six

hundred

people

had

bled

out

in

there,

but

the

floor

and

walls

had

been

bleached

and

the

cots

they

died

on

had

been

burned.

It

still

smelled

faintly

of

the

Pestilence

(a

little

like

soured

milk),

and

the

bleach

hadn’t

removed

all

the

bloodstains.

There

were

patterns

of

tiny

spots

covering

the

walls

and

long,

sickle-shaped

stains

on

the

floor.

It

was

like

living

in

a

3-D

abstract

painting.

The

shack

was

a

combination

storehouse

and

weapons

cache.

Canned

vegetables,

packagedmeats,

dry

goods,

and

staples,

like

salt.

Shotguns,

pistols,

semiautomatics,

even

a

couple

of

flare

guns.

Every

man

walked

around

armed

to

the

teeth;

it

was

the

Wild

West

all

over

again.

A

shallow

pit

had

been

dug

a

few

hundred

yards

into

the

woods

behind

the

compound.

The

pit

was

for

burning

bodies.

We

weren’t

allowed

to

go

back

there,

so

of

course

me

and

some

of

the

older

kids

did.

There

was

this

one

creep

they

called

Crisco,

Iguess

because

of

his

long,

greased-back

hair.

Crisco

was

thirteen

and

a

trophy

hunter.

He’d

actually

wade

into

the

ashes

to

scavenge

for

jewelry

and

coins

and

anything

else

he

might

find

valuable

or

“interesting.”

He

swore

he

didn’t

do

it

because

he

was

a

sicko.

“This

is

the

difference

now,”

he

would

say,

chortling,

sorting

through

his

latest

haul

with

crudencrusted

fingernails,

his

hands

gloved

in

the

gray

dust

of

human

remains.

The

difference

between

what?

“Between

being

the

Man

or

not.

The

barter

system

is

back,

baby!”

Holding

up

a

diamondnecklace.

“And

when

it’s

all

over

except

for

the

shouting,

the

people

with

the

good

stuff

are

going

to

call

the

shots.”

The

idea

that

they

wanted

to

kill

all

of

us

still

wasn’t

something

that

had

occurred

to

anyone,

even

the

adults.

Crisco

saw

himself

as

one

of

the

Native

Americans

who

sold

Manhattan

for

a

handful

of

beads,

not

as

a

dodo

bird,

which

was

a

lot

closer

to

the

truth.

Dad

had

heard

about

the

camp

a

few

weeks

back,

when

Mom

started

showing

early

symptoms

of

the

Pestilence.

He

tried

to

get

Mom

to

go,

but

she

knew

there

was

nothing

anyonecould

do.

If

she

was

going

to

die,

she

wanted

to

do

it

in

her

own

home,

not

in

some

bogus

hospice

in

the

middle

of

the

woods.

Then

later,

as

she

was

entering

the

final

hours,

the

rumor

came

around

that

the

hospital

had

been

turned

into

a

rendezvous

point,

a

kind

of

survivor

safe

house,

far

enough

from

town

to

be

reasonably

safe

in

the

next

wave,

whatever

that

was

going

to

be

(though

the

smart

money

was

on

some

kind

of

aerial

bombardment),

but

close

enough

for

the

People

in

Charge

to

find

when

they

came

to

rescue

us—if

there

were

People

in

Charge

and

if

they

came.

The

unofficial

boss

of

the

camp

was

a

retired

marine

named

Hutchfield.

He

was

a

humanLEGO

person:

square

hands,

square

head,

square

jaw.

Wore

the

same

muscle

tee

every

day,

stained

with

something

that

might

have

been

blood,

though

his

black

boots

always

sported

a

mirror

finish.

He

shaved

his

head

(though

not

his

chest

or

back,

which

he

really

should

have

considered).

He

was

covered

in

tattoos.

And

he

liked

guns.

Two

on

his

hip,

one

tucked

behind

his

back,

another

slung

over

his

shoulder.

No

one

carried

more

guns

than

Hutchfield.

Maybe

thathad

something

to

do

with

his

being

the

unofficial

boss.

Sentries

had

spotted

us

coming,

and

when

we

reached

the

dirt

road

that

led

into

the

woods

to

the

camp,

Hutchfield

was

there

with

another

guy

named

Brogden.

I’m

prettysure

we

were

supposed

to

notice

the

firepower

draped

all

over

their

bodies.

Hutchfield

ordered

us

to

split

up.

He

was

going

to

talk

to

Dad;

Brogden

got

me

and

Sams.

I

toldHutchfield

what

I

thought

about

that

idea.

You

know,

like

where

exactly

on

his

tattooed

behind

he

could

stick

it.

I’d

just

lost

one

parent.

I

wasn’t

too

keen

on

the

idea

of

losing

another.

“It’s

all

right,

Cassie,”

my

father

said.

“We

don’t

know

these

guys,”

I

argued

with

him.

“They

could

be

just

another

bunch

of

Twigs,

Dad.”

Twigs

was

street

for

“thugs

with

guns,”

the

murderers,

rapists,

black

marketers,

kidnappers,

and

just

your

general

punks

who

showed

up

midway

through

the

3rd

Wave,

the

reason

people

barricaded

their

houses

and

stockpiled

food

and

weapons.

It

wasn’t

the

aliens

that

first

made

us

gear

up

for

war;

it

was

our

fellow

humans.

“They’re

just

being

careful,”

Dad

argued

back.

“I’d

do

the

same

thing

in

their

position.”He

patted

me.

I

was

like,

Damn

it,

old

man,

if

you

give

me

that

g.d.

condescending

little

pat

one

more

time…

“It’ll

be

fine,

Cassie.”

He

went

off

with

Hutchfield,

out

of

earshot

but

still

in

sight.

That

made

me

feel

a

little

better.

I

hauled

Sammy

onto

my

hip

and

did

my

best

to

answer

Brogden’s

questions

without

popping

him

with

my

free

hand.

What

were

our

names?

Where

were

we

from?

Was

anyone

in

our

party

infected?

Was

there

anything

we

could

tell

him

about

what

was

going

on?

What

had

we

seen?

What

had

we

heard?

Why

were

we

here?

“You

mean

here

at

this

camp,

or

are

you

being

existential?”

I

asked.

His

eyebrows

drew

together

into

a

single

harsh

line,

and

he

said,

“Huh?”

“If

you’d

asked

me

that

before

all

this

shit

happened,

I’d

have

said

something

like,‘We’re

here

to

serve

our

fellow

man

or

contribute

to

society.’

If

I

wanted

to

be

a

smartass,

I’d

say,

‘Because

if

we

weren’t

here,

we’d

be

somewhere

else.’

But

since

all

this

shit

has

happened,

I’m

going

to

say

it’s

because

we’re

just

dumb

lucky.”

He

squinted

at

me

for

a

second

before

saying

snarkily,

“You

are

a

smartass.”

I

don’t

know

how

Dad

answered

that

question,

but

apparently

it

passed

inspection,

because

we

were

allowed

into

camp

with

full

privileges,

which

meant

Dad

(not

me,

though)

was

allowed

to

have

his

pick

of

weapons

from

the

cache.

Dad

had

a

thing

about

guns.

Never

liked

them.

Said

guns

might

not

kill

people,

but

they

sure

made

it

easier.

Now

he

didn’t

think

they

were

dangerous

so

much

as

he

thought

they

were

ridiculously

lame.

“How

effective

do

you

think

our

guns

are

going

to

be

against

a

technology

thousands,

if

not

millions,

of

years

ahead

of

ours?”

he

asked

Hutchfield.

“It’s

like

using

a

club

and

stones

against

a

tactical

missile.”

The

argument

was

lost

on

Hutchfield.

He

was

a

marine,

for

God’s

sake.

His

rifle

washis

best

friend,

his

most

trusted

companion,

the

answer

to

every

possible

question.

I

didn’t

get

that

back

then.

I

get

it

now.

13

IN

GOOD

WEATHER,

everyone

stayed

outside

until

it

was

time

to

go

to

bed.

That

ramshackle

building

had

a

bad

vibe.

Because

of

why

it

was

built.

Why

it

existed.

What

had

broughtit—and

us—

into

these

woods.

Some

nights

the

mood

was

light,

almost

like

a

summer

camp

where

by

some

miracle

everybody

liked

one

another.

Someone

would

say

they

heard

the

sound

of

a

helicopter

that

afternoon,

which

would

set

off

a

round

of

hopeful

speculation

that

the

People

in

Charge

were

getting

their

acts

together

and

preparing

for

the

counterpunch.

Other

times

the

mood

was

darker

and

angst

was

heavy

in

the

twilight

air.

We

were

the

lucky

ones.

We’d

survived

the

EMP

attack,

the

obliteration

of

the

coasts,

the

plague

that

wasted

everyone

we

knew

and

loved.

We’d

beaten

the

odds.

We’d

stared

into

the

face

of

Death,

and

Death

blinked

first.

You’d

think

that

would

make

us

feel

brave

and

invincible.

It

didn’t.

We

were

like

the

Japanese

who

survived

the

initial

blast

of

the

Hiroshima

bomb.

We

didn’t

understand

why

we

were

still

here,

and

we

weren’t

completely

sure

we

wanted

to

be.

We

told

the

stories

of

our

lives

before

the

Arrival.

We

cried

openly

over

the

ones

we

lost.

We

wept

secretly

for

our

smartphones,

our

cars,

our

microwave

ovens,

and

the

Internet.

We

watched

the

night

sky.

The

mothership

would

stare

down

at

us,

a

pale

green,

malevolent

eye.

There

were

debates

about

where

we

should

go.

It

was

pretty

much

understood

we

couldn’tsquat

in

these

woods

indefinitely.

Even

if

the

Others

weren’t

coming

anytime

soon,

winter

was.

We

had

to

find

better

shelter.

We

had

several

months’

worth

of

supplies—or

less,

depending

upon

how

many

more

refugees

wandered

into

camp.

Did

we

wait

for

rescue

or

hit

the

road

to

find

it?

Dad

was

all

for

the

latter.

He

still

wanted

to

check

out

Wright-Patterson.

If

there

were

People

in

Charge,

the

odds

were

a

lot

better

we’d

find

them

there.

I

got

sick

of

it

after

a

while.

Talking

about

the

problem

had

replaced

actually

doing

something

about

it.

I

was

ready

to

tell

Dad

we

should

tell

these

douchebags

to

stuffit,

take

off

for

WrightPatterson

with

whoever

wanted

to

go

with

us

and

screw

the

rest.

Sometimes,

I

thought,

strength

in

numbers

was

a

highly

overrated

concept.

I

brought

Sammy

inside

and

put

him

to

bed.

Said

his

prayer

with

him.

“‘Now

I

lay

medown

to

sleep…’”

To

me,

just

random

noise.

Gibberish.

I

wasn’t

sure

exactly

what

it

was,

but

I

felt

that,

when

it

came

to

God,

there

was

a

broken

promise

in

there

somewhere.

It

was

a

clear

night.

The

moon

was

full.

I

felt

comfortable

enough

to

take

a

walk

in

the

woods.

Somebody

in

camp

had

picked

up

a

guitar.

The

melody

skipped

along

the

trail,

followingme

into

the

woods.

It

was

the

first

music

I’d

heard

since

the

1st

Wave.

“And,

in

the

end,

we

lie

awake

And

we

dream

of

making

our

escape.”

Suddenly

I

just

wanted

to

curl

into

a

little

ball

and

cry.

I

wanted

to

take

off

throughthose

woods

and

keep

running

until

my

legs

fell

off.

I

wanted

to

puke.

I

wanted

to

scream

until

my

throat

bled.

I

wanted

to

see

my

mother

again,

and

Lizbeth

and

all

my

friends,

even

the

friends

I

didn’t

like,

and

Ben

Parish,

just

to

tell

him

I

loved

him

and

wanted

to

have

his

baby

more

than

I

wanted

to

live.

The

song

faded,

was

drowned

out

by

the

definitely

less

melodic

song

of

the

crickets.

A

twig

snapped.

And

a

voice

came

out

of

the

woods

behind

me.

“Cassie!

Wait

up!”

I

kept

walking.

I

recognized

that

voice.

Maybe

I’d

jinxed

myself,

thinking

about

Ben.Like

when

you’re

craving

chocolate

and

the

only

thing

in

your

backpack

is

a

half-crushed

bag

of

Skittles.

“Cassie!”

Now

he

was

running.

I

didn’t

feel

like

running,

so

I

let

him

catch

up

to

me.

That

was

one

thing

that

hadn’t

changed:

The

one

sure

way

of

not

being

alone

was

wantingto

be

alone.

“Whatcha

doing?”

Crisco

asked.

He

was

pulling

hard

for

air.

Bright

red

cheeks.

Shinytemples,

maybe

from

all

the

hair

grease.

“Isn’t

it

obvious?”

I

shot

back.

“I’m

building

a

nuclear

device

to

take

out

the

mothership.”

“Nukes

won’t

do

it,”

he

said,

squaring

his

shoulders.

“We

should

build

Fermi’s

steam

cannon.”

“Fermi?”

“The

guy

who

invented

the

bomb.”

“I

thought

that

was

Oppenheimer.”

He

seemed

impressed

I

knew

something

about

history.

“Well,

maybe

he

didn’t

invent

it,

but

he

was

the

godfather.”

“Crisco,

you’re

a

freak,”

I

said.

That

sounded

harsh,

so

I

added,

“But

I

didn’t

knowyou

before

the

invasion.”

“You

dig

this

big

hole.

Put

a

warhead

at

the

bottom.

Fill

the

hole

with

water

and

cap

it

off

with

a

few

hundred

tons

of

steel.

The

explosion

turns

the

water

instantly

into

steam,

which

shoots

the

steel

into

space

at

six

times

the

speed

of

sound.”

“Yeah,”

I

said.

“Somebody

should

definitely

do

that.

Is

that

why

you’re

stalking

me?

You

want

me

to

help

you

build

a

nuclear

steam

cannon?”

“Can

I

ask

you

something?”

“No.”

“I’m

serious.”

“So

am

I.”

“If

you

had

twenty

minutes

to

live,

what

would

you

do?”

“I

don’t

know,”

I

answered.

“But

it

wouldn’t

have

anything

to

do

with

you.”

“How

come?”

He

didn’t

wait

for

an

answer.

He

probably

figured

it

wasn’t

somethinghe

wanted

to

hear.

“What

if

I

was

the

last

person

on

Earth?”

“If

you

were

the

last

person

on

Earth,

I

wouldn’t

be

here

to

do

anything

with

you.”

“Okay.

What

if

we

were

the

last

two

people

on

Earth?”

“Then

you’d

still

end

up

being

the

last,

because

I’d

kill

myself.”

“You

don’t

like

me.”

“Really,

Crisco?

What

was

your

first

clue?”

“Say

we

saw

them,

right

here,

right

now,

coming

down

to

finish

us

off.

What

would

you

do?”

“I

don’t

know.

Ask

them

to

kill

you

first.

What’s

the

point,

Crisco?”

“Are

you

a

virgin?”

he

asked

suddenly.

I

stared

at

him.

He

was

totally

serious.

But

most

thirteen-year-old

boys

are

whenit

comes

to

hormonal

issues.

“Screw

you,”

I

said,

and

brushed

past

him,

heading

back

toward

the

camp.

Bad

choice

of

words.

He

trotted

after

me

and

not

one

strand

of

plastered-down

hair

moved

as

he

ran.

It

was

like

a

shiny

black

helmet.

“I’m

serious,

Cassie,”

he

puffed.

“These

are

the

times

when

any

night

could

be

your

last

night.”

“Dork,

it

was

that

way

before

they

came,

too.”

He

grabbed

my

wrist.

Tugged

me

around.

Pushed

his

wide,

greasy

face

close

to

mine.

I

had

an

inch

on

him,

but

he

had

twenty

pounds

on

me.

“Do

you

really

want

to

die

without

knowing

what

it’s

like?”

“How

do

you

know

I

don’t?”

I

said,

yanking

free.

“Don’t

ever

touch

me

again.”

Changingthe

subject.

“Nobody’s

gonna

know,”

he

said.

“I

won’t

tell

anyone.”

He

tried

to

grab

me

again.

I

slapped

his

hand

away

with

my

left

and

popped

him

hard

in

the

nose

with

the

open

palm

of

my

right.

It

opened

up

a

faucet

of

bright

red

blood.

It

ran

into

his

mouth,

and

he

gagged.

“Bitch,”

he

gasped.

“At

least

you’ve

got

someone.

At

least

everybody

you

ever

friggingknew

in

your

life

isn’t

dead.”

He

busted

out

in

tears.

Fell

onto

the

path

and

gave

in

to

it,

the

bigness

of

it,

the

big

Buick

that’s

parked

over

you,

the

horrible

feeling

that,

as

bad

as

it’s

been,

it’s

going

to

get

worse.

Ah,

crap.

I

sat

on

the

path

next

to

him.

Told

him

to

lean

his

head

back.

He

complained

that

made

the

blood

run

down

his

throat.

“Don’t

tell

anybody,”

he

begged.

“I’ll

lose

my

cred.”

I

laughed.

I

couldn’t

help

it.

“Where’d

you

learn

to

do

that?”

he

asked.

“Girl

Scouts.”

“There’s

badges

for

that?”

“There’s

badges

for

everything.”

Actually,

it

was

seven

years

of

karate

classes.

I

dropped

karate

last

year.

Don’t

remember

my

reasons

now.

They

seemed

like

good

ones

at

the

time.

“I’m

one,

too,”

he

said.

“What?”

He

spat

a

wad

of

blood

and

mucus

into

the

dirt.

“A

virgin.”

What

a

shock.

“What

makes

you

think

I’m

a

virgin?”

I

asked.

“You

wouldn’t

have

hit

me

if

you

weren’t.”

14

ON

OUR

SIXTH

DAY

in

camp,

I

saw

a

drone

for

the

first

time.

Glittering

gray

in

the

bright

afternoon

sky.

There

was

a

lot

of

shouting

and

running

around,

people

grabbing

guns,

waving

their

hats

and

shirts

or

just

spazzing

in

general:

crying,

jumping,

hugging,

high-fiving

one

another.

They

thought

they

were

rescued.

Hutchfield

and

Brogden

tried

to

calmeverybody

down,

but

weren’t

very

successful.

The

drone

zipped

across

the

sky,

disappeared

behind

the

trees,

then

came

back,

slower

this

time.

From

the

ground,

it

looked

like

a

blimp.

Hutchfield

and

Dad

huddled

in

the

doorway

of

the

barracks,

watching

it,

swapping

a

pair

of

binoculars

back

and

forth.

“No

wings.

No

markings.

And

did

you

see

that

first

pass?

Mach

2

at

least.

Unless

we’velaunched

some

kind

of

classified

aircraft,

no

way

this

thing

is

terrestrial.”

As

he

spoke,

Hutchfield

was

popping

his

fist

up

and

down

in

the

dirt,

beating

out

a

rhythm

to

match

the

words.

Dad

agreed.

We

were

herded

into

the

barracks.

Dad

and

Hutchfield

hovered

in

the

doorway,

still

swapping

the

binoculars

back

and

forth.

“Is

it

the

aliens?”

Sammy

asked.

“Are

they

coming,

Cassie?”

“Shhh.”

I

looked

over

and

saw

Crisco

watching

me.

Twenty

minutes,

he

mouthed.

“If

they

come,

I’m

going

to

beat

them

up,”

Sammy

whispered.

“I’m

going

to

karate

kickthem

and

I’m

going

to

kill

them

all!”

“That’s

right,”

I

said,

nervously

running

my

hand

over

his

hair.

“I’m

not

going

to

run,”

he

said.

“I’m

going

to

kill

them

for

killing

Mommy.”

The

drone

vanished—straight

up,

Dad

told

me

later.

If

you

blinked,

you

missed

it.

We

reacted

to

the

drone

the

way

anyone

would

react.

We

freaked.

Some

people

ran.

Grabbed

whatever

they

could

carry

and

raced

into

the

woods.

Somejust

took

off

with

the

clothes

on

their

backs

and

the

fear

in

their

guts.

Nothing

Hutchfield

said

could

stop

them.

The

rest

of

us

huddled

in

the

barracks

until

night

came

on,

then

we

took

the

freakout

party

to

the

next

level.

Had

they

spotted

us?

Were

the

Stormtroopers

or

clone

army

or

robot

walkers

next?

Were

we

about

to

be

fried

by

laser

cannons?

It

was

pitch-black.

We

couldn’t

see

a

foot

in

front

of

our

noses,

because

we

didn’t

dare

light

the

kerosene

lamps.

Frantic

whispers.

Muffled

crying.

Huddled

on

our

cots,

jumping

at

every

little

sound.

Hutchfield

assigned

the

best

marksmen

to

the

night

watch.

If

it

moved,

shoot

it.

No

one

was

allowed

outside

without

permission.

And

Hutchfield

never

gave

permission.

That

night

lasted

a

thousand

years.

Dad

came

up

to

me

in

the

dark

and

pressed

something

into

my

hands.

A

loaded

semiautomatic

Luger.

“You

don’t

believe

in

guns,”

I

whispered.

“I

used

to

not

believe

in

a

lot

of

things.”

A

lady

started

to

recite

the

Lord’s

Prayer.

We

called

her

Mother

Teresa.

Big

legs.

Skinny

arms.

A

faded

blue

dress.

Wispy

gray

hair.

Somewhere

along

the

way

she

had

lost

her

dentures.

She

was

always

working

her

beads

and

talking

to

Jesus.

A

few

others

joined

her.

Then

some

more.

“‘Forgive

us

our

trespasses,

as

we

forgive

those

who

trespass

against

us.’”

At

which

point

her

arch

nemesis,

the

sole

atheist

in

Camp

Ashpit’s

foxhole,

a

college

professor

named

Dawkins,

shouted

out,

“Particularly

those

of

extraterrestrial

origin!”

“You’re

going

to

hell!”

a

voice

yelled

at

him

in

the

dark.

“How

will

I

know

the

difference?”

Dawkins

hollered

back.

“Quiet!”

Hutchfield

called

softly

from

his

spot

in

the

doorway.

“Stow

that

praying,

people!”

“His

judgment

has

come

upon

us,”

Mother

Teresa

wailed.

Sammy

scooted

closer

to

me

on

the

cot.

I

shoved

the

gun

between

my

legs.

I

was

afraidhe

might

grab

it

and

accidently

blow

my

head

off.

“Shut

up,

all

of

you!”

I

said.

“You’re

scaring

my

brother.”

“I’m

not

scared,”

Sammy

said.

His

little

fist

twisting

in

my

shirt.

“Are

you

scared,

Cassie?”

“Yes,”

I

said.

I

kissed

the

top

of

his

head.

His

hair

smelled

a

little

sour.

I

decided

to

wash

it

in

the

morning.

If

we

were

still

there

in

the

morning.

“No,

you’re

not,”

he

said.

“You’re

never

scared.”

“I’m

so

scared

right

now,

I

could

pee

my

pants.”

He

giggled.

His

face

felt

warm

in

the

crook

of

my

arm.

Did

he

have

a

fever?

That’show

it

starts.

I

told

myself

I

was

being

paranoid.

He’d

been

exposed

a

hundred

times.

And

the

Red

Tsunami

roars

in

fast

once

you’re

exposed,

unless

you

have

immunity.

And

Sammy

had

to

have

it.

If

he

didn’t,

he’d

already

be

dead.

“You

better

put

on

a

diaper,”

he

teased

me.

“Maybe

I

will.”

“‘Though

I

walk

through

the

valley

of

the

shadow

of

death…’”

She

wasn’t

going

to

stop.I

could

hear

her

beads

clicking

in

the

dark.

Dawkins

was

humming

loudly

to

drown

her

out.

“Three

Blind

Mice.”

I

couldn’t

decide

who

was

more

annoying,

the

fanatic

or

the

cynic.

“Mommy

said

they

might

be

angels,”

Sammy

said

suddenly.

“Who?”

I

asked.

“The

aliens.

When

they

first

came,

I

asked

if

they

came

to

kill

us,

and

she

said

maybethey

weren’t

aliens

at

all.

Maybe

they

were

angels

from

heaven,

like

in

the

Bible

when

the

angels

talk

to

Abraham

and

to

Mary

and

to

Jesus

and

everybody.”

“They

sure

talked

a

lot

more

to

us

back

then,”

I

said.

“But

then

they

did

kill

us.

They

killed

Mommy.”

He

started

to

cry.

“‘Thou

prepared

a

table

for

me

in

the

presence

of

my

enemies.’”

I

kissed

the

top

of

his

head

and

rubbed

his

arms.

“‘Thou

anointed

my

head

with

oil.’”

“Cassie,

does

God

hate

us?”

“No.

I

don’t

know.”

“Does

he

hate

Mommy?”

“Of

course

not.

Mommy

was

a

good

person.”

“Then

why

did

he

let

her

die?”

I

shook

my

head.

I

felt

heavy

all

over,

like

I

weighed

twenty

thousand

tons.

“‘My

cup

runneth

over.’”

“Why

did

he

let

the

aliens

come

and

kill

us?

Why

doesn’t

God

stop

them?”

“Maybe,”

I

whispered

slowly.

Even

my

tongue

felt

heavy.

“Maybe

he

will.”

“‘Surely

goodness

and

mercy

will

follow

me

all

the

days

of

my

life.’”

“Don’t

let

them

get

me,

Cassie.

Don’t

let

me

die.”

“You’re

not

going

to

die,

Sams.”

“Promise?”

I

promised.

15

THE

NEXT

DAY,

the

drone

came

back.

Or

a

different

drone,

identical

to

the

first.

The

Others

probably

hadn’t

traveledall

the

way

from

another

planet

with

just

one

in

the

hold.

It

moved

slowly

across

the

sky.

Silent.

No

growl

of

an

engine.

No

hum.

Just

gliding

soundlessly,

like

a

fishing

lure

drawn

through

still

water.

We

hustled

into

the

barracks.

No

one

had

to

tell

us.

I

found

myself

sitting

on

a

cot

next

to

Crisco.

“I

know

what

they’re

going

to

do,”

he

whispered.

“Don’t

talk,”

I

whispered

back.

He

nodded,

and

said,

“Sonic

bombs.

You

know

what

happens

when

you’re

blasted

with

two

hundred

decibels?

Your

eardrums

shatter.

Your

lungs

bust

open

and

air

gets

into

your

bloodstream,

and

then

your

heart

collapses.”

“Where

do

you

come

up

with

this

crap,

Crisco?”

Dad

and

Hutchfield

were

crouched

by

the

open

door

again.

They

watched

the

same

spotfor

several

minutes.

Apparently,

the

drone

had

frozen

in

the

sky.

“Here,

I

got

you

something,”

Crisco

said.

It

was

a

diamond

pendant

necklace.

Bodybooty

from

the

ash

pit.

“That’s

disgusting,”

I

told

him.

“Why?

It’s

not

like

I

stole

it

or

anything.”

He

pouted.

“I

know

what

it

is.

I’m

notstupid.

It’s

not

the

necklace.

It’s

me.

You’d

take

it

in

a

heartbeat

if

you

thought

I

was

hot.”

I

wondered

if

he

was

right.

If

Ben

Parish

had

dug

the

necklace

out

of

the

pit,

would

I

have

taken

the

gift?

“Not

that

I

think

you

are,”

Crisco

added.

Bummer.

Crisco

the

grave

robber

didn’t

think

I

was

hot.

“Then

why

do

you

want

to

give

it

to

me?”

“I

was

a

douche

that

night

in

the

woods.

I

don’t

want

you

to

hate

me.

Think

I’m

a

creeper.”

A

little

late

for

that.

“I

don’t

want

dead

people’s

jewelry,”

I

said.

“Neither

do

they,”

he

said,

meaning

dead

people.

He

wasn’t

going

to

leave

me

alone.

I

scooted

up

to

sit

behind

Dad.

Over

his

shoulder,

I

saw

a

tiny

gray

dot,

a

silvery

freckle

on

the

unblemished

skin

of

the

sky.

“What’s

happening?”

I

whispered.

Right

when

I

said

that,

the

dot

disappeared.

Moved

so

fast,

it

seemed

to

wink

out.

“Reconnaissance

flights,”

Hutchfield

breathed.

“Has

to

be.”

“We

had

satellites

that

could

read

someone’s

watch

from

orbit,”

Dad

said

quietly.

“If

we

could

do

that

with

our

primitive

technology,

why

would

they

need

to

leave

their

ship

to

spy

on

us?”

“You

got

a

better

theory?”

Hutchfield

didn’t

like

his

decisions

being

questioned.

“They

may

have

nothing

to

do

with

us,”

Dad

pointed

out.

“These

things

might

be

atmospheric

probes

or

devices

used

to

measure

something

they

can’t

calibrate

from

space.

Or

they’re

looking

for

something

that

can’t

be

detected

until

we’re

mostly

neutralized.”

Then

Dad

sighed.

I

knew

that

sigh.

It

meant

he

believed

something

was

true

that

hedidn’t

want

to

be

true.

“It

comes

down

to

a

simple

question,

Hutchfield:

Why

are

they

here?

Not

to

rape

theplanet

for

our

resources—there’s

plenty

of

those

spread

evenly

throughout

the

universe,

so

you

don’t

have

to

travel

hundreds

of

light-years

to

get

them.

Not

to

kill

us,

though

killing

us—or

most

of

us—is

necessary.

They’re

like

a

landlord

who

kicks

out

a

deadbeat

renter

so

he

can

get

the

house

cleaned

up

for

the

new

tenant;

I

think

this

has

always

been

about

getting

the

place

ready.”

“Ready?

Ready

for

what?”

Dad

smiled

humorlessly.

“Moving

day.”

16

AN

HOUR

BEFORE

DAWN.

Our

last

day

at

Camp

Ashpit.

A

Sunday.

Sammy

beside

me.

Little

kid

snuggly

warm,

hand

on

his

bear,

other

hand

on

my

chest,

curled-up

pudgy

baby-fist.

The

best

part

of

the

day.

Those

few

seconds

when

you’re

awake

but

empty.

You

forget

where

you

are.

What

you

are

now,

what

you

were

before.

It’s

all

breath

and

heartbeat

and

blood

moving.

Like

being

in

your

mother’s

womb

again.

The

peace

of

the

void.

That’s

what

I

thought

the

sound

was

at

first.

My

own

heartbeat.

Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa.

Faint,

then

louder,

then

really

loud,

loud

enough

to

feel

the

beat

on

your

skin.

A

glow

sprang

up

in

the

room,

grew

brighter.

People

were

stumbling

around,

yanking

on

clothes,

fumbling

for

guns.

The

bright

glow

faded,

came

back.

Shadows

jumped

acrossthe

floor,

raced

up

the

ceiling.

Hutchfield

was

yelling

at

everyone

to

stay

calm.

It

wasn’t

working.

Everyone

recognized

the

sound.

And

everyone

knew

what

that

sound

meant.

Rescue!

Hutchfield

tried

to

block

off

the

doorway

with

his

body.

“Stay

inside!”

he

hollered.

“We

don’t

want

to—”

He

was

shoved

out

of

the

way.

Oh

yes,

we

do.

We

poured

out

the

doorway

and

stood

in

the

yard

and

waved

at

the

helicopter,

a

Black

Hawk,

as

it

made

another

sweep

of

the

compound,

black

against

the

lightening

dark

of

the

predawn

sky.

The

spotlight

stabbed

down,

blinding

us,

but

most

of

us

were

already

blinded

by

tears.

We

jumped,

we

shouted,

we

hugged

one

another.

A

couple

of

people

were

waving

little

American

flags,

and

I

remember

wondering

where

the

hell

they

got

those.

Hutchfield

was

furiously

screaming

at

us

to

get

back

inside.

Nobody

listened.

He

wasn’tthe

boss

of

us

anymore.

The

People

in

Charge

had

arrived.

And

then,

just

as

unexpectedly

as

it

had

come,

the

helicopter

made

one

last

turn

and

thundered

out

of

sight.

The

sound

of

its

rotors

faded.

A

heavy

silence

flooded

in

after

it.

We

were

confused,

stunned,

frightened.

They

must

have

seen

us.

Why

didn’t

they

land?

We

waited

for

the

helicopter

to

come

back.

All

morning

we

waited.

People

packed

up

their

things.

Speculated

about

where

they

would

take

us,

what

it

would

be

like,

how

many

others

would

be

there.

A

Black

Hawk

helicopter!

What

else

had

survived

the

1stWave?

We

dreamed

of

electric

lights

and

hot

showers.

No

one

doubted

we’d

be

rescued

now

that

the

People

in

Charge

knew

about

us.

Help

wason

its

way.

Dad,

being

Dad,

of

course,

wasn’t

so

sure.

“They

may

not

come

back,”

he

said.

“They

wouldn’t

just

leave

us

here,

Dad,”

I

said.

Sometimes

you

had

to

talk

to

himlike

he

was

Sammy’s

age.

“How

does

that

make

sense?”

“It

may

not

have

been

a

search

and

rescue.

They

might

have

been

looking

for

something

else.”

“The

drone?”

The

one

that

had

crashed

a

week

earlier.

He

nodded.

“Still,

they

know

we’re

here

now,”

I

said.

“They’ll

do

something.”

He

nodded

again.

Absently,

like

he

was

thinking

about

something

else.

“They

will,”

he

said.

He

looked

hard

at

me.

Do

you

still

have

the

gun?”

I

patted

my

back

pocket.

He

threw

his

arm

around

me

and

led

me

to

the

storehouse.

He

pulled

aside

an

old

tarp

lying

in

a

corner.

Underneath

it

was

an

M16

semiautomatic

assault

rifle.

The

same

rifle

that

would

become

my

bestie

after

everyone

else

was

gone.

He

picked

it

up

and

turned

it

in

his

hands,

inspecting

the

rifle

with

that

same

absentminded

professor

look

in

his

eyes.

“What

do

you

think?”

he

whispered.

“About

that?

It’s

totally

badass.”

He

didn’t

jump

on

me

for

the

language.

Instead,

he

gave

a

little

laugh.

He

showed

me

how

it

worked.

How

to

hold

it.

How

to

aim.

How

to

switch

out

a

clip.

“Here,

you

try.”

He

held

it

toward

me.

I

think

he

was

pleasantly

surprised

by

what

a

quick

study

I

was.

And

my

coordinationwas

pretty

good,

thanks

to

the

karate

lessons.

Dance

classes

have

nothing

on

karate

when

it

comes

to

developing

grace.

“Keep

it,”

he

said

when

I

tried

to

hand

it

back.

“I

hid

it

in

here

for

you.”

“Why?”

I

asked.

Not

that

I

minded

having

it,

but

he

was

freaking

me

out

a

little.While

everyone

else

was

celebrating,

my

father

was

giving

me

training

in

firearms.

“Do

you

know

how

to

tell

who

the

enemy

is

in

wartime,

Cassie?”

His

eyes

darted

aroundthe

shack.

Why

couldn’t

he

look

at

me?

“The

guy

who’s

shooting

at

you—that’s

how

you

tell.

Don’t

forget

that.”

He

nodded

toward

the

gun.

“Don’t

walk

around

with

it.

Keep

it

close,

but

keep

it

hidden.

Not

in

here

and

not

in

the

barracks.

Okay?”

Shoulder

pat.

Shoulder

pat

not

quite

enough.

Big

hug.

“From

now

on,

never

let

Sam

out

of

your

sight.

Understand,

Cassie?

Never.

Now

go

findhim.

I’ve

got

to

see

Hutchfield.

And

Cassie?

If

someone

tries

to

take

that

rifle

fromyou,

you

tell

them

to

bring

it

up

with

me.

And

if

they

still

try

to

take

it,

shoot

them.”

He

smiled.

Not

with

his

eyes,

though.

His

eyes

were

as

hard

and

blank

and

cold

as

a

shark’s.

He

was

lucky,

my

dad.

All

of

us

were.

Luck

had

carried

us

through

the

first

three

waves.

But

even

the

best

gambler

will

tell

you

that

luck

only

lasts

so

long.

I

thinkmy

dad

had

a

feeling

that

day.

Not

that

our

luck

had

run

out.

No

one

could

know

that.

But

I

think

he

knew

in

the

end

it

wouldn’t

be

the

lucky

ones

left

standing.

It

would

be

the

hardcore.

The

ones

who

tell

Lady

Luck

to

go

screw

herself.

The

ones

with

hearts

of

stone.

The

ones

who

could

let

a

hundred

die

so

one

might

live.

The

ones

who

see

the

wisdom

in

torching

a

village

in

order

to

save

it.

The

world

was

FUBAR

now.

And

if

you’re

not

okay

with

that,

you’re

just

a

corpse

waiting

to

happen.

I

took

the

M16

and

hid

it

behind

a

tree

bordering

the

path

to

the

ash

pit.

17

THE

LAST

REMNANT

of

the

world

I

knew

ripped

apart

on

a

sunny,

warm

Sunday

afternoon.

Heralded

by

the

growl

of

diesel

engines,

the

rumble

and

squeak

of

axles,

the

whine

of

air

brakes.

Our

sentries

spotted

the

convoy

long

before

it

reached

the

compound.

Saw

the

bright

sunlight

glinting

off

windows

and

the

plumes

of

dust

trailing

the

huge

tires

like

contrails.

We

didn’t

rush

out

to

greet

them

with

flowers

and

kisses.

We

stayed

back

while

Hutchfield,

Dad,

and

our

four

best

shooters

went

out

to

meet

them.

Everyone

was

feeling

a

little

spooked.

And

a

lot

less

enthusiastic

than

we’d

been

just

a

few

hours

before.

Everything

we’d

expected

to

happen

since

the

Arrival

didn’t.

Everything

we

hadn’t

did.

It

took

two

whole

weeks

into

the

3rd

Wave

for

us

to

realize

that

the

deadly

flu

was

part

of

their

plan.

Still,

you

tend

to

believe

what

you

always

believed,

think

what

you

always

thought,

expect

what

you

always

expected,

so

it

was

never

“Will

we

be

rescued?”

It

was

“When

will

we

be

rescued?”

And

when

we

saw

exactly

what

we

wanted

to

see,

what

we

expected

to

see—the

big

flatbed

loaded

with

soldiers,

the

Humvees

bristling

with

machine

gun

turrets

and

surface-to-air

launchers—

we

still

held

back.

Then

the

school

buses

pulled

into

view.

Three

of

them,

bumper

to

bumper.

Packed

with

kids.

Nobody

expected

that.

Like

I

said,

it

was

so

weirdly

normal,

so

shockingly

surreal.Some

of

us

actually

laughed.

A

yellow

freaking

school

bus!

Where

the

hell

is

the

school?

After

a

few

tense

minutes,

where

all

we

could

hear

was

the

throaty

snarl

of

engines

and

the

faint

laughter

and

calls

of

the

children

on

the

buses,

Dad

left

Hutchfield

talking

to

the

commander

and

came

over

to

me

and

Sammy.

A

knot

of

people

gathered

around

us

to

listen

in.

“They’re

from

Wright-Patterson,”

Dad

said.

He

sounded

out

of

breath.

“And

apparentlya

lot

more

of

our

military

has

survived

than

we

thought.”

“Why

are

they

wearing

gas

masks?”

I

asked.

“It’s

precautionary,”

he

answered.

“They’ve

been

in

lockdown

since

the

plague

hit.

We’ve

all

been

exposed;

we

could

be

carriers.”

He

looked

down

at

Sammy,

who

was

pressed

up

against

me,

his

arms

wrapped

around

my

leg.

“They’ve

come

for

the

children,”

Dad

said.

“Why?”

I

asked.

“What

about

us?”

Mother

Teresa

demanded.

“Aren’t

they

going

to

take

us,

too?”

“He

says

they’re

coming

back

for

us.

Right

now

there’s

only

room

for

the

children.”

Looking

at

Sammy.

“They’re

not

splitting

us

up,”

I

said

to

Dad.

“Of

course

not.”

He

turned

away

and

abruptly

marched

into

the

barracks.

Came

out

again,carrying

my

backpack

and

Sammy’s

bear.

“You’re

going

with

him.”

He

didn’t

get

it.

“I’m

not

going

without

you,”

I

said.

What

was

it

about

guys

like

my

father?

Somebodyin

charge

shows

up

and

they

check

their

brains

at

the

door.

“You

heard

what

he

said!”

Mother

Teresa

cried

shrilly,

shaking

her

beads.

“Just

the

children!

If

anyone

else

goes,

it

should

be

me…women.

That’s

how

it’s

done.

Women

and

children

first!

Women

and

children.”

Dad

ignored

her.

There

went

the

hand

on

my

shoulder.

I

shrugged

his

hand

away.

“Cassie,

they

have

to

get

the

most

vulnerable

to

safety

first.

I’ll

be

just

a

few

hours

behind

you—”

“No!”

I

shouted.

“We

all

stay

or

we

all

go,

Dad.

Tell

them

we’ll

be

fine

here

until

they

get

back.

I

can

take

care

of

him.

I’ve

been

taking

care

of

him.”

“And

you

will

take

care

of

him,

Cassie,

because

you’re

going,

too.”

“Not

without

you.

I

won’t

leave

you

here,

Dad.”

He

smiled

like

I

had

said

something

kiddy-cute.

“I

can

take

care

of

myself.”

I

couldn’t

put

it

into

words,

this

feeling

like

a

hot

coal

in

my

gut,

that

splitting

up

what

was

left

of

our

family

would

be

the

end

of

our

family.

That

if

I

left

himbehind

I

would

never

see

him

again.

Maybe

it

wasn’t

rational,

but

the

world

I

lived

in

wasn’t

rational

anymore.

Dad

pried

Sammy

from

my

leg,

slung

him

onto

his

hip,

grabbed

my

elbow

with

his

free

hand,

and

marched

us

toward

the

buses.

You

couldn’t

see

the

soldiers’

faces

through

the

buggy-looking

gas

masks.

But

you

could

read

the

names

stitched

onto

their

green

camouflage.

GREENE.

WALTERS.

PARKER.

Good,

solid,

all-American

names.

And

the

American

flags

on

their

sleeves.

And

the

way

they

held

themselves,

erect

but

loose,

alert

but

relaxed.

Coiled

springs.

The

way

you

expect

soldiers

to

look.

We

reached

the

last

bus

in

the

line.

The

children

inside

shouted

and

waved

at

us.

It

was

all

one

big

adventure.

The

burly

soldier

at

the

door

raised

his

hand.

His

name

patch

said

BRANCH.

“Children

only,”

he

said,

his

voice

muffled

by

the

mask.

“I

understand,

Corporal,”

Dad

said.

“Cassie,

why

are

you

crying?”

Sammy

said.

His

little

hand

reached

for

my

face.

Daddy

lowered

him

to

the

ground.

Knelt

to

bring

his

face

close

to

Sammy’s.

“You’re

going

on

a

trip,

Sam,”

Dad

said.

“These

nice

army

men

are

taking

you

to

a

place

where

you’ll

be

safe.”

“Aren’t

you

coming,

Daddy?”

Tugging

on

Dad’s

shirt

with

his

tiny

hands.

“Yes.

Yes,

Daddy’s

coming,

just

not

yet.

Soon,

though.

Very

soon.”

He

pulled

Sammy

into

his

arms.

Last

hug.

“You

be

good

now.

You

do

what

the

nice

army

men

tell

you.

Okay?”

Sammy

nodded.

Slipped

his

hand

into

mine.

“Come’n,

Cassie.

We’re

going

to

ride

a

bus!”

The

black

mask

whipped

around.

A

gloved

hand

went

up.

“Just

the

boy.”

I

started

to

tell

him

to

stuff

it.

I

wasn’t

happy

about

leaving

Dad

behind,

but

Sammywasn’t

going

anywhere

without

me.

The

corporal

cut

me

off.

“Only

the

boy.”

“She’s

his

sister,”

Dad

tried.

He

was

being

reasonable.

“And

she’s

a

child,

too.

She’s

only

sixteen.”

“She’ll

have

to

stay

here,”

the

corporal

said.

“Then

he’s

not

getting

on,”

I

said,

wrapping

both

arms

around

Sammy’s

chest.

He’d

have

to

pull

my

damn

arms

off

to

take

my

little

brother.

There

was

this

awful

moment

when

the

corporal

didn’t

say

anything.

I

had

the

urge

to

rip

the

mask

off

his

head

and

spit

in

his

face.

The

sun

glinted

off

the

visor,

a

hateful

ball

of

light.

“You

want

him

to

stay?”

“I

want

him

to

stay

with

me,”

I

corrected

him.

“On

the

bus.

Off

the

bus.

Whatever.

With

me.”

“No,

Cassie,”

Dad

said.

Sammy

started

to

cry.

He

got

it:

It

was

Daddy

and

the

soldier

against

me

and

him,and

there

was

no

winning

that

battle.

He

got

it

before

I

did.

“He

can

stay,”

the

soldier

said.

“But

we

can’t

guarantee

his

safety.”

“Oh,

really?”

I

shouted

into

his

bug-face.

“You

think?

Whose

safety

can

you

guarantee?”

“Cassie…,”

Dad

started.

“You

can’t

guarantee

shit,”

I

yelled.

The

corporal

ignored

me.

“It’s

your

call,

sir,”

he

said

to

Dad.

“Dad,”

I

said.

“You

heard

him.

He

can

stay

with

us.”

Dad

chewed

on

his

bottom

lip.

He

lifted

his

head

and

scratched

under

his

chin,

and

his

eyes

regarded

the

empty

sky.

He

was

thinking

about

the

drones,

about

what

he

knew

and

what

he

didn’t

know.

He

was

remembering

what

he’d

learned.

He

was

weighing

odds

and

calculating

probabilities

and

ignoring

the

little

voice

piping

up

from

the

deepest

part

of

him:

Don’t

let

him

go.

So

of

course

he

did

the

most

reasonable

thing.

He

was

a

responsible

adult,

and

that’s

what

responsible

adults

do.

The

reasonable

thing.

“You’re

right,

Cassie,”

he

said

finally.

“They

can’t

guarantee

our

safety—no

one

can.

But

some

places

are

safer

than

others.”

He

grabbed

Sammy’s

hand.

“Come

on,

sport.”

“No!”

Sammy

screamed,

tears

streaming

down

bright

red

cheeks.

“Not

without

Cassie!”

“Cassie’s

going,”

Dad

said.

“We’re

both

going.

We’ll

be

right

behind

you.”

“I’ll

protect

him,

I’ll

watch

him,

I

won’t

let

anything

happen

to

him,”

I

pleaded.“They’re

coming

back

for

the

rest

of

us,

right?

We’ll

just

wait

for

them

to

come

back.”

I

pulled

on

his

shirt

and

put

on

my

best

pleading

face.

The

one

that

usually

got

me

what

I

wanted.

“Please,

Daddy,

don’t

do

this.

It

isn’t

right.

We

have

to

stay

together,

we

have

to.”

It

wasn’t

going

to

work.

He

had

that

hard

look

in

his

eyes

again:

cold,

clamped

down,remorseless.

“Cassie,”

he

said.

“Tell

your

brother

it’s

okay.”

And

I

did.

After

I

told

myself

it

was

okay.

I

told

myself

to

trust

Dad,

trust

thePeople

in

Charge,

trust

the

Others

not

to

incinerate

the

school

buses

full

of

children,

trust

that

trust

itself

hadn’t

gone

the

way

of

computers

and

microwavable

popcorn

and

the

Hollywood

movie

where

the

slimeballs

from

Planet

Xercon

are

defeated

in

the

final

ten

minutes.

I

knelt

on

the

dusty

ground

in

front

of

my

little

brother.

“You

need

to

go,

Sams,”

I

said.

His

fat

lower

lip

bobbed

up

and

down.

Clutching

thebear

to

his

chest.

“But,

Cassie,

who’s

going

to

hold

you

when

you’re

scared?”

He

was

being

totally

serious.

He

looked

so

much

like

Dad

with

that

concerned

little

frown

that

I

almost

laughed.

“I’m

not

scared

anymore.

And

you

shouldn’t

be

scared,

either.

The

soldiers

are

here

now,

and

they’re

going

to

make

us

safe.”

I

looked

up

at

Corporal

Branch.

“Isn’t

that

right?”

“That’s

right.”

“He

looks

like

Darth

Vader,”

Sammy

whispered.

“Sounds

like

him,

too.”

“Right,

and

remember

what

happens?

He

turns

into

a

good

guy

at

the

end.”

“Only

after

he

blows

up

a

whole

planet

and

kills

a

lot

of

people.”

I

couldn’t

help

it—I

laughed.

God,

he

was

smart.

Sometimes

I

thought

he

was

smarterthan

me

and

Dad

combined.

“You’re

going

to

come

later,

Cassie?”

“You

bet

I

am.”

“Promise?”

I

promised.

Whatever

happened.

No.

Matter.

What.

That

was

all

he

needed

to

hear.

He

pushed

the

teddy

bear

into

my

chest.

“Sam?”

“For

when

you’re

scared.

But

don’t

leave

him.”

He

held

up

a

tiny

finger

to

emphasizehis

point.

“Don’t

forget.”

He

stuck

out

his

hand

to

the

corporal.

“Lead

on,

Vader!”

Gloved

hand

engulfed

pudgyhand.

The

first

step

was

almost

too

high

for

his

little

legs.

The

kids

inside

squealed

and

clapped

when

he

turned

the

corner

and

hit

the

center

aisle.

Sammy

was

the

last

to

board.

The

door

closed.

Dad

tried

to

put

his

arm

around

me.I

stepped

away.

The

engine

revved.

The

air

brakes

hissed.

And

there

was

his

face

against

the

smudged

glass

and

his

smile

as

he

rocketed

across

a

galaxy

far,

far

away

in

his

yellow

X-wing

starfighter,

jumping

to

warp

speed,

until

the

dusty

yellow

spaceship

was

swallowed

by

dust.

18

“THIS

WAY,

SIR,”

the

corporal

said

politely,

and

we

followed

him

back

to

the

compound.Two

Humvees

had

left

to

escort

the

buses

back

to

Wright-Patterson.

The

remaining

Humveessat

facing

the

barracks

and

the

storage

shed,

the

barrels

of

their

mounted

machine

guns

pointing

at

the

ground,

like

the

dipped

heads

of

some

metallic

creatures

dozing.

The

compound

was

empty.

Everybody—including

the

soldiers—had

gone

inside

the

barracks.

Everybody

except

one.

As

we

walked

up,

Hutchfield

came

out

of

the

storage

shed.

I

don’t

know

what

was

beaming

brighter,

his

shaved

head

or

his

smile.

“Outstanding,

Sullivan!”

he

boomed

at

Dad.

“And

you

wanted

to

bug

out

after

that

first

drone.”

“Looks

like

I

was

wrong,”

Dad

said

with

a

tight

smile.

“Briefing

by

Colonel

Vosch

in

five

minutes.

But

first

I

need

your

ordnance.”

“My

what?”

“Your

weapon.

Colonel’s

orders.”

Dad

glanced

at

the

soldier

standing

beside

us.

The

blank,

black

eyes

of

the

mask

stared

back

at

him.

“Why?”

Dad

asked.

“You

need

an

explanation?”

Hutchfield’s

smile

stayed

put,

but

his

eyes

narrowed.

“I

would

like

one,

yes.”

“It’s

SOP,

Sullivan,

standard

operating

procedure.

You

can’t

have

a

bunch

of

untrained,

inexperienced

civilians

packing

heat

in

wartime.”

Talking

down

to

him,

like

he

was

a

moron.

He

held

out

his

hand.

Dad

pulled

the

rifle

slowly

from

his

shoulder.

Hutchfield

snatched

the

rifle

from

Dad

and

disappeared

into

the

storehouse.

Dad

turned

to

the

corporal.

“Has

anyone

made

contact

with

the…”

He

searched

for

theright

word.

“The

Others?”

One

word,

spoken

in

a

raspy

monotone:

“No.”

Hutchfield

came

out

and

smartly

saluted

the

corporal.

He

was

neck-deep

in

his

elementnow,

back

with

his

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.

ThenCorporal

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

gunsagainst

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

Criscofor

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’thear

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’tsuspect

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

likethe

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’tseen

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’tin

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

tooka

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.

20

MY

TURN.

The

girl

wearing

the

backpack

and

carrying

the

ridiculous

teddy

bear,

standing

just

a

couple

of

yards

behind

him.

The

soldier

pivoted,

arm

extended.

My

memory’s

a

little

fuzzy

about

this

next

part.

I

don’t

remember

dropping

the

bear

or

yanking

the

gun

from

my

back

pocket.

I

don’t

even

remember

pulling

the

trigger.

The

next

clear

memory

I

have

is

of

the

black

visor

shattering.

And

the

soldier

falling

to

his

knees

in

front

of

me.

And

seeing

his

eyes.

His

three

eyes.

Well,

of

course

I

realized

later

he

didn’t

really

have

three

eyes.

The

one

in

the

middle

was

the

blackened

entry

wound

of

the

bullet.

It

must

have

shocked

him

to

turn

around

and

see

a

gun

pointed

at

his

face.

It

made

him

hesitate.

How

long?

A

second?

Less

than

a

second?

But

in

that

millisecond,

eternitycoiled

on

itself

like

a

giant

anaconda.

If

you’ve

ever

been

through

a

traumatic

accident,

you

know

what

I’m

talking

about.

How

long

does

a

car

crash

last?

Ten

seconds?

Five?

It

doesn’t

feel

that

short

if

you’re

in

it.

It

feels

like

a

lifetime.

He

pitched

over

face-first

into

the

dirt.

There

was

no

question

I’d

wasted

him.

Mybullet

had

blasted

a

pie

plate–sized

hole

in

the

back

of

his

head.

But

I

didn’t

lower

the

gun.

I

kept

it

pointed

at

his

half

head

as

I

backed

toward

the

trail.

Then

I

turned

and

ran

like

hell.

In

the

wrong

direction.

Toward

the

compound.

Not

smart.

But

I

wasn’t

thinking

at

that

point.

I’m

only

sixteen,

and

this

was

thefirst

person

I’d

shot

point-blank

in

the

face.

I

was

having

trouble

dealing.

I

just

wanted

to

get

back

to

Dad.

Dad

would

fix

this.

Because

that’s

what

dads

do.

They

fix

things.

My

mind

didn’t

register

the

sounds

at

first.

The

woods

echoed

with

the

staccato

bursts

of

automatic

weapons

and

people

screaming,

but

it

wasn’t

computing,

like

Crisco’s

head

snapping

back

and

the

way

he

flopped

into

the

gray

dust

like

every

bone

in

his

body

had

suddenly

turned

into

Jell-O,

the

way

his

killer

had

swung

around

in

a

perfectly

executed

pirouette

with

the

barrel

of

the

gun

flashing

in

the

sunlight.

The

world

was

ripping

apart.

And

pieces

of

the

wreckage

were

raining

all

around

me.

It

was

the

beginning

of

the

4th

Wave.

I

skittered

to

a

stop

before

reaching

the

compound.

The

hot

smell

of

gunpowder.

Wisps

of

smoke

curling

out

of

the

barrack

windows.

There

was

a

person

crawling

toward

the

storage

shed.

It

was

my

father.

His

back

was

arched.

His

face

was

covered

in

dirt

and

blood.

The

ground

behind

myfather

was

pockmarked

with

my

father’s

blood.

He

looked

over

as

I

came

out

of

the

trees.

No,

Cassie,

he

mouthed.

Then

his

arms

gave

out.

He

toppled

over,

lay

still.

A

soldier

emerged

from

the

barracks.

He

strolled

over

to

my

father.

Easy,

catlike

grace,

shoulders

relaxed,

arms

loose

at

his

sides.

I

backed

into

the

trees.

I

raised

the

gun.

But

I

was

over

a

hundred

feet

away.

If

I

missed…

It

was

Vosch.

He

seemed

even

taller

standing

over

the

crumpled

form

of

my

father.

Dad

wasn’t

moving.

I

think

he

was

playing

dead.

It

didn’t

matter.

Vosch

shot

him

anyway.

I

don’t

remember

making

any

noise

when

he

pulled

the

trigger.

But

I

must

have

done

something

to

set

off

Vosch’s

Spidey

sense.

The

black

mask

whipped

around,

sunlight

flashing

off

the

visor.

He

held

up

his

index

finger

toward

two

soldiers

coming

out

of

the

barracks,

then

jabbed

his

thumb

in

my

direction.

First

priority.

21

THEY

TOOK

OFF

toward

me

like

a

couple

of

cheetahs.

That’s

how

fast

they

seemed

tomove.

I’d

never

seen

anyone

run

that

fast

in

my

life.

The

only

thing

that

comes

close

is

a

scared-shitless

girl

who’s

just

seen

her

father

murdered

in

the

dirt.

Leaf,

branch,

vine,

bramble.

The

rush

of

air

in

my

ears.

The

rapid-firescuf

scuf

scuf

of

my

shoes

on

the

trail.

Shards

of

blue

sky

through

the

canopy,

blades

of

sunlight

impaling

the

shattered

earth.

The

rippedapart

world

careened.

I

slowed

as

I

neared

the

spot

where

I’d

hidden

my

father’s

last

present

to

me.

Mistake.The

highcaliber

rounds

smacked

into

the

tree

trunk

two

inches

from

my

ear.

The

impact

sent

fragments

of

pulverized

wood

into

my

face.

Tiny,

hair-thin

slivers

embedded

themselves

in

my

cheek.

Do

you

know

how

to

tell

who

the

enemy

is,

Cassie?

I

couldn’t

outrun

them.

I

couldn’t

outgun

them.

Maybe

I

could

outsmart

them.

22

THEY

ENTERED

THE

CLEARING,

and

the

first

thing

they

saw

was

the

body

of

Corporal

Branch,

or

whatever

it

was

that

called

itself

Corporal

Branch.

“There’s

one

over

there,”

I

heard

one

say.

The

crunch

of

heavy

boots

in

a

bowlful

of

brittle

bones.

“Dead.”

The

cackle

of

a

static

frequency,

then:

“Colonel,

we’ve

got

Branch

and

one

unidentified

civilian.

That’s

a

negative,

sir.

Branch

is

KIA,

repeat

Branch

is

KIA.”

Now

he

spoketo

his

buddy,

the

one

standing

by

Crisco.

“Vosch

wants

us

back

ASAP.”

Crunch-crunch

said

the

bones

as

he

heaved

himself

out

of

the

pit.

“She

ditched

this.”

My

backpack.

I

tried

to

throw

it

into

the

woods,

as

far

away

from

the

pit

as

I

could.But

it

hit

a

tree

and

landed

just

inside

the

far

edge

of

the

clearing.

“Strange,”

the

voice

said.

“It’s

okay,”

his

buddy

said.

“The

Eye

will

take

care

of

her.”

The

Eye?

Their

voices

faded.

The

sound

of

the

woods

at

peace

returned.

A

whisper

of

wind.

The

warble

of

birds.

Somewhere

in

the

brush

a

squirrel

fussed.

Still,

I

didn’t

move.

Each

time

the

urge

to

run

started

to

rise

up

in

me,

I

squashed

it

down.

No

hurry

now,

Cassie.

They’ve

done

what

they’ve

come

to

do.

You

have

to

stay

here

till

dark.

Don’t

move!

So

I

didn’t.

I

lay

still

inside

the

bed

of

dust

and

bones,

covered

by

the

ashes

oftheir

victims,

the

Others’

bitter

harvest.

And

I

tried

not

to

think

about

it.

What

I

was

covered

in.

Then

I

thought,

These

bones

were

people,

and

these

people

saved

my

life,

and

then

I

didn’t

feel

so

creeped.

They

were

just

people.

They

didn’t

ask

to

be

there

any

more

than

I

did.

But

they

werethere

and

I

was

there,

so

I

lay

still.

It’s

weird,

but

it

was

almost

like

I

felt

their

arms,

warm

and

soft,

enfolding

me.

I

don’t

know

how

long

I

lay

there,

with

the

arms

of

dead

people

holding

me.

It

feltlike

hours.

When

I

finally

stood

up,

the

sunlight

had

aged

to

a

golden

sheen

and

the

air

had

turned

a

little

cooler.

I

was

covered

head

to

toe

in

gray

ash.

I

must

have

looked

like

a

Mayan

warrior.

The

Eye

will

take

care

of

her.

Was

he

talking

about

the

drones,

an

eye-in-the-sky

thing?

And

if

he

was

talking

about

the

drones,

then

this

wasn’t

some

rogue

unit

scouring

the

countryside

to

waste

possible

carriers

of

the

3rd

Wave

so

the

unexposed

wouldn’t

be

infected.

That

would

definitely

be

bad.

But

the

alternative

would

be

much,

much

worse.

I

trotted

over

to

my

backpack.

The

deep

woods

called

to

me.

The

more

distance

I

putbetween

myself

and

them,

the

better

it

was

gonna

be.

Then

I

remembered

my

father’s

gift,

far

up

the

path,

practically

within

spitting

distance

of

the

compound.

Crap,

why

hadn’t

I

stashed

it

in

the

ash

pit?

It

sure

might

prove

more

useful

than

a

handgun.

I

didn’t

hear

anything.

Even

the

birds

had

gone

mum.

Just

wind.

Its

fingers

trailedthrough

the

mounds

of

ash,

flicking

it

into

the

air,

where

it

danced

fitfully

in

the

golden

light.

They

were

gone.

It

was

safe.

But

I

hadn’t

heard

them

leave.

Wouldn’t

I

have

heard

the

roar

of

the

flatbed

motor,

the

growl

of

the

Humvees

as

they

left?

Then

I

remembered

Branch

stepping

toward

Crisco.

Is

he

the

one?

Swinging

the

rifle

behind

his

shoulder.

The

rifle.

I

crept

over

to

the

body.

My

footfalls

sounded

like

thunder.

My

own

breathlike

mini

explosions.

He

had

fallen

facedown

at

my

feet.

Now

he

was

faceup,

though

that

face

was

still

mostlyhidden

by

the

gas

mask.

His

sidearm

and

rifle

were

gone.

They

must

have

taken

them.

For

a

second

I

didn’tmove.

And

moving

was

a

very

good

idea

at

that

juncture

of

the

battle.

This

wasn’t

part

of

the

3rd

Wave.

This

was

something

completely

different.

It

wasthe

beginning

of

the

4th,

definitely.

And

maybe

the

4th

Wave

was

a

sick

version

of

Close

Encounters

of

the

Third

Kind.

Maybe

Branch

wasn’t

human

and

that’s

why

he

was

wearing

a

mask.

I

knelt

beside

the

dead

soldier.

Grasped

the

top

of

the

mask

firmly,

and

pulled

until

I

could

see

his

eyes,

very

human-looking

brown

eyes,

staring

sightlessly

into

my

face.

I

kept

pulling.

Stopped.

I

wanted

to

see

and

I

didn’t

want

to

see.

I

wanted

to

know

but

I

didn’t

want

to

know.

Just

go.

It

doesn’t

matter,

Cassie.

Does

it

matter?

No.

It

doesn’t

matter.

Sometimes

you

say

things

to

your

fear—things

like

It

doesn’t

matter,

the

words

acting

like

pats

on

the

head

of

a

hyper

dog.

I

stood

up.

No,

it

really

didn’t

matter

if

the

soldier

had

a

mouth

like

a

lobster

or

looked

like

Justin

Bieber’s

twin

brother.

I

grabbed

Sammy’s

teddy

from

the

dirt

and

headed

for

the

far

side

of

the

clearing.

Something

stopped

me,

though.

I

didn’t

head

off

into

the

woods.

I

didn’t

rush

offto

embrace

the

one

thing

with

the

best

chance

to

save

me:

distance.

It

might

have

been

the

teddy

bear

that

did

it.

When

I

picked

it

up,

I

saw

my

brother’sface

pressed

against

the

back

window

of

the

bus,

heard

his

little

voice

inside

my

head.

For

when

you’re

scared.

But

don’t

leave

him.

Don’t

forget.

I

almost

did

forget.

If

I

hadn’t

walked

over

to

check

Branch

for

weapons,

I

wouldhave.

Branch

had

fallen

practically

on

top

of

poor

teddy.

Don’t

leave

him.

I

didn’t

actually

see

any

bodies

back

there.

Just

Dad’s.

What

if

someone

had

survivedthose

three

minutes

of

eternity

in

the

barracks?

They

could

have

been

wounded,

still

alive,

left

for

dead.

Unless

I

didn’t

leave.

If

there

was

someone

still

alive

back

there

and

the

faux

soldiershad

gone,

then

I

would

be

the

one

leaving

them

for

dead.

Ah,

crap.

You

know

how

sometimes

you

tell

yourself

that

you

have

a

choice,

but

really

you

don’t

have

a

choice?

Just

because

there

are

alternatives

doesn’t

mean

they

apply

to

you.

I

turned

around

and

headed

back,

stepping

around

the

body

of

Branch

as

I

went,

anddove

into

the

dusky

tunnel

of

the

trail.

23

I

DIDN’T

FORGET

the

assault

rifle

the

third

time

around.

I

shoved

the

Luger

into

mybelt,

but

I

couldn’t

very

well

expect

to

fire

an

assault

rifle

with

a

teddy

bear

in

one

hand,

so

I

had

to

leave

him

on

the

trail.

“It’s

okay.

I

won’t

forget

you,”

I

whispered

to

Sammy’s

bear.

I

stepped

off

the

path

and

wove

quietly

through

the

trees.

When

I

got

close

to

thecompound,

I

dropped

and

crawled

the

rest

of

the

way

to

the

edge.

Well,

that’s

why

you

didn’t

hear

them

leave.

Vosch

was

talking

to

a

couple

of

soldiers

at

the

doorway

to

the

storehouse.

Another

group

was

messing

around

by

one

of

the

Humvees.

I

counted

seven

in

all,

which

leftfive

more

I

couldn’t

see.

Were

they

off

in

the

woods

somewhere,

looking

for

me?

Dad’s

body

was

gone—maybe

the

others

had

pulled

disposal

duty.

There

were

forty-two

of

us,

not

counting

the

kids

who

had

left

on

the

buses.

That’s

a

lot

of

disposing.

Turns

out

I

was

right:

It

was

a

disposal

operation.

It’s

just

that

Silencers

don’t

dispose

of

bodies

the

way

we

do.

Vosch

had

taken

off

his

mask.

So

had

the

two

guys

who

were

with

him.

They

didn’t

have

lobster

mouths

or

tentacles

growing

out

of

their

chins.

They

looked

like

perfectly

ordinary

human

beings,

at

least

from

a

distance.

They

didn’t

need

the

masks

anymore.

Why

not?

The

masks

must

have

been

part

of

theact.

We

would

expect

them

to

protect

themselves

from

infection.

Two

of

the

soldiers

came

over

from

the

Humvee

carrying

what

looked

like

a

bowl

or

globe

the

same

dull

gray

metallic

color

as

the

drones.

Vosch

pointed

at

a

spot

midway

between

the

storehouse

and

the

barracks,

the

same

spot,

it

looked

like,

where

my

father

had

fallen.

Then

everybody

left,

except

one

female

soldier,

who

was

kneeling

now

beside

the

gray

globe.

The

Humvees

roared

to

life.

Another

engine

joined

the

duet:

the

flatbed

troop

carrier,

parked

at

the

head

of

the

compound

out

of

sight.

I’d

forgotten

about

that.

The

restof

the

soldiers

must

have

already

loaded

up

and

were

waiting.

Waiting

for

what?

The

remaining

soldier

stood

up

and

trotted

back

to

the

Humvee.

I

watched

him

climbaboard.

Watched

the

Humvee

spin

out

in

a

boiling

cloud

of

dust.

Watched

the

dust

swirl

and

settle.

The

stillness

of

summer

at

dusk

settled

with

it.

The

silence

pounded

in

my

ears.

And

then

the

gray

globe

began

to

glow.

That

was

a

good

thing,

a

bad

thing,

or

a

thing

that

was

neither

good

nor

bad,

but

whatever

it

was,

good,

bad,

or

neither,

depended

on

your

point

of

view.

They

had

put

the

globe

there,

so

to

them

it

was

a

good

thing.

The

glow

was

getting

brighter.

A

sickly

yellowish

green.

Pulsing

slightly.

Like

a…A

what?

A

beacon?

I

peered

into

the

darkening

sky.

The

first

stars

had

begun

to

come

out.

I

didn’t

see

any

drones.

If

it

was

a

good

thing

from

their

point

of

view,

that

meant

it

was

probably

a

bad

thing

from

mine.

Well,

not

probably.

Leaning

more

toward

definitely.

The

interval

between

pulses

shortened

every

few

seconds.

The

pulse

became

a

flash.

The

flash

became

a

blink.

Pulse…Pulse…Pulse…

Flash,

flash,

flash.

Blinkblinkblink.

In

the

gloom,

the

globe

reminded

me

of

an

eye,

a

pale

greenish-yellow

eyeball

winking

at

me.

The

Eye

will

take

care

of

her.

My

memory

has

preserved

what

happened

next

as

a

series

of

snapshots,

like

freeze-frame

stills

from

an

art

house

movie,

with

those

jerky,

handheld

camera

angles.

SHOT

1:

On

my

butt,

doing

a

crab-crawl

away

from

the

compound.

SHOT

2:

On

my

feet.

Running.

The

foliage

a

blur

of

green

and

brown

and

mossy

gray.

SHOT

3:

Sammy’s

bear.

The

chewed-up

little

arm

gummed

and

gnawed

since

he

was

a

baby

slipping

from

my

fingers.

SHOT

4:

Me

on

my

second

attempt

to

pick

up

that

damned

bear.

SHOT

5:

The

ash

pit

in

the

foreground.

I’m

halfway

between

Crisco’s

body

and

Branch’s.

Clutching

Sammy’s

bear

to

my

chest.

SHOTS

6–10:

More

woods,

more

me

running.

If

you

look

closely,

you

can

see

the

ravinein

the

left-hand

corner

of

the

tenth

frame.

SHOT

11:

The

final

frame.

I’m

suspended

in

midair

above

the

shadow-filled

ravine,taken

right

after

I

launched

myself

off

the

edge.

The

green

wave

roared

over

my

curled-up

body

at

the

bottom,

carrying

along

tons

of

debris,

a

rocketing

mass

of

trees,

dirt,

the

bodies

of

birds

and

squirrels

and

woodchucks

and

insects,

the

contents

of

the

ash

pit,

shards

of

the

pulverized

barracks

and

storehouse—plywood,

concrete,

nails,

tin—and

the

first

couple

of

inches

of

soil

in

a

hundred-yard

radius

of

the

blast.

I

felt

the

shock

wave

before

I

hit

the

muddy

bottom

of

the

ravine.

An

intense,

bone-rattling

pressure

over

every

inch

of

my

body.

My

eardrums

popped,

and

I

remembered

Crisco

saying,

You

know

what

happens

when

you’re

blasted

with

two

hundred

decibels?

No,

Crisco,

I

don’t.

But

I’ve

got

an

idea.

24

I

CAN’T

STOP

thinking

about

the

soldier

behind

the

coolers

and

the

crucifix

in

hishand.

The

soldier

and

the

crucifix.

I’m

thinking

maybe

that’s

why

I

pulled

the

trigger.

Not

because

I

thought

the

crucifix

was

another

gun.

I

pulled

the

trigger

because

he

was

a

soldier,

or

at

least

he

was

dressed

like

a

soldier.

He

wasn’t

Branch

or

Vosch

or

any

of

the

soldiers

I

saw

that

day

my

father

died.

He

wasn’t

and

he

was.

Not

any

of

them,

and

all

of

them.

Not

my

fault.

That’s

what

I

tell

myself.

It’s

their

fault.

They’re

the

ones,

not

me,

I

tell

the

dead

soldier.

You

want

to

blame

somebody,

blame

the

Others,

and

get

of

my

back.

Run

=

die.

Stay

=

die.

Sort

of

the

theme

of

this

party.

Beneath

the

Buick,

I

slipped

into

a

warm

and

dreamy

twilight.

My

makeshift

tourniquethad

stopped

most

of

the

bleeding,

but

the

wound

throbbed

with

each

slowing

beat

of

my

heart.

It’s

not

so

bad,

I

remember

thinking.

This

whole

dying

thing

isn’t

so

bad

at

all.

And

then

I

saw

Sammy’s

face

pressed

against

the

back

window

of

the

yellow

school

bus.

He

was

smiling.

He

was

happy.

He

felt

safe

surrounded

by

those

other

kids,

and

besides,

the

soldiers

were

there

now,

the

soldiers

would

protect

him

and

take

care

of

him

and

make

sure

everything

was

okay.

It

had

been

bugging

me

for

weeks.

Keeping

me

up

at

night.

Hitting

me

when

I

leastexpected

it,

when

I

was

reading

or

foraging

or

just

lying

in

my

little

tent

in

the

woods

thinking

about

my

life

before

the

Others

came.

What

was

the

point?

Why

did

they

play

that

giant

charade

of

soldiers

arriving

in

the

nick

of

time

to

save

us?

The

gas

masks,

the

uniforms,

the

“briefing”

in

the

barracks.

What

was

the

point

to

all

that

when

they

could

have

just

dropped

one

of

their

blinky

eyeballs

from

a

drone

and

blown

us

all

to

hell?

On

that

cold

autumn

day

while

I

lay

bleeding

to

death

beneath

the

Buick,

the

answerhit

me.

Hit

me

harder

than

the

bullet

that

had

just

torn

through

my

leg.

Sammy.

They

wanted

Sammy.

No,

not

just

Sammy.

They

wanted

all

the

kids.

And

to

get

the

kids,

they

had

to

make

us

trust

them.

Make

the

humans

trust

us,

get

the

kids,

and

then

we

blow

them

all

to

hell.

But

why

bother

saving

the

children?

Billions

had

died

in

the

first

three

waves;

itwasn’t

like

the

Others

had

a

soft

spot

for

kids.

Why

did

the

Others

take

Sammy?

I

raised

my

head

without

thinking

and

whacked

it

into

the

Buick’s

undercarriage.

I

barely

noticed.

I

didn’t

know

if

Sammy

was

alive.

For

all

I

knew,

I

was

the

last

person

on

Earth.But

I

had

made

a

promise.

The

cool

asphalt

scraping

against

my

back.

The

warm

sun

on

my

cold

cheek.

My

numb

fingers

clawing

at

the

door

handle,

using

it

to

pull

my

sorry,

self-pitying

butt

off

the

ground.

I

can’t

put

any

weight

on

my

wounded

leg.

I

lean

against

the

car

for

a

second,

thenpush

myself

upright.

On

one

leg,

but

upright.

I

might

be

wrong

about

them

wanting

to

keep

Sammy

alive.

I’d

been

wrong

about

practically

everything

since

the

Arrival.

I

still

could

be

the

last

human

being

on

Earth.

I

might

be—no,

I

probably

am—doomed.

But

if

I’m

it,

the

last

of

my

kind,

the

last

page

of

human

history,

like

hell

I’mgoing

to

let

the

story

end

this

way.

I

may

be

the

last

one,

but

I

am

the

one

still

standing.

I

am

the

one

turning

to

facethe

faceless

hunter

in

the

woods

on

an

abandoned

highway.

I

am

the

one

not

running,

not

staying,

but

facing.

Because

if

I

am

the

last

one,

then

I

am

humanity.

And

if

this

is

humanity’s

last

war,

then

I

am

the

battlefield.

25

CALL

ME

ZOMBIE.

Head,

hands,

feet,

back,

stomach,

legs,

arms,

chest—everything

hurts.

Even

blinkinghurts.

So

I

try

not

to

move

and

I

try

not

to

think

too

much

about

the

pain.

I

trynot

to

think

too

much

period.

I’ve

seen

enough

of

the

plague

over

the

past

three

months

to

know

what’s

coming:

total

system

meltdown,

starting

with

your

brain.

The

Red

Deathturns

your

brain

to

mashed

potatoes

before

your

other

organs

liquefy.

You

don’t

know

where

you

are,

who

you

are,

what

you

are.

You

become

a

zombie,

the

walking

dead—if

you

had

the

strength

to

walk,

which

you

don’t.

I’m

dying.

I

know

that.

Seventeen

years

old

and

the

party’s

over.

Short

party.

Six

months

ago

my

biggest

worries

were

passing

AP

Chemistry

and

finding

a

summer

job

that

paid

enough

for

me

to

finish

rebuilding

the

engine

on

my

’69

Corvette.

And

when

the

mothership

first

appeared,

sure,

that

took

up

some

of

my

thoughts,

but

after

a

while

it

faded

to

a

distant

fourth.

I

watched

the

news

like

everybody

else

and

spent

way

too

much

time

sharing

funny

YouTube

videos

about

it,

but

I

never

thought

it

would

affect

me

personally.

Seeing

all

the

demonstrations

and

marches

and

riots

on

TV

leading

up

to

the

first

attack

was

like

watching

a

movie

or

news

footage

from

a

foreign

country.

It

didn’t

seem

like

any

of

it

was

happening

to

me.

Dying

isn’t

so

different

from

that.

You

don’t

feel

like

it’s

going

to

happen

to

you…until

it

happens

to

you.

I

know

I’m

dying.

Nobody

has

to

tell

me.

Chris,

the

guy

who

shared

this

tent

with

me

before

I

got

sick,

tells

me

anyway:

“Dude,I

think

you’re

dying,”

he

says,

squatting

outside

the

tent’s

opening,

his

eyes

wide

and

unblinking

above

the

filthy

rag

that

he

presses

against

his

nose.

Chris

has

come

by

to

check

up

on

me.

He’s

about

ten

years

older,

and

I

think

he

looks

at

me

like

a

little

brother.

Or

maybe

he’s

come

to

see

if

I’m

still

alive;

he’s

in

charge

of

disposal

for

this

part

of

the

camp.

The

fires

burn

day

and

night.

By

daythe

refugee

camp

ringing

Wright-Patterson

swims

in

a

dense,

choking

fog.

At

night

the

firelight

turns

the

smoke

a

deep

crimson,

like

the

air

itself

is

bleeding.

I

ignore

his

remark

and

ask

him

what

he’s

heard

from

Wright-Patterson.

The

base

has

been

on

full

lockdown

since

the

tent

city

sprang

up

after

the

attack

on

the

coasts.

No

one

allowed

in

or

out.

They’re

trying

to

contain

the

Red

Death,

that’s

what

theytell

us.

Occasionally

some

well-armed

soldiers

well-wrapped

in

hazmat

suits

roll

out

the

main

gates

with

water

and

rations,

tell

us

everything

will

be

okay,

and

then

hightail

it

back

inside,

leaving

us

to

fend

for

ourselves.

We

need

medicine.

They

tell

us

there’s

no

cure

for

the

plague.

We

need

sanitation.

They

give

us

shovels

to

dig

a

trench.

We

need

information.

What

the

hell

is

going

on?

They

tell

us

they

don’t

know.

“They

don’t

know

anything,”

Chris

says

to

me.

He’s

on

the

thin

side,

balding,

an

accountantbefore

the

attacks

made

accounting

obsolete.

“Nobody

knows

anything.

Just

a

bunchof

rumors

that

everybody

treats

like

news.”

He

cuts

his

eyes

at

me,

then

looks

away.

Like

looking

at

me

hurts.

“You

want

to

hear

the

latest?”

Not

really.

“Sure.”

To

keep

him

there.

I’ve

only

known

the

guy

for

a

month,

but

he’s

the

only

guy

left

who

I

know.

I

lie

here

on

this

old

camping

bed

with

a

sliver

of

sky

for

a

view.

Vague,

peopleshaped

forms

drift

by

in

the

smoke,

like

figures

out

of

a

horror

movie,

and

sometimes

I

can

hear

screaming

or

crying,

but

I

haven’t

spoken

to

another

person

in

days.

“The

plague

isn’t

theirs,

it’s

ours,”

Chris

says.

“Escaped

from

some

top-secret

governmentfacility

after

the

power

failed.”

I

cough.

He

flinches,

but

he

doesn’t

leave.

He

waits

for

the

fit

to

subside.

Somewherealong

the

way

he

lost

one

of

the

lenses

to

his

glasses.

His

left

eye

is

stuck

in

a

perpetual

squint.

He

rocks

from

foot

to

foot

in

the

muddy

ground.

He

wants

to

leave;

he

doesn’t

want

to

leave.

I

know

the

feeling.

“Wouldn’t

that

be

ironic?”

I

gasp.

I

can

taste

blood.

He

shrugs.

Irony?

There

is

no

irony

anymore.

Or

maybe

there’s

just

so

much

of

it

that

you

can’t

call

it

irony.

“It’s

not

ours.

Think

about

it.

The

first

two

attacks

drive

the

survivors

inland

to

take

shelter

in

camps

just

like

this

one.

That

concentrates

the

population,

creating

the

perfect

breeding

ground

for

the

virus.

Millions

of

pounds

of

fresh

meat

all

conveniently

located

in

one

spot.

It’s

genius.”

“Gotta

hand

it

to

’em,”

I

say,

trying

to

be

ironic.

I

don’t

want

him

to

leave,

butI

also

don’t

want

him

to

talk.

He

has

a

habit

of

going

off

on

rants,

one

of

those

guys

who

has

an

opinion

about

everything.

But

something

happens

when

every

person

you

meet

dies

within

days

of

your

meeting

them:

You

start

being

a

lot

less

picky

about

who

you

hang

out

with.

You

can

overlook

a

lot

of

flaws.

And

you

let

go

of

a

lot

of

personal

hang-ups,

like

the

big

lie

that

having

your

insides

turn

to

soup

doesn’t

scare

the

living

shit

out

of

you.

“They

know

how

we

think,”

he

says.

“How

the

hell

do

you

know

what

they

know?”

I’m

gettingpissed.

I’m

not

sure

why.

Maybe

I’m

jealous.

We

shared

the

tent,

same

water,

same

food,

and

I’m

the

one

who’s

dying.

What

makes

him

so

special?

“I

don’t,”

he

answers

quickly.

“The

only

thing

I

know

is

I

don’t

know

anything

anymore.”

In

the

distance,

a

gun

fires.

Chris

barely

reacts.

Gunfire

is

pretty

common

in

thecamp.

Potshots

at

birds.

Warning

shots

at

the

gangs

coming

for

your

stash.

Some

shots

signal

a

suicide,

a

person

in

the

final

stages

who

decides

to

show

the

plague

who’s

boss.

When

I

first

came

to

the

camp,

I

heard

a

story

about

a

mom

who

took

out

her

three

kids

and

then

did

herself

rather

than

face

the

Fourth

Horseman.

I

couldn’t

decide

whether

she

was

brave

or

stupid.

And

then

I

stopped

worrying

about

it.

Who

cares

what

she

was

when

what

she

is

now

is

dead?

He

doesn’t

have

much

more

to

say,

so

he

says

it

quickly

to

get

the

hell

away.

Like

a

lot

of

the

uninfected,

Chris

has

a

bad

case

of

the

twitchies,

always

waiting

for

the

other

shoe

to

drop.

Scratchy

throat—from

the

smoke

or…?

Headache—from

lack

ofsleep

or

hunger

or…?

It’s

the

moment

you’re

passed

the

ball

and

out

of

the

corner

of

your

eye

you

see

the

two-hundred-and-fifty-pound

linebacker

bearing

down

at

full

speed—only

the

moment

never

ends.

“I’ll

come

back

tomorrow,”

he

says.

“You

need

anything?”

“Water.”

Though

I

can’t

keep

it

down.

“You

got

it,

dude.”

He

stands

up.

All

I

can

see

now

is

his

mud-stained

pants

and

mud-caked

boots.

I

don’tknow

how

I

know,

but

I

know

it’s

the

last

I’ll

see

of

Chris.

He

won’t

come

back,

or

if

he

does,

I

won’t

realize

it.

We

don’t

say

good-bye.

Nobody

says

good-bye

anymore.

The

word

has

taken

on

a

whole

new

meaning

since

the

Big

Green

Eye

in

the

Sky

showed

up.

I

watch

the

smoke

swirl

in

his

passing.

Then

I

pull

out

the

silver

chain

from

beneaththe

blanket.

I

run

my

thumb

over

the

smooth

surface

of

the

heart-shaped

locket,

holding

it

close

to

my

eyes

in

the

fading

light.

The

clasp

broke

on

the

night

I

yanked

itfree

from

her

neck,

but

I

managed

to

fix

it

using

a

pair

of

fingernail

clippers.

I

look

toward

the

tent

opening

and

see

her

standing

there,

and

I

know

it

isn’t

reallyher,

it’s

the

virus

showing

her

to

me,

because

she’s

wearing

the

same

locket

I’m

holding

in

my

hand.

The

bug

has

been

showing

me

all

kinds

of

things.

Things

I

want

to

see

and

things

I

don’t.

The

little

girl

in

the

opening

is

both.

Bubby,

why

did

you

leave

me?

I

open

my

mouth.

I

taste

blood.

“Go

away.”

Her

image

begins

to

shimmer.

I

rub

my

eyes,

and

my

knuckles

come

away

wet

with

blood.

You

ran

away.

Bubby,

why

did

you

run?

And

then

the

smoke

pulls

her

apart,

splinters

her,

smashes

her

body

into

nothing.

I

call

out

to

her.

Crueler

than

seeing

her

is

the

not

seeing

her.

I’m

clutching

the

silver

chain

so

tight

that

the

links

cut

into

my

palm.

Reaching

for

her.

Running

from

her.

Reaching.

Running.

Outside

the

tent,

the

red

smoke

of

funeral

pyres.

Inside,

the

red

fog

of

plague.

You’re

the

lucky

one,

I

tell

Sissy.

You

left

before

things

got

really

messy.

Gunfire

erupts

in

the

distance.

Only

this

time

it’s

not

the

sporadic

pop-pop

of

some

desperate

refugee

firing

at

shadows,

but

big

guns

that

go

off

with

an

eardrum-thumping

puh-DOOM.

The

highpitched

screeching

of

tracer

fire.

The

rapid

reports

of

automatic

weapons.

Wright-Patterson

is

under

attack.

Part

of

me

is

relieved.

It’s

like

a

release,

the

final

cracking

open

of

the

stormafter

the

long

wait.

The

other

part

of

me,

the

one

that

still

thinks

I

might

survive

the

plague,

is

ready

to

wet

his

pants.

Too

weak

to

move

off

the

cot

and

too

scared

to

do

it

even

if

I

wasn’t.

I

close

my

eyes

and

whisper

a

prayer

for

the

men

and

women

of

Wright-Patterson

to

waste

an

invader

or

two

for

me

and

Sissy.

But

mostly

for

Sissy.

Explosions

now.

Big

explosions.

Explosions

that

make

the

ground

tremble,

that

vibrate

against

your

skin,

that

press

hard

against

your

temples

and

push

on

your

chest

and

squeeze.

It

sounds

as

if

the

world

is

being

ripped

apart,

which

in

a

way

it

is.

The

little

tent

is

choking

with

smoke,

and

the

opening

glows

like

a

triangular

eye,

a

burning

ember

of

bright

hellish

red.

This

is

it,

I’m

thinking.

I’m

not

going

to

die

of

the

plague

after

all.

I’m

going

to

live

long

enough

to

be

wasted

by

an

actual

alien

invader.

A

better

way

to

go,

quicker

anyway.

Trying

to

put

a

positive

spin

on

my

impending

demise.

A

gunshot

rings

out.

Very

close,

judging

by

the

sound

of

it,

maybe

two

or

three

tents

down.

I

hear

a

woman

screaming

incoherently,

another

shot,

and

then

the

woman

isn’t

screaming

anymore.

Then

silence.

Then

two

more

shots.

The

smoke

swirls,

the

red

eye

glows.

I

can

hear

him

now,

coming

toward

me,

hear

his

boots

squishing

in

the

wet

earth.

I

fumble

under

the

wad

of

clothing

and

jumble

of

empty

water

bottles

beside

the

cot

for

my

gun,

a

revolver

Chris

had

given

me

on

the

day

he

invited

me

to

be

his

tentmate.

Where’s

your

gun?

he

asked.

He

was

shocked

to

learn

I

wasn’t

packing.

You

have

to

have

a

gun,

pal,

he

said.

Even

the

kids

have

guns.

Never

mind

that

I

can’t

hit

the

broad

side

of

a

barn

or

that

the

odds

are

very

good

I’ll

shoot

off

my

own

foot;

in

the

post-human

age,

Chris

is

a

firm

believer

in

the

Second

Amendment.

I

wait

for

him

to

appear

in

the

opening,

Sissy’s

silver

locket

in

one

hand,

Chris’s

revolver

in

the

other.

In

one

hand,

the

past.

In

the

other,

the

future.

That’s

one

way

to

look

at

it.

Maybe

if

I

play

possum

he—or

it—will

move

on.

I

watch

the

opening

through

slits

for

eyes.

And

then

he’s

here,

a

thick,

black

pupil

in

the

crimson

eye,

swaying

unsteadily

as

he

leans

inside

the

tent,

three,

maybe

four

feet

away,

and

I

can’t

see

his

face,

but

I

can

hear

him

gasping

for

breath.

I’m

trying

to

control

my

own

breathing,

but

no

matter

how

shallowly

I

do

it,

the

rattle

of

the

infection

in

my

chest

sounds

louder

than

the

explosions

of

the

battle.

I

can’t

make

out

exactly

what

he’s

wearing,

except

his

pants

seem

to

be

tucked

into

his

tall

boots.

A

soldier?

Must

be.

He’s

holding

a

rifle.

I’m

saved.

I

raise

the

hand

holding

the

locket

and

call

out

weakly.

He

stumbles

forward.

Now

I

can

see

his

face.

He’s

young,

just

a

little

older

than

I

am,

and

his

neck

is

shiny

with

blood,

and

so

are

the

hands

that

hold

the

rifle.

He

goes

to

one

knee

beside

the

cot,

then

recoils

when

he

sees

my

face,

the

sallow

skin,

the

swollen

lips,

and

the

sunken

bloodshot

eyes

that

are

the

telltale

signs

of

the

plague.

Unlike

mine,

the

soldier’s

eyes

are

clear—and

wide

with

terror.

“We

had

it

wrong,

all

wrong!”

he

whispers.

“They’re

already

here—been

here—right

here—

inside

us—the

whole

time—inside

us.”

Two

large

shapes

leap

through

the

opening.

One

grabs

the

soldier

by

the

collar

and

drags

him

outside.

I

raise

the

old

revolver—or

try

to,

because

it

slips

from

my

hand

before

I

can

lift

it

two

inches

above

the

blanket.

Then

the

second

one

is

on

me,

knocking

the

revolver

away,

yanking

me

upright.

The

aftershock

of

pain

blinds

me

for

a

second.

He

yells

over

his

shoulder

at

his

buddy,

who

has

just

ducked

back

inside.

“Scan

him!”

A

large

metal

disk

is

pressed

against

my

forehead.

“He’s

clean.”

“And

sick.”

Both

men

are

dressed

in

fatigues—the

same

fatigues

worn

by

the

soldier

they

took

away.

“What’s

your

name,

buddy?”

one

of

them

asks.

I

shake

my

head.

I’m

not

getting

this.

My

mouth

opens,

but

no

intelligible

sound

comes

out.

“He’s

gone

zombie,”

his

partner

says.

“Leave

him.”

The

other

one

nods,

rubbing

his

chin,

looking

down

at

me.

Then

he

says,

“The

commanderordered

retrieval

of

all

uninfected

civilians.”

He

tucks

the

blanket

around

me,

and

with

one

fluid

motion

heaves

me

out

of

the

bunk

and

over

his

shoulder.

As

a

definitively

infected

civilian,

I’m

pretty

shocked.

“Chill,

zombie,”

he

tells

me.

“You’re

going

to

a

better

place

now.”

I

believe

him.

And

for

a

second

I

let

myself

believe

I’m

not

going

to

die

after

all.

26

THEY

TAKE

ME

to

a

quarantined

floor

at

the

base

hospital

reserved

for

plague

victims,nicknamed

the

Zombie

Ward,

where

I

get

an

armful

of

morphine

and

a

powerful

cocktail

of

antiviral

drugs.

I’m

treated

by

a

woman

who

introduces

herself

as

Dr.

Pam.

She

has

soft

eyes,

a

calm

voice,

and

very

cold

hands.

She

wears

her

hair

in

a

tight

bun.

And

she

smells

like

hospital

disinfectant

mingled

with

a

hint

of

perfume.

The

two

smells

don’t

go

well

together.

I

have

a

one-in-ten

chance

of

survival,

she

tells

me.

I

start

to

laugh.

I

must

bea

little

delirious

from

the

drugs.

One

in

ten?

And

here

I

was

thinking

the

plague

was

a

death

sentence.

I

couldn’t

be

happier.

Over

the

next

two

days,

my

fever

soars

to

a

hundred

and

four.

I

break

into

a

cold

sweat,

and

even

my

sweat

is

flecked

with

blood.

I

float

in

and

out

of

a

delirious

twilight

sleep

while

they

throw

everything

at

the

infection.

There

is

no

cure

for

the

Red

Death.

All

they

can

do

is

keep

me

doped

up

and

comfortable

until

the

bug

decides

whether

it

likes

the

way

I

taste.

The

past

shoves

its

way

in.

Sometimes

Dad

is

sitting

next

to

me,

sometimes

Mom,

butmost

of

the

time

it’s

Sissy.

The

room

turns

red.

I

see

the

world

through

a

diaphanous

curtain

of

blood.

The

ward

recedes

behind

the

red

curtain.

It’s

just

me

and

the

invader

inside

me

and

the

dead—not

just

my

family,

but

all

the

dead,

all

however-many-billion

of

them,

reaching

for

me

as

I

run.

Reaching.

Running.

And

it

occurs

to

me

that

there’s

no

real

difference

between

us,

the

living

and

the

dead;

it’s

just

a

matter

of

tense:

past-dead

and

future-dead.

On

the

third

day,

the

fever

breaks.

By

the

fifth,

I’m

holding

down

liquids

and

myeyes

and

lungs

have

begun

to

clear.

The

red

curtain

pulls

back,

and

I

can

see

the

ward,

the

gowned

and

masked

doctors

and

nurses

and

orderlies,

the

patients

in

various

stages

of

death,

past

and

future,

floating

on

the

gentle

sea

of

morphine

or

being

wheeled

out

of

the

room

with

their

faces

covered,

the

presentdead.

On

the

sixth

day,

Dr.

Pam

declares

the

worst

over.

She

orders

me

off

all

meds,

which

kind

of

bums

me

out;

I’m

going

to

miss

my

morphine.

“Not

my

call,”

she

tells

me.

“You’re

being

moved

into

the

convalescent

ward

till

you

can

get

back

on

your

feet.

We’re

going

to

need

you.”

“Need

me?”

“For

the

war.”

The

war.

I

remember

the

firefight,

the

explosions,

the

soldier

bursting

into

the

tent

and

they’re

inside

us!

“What’s

going

on?”

I

ask.

“What

happened

here?”

She’s

already

turned

away,

handing

my

chart

to

an

orderly

and

telling

him

in

a

quiet

voice,

but

not

so

quiet

I

can’t

hear,

“Bring

him

to

the

exam

room

at

fifteen

hundred

hours,

after

he’s

clear

of

the

meds.

Let’s

tag

and

bag

him.”

27

I’M

TAKEN

TO

a

large

hangar

near

the

entrance

to

the

base.

Everywhere

I

look,

there’resigns

of

the

recent

battle.

Burned-out

vehicles,

the

rubble

of

demolished

buildings,

stubborn

little

fires

smoldering,

pockmarked

asphalt,

and

three-foot-wide

craters

from

mortar

fire.

But

the

security

fence

has

been

repaired,

and

beyond

it

I

can

see

a

no-man’s-land

of

blackened

earth

where

Tent

City

used

to

be.

Inside

the

hangar,

soldiers

are

painting

huge

red

circles

on

the

shiny

concrete

floor.

There

are

no

planes.

I’m

wheeled

through

a

door

in

the

back,

into

an

examination

room,

where

I’m

heaved

onto

the

table

and

left

alone

for

a

few

minutes,

shivering

in

my

thin

hospital

gown

under

the

bright

fluorescent

lights.

What’s

with

the

big

red

circles?

And

how

did

they

get

the

power

back

on?

And

what

did

she

mean

by

“Let’s

tag

and

bag

him”?

I

can’t

keep

my

thoughts

from

flying

in

every

direction.

What

happened

here?

If

the

aliens

attacked

the

base,

where

are

the

dead

aliens?

Where’s

their

downed

spacecraft?

How

did

we

manage

to

defend

ourselves

against

an

intelligence

thousands

of

years

more

advanced

than

ours—and

defeat

it?

The

inner

door

opens,

and

Dr.

Pam

comes

in.

She

shines

a

bright

light

in

my

eyes.Listens

to

my

heart,

my

lungs,

thumps

on

a

couple

places.

She

shows

me

a

silver-gray

pellet

about

the

size

of

a

grain

of

rice.

“What’s

that?”

I

ask.

I

half

expect

her

to

say

it’s

an

alien

spaceship:

We’ve

discovered

they’re

the

size

of

an

amoeba.

Instead,

she

says

the

pellet

is

a

tracking

device,

hooked

into

the

base’s

mainframe.

Highly

classified,

been

used

by

the

military

for

years.

The

idea

is

to

implant

all

surviving

personnel.

Each

pellet

transmits

its

own

unique

signal,

a

signature

that

can

be

picked

up

by

detectors

as

far

as

a

mile

away.

To

keep

track

of

us,

she

tells

me.

To

keep

us

safe.

She

gives

me

a

shot

in

the

back

of

my

neck

to

numb

me,

then

inserts

the

pellet

under

my

skin,

near

the

base

of

my

skull.

She

bandages

the

insertion

point,

then

helps

me

back

into

the

wheelchair

and

takes

me

into

the

adjoining

room.

It’s

much

smaller

than

the

first

room.

A

white

reclining

chair

that

reminds

me

of

a

dentist’s.

A

computer

and

monitor.

She

helps

me

into

the

chair

and

proceeds

to

tie

me

down:

straps

across

my

wrists,

straps

across

my

ankles.

Her

face

is

very

close

to

mine.

The

perfume

has

a

slight

edge

today

over

the

disinfectant

in

the

Odor

Wars.

She

doesn’t

miss

my

expression.

“Don’t

be

scared,”

she

says.

“It

isn’t

painful.”

Scared,

I

whisper,

“What

isn’t?”

She

steps

over

to

the

monitor

and

starts

punching

in

commands.

“It’s

a

program

we

found

on

a

laptop

that

belonged

to

one

of

the

infested,”

Dr.

Pamexplains.

Before

I

can

ask

what

the

hell

an

infested

is,

she

rolls

on:

“We’re

not

sure

what

the

infesteds

had

been

using

it

for,

but

we

know

it’s

perfectly

safe.

Its

code

name

is

Wonderland.”

“What’s

it

do?”

I

ask.

I’m

not

sure

what

she’s

telling

me,

but

it

sounds

like

she’s

telling

me

that

the

aliens

had

somehow

infiltrated

Wright-Patterson

and

hacked

into

its

computer

systems.

I

can’t

get

the

word

infested

out

of

my

head.

Or

the

bloody

face

of

the

soldier

bursting

into

my

tent.

They’re

inside

us.

“It’s

a

mapping

program,”

she

answers.

Which

really

isn’t

an

answer.

“What

does

it

map?”

She

looks

at

me

for

one

long,

uncomfortable

moment,

as

if

she’s

deciding

whether

to

tell

the

truth.

“It

maps

you.

Close

your

eyes,

big,

deep

breath.

Counting

down

from

three…two…one…”

And

the

universe

implodes.

Suddenly

I’m

there,

three

years

old,

holding

on

to

the

sides

of

my

crib,

jumping

up

and

down

and

screaming

like

someone’s

murdering

me.

I’m

not

remembering

that

day;

I’m

experiencing

it.

Now

I’m

six,

swinging

my

plastic

baseball

bat.

The

one

I

loved;

the

one

I

forgot

I

had.

Ten

now,

riding

home

from

the

pet

store

with

a

bag

of

goldfish

in

my

lap

and

debating

names

with

my

mom.

She’s

wearing

a

bright

yellow

dress.

Thirteen,

it’s

a

Friday

night,

I’m

playing

pee-wee

football,

and

the

crowd

is

cheering.

Going

deep.

The

reel

begins

to

slow.

I

feel

like

I’m

drowning—drowning

in

the

dream

of

my

life.

My

legs

kick

helplessly

against

the

restraints,

strapped

in

tight,

running.

Running.

First

kiss.

Her

name

is

Lacey.

My

ninth-grade

algebra

teacher

and

her

horrible

handwriting.

Getting

my

driver’s

license.

Everything

there,

no

blank

spaces,

all

of

it

pouringout

of

me

while

I’m

pouring

into

Wonderland.

All

of

it.

Green

blob

in

the

night

sky.

Holding

the

boards

while

Dad

nails

them

over

the

living

room

windows.

The

sound

ofgunfire

down

the

street,

glass

shattering,

people

screaming.

And

the

hammer

falling:

bam,

bam,

BAM.

“Blow

out

the

candles”:

Mom’s

hysterical

whisper.

“Can’t

you

hear

them?

They’re

coming!”

And

my

father,

calmly,

in

the

pitch

black:

“If

anything

happens

to

me,

take

care

of

your

mother

and

baby

sister.”

I’m

in

free

fall.

Terminal

velocity.

There’s

no

escaping

it.

I

won’t

just

remember

that

night.

I’ll

live

it

all

over

again.

It

has

chased

me

all

the

way

to

Tent

City.

The

thing

I

ran

from,

that

I’m

still

runningfrom,

the

thing

that’s

never

let

me

go.

What

I

reach

for.

What

I

run

from.

Take

care

of

your

mother.

Take

care

of

your

baby

sister.

The

front

door

crashes

open.

Dad

fires

point-blank

into

the

chest

of

the

first

intruder.

The

guy

must

be

high

on

something,

because

he

just

keeps

coming.

I

see

a

sawed-offshotgun

in

my

father’s

face,

and

that’s

the

last

I

see

of

my

father’s

face.

The

room

fills

with

shadows,

and

one

of

the

shadows

is

my

mother,

and

then

more

shadows

and

hoarse

shouts

and

I’m

tearing

up

the

stairs

cradling

Sissy

in

my

arms,

realizingtoo

late

I’m

running

toward

a

dead

end.

A

hand

catches

my

shirt

and

flings

me

backward,

and

I

tumble

back

down

the

stairs,

shielding

Sissy

with

my

body,

smacking

down

headfirst

at

the

bottom.

Then

shadows,

huge

shadows,

and

a

swarm

of

fingers,

pulling

her

out

of

my

arms.

And

Sissy,

screaming,

Bubby,

Bubby,

Bubby,

Bubby!

I

reach

for

her

in

the

dark.

My

fingers

hook

on

the

locket

around

her

neck

and

tear

the

silver

chain

free.

Then,

like

the

day

the

lights

blinked

out

forever,

my

sister’s

voice

abruptly

dies.

Then

the

punks

are

on

me.

Three

of

them,

jacked

up

on

dope

or

desperate

to

find

some,

kicking,

punching,

a

furious

rain

of

blows

into

my

back,

my

stomach,

and

as

I

bring

up

my

hands

to

shield

my

face,

I

see

the

silhouette

of

Dad’s

hammer

rising

over

my

head.

It

whistles

down.

I

roll

away.

The

head

of

the

hammer

grazes

my

temple,

its

momentumcarrying

it

right

into

the

guy’s

shin.

He

falls

to

his

knees

with

an

agonized

howl.

On

my

feet

now,

running

down

the

hall

to

the

kitchen,

and

the

thunder

of

footsteps

as

they

come

after

me.

Take

care

of

your

baby

sister.

Tripping

on

something

in

the

backyard,

probably

the

garden

hose

or

one

of

Sissy’s

stupid

toys.

Falling

face-first

in

the

wet

grass

under

a

star-stuffed

sky,

and

the

glowing

green

orb,

the

circling

Eye,

coldly

staring

down

at

me,

the

one

with

the

silver

locket

clutched

in

his

bleeding

hand,

the

one

who

lived,

the

one

who

did

not

go

back,

the

one

who

ran.

28

I’VE

FALLEN

SO

DEEP,

nothing

can

reach

me.

For

the

first

time

in

weeks,

I

feel

numbI.

don’t

even

feel

like

me.

There’s

no

place

where

I

end

and

the

nothingness

begins.

Her

voice

comes

into

the

darkness,

and

I

grab

on

to

it,

a

lifeline

to

pull

me

outof

the

bottomless

well.

“It’s

over.

It’s

all

right.

It’s

over…”

I

break

the

surface

into

the

real

world,

gasping

for

air,

crying

uncontrollably

like

a

complete

pansy,

and

I’m

thinking,

You’re

wrong,

Doc.

It’s

never

over.

It

just

goes

on

and

on

and

on.

Her

face

swims

into

view,

and

my

arm

jerks

against

the

restraint

as

I

try

to

grab

her.

She

needs

to

make

this

stop.

“What

the

hell

was

that?”

I

ask

in

a

croaky

whisper.

My

throat

is

burning,

my

mouthdry.

I

feel

like

I

weigh

about

five

pounds,

like

all

the

flesh

has

been

torn

frommy

bones.

And

I

thought

the

plague

was

bad!

“It’s

a

way

for

us

to

see

inside

you,

to

look

at

what’s

really

going

on,”

she

says

gently.

She

runs

her

hand

over

my

forehead.

The

gesture

reminds

me

of

my

mother,

which

reminds

me

of

losing

my

mother

in

the

dark,

of

running

from

her

in

the

night,

which

reminds

me

I

shouldn’t

be

strapped

down

in

this

white

chair.

I

should

be

with

them.

I

should

have

stayed

and

faced

what

they

faced.

Take

care

of

your

little

sister.

“That’s

my

next

question,”

I

say,

fighting

to

stay

focused.

“What’s

going

on?”

“They’re

inside

us,”

she

answers.

“We

were

attacked

from

the

inside,

by

infected

personnel

who’d

been

embedded

in

the

military.”

She

gives

me

a

few

minutes

to

process

this

while

she

wipes

the

tears

from

my

face

with

a

cool,

moist

cloth.

It’s

maddening,

how

motherly

she

is,

and

the

soothing

coolness

of

the

cloth,

a

pleasant

torture.

She

sets

aside

the

cloth

and

looks

deeply

into

my

eyes.

“Using

the

ratio

of

infected

to

clean

here

at

the

base,

we

estimate

that

one

out

of

every

three

surviving

human

beings

on

Earth

is

one

of

them.”

She

loosens

the

straps.

I’m

insubstantial

as

a

cloud,

light

as

a

balloon.

When

thefinal

strap

comes

free,

I

expect

to

fly

out

of

the

chair

and

smack

the

ceiling.

“Would

you

like

to

see

one?”

she

asks.

Holding

out

her

hand.

29

SHE

WHEELS

ME

down

a

hallway

to

an

elevator.

It’s

a

one-way

express

that

carries

us

everal

hundred

feet

below

the

surface.

The

doors

open

into

a

long

corridor

with

white

cinder-block

walls.

Dr.

Pam

tells

me

we’re

in

the

bomb

shelter

complex

that’s

nearly

as

large

as

the

base

above

us,

built

to

withstand

a

fifty-megaton

nuclear

blast.

I

tell

her

I’m

feeling

safer

already.

She

laughs

like

she

thinks

that’s

very

funny.

I’m

rolling

past

side

tunnels

and

unmarked

doors

and,

though

the

floor

is

level,

I

feel

as

if

I’m

being

taken

to

the

very

bottom

of

the

world,

to

the

hole

where

the

devil

sits.

There

are

soldiers

hurrying

up

and

down

the

corridor;

they

avert

their

eyes

and

stop

talking

as

I’m

wheeled

past

them.

Would

you

like

to

see

one?

Yes.

Hell

no.

She

stops

at

one

of

the

unmarked

doors

and

swipes

a

key

card

through

the

locking

mechanism.

The

red

light

turns

green.

She

rolls

me

into

the

room,

stopping

the

chair

in

front

of

a

long

mirror,

and

my

mouth

falls

open

and

I

drop

my

chin

and

close

my

eyes,

because

whatever

is

sitting

in

that

wheelchair

isn’t

me,

it

can’t

be

me.

When

the

mothership

first

appeared,

I

was

one

hundred

and

ninety

pounds,

most

of

itmuscle.

Forty

pounds

of

that

muscle

is

gone.

The

stranger

in

that

mirror

looked

back

at

me

with

the

eyes

of

the

starving:

huge,

sunken,

ringed

in

puffy,

black

bags.

The

virus

has

taken

a

knife

to

my

face,

carving

away

my

cheeks,

sharpening

my

chin,

thinning

my

nose.

My

hair

is

stringy,

dry,

falling

out

in

places.

He’s

gone

zombie.

Dr.

Pam

nods

at

the

mirror.

“Don’t

worry.

He

won’t

be

able

to

see

us.”

He?

Who’s

she

talking

about?

She

hits

a

button,

and

the

lights

in

the

room

on

the

other

side

of

the

mirror

flood

on.

My

image

turns

ghostlike.

I

can

see

through

myself

to

the

person

on

the

other

side.

It’s

Chris.

He’s

strapped

to

a

chair

identical

to

the

one

in

the

Wonderland

room.

Wires

run

from

his

head

to

a

large

console

with

blinking

red

lights

behind

him.

He’s

having

trouble

keeping

his

head

up,

like

a

kid

nodding

off

in

class.

She

notices

my

stiffening

at

the

sight

of

him

and

asks,

“What?

Do

you

know

him?”

“His

name

is

Chris.

He’s

my…I

met

him

in

the

refugee

camp.

He

offered

to

share

histent

and

he

helped

me

when

I

got

sick.”

“He’s

your

friend?”

She

seems

surprised.

“Yes.

No.

Yes,

he’s

my

friend.”

“He’s

not

what

you

think

he

is.”

She

touches

a

button,

and

the

monitor

pops

to

life.

I

tear

my

eyes

away

from

Chris,

from

the

outside

of

him

to

the

inside,

from

apparent

to

hidden,

because

on

the

screen

I

can

see

his

brain

encased

in

translucent

bone,

glowing

a

sickly

yellowish

green.

“What

is

that?”

I

whisper.

“The

infestation,”

Dr.

Pam

says.

She

presses

a

button

and

zooms

in

on

the

front

partof

Chris’s

brain.

The

pukish

color

intensifies,

glowing

neon

bright.

“This

is

the

prefrontal

cortex,

the

thinking

part

of

the

brain—the

part

that

makes

us

human.”

She

zooms

in

tight

on

an

area

no

larger

than

the

head

of

a

pin,

and

then

I

see

it.

My

stomach

does

a

slow

roll.

Embedded

in

the

soft

tissue

is

a

pulsing

egg-shaped

growth,

anchored

by

thousands

of

rootlike

tendrils

fanning

out

in

all

directions,

digging

into

every

crease

and

crevice

of

his

brain.

“We

don’t

know

how

they

did

it,”

Dr.

Pam

says.

“We

don’t

even

know

if

the

infected

are

aware

of

their

presence,

or

if

they’ve

been

puppets

their

entire

lives.”

The

thing

entangling

itself

in

Chris’s

brain,

pulsing.

“Take

it

out

of

him.”

I

can

barely

form

words.

“We’ve

tried,”

Dr.

Pam

says.

“Drugs,

radiation,

electroshock,

surgery.

Nothing

works.

The

only

way

to

kill

them

is

to

kill

the

host.”

She

slides

the

keyboard

in

front

of

me.

“He

won’t

feel

anything.”

Confused,

I

shake

my

head.

I

don’t

get

it.

“It

lasts

less

than

a

second,”

Dr.

Pam

assures

me.

“And

it’s

completely

painless.

This

button

right

here.”

I

look

down

at

the

button.

It

has

a

label:

EXECUTE.

“You’re

not

killing

Chris.

You’re

destroying

the

thing

inside

him

that

would

kill

you.”

“He

had

his

chance

to

kill

me,”

I

argue.

Shaking

my

head.

It’s

too

much.

I

can’t

deal.“And

he

didn’t.

He

kept

me

alive.”

“Because

it

wasn’t

time

yet.

He

left

you

before

the

attack,

didn’t

he?”

I

nod.

I’m

looking

at

him

again

through

the

two-way

mirror,

through

the

indistinct

frame

of

my

seethrough

self.

“You’re

killing

the

things

that

are

responsible

for

this.”

She

presses

something

into

my

hand.

Sissy’s

locket.

Her

locket,

the

button,

and

Chris.

And

the

thing

inside

Chris.

And

me.

Or

what’s

left

of

me.

What’s

left

of

me?

What

do

I

have

left?

The

metal

linksof

Sissy’s

necklace

cut

into

my

palm.

“It’s

how

we

stop

them,”

Dr.

Pam

urges

me.

“Before

there’s

no

one

left

to

stop

them.”

Chris

in

the

chair.

The

locket

in

my

hand.

How

long

have

I

been

running?

Running,running,

running.

Christ,

I’m

sick

of

running.

I

should

have

stayed.

I

should

havefaced

it.

If

I

had

faced

it

then,

I

wouldn’t

be

facing

it

now,

but

sooner

or

later

you

have

to

choose

between

running

and

facing

the

thing

you

thought

you

could

not

face.

I

bring

my

finger

down

as

hard

as

I

can.

30

I

LIKE

THE

CONVALESCENT

WING

a

lot

more

than

the

Zombie

Ward.

It

smells

better,

forne

thing,

and

you

get

your

own

room.

You’re

not

stuck

out

on

the

floor

with

a

hundred

other

people.

The

room

is

quiet

and

private,

and

it’s

easy

to

pretend

the

world

is

what

it

was

before

the

attacks.

For

the

first

time

in

weeks,

I’m

able

to

eat

solid

food

and

make

it

to

the

bathroom

by

myself—though

I

avoid

looking

in

the

mirror.

The

days

seem

brighter,

but

the

nights

are

bad:

Every

time

I

close

my

eyes,

I

see

my

skeletal

self

in

the

execution

room,

Chris

strapped

down

in

the

room

on

the

other

side,

and

my

bony

finger

coming

down.

Chris

is

gone.

Well,

according

to

Dr.

Pam,

Chris

never

was.

There

was

the

thing

insideChris

controlling

him

that

had

embedded

itself

into

his

brain

(they

don’t

know

how)

sometime

in

the

past

(they

don’t

know

when).

No

aliens

descended

from

the

mothership

to

attack

Wright-Patterson.

The

attack

came

from

within,

with

infested

soldiers

turning

their

guns

on

their

comrades.

Which

meant

they

had

been

hiding

inside

us

for

a

long

time,

waiting

for

the

first

three

waves

to

whittle

our

population

down

to

a

manageable

number

before

revealing

themselves.

What

did

Chris

say?

They

know

how

we

think.

They

knew

we’d

seek

safety

in

numbers.

Knew

we’d

take

shelter

with

the

guys

who

had

guns.

So,

Mr.

Alien,

how

do

you

overcome

that?

It’s

simple,

because

you

know

how

we

think,

don’t

you?

You

embed

sleeper

units

where

the

guns

are.

Even

if

your

troops

fail

in

the

initial

assault,

like

they

did

at

Wright-Patterson,

you

succeed

in

your

ultimate

goal

of

blowing

society

apart.

If

the

enemy

looks

just

like

you,

how

do

you

fight

him?

At

that

point,

it’s

game

over.

Starvation,

disease,

wild

animals:

It’s

only

a

matter

of

time

before

the

last,

isolated

survivors

are

dead.

From

my

window

six

stories

up

I

can

see

the

front

gates.

Around

dusk,

a

convoy

ofold

yellow

school

buses

rolls

out,

escorted

by

Humvees.

The

buses

return

several

hourslater

loaded

down

with

people,

mostly

kids—though

it’s

hard

to

tell

in

the

dark—who

are

taken

into

the

hangar

to

be

tagged

and

bagged,

the

“infested”

winnowed

out

and

destroyed.

That’s

what

my

nurses

tell

me,

anyway.

To

me,

the

whole

thing

seems

crazy,

given

what

we

know

about

the

attacks.

How

did

they

kill

so

many

of

us

so

quickly?

Oh

yeah,

because

humans

herd

like

sheep!

And

now

here

we

are,

clustering

again.

Right

in

plain

sight.

We

might

as

well

paint

a

big

red

bull’s-eye

on

the

base.

Here

we

are!

Fire

when

ready!

And

I

can’t

take

it

anymore.

Even

as

my

body

grows

stronger,

my

spirit

begins

to

crumple.

I

really

don’t

get

it.

What’s

the

point?

Not

their

point;

that’s

been

pretty

damn

clear

from

the

beginning.

I

mean

what’s

the

point

of

us

anymore?

I’m

sure

if

we

didn’t

cluster

again,

they’d

have

another

plan,

even

if

that

plan

were

using

infested

assassins

to

take

us

out

one

stupid,

isolated

human

at

a

time.

There’s

no

winning.

If

I

had

somehow

saved

my

sister,

it

wouldn’t

have

mattered.

I

would

have

bought

her

another

month

or

two

tops.

We’re

the

dead.

There’s

no

one

else

now.

There’s

the

past-dead

and

the

future-dead.

Corpses

and

corpses-to-be.

Somewhere

between

the

basement

room

and

this

room,

I

lost

Sissy’s

locket.

I

wake

up

in

the

middle

of

the

night,

my

hand

clutching

empty

air,

and

I

hear

her

screaming

my

name

like

she’s

standing

two

feet

away,

and

I’m

furious,

I’m

pissed

as

hell,

and

I

tell

her

to

shut

up,

I

lost

it,

it’s

gone.

I’m

dead

like

her,

doesn’t

she

get

it?

A

zombie,

that’s

me.

I

stop

eating.

I

refuse

my

meds.

I

lie

in

bed

for

hours,

staring

at

the

ceiling,

waitingfor

it

to

be

over,

waiting

to

join

my

sister

and

the

seven

billion

other

lucky

ones.

The

virus

that

was

eating

me

has

been

replaced

by

a

different

disease

that’s

even

more

hungry.

A

disease

with

a

kill

rate

of

100

percent.

And

I

tell

myself,

Don’t

let

them

do

it,

man!

This

is

part

of

their

plan,

too,

but

it

doesn’t

do

any

good.

I

can

give

myself

pep

talks

all

day

long;

it

doesn’t

change

the

fact

that

the

moment

the

mothership

appeared

in

the

sky,

it

was

game

over.

Not

a

matter

of

if,

but

when.

And

right

when

I

reach

the

point

of

no

return,

when

the

last

part

of

me

able

to

fightis

about

to

die,

as

if

he’s

been

waiting

all

this

time

for

me

to

reach

that

point,

my

savior

appears.

The

door

opens

and

his

shadow

fills

the

space—tall,

lean,

hard-edged,

as

if

his

shadow

were

cut

from

a

slab

of

black

marble.

That

shadow

falls

over

me

as

he

walks

toward

the

bed.

I

want

to

look

away,

but

I

can’t.

His

eyes—cold

and

blue

as

a

mountain

lake—pinme

down.

He

comes

into

the

light,

and

I

can

see

his

short-cropped

sandy

hair

and

his

sharp

nose

and

his

thin

lips

drawn

tight

in

a

humorless

smile.

Crisp

uniform.

Shiny

black

boots.

The

officer

insignia

on

his

collar.

He

looks

down

at

me

in

silence

for

a

long,

uncomfortable

moment.

Why

can’t

I

lookaway

from

those

ice-blue

eyes?

His

face

is

so

chiseled

it

looks

unreal,

like

a

wood

carving

of

a

human

face.

“Do

you

know

who

I

am?”

he

asks.

His

voice

is

deep,

very

deep,a

voice-over-on-a-moviepreview

deep.

I

shake

my

head.

How

the

hell

could

I

know

that?

I’d

never

seen

him

before

in

my

life.

“I’m

Lieutenant

Colonel

Alexander

Vosch,

the

commander

of

this

base.”

He

doesn’t

offer

me

his

hand.

He

just

stares

at

me.

Steps

around

to

the

end

of

thebed,

looks

at

my

chart.

My

heart

is

pounding

hard.

It

feels

like

I’ve

been

called

to

the

principal’s

office.

“Lungs

good.

Heart

rate,

blood

pressure.

Everything’s

good.”

He

hangs

the

chart

backon

the

hook.

“Only

everything

isn’t

good,

is

it?

In

fact,

everything

is

pretty

damn

bad.”

He

pulls

a

chair

close

to

the

bed

and

sits

down.

The

motion

is

seamless,

smooth,

uncomplicated,

like

he’s

practiced

it

for

hours

and

gotten

sitting

down

to

an

exact

science.

He

adjusts

the

crease

in

his

pants

into

a

perfectly

straight

line

before

he

goes

on.

“I’ve

seen

your

Wonderland

profile.

Very

interesting.

And

very

instructive.”

He

reaches

into

his

pocket,

again

with

so

much

grace

that

it’s

more

like

a

dance

move

than

a

gesture,

and

pulls

out

Sissy’s

silver

locket.

“I

believe

this

is

yours.”

He

drops

it

on

the

bed

next

to

my

hand.

Waits

for

me

to

grab

it.

I

force

myself

to

lie

still,

I’m

not

sure

why.

His

hand

returns

to

his

breast

pocket.

He

tosses

a

wallet-size

photo

into

my

lap.

I

pick

it

up.

There’s

a

little

blond

kid

around

six,

maybe

seven.

With

Vosch’s

eyes.

Being

held

in

the

arms

of

a

pretty

lady

around

Vosch’s

age.

“You

know

who

they

are?”

Not

a

hard

question.

I

nod.

For

some

reason,

the

picture

bothers

me.

I

hold

it

outfor

him

to

take

back.

He

doesn’t.

“They’re

my

silver

chain,”

he

says.

“I’m

sorry,”

I

say,

because

I

don’t

know

what

else

to

say.

“They

didn’t

have

to

do

it

this

way,

you

know.

Have

you

thought

about

that?

They

could

have

taken

their

own

sweet

time

killing

us—so

why

did

they

decide

to

kill

us

so

quickly?

Why

send

down

a

plague

that

kills

nine

out

of

every

ten

people?

Why

not

seven

out

of

ten?

Why

not

five?

In

other

words,

what’s

their

damn

hurry?

I

have

a

theory

about

that.

Would

you

like

to

hear

it?”

No,

I

think.

I

wouldn’t.

Who

is

this

guy,

and

why

is

he

here

talking

to

me?

“There’s

a

quote

from

Stalin,”

he

says.

“‘A

single

death

is

a

tragedy;

a

million

is

a

statistic.’

Can

you

imagine

seven

billion

of

anything?

I

have

trouble

doing

it.

It

pushes

the

limits

of

our

ability

to

comprehend.

And

that’s

exactly

why

they

did

it.

Like

running

up

the

score

in

football.

You

played

football,

right?

It

isn’t

about

destroying

our

capability

to

fight

so

much

as

crushing

our

will

to

fight.”

He

takes

the

photograph

and

slips

it

back

into

his

pocket.

“So

I

don’t

think

aboutthe

6.98

billion

people.

I

think

about

just

two.”

He

nods

toward

Sissy’s

locket.

“You

left

her.

When

she

needed

you,

you

ran.

And

you’re

still

running.

Don’t

you

think

it’s

time

you

stop

running

and

fight

for

her?”

I

open

my

mouth,

and

whatever

I

meant

to

say

comes

out

as,

“She’s

dead.”

He

waves

his

hand

in

the

air.

I’m

being

stupid.

“We’re

all

dead,

son.

Some

of

us

are

just

a

little

further

along

than

others.

You’re

wondering

who

the

hell

I

am

and

why

I’m

here.

Well,

I

told

you

who

I

am,

and

now

I’m

going

to

tell

you

why

I’m

here.”

“Good,”

I

whisper.

Maybe

after

he

tells

me,

he’ll

leave

me

alone.

He’s

weirding

me

out.

Something

about

the

way

he

looks

at

me

with

that

icy

stare,

the—there’s

no

other

word

for

it—

hardness

of

him,

like

he’s

a

statue

come

to

life.

“I’m

here

because

they’ve

killed

almost

all

of

us,

but

not

all

of

us.

And

that’s

their

mistake,

son.

That’s

the

flaw

in

their

plan.

Because

if

you

don’t

kill

all

of

us

all

at

once,

whoever’s

left

are

not

going

to

be

the

weak

ones.

The

strong

ones—and

only

the

strong

ones—will

survive.

The

bent

but

unbroken,

if

you

know

what

I

mean.

People

like

me.

And

people

like

you.”

I’m

shaking

my

head.

“I’m

not

strong.”

“Well,

that’s

where

you

and

I

will

have

to

disagree.

You

see,

Wonderland

doesn’t

just

map

out

your

experiences;

it

maps

out

you.

It

tells

us

not

just

who

you

are,

but

what

you

are.

Your

past

and

your

potential.

And

your

potential,

I

kid

you

not,

is

off

the

charts.

You

are

exactly

what

we

need

at

exactly

the

time

we

need

it.”

He

stands

up.

Towering

over

me.

“Get

up.”

Not

a

request.

His

voice

is

as

rock

hard

as

his

features.

I

heave

myself

onto

the

floor.

He

brings

his

face

close

to

mine

and

says

in

a

low,

dangerous

voice,

“What

do

you

want?

Be

honest.”

“I

want

you

to

leave.”

“No.”

Shaking

his

head

sharply.

“What

do

you

want?”

I

feel

my

lower

lip

poking

out,

like

a

tiny

kid

about

to

collapse

completely.

My

eyes

are

burning.

I

bite

down

hard

on

the

edges

of

my

tongue

and

force

myself

not

to

look

away

from

the

cold

fire

in

his

eyes.

“Do

you

want

to

die?”

Do

I

nod?

I

can’t

remember.

Maybe

I

did,

because

he

says,

“I’m

not

going

to

let

you.So

now

what?”

“So

I

guess

I’m

going

to

live.”

“No,

you’re

not.

You’re

going

to

die.

You’re

going

to

die,

and

there’s

nothing

you

or

I

or

anyone

else

can

do

to

stop

it.

You,

me,

everyone

left

on

this

big,

beautiful

blue

planet

is

going

to

die

and

make

way

for

them.”

He’s

cut

right

to

the

heart

of

it.

It’s

the

perfect

thing

to

say

at

the

perfect

moment,

and

what

he’s

been

trying

to

get

out

of

me

suddenly

explodes.

“Then

what’s

the

point,

huh?”

I

shout

into

his

face.

“What’s

the

fucking

point?

You

have

all

the

answers,

so

you

tell

me,

because

I

have

no

idea

anymore

why

I

should

give

a

damn!”

He

grabs

me

by

the

arm

and

slings

me

toward

the

window.

He’s

beside

me

in

two

seconds

and

flings

open

the

curtain.

I

see

the

school

buses

idling

beside

the

hangar

and

a

line

of

children

waiting

to

go

inside.

“You’re

asking

the

wrong

person,”

he

snarls.

“Ask

them

why

you

should

give

a

damn.

Tell

them

there’s

no

point.

Tell

them

you

want

to

die.”

He

grabs

my

shoulders

and

whirls

me

around

to

face

him.

Slaps

me

hard

in

the

chest.

“They’ve

flipped

the

natural

order

on

us,

boy.

Better

to

die

than

live.

Better

to

give

up

than

fight.

Better

to

hide

than

face.

They

know

the

way

to

break

us

is

to

kill

us

first

here.”

Slapping

my

chest

again.

“The

final

battle

for

this

planet

will

not

be

fought

over

any

plain

or

mountain

or

jungle

or

desert

or

ocean.

It

will

happen

here.”

Popping

me

again.

Hard.

Pop,

pop,

pop.

And

I’m

totally

gone

by

this

point,

giving

in

to

everything

I’ve

bottled

up

insidesince

the

night

my

sister

died,

sobbing

like

I’ve

never

cried

before,

like

crying

is

something

new

to

me

and

I

like

the

way

it

feels.

“You

are

the

human

clay,”

Vosch

whispers

fiercely

in

my

ear.

“And

I

am

Michelangelo.

I

am

the

master

builder,

and

you

will

be

my

masterpiece.”

Pale

blue

fire

in

his

eyes,

burning

to

the

bottom

of

my

soul.

“God

doesn’t

call

the

equipped,

son.

God

equips

the

called.

And

you

have

been

called.”

He

leaves

me

with

a

promise.

The

words

burn

so

hot

in

my

mind,

the

promise

follows

me

into

the

deepest

hours

of

the

night

and

into

the

days

that

follow.

I

will

teach

you

to

love

death.

I

will

empty

you

of

grief

and

guilt

and

self-pity

and

fill

you

up

with

hate

and

cunning

and

the

spirit

of

vengeance.

I

will

make

my

final

stand

here,

Benjamin

Thomas

Parish.

Slapping

my

chest

over

and

over

until

my

skin

burns,

my

heart

on

fire.

And

you

will

be

my

battlefield.

31

IT

SHOULD

have

been

easy.

All

he

had

to

do

was

wait.

He

was

very

good

at

waiting.

He

could

crouch

for

hours,

motionless,

silent,

he

and

his

rifle

one

body,

one

mind,

the

line

fuzzy

between

where

he

ended

and

the

weapon

began.

Even

the

fired

bullet

seemed

connected

to

him,

bound

by

an

invisible

cord

to

his

heart,

until

the

bullet

wedded

bone.

The

first

shot

dropped

her,

and

he

quickly

fired

again,

missing

entirely.

A

third

shot

as

she

dived

to

the

ground

beside

the

car,

and

the

back

window

of

the

Buick

exploded

in

a

cloud

of

pulverized

shatterproof

glass.

She’d

gone

under

the

car.

Her

only

option,

really,

which

left

him

two:

wait

for

her

to

come

out

or

leave

his

position

in

the

woods

bordering

the

highway

and

end

it.

The

option

with

the

least

risk

was

staying

put.

If

she

crawled

out,

he

would

kill

her.

If

she

didn’t,

time

would.

He

reloaded

slowly,

with

the

deliberateness

of

someone

who

knows

he

has

all

the

time

in

the

world.

After

days

of

stalking

her,

he

guessed

she

wasn’t

going

anywhere.

She

was

too

smart

for

that.

Three

shots

had

failed

to

take

her

down,

but

she

understood

the

odds

of

a

fourth

missing.

What

had

she

written

in

her

diary?

In

the

end

it

wouldn’t

be

the

lucky

ones

left

standing.

She

would

play

the

odds.

Crawling

out

had

zero

chance

of

success.

She

couldn’t

run,and

even

if

she

could,

she

didn’t

know

in

which

direction

safety

lay.

Her

only

hope

was

for

him

to

abandon

his

hiding

place

and

force

the

issue.

Then

anything

was

possible.

She

might

even

getlucky

and

shoot

him

first.

If

there

was

a

confrontation,

he

didn’t

doubt

she

would

refuse

to

go

down

quietly.

He

had

seen

what

she

did

to

the

soldier

in

the

convenience

store.

She

may

have

been

terrified

at

the

time,

and

killing

him

may

have

bothered

her

afterward,

but

her

fear

and

guilt

didn’t

stop

her

from

filling

his

body

with

lead.

Fear

didn’t

paralyze

Cassie

Sullivan,

like

it

did

some

humans.

Fear

crystallized

her

reason,

hardened

her

will,

clarified

her

options.

Fear

would

keep

her

under

the

car,

not

because

she

was

afraid

of

coming

out,

but

because

staying

there

was

her

only

hope

of

staying

alive.

So

he

would

wait.

He

had

hours

before

nightfall.

By

then,

she

would

have

either

bledto

death

or

be

so

weak

from

blood

loss

and

dehydration

that

finishing

her

would

be

easy.

Finishing

her.

Finishing

Cassie.

Not

Cassie

for

Cassandra.

Or

Cassie

for

Cassidy.Cassie

for

Cassiopeia,

the

girl

in

the

woods

who

slept

with

a

teddy

bear

in

one

hand

and

a

rifle

in

the

other.

The

girl

with

the

strawberry

blond

curls

who

stood

a

little

over

five

feet

four

in

her

bare

feet,

so

younglooking

he

was

surprised

to

learn

she

was

sixteen.

The

girl

who

sobbed

in

the

pitch

black

of

the

deep

woods,

terrified

one

moment,

defiant

the

next,

wondering

if

she

was

the

last

person

on

Earth,

while

he,

the

hunter,

hunkered

a

dozen

feet

away,

listening

to

her

cry

until

exhaustion

carried

her

down

into

a

restless

sleep.

The

perfect

time

to

slip

silently

into

her

camp,

put

the

gun

to

her

head,

and

finish

her.

Because

that’s

what

he

did.

That’s

what

he

was:

a

finisher.

He

had

been

finishing

humans

since

the

advent

of

the

plague.

For

four

years

now,

since

he

was

fourteen,

when

he

awakened

inside

the

human

body

chosen

for

him,

he

had

known

what

he

was.

Finisher.

Hunter.

Assassin.

The

name

didn’t

matter.

Cassie’s

name

for

him,

Silencer,

was

as

good

as

any.

It

described

his

purpose:

to

snuff

out

the

human

noise.

But

he

didn’t

that

night.

Or

the

nights

that

followed.

And

each

night,

creeping

a

little

closer

to

the

tent,

inching

his

way

over

the

woodland

blanket

of

decaying

leaves

and

moist

loamy

soil

until

his

shadow

rose

in

the

narrow

opening

of

the

tent

and

fell

over

her,

and

the

tent

was

filled

with

her

smell,

and

there

would

be

the

sleeping

girl

clutching

the

teddy

bear

and

the

hunter

holding

his

gun,

one

dreaming

of

the

life

that

was

taken

from

her,

the

other

thinking

of

the

life

he’d

take.

The

girl

sleeping

and

the

finisher,

willing

himself

to

finish

her.

Why

didn’t

he

finish

her?

Why

couldn’t

he

finish

her?

He

told

himself

it

was

unwise.

She

couldn’t

stay

in

these

woods

indefinitely.

He

could

use

her

to

lead

him

to

others

of

her

kind.

Humans

are

social

animals.

They

cluster

like

bees.

The

attacks

relied

on

this

critical

adaptation.

The

evolutionary

imperative

that

drove

them

to

live

in

groups

was

the

opportunity

to

kill

them

by

the

billions.

What

was

the

saying?

Strength

in

numbers.

And

then

he

found

the

notebooks

and

discovered

there

was

no

plan,

no

real

goal

except

to

survive

to

the

next

day.

She

had

nowhere

to

go

and

no

one

left

to

go

to.

She

was

alone.

Or

thought

she

was.

He

didn’t

return

to

her

camp

that

night.

He

waited

until

the

afternoon

of

the

followingday,

not

telling

himself

he

was

giving

her

time

to

pack

up

and

leave.

Not

letting

himself

think

about

her

silent,

desperate

cry:

Sometimes

I

think

I

might

be

the

last

human

on

Earth.

Now,

as

the

last

human’s

last

minutes

spun

out

beneath

the

car

on

the

highway,

the

tension

in

his

shoulders

began

to

fade.

She

wasn’t

going

anywhere.

He

lowered

the

rifle

and

squatted

at

the

base

of

the

tree,

rolling

his

head

from

side

to

side

to

ease

the

stiffness

in

his

neck.

He

was

tired.

Hadn’t

been

sleeping

well

lately.

Or

eating.

He’d

dropped

some

pounds

since

the

4th

Wave

rolled

out.

He

wasn’t

too

concerned.

They’d

anticipated

some

psychological

and

physical

blowback

at

the

beginning

of

the

4th

Wave.

The

first

kill

would

be

the

hardest,

but

the

next

would

be

easier,

and

the

one

after

that

easier

still,

because

it’s

true:

Even

the

most

sensitive

person

can

get

used

to

even

the

most

insensitive

thing.

Cruelty

isn’t

a

personality

trait.

Cruelty

is

a

habit.

He

pushed

that

thought

away.

To

call

what

he

was

doing

cruel

implied

he

had

a

choice.

Choosing

between

your

kind

and

another

species

wasn’t

cruel.

It

was

necessary.

Not

easy,

especially

when

you’ve

lived

the

last

four

years

of

your

life

pretending

to

be

no

different

from

them,

but

necessary.

Which

raised

the

troubling

question:

Why

didn’t

he

finish

her

that

first

day?

Whenhe

heard

the

shots

inside

the

convenience

store

and

followed

her

back

to

the

campsite,

why

didn’t

he

finish

her

then,

while

she

lay

crying

in

the

dark?

He

could

explain

away

the

three

missed

shots

on

the

highway.

Fatigue,

lack

of

sleep,

the

shock

of

seeing

her

again.

He

had

assumed

she

would

head

north,

if

she

ever

left

her

camp

at

all,

not

head

back

south.

He

had

felt

a

sudden

rush

of

adrenaline,

as

if

he’d

turned

a

street

corner

and

run

into

a

long-lost

friend.

That

must

have

been

what

threw

off

that

first

shot.

The

second

and

third

he

could

chalk

up

to

luck—her

luck,

not

his.

But

what

about

all

those

days

that

he

followed

her,

sneaking

into

her

camp

while

she

was

away

foraging,

doing

a

bit

of

foraging

himself

through

her

belongings,

including

the

diary

in

which

she

had

written,

Sometimes

in

my

tent,

late

at

night,

I

think

I

canhear

the

stars

scraping

against

the

sky?

What

about

those

predawn

mornings

when

he

slid

silently

through

the

woods

to

where

she

slept,

determined

to

finish

it

this

time,

to

do

what

he

had

prepared

all

his

life

to

do?

She

wasn’t

his

first

kill.

She

wouldn’t

be

his

last.

It

should

have

been

easy.

He

rubbed

his

slick

palms

against

his

thighs.

It

was

cool

in

the

trees,

but

he

was

dripping

with

sweat.

He

scrubbed

his

sleeve

across

his

eyes.

The

wind

on

the

highway:

a

lonely

sound.

A

squirrel

scampered

down

the

tree

next

to

him,

unconcerned

by

his

presence.

Below

him,

the

highway

disappeared

over

the

horizon

in

both

directions,

and

nothing

moved

except

the

trash

and

the

grass

bowing

in

the

lonely

wind.

The

buzzards

had

found

the

three

bodies

lying

in

the

median;

three

fat

birds

waddled

in

for

a

closer

look

while

the

rest

of

the

flock

circled

in

the

updrafts

high

overhead.

The

buzzards

and

other

scavengers

were

enjoying

a

population

explosion.

Buzzards,

crows,

feral

cats,

packs

of

hungry

dogs.

He’d

stumbled

upon

more

than

one

desiccated

corpse

that

had

clearly

been

someone’s

dinner.

Buzzards.

Crows.

Aunt

Millie’s

tabby.

Uncle

Herman’s

Chihuahua.

Blowflies

and

otherinsects.

Worms.

Time

and

the

elements

clean

up

the

rest.

If

she

didn’t

come

out,

Cassie

would

die

beneath

the

car.

Within

minutes

of

her

last

breath,

the

first

fly

would

arrive

to

lay

eggs

in

her.

He

pushed

the

distasteful

image

away.

It

was

a

human

thought.

It

had

been

only

four

years

since

his

Awakening,

and

he

still

fought

against

seeing

the

world

through

human

eyes.

On

the

day

of

his

Awakening,

when

he

saw

the

face

of

his

human

mother

for

the

first

time,

he

burst

into

tears:

He

had

never

seen

anything

so

beautiful—or

so

ugly.

It

had

been

a

painful

integration

for

him.

Not

seamless

or

quick,

like

some

Awakenings

he’d

heard

of.

He

supposed

his

had

been

more

difficult

than

others

because

the

childhood

of

his

host

body

had

been

a

happy

one.

A

well-adjusted,

healthy

human

psyche

was

the

hardest

to

absorb.

It

had

been—

still

was—a

daily

struggle.

His

host

body

wasn’t

something

apart

from

him

that

he

manipulated

like

a

puppet

on

a

string.

It

was

him.

The

eyes

he

used

to

see

the

world,

they

were

his

eyes.

This

brain

he

used

to

interpret,

analyze,

sense,

and

remember

the

world,

it

was

his

brain,

wired

by

thousands

of

years

of

evolution.

Human

evolution.

He

wasn’t

trapped

inside

it

and

didn’t

ride

about

in

it,

guiding

it

like

a

jockey

on

a

horse.

He

was

this

human

body,

and

it

was

him.

And

if

something

should

happen

to

it—if,

for

example,

it

died—he

would

perish

with

it.

It

was

the

price

of

survival.

The

cost

of

his

people’s

last,

desperate

gamble:

To

rid

his

new

home

of

humanity,

he

had

to

become

human.

And

being

human,

he

had

to

overcome

his

humanity.

He

stood

up.

He

didn’t

know

what

he

was

waiting

for.

Cassie

for

Cassiopeia

was

doomed,a

breathing

corpse.

She

was

badly

injured.

Run

or

stay,

there

was

no

hope.

She

had

no

way

to

treat

her

wound

and

no

one

for

miles

who

could

help

her.

She

had

a

small

tube

of

antibiotic

cream

in

her

backpack,

but

no

suture

kit

and

no

bandages.

In

a

few

days,

the

wound

would

become

infected,

gangrene

would

set

in,

and

she

would

die,

assuming

another

finisher

didn’t

come

along

in

the

interim.

He

was

wasting

time.

So

the

hunter

in

the

woods

stood

up,

startling

the

squirrel.

It

rocketed

up

the

tree

with

an

angry

hiss.

He

swung

his

rifle

to

his

shoulder

and

brought

the

Buick

into

the

sight,

swinging

the

red

crosshairs

back

and

forth

and

up

and

down

its

body.

What

if

he

blew

out

the

tires?

The

car

would

collapse

onto

its

rims,

perhaps

pinning

her

beneath

its

two-thousand-pound

frame.

There’d

be

no

running

then.

The

Silencer

lowered

his

rifle

and

turned

his

back

on

the

highway.

The

buzzards

feeding

in

the

median

heaved

their

cumbersome

bodies

into

the

air.

The

lonely

wind

died.

And

then

his

hunter’s

instinct

whispered,

Turn

around.

A

bloody

hand

emerged

from

the

undercarriage.

An

arm

followed.

Then

a

leg.

He

swung

his

rifle

into

position.

Sighted

her

in

the

crosshairs.

Holding

his

breath,sweat

coursing

down

his

face,

stinging

his

eyes.

She

was

going

to

do

it.

She

was

goingto

run.

He

was

relieved

and

anxious

at

the

same

time.

He

couldn’t

miss

with

this

fourth

shot.

He

spread

his

legs

wide

and

squared

his

shoulders

and

waited

for

her

to

make

her

move.

The

direction

wouldn’t

matter.

Once

she

was

out

in

the

open,

there

was

nowhere

to

hide.

Still,

part

of

him

hoped

she

would

run

in

the

opposite

direction,

so

he

wouldn’t

have

to

place

the

bullet

in

her

face.

Cassie

hauled

herself

upright,

collapsed

for

a

moment

against

the

car,

then

righted

herself,

balancing

precariously

on

her

wounded

leg,

clutching

the

handgun.

He

placed

the

red

cross

in

the

middle

of

her

forehead.

His

finger

tightened

on

the

trigger.

Now,

Cassie.

Run.

She

pushed

away

from

the

car.

Brought

up

the

handgun.

Pointed

it

at

a

spot

fifty

yardsto

his

right.

Swung

it

ninety

degrees,

swung

it

back.

Her

voice

came

to

him

shrill

and

small

in

the

deadened

air.

“Here

I

am!

Come

and

get

me,

you

son

of

a

bitch!”

I’m

coming,

he

thought,

for

the

rifle

and

the

bullet

were

a

part

of

him,

and

when

the

round

wed

bone,

he

would

be

there,

too,

inside

her,

the

instant

she

died.

Not

yet.

Not

yet,

he

told

himself.

Wait

till

she

runs.

But

Cassie

Sullivan

didn’t

run.

Her

face,

speckled

with

dirt

and

grease

and

bloodfrom

the

cut

on

her

cheek,

seemed

just

inches

away

through

the

scope,

so

close

he

could

count

the

freckles

on

her

nose.

He

could

see

the

familiar

look

of

fear

in

her

eyes,

a

look

he

had

seen

a

hundred

times,

the

look

we

give

back

to

death

when

death

looks

at

us.

But

there

was

something

else

in

her

eyes,

too.

Something

that

warred

with

her

fear,

strove

against

it,

shouted

it

down,

kept

her

still

and

the

gun

moving.

Not

hiding,

not

running,

but

facing.

Her

face

blurred

in

the

crosshairs:

Sweat

was

dripping

into

his

eyes.

Run,

Cassie.

Please

run.

A

moment

comes

in

war

when

the

last

line

must

be

crossed.

The

line

that

separates

what

you

hold

dear

from

what

total

war

demands.

If

he

couldn’t

cross

that

line,

the

battle

was

over,

and

he

was

lost.

His

heart,

the

war.

Her

face,

the

battlefield.

With

a

cry

only

he

could

hear,

the

hunter

turned.

And

ran.

32

AS

WAYS

TO

DIE

GO,

freezing

to

death

isn’t

such

a

bad

one.

That’s

what

I’m

thinking

as

I

freeze

to

death.

You

feel

warm

all

over.

There’s

no

pain,

none

at

all.

You’re

all

floaty,

like

you

just

chugged

a

whole

bottle

of

cough

syrup.

The

white

world

wraps

its

white

arms

around

you

and

carries

you

downward

into

a

frosty

white

sea.

And

the

silence

so—shit—silent,

that

the

beating

of

your

heart

is

the

only

sound

in

the

universe.

So

quiet,

your

thoughts

make

a

whispery

noise

in

the

dull,

freezing

air.

Waist-deep

in

a

drift,

under

a

cloudless

sky,

the

snowpack

holding

you

upright

because

your

legs

can’t

anymore.

And

you’re

going,

I’m

alive,

I’m

dead,

I’m

alive,

I’m

dead.

And

there’s

that

damn

bear

with

its

big,

brown,

blank,

creepy

eyes

staring

at

you

from

its

perch

in

the

backpack,

going,

You

lousy

shit,

you

promised.

So

cold

your

tears

freeze

against

your

cheeks.

“It’s

not

my

fault,”

I

told

Bear.

“I

don’t

make

the

weather.

You

got

a

beef,

take

it

up

with

God.”

That’s

what

I’ve

been

doing

a

lot

lately:

taking

it

up

with

God.

Like:

God,

WTF?

Spared

from

the

Eye

so

I

could

kill

the

Crucifix

Soldier.

Saved

from

the

Silencerso

my

leg

could

get

infected,

making

every

step

a

journey

over

hell’s

highway.

Kept

me

going

until

the

blizzard

came

in

for

two

solid

days,

trapping

me

in

this

waist-high

drift

so

I

could

die

of

hypothermia

under

a

gloriously

blue

sky.

Thanks,

God.

Spared,

saved,

kept,

the

bear

says.

Thanks,

God.

It

doesn’t

really

matter,

I’m

thinking.

I

was

all

over

Dad

for

getting

so

fangirly

about

the

Others,

and

for

spinning

the

facts

to

make

things

seem

less

bleak,

but

I

wasn’t

actually

much

better

than

he

was.

It

was

just

as

hard

for

me

to

swallow

the

idea

that

I

had

gone

to

bed

a

human

being

and

woken

up

a

cockroach.

Being

a

disgusting,

disease-carrying

bug

with

a

brain

the

size

of

a

pinhead

isn’t

something

you

deal

with

easily.

It

takes

time

to

adjust

to

the

idea.

And

the

bear

goes,

Did

you

know

a

cockroach

can

live

up

to

a

week

without

its

head?

Yeah.

Learned

that

in

bio.

So

your

point

is

I’m

a

little

worse

of

than

a

cockroach.

Thanks.

I’ll

work

on

exactly

what

kind

of

disease-carrying

pest

I

am.

It

hits

me

then.

Maybe

that’s

why

the

Silencer

on

the

highway

let

me

live:

spritzthe

bug,

walk

away.

Do

you

really

need

to

stick

around

while

it

flips

on

its

back

and

claws

the

air

with

its

six

spindly

legs?

Stay

under

the

Buick,

run,

stand

your

ground—what

did

it

matter?

Stay,

run,

stand,

whatever;

the

damage

was

done.

My

leg

wasn’t

going

to

heal

on

its

own.

The

first

shotwas

a

death

sentence,

so

why

waste

any

more

bullets?

I

rode

out

the

blizzard

in

the

rear

compartment

of

an

Explorer.

Folded

down

the

seat,made

myself

a

cozy

metal

hut

in

which

to

watch

the

world

turn

white,

unable

to

crack

the

power

windows

to

let

in

fresh

air,

so

the

SUV

quickly

filled

up

with

the

smell

of

blood

and

my

festering

wound.

I

used

up

all

the

pain

pills

from

my

stash

in

the

first

ten

hours.

Ate

up

the

rest

of

my

rations

by

the

end

of

day

one

in

the

SUV.

When

I

got

thirsty,

I

popped

the

hatch

a

crack

and

scooped

up

handfuls

of

snow.

Leftthe

hatch

popped

up

to

get

some

fresh

air—until

my

teeth

were

chattering

and

my

breath

turned

into

blocks

of

ice

in

front

of

my

eyes.

By

the

afternoon

of

day

two,

the

snow

was

three

feet

deep

and

my

little

metal

hut

began

to

feel

less

like

a

refuge

than

a

sarcophagus.

The

days

were

only

two

watts

brighter

than

the

nights,

and

the

nights

were

the

negation

of

light—not

dark,

but

lightlessness

absolute.

So,

I

thought,

this

is

how

dead

people

see

the

world.

I

stopped

worrying

about

why

the

Silencer

had

let

me

live.

Stopped

worrying

aboutthe

very

weird

feeling

of

having

two

hearts,

one

in

my

chest

and

a

smaller

one,

a

mini

heart,

in

my

knee.

Stopped

caring

whether

the

snow

stopped

before

my

two

hearts

did.

I

didn’t

exactly

sleep.

I

floated

in

that

space

in

between,

hugging

Bear

to

my

chest,Bear

who

kept

his

eyes

open

when

I

could

not.

Bear,

who

kept

Sammy’s

promise

to

me,

being

there

for

me

in

the

space

between.

Um,

speaking

of

promises,

Cassie…

I

must

have

apologized

to

him

a

thousand

times

during

those

two

snowbound

days.

I’m

sorry,

Sams.

I

said

no

matter

what,

but

what

you’re

too

young

to

understand

is

there’s

more

than

one

kind

of

bullshit.

There’s

the

bullshit

you

know

that

you

know;

the

bullshit

you

don’t

know

and

know

you

don’t

know;

and

the

bullshit

you

just

think

you

know

but

really

don’t.

Making

a

promise

in

the

middle

of

an

alien

black

op

falls

under

the

last

category.

So…sorry!

So

sorry.

One

day

later

now,

waist-deep

in

a

snowbank,

Cassie

the

ice

maiden,

with

a

jaunty

little

cap

made

out

of

snow

and

frozen

hair

and

ice-encrusted

eyelashes,

all

warm

and

floaty,

dying

by

inches,

but

at

least

dying

on

her

feet

trying

to

keep

a

promise

she

had

no

prayer

of

keeping.

So

sorry,

Sams,

so

sorry.

No

more

bullshit.

I’m

not

coming.

33

THIS

PLACE

CAN’T

BE

HEAVEN.

It

doesn’t

have

the

right

vibe.

I’m

walking

in

a

dense

fog

of

white

lifeless

nothingness.

Dead

space.

No

sound.

Noteven

the

sound

of

my

own

breath.

In

fact,

I

can’t

even

tell

if

I’m

breathing.

That’snumber

one

on

the

“How

do

I

know

if

I’m

alive?”

checklist.

I

know

someone

is

here

with

me.

I

don’t

see

him

or

hear

him,

touch

or

smell

him,

butI

know

he’s

here.

I

don’t

know

how

I

know

he’s

a

he,

but

I

do

know,

and

he’s

watching

me.

He’s

staying

still

while

I

move

through

the

thick

white

fog,

but

somehow

he’s

always

the

same

distance

away.

It

doesn’t

freak

me

that

he’s

there,

watching.

It

doesn’t

exactly

comfort

me,

either.

He’s

another

fact,

like

the

fact

of

the

fog.

There’s

the

fog

and

un-breathing

me

and

the

person

with

me,

always

close,

always

watching.

But

there’s

no

one

there

when

the

fog

clears,

and

I

find

myself

in

a

four-poster

bed

beneath

three

layers

of

quilts

that

smell

faintly

of

cedar.

The

white

nothing

fades

and

is

replaced

by

the

warm

yellow

glow

of

a

kerosene

lamp

sitting

on

the

small

table

beside

the

bed.

Lifting

my

head

a

little,

I

can

see

a

rocking

chair,

a

freestanding

full-length

mirror,

and

the

slatted

doors

of

a

bedroom

closet.

A

plastic

tube

is

attached

to

my

arm,

and

the

other

end

is

attached

to

a

bag

of

clear

fluid

hanging

from

a

metal

hook.

It

takes

a

few

minutes

to

absorb

my

new

surroundings,

the

fact

that

I’m

numb

fromthe

waist

down,

and

the

ultra-mega-confusing

fact

that

I’m

definitely

not

dead.

I

reach

down,

and

my

fingers

find

thick

bandages

wrapped

around

my

knee.

I’d

also

like

to

feel

my

calf

and

toes,

because

there’s

no

sensation

and

I’m

kind

of

concerned

I

don’t

have

a

calf

or

toes

or

anything

else

below

the

big

wad

of

bandages.

But

I

can’t

reachthat

far

without

sitting

up,

and

sitting

up

isn’t

an

option.

It

seems

like

the

only

working

parts

are

my

arms.

I

use

those

to

throw

the

covers

off,

exposing

the

upper

half

of

my

body

to

the

chilly

air.

I’m

wearing

a

floral-print

cotton

nightie.

And

then

I’m

like,

What’s

with

the

cotton

nightie?

Beneath

which,

I

am

naked.

Which

means,

of

course,

that

at

some

point

between

the

removal

of

my

clothes

and

donning

of

the

nightie

I

was

completely

naked,

which

means

I

was

completely

naked.

Okay,

ultra-mega-confusing

fact

number

two.

I

turn

my

head

to

the

left:

dresser,

table,

lamp.

To

the

right:

window,

chair,

table.

And

there’s

Bear,

reclining

on

the

pillow

beside

me,

staring

thoughtfully

at

the

ceiling,

not

a

care

in

the

world.

Where

the

hell

are

we,

Bear?

The

floorboards

rattle

as

below

me

someone

slams

a

door.

The

kulump,

kulump

of

heavy

boots

on

bare

wood.

Then

silence.

A

very

heavy

silence,

if

you

don’t

count

my

heart

knocking

against

my

ribs,

which

you

probably

should

since

it

sounds

as

loud

as

one

of

Crisco’s

sonic

bombs.

Thunk-thunk-thunk.

Growing

louder

with

each

thunk.

Someone

is

coming

up

the

stairs.

I

try

to

sit

up.

Not

a

smart

idea.

I

get

about

four

inches

off

the

pillow

and

that’sit.

Where’s

my

rifle?

Where’s

my

Luger?

Someone

is

just

outside

the

door

now,

and

I

can’t

move,

and

even

if

I

could

all

I

have

is

this

damned

stuffed

toy.

What

was

I

going

to

do

with

that?

Snuggle

the

dude

to

death?

When

you’re

out

of

options,

the

best

option

is

to

do

nothing.

Play

dead.

The

possum

option.

I

watch

the

door

swing

open

through

slits

for

eyes.

I

see

a

red

plaid

shirt,

a

wide

brown

belt,

blue

jeans.

A

pair

of

large,

strong

hands

and

very

nicely

trimmed

fingernails.

I

keep

my

breath

nice

and

even

while

he

stands

right

beside

me,

by

the

metal

pole,

checking

my

drip,

I

guess.

Then

he

turns

and

there’s

his

butt

and

then

he

turns

again

and

his

face

lowers

into

view

as

he

sits

in

the

rocker

by

the

mirror.

I

can

see

his

face,

and

I

can

see

my

face

in

the

mirror.

Breathe,

Cassie,

breathe.

He

has

a

good

face,

not

the

face

of

someone

who

wants

to

hurt

you.

If

he

wanted

to

hurt

you,

he

wouldn’t

have

brought

you

here

and

stuck

an

IV

in

you

to

keep

you

hydrated,

and

the

sheets

feel

nice

and

clean,

and

so

what,

he

took

your

clothes

and

dressed

you

in

this

cotton

nightie,

what

did

you

expect

him

to

do?

Your

clothes

were

filthy,

like

you,

only

you’re

not

anymore,

and

your

skin

smells

a

little

like

lilacs,

which

means

holy

Christ

he

bathed

you.

Trying

to

keep

my

breath

steady

and

not

doing

a

very

good

job

at

it.

Then

the

owner

of

the

good

face

says,

“I

know

you’re

awake.”

When

I

don’t

say

anything,

he

goes,

“And

I

know

you’re

watching

me,

Cassie.”

“How

do

you

know

my

name?”

I

croak.

My

throat

feels

like

it’s

lined

with

sandpaper.

I

open

up

my

eyes.

I

can

see

him

clearer

now.

I

wasn’t

wrong

about

the

face.

It’s

good

in

a

clean-cut,

Clark

Kent

kind

of

way.

I’m

guessing

eighteen

or

nineteen,

broad

through

the

shoulders,

nice

arms,

and

those

hands

with

the

perfect

cuticles.

Well,

I

tell

myself,

it

could

be

worse.

You

could

have

been

rescued

by

some

fifty-year-old

perv

sporting

a

spare

tire

the

size

of

a

monster

truck’s

who

keeps

his

dead

mother

in

the

attic.

“Driver’s

license,”

he

says.

He

doesn’t

get

up.

He

stays

in

the

chair

with

his

elbowsresting

on

his

knees

and

his

head

lowered,

which

strikes

me

as

more

shy

than

menacing.

I

watch

his

dangling

hands

and

imagine

them

running

a

warm,

wet

cloth

over

every

inch

of

my

body.

My

completely

naked

body.

“I’m

Evan,”

he

says

next.

“Evan

Walker.”

“Hi,”

I

say.

He

gives

a

little

laugh

like

I

said

something

funny.

“Hi,”

he

says.

“Where

the

hell

am

I,

Evan

Walker?”

“My

sister’s

bedroom.”

His

deep-set

eyes

are

a

chocolate

brown,

like

his

hair,

and

a

little

mournful

and

questioning,

like

a

puppy’s.

“Is

she…?”

He

nods.

Rubbing

his

hands

together

slowly.

“Whole

family.

How

about

you?”

“Everyone

except

my

baby

brother.

That’s,

um,

his

bear,

not

mine.”

He

smiles.

It’s

a

good

smile,

like

his

face.

“It’s

a

very

nice

bear.”

“He’s

looked

better.”

“Like

most

things.”

I

assume

he’s

talking

about

the

world

in

general,

not

my

body.

“How

did

you

find

me?”

I

ask.

He

looks

away.

Looks

back

at

me.

Chocolate-colored,

lost-puppy

eyes.

“The

birds.”

“What

birds?”

“Buzzards.

When

I

see

them

circling,

I

always

check

it

out.

You

know.

In

case—”

“Sure,

okay.”

I

didn’t

want

him

to

elaborate.

“So

you

brought

me

here

to

your

house,stuck

me

with

an

IV—where’d

you

get

the

IV,

anyway?

And

then

you

took

off

all

my…and

then

you

cleaned

me

up…”

“I

honestly

couldn’t

believe

you

were

alive,

and

then

I

couldn’t

believe

you’d

stayalive.”

He’s

rubbing

his

hands

together.

Is

he

cold?

Nervous?

I’m

both.

“The

IV

wasalready

here.

It

came

in

handy

during

the

plague.

I

shouldn’t

say

this,

I

guess,

but

every

day

I

came

home

I

honestly

expected

you

to

be

dead.

You

were

in

pretty

bad

shape.”

He

reaches

into

his

shirt

pocket,

and

for

some

reason

I

flinch,

which

he

notices,

and

then

smiles

reassuringly.

He

holds

out

a

chunk

of

knotty-looking

metal

the

size

of

a

thimble.

“If

this

had

hit

you

practically

anyplace

else,

youwould

be

dead.”

He

rolls

the

slug

between

his

index

finger

and

thumb.

“Where’d

it

come

from?”

I

roll

my

eyes.

Can’t

help

it.

But

I

leave

out

the

duh.

“A

rifle.”

He

shakes

his

head.

He

thinks

I

don’t

understand

the

question.

Sarcasm

doesn’t

appearto

work

on

him.

If

that’s

true,

I’m

in

trouble:

It’s

my

normal

mode

of

communication.

“Whose

rifle?”

“I

don’t

know—the

Others.

A

troop

of

them

pretending

to

be

soldiers

wasted

my

father

and

everybody

in

our

refugee

camp.

I

was

the

only

one

who

made

it

out

alive.

Well,

not

counting

Sammy

and

the

rest

of

the

kids.”

He’s

looking

at

me

like

I’m

completely

whacked.

“What

happened

to

the

kids?”

“They

took

them.

In

school

buses.”

“School

buses…?”

He’s

shaking

his

head.

Aliens

in

school

buses?

He

looks

like

he’s

about

to

smile.

I

must

have

looked

a

little

too

long

at

his

lips,

because

he

rubs

them

self-consciously

with

the

back

of

his

hand.

“Took

them

where?”

“I

don’t

know.

They

told

us

Wright-Patterson,

but—”

“Wright-Patterson.

The

air

force

base?

I

heard

it

was

abandoned.”

“Well,

I’m

not

sure

you

can

trust

anything

they

tell

you.

They

are

the

enemy.”

I

swallow.

My

throat’s

parched.

Evan

Walker

must

be

one

of

those

people

who

notices

everything,

because

he

says,

“You

want

something

to

drink?”

“I’m

not

thirsty,”

I

lie.

Now,

why

did

I

lie

about

something

like

that?

To

show

him

how

tough

I

am?

Or

to

keep

him

in

that

chair

because

he’s

the

first

person

I’ve

talked

to

in

weeks,

if

you

didn’t

count

the

bear,

which

you

shouldn’t.

“Why

did

they

take

the

kids?”

His

eyes

are

big

and

round

now,

like

Bear’s.

It’s

hard

to

decide

his

best

feature.

Those

soft,

chocolaty

eyes

or

the

lean

jaw?

Maybe

the

thick

hair,

the

way

it

falls

over

his

forehead

when

he

leans

toward

me.

“I

don’t

know

the

real

reason,

but

I

figure

it’s

a

very

good

one

to

them

and

a

very

bad

one

to

us.”

“Do

you

think…?”

He

can’t

finish

the

question—or

won’t,

to

spare

me

having

to

answer

it.

He’s

looking

at

Sam’s

bear

leaning

on

the

pillow

beside

me.

“What?

That

my

little

brother’s

dead?

No.

I

think

he’s

alive.

Mostly

because

it

doesn’tmake

sense

that

they’d

pull

out

the

kids,

then

kill

everybody

else.

They

blew

up

the

whole

camp

with

some

kind

of

green

bomb—”

“Wait

a

minute,”

he

says,

holding

up

one

of

his

large

hands.

“A

green

bomb?”

“I’m

not

making

this

up.”

“Why

green,

though?”

“Because

green

is

the

color

of

money,

grass,

oak

leaves,

and

alien

bombs.

How

the

hell

would

I

know

why

it

was

green?”

He’s

laughing.

A

quiet,

held-in

kind

of

laugh.

When

he

smiles,

the

right

side

of

his

mouth

goes

slightly

higher

than

the

left.

Then

I’m

like,

Cassie,

why

are

you

staring

at

his

mouth

anyway?

Somehow

the

fact

that

I

was

rescued

by

a

very

good-looking

guy

with

a

lopsided

grinand

large,

strong

hands

is

the

most

unnerving

thing

that

has

happened

to

me

since

the

Others

arrived.

Thinking

about

what

happened

at

the

camp

is

giving

me

the

heebie-jeebies,

so

I

decide

to

change

the

subject.

I

peer

down

at

the

quilt

covering

me.

It

looks

homemade.

Theimage

of

an

old

woman

sewing

it

flashes

through

my

mind

and,

for

some

reason,

I

suddenly

feel

like

crying.

“How

long

have

I

been

here?”

I

ask

weakly.

“It’ll

be

a

week

tomorrow.”

“Did

you

have

to

cut…?”

I

don’t

know

how

to

put

the

question.

Thankfully,

I

don’t

have

to.

“Amputate?

No.

The

bullet

just

missed

your

knee,

so

Ithink

you’ll

be

able

to

walk,

but

there

could

be

nerve

damage.”

“Oh,”

I

said.

“I’m

getting

used

to

that.”

34

HE

LEAVES

ME

for

a

little

while

and

returns

with

some

clear

broth,

not

chicken-

orbeef-based,

but

some

kind

of

meat,

deer

maybe,

and

while

I

clutch

the

edges

of

the

quilt

he

helps

me

sit

up

so

I

can

sip,

holding

the

warm

cup

in

both

hands.

He’s

staring

at

me,

not

a

creeper

stare,

but

the

way

you

look

at

a

sick

person,

feeling

a

little

sick

yourself

and

not

knowing

how

to

make

it

better.

Or

maybe,

I

think,

it

is

a

creeper

stare

and

the

concerned

look

is

just

a

clever

cover.

Are

pervs

only

pervs

if

you

don’t

find

them

attractive?

I

called

Crisco

a

sicko

for

trying

to

give

me

a

corpse’s

jewelry,

and

he

said

I

wouldn’t

think

that

if

he

were

Ben

Parish–hot.

Remembering

Crisco

kills

my

appetite.

Evan

sees

me

staring

at

the

cup

in

my

lap

and

gently

pulls

it

from

my

hands

and

places

it

on

the

table.

“I

could

have

done

that,”

I

say,

more

sharply

than

I

meant

to.

“Tell

me

about

these

soldiers,”

he

says.

“How

do

you

know

they

weren’t…human?”

I

tell

him

about

them

showing

up

not

long

after

the

drones,

the

way

they

loaded

up

the

kids,

then

gathered

everybody

into

the

barracks

and

mowed

them

down.

But

the

clincher

was

the

Eye.

Clearly

extraterrestrial.

“They’re

human,”

he

decides

after

I’m

done.

“They

must

be

working

with

the

visitors.”

“Oh

God,

please

don’t

call

them

that.”

I

hate

that

name

for

them.

The

talking

headsused

it

before

the

1st

Wave—all

the

YouTubers,

everyone

in

the

Twitterverse,

even

the

president

during

news

briefings.

“What

should

I

call

them?”

he

asks.

He’s

smiling.

I

get

the

feeling

he’d

call

themturnips

if

I

wanted

him

to.

“Dad

and

I

called

them

the

Others,

as

in

not

us,

not

human.”

“That’s

what

I

mean,”

he

says,

nodding

seriously.

“The

odds

of

their

looking

exactly

like

us

are

astronomically

slim.”

He

sounds

just

like

my

dad

on

one

of

his

speculative

rants,

and

suddenly

I’m

annoyed,

I’m

not

sure

why.

“Well,

that’s

terrific,

isn’t

it?

A

two-front

war.

Us-versus-them

and

us-versus-us-and-them.”

He

shakes

his

head

ruefully.

“It

wouldn’t

be

the

first

time

people

have

changed

sides

once

the

victor

is

obvious.”

“So

the

traitors

grab

the

kids

out

of

the

camp

because

they’re

willing

to

help

wipe

out

the

human

race,

but

they

draw

the

line

at

anyone

under

eighteen?”

He

shrugs.

“What

do

you

think?”

“I

think

we’re

seriously

screwed

when

the

men

with

guns

decide

to

help

the

bad

guys.”

“I

could

be

wrong,”

he

says,

but

he

doesn’t

sound

like

he

thinks

he

is.

“Maybe

theyare

visi—

Others,

I

don’t

know,

disguised

as

humans,

or

maybe

even

some

kind

of

clones…”

I’m

nodding.

I’ve

heard

this

before,

too,

during

one

of

Dad’s

endless

ruminations

about

what

the

Others

might

look

like.

It’s

not

a

question

of

why

couldn’t

they,

but

why

wouldn’t

they?

We’ve

known

about

their

existence

for

five

months.

They

must

have

known

about

ours

for

years.

Hundreds,maybe

thousands

of

years.

Plenty

of

time

to

extract

DNA

and

“grow”

as

many

copiesas

they

needed.

In

fact,

they

might

have

to

wage

the

ground

war

with

copies

of

us.

In

a

thousand

ways,

our

planet

might

not

be

viable

for

their

bodies.

Remember

War

of

the

Worlds?

Maybe

that’s

the

source

of

my

current

snippiness.

Evan

is

going

all-out

Oliver

Sullivan

on

me.

And

that

puts

Oliver

Sullivan

dying

in

the

dirt

right

in

front

of

me

when

all

I

want

to

do

is

look

away.

“Or

maybe

they’re

like

cyborgs,

Terminators,”

I

say,

only

half

joking.

I’ve

seen

a

dead

one

up

close,

the

soldier

I

shot

point-blank

at

the

ash

pit.

I

didn’t

check

his

pulse

or

anything,

but

he

sure

seemed

dead

to

me,

and

the

blood

looked

real

enough.

Remembering

the

camp

and

what

happened

there

never

fails

to

freak

me,

so

I

start

to

freak.

“We

can’t

stay

here,”

I

say

urgently.

He

looks

at

me

like

I’ve

lost

my

mind.

“What

do

you

mean?”

“They’ll

find

us!”

I

grab

the

kerosene

lamp,

yank

off

the

glass

top,

and

blow

hard

at

the

dancing

flame.

It

hisses

at

me,

stays

lit.

He

pulls

the

glass

out

of

my

hand

and

slips

it

back

over

the

base

of

the

lamp.

“It’s

thirty-seven

degrees

outside,

and

we’re

miles

from

the

nearest

shelter,”

he

says.

“If

you

burn

down

the

house,

we’re

toast.”

Toast?

Maybe

that’s

an

attempt

at

humor,

but

he

isn’t

smiling.

“Besides,

you’re

not

well

enough

to

travel.

Not

for

another

three

or

four

weeks,

at

least.”

Three

or

four

weeks?

Who

does

this

teenage

version

of

the

Brawny

paper-towel

guy

think

he’s

kidding?

We

won’t

last

three

days

with

lights

shining

through

the

windows

and

smoke

curling

from

the

chimney.

He’s

picked

up

on

my

growing

distress.

“Okay,”

he

says

with

a

sigh.

He

extinguishes

the

lamp,

and

the

room

plunges

into

darkness.

Can’t

see

him,

can’t

see

anything.

I

can

smell

him,

though,

a

mixture

of

wood

smoke

and

something

like

baby

powder,

and

after

a

few

more

minutes,

I

can

feel

his

body

displacing

the

air

a

few

inches

away

from

mine.

“Miles

away

from

the

nearest

shelter?”

I

ask.

“Where

the

hell

do

you

live,

Evan?”

“My

family’s

farm.

About

sixty

miles

from

Cincinnati.”

“How

far

from

Wright-Patterson?”

“I

don’t

know.

Seventy,

eighty

miles?

Why?”

“I

told

you.

They

took

my

baby

brother.”

“You

said

that’s

where

they

said

they

were

taking

him.”

Our

voices,

wrapping

around

each

other’s,

entwining,

and

then

tugging

free,

in

the

pitch

black.

“Well,

I

have

to

start

somewhere,”

I

say.

“And

if

he

isn’t

there?”

“Then

I

go

somewhere

else.”

I

made

a

promise.

That

damned

bear

will

never

forgiveme

if

I

don’t

keep

it.

I

can

smell

his

breath.

Chocolate.

Chocolate!

My

mouth

starts

to

water.

I

can

actuallyfeel

my

saliva

glands

pumping.

I

haven’t

had

solid

food

in

weeks,

and

what

does

he

bring

me?

Some

greasy

mystery

meat–based

broth.

He’s

been

holding

out

on

me,

this

farm

boy

bastard.

“You

realize

there’s

a

lot

more

of

them

than

you,

right?”

he

asks.

“And

your

point

is?”

He

doesn’t

answer.

So

I

say,

“Do

you

believe

in

God,

Evan?”

“Sure

I

do.”

“I

don’t.

I

mean,

I

don’t

know.

I

did

before

the

Others

came.

Or

thought

I

did,

whenI

thought

about

it

at

all.

And

then

they

came

and…”

I

have

to

stop

for

a

second

to

collect

myself.

“Maybe

there’s

a

God.

Sammy

thinks

there

is.

But

he

also

thinks

there’s

a

Santa

Claus.

Still,

every

night

I

said

his

prayer

with

him,

and

it

didn’t

have

anything

to

do

with

me.

It

was

about

Sammy

and

what

he

believed,

and

if

you

could

have

seen

him

take

that

fake

soldier’s

hand

and

follow

him

onto

that

bus…”

I’m

losing

it,

and

it

doesn’t

matter

to

me

much.

Crying

is

always

easier

in

the

dark.

Suddenly

my

cold

hand

is

blanketed

by

Evan’s

warmer

one,

and

his

palm

is

as

soft

and

smooth

as

the

pillowcase

beneath

my

cheek.

“It

kills

me,”

I

sob.

“The

way

he

trusted.

Like

the

waywe

trusted

before

they

came

and

blew

the

whole

goddamned

world

apart.

Trusted

that

when

it

got

dark

there

would

be

light.

Trusted

that

when

you

wanted

a

fucking

strawberry

Frappuccino

you

could

plop

your

ass

in

the

car,

drive

down

the

street,

and

get

yourself

a

fucking

strawberry

Frappuccino!

Trusted…”

His

other

hand

finds

my

cheek,

and

he

wipes

away

my

tears

with

his

thumb.

The

chocolate

scent

overwhelms

me

as

he

bends

over

and

whispers

in

my

ear,

“No,

Cassie.

No,

no,

no.”

I

throw

my

arm

around

his

neck

and

press

his

dry

cheek

against

my

wet

one.

I’m

shakinglike

an

epileptic,

and

for

the

first

time

I

can

feel

the

weight

of

the

quilts

on

the

top

of

my

toes

because

the

blinding

dark

sharpens

your

other

senses.

I’m

a

bubbling

stew

of

random

thoughts

and

feelings.

I’m

worried

my

hair

might

smell.

I

want

some

chocolate.

This

guy

holding

me—well,

it’s

more

like

I

was

holding

him—has

seen

me

in

all

my

naked

glory.

What

did

he

think

about

my

body?

What

did

I

think

about

my

body?

Does

God

really

care

about

promises?

Do

I

really

care

about

God?

Are

miracles

something

like

the

Red

Sea

parting

or

more

like

Evan

Walker

finding

me

locked

in

a

block

of

ice

in

a

wilderness

of

white?

“Cassie,

it’s

going

to

be

okay,”

he

whispers

into

my

ear,

chocolate

breath.

When

I

wake

up

the

next

morning,

there’s

a

Hershey’s

Kiss

sitting

on

the

table

beside

me.

35

HE

LEAVES

THE

OLD

FARMHOUSE

every

night

to

patrol

the

grounds

and

to

hunt.

He

tellmse

he

has

plenty

of

dry

goods

and

his

mom

was

a

devoted

preserver

and

canner,

but

he

likes

fresh

meat.

So

he

leaves

me

to

find

edible

creatures

to

kill,

and

on

the

fourth

day

he

comes

into

the

room

with

an

honest-to-God

hamburger

on

a

hot,

homemade

bun

and

a

side

of

roasted

potatoes.

It’s

the

first

real

food

I’ve

had

since

escaping

Camp

Ashpit.

It’s

also

a

freaking

hamburger,

which

I

haven’t

tasted

since

the

Arrival

and

which,

I

think

I’ve

pointed

out,

I

was

willing

to

kill

for.

“Where’d

you

get

the

bread?”

I

ask

midway

through

the

burger,

grease

rolling

downmy

chin.

I

haven’t

had

bread,

either.

It’s

light

and

fluffy

and

slightly

sweet.

He

could

give

me

any

number

of

snarky

replies,

since

there

is

only

one

way

he

could

have

gotten

it.

He

doesn’t.

“I

baked

it.”

After

feeding

me,

he

changes

the

dressing

on

my

leg.

I

ask

if

I

want

to

look.

He

saysno,

I

most

definitely

do

not

want

to

look.

I

want

to

get

out

of

bed,

take

a

real

bath,

be

like

a

person

again.

He

says

it’s

too

soon.

I

tell

him

I

want

to

wash

and

comb

out

my

hair.

Too

soon,

he

insists.

I

tell

him

if

he

won’t

help

me

I’m

going

to

smash

the

kerosene

lamp

over

his

head.

So

he

sets

a

kitchen

chair

in

the

middle

of

the

claw-foot

tub

in

the

little

bathroom

down

the

hall

with

its

peeling

flowery

wallpaper

and

carries

me

to

it,

plops

me

down,

leaves,

and

comes

back

with

a

big

metal

tub

filled

with

steaming

water.

The

tub

must

be

very

heavy.

His

biceps

strain

against

his

sleeves,

like

he’s

Bruce

Banner

midHulkifying,

and

the

veins

stand

out

on

his

neck.

The

watersmells

faintly

of

rose

petals.

He

uses

a

lemonade

pitcher

decorated

with

smiley-faced

suns

as

a

ladle,

and

I

lean

my

head

back

for

him.

He

starts

to

work

in

the

shampoo,

and

I

push

his

hands

away.

This

part

I

can

do

myself.

The

water

courses

from

my

hair

into

the

gown,

plastering

the

cotton

to

my

body.

Evan

clears

his

throat,

and

when

he

turns

his

head

his

thick

hair

does

this

swooshy

thing

across

his

dark

brow

and

I’m

a

little

disturbed,

but

in

a

pleasant

way.

I

ask

for

the

widest-toothed

comb

he

has,

and

he

digs

in

the

cupboard

beneath

the

sink

while

I

watch

him

out

of

the

corner

of

my

eye,

barely

noticing

the

way

his

powerful

shoulders

roll

beneath

his

flannel

shirt,

or

his

faded

jeans

with

the

frayed

back

pockets,

definitely

paying

no

attention

to

the

roundness

of

his

butt

inside

those

jeans,

totally

ignoring

the

way

my

earlobes

burn

like

fire

beneath

the

lukewarm

water

dripping

from

my

hair.

After

a

couple

eternities,

he

finds

a

comb,

asks

if

I

need

anything

before

he

leaves,

and

I

mumble

no

when

what

I

really

want

to

do

is

laugh

and

cry

at

the

same

time.

Alone,

I

force

myself

to

concentrate

on

my

hair,

which

is

a

horrible

mess.

Knots

and

tangles

and

bits

of

leaf

and

little

wads

of

dirt.

I

work

on

the

knots

until

the

water

goes

cold

and

I

start

to

shiver

in

my

wet

nightie.

I

pause

once

in

the

chore

when

I

hear

a

tiny

sound

just

outside

the

door.

“Are

you

standing

out

there?”

I

ask.

The

small,

tiled

bathroom

magnifies

sound

likean

echo

chamber.

There’s

a

pause,

and

then

a

soft

answer:

“Yes.”

“Why

are

you

standing

out

there?”

“I’m

waiting

to

rinse

your

hair.”

“This

is

going

to

take

a

while,”

I

say.

“That’s

okay.”

“Why

don’t

you

go

bake

a

pie

or

something

and

come

back

in

about

fifteen

minutes.”

I

don’t

hear

an

answer.

But

I

don’t

hear

him

leave.

“Are

you

still

there?”

The

floorboards

in

the

hall

creak.

“Yes.”

I

give

up

after

another

ten

minutes

of

teasing

and

pulling.

Evan

comes

back

in,

sits

on

the

edge

of

the

tub.

I

rest

my

head

in

the

palm

of

his

hand

while

he

rinses

the

suds

from

my

hair.

“I’m

surprised

you’re

here,”

I

tell

him.

“I

live

here.”

“That

you

stayed

here.”

A

lot

of

young

guys

left

for

the

nearest

police

station,

National

Guard

armory,

or

military

base

after

news

of

the

2nd

Wave

started

trickling

in

from

survivors

fleeing

inland.

Like

after

9/11,

only

times

ten.

“There

were

eight

of

us,

counting

Mom

and

Dad,”

he

says.

“I’m

the

oldest.

After

theydied,

I

took

care

of

the

kids.”

“Slower,

Evan,”

I

say

as

he

empties

half

the

pitcher

onto

my

head.

“I

feel

like

I’mbeing

waterboarded.”

“Sorry.”

He

presses

the

edge

of

his

hand

against

my

forehead

to

act

as

a

dam.

The

water

is

deliciously

warm

and

tickly.

I

close

my

eyes.

“Did

you

get

sick?”

I

ask.

“Yeah.

Then

I

got

better.”

He

ladles

more

water

from

the

metal

tub

into

the

pitcher,

and

I

hold

my

breath,

anticipating

the

tickly

warmth.

“My

youngest

sister,

Val,

she

died

two

months

ago.

That’s

her

bedroom

you’re

in.

Since

then

I’ve

been

trying

to

figure

out

what

to

do.

I

know

I

can’t

stay

here

forever,

but

I’ve

hiked

all

the

way

to

Cincinnati,

and

maybe

I

don’t

need

to

explain

why

I’m

never

going

back.”

One

hand

pours

while

the

other

presses

the

wet

hair

against

my

scalp

to

wring

out

the

excess

water.

Firmly,

not

too

hard,

just

right.

Like

I’m

not

the

first

girl

whose

hair

he’s

washed.

A

little,

hysterical

voice

inside

my

head

is

screaming,

What

do

you

think

you’re

doing?

You

don’t

even

know

this

guy!

but

that

same

voice

is

going,

Great

hands;

ask

him

for

a

scalp

massage

while

he’s

at

it.

While

outside

my

head,

his

deep,

calm

voice

is

saying,

“Now

I’m

thinking

it

doesn’tmake

sense

to

leave

until

it

gets

warmer.

Maybe

Wright-Patterson

or

Kentucky.

FortKnox

is

only

a

hundred

and

forty

miles

from

here.”

“Fort

Knox?

What,

you’re

going

on

a

heist?”

“It’s

a

fort,

as

in

heavily

fortified.

A

logical

rallying

point.”

Gathering

the

ends

of

my

hair

in

his

fist

and

squeezing,

and

the

plop-plops

of

the

water

spattering

in

the

claw-foot

tub.

“If

it

were

me,

I

wouldn’t

go

anyplace

that’s

a

logical

rallying

point,”

I

say.

“Logically

those’ll

be

the

first

points

they

wipe

off

the

map.”

“From

what

you’ve

told

me

about

the

Silencers,

it’s

not

logical

to

rally

anywhere.”

“Or

stay

anywhere

longer

than

a

few

days.

Keep

your

numbers

small

and

keep

moving.”

“Until…?”

“There

is

no

until,”

I

snap

at

him.

“There’s

just

unless.”

He

dries

my

hair

with

a

fluffy

white

towel.

There’s

a

fresh

nightie

lying

on

the

closed

toilet

seat.

I

look

up

into

those

chocolate-colored

eyes

and

say,

“Turn

around.”

He

turns

around.

I

reach

past

the

frayed

back

pockets

of

the

jeans

that

conform

to

the

butt

that

I’m

not

looking

at

and

pick

up

the

dry

nightie.

“If

you

try

to

peek

in

that

mirror,

I’ll

know,”

I

warn

the

guy

who’s

already

seen

me

naked,

but

that

was

unconsciously

naked,

which

is

not

the

same

thing.

He

nods,

lowers

his

head,

and

pinches

his

lower

lip

like

he’s

sealing

off

a

smile.

I

wiggle

out

of

the

wet

nightie,

slip

the

dry

one

over

my

head,

and

tell

him

it’s

okay

to

turn

around.

He

lifts

me

from

the

chair

and

carries

me

back

to

his

dead

sister’s

bed,

and

I

have

one

arm

around

his

shoulders,

and

his

arm

is

tight—though

not

too

tight—across

my

waist.

His

body

feels

about

twenty

degrees

warmer

than

mine.

He

eases

me

onto

the

mattress

and

pulls

the

quilts

over

my

bare

legs.

His

cheeks

are

very

smooth,

his

hair

neatly

groomed,

and

his

cuticles,

as

I’ve

pointed

out,

are

impeccable.

Whichmeans

grooming

is

very

high

on

his

list

of

priorities

in

the

postapocalyptic

era.

Why?

Who’s

around

to

see

him?

“So

how

long

has

it

been

since

you’ve

seen

another

person?”

I

ask.

“Besides

me.”

“I

see

people

practically

every

day,”

he

says.

“The

last

living

one

before

you

was

Val.

Before

her,

it

was

Lauren.”

“Lauren?”

“My

girlfriend.”

He

looks

away.

“She’s

dead,

too.”

I

don’t

know

what

to

say.

So

I

say,

“The

plague

sucks.”

“It

wasn’t

the

plague,”

he

says.

“Well,

she

had

it,

but

it

wasn’t

the

plague

that

killed

her.

She

did

that

herself,

before

it

could.”

He’s

standing

awkwardly

beside

the

bed.

Doesn’t

want

to

leave,

doesn’t

have

an

excuse

to

stay.

“I

just

couldn’t

help

but

notice

how

nice…”

No,

not

a

good

intro.

“I

guess

it’s

hard,

when

it’s

just

you,

to

really

care

about…”

Nuh-uh.

“Care

about

what?”

he

asks.

“One

person

when

almost

every

person

is

gone?”

“I

wasn’t

talking

about

me.”

And

then

I

give

up

trying

to

come

up

with

a

polite

wayto

say

it.

“You

take

a

lot

of

pride

in

how

you

look.”

“It

isn’t

pride.”

“I

wasn’t

accusing

you

of

being

stuck-up—”

“I

know;

you’re

thinking

what’s

the

point

now?”

Well,

actually,

I

was

hoping

the

point

was

me.

But

I

don’t

say

anything.

“I’m

not

sure,”

he

says.

“But

it’s

something

I

can

control.

It

gives

structure

tomy

day.

It

makes

me

feel

more…”

He

shrugs.

“More

human,

I

guess.”

“And

you

need

help

with

that?

Feeling

human?”

He

looks

at

me

funny,

then

gives

me

something

to

think

about

for

a

long

time

after

he

leaves:

“Don’t

you?”

36

HE’S

GONE

MOST

of

the

nights.

During

the

days

he

waits

on

me

hand

and

foot,

so

I

don’ktnow

when

the

guy

sleeps.

By

the

second

week,

I

was

about

to

go

nuts

cooped

up

inthe

little

upstairs

bedroom,

and

on

a

day

when

the

temperature

climbed

above

freezing,

he

helped

me

into

some

of

Val’s

clothes,

averting

his

eyes

at

the

appropriate

moments,

and

carried

me

downstairs

to

sit

on

the

front

porch,

throwing

a

big

wool

blanket

over

my

lap.

He

left

me

there

and

came

back

with

two

steaming

mugs

of

hot

chocolate.

I

can’t

say

much

about

the

view.

Brown,

lifeless,

undulating

earth,

bare

trees,

a

gray,

featureless

sky.

But

the

cold

air

felt

good

against

my

cheeks,

and

the

hot

chocolate

was

the

perfect

temperature.

We

don’t

talk

about

the

Others.

We

talk

about

our

lives

before

the

Others.

He

was

going

to

study

engineering

at

Kent

State

after

graduating.

He

had

offered

to

stayon

the

farm

for

a

couple

years,

but

his

father

insisted

that

he

go

to

college.

He

had

known

Lauren

since

the

fourth

grade,

started

dating

her

in

their

sophomore

year.

There

was

talk

of

marriage.

He

noticed

I

got

quiet

when

Lauren

came

up.

Like

I

said,

Evan

is

a

noticer.

“How

about

you?”

he

asked.

“Did

you

have

a

boyfriend?”

“No.

Well,

kind

of.

His

name

was

Ben

Parish.

I

guess

you

could

say

he

had

this

thingfor

me.

We

dated

a

couple

of

times.

You

know,

casually.”

I

wonder

what

made

me

lie

to

him.

He

doesn’t

know

Ben

Parish

from

a

hole

in

the

ground.Which

is

kind

of

the

same

way

Ben

knew

me.

I

swirled

the

remains

of

my

hot

chocolate

and

avoided

his

eyes.

The

next

morning

he

showed

up

at

my

bedside

with

a

crutch

carved

from

a

single

piece

of

wood.

Sanded

to

a

glossy

finish,

lightweight,

the

perfect

height.

I

took

one

lookat

it

and

demanded

that

he

name

three

things

he

isn’t

good

at.

“Roller

skating,

singing,

and

talking

to

girls.”

“You

left

out

stalking,”

I

told

him

as

he

helped

me

out

of

the

bed.

“I

can

always

tell

when

you’re

lurking

around

corners.”

“You

only

asked

for

three.”

I’m

not

going

to

lie:

My

rehab

sucked.

Every

time

I

put

weight

on

my

leg,

pain

shotup

the

left

side

of

my

body,

my

knee

buckled,

and

the

only

things

that

kept

me

from

falling

flat

on

my

ass

were

Evan’s

strong

arms.

But

I

kept

at

it

during

that

long

day

and

the

long

days

that

followed.

I

was

determinedto

get

strong.

Stronger

than

before

the

Silencer

cut

me

down

and

abandoned

me

to

die.

Stronger

than

I

was

in

my

little

hideout

in

the

woods,

rolled

up

in

my

sleeping

bag,

feeling

sorry

for

myself

while

Sammy

was

suffering

God

knows

what.

Stronger

than

the

days

at

Camp

Ashpit,

where

I

walked

around

with

a

huge

chip

on

my

shoulder,

angry

at

the

world

for

being

what

the

world

was,

for

what

it

had

always

been:

a

dangerous

place

that

our

human

noise

had

made

seem

a

whole

lot

safer.

Three

hours

of

rehab

in

the

morning.

Thirty-minute

break

for

lunch.

Then

three

morehours

of

rehab

in

the

afternoon.

Working

on

rebuilding

my

muscles

until

I

felt

them

melt

into

a

sweaty,

jellylike

mass.

But

I

still

wasn’t

done

for

the

day.

I

asked

Evan

what

happened

to

my

Luger.

I

hadto

get

over

my

fear

of

guns.

And

my

accuracy

sucked.

He

showed

me

the

proper

grip,

how

to

use

the

sight.

He

set

up

empty

gallon-size

paint

cans

on

the

fence

posts

for

targets,

replacing

those

with

smaller

cans

as

my

aim

improved.

I

ask

him

to

take

me

hunting

with

him—I

need

to

get

used

to

hitting

a

moving,

breathing

target—but

he

refuses.

I’m

still

pretty

weak,

I

can’t

even

run

yet,

and

what

happens

if

a

Silencer

spots

us?

We

take

walks

at

sunset.

At

first

I

didn’t

make

it

more

than

half

a

mile

before

my

leg

gave

out

and

Evan

had

to

carry

me

back

to

the

farmhouse.

But

each

day

I

was

ableto

go

a

hundred

yards

farther

than

the

day

before.

A

half

mile

became

three-quarters

became

a

whole.

By

the

second

week

I

was

doing

two

miles

without

stopping.

Can’t

run

yet,

but

my

pace

and

stamina

have

vastly

improved.

Evan

stays

with

me

through

dinner

and

a

couple

hours

into

the

night,

and

then

he

shoulders

his

rifle

and

tells

me

he’ll

be

back

before

sunrise.

I’m

usually

asleep

when

he

comes

in—and

it’s

usually

way

past

sunrise.

“Where

do

you

go

every

night?”

I

asked

him

one

day.

“Hunting.”

A

man

of

few

words,

this

Evan

Walker.

“You

must

be

a

lousy

hunter,”

I

teased

him.

“You

hardly

ever

come

back

with

anything.”

“I’m

actually

very

good,”

he

said

matter-of-factly.

Even

when

he

says

something

that,

on

paper,

sounds

like

bragging,

it

isn’t.

It’s

the

way

he

says

it,

casually,

like

he’s

talking

about

the

weather.

“You

just

don’t

have

the

heart

to

kill?”

“I

have

the

heart

to

do

what

I

have

to

do.”

He

ran

his

fingers

through

his

hair

andsighed.

“In

the

beginning

it

was

about

staying

alive.

Then

it

was

about

protectingmy

brothers

and

sisters

from

the

crazies

running

around

after

the

plague

first

hit.

Then

it

was

about

protecting

my

territory

and

supplies…”

“What’s

it

about

now?”

I

asked

quietly.

That

was

the

first

time

I’d

seen

him

evenmildly

worked

up.

“It

settles

my

nerves,”

he

admitted

with

an

embarrassed

shrug.

“Gives

me

something

to

do.”

“Like

personal

hygiene.”

“And

I

have

trouble

sleeping

at

night,”

he

went

on.

Wouldn’t

look

at

me.

Not

lookingat

anything,

really.

“Well.

Sleeping

period.

So

after

a

while

I

gave

up

trying

and

started

sleeping

during

the

day.

Or

trying

to.

The

fact

is

I

only

sleep

two

or

three

hours

a

day.”

“You

must

be

really

tired.”

He

finally

looked

at

me,

and

there

was

something

sad

and

desperate

in

his

eyes.

“That’s

the

worst

part,”

he

said

softly.

“I’m

not.

I’m

not

tired

at

all.”

I

was

still

uneasy

about

his

disappearing

at

night,

so

once

I

tried

to

follow

him.

Bad

idea.

I

lost

him

after

ten

minutes,

got

worried

I’d

get

lost,

turned

to

go

back,

and

found

myself

staring

up

into

his

face.

He

didn’t

get

mad.

Didn’t

accuse

me

of

not

trusting

him.

He

just

said,

“You

shouldn’tbe

out

here,

Cassie,”

and

escorted

me

inside.

More

out

of

concern

for

my

mental

health

than

our

personal

safety

(I

don’t

think

he

was

completely

sold

on

the

whole

Silencer

idea),

he

hung

heavy

blankets

over

the

windows

in

the

great

room

downstairs

so

we

could

have

a

fire

and

light

a

couple

of

lamps.

I

waited

there

until

he

returned

from

his

forays

in

the

dark,

sleeping

on

the

big

leather

sofa

or

reading

one

of

his

mom’s

battered

paperback

romance

novels

with

the

buffed-out,

half-naked

guys

on

the

covers

and

the

ladies

dressed

in

fulllength

ball

gowns

caught

in

midswoon.

Then

around

three

in

the

morning

he

would

come

home,

and

we’d

throw

some

more

wood

on

the

fire

and

talk.

He

doesn’t

like

to

talk

about

his

family

much

(when

I

asked

about

his

mother’s

taste

in

books,

he

just

shrugged

and

said

she

liked

literature).

He

steers

the

conversation

back

to

me

when

things

start

getting

too

personal.

Mostly

he

wants

to

talk

about

Sammy,

as

in

how

I

plan

to

keep

my

promise

to

him.

Since

I

have

no

idea

how

I’m

going

to

do

that,

the

discussion

never

ends

well.

I’m

vague;

he

presses

for

specifics.

I’m

defensive;

he’s

insistent.

Finally

I

get

mean,

and

he

shuts

down.

“So

walk

me

through

this

again,”

he

says

late

one

night

after

going

around

and

around

for

an

hour.

“You

don’t

know

exactly

who

or

what

they

are,

but

you

know

they

have

lots

of

heavy

artillery

and

access

to

alien

weaponry.

You

don’t

know

where

they’ve

taken

your

brother,

but

you’re

going

there

to

rescue

him.

Once

you

get

there,

you

don’t

know

how

you’re

going

to

rescue

him,

but—”

“What

is

this?”

I

ask.

“Are

you

trying

to

help

or

make

me

feel

stupid?”

We’re

sitting

on

the

big

fluffy

rug

in

front

of

the

fireplace,

his

rifle

on

one

side,

my

Luger

on

the

other,

and

the

two

of

us

in

between.

He

holds

up

his

hands

in

a

fake

gesture

of

surrender.

“I’m

just

trying

to

understand.”

“I’m

starting

at

Camp

Ashpit

and

picking

up

the

trail

from

there,”

I

say

for

aboutthe

thousandth

time.

I

think

I

know

why

he

keeps

asking

the

same

questions,

but

he’s

so

damned

obtuse,

it’s

hard

to

pin

him

down.

Of

course,

he

could

say

the

same

thing

about

me.

As

plans

go,

mine

is

more

of

a

general

goal

pretending

to

be

a

plan.

“And

if

you

can’t

pick

up

the

trail?”

he

asks.

“I

won’t

give

up

until

I

do.”

He’s

nodding

a

nod

that

says,

I’m

nodding,

but

I’m

not

nodding

because

I

think

what

you’re

saying

makes

sense.

I’m

nodding

because

I

think

you’re

a

total

fool

and

I

don’t

want

you

to

go

all

kung

fu

on

me

with

a

crutch

I

made

with

my

own

hands.

So

I

say,

“I’m

not

a

total

fool.

You’d

do

the

same

for

Val.”

He

doesn’t

have

a

quick

reply

to

that.

He

wraps

his

arms

around

his

legs

and

rests

his

chin

on

his

knees,

staring

at

the

fire.

“You

think

I’m

wasting

my

time,”

I

accuse

his

flawless

profile.

“You

think

Sammy’s

dead.”

“How

could

I

know

that,

Cassie?”

“I’m

not

saying

you

know

that.

I’m

saying

you

think

that.”

“Does

it

matter

what

I

think?”

“No,

so

shut

up.”

“I

wasn’t

saying

anything.

You

said—”

“Don’t…say…anything.”

“I’m

not.”

“You

just

did.”

“I’ll

stop.”

“But

you’re

not.

You

say

you

will,

then

you

just

keep

going.”

He

starts

to

say

something,

then

shuts

his

mouth

so

hard,

I

hear

his

teeth

click.

“I’m

hungry,”

I

say.

“I’ll

get

you

something.”

“Did

I

ask

you

to

get

me

anything?”

I

want

to

pop

him

right

in

that

perfectly

shapedmouth.

Why

do

I

want

to

hit

him?

Why

am

I

so

mad

right

now?

“I’m

perfectly

capableof

waiting

on

myself.

This

is

the

problem,

Evan.

I

didn’t

show

up

here

to

give

your

life

purpose

now

that

your

life’s

over.

That’s

up

to

you

to

figure

out.”

“I

want

to

help

you,”

he

says,

and

for

the

first

time

I

see

real

anger

in

those

puppy-dogeyes.

“Why

can’t

saving

Sammy

be

my

purpose,

too?”

His

question

follows

me

into

the

kitchen.

It

hangs

over

my

head

like

a

cloud

while

I

slap

some

cured

deer

meat

onto

some

flat

bread

Evan

must

have

baked

in

his

outdoor

oven

like

the

Eagle

Scout

he

is.

It

follows

me

as

I

hobble

back

into

the

great

roomand

plop

down

on

the

sofa

directly

behind

his

head.

I

have

this

urge

to

kick

him

right

between

his

broad

shoulders.

On

the

table

beside

me

is

a

book

entitled

Love’s

Desperate

Desire.

Based

on

the

cover,

I

would

have

called

it

My

Spectacular

Washboard

Abs.

That’s

my

big

problem.

That’s

it!

Before

the

Arrival,

guys

like

Evan

Walker

never

looked

twice

at

me,

much

less

shot

wild

game

for

me

and

washed

my

hair.

They

never

grabbed

me

by

the

back

of

the

neck

like

the

airbrushed

model

on

his

mother’s

paperback,

abs

a-clenching,

pecs

a-popping.

My

eyes

have

never

been

looked

deeply

into,

or

my

chin

raised

to

bring

my

lips

within

an

inch

of

theirs.

I

was

the

girl

in

the

background,

the

just-friend,

or—worse—the

friend

of

a

just-friend,

the

you-sit-next-toher-in-geometry-but-can’t-remember-her-name

girl.

It

would

have

been

better

if

some

middle-aged

collector

of

Star

Wars

action

figures

had

found

me

in

that

snowbank.

“What?”

I

ask

the

back

of

his

head.

“Now

you’re

giving

me

the

silent

treatment?”

His

shoulders

jiggle

up

and

down.

You

know,

one

of

those

wry,

silent

chuckles,

accompanied

by

a

rueful

shake

of

the

head.

Girls!

So

silly.

“I

should

have

asked,

I

guess,”

he

says.

“I

shouldn’t

have

assumed.”

“What?”

He

rotates

around

on

his

butt

to

face

me.

Me

on

the

sofa,

him

on

the

floor,

looking

up.

“That

I

was

going

with

you.”

“What?

We

weren’t

even

talking

about

that!

And

why

would

you

want

to

go

with

me,

Evan?

Since

you

think

he’s

dead?”

“I

just

don’t

want

you

to

be

dead,

Cassie.”

That

does

it.

I

hurl

my

deer

meat

at

his

head.

The

plate

glances

off

his

cheek,

and

he’s

up

and

in

my

face

before

I

can

blink.

He

leans

in

close,

putting

his

hands

on

either

side

of

me,

boxing

me

in

with

his

arms.

Tears

shine

in

his

eyes.

“You’re

not

the

only

one,”

he

says

through

gritted

teeth.

“My

twelve-year-old

sister

died

in

my

arms.

She

choked

to

death

on

her

own

blood.

And

there

was

nothing

I

could

do.

It

makes

me

sick,

the

way

you

act

as

if

the

worst

disaster

in

human

history

somehow

revolves

around

you.

You’re

not

the

only

one

who’s

lost

everything—not

the

only

one

who

thinks

they’ve

found

the

one

thing

that

makes

any

of

this

shit

make

sense.

You

have

your

promise

to

Sammy,

and

I

have

you.”

He

stops.

He’s

gone

too

far,

and

he

knows

it.

“You

don’t

‘have’

me,

Evan,”

I

say.

“You

know

what

I

mean.”

He’s

looking

intently

at

me,

and

it’s

very

hard

to

keep

from

turning

away.

“I

can’t

stop

you

from

going.

Well,

I

guess

I

could,

but

I

also

can’t

let

you

go

alone.”

“Alone

is

better.

You

know

that.

It’s

the

reason

you’re

still

alive!”

I

poke

my

finger

into

his

heaving

chest.

He

pulls

away,

and

I

fight

the

instinct

to

reach

for

him.

There’s

a

part

of

me

that

doesn’t

want

him

to

pull

away.

“But

it’s

not

the

reason

you

are,”

he

snaps.

“You

won’t

last

two

minutes

out

there

without

me.”

I

explode.

I

can’t

help

it.

It

was

the

perfectly

wrong

thing

to

say

at

the

perfectly

wrong

time.

“Screw

you!”

I

shout.

“I

don’t

need

you.

I

don’t

need

anyone!

Well,

Iguess

if

I

needed

someone

to

wash

my

hair

or

slap

a

bandage

on

a

boo-boo

or

bake

me

a

cake,

you’d

be

the

guy!”

After

two

tries,

I

manage

to

get

on

my

feet.

Time

for

the

angrily-storming-out-of-the-roompart

of

the

argument,

while

the

guy

folds

his

arms

over

his

manly

chest

and

pouts.

I

pause

halfway

up

the

stairs,

telling

myself

I’m

stopping

to

catch

my

breath,

not

to

let

him

catch

up.

He’s

not

following

me

anyway.

So

I

struggle

up

the

remaining

steps

and

into

my

bedroom.

No,

not

my

bedroom.

Val’s

bedroom.

I

don’t

have

a

bedroom

anymore.

Probably

never

will

again.

Oh,

screw

self-pity.

The

world

doesn’t

revolve

around

you.

And

screw

guilt.

You

aren’t

the

one

who

made

Sammy

get

on

that

bus.

And

while

you’re

at

it,

screw

grief.

Evan’s

crying

over

his

baby

sister

won’t

bring

her

back.

I

have

you.

Well,

Evan,

the

truth

is

it

doesn’t

matter

whether

there

are

two

of

us

or

two

hundred

of

us.

We

don’t

stand

a

chance.

Not

against

an

enemy

like

the

Others.

I’m

making

myself

strong

for…

what?

So

when

I

go

down,

at

least

I

go

down

strong?

What

difference

does

that

make?

I

slap

Bear

from

his

perch

on

the

bed

with

an

angry

snarl.

What

the

hell

are

you

staring

at?

He

flops

over

to

his

side,

arm

sticking

up

in

the

air

like

he’s

raising

his

hand

in

class

to

ask

a

question.

Behind

me,

the

door

creaks

on

its

rusty

hinges.

“Get

out,”

I

say

without

turning

around.

Another

creeeeak.

Then

a

click.

Then

silence.

“Evan,

are

you

standing

outside

that

door?”

Pause.

“Yes.”

“You’re

kind

of

a

lurker,

you

know

that?”

If

he

answers,

I

don’t

hear

him.

I’m

hugging

myself.

Rubbing

my

hands

up

and

downmy

arms.

The

little

room

is

freezing.

My

knee

aches

like

hell,

but

I

bite

my

lip

and

remain

stubbornly

on

my

feet,

my

back

to

the

door.

“Are

you

still

there?”

I

say

when

I

can’t

take

the

silence

anymore.

“If

you

leave

without

me,

I’ll

just

follow

you.

You

can’t

stop

me,

Cassie.

How

are

you

going

to

stop

me?”

I

shrug

helplessly,

fighting

back

tears.

“Shoot

you,

I

guess.”

“Like

you

shot

the

Crucifix

Soldier?”

The

words

hit

me

like

a

bullet

between

the

shoulder

blades.

I

whirl

around

and

fling

open

the

door.

He

flinches,

but

stands

his

ground.

“How

do

you

know

about

him?”

Of

course,

there’s

only

one

way

he

could

know.

“You

read

my

diary.”

“I

didn’t

think

you

were

going

to

live.”

“Sorry

to

disappoint

you.”

“I

guess

I

wanted

to

know

what

happened—”

“You’re

lucky

I

left

the

gun

downstairs

or

I

would

shoot

you

right

now.

Do

you

know

how

creepy

that

makes

me

feel,

knowing

you

read

that?

How

much

did

you

read?”

He

lowers

his

eyes.

A

warm

red

blush

spreads

across

his

cheeks.

“You

read

all

of

it,

didn’t

you?”

I’m

totally

embarrassed.

I

feel

violated

and

ashamed.

It’s

ten

times

worse

than

when

I

first

woke

up

in

Val’s

bed

and

realized

he

had

seen

me

naked.

That

was

just

my

body.

This

was

my

soul.

I

punch

him

in

the

stomach.

There’s

no

give

at

all;

it’s

like

I

hit

a

slab

of

concrete.

“I

can’t

believe

you,”

I

shout.

“You

sat

there—justsat

there—while

I

lied

about

Ben

Parish.

You

knew

the

truth

and

you

just

sat

there

and

let

me

lie!”

He

jams

his

hands

in

his

pockets,

looking

at

the

floor.

Like

a

little

boy

busted

for

breaking

his

mother’s

antique

vase.

“I

didn’t

think

it

mattered

that

much.”

“You

didn’t

think…?”

I’m

shaking

my

head.

Who

is

this

guy?

All

of

a

sudden

I’ve

got

a

bad

case

of

the

jitters.

Something

is

seriously

wrong

here.

Maybe

it’s

the

fact

that

he

lost

his

whole

family

and

his

girlfriend

or

fiancée

or

whatever

she

was

and

for

months

he’s

been

living

alone

pretending

that

doing

really

nothing

is

really

doing

something.

Maybe

he’s

cocooned

himself

on

this

isolated

patch

of

Ohio

farmland

as

a

way

of

dealing

with

all

the

shit

the

Others

have

ladled

out,

or

maybe

he’s

just

weird—weird

before

the

Arrival

and

just

as

weird

after—but

whatever

it

is,

something

is

seriously

twisted

about

this

Evan

Walker.

He’s

too

calm,

too

rational,

too

cool

for

it

to

be

completely,

well,

cool.

“Why

did

you

shoot

him?”

he

asks

quietly.

“The

soldier

in

the

convenience

store.”

“You

know

why,”

I

say.

I’m

about

to

burst

into

tears.

He’s

nodding.

“Because

of

Sammy.”

Now

I’m

really

confused.

“It

had

nothing

to

do

with

Sammy.”

He

looks

up

at

me.

“Sammy

took

the

soldier’s

hand.

Sammy

got

on

that

bus.

Sammytrusted.

And

now,

even

though

I

saved

you,

you

won’t

let

yourself

trust

me.”

He

grabs

my

hand.

Squeezes

it

hard.

“I’m

not

the

Crucifix

Soldier,

Cassie.

And

I’mnot

Vosch.

I’m

just

like

you.

I’m

scared

and

I’m

angry

and

I’m

confused

and

I

don’tknow

what

the

hell

I’m

going

to

do,

but

I

do

know

you

can’t

have

it

both

ways.

You

can’t

say

you’re

human

in

one

breath

and

a

cockroach

in

the

next.

You

don’t

believe

you’re

a

cockroach.

If

you

believed

that,

you

wouldn’t

have

turned

to

face

the

sniper

on

the

highway.”

“Oh

my

God,”

I

whisper.

“It

was

just

a

metaphor.”

“You

want

to

compare

yourself

to

an

insect,

Cassie?

If

you’re

an

insect,

then

you’re

a

mayfly.

Here

for

a

day

and

then

gone.

That

doesn’t

have

anything

to

do

with

the

Others.

It’s

always

been

that

way.

We’re

here,

and

then

we’re

gone,

and

it’s

not

about

the

time

we’re

here,

but

what

we

do

with

the

time.”

“What

you’re

saying

makes

absolutely

no

sense,

you

know

that?”

I

feel

myself

leaningtoward

him,

all

the

fight

draining

out

of

me.

I

can’t

decide

if

he’s

holding

me

back

or

holding

me

up.

“You’re

the

mayfly,”

he

murmurs.

And

then

Evan

Walker

kisses

me.

Holding

my

hand

against

his

chest,

his

other

hand

sliding

across

my

neck,

his

touch

feathery

soft,

sending

a

shiver

that

travels

down

my

spine

into

my

legs,

which

are

having

a

hard

time

keeping

me

upright.

I

can

feel

his

heart

slamming

against

my

palmand

I

can

smell

his

breath

and

feel

the

stubble

on

his

upper

lip,

a

sandpapery

contrast

to

the

softness

of

his

lips,

and

Evan

is

looking

at

me

and

I’m

looking

back

at

him.

I

pull

back

just

enough

to

speak.

“Don’t

kiss

me.”

He

lifts

me

into

his

arms.

I

seem

to

float

upward

forever,

like

when

I

was

a

little

girl

and

Daddy

flung

me

into

the

air,

feeling

as

if

I’d

just

keep

going

up

until

I

reached

the

edge

of

the

galaxy.

He

lays

me

on

the

bed.

I

say,

right

before

he

kisses

me

again,

“If

you

kiss

me

again,

I’m

going

to

knee

you

in

the

balls.”

His

hands

are

incredibly

soft,

like

a

cloud

touching

me.

“I

won’t

let

you

just…”

He

searches

for

the

right

word.

“…fly

away

from

me,

Cassie

Sullivan.”

He

blows

out

the

candle

beside

the

bed.

I

feel

his

kiss

more

intensely

now,

in

the

darkness

of

the

room

where

his

sister

died.

In

the

quiet

of

the

house

where

his

family

died.

In

the

stillness

of

the

world

where

the

life

we

knew

before

the

Arrival

died.

He

tastes

my

tears

before

I

can

feel

them.

Where

there

would

be

tears,

his

kiss.

“I

didn’t

save

you,”

he

whispers,

lips

tickling

my

eyelashes.

“You

saved

me.”

He

repeats

it

over

and

over,

until

we

fall

asleep

pressed

against

each

other,

his

voice

in

my

ear,

my

tears

in

his

mouth.

“You

saved

me.”

37

CASSIE,

through

the

smudged

window,

shrinking.

Cassie,

on

the

road,

holding

Bear.

Lifting

his

arm

to

help

him

wave

good-bye.

Good-bye,

Sammy.

Good-bye,

Bear.

The

road

dust

boiling

up

from

the

big

black

wheels

of

the

bus,

and

Cassie

shrinkinginto

the

brown

swirl.

Good-bye,

Cassie.

Cassie

and

Bear

getting

smaller

and

smaller,

and

the

hardness

of

the

glass

beneath

his

fingers.

Good-bye,

Cassie.

Good-bye,

Bear.

Until

the

dust

swallows

them,

and

he’s

alone

on

the

crowded

bus,

no

Mommy

no

Daddyno

Cassie,

and

maybe

he

shouldn’t

have

left

Bear,

because

Bear

had

been

with

him

since

before

he

could

remember

anything.

There

had

always

been

Bear.

But

there

had

always

been

Mommy,

too.

Mommy

and

Nan-Nan

and

Grandpa

and

the

rest

of

his

family.

And

the

kids

from

Ms.

Neyman’s

class

and

Ms.

Neyman

and

the

Majewskis

and

the

nice

checkoutlady

at

Kroger

who

kept

the

strawberry

suckers

beneath

her

counter.

They

had

always

been

there,

too,

like

Bear,

since

before

he

could

remember,

and

now

they

weren’t.

Who

had

always

been

there

wasn’t

anymore,

and

Cassie

said

they

weren’t

coming

back.

Not

ever.

The

glass

remembers

it

when

he

takes

his

hand

away.

It

holds

the

memory

of

his

hand.

Not

like

a

picture,

more

like

a

fuzzy

shadow,

the

way

his

mother’s

face

is

fuzzy

when

he

tries

to

remember

it.

Except

Daddy’s

and

Cassie’s,

all

the

faces

he’s

known

since

he

knew

what

faces

were

are

fading.

Every

face

is

new

now,

every

face

a

stranger’s

face.

A

soldier

walks

down

the

aisle

toward

him.

He’s

taken

off

his

black

mask.

His

face

is

round,

his

nose

small

and

dotted

with

freckles.

He

doesn’t

look

much

older

than

Cassie.

He’s

passing

out

bags

of

gummy

fruit

snacks

and

juice

boxes.

Dirty

fingers

claw

for

the

treats.

Some

of

the

children

haven’t

had

a

meal

in

days.

For

some,

the

soldiers

are

the

first

adults

they’ve

seen

since

their

parents

died.

Some

kids,

the

quietest

ones,

were

found

along

the

outskirts

of

town,

wandering

among

the

piles

of

blackened,

half-burned

bodies,

and

they

stare

at

everything

and

everyone

as

if

everything

and

everyone

were

something

they’ve

never

seen

before.

Others,

like

Sammy,

were

rescued

from

refugee

camps

or

small

bands

of

survivors

in

search

of

rescue,

and

their

clothes

aren’t

quite

as

ragged

and

their

faces

not

quite

as

thin

and

their

eyes

not

quite

as

vacant

as

the

quiet

ones’,

the

ones

found

wandering

among

the

piles

of

the

dead.

The

soldier

reaches

the

back

row.

He’s

wearing

a

white

band

on

his

sleeve

with

a

big

red

cross

on

it.

“Hey,

want

a

snack?”

the

soldier

asks

him.

The

juice

box

and

the

chewy

gooey

treats

in

the

shape

of

dinosaurs.

The

juice

is

cold.

Cold.

He

hasn’t

had

a

cold

drink

in

forever.

The

soldier

slides

into

the

seat

beside

him

and

stretches

his

long

legs

into

the

aisle.

Sammy

pushes

the

thin

plastic

straw

into

the

juice

box

and

sips,

while

his

eyes

fall

to

the

still

form

of

a

girl

huddled

in

the

seat

across

from

them.

Her

shorts

are

torn,

her

pink

top

is

stained

with

soot,

her

shoes

caked

with

mud.

She

is

smiling

in

her

sleep.

A

good

dream.

“Do

you

know

her?”

the

soldier

asks

Sammy.

Sammy

shakes

his

head.

She

had

not

been

in

the

refugee

camp

with

him.

“Why

do

you

have

that

big

red

cross?”

“I’m

a

medic.

I

help

sick

people.”

“Why

did

you

take

off

your

mask?”

“Don’t

need

it

now,”

the

medic

answers.

He

pops

a

handful

of

gummies

into

his

mouth.

“Why

not?”

“The

plague’s

back

there.”

The

soldier

jerks

his

thumb

toward

the

back

window,

where

the

dust

boiled

up

and

Cassie

shrunk

to

nothing,

holding

Bear.

“But

Daddy

said

the

plague

is

everywhere.”

The

soldier

shakes

his

head.

“Not

where

we’re

going,”

he

says.

“Where

are

we

going?”

“Camp

Haven.”

Against

the

grumbling

engine

and

the

whooshing

wind

through

the

open

windows,

it

sounded

like

the

soldier

said

Camp

Heaven.

“Where?”

Sammy

asks.

“You’re

going

to

love

it.”

The

soldier

pats

his

leg.

“We’ve

got

it

all

fixed

up

for

you.”

“For

me?”

“For

everyone.”

Cassie

on

the

road,

helping

Bear

wave

good-bye.

“Then

why

didn’t

you

bring

everyone?”

“We

will.”

“When?”

“As

soon

as

you

guys

are

safe.”

The

soldier

glances

at

the

girl

again.

He

stands

up,pulls

off

his

green

jacket,

and

gently

lets

it

fall

over

her.

“You’re

the

most

important

thing,”

the

soldier

says,

and

his

boyish

face

is

set

and

serious.

“You’re

the

future.”

The

narrow

dusty

road

becomes

a

wider

paved

road,

and

then

the

buses

turn

onto

an

even

wider

road.

Their

engines

rev

up

to

a

guttural

roar,

and

they

shoot

toward

the

sun

on

a

highway

cleared

of

wrecks

and

stalled

cars.

They’ve

been

dragged

or

pushed

onto

the

roadsides

to

clear

the

way

for

the

busloads

of

children.

The

freckle-nosed

medic

comes

down

the

aisle

again,

and

this

time

he’s

handing

out

bottles

of

water

and

telling

them

to

close

the

windows

because

some

of

the

children

are

cold

and

some

are

scared

by

the

rush

of

the

wind

that

sounds

like

a

monster

roaring.

The

air

in

the

bus

quickly

grows

stale

and

the

temperature

rises,

making

the

children

sleepy.

But

Sam

gave

Bear

to

Cassie

to

keep

her

company,

and

he’s

never

slept

without

Bear,

not

ever,

not

since

Bear

came

to

him,

anyway.

He

is

tired,

but

he

is

also

Bearless.

The

more

he

tries

to

forget

Bear,

the

more

he

remembers

him,

the

more

he

misses

him,

and

the

more

he

wishes

he

hadn’t

left

him

behind.

The

soldier

offers

him

a

bottle

of

water.

He

sees

something

is

wrong,

though

Sammysmiles

and

pretends

he

doesn’t

feel

so

empty

and

Bearless.

The

soldier

sits

beside

him

again,

asks

his

name,

and

says

his

name

is

Parker.

“How

much

farther?”

Sammy

asks.

It

will

be

dark

soon,

and

the

dark

is

the

worst

time.Nobody

told

him,

but

he

just

knows

that

when

they

finally

come

it

will

be

in

the

dark

and

it

will

be

without

warning,

like

the

other

waves,

and

there

will

be

nothing

you

can

do

about

it,

it

will

just

happen,

like

the

TV

winking

out

and

the

cars

dying

and

the

planes

falling

and

the

plague,

the

Pesky

Ants,

Cassie

and

Daddy

called

it,

and

his

mommy

wrapped

in

bloody

sheets.

When

the

Others

first

came,

his

father

told

him

the

world

had

changed

and

nothingwould

be

like

before,

and

maybe

they’d

take

him

inside

the

mothership,

maybe

even

take

him

on

adventures

in

outer

space.

And

Sammy

couldn’t

wait

to

go

inside

the

mothership

and

blast

off

into

space

just

like

Luke

Skywalker

in

his

X-wing

starfighter.

It

made

every

night

feel

like

Christmas

Eve.

When

morning

came,

he

thought

he

would

wake

up

and

all

the

wonderful

presents

the

Others

had

brought

would

be

there.

But

the

only

thing

the

Others

brought

was

death.

They

hadn’t

come

to

give

him

anything.

They

had

come

to

take

everything

away.

When

would

it—when

would

they—stop?

Maybe

never.

Maybe

the

aliens

wouldn’t

stop

until

they

had

taken

everything

away,

until

the

whole

world

was

like

Sammy,

empty

and

alone

and

Bearless.

So

he

asks

the

soldier,

“How

much

farther?”

“Not

far

at

all,”

the

soldier

called

Parker

answers.

“You

want

me

to

stay

here

with

you?”

“I’m

not

afraid,”

Sammy

says.

You

have

to

be

brave

now,

Cassie

told

him

the

day

his

mother

died.

When

he

saw

the

empty

bed

and

knew

without

asking

that

she

was

gone

with

Nan-Nan

and

all

the

others,

the

ones

he

knew

and

the

ones

he

didn’t

know,

the

ones

they

piled

up

and

burned

at

the

edge

of

town.

“You

shouldn’t

be,”

the

soldier

says.

“You’re

perfectly

safe

now.”

That’s

exactly

what

Daddy

said

on

a

night

after

the

power

died,

after

he

boarded

the

windows

and

blocked

off

the

doors,

when

the

bad

men

with

guns

came

out

to

steal

things.

You’re

perfectly

safe.

After

Mommy

got

sick

and

Daddy

slipped

the

white

paper

mask

over

Cassie’s

and

his

faces.

Just

to

be

sure,

Sam.

I

think

you’re

perfectly

safe.

“And

you’re

gonna

love

Camp

Haven,”

the

soldier

says.

“Wait

till

you

see

it.

We

fixed

it

up

just

for

kids

like

you.”

“And

they

can’t

find

us

there?”

Parker

smiles.

“Well,

I

don’t

know

about

that.

But

it’s

probably

the

most

secure

place

in

North

America

right

now.

There’s

even

an

invisible

force

field,

in

case

the

visitors

try

anything.”

“Force

fields

aren’t

real.”

“Well,

people

used

to

say

the

same

thing

about

aliens.”

“Have

you

seen

one,

Parker?”

“Not

yet,”

Parker

answers.

“Nobody

has,

at

least

not

in

my

company,

but

we’re

lookingforward

to

it.”

He

smiles

a

hard

soldiery

smile,

and

Sammy’s

heart

quickens.

He

wishes

he

were

old

enough

to

be

a

soldier

like

Parker.

“Who

knows?”

Parker

says.

“Maybe

they

look

just

like

us.

Maybe

you’re

looking

at

oneright

now.”

A

different

kind

of

smile

now.

Teasing.

The

soldier

stands

up,

and

Sammy

reaches

for

his

hand.

He

doesn’t

want

Parker

to

leave.

“Does

Camp

Heaven

really

have

a

force

field?”

“Yep.

And

manned

watchtowers

and

twenty-four/seven

video

surveillance

and

twenty-foot

fencing

topped

with

razor

wire

and

big,

mean

guard

dogs

that

can

smell

a

nonhuman

five

miles

away.”

Sammy’s

nose

crinkles.

“That

doesn’t

sound

like

heaven!

That

sounds

like

prison!”

“Except

a

prison

keeps

the

bad

guys

in

and

our

camp

keeps

’em

out.”

38

NIGHT.

The

stars

above,

bright

and

cold,

and

the

dark

road

below,

and

the

humming

of

the

wheels

on

the

dark

road

beneath

the

cold

stars.

The

headlamps

stabbing

the

thick

dark.

The

swaying

of

the

bus

and

the

stale

warm

air.

The

girl

across

the

aisle

is

sitting

up

now,

dark

hair

matted

to

the

side

of

her

head,

cheeks

hollow

and

skin

drawn

tight

across

her

skull,

making

her

eyes

seem

owly

huge.

Sammy

smiles

hesitantly

at

her.

She

doesn’t

smile

back.

Her

stare

is

fixed

on

the

water

bottle

leaning

against

his

leg.

He

holds

out

the

bottle.

“Want

some?”

A

bony

arm

shoots

across

the

space

between

them,

and

she

pulls

the

bottle

from

his

hand,

gulps

down

the

rest

of

the

water

in

four

swallows,

then

tosses

the

empty

bottle

onto

the

seat

beside

her.

“I

think

they

have

more,

if

you’re

still

thirsty,”

Sammy

says.

The

girl

doesn’t

say

anything.

She

stares

at

him,

hardly

blinking.

“And

they

have

gummies,

too,

if

you’re

hungry.”

She

just

looks

at

him,

not

speaking.

Legs

curled

up

beneath

Parker’s

green

jacket,round

eyes

unblinking.

“My

name’s

Sam,

but

everybody

calls

me

Sammy.

Except

Cassie.

Cassie

calls

me

Sams.What’s

your

name?”

The

girl

raises

her

voice

over

the

hum

of

the

wheels

and

the

growl

of

the

engine.

“Megan.”

Her

thin

fingers

pluck

at

the

green

material

of

the

army

jacket.

“Where

did

this

come

from?”

she

wonders

aloud,

her

voice

barely

conquering

the

humming

and

growling

in

the

background.

Sammy

gets

up

and

slides

into

the

empty

space

beside

her.

She

flinches,

drawing

her

legs

back

as

far

as

she

can.

“From

Parker,”

Sammy

tells

her.

“That’s

him

sitting

up

there

by

the

driver.

He’s

a

medic.

That

means

he

takes

care

of

sick

people.

He’s

really

nice.”

The

thin

girl

named

Megan

shakes

her

head.

“I’m

not

sick.”

Eyes

cupped

in

dark

circles,

lips

cracked

and

peeling,

hair

matted

and

entangled

with

twigs

and

dead

leaves.

Her

forehead

is

shiny,

and

her

cheeks

are

flushed.

“Where

are

we

going?”

she

wants

to

know.

“Camp

Heaven.”

“Camp…what?”

“It’s

a

fort,”

Sammy

says.

“And

not

just

any

fort.

The

biggest,

best,

safest

fortin

the

whole

world.

It

even

has

a

force

field!”

It’s

very

warm

and

stuffy

on

the

bus,

but

Megan

can’t

stop

shivering.

Sammy

tucks

Parker’s

jacket

under

her

chin.

She

stares

at

his

face

with

her

huge,

owly

eyes.

“Who’s

Cassie?”

“My

sister.

She’s

coming,

too.

The

soldiers

are

going

back

for

her.

For

her

and

Daddyand

all

the

others.”

“You

mean

she’s

alive?”

Sammy

nods,

puzzled.

Why

wouldn’t

Cassie

be

alive?

“Your

father

and

your

sister

are

alive?”

Her

bottom

lip

quivers.

A

tear

cuts

a

trail

through

the

soot

on

her

face.

The

soot

from

the

smoke

from

the

fires

from

the

bodies

burning.

Without

thinking,

Sammy

takes

her

hand.

Like

when

Cassie

took

his

the

night

she

toldhim

what

the

Others

had

done.

That

was

their

first

night

in

the

refugee

camp.

The

hugeness

of

what

had

happened

over

the

past

few

months

hadn’t

hit

him

until

that

night,

after

the

lamps

were

turned

off

and

he

lay

curled

next

to

Cassie

in

the

dark.

Everything

had

happened

so

fast,

from

the

day

the

power

died

to

the

day

his

father

wrapped

Mommy

in

the

white

sheet

to

their

arrival

at

the

camp.

He

always

thought

they’d

go

home

one

day

and

everything

would

be

like

it

was

before

they

came.

Mommy

wouldn’t

come

back—he

wasn’t

a

baby;

he

knew

Mommy

wasn’t

coming

back—but

he

didn’t

understand

that

there

was

no

going

back,

that

what

had

happened

was

forever.

Until

that

night.

The

night

Cassie

held

his

hand

and

told

him

Mommy

was

just

one

ofbillions.

That

almost

everybody

on

Earth

was

dead.

That

they

would

never

live

in

their

house

again.

That

he

would

never

go

to

school

again.

That

all

his

friends

were

dead.

“It

isn’t

right,”

Megan

whispers

now

in

the

dark

of

the

bus.

“It

isn’t

right.”

Sheis

staring

at

Sammy’s

face.

“My

whole

family’s

gone,

and

your

father

and

your

sister?

It

isn’t

right!”

Parker

has

gotten

up

again.

He’s

stopping

at

each

seat,

speaking

softly

to

each

child,

and

then

he’s

touching

their

foreheads.

When

he

touches

them,

a

light

glows

in

the

gloom.

Sometimes

the

light

is

green.

Sometimes

it’s

red.

After

the

light

fades

away,

Parker

stamps

the

child’s

hand.

Red

light,

red

stamp.

Green

light,

green

stamp.

“My

little

brother

was

around

your

age,”

Megan

says

to

Sammy.

It

sounds

like

an

accusation:How

come

you’re

alive

and

he

isn’t?

“What’s

his

name?”

Sammy

asks.

“What’s

that

matter?

Why

do

you

want

to

know

his

name?”

He

wishes

Cassie

were

here.

Cassie

would

know

what

to

say

to

make

Megan

feel

better.She

always

knew

the

right

thing

to

say.

“His

name

was

Michael,

okay?

Michael

Joseph,

and

he

was

six

years

old

and

he

neverdid

anything

to

anybody.

Is

that

okay?

Are

you

happy

now?

Michael

Joseph

was

my

brother’s

name.

You

want

to

know

everybody

else’s?”

She

is

looking

over

Sammy’s

shoulder

at

Parker,

who

has

stopped

at

their

row.

“Well,

hello,

sleepyhead,”

the

medic

says

to

Megan.

“She’s

sick,

Parker,”

Sammy

tells

him.

“You

need

to

make

her

better.”

“We’re

going

to

make

everybody

better,”

Parker

says

with

a

smile.

“I’m

not

sick,”

Megan

says,

then

shivers

violently

beneath

Parker’s

green

jacket.

“Heck

no,”

Parker

says

with

a

nod

and

a

big

grin.

“But

maybe

I

should

check

your

temperature,

just

to

make

sure.

Okay?”

He

holds

up

a

quarter-size

silver

disk.

“Anything

over

a

hundred

degrees

glows

green.”

He

leans

over

Sammy

and

presses

the

disk

against

Megan’s

forehead.

It

lights

up

green.

“Uh-oh,”

Parker

says.

“Lemme

check

you,

Sam.”

The

metal

is

warm

against

his

forehead.

Parker’s

face

is

bathed

for

a

second

in

red

light.

Parker

rolls

the

stamp

over

the

back

of

Megan’s

hand.

The

green

ink

shines

wetly

in

the

dimness.

It’s

a

smiley

face.

Then

a

red

smiley

face

for

Sammy.

“Wait

for

them

to

call

your

color,

okay?”

Parker

says

to

Megan.

“Greens

are

going

straight

to

the

hospital.”

“I’m

not

sick,”

Megan

shouts

hoarsely.

Her

voice

cracks.

She

doubles

over,

coughing,

and

Sammy

instinctively

recoils.

Parker

pats

him

on

the

shoulder.

“It’s

just

a

bad

cold,

Sam,”

he

whispers.

“She’s

gonna

be

okay.”

“I’m

not

going

to

the

hospital,”

Megan

tells

Sammy

after

Parker

returns

to

the

frontof

the

bus.

She

furiously

rubs

the

back

of

her

hand

against

the

jacket,

smearing

the

ink.

The

smiley

face

is

now

just

a

green

blob.

“You

have

to,”

Sammy

says.

“Don’t

you

want

to

get

better?”

She

shakes

her

head

sharply.

He

doesn’t

get

it.

“Hospitals

aren’t

where

you

go

to

get

better.

Hospitals

are

where

you

go

to

die.”

After

his

mother

got

sick,

he

asked

Daddy,

“Aren’t

you

going

to

take

Mommy

to

thehospital?”

And

his

father

said

that

it

wasn’t

safe.

Too

many

sick

people,

not

enough

doctors,

and

not

anything

the

doctors

could

do

for

her,

anyway.

Cassie

told

him

the

hospital

was

broken,

just

like

the

TV

and

the

lights

and

the

cars

and

everything

else.

“Everything’s

broken?”

he

asked

Cassie.

“Everything?”

“No,

not

everything,

Sams,”

she

answered.

“Not

this.”

She

took

his

hand

and

put

it

against

his

chest,

and

his

pounding

heart

pushed

fiercely

against

his

open

palm.

“Unbroken,”

she

said.

39

HIS

MOTHER

WILL

only

come

to

him

in

the

in-between

space,

the

gray

time

between

wakingand

sleeping.

She

stays

away

from

his

dreams,

as

if

she

knows

not

to

go

there,

because

dreams

are

not

real

but

feel

more

than

real

when

you’re

dreaming

them.

She

loves

him

too

much

to

do

that.

Sometimes

he

can

see

her

face,

though

most

of

the

time

he

can’t,

just

her

shape,

a

little

darker

than

the

gray

behind

his

lids,

and

he

can

smell

her

and

touch

her

hair,

feel

it

trail

through

his

fingers.

If

he

tries

too

hard

to

see

her

face,

she

fades

into

the

dark.

And

if

he

tries

to

hold

her

too

tightly,

she

slips

away

like

her

hair

between

his

fingers.

The

hum

of

the

wheels

on

the

dark

road.

The

stale

warm

air

and

the

swaying

of

the

bus

beneath

the

cold

stars.

How

much

farther

to

Camp

Heaven?

It

seems

like

they’vebeen

on

the

dark

road

beneath

the

cold

stars

forever.

He

waits

for

his

mother

in

the

in-between

space,

his

eyes

closed,

while

Megan

watches

him

with

those

big,

round,

owly

eyes.

He

falls

asleep

waiting.

He

is

still

asleep

when

the

three

school

buses

pull

up

to

the

gates

of

Camp

Haven.High

above

in

the

watchtower,

the

sentry

pushes

a

button,

the

electronic

lock

releases,

and

the

gate

slides

open.

The

buses

pull

in

and

the

gate

slides

shut

behind

them.

He

doesn’t

wake

up

until

the

buses

roll

to

a

stop

with

a

final,

angry

hiss

of

their

brakes.

Two

soldiers

are

moving

down

the

aisle,

waking

the

children

who

have

fallen

asleep.

The

soldiers

are

heavily

armed,

but

they

smile

and

their

voices

are

gentle.

It’s

okay.

Time

to

get

up.

You’re

perfectly

safe

now.

Sammy

sits

up,

squinting

in

the

sudden

blaze

of

light

flooding

through

the

windows,

and

looks

outside.

They

have

stopped

in

front

of

a

large

airplane

hangar.

The

big

bay

doors

are

closed,

so

he

can’t

see

inside.

For

a

moment

he

isn’t

worried

about

being

in

a

strange

place

without

Daddy

or

Cassie

or

Bear.

He

knows

what

the

brightlight

means:

The

aliens

couldn’t

kill

the

power

here.

It

also

means

Parker

told

the

truth:

The

camp

does

have

a

force

field.

It

has

to.

They

don’t

care

if

the

Others

know

about

the

camp.

They

are

perfectly

safe.

Megan’s

breath

is

heavy

in

his

ear,

and

he

turns

to

look

at

her.

Her

eyes

are

huge

in

the

glare

of

the

floodlights.

She

grabs

his

hand.

“Don’t

leave

me,”

she

begs.

A

big

man

heaves

himself

onto

the

bus.

He

stands

beside

the

driver,

hands

on

hips.

He

has

a

wide,

fleshy

face

and

very

small

eyes.

“Good

morning,

boys

and

girls,

and

welcome

to

Camp

Haven!

My

name

is

Major

Bob.

Iknow

you’re

tired

and

hungry

and

maybe

a

little

scared…Who’s

a

little

scared

right

now?

Raise

your

hand.”

No

hands

go

up.

Twenty-six

pairs

of

eyes

stare

blankly

at

him,

and

Major

Bob

grins.

His

teeth

are

small,

like

his

eyes.

“That’s

outstanding.

And

you

know

what?

You

shouldn’t

be

scared!

Our

camp

is

the

safest

place

in

the

whole

ding-dong

world

right

now,

I

kid

you

not.

You’re

all

perfectly

safe.”

He

turns

to

one

of

the

smiling

soldiers,

who

hands

him

a

clipboard.

“Now

there

are

only

two

rules

here

at

Camp

Haven.

Rule

number

one:

Remember

your

colors.

Everybody

hold

up

your

colors!”

Twenty-five

fists

fly

into

the

air.

The

twenty-sixth,

Megan’s,

remains

in

her

lap.

“Reds,

in

a

couple

of

minutes

you’ll

be

escorted

into

Hangar

Number

One

forprocessing.

Greens,

sit

tight,

you’ve

got

a

little

farther

to

go.”

“I’m

not

going,”

Megan

whispers

in

Sammy’s

ear.

“Rule

number

two!”

Major

Bob

booms.

“Rule

two

is

two

words:

Listen

and

follow.

That’seasy

to

remember,

right?

Rule

two,

two

words.

Listen

to

your

group

leader.

Follow

every

instruction

your

group

leader

gives

you.

Don’t

question

and

don’t

talk

back.

They

are—we

all

are—here

for

one

reason

and

one

reason

only,

and

that’s

to

keep

you

guys

safe.

And

we

can’t

keep

you

guys

safe

unless

you

guys

listen

and

follow

all

instructions,

right

away,

no

questions.”

He

hands

the

clipboard

back

to

the

smiling

soldier,

claps

his

pudgy

hands,

and

says,

“Any

questions?”

“He

just

said

don’t

ask

questions,”

Megan

whispers.

“And

then

he

asks

if

we

have

any

questions.”

“Outstanding!”

Major

Bob

yells.

“Let’s

get

you

processed!

Reds,

your

group

leaderis

Corporal

Parker.

No

running,

pushing,

or

shoving,

but

keep

it

moving.

No

breakingline

and

no

talking,

and

remember

to

show

your

stamp

at

the

door.

Let’s

move

it,

people.

The

sooner

we

get

you

processed,

the

sooner

you

can

catch

some

sleep

and

have

some

breakfast.

I’m

not

saying

the

food

is

the

best

in

the

world,

but

there’s

plenty

of

it!”

He

lumbers

down

the

steps.

The

bus

rocks

with

each

footfall.

Sammy

starts

to

get

up,and

Megan

yanks

him

back

down.

“Don’t

leave

me,”

she

says

again.

“But

I’m

a

red,”

Sammy

protests.

He

feels

sorry

for

Megan,

but

he’s

anxious

to

leave.It

feels

like

he’s

been

on

the

bus

forever.

And

the

sooner

the

buses

are

empty,

the

sooner

they

can

turn

around

and

go

back

for

Cassie

and

Daddy.

“It’s

all

right,

Megan,”

he

tries

to

comfort

her.

“You

heard

Parker.

They’re

going

to

make

everybody

better.”

He

falls

into

line

behind

the

other

reds.

Parker

is

standing

at

the

bottom

of

the

steps,

checking

stamps.

The

driver

shouts

out,

“Hey!”

and

Sammy

turns,

just

as

Meganhits

the

bottom

step.

She

slams

into

Parker’s

chest

and

screams

when

he

grabs

her

flailing

arms.

“Let

me

go!”

The

driver

pulls

her

from

Parker’s

grip

and

drags

her

back

up

the

steps,

an

arm

locked

around

her

waist.

“Sammy!”

Megan

screams.

“Sammy,

don’t

leave

me!

Don’t

let

them—”

The

doors

slam

closed,

cutting

off

her

cries.

Sammy

glances

up

at

Parker,

who

gives

him

a

reassuring

pat

on

the

shoulder.

“She’s

going

to

be

fine,

Sam,”

the

medic

says

quietly.

“Come

on.”

As

he

walks

to

the

hangar,

he

can

hear

her

screaming

behind

the

yellow

metal

skin

of

the

bus,

over

the

throaty

growl

of

its

engine,

the

hiss

of

its

brakes

letting

go.

Screaming

as

if

she’s

dying,

as

if

they’re

torturing

her.

And

then

he

steps

through

a

side

door

into

the

hangar

and

he

can’t

hear

her

anymore.

A

soldier

is

standing

just

inside

the

door.

He

hands

Sammy

a

card

with

the

number

forty-nine

printed

on

it.

“Go

to

the

closest

red

circle,”

the

soldier

tells

him.

“Sit

down.

Wait

for

your

number

to

be

called.”

“I

gotta

get

over

to

the

hospital

now,”

Parker

says.

“Stay

frosty,

champ,

and

remember

it’s

all

cool

now.

There’s

nothing

that

can

hurt

you

here.”

He

tousles

Sammy’s

hair,

promises

he’ll

see

him

again

soon,

and

gives

him

a

fist

bump

before

leaving.

There

are

no

planes

in

the

huge

hangar,

much

to

Sammy’s

disappointment.

He’d

never

seen

a

fighter

jet

up

close,

though

he

has

piloted

one

a

thousand

times

since

the

Arrival.

While

his

mother

lay

dying

down

the

hall,

he

was

in

the

cockpit

of

a

Fighting

Falcon,

soaring

at

the

edge

of

the

atmosphere

at

three

times

the

speed

of

sound,

heading

straight

toward

the

alien

mothership.

Sure,

its

gray

hull

bristled

with

gun

turrets

and

ray

cannons

and

its

force

field

glowed

a

fiendish,

sickly

green,

but

there

was

a

weakness

in

the

field,

a

hole

only

two

inches

wider

than

his

fighter,

that

if

he

hit

just

right…

And

he’d

have

to

hit

it

just

right,

because

the

whole

squadron

had

been

wiped

out,

he

was

down

to

his

last

missile,

and

there

was

no

one

left

to

defend

the

Earth

from

the

alien

horde

but

him,

Sammy

“the

Viper”

Sullivan.

Three

large

red

circles

have

been

painted

on

the

floor.

Sam

joins

the

other

children

in

the

one

closest

to

the

door

and

sits

down.

He

can’t

get

Megan’s

terrified

screams

out

of

his

head.

Her

huge

eyes

and

the

way

her

skin

shimmered

with

sweat

and

the

sick-smell

of

her

breath.

Cassie

told

him

the

Pesky

Ants

was

over,

that

it

had

killed

all

the

people

it

was

going

to

kill

because

some

people

couldn’t

catch

it,

like

Cassie

and

Daddy

and

him

and

everyone

else

at

Camp

Ashpit.

They

were

immune,

Cassie

said.

But

what

if

Cassie’s

wrong?

Maybe

the

disease

took

longer

to

kill

some

people.

Maybeit’s

killing

Megan

right

now.

Or

maybe,

he

thinks,

the

Others

have

unleashed

a

second

plague,

one

even

worse

thanthe

Pesky

Ants,

one

that

will

kill

everyone

who

survived

the

first

one.

He

pushes

the

thought

away.

Since

the

death

of

his

mother,

he’s

become

good

at

pushing

bad

thoughts

away.

There

are

over

a

hundred

kids

gathered

into

the

three

circles,

but

the

hangar

is

very

quiet.

The

boy

sitting

next

to

Sammy

is

so

exhausted,

he

lies

down

on

his

side

on

the

cold

concrete,

curls

into

a

ball,

and

falls

asleep.

The

boy

is

older

than

Sammy,

maybe

ten

or

eleven,

and

he

sleeps

with

his

thumb

tucked

firmly

between

his

lips.

A

bell

rings,

and

then

a

lady’s

voice

blares

over

a

loudspeaker.

First

in

English,

then

in

Spanish.

“WELCOME,

CHILDREN,

TO

CAMP

HAVEN!

WE

ARE

SO

HAPPY

TO

SEE

ALL

OF

YOU!

WE

KNOW

YOU’RETIRED

AND

HUNGRY

AND

SOME

OF

YOU

AREN’T

FEELING

VERY

WELL,

BUT

EVERYTHING

WILL

BFEINE

NOW.

STAY

IN

YOUR

CIRCLE

AND

LISTEN

CAREFULLY

FOR

YOUR

NUMBER

TO

BE

CALLED.

DON’T

LEAVE

YOUR

CIRCLE

FOR

ANY

REASON.

WE

DON’T

WANT

TO

LOSE

ANY

OF

YOU!

STAY

QUIET

ANCDALM

AND

REMEMBER

THAT

WE’RE

HERE

TO

TAKE

CARE

OF

YOU!

YOU’RE

PERFECTLY

SAFE.”

A

moment

later,

the

first

number

is

called

out.

The

child

rises

from

his

red

circle

and

is

escorted

by

a

soldier

to

a

door

painted

the

same

color

at

the

far

end

of

the

hangar.

The

soldier

takes

the

card

from

him

and

opens

the

door.

The

child

goes

in

alone.

The

soldier

closes

the

door

and

returns

to

his

station

beside

a

red

circle.

Each

circle

has

two

soldiers,

both

heavily

armed,

but

they

smile.

All

the

soldiers

smile.

They

never

stop

smiling.

One

by

one

the

children’s

numbers

are

called.

They

leave

their

circle,

cross

the

hangar

floor,

and

disappear

behind

the

red

door.

They

don’t

come

back.

It

takes

almost

an

hour

for

the

lady

to

call

Sammy’s

number.

Morning

comes,

and

sunlight

breaks

through

the

high

windows,

filling

the

hangar

with

golden

light.

He’s

very

tired,

ravenously

hungry,

and

a

little

stiff

from

sitting

so

long,

but

he

leaps

up

when

he

hears

it—“FORTY-NINE!

PROCEED

TO

THE

RED

DOOR,

PLEASE!

NUMBER

FORTY-NINE!”—andhisn

hurry

nearly

trips

over

the

sleeping

boy

beside

him.

A

nurse

is

waiting

for

him

on

the

other

side

of

the

door.

He

knows

she’s

a

nurse

because

she’s

wearing

green

scrubs

and

soft-soled

sneakers

like

Nurse

Rachel

from

his

doctor’s

office.

Her

smile

is

warm

like

Nurse

Rachel’s,

too,

and

she

takes

his

hand

and

leads

him

into

a

small

room.

There’s

a

hamper

overflowing

with

dirty

clothing

and

paper

robes

hanging

from

hooks

next

to

a

white

curtain.

“Okay,

champ,”

the

nurse

says.

“How

long

has

it

been

since

you’ve

had

a

bath?”

She

laughs

at

his

startled

expression.

Then

the

nurse

whips

back

the

white

curtainto

reveal

a

shower

stall.

“Everything

comes

off

and

into

the

hamper.

Yes,

even

the

underwear.

We

love

children

here,

but

not

lice

or

ticks

or

anything

with

more

than

two

legs!”

Though

he

protests,

the

nurse

insists

on

doing

the

chore

herself.

He

stands

with

his

arms

folded

in

front

of

him

while

she

squirts

a

stream

of

foul-smelling

shampoo

into

his

hair

and

sudses

his

entire

body,

from

his

head

to

his

toes.

“Keep

your

eyes

closed

tight

or

it’ll

burn,”

the

nurse

gently

instructs

him.

She

lets

him

dry

himself

off,

and

then

tells

him

to

put

on

one

of

the

paper

robes.

“Go

through

that

door

over

there.”

She

points

at

the

door

at

the

other

end

of

the

room.

The

robe

is

much

too

big

for

him.

The

bottom

of

it

trails

the

floor

as

he

goes

to

the

next

room.

Another

nurse

is

waiting

there

for

him.

She’s

heavier

than

the

first

one,

older,

and

not

quite

so

friendly.

She

has

Sammy

step

onto

the

scale,

writes

down

his

weight

on

a

clipboard

beside

his

number,

and

then

has

him

hop

onto

the

examination

table.

She

places

a

metal

disk—the

same

kind

Parker

used

on

the

bus—against

his

forehead.

“I’m

taking

your

temperature,”

she

explains.

He

nods.

“I

know.

Parker

told

me.

Red

means

normal.”

“You’re

red,

all

right,”

the

nurse

says.

Her

cold

fingers

press

on

his

wrist,

taking

his

pulse.

Sammy

shivers.

He’s

goose-bumpy

cold

in

the

flimsy

robe

and

a

little

scared.

He

never

liked

going

to

the

doctor,

and

he’s

worried

they

might

give

him

a

shot.

The

nurse

sits

down

in

front

of

him

and

says

she

needs

to

ask

some

questions.

He’s

supposed

to

listen

carefully

and

answer

as

honestly

as

he

can.

If

he

doesn’t

know

the

answer,

that’s

okay.

Does

he

understand?

What’s

his

full

name?

How

old

is

he?

What

town

is

he

from?

Did

he

have

any

brothersor

sisters?

Are

they

alive?

“Cassie,”

Sammy

says.

“Cassie’s

alive.”

The

nurse

writes

down

Cassie’s

name.

“How

old

is

Cassie?”

“Cassie

is

sixteen.

They’re

going

back

to

get

her,”

Sammy

tells

the

nurse.

“Who

is?”

“The

soldiers.

The

soldiers

said

there

wasn’t

room

for

her,

but

they

were

going

back

to

get

her

and

Daddy.”

“Daddy?

So

your

father

is

alive,

too?

What

about

your

mother?”

Sammy

shakes

his

head.

Bites

his

lower

lip.

He

shudders

violently.

So

cold.

He

rememberstwo

empty

seats

on

the

bus,

the

one

Parker

sat

next

to

him

in

and

the

one

he

sat

in

next

to

Megan.

He

blurts

out,

“They

said

there

was

no

room

on

the

bus,

but

there

was

room.

Daddy

and

Cassie

could

have

come,

too.

Why

didn’t

the

soldiers

let

them

come?”

The

nurse

answers,

“Because

you’re

the

first

priority,

Samuel.”

“But

they’re

going

to

bring

them,

too,

right?”

“Eventually,

yes.”

More

questions.

How

did

his

mother

die?

What

happened

after

that?

The

nurse’s

pen

flies

over

the

page.

She

gets

up

and

pats

his

bare

knee.

“Don’t

be

scared,”

she

tells

him

before

she

leaves.

“You’re

perfectly

safe

here.”

Her

voice

sounds

flat

to

Sammy,

like

she’s

repeating

something

she’s

said

a

thousand

times.

“Sit

tight.

The

doctor

will

be

here

in

a

minute.”

It

feels

much

longer

than

a

minute

to

Sammy.

He

wraps

his

thin

arms

around

his

chest,

trying

to

hold

in

his

body

heat.

His

eyes

restlessly

roam

the

little

room.

A

sink

and

cabinet.

The

chair

the

nurse

sat

in.

A

rolling

stool

in

one

corner

and,

mounted

from

the

ceiling

directly

above

the

stool,

a

camera,

its

gleaming

black

eye

aimed

directly

at

the

examination

table.

The

nurse

comes

back

in,

followed

by

the

doctor.

Dr.

Pam

is

as

tall

and

thin

as

the

nurse

is

short

and

round.

Immediately,

Sammy

feels

calmer.

There

is

something

about

the

tall

doctor

lady

that

reminds

him

of

his

mother.

Maybe

it’s

the

way

she

talks

to

him,

looking

directly

into

his

eyes,

her

voice

warm

and

gentle.

Her

hands

are

warm,

too.

She

doesn’t

wear

gloves

to

touch

him

like

the

nurse

did.

She

does

what

he

expects,

the

doctor

stuff

he’s

used

to.

Shines

a

light

in

his

eyes,

in

his

ears,

down

his

throat.

Listens

to

him

breathe

through

the

stethoscope.

Rubsjust

beneath

his

jaw,

but

not

too

hard,

all

the

while

humming

softly

under

her

breath.

“Lie

all

the

way

back,

Sam.”

Firm

fingers

pressing

on

his

belly.

“Any

pain

when

I

do

this?”

She

has

him

stand

up,

bend

over,

reach

for

his

toes,

while

she

runs

her

hands

up

and

down

along

his

spine.

“Okay,

sport,

hop

back

on

the

table.”

He

jumps

back

quickly

onto

the

crinkly

paper,

sensing

the

visit

is

almost

over.

There

won’t

be

a

shot.

Maybe

they’ll

prick

his

finger,

and

that’s

no

fun,

but

at

least

there

won’t

be

a

shot.

“Hold

out

your

hand

for

me.”

Dr.

Pam

places

a

tiny

gray

tube

no

larger

than

a

grain

of

rice

into

his

palm.

“Know

what

this

is?

It’s

called

a

microchip.

Did

you

ever

have

a

pet,

a

dog

or

a

cat,

Sammy?”

No.

His

father

is

allergic.

He

always

wanted

a

dog,

though.

“Well,

some

owners

put

a

device

very

much

like

this

one

into

their

pets

in

case

they

run

away

or

get

lost.

This

one’s

a

little

different,

though.

It

puts

out

a

signal

that

we

can

track.”

It

goes

just

underneath

the

skin,

the

doctor

explains,

and

no

matter

where

Sammy

is,

they’ll

be

able

to

find

him.

Just

in

case

something

happens.

It’s

very

safe

here

at

Camp

Haven,

but

just

a

few

months

ago

everyone

thought

the

world

was

safe

from

an

alien

attack,

so

now

we

have

to

be

careful,

we

have

to

take

every

precaution…

He

stops

listening

after

the

words

underneath

the

skin.

They’re

going

to

inject

that

gray

tube

into

him?

Fear

begins

to

gnaw

anew

around

the

edges

of

his

heart.

“It

won’t

hurt,”

the

doctor

says,

sensing

the

nibbling

fear.

“We

give

you

a

little

shot

to

numb

you

first,

and

then

you’ll

have

just

a

small

sore

spot

for

a

day

or

two.”

The

doctor

is

very

kind.

He

can

see

that

she

understands

how

much

he

hates

shots

and

she

really

doesn’t

want

to

do

it.

She

has

to

do

it.

She

shows

him

the

needle

used

for

the

shot

to

numb

him.

It’s

very

tiny,

hardly

wider

than

a

human

hair.

Like

a

mosquito

bite,

the

doctor

says.

That

isn’t

so

bad.

He’s

been

bitten

by

mosquitoes

lots

of

times.

And

Dr.

Pam

promises

he

won’t

feel

the

gray

tube

go

in.

He

won’t

feel

anything

at

all

after

the

numbing

shot.

He

lies

on

his

tummy,

tucking

his

face

into

the

crook

of

his

elbow.

The

room

is

cold,

and

the

swipe

of

the

alcohol

at

the

base

of

his

neck

makes

him

shudder

violently.

The

nurse

tells

him

to

relax.

“The

more

you

tense

up,

the

sorer

you’ll

be,”

she

tells

him.

He

tries

to

think

of

something

nice,

something

that

will

take

his

mind

off

what’s

about

to

happen.

He

sees

Cassie’s

face

in

his

mind’s

eye,

and

he’s

surprised.

He

expected

to

see

his

mother’s

face.

Cassie

is

smiling.

He

smiles

back

at

her,

into

the

crook

of

his

arm.

A

mosquito

that

must

be

the

size

of

a

bird

bites

down

hard

on

the

back

of

his

neck.

He

doesn’t

move,

but

whimpers

softly

against

his

skin.

In

less

than

a

minute,

it’s

over.

Number

forty-nine

has

been

tagged.

40

AFTER

THE

DOCTOR

bandages

the

insertion

point,

she

makes

a

note

in

his

chart,

handsthe

chart

to

the

nurse,

and

tells

Sammy

there’s

just

one

more

test.

He

follows

the

doctor

into

the

next

room.

It’s

much

smaller

than

the

examination

room,

hardly

larger

than

a

closet.

In

the

middle

of

the

room

is

a

chair

that

reminds

Sammyof

the

one

at

his

dentist’s,

narrow

and

high-backed,

thin

armrests

on

either

side.

The

doctor

tells

him

to

have

a

seat.

“Lean

all

the

way

back,

head

back,

too,

that’s

right.

Stay

relaxed.”

Whirrr.

The

back

of

the

chair

lowers,

the

front

rises,

bringing

up

his

legs

until

he

is

almost

fully

reclined.

The

doctor’s

face

comes

into

view.

Smiling.

“Okay,

Sam,

you’ve

been

very

patient

with

us,

and

this

is

the

last

test,

I

promise.

It

doesn’t

last

long

and

it

doesn’t

hurt,

but

sometimes

it

can

be

a

little,

well,

intense.

It’s

a

test

of

the

implant

we

just

put

in.

To

make

sure

it’s

working

okay.

It

takes

a

few

minutes

to

run,

and

you

have

to

keep

very,

very

still.

That

can

be

hard

to

do,

can’t

it?

You

can’t

wiggle

or

squirm

or

even

scratch

your

nose,

or

it

will

ruin

the

test.

Think

you

can

do

that?”

Sammy

nods.

He

is

returning

the

doctor’s

warm

smile.

“I’ve

played

freeze

tag

before,”he

assures

her.

“I’m

really

good

at

it.”

“Good!

But

just

in

case,

I’m

going

to

put

these

straps

around

your

wrists

and

ankles,not

very

tight,

but

just

in

case

your

nose

does

start

to

itch.

The

straps

will

remind

you

to

keep

still.

Would

that

be

okay?”

Sammy

nods.

When

he’s

strapped

in,

she

says,

“Okay,

I’m

going

to

step

over

to

the

computer

now.

The

computer

is

going

to

send

a

signal

to

calibrate

the

transponder,

and

the

transponder

is

going

to

send

a

signal

back.

It

doesn’t

take

more

than

a

few

seconds,

but

it

may

feel

longer—maybe

a

lot

longer.

Different

people

react

in

different

ways.

Ready

to

give

it

a

try?”

“Okay.”

“Good!

Close

your

eyes.

Keep

them

closed

until

I

say

you

can

open

them.

Take

big,deep

breaths.

Here

we

go.

Keep

those

eyes

closed

now.

Counting

down

from

three…two…one…”

A

blinding

white

fireball

explodes

inside

Sammy

Sullivan’s

head.

His

body

stiffens;his

legs

strain

against

the

restraints;

his

tiny

fingers

lock

on

to

the

chair

arms.

He

hears

the

doctor’s

soothing

voice

on

the

other

side

of

the

blinding

light,

saying,

“It’s

all

right,

Sammy.

Don’t

be

afraid.

Just

a

few

more

seconds,

I

promise…”

He

sees

his

crib.

And

there’s

Bear

lying

next

to

him

in

the

crib,

and

then

there’s

the

mobile

of

stars

and

planets

spinning

lazily

over

his

bed.

He

sees

his

mother,

leaning

over

him,

holding

a

spoonful

of

medicine

and

telling

him

he

has

to

take

it.

There’s

Cassie

in

the

backyard,

and

it’s

summer

and

he’s

toddling

around

in

a

pair

of

Pull-Ups,

and

Cassie

is

spraying

water

from

the

hose

high

into

the

air

so

a

rainbow

springs

up

out

of

nothing.

She

whips

the

hose

back

and

forth,

laughing

as

he

chases

it,

the

fleeting,

uncatchable

colors,

shimmering

splinters

of

the

golden

light.

“Catch

the

rainbow,

Sammy!

Catch

the

rainbow!”

The

images

and

memories

pour

out

of

him,

like

water

rushing

down

a

drain.

In

no

more

than

ninety

seconds,

the

entirety

of

Sammy’s

life

roars

out

of

him

and

into

the

mainframe,

an

avalanche

of

touch

and

smell

and

taste

and

sound,

before

fading

into

the

white

nothingness.

His

mind

is

laid

bare

in

the

blinding

white,

all

that

he

has

experienced,

all

that

he

remembers,

and

even

those

things

that

he

can’t

remember;

everything

that

makes

up

the

personality

of

Sammy

Sullivanis

pulled

and

sorted

and

transmitted

by

the

device

at

the

base

of

his

neck

into

Dr.

Pam’s

computer.

Number

forty-nine

has

been

mapped.

41

DR.

PAM

UNDOES

the

straps

and

helps

him

out

of

the

chair.

Sammy’s

knees

give

out.She

holds

on

to

his

arms

to

keep

him

from

falling.

His

stomach

heaves,

and

he

vomits

on

the

white

floor.

Everywhere

he

looks,

black

blobs

jiggle

and

bounce.

The

big,

unsmilingnurse

takes

him

back

to

the

examination

room,

puts

him

on

the

table,

tells

him

everything

is

fine,

asks

if

she

can

bring

him

anything.

“I

want

my

bear!”

he

screams.

“I

want

my

daddy

and

my

Cassie

and

I

want

to

go

home!”

Dr.

Pam

appears

beside

him.

Her

kind

eyes

glow

with

understanding.

She

knows

what

he’s

feeling.

She

tells

him

how

brave

he

is,

how

brave

and

lucky

and

smart

to

have

come

this

far.

He

passed

the

final

test

with

flying

colors.

He’s

perfectly

healthy

and

perfectly

safe.

The

worst

is

over.

“That’s

what

my

daddy

said

every

time

something

bad

happened,

and

every

time

it

just

got

worse,”

Sammy

says,

choking

back

tears.

They

bring

him

a

white

jumpsuit

to

put

on.

It

reminds

him

of

a

fighter

pilot’s

outfit,

zippered

in

the

front,

the

material

slick

to

the

touch.

The

suit

is

too

big

for

him.

The

sleeves

keep

falling

over

his

hands.

“Do

you

know

why

you’re

so

important

to

us,

Sammy?”

Dr.

Pam

asks.

“Because

you’rethe

future.

Without

you

and

all

those

other

children,

we

won’t

stand

a

chance

against

them.

That’s

why

we

searched

for

you

and

brought

you

here

and

why

we’re

doing

all

this.

You

know

some

of

the

things

they’ve

done

to

us,

and

they’re

terrible.

Terrible,

awful

things,

but

that

isn’t

the

worst

part,

that

isn’t

everything

they’ve

done.”

“What

else

have

they

done?”

Sammy

whispers.

“Do

you

really

want

to

know?

I

can

show

you,

but

only

if

you

want

to

know.”

In

the

white

room,

he

had

just

relived

his

mother’s

death,

smelled

her

coppery

blood,

watched

his

father

wash

it

from

his

hands.

But

those

weren’t

the

worst

things

the

Others

had

done,

the

doctor

said.

Did

he

really

want

to

know?

“I

want

to

know,”

he

says.

The

doctor

holds

up

the

small

silver

disk

the

nurse

had

used

to

take

his

temperature,

the

same

device

Parker

had

pressed

against

his

and

Megan’s

foreheads

on

the

bus.

“This

isn’t

a

thermometer,

Sammy,”

Dr.

Pam

says.

“It

does

detect

something,

but

itisn’t

your

temperature.

It

tells

us

who

you

are.

Or

maybe

I

should

saywhat

you

are.

Tell

me

something,

Sam.

Have

you

seen

one

of

them

yet?

Have

you

seen

an

alien?”

He

shakes

his

head

no.

Shivering

inside

the

white

suit.

Curled

up

on

the

little

examinationtable.

Sick

to

his

stomach,

head

pounding,

weak

from

hunger

and

exhaustion.

Somethingin

him

wants

her

to

stop.

He

nearly

shouts

out,

Stop!

I

don’t

want

to

know!

But

he

bites

his

lip.

He

doesn’t

want

to

know;

he

has

to

know.

“I’m

very

sorry

to

say

you

have

seen

one,”

Dr.

Pam

says

in

a

soft,

sad

voice.

“We

all

have.

We’ve

been

waiting

for

them

to

come

since

the

Arrival,

but

the

truth

is

they’ve

been

here,

right

under

our

noses,

for

a

very

long

time.”

He

is

shaking

his

head

over

and

over.

Dr.

Pam

is

wrong.

He’s

never

seen

one.

For

hours

he

listened

to

Daddy

speculating

about

what

they

might

look

like.

Heard

his

fathersay

they

might

never

know

what

they

look

like.

There

had

been

no

messages

from

them,

no

landers,

no

signs

of

their

existence

except

the

grayish-green

mothership

in

high

orbit

and

the

unmanned

drones.

How

could

Dr.

Pam

be

saying

he

had

seen

one?

She

holds

out

her

hand.

“If

you

want

to

see,

I

can

show

you.”

42

BEN

PARISH

IS

DEAD.

I

don’t

miss

him.

Ben

was

a

wuss,

a

crybaby,

a

thumb-sucker.

Not

Zombie.

Zombie

is

everything

Ben

wasn’t.

Zombie

is

hardcore.

Zombie

is

badass.

Zombie

is

stone-cold.

Zombie

was

born

on

the

morning

I

left

the

convalescent

ward.

Traded

in

my

flimsy

gown

for

a

blue

jumpsuit.

Assigned

a

bunk

in

Barracks

10.

Whipped

back

into

shape

by

three

squares

a

day

and

brutal

physical

training,

but

most

of

all

by

Reznik,

the

regiment’s

senior

drill

instructor,

the

man

who

smashed

Ben

Parish

into

a

million

pieces,

thenreconstructed

him

into

the

merciless

zombie

killing

machine

that

he

is

today.

Don’t

get

me

wrong:

Reznik

is

a

cruel,

unfeeling,

sadistic

bastard,

and

I

fall

asleepevery

night

fantasizing

about

ways

to

kill

him.

From

day

one

he’s

made

it

his

mission

to

make

my

life

as

miserable

as

possible,

and

he’s

pretty

much

succeeded.

I’ve

been

slapped,

punched,

pushed,

kicked,

and

spat

on.

I’ve

been

ridiculed,

mocked,

and

screamed

at

until

my

ears

rang.

Forced

to

stand

for

hours

in

the

freezing

rain,

scrub

the

entire

barracks

floor

with

a

toothbrush,

disassemble

and

reassemble

my

rifle

until

my

fingers

bled,

run

until

my

legs

turned

to

jelly…you

get

the

idea.

I

didn’t

get

it,

though.

Not

at

first.

Was

he

training

me

to

be

a

soldier

or

trying

to

kill

me?

I

was

pretty

sure

it

was

the

latter.

Then

I

realized

it

was

both:

He

really

was

training

me

to

be

a

soldier—

by

trying

to

kill

me.

I’ll

give

you

just

one

example.

One’s

enough.

Morning

calisthenics

in

the

yard,

every

squad

in

the

regiment,

over

three

hundred

troops,

and

Reznik

picks

this

time

to

publicly

humiliate

me.

Looming

over

me,

hislegs

spread

wide,

hands

on

knees,

his

fleshy,

pockmarked

face

close

to

mine

as

I

dipped

into

push-up

number

seventy-nine.

“Private

Zombie,

did

your

mother

have

any

children

that

lived?”

“Sir!

Yes,

sir!”

“I

bet

when

you

were

born

she

took

one

look

at

you

and

tried

to

shove

you

back

in!”

Jamming

the

heel

of

his

black

boot

into

my

ass

to

force

me

down.

My

squad

is

doingknuckle

pushups

on

the

asphalt

trail

that

rings

the

yard,

because

the

ground

is

frozen

solid

and

asphalt

absorbs

blood;

you

don’t

slip

around

as

much.

He

wants

to

make

me

fail

before

I

reach

one

hundred.

I

push

against

his

heel:

No

way

I’m

starting

over.

Not

in

front

of

the

entire

regiment.

I

can

feel

my

fellow

recruits

watching

me.

Waiting

for

my

inevitable

collapse.

Waiting

for

Reznik

to

win.

Reznik

always

wins.

“Private

Zombie,

do

you

think

I’m

mean?”

“Sir!

No,

sir!”

My

muscles

burn.

My

knuckles

are

scraped

raw.

I’ve

gained

back

some

of

the

weight,

but

have

I

gotten

back

the

heart?

Eighty-eight.

Eighty-nine.

Almost

there.

“Do

you

hate

my

guts?”

“Sir!

No,

sir!”

Ninety-three.

Ninety-four.

Someone

from

another

squad

whispers,

“Who

is

that

guy?”

And

someone

else,

a

girl’s

voice,

says,

“His

name

is

Zombie.”

“Are

you

a

killer,

Private

Zombie?”

“Sir!

Yes,

sir!”

“Do

you

eat

alien

brains

for

breakfast?”

“Sir!

Yes,

sir!”

Ninety-five.

Ninety-six.

The

yard

is

funeral-quiet.

I’m

not

the

only

recruit

who

loathes

Reznik.

One

of

these

days,

somebody’s

going

to

beat

him

at

his

own

game,

that’s

the

prayer,

that’s

what’s

on

my

shoulders

as

I

fight

to

one

hundred.

“Bullshit!

I

hear

you’re

a

coward.

I

hear

you

run

from

a

fight.”

“Sir!

No,

sir!”

Ninety-seven.

Ninety-eight.

Two

more

and

I’ve

won.

I

hear

the

same

girl—she

must

be

standing

close

by—whisper,

“Come

on.”

On

the

ninety-ninth

push-up,

Reznik

shoves

me

down

with

his

heel.

I

fall

hard

on

mychest,

roll

my

cheek

against

the

asphalt,

and

there’s

his

puffy

face

and

tiny

pale

eyes

an

inch

from

mine.

Ninety-nine;

one

short.

The

bastard.

“Private

Zombie,

you

are

a

disgrace

to

the

species.

I’ve

hacked

up

lugies

tougherthan

you.

You

make

me

think

the

enemy

was

right

about

the

human

race.

You

should

be

ground

up

for

slop

and

passed

out

a

hog’s

shithole!

Well,

what

are

you

waiting

for,

you

stinking

bag

of

regurgitated

puke,

an

effing

invitation?”

My

head

rolls

to

one

side.

An

invitation

would

be

nice,

thank

you,

sir.

I

see

a

girl

around

my

age

standing

with

her

squad,

her

arms

folded

across

her

chest,

shaking

her

head

at

me.

Poor

Zombie.

She

isn’t

smiling.

Dark

eyes,

dark

hair,

skin

so

fair

it

seems

to

be

glowing

in

the

early-morning

light.

I

have

the

feeling

I

know

her

from

somewhere,

though

this

is

the

first

time

I

remember

seeing

her.

There

are

hundreds

of

kids

being

trained

for

war

and

hundreds

more

arriving

every

day,

handed

blue

jumpsuits,

assigned

to

squads,

packed

into

the

barracks

ringing

the

yard.

But

she

has

the

kind

of

face

you

remember.

“Get

up,

you

maggot!

Get

up

and

give

me

a

hundred

more.

One

hundred

more,

or

by

GodI

will

rip

out

your

eyeballs

and

hang

them

from

my

rearview

like

a

pair

of

fuzzy

dice!”

I’m

totally

spent.

I

don’t

think

I’ve

got

enough

left

for

even

one

more.

Reznik

doesn’t

give

a

crap

about

what

I

think.

That’s

the

other

thing

it

took

me

a

while

to

understand:

They

not

only

don’t

care

what

I

think—they

don’t

want

me

to

think.

His

face

is

so

close

to

mine,

I

can

smell

his

breath.

It

smells

like

spearmint.

“What

is

it,

sweetheart?

Are

you

tired?

Do

you

want

nappy-time?”

Do

I

have

at

least

one

push-up

left

in

me?

If

I

can

do

just

one

more,

I

won’t

be

atotal

loser.

I

press

my

forehead

against

the

asphalt

and

close

my

eyes.

There

is

a

place

I

go,

a

space

I

found

inside

me

after

Commander

Vosch

showed

me

the

final

battlefield,

a

center

of

complete

stillness

that

isn’t

touched

by

fatigue

or

hopelessness

or

anger

or

anything

brought

on

by

the

coming

of

the

Big

Green

Eye

in

the

Sky.

In

that

place,

I

have

no

name.

I’m

not

Ben

or

Zombie—I

just

am.

Whole,

untouchable,

unbroken.

The

last

living

person

in

the

universe

who

contains

all

human

potential—including

the

potential

to

give

the

biggest

asshole

on

Earth

just

one

more.

And

I

do.

43

NOT

THAT

THERE’S

ANYTHING

special

about

me.

Reznik

is

an

equal-opportunity

sadist.

He

treats

the

six

other

recruits

of

Squad

53with

the

same

savage

indecency.

Flintstone,

who’s

my

age,

with

his

big

head

and

bushy

unibrow;

Tank,

the

skinny,

quick-tempered

farm

boy;

Dumbo,

the

twelve-year-old

with

the

big

ears

and

quick

smile

that

disappeared

quickly

during

the

first

week

of

basic;

Poundcake,

the

eight-year-old

who

never

talks,

but

who’s

our

best

shot

by

far;

Oompa,

the

chubby

kid

with

the

crooked

teeth

who’s

last

in

every

drill

but

first

in

chow

line;

and

finally

the

youngest,

Teacup,

the

meanest

seven-year-old

you’ll

ever

meet,

the

most

gung

ho

of

all

of

us,

who

worships

the

ground

Reznik

walks

on,

no

matter

how

much

she’s

screamed

at

or

kicked

around.

I

don’t

know

their

real

names.

We

don’t

talk

about

who

we

were

before

or

how

we

came

to

the

camp

or

what

happened

to

our

families.

None

of

that

matters.

Like

Ben

Parish,those

guys—the

preFlintstone,

pre-Tank,

pre-Dumbo,

etc.—they’re

dead.

Tagged,

bagged,

and

told

we

are

the

last,

best

hope

for

humanity,

we

are

the

new

wine

poured

into

old

skins.

We

bonded

through

hatred—hatred

of

the

infesteds

and

their

alien

masters,

sure,

but

also

our

fierce,

uncompromising,

unadulterated

hatred

of

Sergeant

Reznik,

our

rage

made

all

the

more

intense

by

the

fact

that

we

could

never

express

it.

Then

the

kid

named

Nugget

was

assigned

to

Barracks

10,

and

one

of

us,

like

an

idiot,couldn’t

hold

it

inside

any

longer,

and

all

the

bottled-up

fury

exploded

free.

I’ll

give

you

one

guess

who

that

idiot

was.

I

couldn’t

believe

it

when

that

kid

showed

up

at

roll

call.

Five

years

old

tops,

lostin

his

white

jumpsuit,

shivering

in

the

cold

morning

air

of

the

yard,

looking

like

he

was

going

to

be

sick,

obviously

scared

out

of

his

mind.

And

here

comes

Reznik

with

his

hat

pulled

low

over

his

beady

eyes

and

his

boots

shined

to

a

mirror

finish

and

his

voice

perpetually

hoarse

from

screaming,

shoving

his

pasty,

pockmarked

grill

down

into

the

poor

kid’s

face.

I

don’t

know

how

the

little

squirt

kept

from

soiling

himself.

Reznik

always

starts

out

slow

and

soft

and

builds

to

a

big

finish,

the

better

to

lull

you

into

thinking

he

might

be

an

actual

human

being.

“Well,

what

do

we

have

here?

What

have

they

sent

us

from

central

casting—is

this

a

hobbit?

Are

you

a

magical

creature

from

a

storybook

realm

come

to

enchant

me

with

your

dark

magic?”

Reznik

was

just

getting

warmed

up,

and

already

the

kid

was

fighting

back

tears.

Freshoff

the

bus

after

going

through

God-knows-what

on

the

outside,

and

here’s

this

crazy

middle-aged

man

pouncing

on

him.

I

wondered

how

he

was

processing

Reznik—or

any

ofthis

craziness

they

call

Camp

Haven.

I’m

still

trying

to

deal,

and

I’m

a

lot

older

than

five.

“Oh,

this

is

cute.

This

is

so

precious,

I

think

I

might

cry!

Dear

God,

I’ve

dunkedchicken

nuggets

bigger

than

you

in

my

little

plastic

cup

of

spicy

barbecue

sauce!”

Ratcheting

up

the

volume

as

he

brought

his

face

closer

to

the

kid’s.

And

the

kid

holding

up

surprisingly

well,

flinching,

eyes

darting

back

and

forth,

but

not

moving

an

inch

when

I

knew

he

must

be

thinking

about

taking

off

across

the

yard,

just

running

until

he

couldn’t

run

anymore.

“What’s

your

story,

Private

Nugget?

Have

you

lost

your

mommy?

Do

you

want

to

go

home?

I

know!

Let’s

close

our

eyes

and

make

a

wish

and

maybe

Mommy

will

come

and

take

us

all

home!

Wouldn’t

that

be

nice,

Private

Nugget?”

And

the

kid

nodded

eagerly,

like

Reznik

had

asked

the

question

he’d

been

waiting

to

hear.

Finally,

somebody

got

to

the

point!

Lifting

up

his

big

teddy-bear

eyes

into

the

drill

sergeant’s

beady

ones…it

was

enough

to

break

your

heart.

It

was

enough

to

make

you

scream.

But

you

don’t

scream.

You

stand

perfectly

still,

eyes

forward,

hands

at

your

sides,

chest

out,

heart

breaking,

watching

it

out

of

the

corner

of

your

eye

while

something

comes

loose

inside

you,

uncoiling

like

a

rattlesnake

striking.

Something

you’ve

been

holding

in

for

a

long

time

as

the

pressure

built.

You

don’t

know

when

it’s

going

to

blow,

you

can’t

predict

it,

and

when

it

happens

there’s

nothing

you

can

do

to

stop

it.

“Leave

him

alone.”

Reznik

whipped

around.

No

one

made

a

sound,

but

you

could

hear

the

inward

gasp.

Onthe

other

side

of

the

line,

Flintstone’s

eyes

were

wide;

he

couldn’t

believe

what

I

just

did.

I

couldn’t,

either.

“Who

said

that?

Which

one

of

you

scum-sucking

maggots

just

signed

his

own

death

warrant?”

Striding

down

the

line,

face

red

with

fury,

hands

clinched

into

fists,

knuckles

bone

white.

“Nobody,

huh?

Well,

I’m

going

to

fall

on

my

knees

and

cover

my

head,

because

the

Lord

God

his

holy

self

has

spoken

to

me

from

on

high!”

He

stopped

in

front

of

Tank,

who

was

sweating

through

his

jumpsuit

though

it

was

about

forty

degrees

outside.

“Was

it

you,

puckerhole?

I

will

tear

your

arms

off!”

He

brought

his

fist

back

to

punch

Tank

in

the

groin.

Cue

the

idiot.

“Sir,

I

said

it,

sir!”

I

shouted.

Reznik’s

about-face

was

slow

this

time.

His

journey

over

to

me

took

a

thousand

years.

In

the

distance,

a

crow’s

harsh

call,

but

that

was

the

only

sound

I

heard.

He

stopped

just

inside

my

range

of

vision,

not

directly

in

front

of

me,

and

that

wasn’t

good.

I

couldn’t

turn

toward

him.

I

had

to

keep

my

eyes

forward.

Worst

of

all,

I

couldn’tsee

his

hands;

I

wouldn’t

know

when—or

where—the

blow

would

land,

which

meant

I

wouldn’t

know

when

to

brace

for

it.

“So

Private

Zombie

is

giving

the

orders

now,”

Reznik

said,

so

softly

I

could

barelyhear

him.

“Private

Zombie

is

Squad

Fifty-three’s

very

own

catcher

in

the

fucking

rye.Private

Zombie,

I

think

I

have

a

crush

on

you.

You

make

me

weak

in

the

knees.

You

make

me

hate

my

own

mother

for

giving

birth

to

a

male

child,

so

now

it’s

impossible

for

me

to

have

your

babies.”

Where

was

it

going

to

land?

My

knees?

My

crotch?

Probably

the

stomach;

Reznik

hasa

soft

spot

for

stomachs.

Nope.

It

was

a

chop

to

my

Adam’s

apple

with

the

side

of

his

hand.

I

staggered

backward,fighting

to

stay

upright,

fighting

to

keep

my

hands

at

my

sides,

not

going

to

give

him

the

satisfaction,

not

going

to

give

him

an

excuse

to

hit

me

again.

The

yard

and

the

barracks

were

ringing,

then

jiggled

and

melted

a

little

as

my

eyes

filled

with

tears—of

pain,

sure,

but

of

something

else,

too.

“Sir,

he’s

just

a

little

kid,

sir,”

I

choked

out.

“Private

Zombie,

you

have

two

seconds,

exactly

two

seconds,

to

seal

that

sewer

pipe

posing

as

a

mouth,

or

I

will

incinerate

your

ass

with

the

rest

of

the

infested

alien

sons

of

bitches!”

He

took

a

deep

breath,

revving

up

for

the

next

verbal

barrage.

Having

completely

lost

my

mind,

I

opened

my

mouth

and

let

the

words

come

out.

I’ll

be

honest:

Part

of

me

was

filled

with

relief

and

something

that

felt

a

hell

of

a

lot

like

joy.

I

had

kept

the

hate

inside

for

too

long.

“Then

the

senior

drill

instructor

should

do

it,

sir!

The

private

really

doesn’t

care,sir!

Just—just

leave

the

kid

alone.”

Total

silence.

Even

the

crow

stopped

fussing.

The

rest

of

the

squad

had

stopped

breathing.

I

knew

what

they

were

thinking.

We’d

all

heard

the

story

about

the

lippy

recruit

and

the

“accident”

on

the

obstacle

course

that

put

him

in

the

hospital

for

three

weeks.

And

the

other

story

about

the

quiet

ten-

year-old

who

they

found

in

the

showers

strung

up

with

an

extension

cord.

Suicide,

the

doctor

said.

A

lot

of

people

weren’t

so

sure.

Reznik

didn’t

move.

“Private

Zombie,

who

is

your

squad

leader?”

“Sir,

the

private’s

squad

leader

is

Private

Flintstone,

sir!”

“Private

Flintstone,

front

and

center!”

Reznik

barked.

Flint

took

one

step

forwardand

snapped

off

a

salute.

His

unibrow

jiggled

with

tension.

“Private

Flintstone,

you’refired.

Private

Zombie

is

now

squad

leader.

Private

Zombie

is

ignorant

and

ugly,

but

he

is

not

soft.”

I

could

feel

Reznik’s

eyes

boring

into

my

face.

“Private

Zombie,

what

happened

to

your

baby

sister?”

I

blinked.

Twice.

Trying

not

to

show

anything.

My

voice

cracked

a

little

when

I

answered,

though.

“Sir,

the

private’s

sister

is

dead,

sir!”

“Because

you

ran

like

a

chickenshit!”

“Sir,

the

private

ran

like

a

chickenshit,

sir!”

“But

you’re

not

running

now,

are

you,

Private

Zombie?

Are

you?”

“Sir,

no,

sir!”

He

stepped

back.

Something

flashed

across

his

face.

An

expression

I’d

never

seen

before.It

couldn’t

be,

of

course,

but

it

looked

a

lot

like

respect.

“Private

Nugget,

front

and

center!”

The

newbie

didn’t

move

until

Poundcake

gave

him

a

poke

in

the

back.

He

was

crying.He

didn’t

want

to,

he

was

trying

to

choke

it

back,

but

dear

Jesus,

what

little

kid

wouldn’t

be

crying

by

that

point?

Your

old

life

barfs

you

out

and

this

is

where

you

land?

“Private

Nugget,

Private

Zombie

is

your

squad

leader,

and

you

will

bunk

with

him.You

will

learn

from

him.

He

will

teach

you

how

to

walk.

He

will

teach

you

how

to

talk.

He

will

teach

you

how

to

think.

He

will

be

the

big

brother

you

never

had.

Do

you

read

me,

Private

Nugget?”

“Sir,

yes,

sir!”

The

tiny

voice

shrill

and

squeaky,

but

he

got

the

rules

down,

and

quickly.

And

that’s

how

it

began.

44

HERE’S

A

TYPICAL

day

in

the

atypical

new

reality

of

Camp

Haven.

5:00

A.M.:

Reveille

and

wash

up.

Dress

and

prep

bunks

for

inspection.

5:10

A.M.:

Fall

in.

Reznik

inspects

our

billets.

Finds

a

wrinkle

in

someone’s

sheet.

Screamsfor

twenty

minutes.

Then

picks

another

recruit

at

random

and

screams

for

another

twenty

for

no

real

reason.

Then

three

laps

around

the

yard

freezing

our

asses

off,

me

urging

Oompa

and

Nugget

to

keep

up

or

I

get

to

run

another

lap

as

the

last

man

to

finish.

The

frozenground

beneath

our

boots.

Our

breaths

frosting

in

the

air.

The

twin

columns

of

black

smoke

from

the

power

plant

rising

beyond

the

airfield

and

the

rumble

of

buses

pulling

out

of

the

main

gate.

6:30

A.M.:

Chow

in

the

crowded

mess

hall

that

smells

faintly

like

soured

milk,

reminding

me

of

the

plague

and

the

fact

that

once

upon

a

time

I

thought

about

just

three

things—cars,

football,

and

girls,

in

that

order.

I

help

Nugget

with

his

tray,

urging

him

to

eat

because,

if

he

doesn’t

eat,

boot

camp

will

kill

him.

Those

are

my

exact

words:

Boot

camp

will

kill

you.

Tank

and

Flintstone

laugh

at

me

mothering

Nugget.

Already

calling

me

Nugget’s

Nanna.

Screw

them.

After

chow

we

check

out

the

leaderboard.

Every

morning

the

scores

fromthe

previous

day

are

posted

on

a

big

board

outside

the

mess

hall.

Points

for

marksmanship.

Points

for

best

times

on

the

obstacle

course,

the

air

raid

drills,

the

two-mile

runs.

The

top

four

squads

will

graduate

at

the

end

of

November,

and

the

competition

is

fierce.

Our

squad’s

been

stuck

in

tenth

place

for

weeks.

Tenth

isn’t

bad,

but

it’s

not

good

enough.

7:30

A.M.:

Training.

Weapons.

Hand-to-hand.

Basic

wilderness

survival.

Basic

urban

survival.

Recon.

Communications.

My

favorite

is

survival

training.

That

memorable

session

wherewe

had

to

drink

our

own

urine.

12:00

P.M.:

Noon

chow.

Some

mystery

meat

between

hard

crusts

of

bread.

Dumbo,

whose

jokes

are

as

tasteless

as

his

ears

are

big,

cracks

that

we’re

not

incinerating

the

infested

bodies

but

grinding

them

up

to

feed

the

troops.

I

have

to

pull

Teacup

off

him

before

she

smacks

his

head

with

a

tray.

Nugget

stares

at

his

burger

like

it

might

jump

off

his

plate

and

bite

his

face.

Thanks,

Dumbo.

The

kid’s

skinny

enough

as

it

is.

1:00

P.M.:

More

training.

Mostly

on

the

firing

range.

Nugget

is

issued

a

stick

for

a

rifleand

fires

pretend

rounds

while

we

fire

real

ones

into

life-size

plywood

cutouts.

The

crack

of

the

M16s.

The

screech

of

plywood

being

shredded.

Poundcake

earns

a

perfectscore;

I’m

the

worst

shot

in

the

squad.

I

pretend

the

cutout

is

Reznik,

hoping

that

will

improve

my

aim.

It

doesn’t.

5:00

P.M.:

Evening

chow.

Canned

meat,

canned

peas,

canned

fruit.

Nugget

pushes

his

food

around

and

then

bursts

into

tears.

The

squad

glares

at

me.

Nugget

is

my

responsibility.

IfReznik

comes

down

on

us

for

conduct

unbefitting,

there’s

hell

to

pay,

and

I’m

picking

up

the

tab.

Extra

push-ups,

reduced

rations—he

could

even

deduct

some

points.

Nothingmatters

but

getting

through

basic

with

enough

points

to

graduate,

get

out

into

the

field,

rid

ourselves

of

Reznik.

Across

the

table,

Flintstone

is

glowering

at

me

from

beneath

the

unibrow.

He’s

pissed

at

Nugget,

but

more

pissed

at

me

for

taking

his

job.

Not

that

I

asked

for

squad

leader.

He

came

at

me

after

that

day

and

growled,

“I

don’tcare

what

you

are

now,

I’m

gonna

make

sergeant

when

we

graduate.”

And

I’m

like,

“More

power

to

you,

Flint.”

The

idea

of

my

leading

a

unit

into

combat

is

ludicrous.

Meanwhile,nothing

I

say

calms

Nugget

down.

He

keeps

going

on

about

his

sister.

About

how

she

promised

to

come

for

him.

I

wonder

why

the

commander

would

stick

a

little

kid

who

can’t

even

lift

a

rifle

into

our

squad.

If

Wonderland

winnowed

out

the

best

fighters,

what

sort

of

profile

did

this

little

guy

produce?

6:00

P.M.:

Drill

instructor

Q&A

in

the

barracks,

my

favorite

part

of

the

day,

where

I

get

to

spend

some

quality

time

with

my

favorite

person

in

the

whole

wide

world.

After

informing

us

what

worthless

piles

of

desiccated

rat

feces

we

are,

Reznik

opens

the

floor

for

questions

and

concerns.

Most

of

our

questions

have

to

do

with

the

competition.

Rules,

procedures

in

case

of

a

tie,

rumors

about

this

or

that

squad

cheating.

Making

the

grade

is

all

we

can

think

about.

Graduation

means

active

duty,

real

fighting—a

chance

to

show

the

ones

who

died

that

we

had

not

survived

in

vain.

Other

topics:

the

status

of

the

rescue

and

winnowing

operation

(code

name

Li’l

BoPeep;

I’m

not

kidding).

What

news

from

the

outside?

When

will

we

hunker

full-time

in

the

underground

bunker,

because

obviously

the

enemy

can

see

what

we’re

doing

down

here

and

it’s

only

a

matter

of

time

before

they

vaporize

us.

For

that

we

get

the

standard-issue

reply:

Commander

Vosch

knows

what

he’s

doing.

Our

job

isn’t

to

worry

about

strategy

and

logistics.

Our

job

is

to

kill

the

enemy.

8:30

P.M.:

Personal

time.

Free

of

Reznik

at

last.

We

wash

our

jumpsuits,

shine

our

boots,

scrub

the

barracks

floor

and

the

latrine,

clean

our

rifles,

pass

around

dirty

magazines,

and

swap

other

contraband

like

candy

and

chewing

gum.

We

play

cards

and

bust

each

other’s

nuts

and

complain

about

Reznik.

We

share

the

day’s

rumors

and

tell

bad

jokes

and

push

back

against

the

silence

inside

our

own

heads,

the

place

where

the

never-ending

voiceless

scream

rises

like

the

superheated

air

above

a

lava

flow.

Inevitably

an

argument

erupts

and

stops

just

short

of

a

fistfight.

It’s

tearing

away

at

us.

We

know

too

much.

We

don’t

know

enough.

Why

is

our

regiment

composed

entirely

of

kids

like

us,

no

one

over

the

age

of

eighteen?

What

happened

to

all

the

adults?

Are

they

being

taken

somewhere

else

and,

if

they

are,

where

and

why?

Are

the

Teds

the

final

wave,

or

is

there

another

one

coming,

a

fifth

wave

that

will

make

the

first

four

pale

in

comparison?

Thinking

about

a

fifth

wave

shuts

down

the

conversation.

9:30

P.M.:

Lights-out.

Time

to

lie

awake

and

think

of

a

wholly

new

and

creative

way

to

waste

Sergeant

Reznik.

After

a

while

I

get

tired

of

that

and

think

about

the

girls

I’vedated,

shuffling

them

around

in

various

orders.

Hottest.

Smartest.

Funniest.

Blondes.Brunettes.

Which

base

I

got

to.

They

start

to

blend

together

into

one

girl,

the

Girl

Who

Is

No

More,

and

in

her

eyes

Ben

Parish,

high

school

hallway

god,

lives

again.

From

its

hiding

place

under

my

bunk,

I

pull

out

Sissy’s

locket

and

press

it

against

my

heart.

No

more

guilt.

No

more

grief.

I

will

trade

my

self-pity

for

hate.

My

guiltfor

cunning.

My

grief

for

the

spirit

of

vengeance.

“Zombie?”

It’s

Nugget

in

the

bunk

next

to

me.

“No

talking

after

lights-out,”

I

whisper

back.

“I

can’t

sleep.”

“Close

your

eyes

and

think

of

something

nice.”

“Can

we

pray?

Is

that

against

the

rules?”

“Sure

you

can

pray.

Just

not

out

loud.”

I

can

hear

him

breathing,

the

creak

of

the

metal

frame

as

he

flips

and

flops

around

on

the

bunk.

“Cassie

always

said

my

prayer

with

me,”

he

confesses.

“Who’s

Cassie?”

“I

told

you.”

“I

forgot.”

“Cassie’s

my

sister.

She’s

coming

for

me.”

“Oh,

sure.”

I

don’t

tell

him

that

if

she

hasn’t

shown

up

by

now,

she’s

probably

dead.

It

isn’t

up

to

me

to

break

his

heart;

that’s

time’s

job.

“She’s

promised.

Promised.”

A

tiny

hiccup

of

a

sob.

Great.

Nobody

knows

for

sure,

but

we

accept

it

as

fact

thatthe

barracks

are

bugged,

that

every

second

Reznik

is

spying

on

us,

waiting

for

us

to

break

one

of

the

rules

so

he

can

bring

the

hammer

down.

Violating

the

no-talking

rule

at

lights-out

will

earn

all

of

us

a

week

of

kitchen

patrol.

“Hey,

it’s

all

right,

Nugget…”

Reaching

my

hand

out

to

comfort

him,

finding

the

top

of

his

freshly

shaved

head,

runningmy

fingertips

over

his

scalp.

Sissy

liked

for

me

to

rub

her

head

when

she

felt

bad—maybe

Nugget

likes

it,

too.

“Hey,

stow

that

over

there!”

Flintstone

calls

out

softly.

“Yeah,”

Tank

says.

“You

wanna

get

us

busted,

Zombie?”

“Come

here,”

I

whisper

to

Nugget,

scooting

over

and

patting

the

mattress.

“I’ll

sayyour

prayer

with

you,

and

then

you

can

go

to

sleep,

okay?”

The

mattress

gives

with

his

added

weight.

Oh

God,

what

am

I

doing?

If

Reznik

popsin

for

a

surprise

inspection,

I’ll

be

peeling

potatoes

for

a

month.

Nugget

lies

onhis

side

facing

me,

and

his

fists

rub

against

my

arm

as

he

brings

them

up

to

his

chin.

“What

prayer

does

she

say

with

you?”

I

ask.

“‘Now

I

lay

me,’”

he

whispers.

“Somebody

put

a

pillow

over

that

nugget’s

face,”

Dumbo

says

from

his

bunk.

I

can

see

the

ambient

light

shining

in

his

big

brown

eyes.

Sissy’s

locket

pressed

against

my

chest

and

Nugget’s

eyes,

glittering

like

twin

beacons

in

the

dark.

Prayers

and

promises.

The

one

his

sister

made

to

him.

The

unspoken

one

I

made

to

my

sister.

Prayers

are

promises,

too,

and

these

are

the

days

of

broken

promises.

All

of

a

sudden

I

want

to

put

my

fist

through

the

wall.

“‘Now

I

lay

me

down

to

sleep,

I

pray

the

Lord

my

soul

to

keep.’”

He

joins

in

on

the

next

line.

“‘When

in

the

morning

light

I

wake,

teach

me

the

path

of

love

to

take.’”

The

hisses

and

shushes

pick

up

on

the

next

stanza.

Somebody

hurls

a

pillow

at

us,

but

we

keep

praying.

“‘Now

I

lay

me

down

to

sleep,

I

pray

the

Lord

my

soul

to

keep.

Your

angels

watch

me

through

the

night,

and

keep

me

safe

till

morning’s

light.’”

On

angels

watch

me,

the

hissing

and

shushing

stops.

A

profound

stillness

settles

over

the

barracks.

Our

voices

slow

on

the

last

stanza.

Like

we’re

reluctant

to

finish

because

on

the

other

side

of

a

prayer

is

the

nothingness

of

another

exhausted

sleep

and

then

another

day

waiting

for

the

last

day,

the

day

we

will

die.

Even

Teacup

knows

she

probably

won’t

live

to

see

her

eighth

birthday.

But

we’ll

get

up

and

put

ourselves

through

seventeen

hours

of

hell

anyway.

Because

we

will

die,

but

at

least

we

will

die

unbroken.

“‘And

if

I

should

die

before

I

wake,

I

pray

the

Lord

my

soul

to

take.’”

45

THE

NEXT

MORNING

I’m

in

Reznik’s

office

with

a

special

request.

I

know

what

his

answer’s

going

to

be,

but

I’m

asking

anyway.

“Sir,

the

squad

leader

requests

that

the

senior

drill

instructor

grant

Private

Nugget

a

special

exemption

from

this

morning’s

detail.”

“Private

Nugget

is

a

member

of

this

squad,”

Reznik

reminds

me.

“And

as

a

member

ofthis

squad,

he

is

expected

to

perform

all

duties

assigned

by

Central

Command.

All

duties,

Private.”

“Sir,

the

squad

leader

requests

that

the

senior

drill

instructor

reconsider

his

decision

based

on

Private

Nugget’s

age

and—”

Reznik

dismisses

the

point

with

a

wave

of

his

hand.

“The

boy

didn’t

drop

out

of

the

damned

sky,

Private.

If

he

didn’t

pass

his

prelims,

he

wouldn’t

have

been

assigned

to

your

squad.

But

the

fact

of

the

matter

is

he

did

pass

his

prelims,

he

was

assigned

to

your

squad,

and

he

will

perform

all

duties

of

your

squad

as

assigned

by

Central

Command,

including

P

and

D.

Are

we

clear,

Private?”

Well,

Nugget,

I

tried.

“What’s

P

and

D?”

he

asks

at

morning

chow.

“Processing

and

disposal,”

I

answer,

cutting

my

eyes

away

from

him.

Across

from

us,

Dumbo

groans

and

pushes

his

tray

away.

“Great.

The

only

way

I

canget

through

breakfast

is

by

not

thinking

about

it!”

“Churn

and

burn,

baby,”

Tank

says,

glancing

at

Flintstone

for

approval.

Those

two

are

tight.

On

the

day

Reznik

gave

me

the

job,

Tank

told

me

he

didn’t

care

who

was

squad

leader,

he’d

only

listen

to

Flint.

I

shrugged.

Whatever.

Once

we

graduated—ifwe

ever

graduated—one

of

us

would

be

promoted

to

sergeant,

and

I

knew

that

someone

would

not

be

me.

“Dr.

Pam

showed

you

a

Ted,”

I

say

to

Nugget.

He

nods.

From

his

expression,

I

can

tellit

isn’t

a

pleasant

memory.

“You

hit

the

button.”

Another

nod.

Slower

than

the

first

one.

“What

do

you

think

happens

to

the

person

on

the

other

side

of

the

glass

after

you

hit

the

button?”

Nugget

whispers,

“They

die.”

“And

the

sick

people

they

bring

in

from

the

outside,

ones

that

don’t

make

it

once

they

get

here—

what

do

you

think

happens

to

them?”

“Oh,

come

on,

Zombie,

just

tell

him!”

Oompa

says.

He’s

pushed

away

his

food,

too.A

first

for

him.

Oompa

is

the

only

one

in

the

squad

who

ever

goes

back

for

seconds.

To

put

it

in

the

nicest

way,

the

food

in

camp

sucks.

“It

isn’t

something

we

like

to

do,

but

it

has

to

be

done,”

I

say,

echoing

the

company

line.

“Because

this

is

war,

you

know?

It’s

war.”

I

look

down

the

table

for

support.

The

only

one

who

will

make

eye

contact

with

me

is

Teacup,

who

is

nodding

happily.

“War,”

she

says.

Happily.

Outside

the

mess

hall

and

across

the

yard,

where

several

squads

are

drilling

under

the

watchful

eyes

of

their

drill

sergeants,

Nugget

trots

along

beside

me.

Zombie’s

dog,

the

squad

calls

him

behind

his

back.

Cutting

between

Barracks

3

and

4

to

the

road

that

leads

to

the

power

plant

and

the

processing

hangars.

The

day

is

cold

and

cloudy;

it

feels

like

it

might

snow.

In

the

distance,

the

sound

of

a

Black

Hawk

taking

off

and

the

sharp

tat-tat-tat

of

automatic

weapons’

fire.

Directly

in

front

of

us

the

twin

towers

of

the

plant

belching

black

and

gray

smoke.

The

gray

smoke

fades

into

the

clouds.

The

black

lingers.

A

large

white

tent

has

been

set

up

outside

the

entrance

to

the

hangar,

the

staging

area

festooned

with

red-and-white

biohazard

warning

signs.

Here

we

suit

up

for

processing.

Once

I’m

dressed,

I

help

Nugget

with

his

orange

suit,

the

boots,

the

rubber

gloves,

the

mask,

and

the

hood.

I

give

him

the

lecture

about

never,

ever

taking

off

any

part

of

his

suit

inside

the

hangar,

under

any

circumstances,

ever.

He

has

to

ask

permission

before

handling

anything

and,

if

he

has

to

leave

the

building

for

any

reason,

he

has

to

decon

and

pass

inspection

before

reentering.

“Just

stick

with

me,”

I

tell

him.

“It’ll

be

okay.”

He

nods

and

his

hood

bounces

back

and

forth,

the

faceplate

smacking

him

in

the

forehead.

He’s

trying

to

hold

it

together,

and

it’s

not

going

well.

So

I

say,

“They’re

just

people,

Nugget.

Just

people.”

Inside

the

processing

hangar,

the

bodies

of

the

just-people

are

sorted,

the

infected

from

the

clean—

or,

as

we

call

them,

the

Ted

from

the

unTed.

Teds

are

marked

with

bright

green

circles

on

their

foreheads,

but

you

rarely

need

to

look;

the

Teds

are

always

the

freshest

bodies.

They’ve

been

stacked

against

the

back

wall,

waiting

for

their

turn

to

be

laid

out

on

the

long

metal

tables

that

run

the

length

of

the

hangar.

The

bodies

are

in

various

stages

of

decay.

Some

are

months

old.

Some

look

fresh

enough

to

sit

up

and

wave

hello.

It

takes

three

squads

to

work

the

line.

One

squad

carts

the

bodies

over

to

the

metal

tables.

Another

processes.

A

third

carries

the

processed

corpses

to

the

front

and

stacks

them

for

pickup.

You

rotate

the

duties

to

help

break

up

the

monotony.

Processing

is

the

most

interesting,

and

where

our

squad

begins.

I

tell

Nugget

notto

touch,

just

watch

me

until

he

gets

the

idea.

Empty

the

pockets.

Separate

the

contents.

Trash

goes

in

one

bin,

electronics

in

another,

precious

metals

in

a

third,

all

other

metals

in

a

fourth.

Wallets,

purses,

paper,

cash—all

trash.

Some

of

the

squads

can’t

help

themselves—old

habits

die

hard—and

walk

around

with

wads

of

useless

hundreddollar

bills

stuffed

in

their

pockets.

Photographs,

IDs,

any

little

memento

that

isn’t

made

of

ceramic—trash.

Almost

withoutexception,

from

the

oldest

to

the

youngest,

the

pockets

of

the

dead

are

filled

to

the

brim

with

the

strangest

things

only

the

owners

could

understand

the

value

for.

Nugget

doesn’t

say

a

word.

He

watches

me

work

down

the

line,

keeping

right

beside

me

as

I

sidestep

to

the

next

body.

The

hangar

is

ventilated,

but

the

smell

is

overpowering.

Like

any

omnipresent

smell—or

rather,

like

anything

omnipresent—you

get

used

to

it;

you

stop

smelling

it

after

a

while.

Same

is

true

for

your

other

senses.

And

your

soul.

After

you’ve

seen

your

five

hundredth

dead

baby,

how

can

you

be

shocked

or

sickened

or

feel

anything

at

all?

Beside

me,

Nugget

is

silent,

watching.

“Tell

me

if

you’re

going

to

be

sick,”

I

tell

him

sternly.

It’s

horrible

throwing

up

in

your

suit.

The

overhead

speakers

pop

to

life,

and

the

tunes

begin.

Most

of

the

guys

prefer

rap

while

they

process;

I

like

to

mix

it

up

with

a

little

heavy

metal

and

some

R&B.

Nuggetwants

something

to

do,

so

I

have

him

carry

the

ruined

clothes

to

the

laundry

bins.

They’ll

be

burned

with

the

processed

corpses

later

that

night.

Disposal

happens

next

door,

in

the

power

plant

incinerator.

They

say

the

black

smoke

is

from

the

coal

and

the

gray

smoke

is

from

the

bodies.

I

don’t

know

if

that’s

true.

It’s

the

hardest

processing

I’ve

done.

I’ve

got

Nugget,

my

own

bodies

to

process,and

the

rest

of

the

squad

to

keep

an

eye

on,

because

there’s

no

drill

sergeants

or

any

adult

period

inside

the

processing

hangar,

except

the

dead

ones.

Just

kids,

and

sometimes

it’s

like

at

school

when

the

teacher

is

suddenly

called

out

of

the

room.

Things

can

get

crazy.

There’s

little

interaction

among

the

squads

outside

P&D.

The

competition

for

the

topslots

on

the

leaderboard

is

too

intense,

and

there’s

nothing

friendly

about

the

rivalry.

So

when

I

see

the

fair-skinned,

dark-haired

girl

wheeling

corpses

from

Poundcake’stable

to

the

disposal

area,

I

don’t

go

over

and

introduce

myself

and

I

don’t

grab

one

of

her

team

members

to

ask

her

name.

I

just

watch

her

while

I

dig

my

fingers

throughthe

pockets

of

dead

people.

I

notice

she’s

directing

traffic

at

the

door;

she

must

be

the

squad

leader.

At

the

midmorning

break,

I

pull

Poundcake

aside.

He’s

a

sweet

kid,

quiet,

but

not

in

a

weird

way.

Dumbo

has

a

theory

that

one

day

the

cork

will

pop

and

Poundcake

won’t

stop

talking

for

a

week.

“You

know

that

girl

from

Squad

Nineteen

working

at

your

table?”

I

ask

him.

He

nods.“Know

anything

about

her?”

He

shakes

his

head.

“Why

am

I

asking

you

this,

Cake?”

He

shrugs.

“Okay,”

I

say.

“But

don’t

tell

anyone

I

asked.”

By

the

fourth

hour

on

the

line,

Nugget’s

not

too

steady

on

his

feet.

He

needs

a

break,so

I

take

him

outside

for

a

few

minutes,

where

we

sit

against

the

hangar

door

and

watch

the

black

and

gray

smoke

billowing

beneath

the

clouds.

Nugget

yanks

off

his

hood

and

leans

his

head

against

the

cold

metal

door,

his

round

face

shiny

with

sweat.

“They’re

just

people,”

I

say

again,

basically

because

I

don’t

know

what

else

to

say.

“It

gets

easier,”

I

go

on.

“Every

time

you

do

it,

you

feel

it

a

little

less.

Until

it’s

like—I

don’t

know—like

making

your

bunk

or

brushing

your

teeth.”

I’m

all

tense,

waiting

for

him

to

lose

it.

Cry.

Run.

Explode.

Something.

But

there’sjust

this

blank,

faraway

look

in

his

eyes,

and

suddenly

I’m

the

one

about

to

explode.

Not

at

him.

Or

at

Reznik

for

making

me

bring

him.

At

them.

At

the

bastards

who

did

this

to

us.

Forget

about

my

life—I

know

how

that

ends.

What

about

Nugget’s?

Five

friggingyears

old,

and

what’s

he

got

to

look

forward

to?

And

why

the

hell

did

Commander

Vosch

assign

him

to

a

combat

unit?

Seriously,

he

can’t

even

lift

a

rifle.

Maybe

the

idea

is

to

catch

’em

young,

train

’em

from

the

ground

up.

So

by

the

time

he’s

my

age

you

don’t

have

a

stone-cold

killer,

but

an

ice-cold

one.

One

with

liquid

nitrogen

for

blood.

I

hear

his

voice

before

I

feel

his

hand

on

my

forearm.

“Zombie,

are

you

okay?”

“Sure,

I’m

fine.”

Here’s

a

strange

turn

of

events,

him

worried

about

me.

A

large

flatbed

pulls

up

to

the

hangar

door,

and

Squad

19

begins

loading

bodies,

tossing

them

onto

the

truck

like

relief

workers

heaving

sacks

of

grain.

There’s

the

dark-haired

girl

again,

straining

at

the

front

end

of

a

very

fat

corpse.

She

glances

our

way

before

going

back

inside

for

the

next

body.

Great.

She’ll

probably

report

us

for

goofing

off

to

knock

a

few

points

off

our

score.

“Cassie

says

it

won’t

matter

what

they

do,”

Nugget

says.

“They

can’t

kill

all

of

us.”

“Why

can’t

they?”

Because,

kid,

I’d

really,

really

like

to

know.

“Because

we’re

too

hard

to

kill.

We’re

invista…investra…invinta…”

“Invincible?”

“That’s

it!”

With

a

reassuring

pat

on

my

arm.

“Invincible.”

Black

smoke,

gray

smoke.

And

the

cold

biting

our

cheeks

and

the

heat

from

our

bodies

trapped

inside

our

suits,

Zombie

and

Nugget

and

the

brooding

clouds

above

us

and,

hidden

above

them,

the

mothership

that

gave

birth

to

the

gray

smoke

and,

in

a

way,

to

us.

Us

too.

46

EVERY

NIGHT

NOW

Nugget

crawls

into

my

bunk

after

lights-out

to

say

his

prayer,

and

I

let

him

stay

until

he

falls

asleep.

Then

I

carry

him

back

to

his

bunk.

Tank

threatens

to

turn

me

in,

usually

after

I

give

him

an

order

he

doesn’t

like.

But

he

doesn’t.

I

think

he

secretly

looks

forward

to

prayer

time.

It

amazes

me

how

quickly

Nugget

has

adjusted

to

camp

life.

Kids

are

like

that,

though.

They

can

get

used

to

practically

anything.

He

can’t

lift

a

rifle

to

his

shoulder,

but

he

does

everything

else,

and

sometimes

better

than

the

older

kids.

He’s

faster

than

Oompa

on

the

obstacle

course

and

a

quicker

study

than

Flintstone.

The

one

squadmember

who

can’t

stand

him

is

Teacup.

I

guess

it’s

jealousy:

Before

Nugget

came,

Teacup

was

the

baby

of

the

family.

Nugget

did

have

a

mini

freakout

during

his

first

air

raid

drill.

Like

the

rest

ofus,

he

had

no

idea

it

was

coming,

but

unlike

the

rest

of

us,

he

had

no

idea

what

the

hell

was

going

on.

It

happens

once

a

month

and

always

in

the

middle

of

the

night.

The

sirens

scream

so

loud,

you

can

feel

the

floor

shaking

under

your

bare

feet

as

you

stumble

around

in

the

dark,

yanking

on

jumpsuit

and

boots,

grabbing

your

M16,

racing

outside

as

all

the

barracks

empty

out,

hundreds

of

recruits

pouring

across

the

yard

toward

the

access

tunnels

that

lead

underground.

I

was

a

couple

of

minutes

behind

the

squad

because

Nugget

was

hollering

his

head

off

and

clinging

to

me

like

a

monkey

to

his

momma,

thinking

any

minute

the

alien

warships

would

start

dropping

their

payloads.

I

shouted

at

him

to

calm

down

and

follow

my

lead.

It

was

a

waste

of

breath.

Finally

I

just

picked

him

up

and

slung

him

over

my

shoulder,

rifle

clutched

in

one

hand,

Nugget’s

butt

in

the

other.

As

I

sprinted

outside,

I

thought

of

another

night

and

another

screaming

kid.

The

memory

made

me

run

harder.

Into

the

stairwell,

down

the

four

flights

of

stairs

awash

in

yellow

emergency

light,

Nugget’s

head

popping

against

my

back,

then

through

the

steel-reinforced

door

at

the

bottom,

down

a

short

passageway,

through

the

second

reinforced

door,

and

into

the

complex.

The

heavy

door

clanged

shut

behind

us,

sealing

us

inside.

By

now

he

had

decided

he

might

not

be

vaporized

after

all,

and

I

could

set

him

down.

The

shelter

is

a

confusing

maze

of

dimly

lit

intersecting

corridors,

but

we’ve

been

drilled

so

much,

I

could

find

my

way

to

our

station

with

my

eyes

closed.

I

yelled

over

the

siren

for

Nugget

to

follow

me

and

I

took

off.

A

squad

heading

in

the

opposite

direction

thundered

past

us.

Right,

left,

right,

right,

left,

into

the

final

passageway,

my

free

hand

gripping

the

back

of

Nugget’s

neck

to

keep

him

from

falling

back.

I

could

see

my

squad

kneeling

twenty

yards

from

the

back

wall

of

the

dead-end

tunnel,

their

rifles

trained

at

the

metal

grate

that

covers

the

airshaft

leading

to

the

surface.

And

Reznik

standing

behind

them,

holding

a

stopwatch.

Crap.

We

missed

our

time

by

forty-eight

seconds.

Forty-eight

seconds

that

would

cost

us

three

days

of

free

time.

Forty-eight

seconds

that

would

drop

us

another

place

on

the

leaderboard.

Forty-eight

seconds

that

meant

God

knows

how

many

more

days

of

Reznik.

Back

in

the

barracks

now,

we’re

all

too

hyped

up

to

sleep.

Half

the

squad

is

pissed

at

me,

the

other

half

is

pissed

at

Nugget.

Tank,

of

course,

blames

me.

“You

should

have

left

him

behind,”

he

says.

His

thin

face

is

flushed

with

rage.

“There’s

a

reason

we

drill,

Tank,”

I

remind

him.

“What

if

this

had

been

the

real

thing?”

“Then

I

guess

he’d

be

dead.”

“He’s

a

member

of

this

squad,

same

as

the

rest

of

us.”

“You

still

don’t

get

it,

do

you,

Zombie?

It’s

freakin’

nature.

Whoever’s

too

sick

or

weak

has

to

go.”

He

yanks

off

his

boots,

hurls

them

into

his

locker

at

the

foot

of

the

bunk.

“If

it

was

up

to

me,

we’d

throw

all

of

’em

into

the

incinerator

with

the

Teds.”

“Killing

humans—isn’t

that

the

aliens’

job?”

His

face

is

beet

red.

He

pounds

the

air

with

his

fist.

Flintstone

makes

a

move

tocalm

him

down,

but

Tank

waves

him

away.

“Whoever’s

too

weak,

too

sick,

too

old,

too

slow,

too

stupid,

or

too

little—they

GO!”

Tank

yells.

“Anybody

and

everybody

who

can’t

fight

or

support

the

fight—they’ll

just

drag

us

down.”

“They’re

expendable,”

I

shoot

back

sarcastically.

“The

chain

is

only

as

strong

as

the

weakest

link,”

Tank

roars.

“It’s

frickin’

nature,

Zombie.

Only

the

strong

survive!”

“Hey,

come

on,

man,”

Flintstone

says

to

him.

“Zombie’s

right.

Nugget’s

one

of

the

crew.”

“You

get

off

my

case,

Flint,”

Tank

shouts.

“All

of

you!

Like

it’s

my

fault.

Like

I’mresponsible

for

this

shit!”

“Zombie,

do

something,”

Dumbo

begs

me.

“He’s

going

Dorothy.”

Dumbo’s

referring

to

the

recruit

who

snapped

on

the

rifle

range

one

day,

turning

her

weapon

on

her

own

squad

members.

Two

people

were

killed

and

three

seriously

injured

before

the

drill

sergeant

popped

her

in

the

back

of

the

head

with

his

sidearm.

Every

week

there’s

a

story

about

someone

“going

Dorothy,”

or

sometimes

we

say

“off

to

see

the

wizard.”

The

pressure

gets

to

be

too

much,

and

you

break.

Sometimes

you

turn

on

others.

Sometimes

you

turn

on

yourself.

Sometimes

I

question

the

wisdom

of

Central

Command,

putting

high-powered

automatic

weapons

into

the

hands

of

some

seriously

effed-up

children.

“Oh,

go

screw

yourself,”

Tank

snarls

at

Dumbo.

“Like

you

know

anything.

Like

anybodyknows

anything.

What

the

hell

are

we

doing

here?

You

want

to

tell

me,

Dumbo?

How

about

you,

squad

leader?

Can

you

tell

me?

Somebody

better

tell

me

and

they

better

tell

me

right

now,

or

I’m

taking

this

place

out.

I’m

taking

all

of

it

and

all

of

you

out,

because

this

is

seriously

messed

up,

man.

We’re

going

to

take

them

on,

the

things

that

killed

seven

billion

of

us?

With

what?

With

what?”

Pointing

the

end

of

his

rifle

at

Nugget,

who’s

clinging

to

my

leg.

“With

that?”

Laughing

hysterically.

Everybody

goes

stiff

when

the

gun

comes

up.

I

hold

up

my

empty

hands

and

say

as

calmlyas

I

can,

“Private,

lower

that

weapon

right

now.”

“You’re

not

the

boss

of

me!

Nobody’s

the

boss

of

me!”

Standing

beside

his

bunk,

the

rifle

at

his

hip.

On

the

yellow

brick

road,

all

right.

My

eyes

slide

over

to

Flintstone,

who’s

the

closest

to

Tank,

standing

a

couple

of

feet

to

his

right.

Flint

answers

with

the

tiniest

of

nods.

“Don’t

you

dumbasses

ever

wonder

why

they

haven’t

hit

us

yet?”

Tank

says.

He’s

not

laughing

now.

He’s

crying.

“You

know

they

can.

You

know

they

know

we’re

here,

and

you

know

they

know

what

we’re

doing

here,

so

why

are

they

letting

us

do

it?”

“I

don’t

know,

Tank,”

I

say

evenly.

“Why?”

“Because

it

doesn’t

matter

anymore

what

the

hell

we

do!

It’s

over,

man.

It’s

done!”

Swinging

his

gun

around

wildly.

If

it

goes

off…“And

you

and

me

and

everybody

else

on

this

damn

base

are

history!

We’re—”

Flint’s

on

him,

ripping

the

rifle

from

his

hand

and

shoving

him

down

hard.

Tank’s

head

catches

the

edge

of

his

bunk

when

he

falls.

He

curls

into

a

ball,

holding

his

head

in

both

hands,

screaming

at

the

top

of

his

lungs,

and

when

his

lungs

are

empty,

he

fills

them

and

lets

loose

again.

Somehow

it’s

worse

than

waving

around

the

loaded

M16.

Poundcake

races

into

the

latrine

to

hide

in

one

of

the

stalls.

Dumbo

covers

his

big

ears

and

scoots

to

the

head

of

his

bunk.

Oompa

has

sidled

closer

to

me,

right

next

to

Nugget,

who’s

holding

on

to

my

legs

with

both

hands

now

and

peeking

around

my

hip

at

Tank

writhing

on

the

barracks

floor.

The

only

one

unaffected

by

Tank’s

meltdown

is

Teacup,

the

sevenyear-old.

She’s

sitting

on

her

bunk

staring

stoically

at

him,

like

every

night

Tank

falls

to

the

floor

and

screams

as

if

he’s

being

murdered.

And

it

hits

me:

Thisis

murder,

what

they’re

doing

to

us.

A

very

slow,

very

cruel

murder,

killing

us

from

our

souls

outward,

and

I

remember

the

commander’s

words:

It

isn’t

about

destroying

our

capability

to

fight

so

much

as

crushing

our

will

to

fight.

It

is

hopeless.

It

is

crazy.

Tank

is

the

sane

one

because

he

sees

it

clearly.

Which

is

why

he

has

to

go.

47

THE

SENIOR

DRILL

INSTRUCTOR

agrees

with

me,

and

the

next

morning

Tank

is

gone,

taketon

the

hospital

for

a

full

psych

eval.

His

bunk

remains

empty

for

a

week,

while

our

squad,

one

man

short,

falls

further

and

further

behind

in

points.

We’ll

never

graduate,

never

trade

in

our

blue

jumpsuits

for

real

uniforms,

never

venture

beyond

the

electric

fence

and

razor

wire

to

prove

ourselves,

to

pay

back

a

fraction

of

what

we’ve

lost.

We

don’t

talk

about

Tank.

It’s

as

if

Tank

never

existed.

We

have

to

believe

the

system

is

perfect,

and

Tank

is

a

flaw

in

the

system.

Then

one

morning

in

the

P&D

hangar,

Dumbo

motions

me

over

to

his

table.

Dumbo

is

training

to

be

the

squad

medic,

so

he

has

to

dissect

designated

corpses,

usually

Teds,

to

learn

about

human

anatomy.

When

I

come

over,

he

doesn’t

say

anything,

but

nods

at

the

body

lying

in

front

of

him.

It’s

Tank.

We

stare

at

his

face

for

a

long

moment.

His

eyes

are

open,

staring

sightlessly

at

the

ceiling.

He’s

so

fresh,

it’s

unnerving.

Dumbo

glances

around

the

hangar

to

make

sure

no

one

can

overhear

us,

and

then

whispers,

“Don’t

tell

Flint.”

I

nod.

“What

happened?”

Dumbo

shakes

his

head.

He’s

sweating

badly

under

the

protective

hood.

“That’s

the

really

freaky

thing,

Zombie.

I

can’t

find

anything.”

I

look

back

down

at

Tank.

He

isn’t

pale.

His

skin

is

slightly

pink

without

a

markon

it.

How

did

Tank

die?

Did

he

go

Dorothy

in

the

psych

ward,

maybe

overdose

himself

on

some

drugs?

“What

if

you

cut

him

open?”

I

ask.

“I’m

not

cutting

Tank

open,”

he

says.

He’s

looking

at

me

as

if

I

just

told

him

to

jump

off

a

cliff.

I

nod.

Stupid

idea.

Dumbo

is

no

doctor;

he’s

a

twelve-year-old

kid.

I

glance

aroundthe

hangar

again.

“Get

him

off

this

table,”

I

say.

“I

don’t

want

anyone

else

to

see

him.”

Including

me.

Tank’s

body

is

stacked

with

the

others

by

the

hangar

doors

to

be

disposed.

He’s

loaded

onto

the

transport

for

the

final

leg

of

his

journey

to

the

incinerators,

where

he

will

be

consumed

in

fire,

his

ashes

mixing

with

the

gray

smoke

and

carried

aloft

in

a

column

of

superheated

air,

eventually

to

settle

over

us

in

particles

too

fine

to

see

or

feel.

He’ll

stay

with

us—on

us—until

we

shower

that

night,

washing

what’s

left

of

Tank

into

the

drains

connected

to

the

pipes

connected

to

the

septic

tanks,

where

he

will

mix

with

our

excrement

before

leaching

into

the

ground.

48

TANK’S

REPLACEMENT

ARRIVES

two

days

later.

We

know

he’s

coming,

because

the

night

before

Reznik

announces

it

during

Q&A.

He

won’t

tell

us

anything

about

him,

exceptthe

name:

Ringer.

After

he

leaves,

everybody

in

the

squad

is

jacked

up;

Reznik

must

have

named

him

Ringer

for

a

reason.

Nugget

comes

over

to

my

bunk

and

asks,

“What’s

a

ringer?”

“Someone

who

you

slip

into

a

team

to

give

it

an

edge,”

I

explain.

“Somebody

who’s

really

good.”

“Marksmanship,”

Flintstone

guesses.

“That’s

where

we’re

weakest.

Poundcake’s

our

best,

and

I’m

okay,

but

you

and

Dumbo

and

Teacup

suck.

And

Nugget

can’t

even

shoot.”

“Come

over

here

and

say

I

suck,”

Teacup

shouts.

Always

looking

for

a

fight.

If

I

werein

charge,

I’d

give

Teacup

a

rifle

and

a

couple

of

clips

and

let

her

loose

on

every

Ted

in

a

hundred-mile

radius.

After

the

prayer,

Nugget

twists

and

squirms

against

my

back

until

I

can’t

take

it

anymore

and

hiss

at

him

to

go

back

to

his

bunk.

“Zombie,

it’s

her.”

“What’s

her?”

“Ringer!

Cassie

is

Ringer!”

It

takes

me

a

couple

of

seconds

to

remember

who

Cassie

is.

Oh,

God,

not

this

shit

again.

“I

don’t

think

Ringer

is

your

sister.”

“You

don’t

know

she

isn’t,

either.”

It

almost

comes

out

of

me:

Don’t

be

a

dumbass,

kid.

Your

sister

isn’t

coming

for

you

because

she’s

dead.

But

I

hold

it

in.

Cassie

is

Nugget’s

silver

locket.

What

he

clings

to

because

ifhe

lets

go,

there’s

nothing

to

keep

the

tornado

from

taking

him

off

to

Oz

like

the

other

Dorothys

in

camp.

It’s

why

a

kid

army

makes

sense.

Adults

don’t

waste

their

time

on

magical

thinking.

They

dwell

on

the

same

inconvenient

truths

that

landed

Tank

on

the

dissection

table.

Ringer

isn’t

at

roll

call

the

next

morning.

And

he

isn’t

on

the

morning

run

or

at

chow.

We

gear

up

for

the

range,

check

our

weapons,

head

out

across

the

yard.

It’s

a

clear

day,

but

very

cold.

Nobody

says

much.

We’re

all

wondering

where

the

new

kid

is.

Nugget

sees

Ringer

first,

standing

off

in

the

distance

on

the

firing

range,

and

right

away

we

can

see

Flintstone

was

right:

Ringer

is

a

hell

of

a

marksman.

The

target

popsout

of

the

tall

brown

grass

and

pop-pop!

the

head

of

the

target

explodes.

Then

a

different

target,

but

the

same

result.

Reznikis

standing

off

to

one

side,

operating

the

controls

on

the

targets.

He

sees

us

coming

and

starts

hitting

buttons

fast.

The

targets

rocket

out

of

the

grass,

one

right

after

the

other,

and

this

Ringer

kid

takes

them

out

before

they

can

get

upright

with

one

shot.

Beside

me,

Flintstone

gives

a

long,

appreciative

whistle.

“He’s

good.”

Nugget

gets

it

before

the

rest

of

us.

Something

about

the

shoulders

or

maybe

the

hips,

but

he

goes,

“It’s

not

a

he,”

before

he

takes

off

across

the

field

toward

the

solitary

figure

cradling

the

rifle

that

smokes

in

the

freezing

air.

She

turns

before

he

reaches

her,

and

Nugget

pulls

up,

first

confused,

then

disappointed.

Apparently,

Ringer

is

not

his

sister.

Weird

that

she

looked

taller

from

a

distance.

Around

Dumbo’s

height,

but

thinner

than

Dumbo—

and

older.

I’m

guessing

fifteen

or

sixteen,

with

a

pixie

face

and

dark,

deep-set

eyes,

flawless

pale

skin,

and

straight

black

hair.

It’s

the

eyes

that

get

you

first.

The

kind

of

eyes

you

search

to

find

something

there

and

you

come

away

with

only

two

possibilities:

Either

what’s

there

is

so

deep

you

can’t

see

it,

or

there’s

nothing

there

at

all.

It’s

the

girl

from

the

yard,

the

one

who

caught

me

outside

the

P&D

hangar

with

Nugget.

“Ringer

is

a

girl,”

Teacup

whispers,

wrinkling

her

nose

like

she’s

caught

a

whiff

of

something

rotten.

Not

only

is

she

not

the

baby

of

the

squad

anymore,

now

she’s

not

the

only

girl.

“What’re

we

going

to

do

with

her?”

Dumbo

is

on

the

edge

of

panic.

I’m

grinning.

Can’t

help

it.

“We’re

going

to

be

the

first

squad

to

graduate,”

I

say.

And

I’m

right.

49

RINGER’S

FIRST

NIGHT

in

Barracks

10

in

one

word:

awkward.

No

banter.

No

dirty

jokes.

No

macho

bluster.

We

count

the

minutes

ticking

down

to

lights-out

like

a

bunch

of

nervous

geeks

on

a

first

date.

Other

squads

might

have

girls

her

age;

we

have

Teacup.

Ringer

seems

oblivious

to

our

discomfort.

She

sits

on

the

edge

of

Tank’s

old

bunk,

disassembling

and

cleaning

her

rifle.

Ringer

likes

her

rifle.

A

lot.

You

can

tell

by

the

way

she

lovingly

runs

the

oily

rag

up

and

down

the

length

of

its

barrel,

shining

it

until

the

cold

metal

gleams

under

the

fluorescents.

We

are

trying

so

hard

not

to

stare

at

her,

it’s

painful.

She

reassembles

her

weapon,

places

it

carefully

in

the

locker

beside

the

bed,

and

comes

over

to

my

bunk.

I

feel

something

tighten

in

my

chest.

I

haven’t

spoken

to

a

girl

my

age

since…when?

Before

the

plague.

And

I

don’t

think

about

my

life

before

the

plague.

That

was

Ben’s

life,

not

Zombie’s.

“You’re

the

squad

leader,”

she

says.

Her

voice

is

flat,

no

emotion,

like

her

eyes.

“Why?”

I

answer

the

challenge

in

her

question

with

one

of

my

own.

“Why

not?”

Stripped

down

to

her

skivvies

and

the

standard-issue

sleeveless

T-shirt,

her

bangs

stopping

just

short

of

her

dark

eyebrows,

looking

down

at

me.

Dumbo

and

Oompa

stop

their

card

game

to

watch.

Teacup

is

smiling,

sensing

a

fight

brewing.

Flintstone,

who’s

been

folding

laundry,

drops

a

clean

jumpsuit

on

top

of

the

pile.

“You’re

a

terrible

shot,”

Ringer

says.

“I

have

other

skills,”

I

say,

crossing

my

arms

over

my

chest.

“You

should

see

me

with

a

potato

peeler.”

“You’ve

got

a

good

body.”

Somebody

laughs

under

his

breath;

I

think

it’s

Flint.

“Are

you

an

athlete?”

“I

used

to

be.”

She’s

standing

over

me

with

her

fists

on

her

hips,

bare

feet

planted

firmly

on

the

floor.

It’s

her

eyes

that

get

to

me.

The

deep

dark

of

them.

Is

nothing

there—or

nearly

everything?

“Football.”

“Good

guess.”

“And

baseball,

probably.”

“When

I

was

younger.”

She

changes

the

subject

abruptly.

“The

guy

I

replaced

went

Dorothy.”

“That’s

right.”

“Why?”

I

shrug.

“Does

it

matter?”

She

nods.

It

doesn’t.

“I

was

the

leader

of

my

squad.”

“No

doubt.”

“Just

because

you’re

leader

doesn’t

mean

you’ll

make

sergeant

after

graduation.”

“I

sure

hope

that’s

true.”

“I

know

it’s

true.

I

asked.”

She

turns

on

her

bare

heel

and

goes

back

to

her

bunk.

I

look

down

at

my

feet

and

notice

my

nails

need

trimming.

Ringer’s

feet

are

very

small,

with

nubby-type

toes.

When

Ilook

up

again,

she’s

heading

for

the

showers

with

a

towel

thrown

over

her

shoulder.

She

pauses

at

the

door.

“If

anybody

in

this

squad

touches

me,

I’ll

kill

them.”

There’s

nothing

menacing

or

funny

about

the

way

she

says

it.

As

if

she’s

stating

a

fact,

like

it’s

cold

outside.

“I’ll

spread

the

word,”

I

say.

“And

when

I’m

in

the

shower,

off

limits.

Total

privacy.”

“Roger

that.

Anything

else?”

She

pauses,

staring

at

me

from

across

the

room.

I

feel

myself

tense

up.

What

next?“I

like

to

play

chess.

Do

you

play?”

I

shake

my

head.

Holler

at

the

boys,

“Any

of

you

pervs

play

chess?”

“No,”

Flint

calls

back.

“But

if

she’s

in

the

mood

for

some

strip

poker—”

It

happens

before

I

can

get

two

inches

off

the

mattress:

Flint

on

the

ground,

holdinghis

throat,

kicking

his

legs

like

a

stomped-on

bug,

Ringer

standing

over

him.

“Also,

no

demeaning,

sexist,

pseudo-macho

remarks.”

“You’re

cool!”

Teacup

blurts

out,

and

she

means

it.

Maybe

she

needs

to

rethink

this

whole

Ringer

thing.

Might

not

be

such

a

bad

arrangement

having

another

girl

around.

“That’s

ten

days

half

rations

for

what

you

just

did,”

I

tell

her.

Maybe

Flint

had

it

coming,

but

I’m

still

the

boss

when

Reznik’s

not

around,

and

Ringer

needs

to

know

it.

“Are

you

writing

me

up?”

No

fear

in

her

voice.

No

anger.

No

anything.

“I’m

giving

you

a

warning.”

She

nods,

steps

away

from

Flint,

brushes

past

me

on

the

way

to

fetch

her

toiletrykit.

She

smells—

well,

she

smells

like

a

girl,

and

for

a

second

I’m

a

little

light-headed.

“I’ll

remember

you

going

easy

on

me,”

she

says

with

a

flip

of

her

bangs,

“when

theymake

me

Fifty-three’s

new

squad

leader.”

50

A

WEEK

AFTER

Ringer

arrived,

Squad

53

moved

up

from

tenth

to

seventh

place.

By

week

three,

we

had

edged

past

Squad

19

to

take

fifth.

Then,

with

only

two

weeks

to

go,

we

hit

a

wall,

falling

sixteen

points

back

from

fourth

place,

a

nearly

insurmountable

deficit.

Poundcake,

who

isn’t

much

for

words

but

is

a

boss

with

numbers,

breaks

down

the

spread.

In

every

category

except

one,

there’s

very

little

room

for

improvement:

We’re

second

in

obstacle

course,

third

in

air

raid

and

the

run,

and

first

in

“other

duties

as

assigned,”

a

catchall

that

includes

points

for

morning

inspection

and

“conduct

befitting

a

unit

of

the

armed

forces.”

Our

downfall

is

marksmanship,

where

we

rank

sixteenth,

despite

kickass

shooters

like

Ringer

and

Poundcake.

Unless

we

can

pull

up

that

score

in

the

next

two

weeks,

we’re

doomed.

Of

course,

you

don’t

have

to

be

a

boss

with

numbers

to

know

why

our

score

is

so

low.

The

squad

leader

sucks

at

shooting.

So

the

sucky-shooting

squad

leader

goes

to

the

senior

drill

instructor

and

requests

extra

practice

time,

but

his

scores

don’t

budge.

My

technique

isn’t

bad;

I

do

all

the

right

things

in

the

right

order;

still,

if

I

score

one

head

shot

out

of

a

thirty-round

clip,

I’m

lucky.

Ringer

agrees

it’s

just

dumb

luck.

She

says

even

Nugget

could

score

one

out

of

thirty.

She

tries

hard

notto

show

it,

but

my

ineptitude

with

a

gun

pisses

her

off.

Her

former

squad

ranks

second.

If

she

hadn’t

been

reassigned,

she’d

be

guaranteed

to

graduate

with

the

first

class

and

be

first

in

line

for

a

pair

of

sergeant

stripes.

“I’ve

got

a

proposition

for

you,”

she

says

one

morning

as

we

hit

the

yard

for

the

morning

run.

She’s

wearing

a

headband

to

hold

back

her

silky

bangs.

Not

that

I

notice

their

silkiness.

“I’ll

help

you,

on

one

condition.”

“Does

it

have

anything

to

do

with

chess?”

“Resign

as

squad

leader.”

I

glance

at

her.

The

cold

has

painted

her

ivory

cheeks

a

bright

red.

Ringer

is

a

quietperson—not

Poundcake

quiet,

but

quiet

in

an

intense,

unnerving

way,

with

eyes

that

seem

to

dissect

you

with

the

sharpness

of

one

of

Dumbo’s

surgical

knives.

“You

didn’t

ask

for

it,

you

don’t

care

about

it,

why

not

let

me

have

it?”

she

asks,

keeping

her

eyes

on

the

path.

“Why

do

you

want

it

so

bad?”

“Giving

the

orders

is

my

best

chance

to

stay

alive.”

I

laugh.

I

want

to

tell

her

what

I’ve

learned.

Vosch

said

it;

I

knew

it

to

the

bottomof

my

soul:

You’re

going

to

die.

This

wasn’t

about

survival.

It

was

about

payback.

Following

the

path

that

snakes

out

of

the

yard

and

across

the

hospital

parking

lot

to

the

airfield

access

road.

In

front

of

us

now

the

power

plant

barfing

its

black

and

gray

smoke.

“How

’bout

this,”

I

suggest.

“You

help

me,

we

win,

I

step

down.”

It’s

a

meaningless

offer.

We’re

recruits.

It

isn’t

our

call

who’s

squad

leader;

it’s

Reznik’s.

And

I

know

this

really

isn’t

about

who’s

squad

leader

anyway.

It’s

about

who

makes

sergeant

when

we’re

activated

for

field

duty.

Being

squad

leader

doesn’t

guarantee

a

promotion,

but

it

can’t

hurt.

A

Black

Hawk

thunders

overhead,

returning

from

night

patrol.

“Ever

wonder

how

they

did

it?”

she

asks,

watching

the

chopper

swing

off

to

our

right

toward

the

landing

zone.

“Got

everything

running

again

after

the

EMP

strike?”

“No,”

I

answer

honestly.

“What

do

you

think?”

Her

breaths

tiny

white

explosions

in

the

frigid

air.

“Underground

bunkers,

it

has

to

be.

That

or…”

“Or

what?”

She

shakes

her

head,

puffing

out

her

cold-pinched

cheeks,

and

her

black

hair

swings

back

and

forth

as

she

runs,

kissed

by

the

bright

morning

sun.

“Too

crazy,

Zombie,”

she

says

finally.

“Come

on,

let’s

see

what

you’ve

got,

football

star.”

I’m

four

inches

taller

than

she

is.

For

every

one

stride

I

take,

she

has

to

take

two.

So

I

beat

her.

Barely.

That

afternoon

we

hit

the

range,

bringing

Oompa

along

to

operate

the

targets.

Ringerwatches

me

fire

off

a

few

rounds,

then

offers

her

expert

opinion:

“You’re

horrible.”

“That’s

the

problem.

My

horribleness.”

I

give

her

my

best

smile.

Before

the

alienArmageddon

happened,

I

was

known

for

my

smile.

Not

bragging

too

much,

but

I

had

tobe

careful

never

to

smile

while

I

drove:

It

had

the

capacity

to

blind

oncoming

traffic.

But

it

has

absolutely

no

effect

on

Ringer.

She

doesn’t

squint

in

its

overwhelming

luminescence.

She

doesn’t

even

blink.

“Your

technique

is

good.

What’s

going

on

when

you

shoot?”

“Generally

speaking,

I

miss.”

She

shakes

her

head.

Speaking

of

smiles,

I’ve

yet

to

see

so

much

as

a

thin-lippedgrin

from

her.

I

decide

to

make

it

my

mission

to

coax

one

out

of

her.

More

a

Ben

thought

than

a

Zombie

one,

but

old

habits

die

hard.

“I

mean

between

you

and

the

target,”

she

says.

Huh?

“Well,

when

it

pops

up—”

“No.

I’m

talking

about

what

happens

between

here,”

fingertips

on

my

right

hand,

“and

there,”

pointing

at

the

target

twenty

yards

away.

“You’ve

lost

me,

Ringer.”

“You

have

to

think

of

your

weapon

as

a

part

of

you.

Not

the

M16

firing;

you

firing.

It’s

like

blowing

on

a

dandelion.

You

breathe

the

bullet

out.”

She

swings

her

rifle

off

her

shoulder

and

nods

to

Oompa.

She

doesn’t

know

where

it’llpop

up,

but

the

head

of

the

target

explodes

in

a

shower

of

splinters

before

it

even

gets

upright.

“It’s

like

there’s

no

space,

nothing

that

isn’t

you.

The

rifle

is

you.

The

bullet

is

you.

The

target

is

you.

There’s

nothing

that’s

not

you.”

“So

basically

what

you’re

saying

is

I’m

blowing

my

own

head

off.”

I

almost

got

a

smile

with

that

one.

The

left

corner

of

her

mouth

twitches.

“That’s

very

Zenlike,”

I

try

again.

Her

eyebrows

come

together.

Strike

three.

“It’s

more

like

quantum

mechanics.”

I

nod

seriously.

“Oh,

sure.

That’s

what

I

meant

to

say.

Quantum

mechanics.”

She

turns

her

head

away.

To

hide

a

smile?

So

I

don’t

see

an

exasperated

eye

roll?

When

she

turns

back,

all

I

get

is

that

intense,

stomach-tightening

stare.

“Do

you

want

to

graduate?”

“I

want

to

get

the

hell

away

from

Reznik.”

“That

isn’t

enough.”

She

points

across

the

field

at

one

of

the

cutouts.

The

wind

playswith

her

bangs.

“What

do

you

see

when

you

sight

a

target?”

“I

see

a

plywood

cutout

of

a

person.”

“Okay,

but

who

do

you

see?”

“I

know

what

you

meant.

Sometimes

I

picture

Reznik’s

face.”

“Does

it

help?”

“You

tell

me.”

“It’s

about

connection,”

she

says.

She

motions

for

me

to

sit

down.

She

sits

in

frontof

me,

takes

my

hands.

Hers

are

freezing,

cold

as

the

bodies

in

P&D.

“Close

your

eyes.Oh,

come

on,

Zombie.

How’s

your

way

been

working

for

you?

Good.

Okay,

remember,

it’s

not

you

and

the

target.

It’s

not

what’s

between

you,

but

what

connects

you.

Think

about

the

lion

and

the

gazelle.

What

connects

them?”

“Um.

Hunger?”

“That’s

the

lion.

I’m

asking

what

they

share.”

This

is

heavy

stuff.

Maybe

it

was

a

bad

idea,

accepting

her

offer.

Not

only

do

I

have

her

thoroughly

convinced

I’m

a

lousy

soldier,

now

there’s

a

real

possibility

that

I’m

also

a

moron.

“Fear,”

she

whispers

in

my

ear,

as

if

she’s

sharing

a

secret.

“For

the

gazelle,

fear

of

being

eaten.

For

the

lion,

fear

of

starvation.

Fear

is

the

chain

that

binds

them

together.”

The

chain.

I

carry

one

in

my

pocket

attached

to

a

silver

locket.

The

night

my

sisterdied

was

a

thousand

years

ago;

that

night

was

last

night.

It’s

over.

It’s

never

over.

It

isn’t

a

line

from

that

night

to

this

day;

it’s

a

circle.

My

fingers

tighten

around

hers.

“I

don’t

know

what

your

chain

is,”

she

goes

on,

warm

breath

in

my

ear.

“It’s

different

for

everyone.

They

know.

Wonderland

tells

them.

It’s

the

thing

that

made

them

put

a

gun

in

your

hand,

and

it’s

the

same

thing

that

chains

you

to

the

target.”

Then,

as

if

she’s

read

my

mind:

“It

isn’t

a

line,

Zombie.

It’s

a

circle.”

I

open

my

eyes.

The

setting

sun

creates

a

halo

of

golden

light

around

her.

“There

is

no

distance.”

She

nods

and

urges

me

to

my

feet.

“It’s

almost

dark.”

I

bring

up

my

rifle

and

tuck

the

butt

against

my

shoulder.

You

don’t

know

where

the

target

will

rise

—you

only

know

that

it

will.

Ringer

signals

Oompa,

and

the

tall,

dead

grass

rustles

to

my

right

a

millisecond

before

the

target

pops,

but

that’s

more

than

enough

time;

it’s

an

eternity.

There

is

no

distance.

Nothing

between

me

and

the

not-me.

The

target’s

head

disintegrates

with

a

satisfying

crack!

Oompa

gives

a

shout

and

pumps

his

fist

in

the

air.

I

forget

myself

and

grab

Ringer

around

the

waist,

swinging

her

off

the

ground

and

twirling

her

around.

I’m

one

very

dangerous

second

away

from

kissing

her.

When

I

set

her

down,

she

takes

a

couple

of

steps

back

and

tucks

her

hair

carefully

behind

her

ears.

“That

was

out

of

line,”

I

say.

I

don’t

know

who’s

more

embarrassed.

We’re

both

trying

to

catch

our

breaths.

Maybe

for

different

reasons.

“Do

it

again,”

she

says.

“Shoot

or

twirl,

which

one?”

Her

mouth

twitches.

Oh,

I’m

so

close.

“The

one

that

means

something.”

51

GRADUATION

DAY.

Our

new

uniforms

were

waiting

for

us

when

we

returned

from

morning

chow,

pressed

and

starched

and

neatly

folded

on

our

bunks.

And

an

extra

special

bonus

surprise:

headbands

equipped

with

the

latest

in

alien

detection

technology,

a

clear,

quarter-size

disk

that

slips

over

your

left

eye.

Infested

humans

will

light

up

through

the

lens.

Or

so

we’re

told.

Later

that

day,

when

I

asked

the

tech

exactly

how

it

worked,

his

answer

was

simple:

Unclean

glows

green.

When

I

politely

asked

for

a

brief

demo,

he

laughed.

“You’ll

get

your

demo

in

the

field,

soldier.”

For

the

first

time

since

coming

to

Camp

Haven—and

probably

for

the

last

time

in

ourlives—we

are

kids

again.

Whooping

it

up

and

jumping

from

bunk

to

bunk,

throwing

high

fives.

Ringer’s

the

only

one

who

ducks

into

the

latrine

to

change.

The

rest

of

us

strip

where

we

stand,

throwing

the

hated

blue

jumpsuits

into

a

pile

in

the

middle

of

the

floor.

Teacup

has

the

bright

idea

to

set

them

on

fire

and

would

have

if

Dumbo

didn’t

snatch

the

lit

match

from

her

hand

at

the

last

second.

The

only

one

without

a

uniform

is

sitting

on

his

bunk

in

his

white

jumpsuit,

legs

swinging

back

and

forth,

arms

folded

over

his

chest,

bottom

lip

stuck

out

a

mile.

I’m

not

oblivious.

I

get

it.

After

I’m

dressed,

I

sit

beside

him

and

slap

him

on

the

leg.

“You’ll

get

your

turn,

Private.

Hang

in

there.”

“Two

years,

Zombie.”

“So?

Think

what

a

hardass

you’ll

be

in

two

years.

Put

all

of

us

to

shame.”

Nugget’s

being

assigned

to

another

training

squad

after

we

deploy.

I

promised

him

he

could

bunk

with

me

whenever

I’m

on

base,

though

I

have

no

idea

when—or

if—I’m

ever

coming

back.

Our

mission

is

still

top

secret,

known

only

to

Central

Command.

I’m

notsure

even

Reznik

knows

where

we’re

going.

I

don’t

really

care,

as

long

as

Reznik

stays

here.

“Come

on,

soldier.

You’re

supposed

to

be

happy

for

me,”

I

tease

him.

“You’re

not

coming

back.”

He

says

it

with

so

much

angry

conviction

that

I

don’t

know

what

to

say.

“I’ll

never

see

you

again.”

“Of

course

you’re

going

to

see

me

again,

Nugget.

I

promise.”

He

hits

me

as

hard

as

he

can.

Again

and

again,

right

over

my

heart.

I

grab

his

wrist,

and

he

lays

into

me

with

his

other

hand.

I

grab

that

one

and

order

him

to

stand

down.

“Don’t

promise,

don’t

promise,

don’t

promise!

Don’t

promise

anything

ever,

ever,

ever!”

His

little

face

screwed

up

with

rage.

“Hey,

Nugget,

hey.”

I

fold

his

arms

over

his

chest

and

bend

down

to

look

him

in

the

eye.

“Some

things

you

don’t

have

to

promise.

You

just

do.”

I

reach

into

my

pocket

and

pull

out

Sissy’s

locket.

Undo

the

clasp.

I

haven’t

donethat

since

I

fixed

it

at

Tent

City.

Circle

broken.

I

draw

it

around

his

neck

and

hook

the

ends

together.

Circle

complete.

“No

matter

what

happens

out

there,

I’ll

come

back

for

you,”

I

promise

him.

Over

his

shoulder,

I

see

Ringer

come

out

of

the

bathroom,

tucking

her

hair

beneathher

new

cap.

I

stand

at

attention

and

snap

off

a

salute.

“Private

Zombie

reporting

for

duty,

squad

leader!”

“My

one

day

of

glory,”

she

says,

returning

the

salute.

“Everybody

knows

who’s

making

sergeant.”

I

shrug

modestly.

“I

don’t

listen

to

rumors.”

“You

made

a

promise

you

knew

you

couldn’t

keep,”

she

says

matter-of-factly—which

is

pretty

much

the

way

she

says

everything.

The

unfortunate

thing

is

she

says

it

right

in

front

of

Nugget.

“Sure

you

don’t

want

to

take

up

chess,

Zombie?

You’d

be

very

good

at

it.”

Since

laughing

seems

like

the

least

dangerous

thing

to

do

at

that

moment,

I

laugh.

The

door

flies

open,

and

Dumbo

shouts,

“Sir!

Good

morning,

sir!”

We

rush

to

the

ends

of

our

bunks

and

stand

at

attention

as

Reznik

moves

down

the

line

for

what

will

be

our

final

inspection.

He’s

subdued,

for

Reznik.

He

doesn’t

call

us

maggots

or

scumbags.

He’s

nitpicky

as

ever,

though.

Flintstone’s

shirt

is

untucked

on

one

side.

Oompa’s

hat

is

crooked.

He

brushes

off

a

speck

of

lint

that

only

he

can

see

from

Teacup’s

collar.

He

lingers

over

Teacup

for

a

long

moment,

staring

down

into

her

face,

almost

comical

in

its

seriousness.

“Well,

Private.

Are

you

ready

to

die?”

“Sir,

yes,

sir!”

Teacup

shouts

in

her

loudest

warrior

voice.

Reznik

turns

to

the

rest

of

us.

“How

about

you?

Are

you

ready?”

Our

voices

thunder

as

one:

“Sir!

Yes,

sir!”

Before

he

leaves,

Reznik

orders

me

front

and

center.

“Come

with

me,

Private.”

A

finalsalute

to

the

troops,

then:

“See

you

at

the

party,

children.”

On

my

way

out,

Ringer

gives

me

a

knowing

look,

as

if

to

say,

Told

you

so.

I

follow

two

paces

behind

the

drill

sergeant

as

he

marches

across

the

yard.

Blue-suited

recruits

are

putting

the

finishing

touches

on

the

speaker’s

platform,

hanging

bunting,

setting

up

chairs

for

the

high

brass,

unrolling

a

red

carpet.

A

huge

banner

has

been

hung

across

the

barracks

on

the

far

side:

WE

ARE

HUMANITY.

And

on

the

opposite

side:

WE

ARE

ONE.

Into

a

nondescript

one-story

building

on

the

western

side

of

the

compound,

passing

through

a

security

door

marked

AUTHORIZED

PERSONNEL

ON.LYThrough

a

metal

detector

manned

by

heavily

armed,

stone-faced

soldiers.

Into

an

elevator

that

carries

us

four

stories

beneath

the

earth.

Reznik

doesn’t

talk.

He

doesn’t

even

look

at

me.

I

have

a

pretty

good

idea

where

we’re

going,

but

no

idea

why.

I

nervously

pick

at

the

front

of

my

new

uniform.

Down

a

long

corridor

awash

in

fluorescent

lighting.

Passing

through

another

securitycheckpoint.

More

stone-faced,

heavily

armed

soldiers.

Reznik

stops

at

an

unmarked

door

and

swipes

his

key

card

through

the

lock.

We

step

inside

a

small

room.

A

man

in

a

lieutenant’s

uniform

greets

us

at

the

door,

and

we

follow

him

down

another

hallway

and

into

a

large

private

office.

A

man

sits

behind

the

desk,

leafing

through

a

stack

of

computer

printouts.

Vosch.

He

dismisses

Reznik

and

the

lieutenant,

and

we’re

alone.

“At

ease,

Private.”

I

spread

my

feet,

put

my

hands

behind

my

back,

right

hand

loosely

gripping

my

left

wrist.

Standing

in

front

of

the

big

desk,

eyes

forward,

chest

out.

He

is

the

supreme

commander.

I’m

a

private,

a

lowly

recruit,

not

even

a

real

soldier

yet.

My

heart

is

threatening

to

pop

the

buttons

on

my

brand-new

shirt.

“So,

Ben,

how

are

you?”

He’s

smiling

warmly

at

me.

I

don’t

even

know

how

to

begin

to

answer

his

question.

Plus

I’m

thrown

by

his

calling

me

Ben.

It

sounds

strange

to

my

own

ears

after

beingZombie

for

so

many

months.

He’s

expecting

an

answer,

and

for

some

stupid

reason

I

blurt

out

the

first

thing

that

pops

into

my

head.

“Sir!

The

private

is

ready

to

die,

sir!”

He

nods,

still

smiling,

and

then

he

gets

up,

comes

around

the

desk,

and

says,

“Let’s

speak

freely,

soldier

to

soldier.

After

all,

that’s

what

you

are

now,

Sergeant

Parish.”

I

see

them

then:

the

sergeant’s

stripes

in

his

hand.

So

Ringer

was

right.

I

snap

backto

attention

while

he

pins

them

on

my

collar.

He

claps

me

on

the

shoulder,

his

blue

eyes

boring

into

mine.

Hard

to

look

him

in

the

eye.

The

way

he

looks

at

you

makes

you

feel

naked,

totally

exposed.

“You

lost

a

man,”

he

says.

“Yes,

sir.”

“Terrible

thing.”

“Yes,

sir.”

He

leans

back

against

the

desk,

crosses

his

arms.

“His

profile

was

excellent.

Notas

good

as

yours,

but…The

lesson

here,

Ben,

is

that

we

all

have

a

breaking

point.

We’re

all

human,

yes?”

“Yes,

sir.”

He’s

smiling.

Why

is

he

smiling?

It’s

cool

in

the

underground

bunker,

but

I’m

beginning

to

sweat.

“You

may

ask,”

he

says

with

an

inviting

wave

of

his

hand.

“Sir?”

“The

question

you

must

be

thinking.

The

one

you’ve

had

since

Tank

showed

up

in

processing

and

disposal.”

“How

did

he

die?”

“Overdose,

as

you

no

doubt

suspected.

One

day

after

being

taken

off

suicide

watch.”

He

motions

to

the

chair

beside

me.

“Have

a

seat,

Ben.

There’s

something

I

want

to

discuss

with

you.”

I

sink

into

the

chair,

sitting

on

its

edge,

back

straight,

chin

up.

If

it’s

possible

to

be

at

attention

while

seated,

I’m

doing

it.

“We

all

have

our

breaking

points,”

he

says,

blue

eyes

bearing

down

on

me.

“I’ll

tell

you

about

mine.

Two

weeks

after

the

4th

Wave,

gathering

survivors

at

a

refugee

camp

about

six

kilometers

from

here.

Well,

not

every

survivor.

Just

the

children.

Although

we

hadn’t

detected

the

infestations

yet,

we

were

fairly

confident

whatever

was

going

on

didn’t

involve

children.

Since

we

couldn’t

know

who

was

the

enemy

and

who

wasn’t,

it

was

command’s

decision

to

terminate

any

and

all

personnel

over

the

age

of

fifteen.”

His

face

goes

dark.

His

eyes

cut

away.

Leaning

back

on

the

desk,

gripping

its

edge

so

hard,

his

knuckles

turn

white.

“I

mean,

my

decision.”

Deep

breath.

“We

killed

them,

Ben.

After

we

loaded

up

the

children,

we

killed

every

single

one

of

them.

And

after

we

were

done,

we

incinerated

their

camp.

Wiped

it

off

the

face

of

the

Earth.”

He

looks

back

at

me.

Incredibly,

I

see

tears

in

his

eyes.

“That

was

my

breaking

point.Afterward

I

realized,

to

my

horror,

that

I

was

falling

into

their

trap.

I

was

an

instrument

for

the

enemy.

For

every

infested

person

I

murdered,

three

innocent

people

died.

I

will

have

to

live

with

that—because

I

have

to

live.

Do

you

understand

what

I

mean?”

I

nod.

He

smiles

sadly.

“Of

course

you

do.

We

both

have

the

blood

of

innocents

on

our

hands,

don’t

we?”

He

pushes

himself

upright,

all

business

now.

The

tears

are

gone.

“Sergeant

Parish,

today

we

will

graduate

the

top

four

squads

of

your

battalion.

As

commander

of

the

winning

squad,

you

have

first

pick

of

assignments.

Two

squads

will

be

deployed

as

perimeter

patrols

to

protect

this

base.

The

other

two

will

be

deployed

into

enemy

territory.”

This

takes

me

a

couple

minutes

to

absorb.

He

lets

me

have

them.

He

picks

up

one

ofthe

computer

printouts

and

holds

it

in

front

of

me.

There’s

a

lot

of

numbers

and

squiggly

lines

and

strange

symbols

that

mean

absolutely

nothing

to

me.

“I

don’t

expect

you

to

be

able

to

read

it,”

he

says.

“But

would

you

like

to

guess

what

this

is?”

“That’s

all

it

would

be,

sir,”

I

answer.

“A

guess.”

“It’s

the

Wonderland

analytics

of

an

infested

human

being.”

I

nod.

Why

the

hell

am

I

nodding?

It’s

not

like

I

understand:Ah,

yes,

Commander,

an

analytic!

Please,

go

on.

“We’ve

been

running

them

through

Wonderland,

of

course,

but

we

haven’t

been

able

to

untangle

the

infestation’s

map

from

the

victim’s—or

clone

or

whatever

it

is.

Until

now.”

He

holds

up

the

readout.

“This,

Sergeant

Parish,

is

what

an

alien

consciousness

looks

like.”

Again,

I’m

nodding.

But

this

time

because

I’m

starting

to

get

it.

“You

know

what

they’re

thinking.”

“Exactly!”

Beaming

at

me,

the

star

pupil.

“The

key

to

winning

this

war

isn’t

tacticsor

strategy

or

even

imbalances

in

technology.

The

real

key

to

winning

this

war,

or

any

war,

is

understanding

how

your

enemy

thinks.

And

now

we

do.”

I

wait

for

him

to

break

it

to

me

gently.

How

does

the

enemy

think?

“Much

of

what

we

assumed

is

correct.

They

have

been

watching

us

for

some

time.

Infestations

were

embedded

in

key

individuals

around

the

world,

sleeper

agents,

if

you

will,

waiting

for

the

signal

to

launch

a

coordinated

attack

after

our

population

had

been

whittled

down

to

a

manageable

number.

We

know

how

that

attack

turned

out

here

at

Camp

Haven,

and

we

strongly

suspect

that

other

military

installations

were

not

as

fortunate.”

He

slaps

the

paper

on

his

thigh.

I

must

have

flinched,

because

he

gives

me

a

reassuring

smile.

“A

third

of

the

surviving

population.

Planted

here

to

eradicate

those

who

survived

the

first

three

waves.

You.

Me.

Your

team

members.

All

of

us.

If

you

have

any

fear,

as

poor

Tank

did,

that

a

fifth

wave

is

coming,

you

can

put

it

aside.

There

will

be

no

fifth

wave.

They

have

no

intention

of

leaving

their

mothership

until

the

human

race

is

exterminated.”

“Is

that

why

they

haven’t…?”

“Attacked

us

again?

We

think

so.

It

seems

their

foremost

desire

is

to

preserve

the

planet

for

colonization.

Now

we

are

in

a

war

of

attrition.

Our

resources

are

limited;

they

can’t

last

forever.

We

know

it.

They

know

it.

Cut

offfrom

supplies,

with

no

means

to

marshal

any

significant

fighting

force,

eventually

this

camp—and

any

others

out

there

like

it—will

wither

and

die,

like

a

vine

cut

off

from

its

roots.”

Weird.

He’s

still

smiling.

Like

something

about

this

doomsday

scenario

turns

him

on.

“So

what

do

we

do?”

I

ask.

“The

only

thing

we

can

do,

Sergeant.

We

take

the

battle

to

them.”

The

way

he

says

it:

no

doubt,

no

fear,

no

hopelessness.

We

take

the

battle

to

them.

That’s

why

he’s

the

commander.

Standing

over

me,

smiling,

confident,

his

chiseled

features

reminding

me

of

some

ancient

statue,

noble,

wise,

strong.

He

is

the

rock

against

which

the

alien

waves

crash,

and

he

is

unbroken.

We

are

humanity,

the

banner

read.

Wrong.

We’re

pale

reflections

of

it,

weak

shadows,

distant

echoes.

He

is

humanity,

the

beating,

unbeaten,

invincible

heart

of

it.

In

that

moment,

if

Commander

Vosch

had

told

me

to

put

a

bullet

through

my

head

for

the

cause,

I

would

have.

I

would

have

without

a

second

thought.

“Which

brings

us

back

to

your

assignment,”

he

says

quietly.

“Our

recon

flights

have

identified

significant

pockets

of

infested

combatants

clustered

in

and

around

Dayton.

A

squad

will

be

dropped

in—and

for

the

next

four

hours,

it

will

be

on

its

own.

The

odds

of

making

it

out

alive

are

roughly

one

in

four.”

I

clear

my

throat.

“And

two

squads

stay

here.”

He

nods.

Blue

eyes

boring

deep—to

the

marrow

deep.

“Your

call.”

That

same

small,

secretive

smile.

He

knows

what

I’m

going

to

say.

He

knew

before

Iwalked

through

the

door.

Maybe

my

Wonderland

profile

told

him,

but

I

don’t

think

so.

He

knows

me.

I

rise

from

the

chair

to

full

attention.

And

tell

him

what

he

already

knows.

52

AT

0900

the

entire

battalion

musters

in

the

yard,

creating

a

sea

of

blue

jumpsuits

headed

by

the

top

four

squads

in

their

crisp

new

fatigues.

Over

a

thousand

recruits

standing

in

perfect

formation,

facing

east,

the

direction

of

new

beginnings,

toward

the

speakers’

platform

erected

the

day

before.

Flags

snap

in

the

icy

breeze,

but

we

don’t

feel

the

cold.

We

are

lit

from

within

by

a

fire

hotter

than

the

one

that

turned

Tank

into

ash.

The

brass

of

Central

Command

moves

down

the

first

line—the

winningline

—shaking

our

hands

and

congratulating

us

for

a

job

well

done.

Then

a

personal

word

of

gratitude

from

the

drill

instructors.

I’ve

been

dreaming

of

what

to

say

to

Reznik

when

he

shakes

my

hand.

Thanks

for

making

my

life

a

living

hell…Oh,

die.

Just

die,

you

son

of

a

bitch…

Or

my

favorite,

short

and

sweet

and

to

the

point:

Ef

you.

But

when

he

salutes

and

offers

me

his

hand,

I

almost

lose

it.

I

want

to

hit

him

in

the

face

and

hug

him

at

the

same

time.

“Congratulations,

Ben,”

he

says,

which

totally

throws

me

off.

I

had

no

idea

he

even

knew

my

name.

He

gives

me

a

wink

and

continues

down

the

line.

There’re

a

couple

of

short

speeches

by

officers

I’ve

never

seen

before.

Then

the

supreme

commander

is

introduced

and

the

troops

go

crazy,

waving

our

hats,

pumping

our

fists.

Our

cheers

echo

off

the

buildings

encircling

the

yard,

making

the

roar

twice

as

loud

and

us

seem

twice

as

many.

Commander

Vosch

raises

his

hand

very

slowly

and

deliberately

to

his

forehead,

and

it’s

as

if

he

hit

a

switch:

The

noise

cuts

off

as

we

raise

our

own

hands

in

salute.

I

can

hear

quiet

snuffling

all

around

me.

It’s

too

much.

After

what

brought

us

here

and

what

we

went

through

here,

after

all

the

blood

and

death

and

fire,

after

being

shown

the

ugly

mirror

of

the

past

through

Wonderland

and

facing

the

uglier

truth

of

the

future

in

the

execution

room,

after

months

of

brutal

training

that

pushed

some

of

us

past

the

point

of

no

return,

we

have

arrived.

We

have

survived

the

death

of

our

childhood.

We

are

soldiers

now,

maybe

the

last

soldiers

who

will

ever

fight,

the

Earth’s

final

and

only

hope,

united

as

one

in

the

spirit

of

vengeance.

I

don’t

hear

a

word

of

Vosch’s

speech.

I

watch

the

sun

rising

over

his

shoulder,

framed

between

the

twin

towers

of

the

power

plant,

its

light

glinting

off

the

mothership

in

orbit,

the

sole

imperfection

in

the

otherwise

perfect

sky.

So

small,

so

insignificant.

I

feel

like

I

can

reach

up

and

pluck

it

from

the

sky,

throw

it

to

the

ground,

grind

it

to

dust

beneath

my

heel.

The

fire

in

my

chest

grows

white-hot,

spreads

over

every

inch

of

my

body.

It

melts

my

bones;

it

incinerates

my

skin;

I

am

the

sun

gone

supernova.

I

was

wrong

about

Ben

Parish

dying

on

the

day

he

left

the

convalescent

ward.

I’vebeen

carrying

his

stinking

corpse

inside

me

all

through

basic.

Now

the

last

of

himis

burned

away

as

I

stare

up

at

the

solitary

figure

who

lit

that

fire.

The

man

who

showed

me

the

true

battlefield.

Who

emptied

me

so

I

might

be

filled.

Who

killed

me

so

I

might

live.

And

I

swear

I

can

see

him

staring

back

at

me

with

those

icy

blue

eyes

that

see

down

to

the

bottom

of

my

soul,

and

I

know—I

know—what

he’s

thinking.

We

are

one,

you

and

I.

Brothers

in

hate,

brothers

in

cunning,

brothers

in

the

spirit

of

vengeance.

53

YOU

SAVED

ME.

Lying

in

his

arms

that

night

with

those

words

in

my

ears,

and

I’m

thinking,

Idiot,

idiot,

idiot.

You

can’t

do

this.

You

can’t,

you

can’t,

you

can’t.

The

first

rule:

Trust

no

one.

Which

leads

to

the

second

rule:

The

only

way

to

stayalive

as

long

as

possible

is

to

stay

alone

as

long

as

possible.

Now

I’ve

broken

both.

Oh,

they’re

so

clever.

The

harder

survival

becomes,

the

more

you

want

to

pull

together.

And

the

more

you

want

to

pull

together,

the

harder

survival

becomes.

The

point

is

I

had

my

chance

and

I

didn’t

do

so

well

on

my

own.

In

fact,

I

sucked.I

would

have

died

if

Evan

hadn’t

found

me.

His

body

is

pressed

against

my

back,

his

arm

is

wrapped

protectively

around

my

waist,

his

breath

a

delicious

tickle

against

my

neck.

The

room

is

very

cold;

it

would

be

nice

to

climb

under

the

covers,

but

I

don’t

want

to

move.

I

don’t

want

him

to

move.

I

run

my

fingers

along

his

bare

forearm,

remembering

the

warmth

of

his

lips,

the

silkiness

of

his

hair

between

my

fingers.

The

boy

who

never

sleeps,

sleeping.

Coming

to

rest

upon

the

Cassiopeian

shore,

an

island

in

the

middle

of

a

sea

of

blood.

You

have

your

promise,

and

I

have

you.

I

can’t

trust

him.

I

have

to

trust

him.

I

can’t

stay

with

him.

I

can’t

leave

him

behind.

You

can’t

trust

luck

anymore.

The

Others

have

taught

me

that.

But

can

you

still

trust

love?

Not

that

I

love

him.

I

don’t

even

know

what

love

feels

like.

I

know

how

Ben

Parishmade

me

feel,

which

can’t

be

put

into

words,

or

at

least

any

words

I

know.

Evan

stirs

behind

me.

“It’s

late,”

he

murmurs.

“You’d

better

get

some

sleep.”

How

did

he

know

I’m

awake?

“What

about

you?”

He

rolls

off

the

bed

and

pads

toward

the

door.

I

sit

up,

my

heart

racing,

not

sure

exactly

why.

“Where

are

you

going?”

“Going

to

look

around

a

little.

I

won’t

be

long.”

After

he

leaves,

I

strip

off

my

clothes

and

slip

on

one

of

his

plaid

lumberjack

shirts.

Val

had

been

into

the

frilly

sleepwear.

Not

my

style.

I

climb

back

into

bed

and

pull

the

covers

up

to

my

chin.

Dang,

it’s

cold.

I

listento

the

quiet.

Of

the

Evanless

house,

that

is.

Outside

are

the

sounds

of

nature

unleashed.

The

distant

barking

of

wild

dogs.

The

howl

of

a

wolf.

The

screech

of

owls.

It’s

winter,

the

time

of

year

when

nature

whispers.

I

expect

a

symphony

of

wild

things

once

spring

arrives.

I

wait

for

him

to

come

back.

An

hour

goes

by.

Then

two.

I

hear

the

telltale

creak

again

and

hold

my

breath.

I

usually

hear

him

come

in

atnight.

The

kitchen

door

slamming.

The

heavy

tread

of

his

boots

coming

up

the

stairs.

Now

I

hear

nothing

but

the

creaking

on

the

other

side

of

the

door.

I

reach

over

and

pick

up

the

Luger

from

the

bedside

table.

I

always

keep

it

near

me.

He’s

dead

was

my

first

thought.

It

isn’t

Evan

outside

that

door;

it’s

a

Silencer.

I

slide

out

of

bed

and

tiptoe

to

the

door.

Press

my

ear

against

the

wood.

Close

my

eyes

to

focus.

Holding

the

gun

in

the

proper

two-handed

grip,

the

way

he

taught

me.

Rehearsing

every

step

in

my

head,

like

he

taught

me.

Left

hand

on

knob.

Turn,

pull,

two

steps

back,

gun

up.

Turn,

pull,

two

steps

back,

gun

up…

Creeaaaaaak.

Okay,

that’s

it.

I

fling

open

the

door,

take

just

one

step

back—so

much

for

rehearsal—and

bring

up

the

gun.

Evan

jumps

back

and

smacks

against

the

wall,

his

hands

flying

up

reflexively

when

he

sees

the

muzzle

glinting

in

front

of

his

face.

“Hey!”

he

shouts.

Eyes

wide,

hands

up,

like

he’s

been

jumped

by

a

mugger.

“What

the

hell

are

you

doing?”

I’m

shaking

with

anger.

“I

was

coming

back

to—to

check

on

you.

Can

you

put

the

gun

down,

please?”

“You

know

I

didn’t

have

to

open

it,”

I

snarl

at

him,

lowering

the

gun.

“I

could

have

shot

you

through

the

door.”

“Next

time

I’ll

definitely

knock.”

He

gives

me

his

trademark

lopsided

smile.

“Let’s

establish

a

code

for

when

you

want

to

go

all

creeper

on

me.

One

knock

means

you’d

like

to

come

in.

Two

means

you’re

just

stopping

by

to

spy

on

me

while

I

sleep.”

His

eyes

travel

from

my

face

to

my

shirt

(which

happens

to

be

his

shirt)

to

my

bare

legs,

lingering

a

breath

too

long

before

returning

to

my

face.

His

gaze

is

warm.

My

legs

are

cold.

Then

he

knocks

once

on

the

jamb.

But

it’s

the

smile

that

gets

him

in.

We

sit

on

the

bed.

I

try

to

ignore

the

fact

that

I’m

wearing

his

shirt

and

that

shirtsmells

like

him

and

he’s

sitting

about

a

foot

away

also

smelling

like

him

and

also

that

there’s

a

hard

little

knot

in

the

pit

of

my

stomach

like

a

smoldering

lump

of

coal.

I

want

him

to

touch

me

again.

I

want

to

feel

his

hands,

as

soft

as

clouds.

But

I’mafraid

if

he

touches

me,

all

seven

billion

billion

billion

atoms

that

make

up

my

body

will

blow

apart

and

scatter

across

the

universe.

“Is

he

alive?”

he

whispers.

That

sad,

desperate

look

is

back.

What

happened

out

there?Why

is

he

thinking

about

Sams?

I

shrug.

How

can

I

know

the

answer

to

that?

“I

knew

when

Lauren

was.

I

mean,

I

knew

when

she

wasn’t.”

Picking

at

the

quilt,

runninghis

fingers

over

the

stitching,

tracing

the

borders

of

the

patches

like

he’s

tracing

the

path

on

a

treasure

map.

“I

felt

it.

It

was

just

me

and

Val

then.

Val

was

pretty

sick,

and

I

knew

she

didn’t

have

much

time.

I

knew

the

timing,

almost

down

to

the

hour:

I’d

been

through

it

six

times.”

It

takes

him

a

minute

to

go

on.

Something’s

really

spooked

him.

His

eyes

won’t

staystill.

They

dart

about

the

room,

as

if

trying

to

find

something

to

distract

him—or

maybe

the

opposite,

something

to

ground

him

in

the

moment.

This

moment

with

me.

Not

the

moment

he

can’t

stop

thinking

about.

“One

day

I

was

outside,”

he

says,

“hanging

up

some

sheets

to

dry

on

the

clothesline,

and

this

weird

feeling

came

over

me.

Like

something

had

popped

me

in

the

chest.

Imean,

it

was

totally

physical,

not

mental,

not

a

little

voice

inside

my

head

telling

me…telling

me

that

Lauren

was

gone.

It

felt

like

someone

had

punched

me

hard.

And

I

knew.

So

I

dropped

the

sheet

and

hauled

ass

to

her

house…”

He

shakes

his

head.

I

touch

his

knee,

then

pull

my

hand

back

quickly.

After

the

first

touch,

touching

becomes

too

easy.

“How’d

she

do

it?”

I

ask.

I

don’t

want

to

make

him

gosomeplace

he’s

not

ready

to

go.

So

far

he’s

been

an

emotional

iceberg,

two-thirds

hidden

beneath

the

surface,

listening

more

than

he

talks,

asking

more

than

he

answers.

“Hung

herself,”

he

says.

“I

took

her

down.”

He

looks

away.

Here

with

me,

there

withher.

“Then

I

buried

her.”

I

don’t

know

what

to

say.

So

I

don’t

say

anything.

Too

many

people

say

something

when

they

really

have

nothing

to

say.

“I

think

that’s

the

way

it

is,”

he

says

after

a

minute.

“When

you

love

someone.

Somethinghappens

to

them,

and

it’s

a

punch

in

the

heart.

Not

like

a

punch

in

the

heart;

a

real

punch

in

the

heart.”

He

shrugs

and

laughs

softly

to

himself.

“Anyway,

that’s

what

I

felt.”

“And

you

think

since

I

haven’t

felt

it,

Sammy

must

be

alive?”

“I

know.”

He

shrugs

and

gives

an

embarrassed

laugh.

“It’s

stupid.

I’m

sorry

I

brought

it

up.”

“You

really

loved

her,

didn’t

you?”

“We

grew

up

together.”

His

eyes

glow

at

the

memory.

“She

was

over

here

or

I

was

over

at

her

house.

Then

we

got

older

and

she

was

always

over

here

or

I

was

always

over

there.

When

I

could

sneak

away.

I

was

supposed

to

be

helping

my

dad

on

the

farm.”

“That’s

where

you

went

tonight,

isn’t

it?

Lauren’s

house.”

A

tear

falls

onto

his

cheek.

I

wipe

it

away

with

my

thumb,

the

way

he

wiped

my

tears

away

on

the

night

I

asked

him

if

he

believed

in

God.

He

leans

forward

suddenly

and

kisses

me.

Just

like

that.

“Why

did

you

kiss

me,

Evan?”

Talking

about

Lauren,

then

kissing

me.

It

feels

weird.

“I

don’t

know.”

He

ducks

his

head.

There’s

enigmatic

Evan,

taciturn

Evan,

passionateEvan,

and

now

shy

little

boy

Evan.

“The

next

time

you

better

have

a

good

reason,”

I

tease

him.

“Okay.”

He

kisses

me

again.

“Reason?”

I

ask

softly.

“Um.

You’re

really

pretty?”

“That’s

a

good

one.

I

don’t

know

if

it’s

true,

but

it’s

good.”

He

cups

my

face

in

his

soft

hands,

and

then

leans

in

for

a

third

kiss

that

lingers,

igniting

the

simmering

lump

in

my

belly,

making

the

hairs

on

the

back

of

my

neck

stand

up

and

do

a

little

happy

dance.

“It

is

true,”

he

whispers,

our

lips

brushing.

We

fall

asleep

in

the

same

spooning

position

we

were

in

a

few

hours

before,

the

palm

of

his

hand

pressing

just

below

my

neck.

I

wake

in

the

dead

hours

of

the

night,

and

for

a

second

I’m

back

in

the

woods

inside

my

sleeping

bag,

just

me,

my

teddy

bear,

and

my

M16—and

some

stranger

pressing

his

body

into

mine.

No,

it’s

okay,

Cassie.

It’s

Evan,

the

one

who

saved

you,

the

one

who

nursed

you

back

to

health,

and

the

one

who’s

willing

to

risk

his

life

so

you

can

keep

some

ridiculous

promise.

Evan,

the

noticer

who

noticed

you.

Evan,

the

simple

farm

boy

of

the

warm,

gentle,

soft

hands.

My

heart

skips

a

beat.

What

kind

of

farm

boy

has

soft

hands?

I

ease

his

hand

away

from

my

chest.

He

stirs,

sighing

against

my

neck.

Now

the

hairstickled

by

his

lips

dance

a

different

kind

of

jig.

I

lightly

brush

my

fingertips

over

his

palm.

Soft

as

a

baby’s

bottom.

Okay,

don’t

panic.

It’s

been

a

few

months

since

he

did

any

farm

work.

And

you

know

how

nice

his

cuticles

are…but

can

years

of

calluses

be

wiped

away

by

a

few

months

of

hunting

in

the

woods?

Hunting

in

the

woods…

I

dip

my

head

slightly

to

sniff

his

fingers.

It’s

probably

my

overactive

imagination,

but

do

I

detect

the

acrid,

metallic

smell

of

gunpowder?

When

did

he

fire

a

gun?

He

hadn’t

gone

hunting

tonight,

just

to

visit

Lauren’s

grave.

Lying

wide

awake

in

his

arms

as

dawn

breaks,

feeling

his

heart

beating

against

my

back

while

my

own

heart

pushes

against

his

hand.

You

must

be

a

lousy

hunter.

You

hardly

ever

come

back

with

anything.

I’m

actually

very

good.

You

just

don’t

have

the

heart

to

kill?

I

have

the

heart

to

do

what

I

have

to

do.

What

do

you

have

the

heart

to

do,

Evan

Walker?

54

THE

NEXT

DAY

is

agony.

I

know

I

can’t

confront

him.

Way

too

risky.

What

if

the

worst

is

true?

That

there

is

no

Evan

Walker

farm

boy,

only

Evan

Walker

human

traitor—or

the

unthinkable

(one

word

that

pretty

much

sums

up

this

alien

invasion):

Evan

Walker,

Silencer.

I

tell

myself

this

last

possibility

is

ridiculous.

A

Silencer

wouldn’t

nurse

me

back

to

health—much

less

give

me

nicknames

and

play

snuggles

in

the

dark.

A

Silencer

would

just—well,

silence

me.

Once

I

take

that

irreversible

step

of

confronting

him,

it’s

pretty

much

game

over.

If

he

isn’t

who

he

claims

to

be,

I’d

be

giving

him

no

choice.

Whatever

his

reasonfor

keeping

me

alive,

I

don’t

think

I’d

stay

alive

very

long

if

he

thought

I

knew

the

truth.

Go

slow.

Work

it

out.

Don’t

tear

through

it

like

you

always

do,

Sullivan.

Not

your

style,

but

you

gotta

be

methodical

for

once

in

your

life.

So

I

pretend

nothing’s

wrong.

Over

breakfast,

though,

I

work

the

conversation

aroundto

his

preArrival

days.

What

kind

of

work

did

he

do

around

the

farm?

Name

it,

hesays.

Drove

the

tractor,

baled

hay,

fed

the

animals,

repaired

equipment,

strung

barbed

wire.

My

eyes

on

his

hands

while

my

mind

makes

excuses

for

him.

He

always

wore

gloves

is

the

best

one,

but

I

can’t

think

of

a

naturalsounding

way

to

ask.

So,

Evan,

you

have

such

soft

hands

to

have

grown

up

on

a

farm.

You

must

have

worn

gloves

all

the

time

and

been

even

more

into

hand

lotion

than

most

guys,

huh?

He

doesn’t

want

to

talk

about

the

past;

it’s

the

future

he’s

worried

about.

He

wants

details

about

the

mission.

Like

every

footstep

between

the

farmhouse

and

Wright-Pattersonhas

to

be

mapped

out,

every

contingency

considered.

What

if

we

don’t

wait

till

spring

and

another

blizzard

hits?

What

if

we

find

the

base

abandoned?

How

do

we

pick

up

Sammy’s

trail

then?

When

do

we

say

enough

is

enough

and

give

up?

“I’ll

never

give

up,”

I

tell

him.

I

wait

for

nightfall.

I

was

never

very

good

at

waiting,

and

he

notices

my

restlessness.

“You’re

going

to

be

okay?”

Standing

by

the

kitchen

door,

rifle

dangling

from

his

shoulder.

Cupping

my

face

tenderly

in

those

soft

hands.

And

me

gazing

upward

into

those

puppy-dog

eyes,

brave

Cassie,

trusting

Cassie,

mayfly

Cassie.

Sure,

I’ll

be

fine.

You

go

out

and

bag

a

few

people,

and

I’ll

pop

some

corn.

Then

locking

the

door

behind

him.

Watching

him

step

lightly

off

the

back

porch

and

trot

toward

the

trees,

heading

west,

toward

the

highway,

where,

as

everyone

knows,

fresh

game

like

deer

and

rabbit

and

Homo

sapiens

like

to

congregate.

I

tear

through

every

room.

Four

weeks

locked

up

inside

it

like

someone

under

house

arrest,

you

think

I

would

have

poked

around

a

little.

What

do

I

find?

Nothing.

And

a

lot.

Family

photo

albums.

There’s

baby

Evan

in

the

hospital

wearing

the

striped

newbornhat.

Toddler

Evan

pushing

a

plastic

lawnmower.

Five-year-old

Evan

sitting

on

a

pony.

Ten-year-old

Evan

on

the

tractor.

Twelve-year-old

Evan

in

a

baseball

uniform…

And

the

rest

of

his

family,

including

Val—I

pick

her

out

right

away,

and

seeing

the

face

of

the

girl

who

died

in

his

arms

and

whose

clothes

I’ve

taken

brings

the

whole

shitty

thing

back

to

me,

and

suddenly

I’m

like

the

lowest

person

left

on

Earth.

Seeinghis

family

in

front

of

the

Christmas

tree,

gathered

around

birthday

cakes,

hiking

along

a

mountain

trail,

forces

it

down

my

throat:

the

end

of

Christmas

trees

and

birthday

cakes

and

family

vacations

and

the

ten

thousand

other

taken-for-granted

things.

Each

photograph

the

tolling

of

a

bell,

a

timer

clicking

down

to

the

end

of

normal.

And

she’s

in

some

of

the

pictures,

too.

Lauren.

Tall.

Athletic.

Oh,

and

blond.

Of

course,

she

would

have

to

be.

They

make

a

very

attractive

couple.

And

in

more

than

half

the

pictures,

she

isn’t

looking

at

the

camera;

she’s

looking

at

him.

Not

the

way

I

would

look

at

Ben

Parish,

all

squishy

around

the

eyes.

She

looks

at

Evan

fiercely,

like,

This

here?

It’s

mine.

I

put

the

albums

away.

My

paranoia

is

fading.

So

he

has

soft

hands,

so

what?

Soft

hands

are

a

nice

thing.

I

build

a

roaring

fire

to

heat

up

the

room

and

push

back

the

shadows

that

crowd

in

on

me.

So

his

fingers

smell

like

gunpowder

after

visiting

her

grave,

so

what?

There

are

wild

animals

running

around

everywhere.

And

it

wasn’t

the

kind

of

moment

where

you

go,

Yeah,

I

went

to

her

grave.

Had

to

shoot

a

rabid

dog

coming

back,

by

the

way.

Ever

since

he

found

you,

he’s

taken

care

of

you,

kept

you

safe,

been

there

for

you.

But

no

matter

how

much

I

lecture

myself,

I

can’t

calm

down.

I’m

missing

something.Something

important.

I

pace

back

and

forth

in

front

of

the

fireplace,

shivering

despite

the

roaring

flames.

It’s

like

having

an

itch

you

can’t

scratch.

But

what

could

it

be?

I

know

in

my

gut

I’m

not

going

to

find

anything

incriminating,

even

if

I

tear

through

every

inch

of

the

house.

But

you

haven’t

searched

everywhere,

Cassie.

You

haven’t

looked

in

the

one

place

he

wouldn’t

expect

you

to

look.

I

limp

into

the

kitchen.

Not

much

time

now.

Grab

a

heavy

jacket

from

the

hook

by

the

door

and

a

flashlight

from

the

cupboard,

tuck

the

Luger

into

my

waistband,

and

step

outside

into

the

bitter

cold.

Clear

sky,

the

yard

bathed

in

starlight.

I

try

not

to

think

about

the

mothership

a

few

hundred

miles

over

my

head

as

I

shuffle

toward

the

barn.

I

don’t

click

on

the

light

until

I

step

inside.

The

smell

of

old

manure

and

mildewed

hay.

The

scampering

of

rats’

feet

on

the

rotting

boards

over

my

head.

I

swing

the

light

around,

over

the

empty

stalls

and

across

the

dirt

floor,

into

the

hayloft.

I

don’t

know

exactly

what

I’m

looking

for,

but

I

keep

looking.

In

every

creepy

movie

ever

made,

the

barn

is

the

prime

nesting

ground

for

the

things

you

don’t

know

you’re

looking

for

and

always

regret

finding.

I

find

what

I’m

not

looking

for

under

a

pile

of

ratty

blankets

heaped

against

the

back

wall.

Something

long

and

dark

glinting

in

the

circle

of

light.

I

don’t

touchit.

I

reveal

it,

tossing

aside

three

blankets

to

reach

its

resting

place.

It’s

my

M16.

I

know

it’s

mine.

I

can

see

my

initials

in

the

stock:

C.S.,

scratched

there

one

afternoon

while

I

hid

in

the

little

tent

in

the

woods.

C.S.

for

Completely

Stupid.

I’d

lost

it

on

the

median

when

the

Silencer

struck

from

the

woods.

Left

it

there

inmy

panic.

Decided

I

couldn’t

go

back

for

it.

Now

here

it

is,

in

Evan

Walker’s

barn.My

bestie

had

found

its

way

back

to

me.

Do

you

know

how

to

tell

who

the

enemy

is

in

wartime,

Cassie?

I

back

away

from

it.

Back

away

from

the

message

it

sends.

Back

all

the

way

to

thedoor

while

I

keep

the

light

shining

on

its

glossy

black

barrel.

Then

I

turn

and

run

smack

into

his

rock-hard

chest.

55

“CASSIE?”

HE

SAYS,

grabbing

my

arms

to

keep

me

from

falling

straight

back

onto

mybutt.

“What

are

you

doing

out

here?”

He

glances

over

my

shoulder

into

the

barn.

“I

thought

I

heard

a

noise.”

Dumb!

Now

he

might

decide

to

investigate.

But

it’s

thefirst

thing

that

pops

into

my

head.

Blurting

out

first

thoughts

is

something

I

reallyshould

work

on—if

I

live

past

the

next

five

minutes.

My

heart

is

pounding

so

hard,

I

can

feel

my

ears

ringing.

“You

thought

you…?

Cassie,

you

shouldn’t

come

out

here

at

night.”

I

nod

and

force

myself

to

look

into

his

eyes.

Evan

Walker

is

a

noticer.

“I

know,

it

was

stupid.

But

you’d

been

gone

a

long

time.”

“I

was

stalking

some

deer.”

He’s

a

big,

Evan-shaped

shadow

in

front

of

me,

a

shadow

with

a

highpowered

rifle

against

the

backdrop

of

a

million

suns.

I

bet

you

were.

“Let’s

go

inside,

okay?

I’m

freezing

to

death.”

He

doesn’t

move.

He’s

looking

into

the

barn.

“I

checked

it

out,”

I

say,

trying

to

keep

my

voice

steady.

“Rats.”

“Rats?”

“Yeah.

Rats.”

“You

heard

rats?

In

the

barn?

From

inside

the

house?”

“No.

How

could

I

hear

rats

from

there?”

An

exasperated

roll

of

the

eyes

would

be

good

right

about

now.

Not

the

nervous

laugh

that

escapes

instead.

“I

came

out

on

the

porch

for

some

fresh

air.”

“And

you

heard

them

from

the

porch?”

“They

were

very

big

rats.”

Flirty

smile!

I

whip

out

what

I

hope

passes

for

one

of

those,

then

I

hook

my

arm

through

his

and

pull

him

toward

the

house.

It’s

like

trying

to

move

a

concrete

pole.

If

he

goes

inside

the

barn

and

sees

the

exposed

rifle,

it’s

over.

Why

the

hell

didn’t

I

cover

up

the

rifle?

“Evan,

it’s

nothing.

I

got

spooked,

that’s

all.”

“Okay.”

He

shoves

the

barn

door

closed,

and

we

head

back

to

the

farmhouse,

his

arm

draped

protectively

over

my

shoulders.

He

lets

the

arm

fall

when

we

reach

the

door.

Now,

Cassie.

Quick

side

step

to

the

right,

Luger

from

your

waistband,

proper

two-handed

grip,

knees

slightly

bent,

squeeze,

don’t

pull.

Now.

We

step

inside

the

warm

kitchen.

The

opportunity

passes.

“So

I

take

it

you

didn’t

bag

any

deer,”

I

say

casually.

“No.”

He

leans

the

rifle

against

the

wall,

shrugs

out

of

his

coat.

His

cheeks

arebright

red

from

the

cold.

“Maybe

you

shot

at

something

else,”

I

say.

“Maybe

that’s

what

I

heard.”

He

shakes

his

head.

“I

didn’t

shoot

at

anything.”

He

blows

on

his

hands.

I

followhim

into

the

great

room,

where

he

bends

in

front

of

the

fireplace

to

warm

his

hands.

I’m

standing

behind

the

sofa

a

few

feet

away.

My

second

chance

to

take

him

down.

Hitting

him

from

this

close

would

not

be

a

challenge.

Or

it

wouldn’t

be

if

his

head

resembled

an

empty

can

of

creamed

corn,

the

only

kind

of

target

I

was

used

to.

I

pull

the

gun

from

my

waistband.

Finding

my

rifle

in

his

barn

didn’t

leave

me

with

many

options.

It

was

like

beingunder

that

car

on

the

highway:

hide

or

face.

Doing

nothing

about

it,

pretending

everything

was

fine

between

us,

accomplished

nothing.

Shooting

him

in

the

back

of

the

head

would

accomplish

something—it

would

kill

him—but

after

the

Crucifix

Soldier,

it

had

become

one

of

my

priorities

never

to

kill

another

innocent

person.

Better

to

show

my

hand

now

while

that

hand

holds

a

gun.

“There’s

something

I

should

tell

you,”

I

say.

My

voice

is

shaking.

“I

lied

about

the

rats.”

“You

found

the

rifle.”

Not

a

question.

He

turns.

With

his

back

to

the

fire,

his

face

is

in

shadow;

I

can’t

read

his

expression,

but

his

tone

is

casual.

“I

found

it

a

couple

of

days

ago

off

the

highway—remembered

you

said

you

dropped

one

when

you

ran—then

I

saw

those

initials

and

I

figured

it

had

to

be

yours.”

For

a

minute

I

don’t

say

anything.

His

explanation

makes

perfect

sense.

I

just

didn’texpect

him

to

jump

right

into

it

like

that.

“Why

didn’t

you

tell

me?”

I

finally

ask.

He

shrugs.

“I

was

going

to.

Guess

I

forgot.

What

are

you

doing

with

that

gun,

Cassie?”

Oh,

I

was

thinking

about

blowing

your

head

of

,

that’s

all.

Thought

you

might

be

a

Silencer

or

maybe

a

traitor

to

your

species

or

something

along

those

lines.

Ha-ha!

I

follow

his

eyes

to

the

weapon

in

my

hand,

and

suddenly

I

feel

like

bursting

into

tears.

“We

have

to

trust

each

other,”

I

whisper.

“Don’t

we?”

“Yes,”

he

says,

moving

toward

me

now.

“We

do.”

“But

how…how

do

you

make

yourself

trust

someone?”

I

say.

He’s

beside

me

now.

He

doesn’t

reach

for

the

gun.

He’s

reaching

for

me

with

his

eyes.

And

I

want

him

to

catch

me

before

I

fall

too

far

away

from

the

Evan-I-thought-I-knew,

who

saved

me

to

save

himselffrom

falling.

He’s

all

I’ve

got

now.

He’s

my

itty-bitty

bush

growing

out

of

the

cliff

that

I

cling

to.

Help

me,

Evan.

Don’t

let

me

fall.

Don’t

let

me

lose

the

part

of

me

that

makes

me

human.

“You

can’t

make

yourself

believe

anything,”

he

answers

softly.

“But

you

can

let

yourself

believe.

You

can

allow

yourself

to

trust.”

I

nod,

looking

up

into

his

eyes.

So

chocolaty

warm.

So

melty

and

sad.

Damn

it,

whydoes

he

have

to

be

so

damn

beautiful?

And

why

do

I

have

to

be

so

damn

aware

of

it?

And

how

is

my

trusting

him

any

different

from

Sammy’s

taking

the

soldier’s

hand

before

climbing

onto

that

bus?

The

weird

thing

is

his

eyes

remind

me

of

Sammy’s—filled

with

a

longing

to

know

if

everything

will

be

all

right.

The

Others

answered

that

question

with

an

unequivocal

no.

So

what

does

that

make

me

if

I

give

Evan

the

same

answer?

“I

want

to.

Really,

really

bad.”

I

don’t

know

how

it

happened,

but

my

gun

is

now

in

his

hand.

He

takes

my

hand

and

leads

me

around

to

the

sofa.

Sets

the

gun

on

top

of

Love’s

Desperate

Desire,

sits

close

to

me,

but

not

too

close,

and

rests

his

elbows

on

his

knees.

He

rubs

his

large

hands

together

as

if

they’re

still

cold.

They’re

not;

I

had

just

held

one.

“I

don’t

want

to

leave

here,”

he

confesses.

“For

a

lot

of

reasons

that

seemed

verygood

until

I

found

you.”

He

claps

his

hands

together

softly

in

frustration;

it

isn’t

coming

out

right.

“I

know

you

didn’t

ask

to

be

my

reason

for

going

on

with…with

everything.

But

from

the

moment

I

found

you…”

He

turns

and

grabs

my

hands

in

his,

and

suddenly

I’m

a

little

scared.

His

grip

is

hard,

his

eyes

swim

with

tears.

It’s

like

I’m

holding

him

back

from

tumbling

over

the

edge

of

a

cliff.

“I

had

it

all

wrong,”

he

says.

“Before

I

found

you,

I

thought

the

only

way

to

holdon

was

to

find

something

to

live

for.

It

isn’t.

To

hold

on,

you

have

to

find

something

you’re

willing

to

die

for.”

56

THE

WORLD

IS

SCREAMING.

Just

the

icy

wind

racing

through

the

open

hatch

of

the

Black

Hawk,

but

that’s

whatit

sounds

like.

At

the

height

of

the

plague,

when

people

were

dying

by

the

hundreds

every

day,

the

panicky

residents

of

Tent

City

would

sometimes

toss

an

unconscious

person

into

the

fire

by

mistake,

and

you

didn’t

just

hear

their

screams

as

they

were

burned

alive,

you

felt

them

like

a

punch

to

your

heart.

Some

things

you

can

never

leave

behind.

They

don’t

belong

to

the

past.

They

belong

to

you.

The

world

is

screaming.

The

world

is

being

burned

alive.

Through

the

chopper

windows,

you

can

see

the

fires

dotting

the

dark

landscape,

amber

blotches

against

the

inky

backdrop,

multiplying

as

you

near

the

outskirts

of

the

city.

These

aren’t

funeral

pyres.

Lightning

from

summer

storms

started

them,

and

the

autumn

winds

carried

the

smoldering

embers

to

new

feeding

grounds,

because

there

was

so

much

to

eat,

the

pantry

was

stuffed.

The

world

will

burn

for

years.

It

will

burn

until

I’m

my

father’s

age—if

I

live

that

long.

We’re

skimming

ten

feet

above

treetop

level,

the

rotors

muffled

by

some

kind

of

stealth

technology,

approaching

downtown

Dayton

from

the

north.

A

light

snow

is

falling;

it

shimmers

around

the

fires

below

like

golden

halos,

shedding

light,

illuminating

nothing.

I

turn

from

the

window

and

see

Ringer

across

the

aisle,

staring

at

me.

She

holds

uptwo

fingers.

I

nod.

Two

minutes

to

the

drop.

I

pull

the

headband

down

to

position

the

lens

of

the

eyepiece

over

my

left

eye

and

adjust

the

strap.

Ringer

is

pointing

at

Teacup,

who’s

in

the

chair

next

to

me.

Her

eyepiece

keeps

slipping.

I

tighten

the

strap;

she

gives

me

a

thumbs-up,

and

something

sour

rises

in

my

throat.

Seven

years

old.

Dear

Jesus.

I

lean

over

and

shout

in

her

ear,

“You

stay

right

next

to

me,

understand?”

Teacup

smiles,

shakes

her

head,

points

at

Ringer.

I’m

staying

with

her!

I

laugh.

Teacup’s

no

dummy.

Over

the

river

now,

the

Black

Hawk

skimming

only

a

few

feet

above

the

water.

Ringer

is

checking

her

weapon

for

the

thousandth

time.

Beside

her,

Flintstone

is

tapping

his

foot

nervously,

staring

forward,

looking

at

nothing.

There’s

Dumbo

inventorying

his

med

kit,

and

Oompa

bending

his

head

in

an

attempt

to

keep

us

from

seeing

him

stuff

one

last

candy

bar

into

his

mouth.

Finally,

Poundcake

with

his

head

down,

hands

folded

in

his

lap.

Reznik

named

him

Poundcake

because

he

said

he

was

soft

and

sweet.

He

doesn’t

strike

me

as

either,

especially

on

the

firing

range.

Ringer’s

a

better

marksman

overall,

but

I’ve

seen

Poundcake

take

out

six

targets

in

six

seconds.

Yeah,

Zombie.

Targets.

Plywood

cutouts

of

human

beings.

When

it

comes

down

to

the

real

deal,

how

will

his

aim

be

then?

Or

any

of

ours?

Unbelievable.

We’re

the

vanguard.

Seven

kids

who

just

six

months

ago

were,

well,

just

kids;

we’re

the

counterpunch

to

attacks

that

left

seven

billion

dead.

There’s

Ringer,

staring

at

me

again.

As

the

chopper

begins

to

descend,

she

unbuckles

her

harness

and

steps

across

the

aisle.

Places

her

hands

on

my

shoulders

and

shouts

in

my

face,

“Remember

the

circle!

We’re

not

going

to

die!”

We

dive

into

the

drop

zone

fast

and

steep.

The

chopper

doesn’t

land;

it

hovers

a

few

inches

above

the

frozen

turf

while

the

squad

hops

out.

From

the

open

hatchway,

I

look

over

and

see

Teacup

struggling

with

her

harness.

Then

she’s

loose

and

jumps

out

ahead

of

me.

I’m

the

last

to

go.

In

the

cockpit,

the

pilot

looks

over

his

shoulder,

gives

me

a

thumbs-up.

I

return

the

signal.

The

Black

Hawk

rockets

into

the

night

sky,

turning

hard

north,

its

black

hull

blendingquickly

into

the

dark

clouds

until

they

swallow

it,

and

it’s

gone.

The

air

in

the

little

park

by

the

river

has

been

blasted

clear

of

snow

by

the

rotors.

After

the

chopper

leaves,

the

snow

returns,

spinning

angrily

around

us.

The

sudden

quiet

that

follows

the

screaming

wind

is

deafening.

Straight

ahead

a

huge

human

shadow

looms:

the

statue

of

a

Korean

War

veteran.

To

the

statue’s

left

is

the

bridge.

Across

the

bridge

and

ten

blocks

southwest

is

the

old

courthouse

where

several

infesteds

have

amassed

a

small

arsenal

of

automatic

weapons

and

grenade

launchers,

as

well

as

FIM-92

Stinger

missiles,

according

to

the

Wonderland

profile

of

one

infested

captured

in

Operation

Li’l

Bo

Peep.

It’s

the

Stingers

that

brought

us

here.

Our

air

capabilityhas

been

devastated

by

the

attacks;

it’s

imperative

we

protect

the

few

resources

we

have

left.

Our

mission

is

twofold:

Destroy

or

capture

all

enemy

ordnance

and

terminate

all

infested

personnel.

Terminate

with

extreme

prejudice.

Ringer’s

on

the

point;

she

has

the

best

eyes.

We

follow

her

past

the

stern-faced

statue

onto

the

bridge;

Flint,

Dumbo,

Oompa,

Poundcake,

and

Teacup,

with

me

covering

ourrear.

Weaving

through

the

stalled

cars

that

seem

to

pop

through

a

white

curtain,

covered

in

three

seasons’

worth

of

debris.

Some

have

had

their

windows

smashed,

decorated

with

graffiti,

looted

for

any

valuables,

but

what’s

valuable

anymore?

Teacup

scurrying

along

in

front

of

me

on

baby

feet—she’s

valuable.

There’s

my

big

takeaway

from

the

Arrival.

By

killing

us,

they

showed

us

the

idiocy

of

stuff.

The

guy

who

owned

this

BMW?

He’s

in

the

same

place

as

the

woman

who

owned

that

Kia.

We

pull

up

just

shy

of

Patterson

Boulevard,

at

the

southern

end

of

the

bridge.

Hunker

down

beside

the

smashed

front

bumper

of

an

SUV

and

survey

the

road

ahead.

The

snowcuts

down

our

visibility

to

about

half

a

block.

This

might

take

a

while.

I

look

atmy

watch.

Four

hours

till

pickup

back

at

the

park.

A

tanker

truck

has

stalled

out

in

the

middle

of

the

intersection

twenty

yards

away,

blocking

our

view

of

the

left-hand

side

of

the

street.

I

can’t

see

it,

but

I

know

from

the

mission

briefing

there’s

a

four-story

building

on

that

side,

a

prime

sentry

point

if

they

wanted

to

keep

an

eye

on

the

bridge.

I

motion

for

Ringer

to

keep

to

the

right

as

we

leave

the

bridge,

putting

the

truck

between

us

and

the

building.

She

pulls

up

sharply

at

the

truck’s

front

bumper

and

drops

to

the

ground.

The

squad

follows

her

lead,

and

I

belly-scoot

forward

to

join

her.

“What

do

you

see?”

I

whisper.

“Three

of

them,

two

o’clock.”

I

squint

through

my

eyepiece

toward

the

building

on

the

other

side

of

the

street.

Through

the

cottony

fuzz

of

the

snow,

I

see

three

green

blobs

of

light

bobbing

along

the

sidewalk,

growing

larger

as

they

approach

the

intersection.

My

first

thought

is,

Holy

crap,

these

lenses

actually

work.

My

second

thought:

Holy

crap,

Teds,

and

they’re

coming

straight

at

us.

“Patrol?”

I

ask

Ringer.

She

shrugs.

“Probably

marked

the

chopper

and

they’re

coming

to

check

it

out.”

She’slying

on

her

belly,

holding

them

in

her

sights,

waiting

for

the

order

to

fire.

The

green

blobs

grow

larger;

they’ve

reached

the

opposite

corner.

I

can

barely

make

out

their

bodies

beneath

the

green

beacons

on

top

of

their

shoulders.

It’s

a

weird,

jarring

effect,

as

if

their

heads

are

engulfed

in

a

spinning,

iridescent

green

fire.

Not

yet.

If

they

start

to

cross,

give

the

order.

Beside

me,

Ringer

takes

a

deep

breath,

holds

it,

waits

for

my

order

patiently,

like

she

could

wait

for

a

thousand

years.

Snow

settles

on

her

shoulders,

clings

to

her

dark

hair.

The

tip

of

her

nose

is

bright

red.

The

moment

drags

out.

What

if

there’s

more

than

three?

If

we

announce

our

presence,

it

could

bring

a

hundred

of

them

down

on

us

from

a

dozen

different

hiding

places.

Engage

or

wait?

I

chew

on

my

bottom

lip,

working

through

the

options.

“I’ve

got

them,”

she

says,

misreading

my

hesitation.

Across

the

street,

the

green

blobs

of

light

are

stationary,

clustered

together

as

if

locked

in

conversation.

I

can’t

tell

if

they’re

even

facing

this

way,

but

I’m

sure

they

don’t

know

we’re

here.

If

they

did,

they’d

rush

us,

open

fire,

take

cover,

do

something.

We

have

the

element

of

surprise.

And

we

have

Ringer.

Even

if

she

misses

with

the

first

shot,

the

follow-ups

won’t.

It’s

an

easy

call,

really.

So

what’s

stopping

me

from

making

it?

Ringer

must

be

wondering

the

same

thing,

because

she

glances

over

at

me

and

whispers,

“Zombie?

What’s

the

call?”

There’s

my

orders:

Terminate

all

infested

personnel.

There’s

my

gut

instinct:

Don’t

rush.

Don’t

force

the

issue.

Let

it

play

out.

And

there’s

me,

squeezed

in

the

middle.

A

heartbeat

before

our

ears

register

the

high-powered

rifle’s

report,

the

pavement

two

feet

in

front

of

us

disintegrates

in

a

spray

of

dirty

snow

and

pulverized

concrete.

That

resolves

my

dilemma

fast.

The

words

fly

out

as

if

snatched

from

my

lungs

by

the

icy

wind:

“Take

them.”

Ringer’s

bullet

smashes

into

one

of

the

bobbing

green

lights,

and

the

light

winks

out.

One

light

takes

off

to

our

right.

Ringer

swings

the

barrel

toward

my

face.

I

duck

as

she

fires

again,

and

the

second

light

winks

out.

The

third

seems

to

shrink

as

he

tears

up

the

street,

heading

back

the

way

he

came.

I

jump

to

my

feet.

Can’t

let

him

get

away

to

sound

the

alarm.

Ringer

grabs

my

wristand

yanks

hard

to

bring

me

back

down.

“Damn

it,

Ringer,

what

are

you

do—”

“It’s

a

trap.”

She

points

at

the

six-inch

scar

in

the

concrete.

“Didn’t

you

hear

it?

It

didn’t

come

from

them.

It

came

from

over

there.”

She

jerks

her

head

toward

the

building

on

the

opposite

side

of

the

street.

“From

our

left.

And

judging

by

the

angle,

from

high

up,

maybe

the

roof.”

I

shake

my

head.

A

fourth

infested

on

the

roof?

How

did

he

know

we

were

here—and

why

didn’t

he

warn

the

others?

We’re

hidden

behind

the

truck,

which

means

he

must

have

spotted

us

on

the

bridge—spotted

us

and

held

his

fire

until

we

were

blocked

from

view

and

there

was

no

way

he

could

hit

us.

It

didn’t

make

sense.

And

Ringer

goes,

like

she’s

read

my

mind,

“I

guess

this

is

what

they

meant

by

‘the

fog

of

war.’”

I

nod.

Things

are

getting

way

too

complicated

way

too

fast.

“How’d

he

see

us

cross?”

I

ask.

She

shakes

her

head.

“Night

vision,

has

to

be.”

“Then

we’re

screwed.”

Pinned

down.

Beside

several

thousands

of

gallons

of

gasoline.“He’ll

take

out

the

truck.”

Ringer

shrugs.

“Not

with

a

bullet,

he

won’t.

That

only

works

in

the

movies,

Zombie.”She

looks

at

me.

Waiting

for

my

call.

Along

with

the

rest

of

the

squad.

I

glance

behind

me.

Their

eyes

look

back

at

me,big

and

bug-eyed

in

the

snowy

dark.

Teacup

is

either

freezing

to

death

or

shaking

with

complete

terror.

Flint

is

scowling,

and

the

only

one

to

speak

up

and

let

me

know

what

the

rest

are

thinking:

“Trapped.

We

abort

now,

right?”

Tempting,

but

suicidal.

If

the

sniper

on

the

roof

doesn’t

take

us

down

on

the

retreat,

the

reinforcements

that

must

be

coming

will.

Retreating

is

not

an

option.

Advancing

is

not

an

option.

Staying

put

is

not

an

option.

There

are

no

options.

Run

=

die.

Stay

=

die.

“Speaking

of

night

vision,”

Ringer

growls,

“they

might

have

thought

of

that

before

dropping

us

on

a

night

mission.

We’re

totally

blind

out

here.”

I

stare

at

her.

Totally

blind.

Bless

you,

Ringer.

I

order

the

squad

to

close

ranks

around

me

and

whisper,

“Next

block,

right-hand

side,

attached

to

the

back

side

of

the

office

building,

there’s

a

parking

garage.”

Or

at

least

there

should

be,

according

to

the

map.

“Get

up

to

the

third

floor.

Buddy

system:

Flint

with

Ringer,

Poundcake

with

Oompa,

Dumbo

with

Teacup.”

“What

about

you?”

Ringer

asks.

“Where’s

your

buddy?”

“I

don’t

need

a

buddy,”

I

answer.

“I’m

a

freaking

zombie.”

Here

comes

the

smile.

Wait

for

it.

57

I

POINT

OUT

the

embankment

leading

down

to

the

water’s

edge.

“All

the

way

down

tothat

walking

trail,”

I

say

to

Ringer.

“And

don’t

wait

for

me.”

She

shakes

her

head,frowning.

I

lean

in,

keeping

my

expression

as

serious

as

I

can.

“I

thought

I

had

youwith

the

zombie

remark.

One

of

these

days,

I’m

going

to

get

a

smile

out

of

you,

Private.”

Very

much

not

smiling.

“I

don’t

think

so,

sir.”

“You

have

something

against

smiling?”

“It

was

the

first

thing

to

go.”

Then

the

snow

and

the

dark

swallow

her.

The

rest

ofthe

squad

follows.

I

can

hear

Teacup

whimpering

beneath

her

breath

as

Dumbo

leads

her

off,

going,

“Run

hard

when

it

goes,

Cup,

okay?”

I

squat

beside

the

truck’s

fuel

tank

and

grab

hold

of

the

metal

cap,

praying

one

of

those

counterintuitive

prayers

that

this

bad

boy

is

topped

off—or

better,

half-full,

since

fumes

will

give

us

the

biggest

bang

for

the

buck.

I

don’t

dare

ignite

the

cargo,

but

the

few

gallons

of

diesel

contained

beneath

it

should

set

it

off.

I

hope.

The

cap

is

frozen.

I

beat

on

it

with

the

butt

of

my

rifle,

wrap

both

hands

around

it,

and

give

it

everything

I’ve

got.

It

pops

loose

with

a

very

pungent,

very

satisfyinghiss.

I’ll

have

ten

seconds.

Should

I

count?

Naw,

screw

it.

I

pull

the

pin

on

thegrenade,

drop

it

in

the

hole,

and

take

off

down

the

hill.

The

snow

whips

fitfully

in

my

wake.

My

toe

catches

on

something

and

I

tumble

the

rest

of

the

way,

landing

on

my

back

at

the

bottom,

hitting

my

head

on

the

asphalt

of

the

paved

walking

trail.

I

see

snow

spinning

around

my

head

and

I

can

smell

the

river,

and

then

I

hear

a

soft

wuh-wuumph

and

the

tanker

jumps

about

two

feet

into

the

air,

followed

by

a

gorgeous

blossoming

fireball

that

reflects

off

the

falling

snow,

a

mini

universe

of

tiny

suns

shimmering,

and

now

I’m

up

and

chugging

up

the

hill,

my

team

nowhere

in

sight,

and

I

can

feel

the

heat

against

my

left

cheek

as

I

come

even

with

the

truck,

which

is

still

in

one

piece,

the

tank

intact.

Dropping

the

grenade

inside

the

fuel

tank

didn’t

ignite

the

cargo.

Do

I

throw

another?

Do

I

keep

running?

Blinded

by

the

explosion,

the

sniperwould

rip

off

his

night

vision

goggles.

He

won’t

be

blind

for

long.

I’m

through

the

intersection

and

onto

the

curb

when

the

gasoline

ignites.

The

blastthrows

me

forward,

over

the

body

of

the

first

Ted

dropped

by

Ringer,

right

into

the

glass

doors

of

the

office

building.

I

hear

something

crack

and

hope

it’s

the

doors

and

not

some

important

part

of

me.

Huge

jagged

shards

of

metal

rain

down,

pieces

of

the

tank

torn

apart

by

the

blast

hurled

a

hundred

yards

in

every

direction

at

bullet

speeds.

I

hear

someone

screaming

as

I

fold

my

arms

over

my

head

and

curl

myself

into

the

tiniest

ball

possible.

The

heat

is

incredible.

It’s

like

I’ve

been

swallowed

by

the

sun.

The

glass

behind

me

shatters—from

a

high-caliber

bullet,

not

the

explosion.

Half

a

block

from

the

garage—go,

Zombie.

And

I’m

going

hard

until

I

come

across

Oompa

crumpled

on

the

sidewalk,

Poundcake

kneeling

beside

him,

tugging

on

his

shoulder,

his

face

twisted

in

a

soundless

cry.

It

was

Oompa

I

heard

screaming

after

the

tanker

blew,

and

it

takes

me

only

a

halfsecond

to

see

why:

A

piece

of

metal

the

size

of

a

Frisbee

juts

out

of

his

lower

back.

I

push

Poundcake

toward

the

garage—“Go!”—and

heave

Oompa’s

round

little

body

overmy

shoulder.

I

hear

the

report

of

the

rifle

this

time,

two

beats

after

the

shooter

across

the

street

fires,

and

a

chunk

of

concrete

breaks

free

of

the

wall

behind

me.

The

first

level

of

the

garage

is

separated

from

the

sidewalk

by

a

waist-high

concrete

wall.

I

ease

Oompa

over

the

wall,

then

hop

over

and

duck

down.

Ka-thunk:

A

fist-size

chunk

of

the

wall

blows

back

toward

me.

Kneeling

beside

Oompa,

I

lookup

to

see

Poundcake

hoofing

it

toward

the

stairwell.

Now,

as

long

as

there

isn’t

another

sniper’s

nest

in

this

building,

and

as

long

as

the

infested

who

got

away

hasn’t

taken

refuge

here,

too…

A

quick

check

of

Oompa’s

injury

isn’t

encouraging.

The

sooner

I

can

get

him

upstairsto

Dumbo,

the

better.

“Private

Oompa,”

I

breathe

in

his

ear.

“You

do

not

have

permission

to

die,

understood?”

He

nods,

sucking

in

the

freezing

air,

blowing

it

out

again,

warm

from

the

center

of

his

body.

But

he’s

as

white

as

the

snow

billowing

in

the

golden

light.

I

throw

him

back

onto

my

shoulder

and

trot

to

the

stairs,

keeping

as

low

as

I

can

without

losing

my

balance.

I

take

the

stairs

two

at

a

time

till

I

reach

the

third

level,

where

I

find

the

unitcrouched

behind

the

first

line

of

cars,

several

feet

back

from

the

wall

that

faces

the

sniper’s

building.

Dumbo

is

kneeling

beside

Teacup,

working

on

her

leg.

Her

fatigues

are

ripped,

and

I

can

see

an

ugly

red

gash

where

a

bullet

tore

across

her

calf.

Dumbo

slaps

a

dressing

over

the

wound,

hands

her

off

to

Ringer,

then

rushes

over

to

Oompa.

Flintstone

is

shaking

his

head

at

me.

“Told

you

we

should

abort,”

Flint

says.

His

eyes

glitter

with

malice.

“Now

look.”

I

ignore

him.

Turn

to

Dumbo.

“Well?”

“It’s

not

good,

Sarge.”

“Then

make

it

good.”

I

look

over

at

Teacup,

who’s

buried

her

head

into

Ringer’s

chest,

whimpering

softly.

“It’s

superficial,”

Ringer

tells

me.

“She

can

move.”

I

nod.

Oompa

down.

Teacup

shot.

Flint

ready

to

mutiny.

A

sniper

across

the

street

and

a

hundred

or

so

of

his

best

friends

on

their

way

to

the

party.

I’ve

got

to

come

up

with

something

brilliant

and

come

up

with

it

quickly.

“He

knows

where

we

are,

which

means

we

can’t

camp

here

long.

See

if

you

can

take

him.”

She

nods,

but

she

can’t

peel

Teacup

off

her.

I

hold

out

my

hands

wet

with

Oompa’s

blood:

Give

her

to

me.

Delivered,

Teacup

squirms

against

my

shirt.

She

doesn’t

want

me.

I

jerk

my

head

toward

the

street

and

turn

to

Poundcake,

“Cake,

go

with

Ringer.

Take

the

SOB

out.”

Ringer

and

Poundcake

duck

between

two

cars

and

disappear.

I

stroke

Teacup’s

bare

head—

somewhere

along

the

way

she

lost

her

cap—and

watch

Dumbo

gingerly

pull

on

the

fragment

in

Oompa’s

back.

Oompa

howls

in

agony,

his

fingers

clawing

at

the

ground.

Unsure,

Dumbo

looks

up

at

me.

I

nod.

It’s

gotta

come

out.

“Quick,

Dumbo.

Slow

makes

it

worse.”

So

he

yanks.

Oompa

folds

in

on

himself,

and

the

echoes

of

his

screams

rocket

around

the

garage.

Dumbo

tosses

the

jagged

piece

of

metal

to

one

side

and

shines

his

light

on

the

gaping

wound.

Grimacing,

he

rolls

Oompa

onto

his

back.

His

shirtfront

is

soaked.

Dumbo

rips

theshirt

open,

exposing

the

exit

wound:

The

shrapnel

had

entered

through

his

back

and

slammed

through

to

the

other

side.

Flint

turns

away,

crawls

a

couple

feet,

and

his

back

arches

as

he

vomits.

Teacup

gets

very

still

watching

all

this.

She’s

going

into

shock.

Teacup,

the

one

who

screamed

the

loudest

during

mock

charges

in

the

yard.

Teacup,

the

bloodthirstiest,

the

one

who

sang

the

loudest

in

P&D.

I’m

losing

her.

And

I’m

losing

Oompa.

As

Dumbo

presses

wadding

against

the

wound

in

Oompa’s

gut,

tryingto

stem

the

flow,

his

eyes

seek

out

mine.

“What

are

your

orders,

Private?”

I

ask

him.

“I—I

am

not

to—to…”

Dumbo

tosses

the

blood-soaked

dressing

away

and

presses

a

fresh

patch

against

Oompa’s

stomach.

Looking

into

my

face.

Doesn’t

have

to

say

anything.

Not

to

me.

Not

to

Oompa.

I

ease

Teacup

from

my

lap

and

kneel

beside

Oompa.

His

breath

smells

like

blood

and

chocolate.

“It’s

because

I’m

fat,”

he

chokes

out.

He

starts

to

cry.

“Stow

that

shit,”

I

tell

him

sternly.

He

whispers

something.

I

bring

my

ear

close

to

his

mouth.

“My

name

is

Kenny.”

Likeit’s

a

terrible

secret

he’s

been

afraid

to

share.

His

eyes

roll

toward

the

ceiling.

Then

he’s

gone.

58

TEACUP’S

LOST

IT.

Hugging

her

legs,

forehead

pressed

against

her

upraised

knees.

cIall

over

to

Flint

to

keep

an

eye

on

her.

I’m

worried

about

Ringer

and

Poundcake.Flint

looks

like

he

wants

to

kill

me

with

his

bare

hands.

“You’re

the

one

who

gave

the

order,”

he

snarls.

“You

watch

her.”

Dumbo

is

cleaning

his

hands

of

Oompa’s—no,

Kenny’s—blood.

“I

got

it,

Sarge,”

he

sayscalmly,

but

his

hands

are

shaking.

“Sarge,”

Flint

spits

out.

“That’s

right.

What

now,

Sarge?”

I

ignore

him

and

scramble

toward

the

wall,

where

I

find

Poundcake

squatting

besideRinger.

She’s

on

her

knees,

peeking

over

the

edge

of

the

wall

toward

the

building

across

the

street.

I

lower

myself

beside

her,

avoiding

Poundcake’s

questioning

look.

“Oompa’s

not

screaming

anymore,”

Ringer

says

without

taking

her

eyes

off

the

building.

“His

name

was

Kenny,”

I

say.

Ringer

nods;

she

gets

it,

but

it

takes

Poundcake

a

minuteor

two

more.

He

scoots

away,

putting

distance

between

us,

and

presses

both

hands

against

the

concrete,

takes

a

deep,

shuddering

breath.

“You

had

to,

Zombie,”

Ringer

says.

“If

you

hadn’t,

we

might

all

be

Kenny.”

That

sounds

really

good.

It

sounded

good

when

I

said

it

to

myself.

Looking

up

at

herprofile,

I

wonder

what

Vosch

was

thinking,

pinning

the

stripes

on

my

collar.

The

commander

promoted

the

wrong

squad

member.

“Well?”

I

ask

her.

She

nods

across

the

street.

“Pop

goes

the

weasel.”

I

slowly

rise

up.

In

the

light

of

the

dying

fire,

I

can

see

the

building:

a

facadeof

broken

windows,

peeling

white

paint,

and

the

roof

one

story

higher

than

us.

A

vague

shadow

that

might

be

a

water

tower

up

there,

but

that’s

all

I

see.

“Where?”

I

whisper.

“He

just

ducked

down

again.

Been

doing

that.

Up,

down,

up,

down,

like

a

jack-in-the-box.”

“Just

one?”

“Only

one

I’ve

seen.”

“Does

he

light

up?”

Ringer

shakes

her

head.

“Negative,

Zombie.

He

doesn’t

read

infested.”

I

chew

on

my

bottom

lip.

“Poundcake

see

him,

too?”

She

nods.

“No

green.”

Watching

me

with

those

dark

eyes

like

knives

cutting

deep.

“Maybe

he’s

not

the

shooter…,”

I

try.

“Saw

his

weapon,”

she

says.

“Sniper

rifle.”

So

why

doesn’t

he

glow

green?

The

ones

on

the

street

lit

up,

and

they

were

farther

away

than

he

is.

Then

I

think

it

doesn’t

matter

if

he

glows

green

or

purple

or

nothingat

all:

He’s

trying

to

kill

us,

and

we

can’t

move

until

he’s

neutralized.

And

we

have

to

move

before

the

one

who

got

away

comes

back

with

reinforcements.

“Aren’t

they

smart?”

Ringer

mutters,

like

she’s

read

my

mind.

“Put

on

a

human

face

so

no

human

face

can

be

trusted.

The

only

answer:

Kill

everyone

or

risk

being

killed

by

anyone.”

“He

thinks

we’re

one

of

them?”

“Or

decided

it

doesn’t

matter.

Only

way

to

be

safe.”

“But

he

fired

on

us—not

on

the

three

right

below

him.

Why

would

he

ignore

the

easyshots

to

take

the

impossible

one?”

Like

me,

she

doesn’t

have

an

answer

to

that

question.

Unlike

me,

it’s

not

high

on

her

list

of

problems

to

be

resolved.

“Only

way

to

be

safe,”

she

repeats

pointedly.

I

look

over

at

Poundcake,

who’s

looking

back

at

me.

Waiting

for

my

decision,

but

there

really

isn’t

a

decision

to

make.

“Can

you

take

him

from

here?”

I

ask

Ringer.

She

shakes

her

head.

“Too

far

away.

I’d

just

give

away

our

position.”

I

scoot

over

to

Poundcake.

“Stay

here.

In

ten

minutes,

open

up

on

him

to

cover

ourcrossing.”

Staring

up

at

me

all

doe-eyed

and

trusting.

“You

know,

Private,

it’s

customary

to

acknowledge

an

order

from

your

commanding

officer.”

Poundcake

nods.

I

try

again:

“With

a

‘yes,

sir.’”

He

nods

again.

“Like,

out

loud.

With

words.”

Another

nod.

Okay,

at

least

I

tried.

When

Ringer

and

I

join

the

others,

Oompa’s

body

is

gone.They

stashed

him

in

one

of

the

cars.

Flint’s

idea.

Very

similar

to

his

idea

for

the

rest

of

us.

“We’ve

got

good

cover

in

here.

I

say

we

hunker

down

in

the

cars

until

pickup.”

“Only

one

person’s

vote

counts

in

this

unit,

Flint,”

I

tell

him.

“Yeah,

and

how’s

that

working

out

for

us?”

he

says,

thrusting

his

chin

toward

me,

mouth

curled

into

a

sneer.

“Oh,

I

know.

Let’s

ask

Oompa!”

“Flintstone,”

Ringer

says.

“At

ease.

Zombie’s

right.”

“Until

you

two

walk

into

an

ambush,

and

then

I

guess

he’s

wrong.”

“At

which

point

you’re

the

C.O.,

and

you

can

make

the

call,”

I

snap.

“Dumbo,

you’vegot

Teacup

duty.”

If

we

can

pry

her

off

Ringer.

She’s

pasted

herself

back

onto

Ringer’s

leg.

“If

we’re

not

back

in

thirty

minutes,

we’re

not

coming

back.”

And

then

Ringer

says,

because

she’s

Ringer,

“We’re

coming

back.”

59

THE

TANKER’S

BURNED

down

to

its

tires.

Crouching

in

the

pedestrian

entrance

to

thgearage,

I

point

at

the

building

across

the

street

glowing

orange

in

the

firelight.

“That’s

our

entry

point.

Third

window

from

the

left-hand

corner,

completely

busted

out,

see

it?”

Ringer

nods

absently.

Something’s

on

her

mind.

She

keeps

fiddling

with

the

eyepiece,

pulling

it

away

from

her

eye,

pushing

it

back

again.

The

certainty

she

showed

in

front

of

the

squad

is

gone.

“The

impossible

shot…,”

she

whispers.

Then

she

turns

to

me.

“How

do

you

know

whenyou’re

going

Dorothy?”

I

shake

my

head.

Where’s

this

coming

from?

“You’re

not

going

Dorothy,”

I

tell

her,

and

punctuate

it

with

a

pat

on

the

arm.

“How

can

you

be

sure?”

Eyes

darting

back

and

forth,

restless,

looking

for

somewhere

to

light.

The

way

Tank’s

eyes

danced

before

he

popped.

“Crazy

people—they

never

think

they’re

crazy.

Their

craziness

makes

perfect

sense

to

them.”

There’s

a

desperate,

very

un-Ringerlike

look

in

her

eyes.

“You’re

not

crazy.

Trust

me.”

Wrong

thing

to

say.

“Why

should

I?”

she

shoots

back.

It’s

the

first

time

I’ve

heard

any

emotion

out

ofher.

“Why

should

I

trust

you,

and

why

should

you

trust

me?

How

do

you

know

I’m

not

one

of

them,

Zombie?”

Finally,

an

easy

question.

“Because

we’ve

been

screened.

And

we

don’t

light

up

in

each

other’s

eyepieces.”

She

looks

at

me

for

a

very

long

moment,

then

she

murmurs,

“God,

I

wish

you

played

chess.”

Our

ten

minutes

are

up.

Above

us,

Poundcake

opens

up

on

the

rooftop

across

the

street;the

sniper

immediately

returns

fire;

and

we

go.

We’re

barely

off

the

curb

when

the

asphalt

explodes

in

front

of

us.

We

split

up,

Ringer

zipping

off

to

the

right,

me

to

the

left,

and

I

hear

the

whine

of

the

bullet,

a

high-pitched

sandpapery

sound,

about

a

month

before

it

tears

open

the

sleeve

of

my

jacket.

The

instinct

burned

into

me

from

months

of

drilling

to

return

fire

is

very

hard

to

resist.

I

leap

onto

the

curb

and

in

two

strides

I’m

pressed

hard

against

the

comforting

cold

concrete

of

the

building.

That’s

when

I

see

Ringer

slip

on

a

patch

of

ice

and

fall

face-first

toward

the

curb.

She

waves

me

back.

“No!”

A

round

bites

off

a

piece

of

the

curbing

that

rakes

across

her

neck.

Screw

her

no.

I

bound

over

to

her,

grab

her

arm,

and

sling

her

toward

the

building.

Another

round

whizzes

past

my

head

as

I

backpedal

to

safety.

She’s

bleeding.

The

wound

shimmers

black

in

the

firelight.

She

waves

me

on,

Go,

go.

We

trot

along

the

side

of

the

building

to

the

broken

window

and

dive

inside.

Took

less

than

a

minute

to

cross.

Felt

like

two

hours.

We’re

inside

what

used

to

be

an

upscale

boutique.

Looted

several

times

over,

full

of

empty

racks

and

broken

hangers,

creepy

headless

mannequins

and

posters

of

overly

serious

fashion

models

on

the

walls.

A

sign

on

the

service

counter

reads,

GOING

OUT

OF

BUSINESS

SALE.

Ringer’s

scrunched

into

a

corner

of

the

room

with

good

angles

on

the

windows

and

the

door

coming

in

from

the

lobby.

A

hand

on

her

neck,

and

that

hand

is

gloved

in

blood.

I

have

to

look.

She

doesn’t

want

me

to

look.

I’m

like,

“Don’t

be

stupid,

I

have

tolook.”

So

she

lets

me

look.

It’s

superficial,

between

a

cut

and

a

gouge.

I

find

a

scarf

lying

on

a

display

table

and

she

wads

it

up

and

presses

it

against

her

neck.

Nods

at

my

torn

sleeve.

“Are

you

hit?”

I

shake

my

head

and

ease

down

on

the

floor

beside

her.

We’re

both

pulling

hard

for

air.

My

head

swims

with

adrenaline.

“Not

to

be

judgmental,

but

as

a

sniper,

this

guy

sucks.”

“Three

shots,

three

misses.

Makes

you

wish

this

was

baseball.”

“A

lot

more

than

three,”

I

correct

her.

Multiple

tries

at

the

targets,

and

the

only

true

hit

a

superficial

wound

to

Teacup’s

leg.

“Amateur.”

“He

probably

is.”

“Probably.”

She

bites

off

the

word.

“He

didn’t

light

up

and

he’s

no

pro.

A

loner

defending

his

turf,

maybe

hiding

from

the

same

guys

we

came

after.

Scared

shitless.”

I

don’t

add

like

us.

I’m

only

sure

about

one

of

us.

Outside,

Poundcake

continues

to

occupy

the

sniper.

Pop-pop-pop,

a

heavy

quiet,

then

pop-poppop.

The

sniper

responds

each

time.

“Then

this

should

be

easy,”

Ringer

says,

her

mouth

set

in

a

grim

line.

I’m

a

little

taken

aback.

“He

didn’t

light

up,

Ringer.

We

don’t

have

authorization

to—”

“I

do.”

Pulling

her

rifle

into

her

lap.

“Right

here.”

“Um.

I

thought

our

mission

was

to

save

humanity.”

She

looks

at

me

out

of

the

side

of

her

uncovered

eye.

“Chess,

Zombie:

defending

yourselffrom

the

move

that

hasn’t

happened

yet.

Does

it

matter

that

he

doesn’t

light

up

through

our

eyepieces?

That

he

missed

us

when

he

could

have

taken

us

down?

If

two

possibilities

are

equally

probable

but

mutually

exclusive,

which

one

matters

the

most?

Which

one

do

you

bet

your

life

on?”

I’m

nodding

at

her,

but

not

following

her

at

all.

“You’re

saying

he

still

could

be

infested,”

I

guess.

“I’m

saying

the

safe

bet

is

to

proceed

as

if

he

is.”

She

pulls

her

combat

knife

from

its

sheath.

I

flinch,

remembering

her

Dorothy

remark.Why

did

Ringer

pull

out

her

knife?

“What

matters,”

she

says

thoughtfully.

There’s

a

terrible

stillness

to

her

now,

a

thunderhead

about

to

crack,

a

steaming

volcano

about

to

blow.

“What

matters,

Zombie?

I

was

always

pretty

good

at

figuring

that

out.

Got

a

lot

better

at

it

after

the

attacks.

What

really

matters?

My

mom

died

first.

That

was

bad—but

what

really

mattered

was

I

still

had

my

dad,

my

brother,

and

baby

sister.

Then

I

lost

them,

and

what

mattered

was

I

still

had

me.

And

there

wasn’t

much

that

mattered

when

it

came

to

me.

Food.

Water.

Shelter.

What

else

do

you

need?

What

else

matters?”

This

is

bad,

halfway

down

the

road

to

being

really

bad.

I

have

no

idea

where

she’s

going

with

this,

but

if

Ringer

goes

Dorothy

on

me

now,

I’m

screwed.

Maybe

the

restof

my

crew

with

me.

I

need

to

bring

her

back

into

the

present.

Best

way

is

by

touch,

but

I’m

afraid

if

I

touch

her

she’ll

gut

me

with

that

ten-inch

blade.

“Does

it

matter,

Zombie?”

She

cranes

her

neck

to

look

up

at

me,

turning

the

knife

slowly

in

her

hands.

“That

he

shot

at

us

and

not

the

three

Teds

right

in

front

of

him?

Or

that

when

he

shot

at

us

he

missed

every

time?”

Turning

the

knife

slowly,

the

tip

denting

her

finger.

“Does

it

matter

that

they

got

everything

up

and

running

after

the

EMP

attack?

That

they’re

operating

right

underneath

the

mothership,

gathering

up

survivors,

killing

infesteds

and

burning

their

bodies

by

the

hundreds,

arming

and

training

us

and

sending

us

out

to

kill

the

rest?

Tell

me

that

those

things

don’t

matter.

Tell

me

the

odds

are

insignificant

that

they

aren’t

really

them.

Tell

me

what

possibility

I

should

bet

my

life

on.”

I’m

nodding

again,

but

this

time

I

do

follow

her,

and

that

path

ends

in

a

very

dark

place.

I

squat

down

beside

her

and

look

her

dead

in

the

eye.

“I

don’t

know

what

this

guy’s

story

is

and

I

don’t

know

about

the

EMP,

but

the

commander

told

me

why

they’re

leaving

us

alone.

They

think

we’re

no

longer

a

threat

to

them.”

She

flips

back

her

bangs

and

snaps,

“How

does

the

commander

know

what

they

think?”

“Wonderland.

We

were

able

to

profile

a—”

“Wonderland,”

she

echoes.

Nodding

sharply.

Eyes

cutting

from

my

face

to

the

snowy

street

outside

and

back

again.

“Wonderland

is

an

alien

program.”

“Right.”

Stay

with

her,

but

gently

try

to

lead

her

back.

“It

is,

Ringer.

Remember?

After

we

took

back

the

base,

we

found

it

hidden—”

“Unless

we

didn’t.

Zombie,

unless

we

didn’t.”

She

jabs

the

knife

toward

me.

“It’s

a

possibility,

equally

valid,

and

possibilities

matter.

Trust

me,

Zombie;

I’m

an

expert

on

what

matters.

Up

to

now,

I’ve

been

playing

blind

man’s

bluff.

Time

for

some

chess.”

She

flips

the

knife

around

and

shoves

the

handle

toward

me.

“Cut

it

out

of

me.”

I

don’t

know

what

to

say.

I

stare

dumbly

at

the

knife

in

her

hand.

“The

implants,

Zombie.”

Poking

me

in

the

chest

now.

“We

have

to

take

them

out.

You

do

me

and

I’ll

do

you.”

I

clear

my

throat.

“Ringer,

we

can’t

cut

them

out.”

I

scramble

for

a

second

for

the

best

argument,

but

all

I

can

come

up

with

is,

“If

we

can’t

make

it

back

to

the

rendezvous

point,

how’re

they

going

to

find

us?”

“Damn

it,

Zombie,

haven’t

you

been

listening

to

anything

I’ve

said?

What

if

they

aren’tus?

What

if

they’re

them?

What

if

this

whole

thing

has

been

a

lie?”

I’m

about

to

lose

it.

Okay,

not

about

to.

“Oh,

for

Christ’s

sake,

Ringer!

Do

you

knowhow

cra—

stupid

that

sounds?

The

enemy

rescuing

us,

training

us,

giving

us

weapons?

Come

on,

let’s

cut

the

crap;

we’ve

got

a

job

to

do.

You

may

not

be

happy

about

it,

but

I

am

your

C.O….”

“All

right.”

Very

calm

now.

As

cool

as

I’m

hot.

“I’ll

do

it

myself.”

She

whips

the

blade

around

to

the

back

of

her

neck,

bowing

her

head

low.

I

yank

the

knife

from

her

hand.

Enough.

“Stand

down,

Private.”

I

hurl

her

knife

into

the

deep

shadows

across

the

room

andget

up.

I’m

shaking,

every

part

of

me,

voice

too.

“You

want

to

play

the

odds,

that’s

cool.

Stay

here

until

I

get

back.

Better

yet,

just

waste

me

now.

Maybe

my

alien

masters

have

figured

out

a

way

to

hide

my

infestation

from

you.

And

after

you’ve

done

me,

go

back

across

the

street

and

kill

them

all,

put

a

bullet

in

Teacup’s

head.

She

could

be

the

enemy,

right?

So

blow

her

frigging

head

off!

It’s

the

only

answer,

right?

Kill

everyone

or

risk

being

killed

by

anyone.”

Ringer

doesn’t

move.

Doesn’t

say

anything,

either,

for

a

very

long

time.

Snow

whipsthrough

the

broken

window,

the

flakes

a

deep

crimson

color,

reflecting

the

smoldering

crumbs

of

the

tanker.

“Are

you

sure

you

don’t

play

chess?”

she

asks.

She

pulls

the

rifle

back

into

her

lap,runs

her

index

finger

along

the

trigger.

“Turn

your

back

on

me,

Zombie.”

We’re

at

the

end

of

the

dark

path

now,

and

it’s

a

dead

end.

I’m

out

of

anything

that

passes

for

a

cogent

argument,

so

I

come

back

with

the

first

thing

that

pops

into

my

head.

“My

name

is

Ben.”

She

doesn’t

miss

a

beat.

“Sucky

name.

Zombie’s

better.”

“What

your

name?”

Keeping

at

it.

“That’s

one

of

the

things

that

doesn’t

matter.

Hasn’t

for

a

long

time,

Zombie.”

Finger

caressing

the

trigger

slowly.

Very

slowly.

It’s

hypnotic,

dizzying.

“How

about

this?”

Searching

for

a

way

out.

“I

cut

out

the

tracker,

and

you

promise

not

to

waste

me.”

This

way

I

keep

her

on

my

side,

because

I’d

rather

take

on

a

dozensnipers

than

one

Dorothied

Ringer.

In

my

mind’s

eye,

I

can

see

my

head

shattering

like

one

of

those

plywood

people

on

the

firing

range.

She

cocks

her

head,

and

the

side

of

her

mouth

twitches

in

an

almost-but-not-quite

smile.

“Check.”

I

give

her

back

an

honest-to-goodness

smile,

the

old

Ben

Parish

smile,

the

one

thatgot

me

practically

everything

I

wanted.

Well,

not

practically;

I’m

being

modest.

“Is

that

check

as

in

yes,

or

are

you

giving

me

a

chess

lesson?”

She

sets

her

gun

aside

and

turns

her

back

to

me.

Bows

her

head.

Pulls

her

silky

blackhair

away

from

her

neck.

“Both.”

Pop-pop-pop

goes

Poundcake’s

gun.

And

the

sniper

answers.

Their

jam

plays

in

the

background

as

I

kneel

behind

Ringer

with

my

knife.

Part

of

me

more

than

willing

to

humor

her

ifit

keeps

me—and

the

rest

of

the

unit—alive.

The

other

part

screaming

silently,

Aren’t

you,

like,

giving

a

mouse

a

cookie?

What

will

she

demand

next—a

physical

inspection

of

my

cerebral

cortex?

“Relax,

Zombie,”

she

says,

quiet

and

calm,

the

old

Ringer

again.

“If

the

trackersaren’t

ours,

it’s

probably

not

a

good

idea

to

have

them

inside

us.

If

they

are

ours,

Dr.

Pam

can

always

implant

us

again

when

we

get

back.

Agreed?”

“Checkmate.”

“Check

and

mate,”

she

corrects

me.

Her

neck

is

long

and

graceful

and

very

cold

beneath

my

fingers

as

I

explore

the

area

beneath

the

scar

for

the

lump.

My

hand

shakes.

Just

humor

her.

It

probably

means

a

court-martial

and

the

rest

of

your

life

peeling

potatoes,

but

at

least

you’ll

be

alive.

“Be

gentle,”

she

whispers.

I

take

a

deep

breath

and

draw

the

tip

of

the

blade

along

the

tiny

scar.

Her

blood

wells

up

bright

red,

shockingly

red

against

her

pearly

skin.

She

doesn’t

even

flinch,

but

I

have

to

ask:

“Am

I

hurting

you?”

“No,

I

like

it

a

lot.”

I

tease

the

implant

from

her

neck

with

the

tip

of

the

blade.

She

grunts

softly.

The

pellet

clings

to

the

metal,

sealed

within

a

droplet

of

blood.

“So,”

she

says,

turning

around.

The

almost-smile

is

almost

there.

“How

was

it

for

you?”

I

don’t

answer.

I

can’t.

I’ve

lost

the

ability

to

talk.

The

knife

falls

from

my

hand.I’m

two

feet

away

looking

right

at

her,

but

her

face

is

gone.

I

can’t

see

it

through

my

eyepiece.

Ringer’s

entire

head

is

lit

up

in

a

blinding

green

fire.

60

MY

FIRST

REACTION

is

to

yank

off

the

hardware,

but

I

don’t.

I’m

paralyzed

with

shockA.

shudder

of

revulsion

next.

Then

panic.

Followed

closely

by

confusion.

Ringer’s

headhas

lit

up

like

a

Christmas

tree,

bright

enough

to

be

seen

a

mile

away.

The

green

fire

sparks

and

swirls,

so

intense

it

burns

an

afterimage

in

my

left

eye.

“What

is

it?”

she

demands.

“What

happened?”

“You

lit

up.

As

soon

as

I

pulled

out

the

tracker.”

We

stare

at

each

other

for

a

long

couple

of

minutes.

Then

she

says,

“Unclean

glows

green.”

I’m

already

on

my

feet,

M16

in

my

hands,

backing

toward

the

door.

And

outside,

beneath

the

sound-deadening

snowfall,

Poundcake

and

the

sniper,

trading

barbs.

Unclean

glows

green.

Ringer

doesn’t

make

a

move

for

the

rifle

lying

next

to

her.

Through

my

right

eye,

she’s

normal.

Through

the

left,

she

burns

like

a

Roman

candle.

“Think

this

through,

Zombie,”

she

says.

“Think

this

through.”

Holding

up

her

emptyhands,

scratched

and

scuffed

from

her

fall,

one

caked

in

dried

blood.

“I

lit

up

after

you

pulled

out

the

implant.

The

eyepieces

don’t

pick

up

infestations.

They

react

when

there’s

no

implant.”

“Excuse

me,

Ringer,

but

that

makes

no

freaking

sense.

They

lit

up

on

those

three

infesteds.Why

would

the

eyepieces

light

up

if

they

weren’t?”

“You

know

why.

You

just

can’t

admit

it

to

yourself.

They

lit

up

because

those

people

weren’t

infested.

They’re

just

like

us,

the

only

difference

being

they

don’t

have

implants.”

She

stands

up.

God,

she

looks

so

small,

like

a

kid…But

she

is

a

kid,

right?

Throughone

eye

normal.

Through

the

other

a

green

fireball.

Which

is

she?

What

is

she?

“Take

us

in.”

She

steps

toward

me.

I

bring

up

the

gun.

She

stops.

“Tag

and

bag

us.

Train

us

to

kill.”

Another

step.

I

swing

the

muzzle

toward

her.

Not

at

her.

But

toward

her:

Stay

away.

“Anyone

who

isn’t

tagged

will

glow

green,

and

when

they

defend

themselves

or

challenge

us,

shoot

at

us

like

that

sniper

up

there—well,

that

just

proves

they’re

the

enemy,

doesn’t

it?”

Another

step.

Now

I’m

aiming

right

at

her

heart.

“Don’t,”

I

beg

her.

“Please,

Ringer.”

One

face

pure.

One

face

in

fire.

“Until

we’ve

killed

everyone

who

isn’t

tagged.”

Another

step.

Right

in

front

of

me

now.

The

end

of

the

gun

pressing

lightly

against

her

chest.

“It’s

the

5th

Wave,

Ben.”

I’m

shaking

my

head.

“No

fifth

wave.

No

fifth

wave!

The

commander

said—”

“The

commander

lied.”

She

reaches

up

with

bloody

hands

and

pulls

the

rifle

from

my

grip.

I

feel

myself

fallinginto

a

completely

different

kind

of

wonderland,

where

up

is

down

and

true

is

false

and

the

enemy

has

two

faces,

my

face

and

his,

the

one

who

saved

me

from

drowning,

who

took

my

heart

and

made

it

a

battlefield.

She

gathers

her

hands

into

mine

and

pronounces

me

dead:

“Ben,

we’re

the

5th

Wave.”

61

WE

ARE

HUMANITY.

It’s

a

lie.

Wonderland.

Camp

Haven.

The

war

itself.

How

easy

it

was.

How

incredibly

easy,

even

after

all

that

we’d

been

through.

Or

maybe

it

was

easy

because

of

all

we’d

been

through.

They

gathered

us

in.

They

emptied

us

out.

They

filled

us

up

with

hate

and

cunningand

the

spirit

of

vengeance.

So

they

could

send

us

out

again.

To

kill

what’s

left

of

the

rest

of

us.

Check

and

mate.

I’m

going

to

be

sick.

Ringer

hangs

on

to

my

shoulder

while

I

heave

all

over

a

poster

that

fell

off

the

wall:

FALL

INTO

FASHION!

There’s

Chris,

behind

the

two-way

glass.

And

there’s

the

button

marked

EXECUTE.

And

there’s

my

finger,

slamming

down.

How

easy

it

was

to

make

me

kill

another

human

being.

When

I’m

done,

I

rock

back

on

my

heels.

I

feel

Ringer’s

cool

fingers

rubbing

my

neck.Hear

her

voice

telling

me

it’s

going

to

be

okay.

I

yank

off

the

eyepiece,

killing

the

green

fire

and

giving

Ringer

back

her

face.

She’s

Ringer

and

I’m

me,

only

I’mnot

sure

what

me

means

anymore.

I’m

not

what

I

thought

I

was.

The

world

is

not

what

I

thought

it

was.

Maybe

that’s

the

point:

It’s

their

world

now,

and

we’re

the

aliens.

“We

can’t

go

back,”

I

choke

out.

And

there’s

her

deep-cutting

eyes

and

her

cool

fingers

massaging

my

neck.

“No,

we

can’t.

But

we

can

go

forward.”

She

picks

up

my

rifle

and

pushes

it

against

my

chest.

“And

we

can

start

with

that

son

of

a

bitch

upstairs.”

Not

before

taking

out

my

implant.

It

hurts

more

than

I

expect,

less

than

I

deserve.

“Don’t

beat

yourself

up,”

Ringer

tells

me

while

she

digs

it

out.

“They

fooled

all

of

us.”

“And

the

ones

they

couldn’t,

they

called

Dorothys

and

killed.”

“Not

the

only

ones,”

she

says

bitterly.

And

then

it

hits

me

like

a

punch

in

the

heart:

the

P&D

hangar.

The

twin

stacks

spewing

black

and

gray

smoke.

The

trucks

loaded

with

bodies—hundreds

of

bodies

every

day.

Thousands

every

week.

And

the

buses

pulling

in

all

night,

every

night,

filled

with

refugees,

filled

with

the

walking

dead.

“Camp

Haven

isn’t

a

military

base,”

I

whisper

as

blood

trickles

down

my

neck.

She

shakes

her

head.

“Or

a

refugee

camp.”

I

nod.

Swallow

back

the

bile

rising

in

my

throat.

I

can

tell

she’s

waiting

for

me

to

say

it

out

loud.

Sometimes

you

have

to

speak

the

truth

aloud

or

it

doesn’t

seem

real.

“It’s

a

death

camp.”

There’s

an

old

saying

about

the

truth

setting

you

free.

Don’t

buy

it.

Sometimes

the

truth

slams

the

cell

door

shut

and

throws

a

thousand

bolts.

“Are

you

ready?”

Ringer

asks.

She

seems

anxious

to

get

it

over

with.

“We

don’t

kill

him,”

I

say.

Ringer

gives

me

a

look

like

WTF?

But

I’m

thinking

of

Chris

strapped

to

a

chair

behind

a

two-way

mirror.

Thinking

of

heaving

bodies

onto

the

conveyor

belt

that

carried

its

human

cargo

into

the

hot,

hungry

mouth

of

the

incinerator.

I’ve

been

their

tool

long

enough.

“Neutralize

and

disarm,

that’s

the

order.

Understood?”

She

hesitates,

then

nods.

I

can’t

read

her

expression—not

unusual.

Is

she

playingchess

again?

We

can

still

hear

Poundcake

firing

from

across

the

street.

He

has

to

be

getting

low

on

ammo.

It’s

time.

Stepping

into

the

lobby

is

a

dive

into

total

darkness.

We

advance

shoulder-to-shoulder,

trailing

our

fingers

along

the

walls

to

keep

our

bearings

in

the

dark,

trying

every

door,

looking

for

the

one

to

the

stairs.

The

only

sounds

are

our

breath

in

the

stale,

cold

air

and

the

sloshing

of

our

boots

through

an

inch

of

sour-smelling,

freezing

cold

water;

a

pipe

must

have

burst.

I

push

open

a

door

at

the

end

of

the

hall

and

feel

a

rush

of

fresh

air.

Stairwell.

We

pause

on

the

fourth-floor

landing,

at

the

bottom

of

the

narrow

steps

that

lead

up

to

the

roof.

The

door

is

cracked

open;

we

can

hear

the

sharp

report

of

the

sniper’s

rifle,

but

can’t

see

him.

Hand

signals

are

useless

in

the

dark,

so

I

pull

Ringer

close

and

press

my

lips

against

her

ear.

“Sounds

like

he’s

straight

ahead.”

She

nods.

Her

hair

tickles

my

nose.

“We

go

in

hard.”

She’s

the

better

shooter;

Ringer

will

go

first.

I’ll

take

the

second

shot

if

she

misses

or

goes

down.

We’ve

drilled

this

a

hundred

times,

but

we

always

practiced

eliminating

the

target,

not

disabling

it.

And

the

target

never

fired

back

at

us.

She

steps

up

to

the

door.

I’m

standing

right

behind

her,

hand

on

her

shoulder.

The

wind

whistles

through

the

crack

like

the

mewling

of

a

dying

animal.

Ringer

waits

for

my

signal

with

her

head

bowed,

breathing

evenly

and

deeply,

and

I

wonder

if

she’s

praying

and,

if

she

is,

if

she

prays

to

the

same

God

I

do.

Somehow

I

don’t

think

so.I

pat

her

once

on

the

shoulder

and

she

kicks

open

the

door

and

it’s

like

she’s

been

shot

out

of

a

cannon,

disappearing

in

the

swirl

of

snow

before

I’m

two

steps

onto

the

roof,

and

I

hear

the

sharp

pop-pop-pop

of

her

weapon

before

I

almost

trip

over

her

kneeling

in

the

wet,

white

carpet

of

snow.

Ten

feet

in

front

of

her,

the

sniper

lies

on

his

side,

clutching

his

leg

with

one

hand

while

he

reaches

for

his

rifle

with

the

other.

It

must

have

flown

from

his

grip

when

she

popped

him.

Ringer

fires

again,

this

time

at

the

reaching

hand.

It’s

three

inches

across,

and

she

scores

a

direct

hit.

In

the

murky

dark.

Through

heavysnow.

He

pulls

his

hand

back

to

his

chest

with

a

startled

scream.

I

tap

Ringer

on

the

top

of

her

head

and

signal

her

to

pull

up.

“Lie

still!”

I

yell

at

him.

“Don’t

move!”

He

sits

up,

pressing

his

shattered

hand

against

his

chest,

facing

the

street,

hunched

over,

and

we

can’t

see

what

his

other

hand

is

doing,

but

I

see

a

flash

of

silver

and

hear

him

growl,

“Maggots,”

and

something

inside

me

goes

cold.

I

know

that

voice.

It

has

screamed

at

me,

mocked

me,

belittled

me,

threatened

me,

cursed

me.

It

followedme

from

the

minute

I

woke

to

the

minute

I

went

to

bed.

It’s

hissed,

hollered,

snarled,

and

spat

at

me,

at

all

of

us.

Reznik.

We

both

hear

it.

And

it

nails

down

our

feet.

It

stops

our

breath.

It

freezes

our

thoughts.

And

it

buys

him

time.

Time

that

grinds

down

as

he

comes

up,

slowing

as

if

the

universal

clock

set

in

motion

by

the

big

bang

is

running

out

of

steam.

Pushing

himself

to

his

feet.

That

takes

about

seven

or

eight

minutes.

Turning

to

face

us.

That

takes

at

least

ten.

Holding

something

in

his

good

hand.

Punching

at

it

with

his

bloody

one.

That

lastsa

good

twenty

minutes.

And

then

Ringer

comes

alive.

The

round

slams

into

his

chest.

Reznik

falls

to

his

knees.His

mouth

comes

open.

He

pitches

forward

and

lands

facedown

in

front

of

us.

The

clock

resets.

No

one

moves.

No

one

says

anything.

Snow.

Wind.

Like

we’re

standing

alone

on

the

summit

of

an

icy

mountaintop.

Ringer

goes

over

to

him,

rolls

him

onto

his

back.

Pulls

the

silver

device

from

his

hand.

I’m

looking

down

at

that

pasty,

pockmarked,

rat-eyed

face,

and

somehow

I’m

surprised

and

not

surprised.

“Spend

months

training

us

so

he

can

kill

us,”

I

say.

Ringer

shakes

her

head.

She’s

looking

at

the

display

of

the

silver

device.

Its

lightshines

on

her

face,

playing

up

the

contrast

between

her

fair

skin

and

jet-black

hair.

She

looks

beautiful

in

its

light,

not

angelic-beautiful,

more

like

avenging

angel–beautiful.

“He

wasn’t

going

to

kill

us,

Zombie.

Until

we

surprised

him

and

gave

him

no

choice.And

then

not

with

the

rifle.”

She

holds

up

the

device

so

I

can

see

the

display.

“Ithink

he

was

going

to

kill

us

with

this.”

A

grid

occupies

the

top

half

of

the

display.

There’s

a

cluster

of

green

dots

on

the

far

left-hand

corner.

Another

green

dot

closer

to

the

middle.

“The

squad,”

I

say.

“And

this

lone

dot

here

must

be

Poundcake.”

“Which

means

if

we

hadn’t

cut

out

our

implants—”

“He’d

have

known

exactly

where

we

were,”

Ringer

says.

“He’d

be

waiting

for

us,

andwe’d

be

screwed.”

She

points

out

the

two

highlighted

numbers

on

the

bottom

of

the

screen.

One

of

themis

the

number

I

was

assigned

when

Dr.

Pam

tagged

and

bagged

me.

I’m

guessing

the

other

one

is

Ringer’s.

Beneath

the

numbers

is

a

flashing

green

button.

“What

happens

if

you

press

that

button?”

I

ask.

“My

guess

is

nothing.”

And

she

presses

it.

I

flinch,

but

her

guess

is

right.

“It’s

a

kill

switch,”

she

says.

“Has

to

be.

Linked

to

our

implants.”

He

could

have

fried

all

of

us

anytime

he

wanted.

Killing

us

wasn’t

the

goal,

so

whatwas?

Ringer

sees

the

question

in

my

eyes.

“The

three

‘infesteds’—that’s

why

he

fired

the

opening

shot,”

she

says.

“We’re

the

first

squad

out

of

the

camp.

It

makes

sense

they’d

monitor

us

closely

to

see

how

we

perform

in

actual

combat.

Or

what

we

think

is

actual

combat.

To

make

sure

we

react

to

the

green

bait

like

good

little

rats.

Theymust

have

dropped

him

in

before

us—to

pull

the

trigger

in

case

we

didn’t.

And

when

we

didn’t,

he

gave

us

a

little

incentive.”

“And

he

kept

firing

at

us

because…?”

“Kept

us

hyped

and

ready

to

blow

away

any

damn

green

shiny

thing

that

glowed.”

In

the

snow,

it’s

as

if

she’s

looking

at

me

through

a

gauzy

white

curtain.

Flakes

dust

her

eyebrows,

sparkle

in

her

hair.

“Awful

big

risk

to

take,”

I

point

out.

“Not

really.

He

had

us

on

this

little

radar.

Worst-case

scenario,

all

he

had

to

do

was

hit

the

button.

He

just

didn’t

consider

the

worst-worst

case.”

“That

we’d

cut

out

the

implants.”

Ringer

nods.

She

wipes

away

the

snow

clinging

to

her

face.

“I

don’t

think

the

dumbbastard

expected

us

to

turn

and

fight.”

She

hands

the

device

to

me.

I

close

the

cover,

slip

it

into

my

pocket.

“It’s

our

move,

Sergeant,”

she

says

quietly,

or

maybe

it’s

the

snow

tamping

down

her

voice.

“What’s

the

call?”

I

suck

down

a

lungful

of

air,

let

it

out

slowly.

“Get

back

to

the

squad.

Pull

everyone’s

implant…”

“And?”

“Hope

like

hell

there

isn’t

a

battalion

of

Rezniks

on

its

way

right

now.”

I

turn

to

go.

She

grabs

my

arm.

“Wait!

We

can’t

go

back

without

implants.”

It

takes

me

a

second

to

get

it.

Then

I

nod,

rubbing

the

back

of

my

hand

across

mynumb

lips.

We’ll

light

up

in

their

eyepieces

without

the

implants.

“Poundcake

will

drop

us

before

we’re

halfway

across

the

street.”

“Hold

them

in

our

mouths?”

I

shake

my

head.

What

if

we

accidently

swallow

them?

“We

have

to

stick

them

back

where

they

came

from,

bandage

the

wounds

up

tight,

and….”

“Hope

like

hell

they

don’t

fall

out?”

“And

hope

pulling

them

out

didn’t

deactivate

them…What?”

I

ask.

“Too

much

hope?”

The

side

of

her

mouth

twitches.

“Maybe

that’s

our

secret

weapon.”

62

“THIS

IS

SERIOUSLY,

seriously

messed

up,”

Flintstone

says

to

me.

“Reznik

was

sniping

us?”

We’re

sitting

against

the

concrete

half

wall

of

the

garage,

Ringer

and

Poundcake

on

the

flanks,

watching

the

street

below.

Dumbo

is

on

one

side

of

me,

Flint

on

the

other,

Teacup

between

them,

pressing

her

head

against

my

chest.

“Reznik

is

a

Ted,”

I

tell

him

for

the

third

time.

“Camp

Haven

is

theirs.

They’ve

beenusing

us

to

—”

“Stow

it,

Zombie!

That’s

the

craziest,

most

paranoid

load

of

crap

I’ve

ever

heard!”Flintstone’s

wide

face

is

beet

red.

His

unibrow

jumps

and

twitches.

“You

wasted

our

drill

instructor!

Who

was

trying

to

waste

us!

On

a

mission

to

waste

Teds!

You

guys

can

do

what

you

want,

but

this

is

it

for

me.

This

is

it.”

He

pushes

himself

to

his

feet

and

shakes

his

fist

at

me.

“I’m

going

back

to

the

rendezvous

point

to

wait

for

the

evac.

This

is…”

He

searches

for

the

right

word,

then

settles

for,

“Bullshit.”

“Flint,”

I

say,

keeping

my

voice

low

and

steady.

“Stand

down.”

“Unbelievable.

You’ve

gone

Dorothy.

Dumbo,

Cake,

are

you

buying

this?

You

can’t

be

buying

this.”

I

pull

the

silver

device

from

my

pocket.

Flip

it

open.

Shove

it

toward

his

face.

“Seethat

green

dot

right

there?

That’s

you.”

I

scroll

down

to

his

number

and

highlight

with

a

jab

of

my

thumb.

The

green

button

flashes.

“Know

what

happens

when

you

hit

the

green

button?”

It’s

one

of

those

things

you

lie

awake

at

night

for

the

rest

of

your

life

and

wish

you

could

take

back.

Flintstone

jumps

forward

and

snatches

the

device

from

my

hand.

I

might

have

gottento

him

in

time,

but

Teacup’s

in

my

lap

and

it

slows

me

down.

All

that

happens

before

he

hits

the

button

is

my

shout

of

“No!”

Flintstone’s

head

snaps

back

violently

as

if

someone

has

smacked

him

hard

in

the

forehead.

His

mouth

flies

open,

his

eyes

roll

toward

the

ceiling.

Then

he

drops,

straight

down

and

loose-limbed,

like

a

puppet

whose

strings

have

lost

their

tension.

Teacup

is

screaming.

Ringer

pulls

her

off

me,

and

I

kneel

beside

Flint.

Though

I

doit

anyway,

I

don’t

have

to

check

his

pulse

to

know

he’s

dead.

All

I

have

to

do

is

look

at

the

display

of

the

device

clutched

in

his

hand,

at

the

red

dot

where

the

green

one

used

to

be.

“Guess

you

were

right,

Ringer,”

I

say

over

my

shoulder.

I

ease

the

control

pad

out

of

Flintstone’s

lifeless

hand.

My

own

hand

is

shaking.

Panic.

Confusion.

But

mostly

anger:

I’m

furious

at

Flint.

I

am

seriously

tempted

to

smash

my

fist

into

his

big,

fat

face.

Behind

me,

Dumbo

says,

“What

are

we

going

to

do

now,

Sarge?”

He’s

panicking,

too.

“Right

now

you’re

going

to

cut

out

Poundcake’s

and

Teacup’s

implants.”

His

voice

goes

up

an

octave.

“Me?”

Mine

goes

down

one.

“You’re

the

medic,

right?

Ringer

will

do

yours.”

“Okay,

but

then

what

are

we

going

to

do?

We

can’t

go

back.

We

can’t—where’re

we

supposed

to

go

now?”

Ringer

is

looking

at

me.

I’m

getting

better

at

reading

her

expressions.

That

slightdownturn

of

her

mouth

means

she’s

bracing

herself,

like

she

already

knows

what

I’m

about

to

say.

Who

knows?

She

probably

does.

“You’re

not

going

back,

Dumbo.”

“You

mean

we

aren’t

going

back,”

Ringer

corrects

me.

“We,

Zombie.”

I

stand

up.

It

seems

to

take

me

forever

to

get

upright.

I

step

over

to

her.

The

windwhips

her

hair

to

one

side,

a

black

banner

flying.

“We

left

one

behind,”

I

say.

She

shakes

her

head

sharply.

Her

bangs

swing

back

and

forth

in

a

pleasant

way.

“Nugget?

Zombie,

you

can’t

go

back

for

him.

It’s

suicide.”

“I

can’t

leave

him.

I

made

a

promise.”

I

start

to

explain

it,

but

I

don’t

even

knowhow

to

begin.

How

do

I

put

it

into

words?

It

isn’t

possible.

It’s

like

locating

the

starting

point

of

a

circle.

Or

finding

the

first

link

in

a

silver

chain.

“I

ran

one

time,”

I

finally

say.

“I’m

not

running

again.”

63

THERE

IS

THE

SNOW,

tiny

pinpricks

of

white,

spinning

down.

There

is

the

river

reeking

of

human

waste

and

human

remains,

black

and

swift

and

silent

beneath

the

clouds

that

hide

the

glowing

green

eye

of

the

mothership.

And

there’s

the

seventeen-year-old

high

school

football

jock

dressed

up

like

a

soldier

with

a

highpowered

semiautomatic

rifle

that

the

ones

from

the

glowing

green

eye

gave

him,

crouching

by

the

statue

of

a

real

soldier

who

fought

and

died

with

clear

mind

and

clean

heart,

uncorrupted

by

the

lies

of

an

enemy

who

knows

how

he

thinks,

who

twists

everything

good

in

him

to

evil,

who

uses

his

hope

and

trust

to

turn

him

into

a

weapon

against

his

own

kind.

The

kid

who

didn’t

go

back

when

he

should

have

and

now

goes

back

when

he

shouldn’t.

The

kid

called

Zombie,

who

made

a

promise,

and

if

he

breaks

that

promise,

the

war

is

over—not

the

big

war,

but

the

war

that

matters,

the

one

in

the

battlefield

of

his

heart.

Because

promises

matter.

They

matter

now

more

than

ever.

In

the

park

by

the

river

in

the

snow

spinning

down.

I

feel

the

chopper

before

I

hear

it.

A

change

in

pressure,

a

thrumming

against

my

exposed

skin.

Then

the

rhythmic

percussion

of

the

blades,

and

I

rise

unsteadily,

pressingmy

hand

into

the

bullet

wound

in

my

side.

“Where

should

I

shoot

you?”

Ringer

asked.

“I

don’t

know,

but

it

can’t

be

the

legs

or

the

arms.”

And

Dumbo,

who

had

plenty

of

experience

with

human

anatomy

from

processing

duty:

“Shoothim

in

the

side.

Close

range.

And

angled

this

way,

or

you’ll

puncture

his

intestines.”

And

Ringer:

“What

do

we

do

if

I

puncture

your

intestines?”

“Bury

me,

because

I’ll

be

dead.”

A

smile?

No.

Damn.

And

afterward,

as

Dumbo

examined

the

wound,

she

asked,

“How

long

do

we

wait

for

you?”

“No

more

than

a

day.”

“A

day?”

“Okay.

Two

days.

If

we

aren’t

back

in

forty-eight

hours,

we

aren’t

coming

back.”

She

didn’t

argue

with

me.

But

she

said,

“If

you

aren’t

back

in

forty-eight

hours,I’m

coming

back

for

you.”

“Dumb

move,

chess

player.”

“This

isn’t

chess.”

Black

shadow

roaring

over

the

bare

branches

of

the

trees

ringing

the

park,

and

the

heavy

pulsing

beat

of

the

rotors

like

an

enormous

racing

heart,

and

the

icy

wind

blasting

down,

pressing

on

my

shoulders

as

I

hoof

it

toward

the

open

hatch.

The

pilot

whips

his

head

around

as

I

dive

inside.

“Where’s

your

unit?”

Falling

into

the

empty

seat.

“Go!

Go!”

And

the

pilot:

“Soldier,

where’s

your

unit?”

From

the

trees

my

unit

answers,

opening

up

a

barrage

of

continuous

fire,

and

the

rounds

slam

and

pop

into

the

reinforced

hull

of

the

Black

Hawk,

and

I’m

shouting

at

the

topof

my

lungs,

“Go,

go,

go!”

Which

costs

me:

With

every

“Go!”

blood

is

forced

throughthe

wound

and

dribbles

through

my

fingers.

The

pilot

lifts

off,

shoots

forward,

then

banks

hard

to

the

left.

I

close

my

eyes.

Go,

Ringer.

Go.

The

Black

Hawk

lays

down

strafing

fire,

pulverizing

the

trees,

and

the

pilot

is

shoutingsomething

at

the

copilot,

and

the

chopper

is

over

the

trees

now,

but

Ringer

and

my

crew

should

be

long

gone,

down

on

the

walking

trail

that

borders

the

dark

banks

of

the

river.

We

circle

the

trees

several

times,

firing

until

the

trees

are

shattered

stubs

of

their

former

selves.

The

pilot

glances

into

the

hold,

sees

me

lying

across

two

seats,

holding

my

bloody

side.

He

pulls

up

and

hits

the

gas.

The

chopper

shoots

toward

the

clouds;

the

park

is

swallowed

up

by

the

white

nothing

of

the

snow.

I’m

losing

consciousness.

Too

much

blood.

Too

much.

There’s

Ringer’s

face,

and

damn

if

she

isn’t

just

smiling,

she’s

laughing,

and

good

for

me,

good

for

me

that

I

made

her

laugh.

And

there’s

Nugget,

and

he

definitely

isn’t

smiling.

Don’t

promise,

don’t

promise,

don’t

promise!

Don’t

promise

anything

ever,

ever,

ever!

“I’m

coming.

I

promise.”

64

I

WAKE

UP

where

it

began,

in

a

hospital

bed,

bandaged

up

and

floating

on

a

sea

of

painkillers,

circle

complete.

It

takes

me

several

minutes

to

realize

I’m

not

alone.

There’s

someone

sitting

in

the

chair

on

the

other

side

of

the

IV

drip.

I

turn

my

head

and

see

his

boots

first,

black,shined

to

a

mirror

finish.

The

faultless

uniform,

starched

and

pressed.

The

chiseled

face,

the

piercing

blue

eyes

that

bore

down

to

the

bottom

of

me.

“And

so

here

you

are,”

Vosch

says

softly.

“Safe

if

not

entirely

sound.

The

doctors

tell

me

you’re

extraordinarily

lucky

to

have

survived.

No

major

damage;

the

bullet

passed

clean

through.

Amazing,

really,

given

that

you

were

shot

at

such

close

range.”

What

are

you

going

to

tell

him?

I’m

going

to

tell

him

the

truth.

“It

was

Ringer,”

I

tell

him.

You

bastard.

You

son

of

a

bitch.

For

months

I

saw

him

as

my

savior—

as

humanity’s

savior,

even.

His

promises

gave

me

the

cruelest

gift:

hope.

He

cocks

his

head

to

one

side,

reminding

me

of

some

bright-eyed

bird

eyeing

a

tasty

morsel.

“And

why

did

Private

Ringer

shoot

you,

Ben?”

You

can’t

tell

him

the

truth.

Okay.

Screw

the

truth.

I’ll

give

him

facts

instead.

“Because

of

Reznik.”

“Reznik?”

“Sir,

Private

Ringer

shot

me

because

I

defended

Reznik’s

being

there.”

“And

why

would

you

need

to

defend

Reznik’s

being

there,

Sergeant?”

Crossing

his

legsand

cupping

his

upraised

knee

with

his

hands.

It’s

hard

to

maintain

eye

contact

with

him

for

more

than

three

or

four

seconds

at

a

time.

“They

turned

on

us,

sir.

Well,

not

all

of

them.

Flintstone

and

Ringer—and

Teacup,

but

only

because

Ringer

did.

They

said

Reznik’s

being

there

proved

that

this

was

all

a

lie,

and

that

you—”

He

holds

up

a

hand.

“‘This’?”

“The

camp,

the

infesteds.

That

we

weren’t

being

trained

to

kill

the

aliens.

The

alienswere

training

us

to

kill

one

another.”

He

doesn’t

say

anything

at

first.

I

almost

wish

he

would

laugh

or

smile

or

shake

his

head.

If

he

did

anything

like

that,

I

might

have

some

doubt;

I

might

rethink

the

whole

this-is-an-alien-head-fake

thing

and

conclude

I

am

suffering

from

paranoia

and

battle-induced

hysteria.

Instead

he

just

stares

back

at

me

with

no

expression,

with

those

bird-bright

eyes.

“And

you

wanted

no

part

of

their

little

conspiracy

theory?”

I

nod.

A

good,

strong,

confident

nod—I

hope.

“They

went

Dorothy

on

me,

sir.

Turned

the

whole

squad

against

me.”

I

smile.

A

grim,

tough,

soldiery

grin—I

hope.

“But

notbefore

I

took

care

of

Flint.”

“We

recovered

his

body,”

Vosch

tells

me.

“Like

you,

he

was

shot

at

very

close

range.

Unlike

you,

the

target

was

a

little

higher

up

in

the

anatomy.”

Are

you

sure

about

this,

Zombie?

Why

do

you

need

to

shoot

him

in

the

head?

They

can’t

know

he’s

been

zapped.

Maybe

if

I

do

enough

damage,

it’ll

destroy

the

evidence.

Stand

back,

Ringer.

You

know

I

don’t

have

the

best

aim

in

the

world.

“I

would

have

wasted

the

rest

of

them,

but

I

was

outnumbered,

sir.

I

decided

the

bestthing

to

do

was

get

my

ass

back

to

base

and

report.”

Again

he

doesn’t

move,

doesn’t

say

anything

for

a

long

time.

Just

stares.

What

are

you?

I

wonder.

Are

you

human?

Are

you

a

Ted?

Or

are

you…something

else?

What

the

hell

are

you?

“They’ve

vanished,

you

know,”

he

finally

says.

Then

waits

for

my

answer.

Luckily,

I’ve

thought

of

one.

Or

Ringer

did.

Credit

where

credit

is

due.

“They

cut

out

their

trackers.”

“Yours

too,”

he

points

out.

And

waits.

Over

his

shoulder,

I

see

orderlies

in

their

green

scrubs

moving

along

the

row

of

beds

and

hear

the

squeak

of

their

shoes

along

the

linoleum

floor.

Just

another

day

in

the

hospital

of

the

damned.

I’m

ready

for

his

question.

“I

was

playing

along.

Waiting

for

an

opening.

Dumbo

did

Ringer

next,

after

me,

and

that’s

when

I

made

my

move.”

“Shooting

Flintstone…”

“And

then

Ringer

shot

me.”

“And

then…”

Arms

crossed

over

his

chest

now.

Chin

lowered.

Studying

me

with

hooded

eyes.

The

way

a

bird

of

prey

might

its

supper.

“And

then

I

ran.

Sir.”

So

I’m

able

to

take

Reznik

down

in

the

dark

in

the

middle

of

a

snowstorm,

but

I

can’t

pop

you

from

two

feet

away?

He

won’t

buy

it,

Zombie.

I

don’t

need

him

to

buy

it.

Just

rent

it

for

a

few

hours.

He

clears

his

throat.

Scratches

beneath

his

chin.

Studies

the

ceiling

tiles

for

alittle

while

before

looking

back

at

me.

“How

fortunate

for

you,

Ben,

that

you

made

it

to

the

evac

point

before

bleeding

to

death.”

Oh,

you

bet,

you

whatever-you-are.

Fortunate

as

hell.

A

silence

slams

down.

Blue

eyes.

Tight

mouth.

Folded

arms.

“You

haven’t

told

me

everything.”

“Sir?”

“You’re

leaving

something

out.”

I

slowly

shake

my

head.

The

room

sways

like

a

ship

in

a

storm.

How

much

painkillerdid

they

give

me?

“Your

former

drill

sergeant.

Someone

in

your

unit

must

have

searched

him.

And

found

one

of

these

in

his

possession.”

Holding

up

a

silver

device

identical

to

Reznik’s.

“At

which

point

someone—I

would

think

you,

being

the

ranking

officer—would

wonder

what

Reznik

was

doing

with

a

mechanism

capable

of

terminating

your

lives

with

a

touch

of

a

button.”

I’m

nodding.

Ringer

and

I

figured

he’d

go

there,

and

I’m

ready

with

an

answer.

Whetherhe

buys

it

or

not,

that’s

the

question.

“There’s

only

one

explanation

that

makes

any

sense,

sir.

It

was

our

first

mission,

our

first

real

combat.

We

needed

to

be

monitored.

And

you

needed

a

fail-safe

in

case

any

of

us

went

Dorothy—

turned

on

the

others…”

I

trail

off,

out

of

breath

and

glad

that

I

am,

because

I

don’t

trust

myself

on

thedope.

My

thinking

isn’t

crystal

clear.

I’m

walking

through

a

minefield

in

some

very

dense

fog.

Ringer

anticipated

this.

She

made

me

practice

this

part

over

and

over

as

we

waited

in

the

park

for

the

chopper

to

return,

right

before

she

pressed

her

sidearm

against

my

stomach

and

pulled

the

trigger.

The

chair

scrapes

against

the

floor,

and

suddenly

Vosch’s

lean,

hard

face

fills

my

vision.

“It

really

is

extraordinary,

Ben.

For

you

to

resist

the

group

dynamics

of

combat,

the

enormous

pressure

to

follow

the

herd.

It’s

almost—well,

inhuman,

for

lack

of

a

better

word.”

“I’m

human,”

I

whisper,

heart

beating

in

my

chest

so

hard,

for

a

second

I’m

sure

he

can

see

it

beating

through

my

thin

gown.

“Are

you?

Because

that’s

the

crux

of

it,

isn’t

it,

Ben?

That’s

the

whole

ballgame!Who

is

human—

and

who

is

not.

Have

we

not

eyes,

Ben?

Hands,

organs,

dimensions,

senses,affections,

passions?

If

you

prick

us,

do

we

not

bleed?

And

if

you

wrong

us,

shall

we

not

revenge?”

The

hard

angle

of

the

jaw.

The

severity

of

the

blue

eyes.

The

thin

lips

pale

againstthe

flushed

face.

“Shakespeare.

The

Merchant

of

Venice.

Spoken

by

a

member

of

a

despised

and

persecuted

race.

Like

our

race,

Ben.

The

human

race.”

“I

don’t

think

they

hate

us,

sir.”

Trying

to

keep

my

cool

in

this

strange

and

unexpected

turn

in

the

minefield.

My

head

is

spinning.

Gut-shot,

doped

up,

discussing

Shakespearewith

the

commandant

of

one

of

the

most

efficient

death

camps

in

the

history

of

the

world.

“They

have

a

strange

way

of

showing

their

affection.”

“They

don’t

love

or

hate

us.

We’re

just

in

the

way.

Maybe

to

them,

we’re

the

infestation.”

“Periplaneta

americana

to

their

Homo

sapiens?

In

that

contest,

I’ll

take

the

cockroach.

Very

difficult

to

eradicate.”

He

pats

me

on

the

shoulder.

Gets

very

serious.

We’ve

come

to

the

real

meat

of

it,

do

or

die

time,

pass

or

fail;

I

can

feel

it.

He’s

turning

the

sleek

silver

device

over

and

over

in

his

hand.

Your

plan

sucks,

Zombie.

You

know

that.

Okay.

Let’s

hear

yours.

We

stay

together.

Take

our

chances

with

whoever’s

holed

up

in

the

courthouse.

And

Nugget?

They

won’t

hurt

him.

Why

are

you

so

worried

about

Nugget?

God,

Zombie,

there

are

hundreds

of

kids—

Yeah,

there

are.

But

I

made

a

promise

to

one.

“This

is

a

very

grave

development,

Ben.

Very

grave.

Ringer’s

delusion

will

drive

her

to

seek

shelter

with

the

very

things

she

was

tasked

to

destroy.

She

will

share

with

them

everything

she

knows

about

our

operations.

We’ve

dispatched

three

more

squads

to

preempt

her,

but

I’m

afraid

it

may

be

too

late.

If

it

is

too

late,

we’ll

have

no

choice

but

to

execute

the

option

of

last

resort.”

His

eyes

burn

with

their

own

pale

blue

fire.

I

actually

shiver

when

he

turns

away,

cold

all

of

a

sudden,

and

very,

very

scared.

What

is

the

option

of

last

resort?

He

may

not

have

bought

it,

but

he

did

rent

it.

I’m

still

alive.

And

as

long

as

I’malive,

Nugget

has

a

chance.

He

turns

back

as

if

he’s

just

remembered

something.

Crap.

Here

it

comes.

“Oh,

one

more

thing.

Sorry

to

be

the

bearer

of

bad

tidings,

but

we’re

pulling

youoff

the

pain

meds

so

we

can

run

a

full

debriefing

on

you.”

“Debriefing,

sir?”

“Combat

is

a

funny

thing,

Ben.

It

plays

tricks

on

your

memory.

And

we’ve

found

that

the

meds

interfere

with

the

program.

It

should

take

about

six

hours

for

your

system

to

be

clear.”

I

still

don’t

get

it,

Zombie.

Why

do

I

have

to

shoot

you?

Why

can’t

the

story

be

you

gave

us

the

slip?

It’s

a

little

over-the-top,

if

you

ask

me.

I

have

to

be

injured,

Ringer.

Why?

So

they’ll

put

me

on

meds.

Why?

To

buy

me

time.

So

they

don’t

take

me

straight

there

from

the

chopper.

Take

you

where?

So

I

don’t

have

to

ask

what

Vosch

is

talking

about,

but

I

ask

anyway:

“You’re

plugging

me

in

to

Wonderland?”

He

crooks

his

finger

at

an

orderly,

who

comes

forward

holding

a

tray.

A

tray

with

a

syringe

and

a

tiny

silver

pellet.

“We’re

plugging

you

in

to

Wonderland.”

65

WE

FELL

ASLEEP

last

night

in

front

of

the

fireplace,

and

this

morning

I

woke

up

inour

bed—no,

not

our

bed.

My

bed.

Val’s

bed?

The

bed,

and

I

don’t

remember

climbing

the

stairs,

so

he

must

have

carried

me

up

and

tucked

me

in,

only

he

isn’t

in

bed

with

me

now.

I’m

a

little

panicky

when

I

realize

he’s

not

here.

It’s

a

lot

easier

to

push

down

my

doubt

when

he’s

with

me.

When

I

can

see

those

eyes

the

color

of

melted

chocolate

and

hear

his

deep

voice

that

falls

over

me

like

a

warm

blanket

on

a

cold

night.

Oh,

you’re

such

a

hopeless

case,

Cassie.

Such

a

train

wreck.

I

dress

quickly

in

the

weak

light

of

dawn

and

go

downstairs.

He’s

not

there,

either,

but

my

M16

is,

cleaned

and

loaded

and

leaning

against

the

mantel.

I

call

out

his

name.

Silence

answers.

I

pick

up

the

gun.

The

last

time

I

fired

it

was

on

Crucifix

Soldier

Day.

Not

your

fault,

Cassie.

And

not

his

fault.

I

close

my

eyes

and

see

my

father

lying

gut-shot

in

the

dirt,

telling

me,

No,

Cassie,

right

before

Vosch

walked

over

and

silenced

him.

His

fault.

Not

yours.

Not

the

Crucifix

Soldier’s.

His.

I

have

a

very

vivid

image

of

ramming

the

end

of

the

rifle

against

Vosch’s

temple

and

blowing

his

head

off

his

shoulders.

First

I

have

to

find

him.

And

then

politely

ask

him

to

stand

still

so

I

can

ram

theend

of

my

rifle

against

his

temple

and

blow

his

head

off

his

shoulders.

I

find

myself

on

the

sofa

next

to

Bear,

and

I

cradle

them

both,

Bear

in

one

arm,

my

rifle

in

the

other,

like

I’m

back

in

the

woods

in

my

tent

under

the

trees

that

were

under

the

sky

that

was

under

the

baleful

eye

of

the

mothership

that

was

beneath

the

explosion

of

stars

of

which

ours

is

just

one—and

what

are

the

freaking

odds

that

the

Others

would

pick

our

star

out

of

the

100

sextillion

in

the

universe

to

set

up

shop?

It’s

too

much

for

me

to

handle.

I

can’t

defeat

the

Others.

I’m

a

cockroach.

Okay,

I’ll

go

with

Evan’s

mayfly

metaphor;

mayflies

are

prettier,

and

at

least

they

can

fly.

But

I

can

take

out

a

few

of

the

bastards

before

my

single

day

on

Earth

is

over.

And

I

plan

to

start

with

Vosch.

A

hand

falls

on

my

shoulder.

“Cassie,

why

are

you

crying?”

“I’m

not.

It’s

my

allergies.

This

damn

bear

is

full

of

dust.”

He

sits

down

next

to

me,

on

the

bear

side,

not

the

gun

side.

“Where

were

you?”

I

ask

to

change

the

subject.

“Checking

out

the

weather.”

“And?”

Full

sentences,

please.

I’m

cold

and

I

need

your

warm-blanky

voice

to

keep

me

safe.

I

draw

my

knees

up

to

my

chest,

resting

my

heels

on

the

edge

of

the

sofa

cushion.

“I

think

we’re

good

for

tonight.”

The

morning

light

sneaks

through

a

crack

in

the

sheets

hung

over

the

window

and

paints

his

face

golden.

The

light

shimmers

in

his

dark

hair,

sparkles

in

his

eyes.

“Good.”

I

snuffle

loudly.

“Cassie.”

He

touches

my

knee.

His

hand

is

warm;

I

feel

its

heat

through

my

jeans.“I

had

this

weird

idea.”

“All

of

this

is

just

a

really

bad

dream?”

He

shakes

his

head,

laughs

nervously.

“I

don’t

want

you

to

take

this

the

wrong

way,

so

hear

me

out

before

you

say

anything,

okay?

I’ve

been

thinking

a

lot

about

this,

and

I

wouldn’t

even

mention

it

if

I

didn’t

think—”

“Tell

me,

Evan.

Just—tell—me.”

Oh

God,

what’s

he

going

to

tell

me?

My

body

tightens

up.

Never

mind,

Evan.

Don’t

tell

me.

“Let

me

go.”

I

shake

my

head,

confused.

Is

this

a

joke?

I

look

down

at

his

hand

on

my

knee,

fingersgently

squeezing.

“I

thought

you

were

going.”

“I

mean,

let

me

go.”

Giving

my

knee

a

tiny

shake

to

get

me

to

look

at

him.

Then

I

get

it.

“Let

you

go

by

yourself.

I

stay

here,

and

you

go

find

my

brother.”

“Okay,

now,

you

promised

to

hear

me

out—”

“I

didn’t

promise

you

anything.”

I

push

his

hand

off

my

knee.

The

thought

of

his

leavingme

behind

isn’t

just

offensive—it’s

terrifying.

“My

promise

was

to

Sammy,

so

drop

it.”

He

doesn’t.

“But

you

don’t

know

what’s

out

there.”

“And

you

do?”

“Better

than

you.”

He

reaches

for

me;

I

put

my

hand

against

his

chest.

Oh

no,

buddy.

“Then

tell

me

what’s

out

there.”

He

throws

up

his

hands.

“Think

about

who

has

a

better

chance

of

living

long

enoughto

keep

your

promise.

I’m

not

saying

it’s

because

you’re

a

girl

or

because

I’m

stronger

or

tougher

or

whatever.

I’m

saying

if

just

one

of

us

goes,

then

the

other

one

would

still

have

a

chance

of

finding

him

in

case

the

worst

happens.”

“Well,

you’re

probably

right

about

that

last

part.

But

it

shouldn’t

be

you

who

tries

first.

He’s

my

brother.

Like

hell

I’m

going

to

wait

around

here

for

a

Silencer

to

knock

on

the

door

and

ask

to

borrow

a

cup

of

sugar.

I’ll

just

go

by

myself.”

I

push

myself

off

the

sofa

like

I’m

heading

out

at

that

very

second.

He

grabs

my

arm;

I

yank

it

back.

“Stop

it,

Evan.

You

keep

forgetting

that

I’m

letting

you

go

with

me,

not

the

other

way

around.”

He

drops

his

head.

“I

know.

I

know

that.”

Then

a

rueful

laugh.

“I

also

knew

what

youranswer

would

be,

but

I

had

to

ask.”

“Because

you

think

I

can’t

take

care

of

myself?”

“Because

I

don’t

want

you

to

die.”

66

WE’VE

BEEN

PREPARING

for

weeks.

On

this

last

day,

there

wasn’t

much

left

to

do

excepwt

ait

for

nightfall.

We’re

traveling

light;

Evan

thought

we

could

reach

Wright-Patterson

in

two

or

three

nights,

barring

an

unexpected

delay

like

another

blizzard

or

one

of

us

getting

killed—or

both

of

us

getting

killed,

which

would

delay

the

operation

indefinitely.

Despite

keeping

my

supplies

to

a

bare

minimum,

I

have

trouble

getting

Bear

to

fitinto

the

backpack.

Maybe

I

should

cut

off

his

legs

and

tell

Sammy

they

were

blownoff

by

the

Eye

that

took

out

Camp

Ashpit.

The

Eye.

That

would

be

better,

I

decided:

not

a

bullet

to

Vosch’s

brain,

but

an

alien

bomb

jammed

down

his

pants.

“Maybe

you

shouldn’t

take

him,”

Evan

says.

“Maybe

you

should

shut

up,”

I

mutter,

pushing

Bear’s

head

down

into

his

stomach

and

tugging

the

zipper

closed.

“There.”

Evan

is

smiling.

“You

know,

when

I

first

saw

you

in

the

woods,

I

thought

he

was

your

bear.”

“Woods?”

His

smile

fades.

“You

didn’t

find

me

in

the

woods,”

I

remind

him.

Suddenly

the

room

feels

about

ten

degrees

colder.

“You

found

me

in

the

middle

of

a

snowbank.”

“I

meant

I

was

in

the

woods,

not

you,”

he

says.

“I

saw

you

from

the

woods

a

half

mile

away.”

I’m

nodding.

Not

because

I

believe

him.

I’m

nodding

because

I

know

I’m

right

not

to.

“You’re

not

out

of

those

woods

yet,

Evan.

You’re

sweet

and

you

have

incredible

cuticles,

but

I’m

still

not

sure

why

your

hands

are

so

soft,

or

why

you

smelled

like

gunpowder

the

night

you

supposedly

visited

your

girlfriend’s

grave.”

“I

told

you

last

night,

I

haven’t

helped

around

the

farm

in

two

years,

and

I

was

cleaningmy

gun

earlier

that

day.

I

don’t

know

what

else

I

can—”

I

cut

him

off.

“I’m

only

trusting

you

because

you’re

handy

with

a

rifle

and

haven’t

killed

me

with

it,

even

though

you’ve

had

about

a

thousand

opportunities.

Don’t

take

this

personally,

but

there’s

something

I

don’t

get

about

you

and

this

whole

situation,

but

that

doesn’t

mean

I’m

never

going

to

get

it.

I’ll

figure

it

out,

and

if

the

truth

is

something

that

puts

you

on

the

other

side

of

me,

then

I

will

do

what

I

have

to

do.”

“What?”

Smiling

that

damned

lopsided,

sexy

grin,

shoulders

up,

hands

stuffed

deep

in

his

pockets

with

a

sort

of

aw-shucks

attitude,

which

I

guess

is

meant

to

drive

me

the

good

kind

of

crazy.

What

is

it

about

him

that

makes

me

want

to

slap

him

and

kiss

him,

run

from

him

and

to

him,

throw

my

arms

around

him

and

knee

him

in

the

balls,

all

at

the

same

time?

I’d

like

to

blame

the

Arrival

for

the

effect

he

has

on

me,

but

something

tells

me

guys

have

been

doing

this

to

us

for

a

lot

longer

than

a

few

months.

“What

I

have

to

do,”

I

tell

him.

I

head

upstairs.

Thinking

about

what

I

have

to

do

reminded

me

of

something

I

meantto

do

before

we

left.

In

the

bathroom,

I

poke

around

in

the

drawers

until

I

find

a

pair

of

scissors,

and

then

proceed

to

lop

off

six

inches

of

my

hair.

The

floorboards

creak

behind

me,

and

I

shout,

“Stop

lurking!”

without

turning

around.

A

second

later,

Evan

sticks

his

head

into

the

room.

“What

are

you

doing?”

he

asks.

“Symbolically

cutting

my

hair.

What

are

you

doing?

Oh,

that’s

right.

Following

me,

lurking

in

doorways.

One

of

these

days

maybe

you’ll

work

up

the

courage

to

step

over

the

threshold,

Evan.”

“It

looks

like

you’re

actually

cutting

your

hair.”

“I’ve

decided

to

get

rid

of

all

the

things

that

bug

me.”

Giving

him

a

look

in

the

mirror.

“Why

does

it

bug

you?”

“Why

are

you

asking?”

Looking

at

my

reflection

now,

but

he’s

there

in

the

corner

of

my

eye.

Damn

it,

more

symbolism.

He

wisely

makes

an

exit.

Snip,

snip,

snip,

and

the

sink

fills

up

with

my

curls.

I

hear

him

clumping

around

downstairs,

then

the

kitchen

door

slamming.

I

guess

I

was

supposed

to

ask

his

permission

first.

Like

he

owns

me.

Like

I’m

a

puppy

he

found

lost

in

the

snow.

I

step

back

to

examine

my

handiwork.

With

the

short

cut

and

no

makeup,

I

look

abouttwelve

years

old.

Okay,

no

older

than

fourteen.

But

with

the

right

attitude

and

the

right

prop,

someone

might

mistake

me

for

a

tween.

Maybe

even

offer

me

a

ride

to

safety

on

their

friendly

yellow

school

bus.

That

afternoon

a

gray

sheet

of

clouds

draws

itself

across

the

sky,

bringing

an

early

dusk.

Evan

disappears

again

and

comes

back

a

few

minutes

later

carrying

two

five-gallon

containers

of

gasoline.

I

give

him

a

look,

and

he

says,

“I

was

thinking

a

diversion

might

help.”

It

takes

me

a

minute

to

process.

“You’re

going

to

burn

down

your

house?”

He

nods.

He

seems

kind

of

excited

about

the

prospect.

“I’m

going

to

burn

down

my

house.”

He

lugs

one

of

the

containers

upstairs

to

douse

the

bedrooms.

I

go

out

onto

the

porchto

escape

the

fumes.

A

big

black

crow

is

hopping

across

the

yard,

and

he

stops

and

gives

me

a

beady-eyed

look.

I

consider

pulling

out

my

gun

and

shooting

him.

I

don’t

think

I’d

miss.

I’m

a

pretty

good

shot

now,

thanks

to

Evan,

and

also

I

really

hate

birds.

The

door

opens

behind

me

and

a

wave

of

nauseating

fumes

roars

out.

I

step

off

the

porch

and

the

crow

takes

off,

screeching.

Evan

splashes

down

the

porch,

then

tosses

the

empty

can

against

the

side

of

the

house.

“The

barn,”

I

say.

“If

you

wanted

to

create

a

diversion,

you

should

have

burned

downthe

barn.

That

way

the

house

would

still

be

here

when

we

get

back.”

Because

I’d

like

to

believe

we’re

coming

back,

Evan.

You,

me,

and

Sammy,

one

big

happy

family.

“You

know

we’re

not

coming

back,”

he

says,

and

lights

the

match.

67

TWENTY-FOUR

HOURS

LATER

and

I’ve

completed

the

circle

that

connects

me

and

Sammy

aisf

by

a

silver

cord,

returning

to

the

place

where

I

made

my

promise.

Camp

Ashpit

is

exactly

how

I

left

it,

which

means

there

is

no

Camp

Ashpit,

just

adirt

road

cutting

through

woods

interrupted

by

a

mile-wide

emptiness

where

Camp

Ashpit

used

to

be,

the

ground

harder

than

steel

and

bare

of

everything,

even

the

tiniest

weed

or

blade

of

grass

or

dead

leaf.

Of

course,

it’s

winter,

but

somehow

I

don’t

think

when

springtime

comes

this

Other-made

clearing

will

blossom

like

a

meadow.

I

point

to

a

spot

on

our

right.

“That’s

where

the

barracks

was.

I

think.

It’s

hard

to

tell

without

any

point

of

reference

except

the

road.

Over

there

the

storage

shed.

Back

that

way

the

ash

pit,

and

farther

back

the

ravine.”

Evan

is

shaking

his

head

with

wonder.

“There’s

nothing

left.”

He

stamps

his

foot

on

the

rock-hard

ground.

“Oh

yeah,

there

is.

I’m

left.”

He

sighs.

“You

know

what

I

mean.”

“I’m

being

too

intense,”

I

say.

“Hmmm.

Not

really

like

you.”

He

tries

out

a

smile,

but

his

smile

isn’t

working

thatwell

lately.

He’s

been

very

quiet

since

we

left

his

house

burning

in

the

middle

of

farm

country.

In

the

waning

daylight,

he

kneels

on

the

hard

ground,

pulls

out

the

map,

and

points

at

our

location

with

his

flashlight.

“The

dirt

road

over

there

isn’t

on

the

map,

but

it

must

connect

with

this

road,

maybe

around

here?

We

can

follow

it

to

675,

and

then

it’s

a

straight

shot

to

Wright-Patterson.”

“How

far?”

I

ask,

peering

over

his

shoulder.

“About

twenty-five

or

thirty

miles.

Another

day

if

we

push

it.”

“We’ll

push

it.”

I

sit

down

beside

him

and

dig

through

his

pack

for

something

to

eat.

I

find

some

cured

mystery

meat

wrapped

in

wax

paper

and

a

couple

of

hard

biscuits.

I

offer

one

to

Evan.

He

shakes

his

head

no.

“You

need

to

eat,”

I

scold

him.

“Stop

worrying

so

much.”

He’s

afraid

we’ll

run

out

of

food.

He

has

his

rifle,

of

course,

but

there’ll

be

no

hunting

during

this

phase

of

the

rescue

operation.

We

have

to

pass

quietly

through

the

countryside—not

that

the

countryside

has

been

particularly

quiet.

The

first

night,

we

heard

gunfire.

Sometimes

the

echo

of

a

single

gun

going

off,

sometimes

more

than

one.

Always

in

the

distance,

though,

never

close

enough

to

freak

us

out.

Maybe

lone

hunters

like

Evan,

living

off

the

land.

Maybe

roving

gangs

of

Twigs.

Who

knew?

Maybe

there

are

other

sixteen-year-old

girls

with

M16s

stupid

enough

to

think

they

are

humanity’s

last

representatives

on

Earth.

He

gives

in

and

takes

one

of

the

biscuits.

Gnaws

off

a

hunk.

Chews

thoughtfully,

looking

around

the

wasteland

as

the

light

dies.

“What

if

they’ve

stopped

running

buses?”

he

asks

for

the

hundredth

time.

“How

do

we

get

in?”

“We

come

up

with

something

else.”

Cassie

Sullivan:

expert

strategic

planner.

He

gives

me

a

look.

“Professional

soldiers.

Humvees.

And

Black

Hawks.

And

this—whatdid

you

call

it?—green-eyed

bomb.

We

better

come

up

with

something

good.”

He

jams

the

map

into

his

pocket

and

stands

up,

adjusting

the

rifle

over

his

shoulder.

He’s

on

the

verge

of

something.

I’m

not

sure

what.

Tears?

Screams?

Laughter?

Me

too.

All

three.

And

maybe

not

for

the

same

reasons.

I’ve

decided

to

trust

him,

but

like

somebody

once

said,

you

can’t

force

yourself

to

trust.

So

you

put

all

your

doubts

in

a

little

box

and

bury

it

deep

and

then

try

to

forget

where

you

buried

it.

My

problem

is

that

buried

box

is

like

a

scab

I

can’t

stop

picking

at.

“We

better

go,”

he

says

tightly,

glancing

up

at

the

sky.

The

clouds

that

moved

in

the

day

before

still

linger,

hiding

the

stars.

“We’re

exposed

here.”

Suddenly,

Evan

snaps

his

head

to

the

left

and

goes

all

statuelike.

“What

is

it?”

I

whisper.

He

holds

up

his

hand.

Gives

a

sharp

shake

of

his

head.

Peers

into

the

near

perfectdarkness.

I

don’t

see

anything.

Don’t

hear

anything.

But

I’m

not

a

hunter

like

Evan.

“A

damned

flashlight,”

he

murmurs.

He

presses

his

lips

to

my

ear.

“What’s

closer,

the

woods

on

the

other

side

of

the

road

or

the

ravine?”

I

shake

my

head.

I

really

don’t

know.

“The

ravine,

I

guess.”

He

doesn’t

hesitate.

He

grabs

my

hand,

and

we

take

off

in

a

quick

trot

toward

where

I

hoped

the

ravine

was.

I

don’t

know

how

far

we

ran

till

we

came

to

it.

Probably

not

as

far

as

it

seemed,

because

it

seemed

like

we

ran

forever.

Evan

lowers

me

down

the

rocky

face

to

the

bottom,

then

jumps

in

beside

me.

“Evan?”

He

presses

his

finger

to

his

lips.

Scoots

up

the

side

to

peek

over

the

edge.

He

motionsto

his

pack,

and

I

fish

around

until

I

find

his

binoculars.

I

tug

on

his

pant

leg—What’s

going

on?—but

he

shakes

off

my

hand.

He

taps

his

fingers

against

his

thigh,

thumb

tucked.

Four

of

them?

Is

that

what

he

meant?

Or

is

he

using

some

kind

of

hunter’s

code,

like,

Get

down

on

all

fours!

He

doesn’t

move

for

a

long

time.

Finally

he

shimmies

back

down

and

puts

his

lips

to

my

ear

again.

“They’re

coming

this

way.”

He

squints

in

the

gloom

toward

the

opposite

wall

of

the

ravine,

which

is

much

steeper

than

the

one

we

came

down,

but

there

are

woods

on

the

other

side,

or

what’s

left

of

them:

shattered

stumps

of

trees,

tangles

of

broken

branches

and

vines.

Good

cover.

Or

at

least

better

cover

than

being

totally

exposed

in

a

gully

where

the

bad

guys

can

pick

you

off

like

fish

in

a

barrel.

He

bites

his

lip,

weighing

the

odds.

Do

we

have

time

to

scale

the

other

side

before

being

spotted?

“Stay

down.”

He

swings

his

rifle

off

his

shoulder

and

braces

his

boots

against

the

unsteady

surface,

resting

his

elbows

on

the

ground

above.

I’m

standing

directly

beneath

him,

cradling

the

M16.

Yeah,

he

told

me

to

stay

down,

I

know.

But

I’m

not

about

to

huddle

in

a

heap

waiting

for

the

end.

I’ve

been

there

before,

and

I’m

never

going

back.

Evan

fires;

the

twilight

stillness

shatters.

The

kickback

of

the

rifle

knocks

himoff

balance,

his

foot

slips,

and

he

falls

straight

down.

Luckily,

there’s

a

moron

directly

beneath

him

to

break

his

fall.

Lucky

for

him.

Not

so

lucky

for

the

moron.

He

rolls

off

me,

yanks

me

to

my

feet,

and

shoves

me

toward

the

opposite

side.

Butit’s

kind

of

difficult

to

move

fast

when

you

can’t

breathe.

A

flare

drops

into

the

ravine,

ripping

apart

the

dark

with

a

hellish

red

glare.

Evan

slides

his

hands

under

my

arms

and

hurls

me

toward

the

top.

I

catch

hold

of

the

edge

with

my

fingertips

and

furiously

dig

into

the

wall

with

my

toes,

like

some

crazy

bicyclist.

Then

Evan’s

hands

on

my

butt

for

the

final

heave-ho,

and

I’m

on

the

other

side.

I

swing

around

to

help

him

up,

but

he

shouts

for

me

to

run—no

reason

to

be

quiet

now—as

a

small,

pineapple-shaped

object

plops

into

the

ravine

behind

him.

I

scream,

“Grenade!”

which

gives

Evan

an

entire

second

to

take

cover.

That’s

not

quite

enough

time.

The

blast

drops

him,

and

at

that

moment

a

figure

wearing

fatigues

appears

on

the

opposite

side

of

the

ravine.

I

open

up

with

my

M16,

screaming

incoherently

at

the

top

of

mylungs.

The

figure

scrambles

backward,

but

I

keep

firing

at

the

spot

where

he

stood.

I

don’t

think

he

was

expecting

Cassie

Sullivan’s

answer

to

his

invitation

to

party

down

post–alien

apocalypse

style.

I

empty

my

clip,

slap

home

a

fresh

one.

Count

to

ten.

Make

myself

look

down,

sureof

what

I’m

going

to

see

when

I

do.

Evan’s

body

at

the

bottom

of

the

ravine,

ripped

to

shreds,

all

because

I

was

the

one

thing

he

found

worth

dying

for.

Me,

the

girl

who

let

him

kiss

her

but

never

kissed

him

first.

The

girl

who

never

thanked

him

for

saving

her

life

but

paid

him

back

with

sarcasm

and

accusations.

I

know

what

I’m

going

to

see

when

I

look

down,

but

that’s

not

what

I

see.

Evan

is

gone.

The

little

voice

inside

my

head

whose

job

it

is

to

keep

me

alive

shouts,

Run!

So

I

run.

Leaping

over

fallen

trees

and

winter

dry

scrub,

and

now

the

familiar

pop-pop-pop

of

rapid-arms

fire.

Grenades.

Flares.

Assault

weapons.

These

aren’t

Twigs

after

us.

These

are

pros.

Outside

the

fiendish

glow

of

the

flare,

I

hit

a

wall

of

dark,

then

run

smack

into

a

tree.

The

impact

knocks

me

off

my

feet.

I

don’t

know

how

far

I

ran,

but

it

mustbe

a

good

distance,

because

I

can’t

see

the

ravine,

can’t

hear

anything

but

my

own

heartbeat

roaring

in

my

ears.

I

scuttle

forward

to

a

fallen

pine

tree

and

huddle

behind

it,

waiting

for

the

breath

I

left

back

at

the

ravine

to

catch

up

with

me.

Waiting

for

another

flare

to

drop

into

the

woods

in

front

of

me.

Waiting

for

the

Silencers

to

come

crashing

through

the

underbrush.

A

rifle

pops

in

the

distance,

followed

by

a

high-pitched

scream.

Then

an

answering

barrage

of

automatic

weapons

and

another

grenade

explosion,

and

then

silence.

Well,

it

isn’t

me

they’re

shooting

at,

so

it

must

be

Evan,

I

think.

Which

makes

me

feel

better

and

a

whole

lot

worse,

because

he’s

out

there

alone

against

pros,

and

where

am

I?

Hiding

behind

a

tree

like

a

girl.

But

what

about

Sams?

I

can

run

back

into

a

fight

I’ll

probably

lose,

or

stay

downto

stay

alive

long

enough

to

keep

my

promise.

It’s

an

either/or

world.

Another

crack!

of

a

rifle.

Another

girly

scream.

More

silence.

He’s

picking

them

off

one

by

one.

A

farm

boy

with

no

combat

experience

against

a

squad

of

professional

soldiers.

Outnumbered.

Outgunned.

Cutting

them

down

with

the

samebrutal

efficiency

as

the

Silencer

on

the

interstate,

the

hunter

in

the

woods

who

chased

me

under

a

car

and

then

mysteriously

disappeared.

Crack!

Scream.

Silence.

I

don’t

move.

I

wait

behind

my

log,

terrified.

Over

the

pastten

minutes,

it’s

become

such

a

dear

friend,

I

consider

naming

it:

Howard,

my

pet

log.

You

know,

when

I

first

saw

you

in

the

woods,

I

thought

he

was

your

bear.

The

snap

and

crunch

of

dead

leaves

and

twigs

underfoot.

A

darker

shadow

against

the

dark

of

the

woods.

The

soft

call

of

the

Silencer.

My

Silencer.

“Cassie?

Cassie,

it’s

safe

now.”

I

heave

myself

upright

and

point

my

rifle

directly

at

Evan

Walker’s

face.

68

HE

PULLS

UP

QUICKLY,

but

the

look

of

confusion

comes

slowly.

“Cassie,

it’s

me.”

“I

know

it’s

you.

I

just

don’t

know

who

you

are.”

His

jaw

tightens.

His

voice

is

strained.

Anger?

Frustration?

I

can’t

tell.

“Lower

the

gun,

Cassie.”

“Who

are

you,

Evan?

If

that’s

evan

your

name.

Even

your

name.”

He

smiles

wanly.

And

then

he

falls

to

his

knees,

sways,

topples

over,

and

lies

still.

I

wait,

the

gun

trained

on

the

back

of

his

head.

He

doesn’t

move.

I

hop

over

Howardand

poke

him

with

my

toe.

He

still

doesn’t

move.

I

kneel

beside

him,

resting

the

buttof

my

rifle

on

my

thigh,

and

press

my

fingers

against

his

neck,

feeling

for

a

pulse.

He’s

alive.

His

pants

are

shredded

from

the

thighs

down.

Wet

to

the

touch.

I

smell

my

fingertips.

Blood.

I

lean

my

M16

against

the

fallen

tree

and

roll

Evan

onto

his

back.

His

eyelids

flutter.He

reaches

up

and

touches

my

cheek

with

his

bloody

palm.

“Cassie,”

he

whispers.

“Cassie

for

Cassiopeia.”

“Stop

it,”

I

say.

I

notice

his

rifle

lying

next

to

him

and

kick

it

out

of

his

reach.

“How

bad

are

you

hurt?”

“I

think

pretty

bad.”

“How

many

were

there?”

“Four.”

“They

never

had

a

chance,

did

they?”

Long

sigh.

His

eyes

lift

up

to

mine.

I

don’t

need

him

to

speak;

I

can

see

the

answerin

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

thepain

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

tugoff

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

keepsslipping

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

pantsaway

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.

Circledaround

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

withthe

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

anAre

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

youleft

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

peopleon

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.”

“I

might

have

some

issues

with

fear.”

“Then

you

find

me

and

bring

me

to

the

farmhouse,

nurse

me

back

to

health,

cook

me

a

hamburger

and

wash

my

hair

and

teach

me

how

to

shoot

and

make

out

with

me

for

the

purpose

of…what?”

He

rolls

his

head

around

to

look

at

me

with

one

eye.

“You

know,

Cassie,

this

is

a

little

unfair

of

you.”

My

mouth

drops

open.

“Unfair

of

me?”

“Grilling

me

while

I’m

shot

up

with

shrapnel.”

“That

isn’t

my

fault,”

I

snap.

“You’re

the

one

who

insisted

on

coming.”

A

thrill

of

fear

rockets

down

my

spine.

“Why

did

you

come,

Evan?

Is

this

some

kind

of

trick?

Areyou

using

me

for

something?”

“Rescuing

Sammy

was

your

idea,”

he

points

out.

“I

tried

to

talk

you

out

of

it.

I

evenoffered

to

go

myself.”

He’s

shivering.

He’s

naked

and

it’s

forty

degrees.

I

drape

his

jacket

over

his

back

and

cover

the

rest

of

him

the

best

I

can

with

his

denim

shirt.

“I’m

sorry,

Cassie.”

“For

which

part?”

“All

the

parts.”

His

words

are

slurring:

the

pain

pills

kicking

in.

I’m

gripping

the

gun

hard

now

with

both

hands.

Shaking

like

him,

but

not

from

the

cold.

“Evan,

I

killed

that

soldier

because

I

didn’t

have

a

choice—I

didn’t

go

looking

forpeople

to

kill

every

day.

I

didn’t

hide

in

the

woods

by

the

side

of

the

road

and

take

out

every

person

who

came

along

because

they

might

be

one

of

them.”

I’m

nodding

to

myself.

It

really

is

simple.

“You

can’t

be

who

you

say

you

are

because

who

you

say

you

are

could

not

have

done

what

you

did!”

I

don’t

care

about

anything

but

the

truth

now.

And

not

being

an

idiot.

And

not

feeling

anything

for

him,

because

feeling

something

for

him

will

make

what

I

have

to

do

that

much

harder,

maybe

impossible,

and

if

I

want

to

save

my

brother,

nothing

can

be

impossible.

“What’s

next?”

I

say.

“In

the

morning,

we’ll

have

to

get

the

shrapnel

out.”

“I

mean

after

this

wave.

Or

are

you

the

last

wave,

Evan?”

He’s

looking

up

at

me

with

that

one

exposed

eye

and

wiggling

his

head

back

and

forth.

“I

don’t

know

how

I

can

convince

you—”

I

press

the

muzzle

of

the

gun

against

his

temple,

right

beside

the

big

chocolaty

eye

staring

up

at

me,

and

snarl,

“1st

Wave:

lights

out.

2nd

Wave:

surf’s

up.

3rd

Wave:

pestilence.

4th

Wave:

Silencer.

What’s

next,

Evan?

What

is

the

5th

Wave?”

He

doesn’t

answer.

He’s

passed

out.

69

AT

DAWN

he’s

still

out

cold,

so

I

grab

my

rifle

and

hike

out

of

the

woods

to

assess

his

handiwork.

Probably

not

the

smartest

thing

to

do.

What

if

our

midnight

raiders

called

for

backup?

I’d

be

the

prize

in

a

turkey

shoot.

I’m

not

a

bad

shot,

but

I’m

no

Evan

Walker.

Well,

even

Evan

Walker

is

no

Evan

Walker.

I

don’t

know

what

he

is.

He

says

he’s

human,

and

he

looks

like

a

human,

talks

like

a

human,

bleeds

like

a

human

and,

okay,

kisses

like

a

human.

And

a

rose

by

any

other

name,

blah,

blah,

blah.

He

says

the

right

things,

too,

like

the

reason

he

was

sniping

people

is

the

same

reason

I

shot

the

Crucifix

Soldier.

The

problem

is,

I

don’t

buy

it.

And

now

I

can’t

decide

which

is

better,

a

dead

Evanor

a

live

Evan.

Dead

Evan

can’t

help

me

keep

my

promise.

Live

Evan

can.

Why

did

he

shoot

me,

then

save

me?

What

did

he

mean

when

he

said

that

I’d

saved

him?

It’s

weird.

When

he

held

me

in

his

arms,

I

felt

safe.

When

he

kissed

me,

I

was

lostin

him.

It’s

like

there

are

two

Evans.

There

is

the

Evan

I

know

and

the

Evan

I

don’t.

Evan

the

farm

boy

with

the

soft

hands

who

strokes

me

till

I’m

purring

like

a

cat.

Evan

the

pretender

who

is

the

cold-blooded

killer

who

shot

me.

I’m

going

to

assume

he’s

human—at

least

biologically.

Maybe

he’s

a

clone

grown

on

board

the

mothership

from

harvested

DNA.

Or

maybe

something

less

Star

Warsy

and

moredespicable:

a

traitor

to

his

species.

Maybe

that’s

what

the

Silencers

are:

human

mercenaries.

The

Others

are

giving

him

something

to

kill

us.

Or

they

threatened

him—like

kidnappingsomeone

he

loves

(Lauren?

I

never

actually

saw

her

grave)

and

offering

him

a

deal.

Kill

twenty

humans

and

you

get

them

back.

The

last

possibility?

That

he

is

what

he

says

he

is.

Alone,

scared,

killing

before

someone

can

kill

him,

a

firm

adherent

to

the

first

rule,

until

he

broke

it

by

letting

me

go

and

then

bringing

me

back.

It

explains

what

happened

as

well

as

the

first

two

possibilities.

Everything

fits.

It

could

be

the

truth.

Except

for

one

niggling

little

problem.

The

soldiers.

That’s

why

I

don’t

leave

him

in

the

woods.

I

want

to

see

what

he

did

for

myself.

Since

Camp

Ashpit

is

now

more

featureless

than

a

salt

flat,

I

have

no

trouble

findingEvan’s

kills.

One

by

the

lip

of

the

ravine.

Two

more

side

by

side

a

few

hundred

yards

away.

All

three

head

shots.

In

the

dark.

While

they

were

shooting

at

him.

The

lastone

is

lying

near

where

the

barracks

used

to

be,

maybe

even

the

exact

spot

where

Vosch

murdered

my

father.

None

of

them

are

older

than

fourteen.

All

of

them

are

wearing

these

weird

silver

eye

patches.

Some

kind

of

night

vision

technology?

If

so,

it

makes

Evan’s

accomplishment

all

the

more

impressive,

in

a

sickening

sort

of

way.

Evan’s

awake

when

I

get

back.

Sitting

up

against

the

fallen

tree.

Pale,

shivering,eyes

sunk

back

in

his

head.

“They

were

kids,”

I

tell

him.

“They

were

just

kids.”

I

kick

my

way

into

the

dead

brush

behind

him

and

empty

out

my

stomach.

Then

I

feel

better.

I

go

back

to

him.

I’ve

decided

not

to

kill

him.

Yet.

He’s

still

worth

more

to

me

alive.

If

he

is

a

Silencer,

he

may

know

what

happened

to

my

brother.

So

I

grab

the

first

aid

kit

and

kneel

between

his

spread

legs.

“Okay,

time

to

operate.”

I

find

a

pack

of

sterile

wipes

in

the

kit.

Silently,

he

watches

me

clean

his

victim’s

blood

off

the

knife.

I

swallow

hard,

tasting

the

fresh

vomit.

“I’ve

never

done

this

before,”

I

say.

Kindof

obvious

thing

to

say,

but

it

feels

like

I’m

talking

to

a

stranger.

He

nods,

rolls

onto

his

stomach.

I

pull

the

shirt

away,

exposing

his

bottom

half.

I’ve

never

seen

a

naked

guy

before.

Now

here

I

am

kneeling

between

his

legs,

thoughI

can’t

see

his

total

nakedness.

Just

the

back

half.

Strange,

I

never

thought

my

firsttime

with

a

naked

guy

would

be

like

this.

Well,

I

guess

that

isn’t

so

strange.

“You

want

another

pain

pill?”

I

ask.

“It’s

cold

and

my

hands

are

shaking…”

“No

pill,”

he

grunts,

face

tucked

into

the

crook

of

his

arm.

I

work

slowly

at

first,

gingerly

poking

into

the

wounds

with

the

tip

of

the

knife,

but

I

quickly

learn

that

isn’t

the

best

way

to

dig

metal

out

of

human—or

maybe

nonhuman—flesh:

You

just

prolong

the

agony.

His

butt

takes

the

longest.

Not

because

I’m

lingering.

There’s

just

so

much

shrapnel.He

doesn’t

squirm.

He

barely

flinches.

Sometimes

he

goes,

“Oooh!”

Sometimes

he

sighs.

I

lift

the

jacket

off

his

back.

Not

too

many

wounds

here,

and

mostly

concentrated

along

the

lower

part.

Stiff

fingers,

sore

wrists,

I

force

myself

to

be

quick—quick

but

careful.

“Hang

in

there,”

I

murmur.

“Almost

done.”

“Me

too.”

“We

don’t

have

enough

bandages.”

“Just

get

the

worst.”

“Infection…?”

“There’s

some

penicillin

tablets

in

the

kit.”

He

rolls

back

over

as

I

dig

out

the

pills.

He

takes

two

with

a

sip

of

water.

I

sitback,

sweating,

though

it

isn’t

much

above

freezing.

“Why

kids?”

I

ask.

“I

didn’t

know

they

were

kids.”

“Maybe

not,

but

they

were

heavily

armed

and

knew

what

they

were

doing.

Their

problemwas,

so

did

you.

You

must

have

forgotten

to

mention

your

commando

training.”

“Cassie,

if

we

can’t

trust

each

other—”

“Evan,

we

can’t

trust

each

other.”

I

want

to

crack

him

in

the

head

and

burst

into

tears

at

the

same

time.

I’ve

reached

the

point

of

being

tired

of

being

tired.

“That’s

the

whole

problem.”

Overhead,

the

sun

has

broken

free

from

the

clouds,

exposing

us

to

a

bright

blue

sky.

“Alien

clone

children?”

I

guess.

“America

scraping

the

bottom

of

the

conscriptionbarrel?

Seriously,

why

are

kids

running

around

with

automatic

weapons

and

grenades?”

He

shakes

his

head.

Sips

some

water.

Winces.

“Maybe

I

will

take

another

one

of

those

pain

pills.”

“Vosch

said

just

the

kids.

They’re

snatching

children

to

turn

them

into

an

army?”

“Maybe

Vosch

isn’t

one

of

them.

Maybe

the

army

took

the

kids.”

“Then

why

did

he

kill

everybody

else?

Why

did

he

put

a

bullet

in

my

dad’s

head?

And

if

he

isn’t

one

of

them,

where’d

he

get

the

Eye?

Something’s

wrong

here,

Evan.

And

you

know

what’s

going

on.

We

both

know

you

do.

Why

can’t

you

just

tell

me?

You’ll

trust

me

with

a

gun

and

to

pull

shrapnel

out

of

your

ass,

but

you

won’t

trust

me

with

the

truth?”

He

stares

at

me

for

a

long

moment.

Then

he

says,

“I

wish

you

hadn’t

cut

your

hair.”

I

would

have

lost

it,

but

I’m

too

cold,

too

nauseated,

and

too

strung

out.

“I

swearto

God,

Evan

Walker,”

I

say

in

a

dead

voice,

“if

I

didn’t

need

you,

I

would

kill

you

right

now.”

“I’m

glad

you

need

me,

then.”

“And

if

I

find

out

you’re

lying

to

me

about

the

most

important

part,

I

will

kill

you.”

“What’s

the

most

important

part?”

“About

being

human.”

“I’m

as

human

as

you

are,

Cassie.”

He

pulls

my

hand

into

his.

Both

our

hands

are

stained

with

blood.

Mine

with

his.

Hiswith

that

of

a

boy

not

much

older

than

my

brother.

How

many

people

has

this

hand

killed?

“Is

that

what

we

are?”

I

ask.

I’m

about

to

lose

it

big-time.

I

can’t

trust

him.

Ihave

to

trust

him.

I

can’t

believe.

I

have

to

believe.

Is

this

the

Others’

ultimate

goal,

the

wave

to

end

all

waves,

stripping

our

humanity

down

to

its

bare,

animalistic

bones,

until

we’re

nothing

but

soulless

predators

doing

their

dirty

work

for

them,

as

solitary

as

sharks

and

with

as

much

compassion?

He

notices

the

cornered-animal

look

in

my

eyes.

“What

is

it?”

“I

don’t

want

to

be

a

shark,”

I

whisper.

He

looks

at

me

for

a

long,

uncomfortable

moment.

He

could

have

said,

Shark?

Who?

What?

Huh?

Who

said

you

were

a

shark?

Instead,

he

begins

to

nod,

like

he

totally

gets

it.

“You

aren’t.”

You,

not

we.

I

give

his

long

look

back

to

him.

“If

the

Earth

was

dying

and

we

had

to

leave,”

I

say

slowly,

“and

we

found

a

planet

but

someone

was

there

before

us,

someone

who

for

some

reason

we

weren’t

compatible

with…”

“You’d

do

whatever

was

necessary.”

“Like

sharks.”

“Like

sharks.”

I

guess

he

was

trying

to

be

gentle

about

it.

It

mattered

to

him,

I

guess,

that

mylanding

wouldn’t

be

too

hard,

that

the

shock

wouldn’t

be

too

great.

He

wanted,

I

think,

for

me

to

get

it

without

his

having

to

say

it.

I

fling

his

hand

away.

I’m

furious

that

I

ever

let

him

touch

me.

Furious

at

myselffor

staying

with

him

when

I

knew

there

were

things

he

wasn’t

telling

me.

Furious

atmy

father

for

letting

Sammy

get

on

that

bus.

Furious

at

Vosch.

Furious

at

the

green

eye

hovering

on

the

horizon.

Furious

at

myself

for

breaking

the

first

rule

for

the

first

cute

guy

that

came

along,

and

for

what?

For

what?

Because

his

hands

were

large

but

gentle

and

his

breath

smelled

like

chocolate?

I

pound

his

chest

over

and

over

until

I

forget

why

I’m

hitting

him,

until

I’m

emptiedof

fury

and

all

that’s

left

inside

is

the

black

hole

where

Cassie

used

to

be.

He

grabs

at

my

flailing

fists.

“Cassie,

stop

it!

Settle

down!

I’m

not

your

enemy.”

“Then

whose

enemy

are

you,

huh?

Because

you’re

somebody’s.

You

weren’t

out

hunting

every

night—not

animals,

anyway.

And

you

didn’t

learn

killer

ninja

moves

working

on

your

daddy’s

farm.

You

keep

saying

what

you’re

not,

and

all

I

want

to

know

is

what

you

are.

What

are

you,

Evan

Walker?”

He

lets

go

of

my

wrists

and

surprises

me

by

pressing

his

hand

against

my

face,

running

his

smooth

thumb

over

my

cheek,

across

the

bridge

of

my

nose.

As

if

he’s

touching

me

for

the

last

time.

“I

am

a

shark,

Cassie,”

he

says

slowly,

drawing

the

words

out,

as

if

he

might

be

speaking

to

me

for

the

last

time.

Looking

into

my

eyes

with

tears

in

his,

as

if

he’s

seeing

me

for

the

last

time.

“A

shark

who

dreamed

he

was

a

man.”

I’m

falling

faster

than

the

speed

of

light

into

the

black

hole

that

opened

with

the

Arrival

and

then

devoured

everything

in

its

path.

The

hole

my

father

stared

into

whenmy

mother

died,

the

one

I

thought

was

out

there,

separate

from

me,

but

really

never

was.

It

was

inside

me,

and

it

had

been

inside

me

since

the

beginning,

growing,

eating

up

every

ounce

of

hope

and

trust

and

love

I

had,

chewing

its

way

through

the

galaxy

of

my

soul

while

I

clung

to

a

choice—a

choice

who

is

looking

at

me

now

as

if

for

the

last

time.

So

I

do

the

thing

most

reasonable

people

would

in

my

situation.

I

run.

Crashing

through

the

woods

in

the

bitter

winter

air,

bare

branch,

blue

sky,

withered

leaf,

then

bursting

from

the

tree

line

into

an

open

field,

the

frozen

ground

crunchy

beneath

my

boots,

under

the

dome

of

the

indifferent

sky,

the

brilliant

blue

curtain

drawn

over

a

billion

stars

that

are

still

there,

still

looking

down

at

her,

the

running

girl

with

her

short

hair

bouncing

and

tears

streaming

down

her

cheeks,

not

running

from

anything,

not

running

to

anything,

just

running,

running

like

hell,

because

that’s

the

most

logical

thing

to

do

when

you

realize

the

one

person

on

Earth

you’ve

decided

to

trust

isn’t

from

the

Earth.

Never

mind

that

he

saved

your

ass

more

times

than

you

can

remember,

or

that

he

could

have

killed

you

a

hundred

times

over,

or

that

there’s

something

about

him,

something

tormented

and

sad

and

terribly,

terribly

lonely,

like

he

was

the

last

person

on

Earth,

not

the

girl

shivering

in

a

sleeping

bag,

hugging

a

teddy

bear

in

a

world

gone

quiet.

Shut

up,

shut

up,

just

shut

up.

70

HE’S

GONE

when

I

come

back.

And,

yes,

I

came

back.

Where

was

I

supposed

to

go,

withoumt

y

gun

and

especially

without

that

damned

bear,

my

reason

for

living?

I

wasn’t

scared

to

go

back—he’d

had

ten

billion

opportunities

to

kill

me;

what

did

one

more

matter?

There’s

his

rifle.

His

backpack.

The

first

aid

kit.

And

there’s

his

shredded

jeans

by

Howard

the

log.

Since

he

didn’t

pack

another

pair

of

pants,

my

guess

is

that

he’s

cavorting

about

the

freezing

woods

in

just

his

hiking

boots,

like

a

calendar

pinup.

No,

wait.

His

shirt

and

jacket

are

missing.

“Come

on,

Bear,”

I

growl,

snatching

up

my

backpack.

“It’s

time

to

get

you

back

to

your

owner.”

I

grab

my

rifle,

check

the

magazine,

ditto

for

the

Luger,

pull

on

a

pair

of

black

knit

gloves

because

my

fingers

have

gone

numb,

steal

the

map

and

flashlight

from

his

backpack,

and

head

for

the

ravine.

I’ll

risk

the

daylight

to

put

distance

betweenme

and

Sharkman.

I

don’t

know

where

he

went,

maybe

to

call

in

the

drone

strikes

now

that

his

cover’s

blown,

but

it

doesn’t

matter.

That’s

what

I

decided

on

the

way

back,

after

running

until

I

couldn’t

run

anymore:

It

really

doesn’t

matter

who

or

what

Evan

Walker

is.

He

kept

me

from

dying.

Fed

me,

bathed

me,

protected

me.

He

helped

me

to

get

strong.

He

even

taught

me

how

to

kill.

With

an

enemy

like

that,

who

needs

friends?

Into

the

ravine.

Ten

degrees

colder

in

the

shadows.

Up

and

over

onto

the

blasted

landscape

of

Camp

Ashpit,

running

on

ground

as

hard

as

asphalt,

and

there’s

the

first

body,

and

I

think,

If

Evan

is

one

of

them,

whose

team

do

you

play

for?

Would

Evan

kill

one

of

his

own

kind

to

keep

up

the

facade

with

me—or

was

he

forced

to

kill

them

because

they

thought

he

was

human?

Thinking

that

makes

me

sick

with

despair:

There’s

no

bottom

to

this

crap.

The

more

you

dig,

the

further

down

it

goes.

I

pass

another

body

with

barely

a

glance,

and

then

that

bare

glance

registers

and

I

turn

back.

The

kid

soldier

has

no

pants

on.

It

doesn’t

matter.

I

keep

moving.

On

the

dirt

road

now,

heading

north.

Still

trotting.

Move,

Cassie,

move,

move.

Forgot

the

food.

Forgot

the

water.

Doesn’t

matter.

Doesn’t

matter.

The

sky

is

cloudless,

huge,

a

gigantic

blue

eye

staring

down.

I

run

along

the

edge

of

the

road

near

the

woods

abutting

the

west

side.

If

I

see

a

drone,

I’ll

dive

for

cover.

If

I

see

Evan,I’ll

shoot

first

and

ask

questions

later.

Well,

not

just

Evan.

Anyone.

Nothing

matters

but

the

first

rule.

Nothing

matters

except

getting

Sammy.

I

forgot

that

for

a

while.

Silencers:

human,

semihuman,

clone

human,

or

alien-projecting-human

holograph?

Doesn’tmatter.

The

ultimate

goal

of

the

Others:

eradication,

internment,

or

enslavement?

Doesn’t

matter.

My

chances

of

success:

one,

point

one,

or

point

zero

zero

zero

one

percent?

Doesn’t

matter.

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

goeson

and

on.

Let

it

bring

a

horde

of

Silencers

down

upon

me,

I

don’t

care.

I

press

myhands

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

bya

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.

KnowI

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

canhear

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

aroundmy

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

atree

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.

Hisjacket

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’slike

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’mfinished

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

leavingme

meant

you

would

die?”

“Don’t

preach

to

me

about

dying,

Evan.”

Wagging

my

finger

at

his

face.

“I

watchedmy

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

somethingyou

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.

IfI

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-Pattersonisn’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.”

“Vosch

murdered

seven

billion

people.”

The

number

sounds

weirdly

hollow

in

my

ears.

After

the

Arrival,

one

of

Dad’s

favorite

themes

was

how

advanced

the

Others

must

be,

how

high

they

must

have

climbed

on

the

evolutionary

ladder

to

reach

the

stage

of

intergalactic

travel.

And

this

is

their

solution

to

the

human

“problem”?

“There

were

some

of

us

who

didn’t

think

annihilation

was

the

answer,”

Evan

says.

“I

was

one

of

them,

Cassie.

My

side

lost

the

argument.”

“No,

Evan,

that

would

be

my

side

that

lost.”

It’s

more

than

I

can

take.

I

stand

up,

expecting

him

to

stand,

too,

but

he

stays

where

he

is,

looking

up

at

me.

“He

doesn’t

see

you

as

some

of

us

do…as

I

do,”

he

says.

“To

him,

you’re

a

disease

that

will

kill

its

host

unless

it’s

wiped

out.”

“I’m

a

disease.

That’s

what

I

am

to

you.”

I

can’t

look

at

him

anymore.

If

I

look

at

Evan

Walker

for

one

more

second,

I’m

going

to

be

sick.

Behind

me,

his

voice

is

soft,

level,

almost

sad.

“Cassie,

you’re

up

against

somethingthat

is

way

beyond

your

capacity

to

fight.

Wright-Patterson

isn’t

just

another

cleansing

camp.

The

complex

underneath

it

is

the

central

coordinating

hub

for

every

drone

in

this

hemisphere.

It’s

Vosch’s

eyes,

Cassie;

it’s

how

he

sees

you.

Breaking

in

to

rescue

Sammy

isn’t

just

risky—it’s

suicidal.

For

both

of

us.”

“Both

of

us?”

I

glance

at

him

out

of

the

corner

of

my

eye.

He

hasn’t

moved.

“I

can’t

pretend

to

take

you

prisoner.

My

assignment

isn’t

to

capture

people—it’s

to

kill

them.

If

I

try

to

walk

in

with

you

as

my

prisoner,

they’ll

kill

you.

And

then

they’ll

kill

me

for

not

killing

you.

And

I

can’t

sneak

you

in.

The

base

is

patrolledby

drones,

protected

by

a

twenty-foot-high

electric

fence,

watchtowers,

infrared

cameras,

motion

detectors…and

a

hundred

people

just

like

me,

and

you

know

what

I

can

do.”

“Then

I

sneak

in

without

you.”

He

nods.

“It’s

the

only

possible

way—but

just

because

something

is

possible

doesn’t

mean

it

isn’t

suicidal.

Everyone

they

bring

in—I

mean

the

people

they

don’t

kill

right

away—is

put

through

a

screening

program

that

maps

their

entire

psyche,

including

their

memories.

They’ll

know

who

you

are

and

why

you’re

there…and

then

they’ll

kill

you.”

“There’s

got

to

be

a

scenario

that

doesn’t

end

with

them

killing

me,”

I

insist.

“There

is,”

he

says.

“The

scenario

where

we

find

a

safe

spot

to

hide

and

wait

for

Sammy

to

come

to

us.”

My

mouth

drops

open,

and

I

think,

Huh?

Then

I

say

it:

“Huh?”

“It

might

take

a

couple

of

years.

How

old

is

he,

five?

The

youngest

allowed

is

seven.”

“The

youngest

allowed

to

do

what?”

He

looks

away.

“You

saw.”

The

little

kid

whose

throat

he

cut

at

Camp

Ashpit,

wearing

fatigues,

toting

a

rifle

almost

as

big

as

he

was.

Now

I

do

want

a

drink.

I

walk

over

to

him,

and

he

gets

verystill

while

I

bend

over

and

pick

up

the

flask.

After

four

big

swallows,

my

mouth

is

still

dry.

“Sam

is

the

5th

Wave,”

I

say.

The

words

taste

bad.

I

take

another

long

drink.

Evan

nods.

“If

he

passed

his

screening,

he’s

alive

and

being…”

He

searches

for

the

word.

“Processed.”

“Brainwashed,

you

mean.”

“More

like

indoctrinated.

In

the

idea

that

the

aliens

have

been

using

human

bodies,

and

we—I

mean

humans—have

figured

out

a

way

to

detect

them.

And

if

you

can

detect

them,

you

can—”

“That

isn’t

fiction,”

I

interrupt.

“You

are

using

human

bodies.”

He

shakes

his

head.

“Not

the

way

Sammy

thinks

we

are.”

“What

does

that

mean?

Either

you

are

or

you

aren’t.”

“Sammy

thinks

we

look

like

some

kind

of

infestation

attached

to

human

brains,

but—”

“Funny,

that’s

exactly

the

way

I

picture

you,

Evan.

An

infestation.”

I

can’t

help

myself.

His

hand

comes

up.

When

I

don’t

slap

it

away

or

take

off

running

into

the

woods,

heslowly

wraps

his

fingers

around

my

wrist

and

gently

pulls

me

to

the

ground

beside

him.

I’m

sweating

slightly,

though

it’s

bitingly

cold.

What

now?

“There

was

a

boy,

a

real

human

boy,

named

Evan

Walker,”

he

says,

looking

deeply

into

my

eyes.

“Just

like

any

kid,

with

a

mom

and

a

dad

and

brothers

and

sisters,

completely

human.

Before

he

was

born,

I

was

inserted

into

him

while

his

mother

slept.

While

we

both

slept.

For

thirteen

years

I

slept

inside

Evan

Walker,

while

he

learned

to

sit

up,

to

eat

solid

food,

to

walk

and

talk

and

run

and

ride

a

bike,

I

was

there,

waiting

to

wake

up.

Like

thousands

of

Others

in

thousands

of

other

Evan

Walkers

around

the

world.

Some

of

us

were

already

awake,

setting

up

our

lives

to

be

where

we

needed

to

be

when

the

time

came.”

I’m

nodding,

but

why

am

I

nodding?

He

came

to

a

human

body?

What

the

hell

does

that

mean?

“The

4th

Wave,”

he

says,

trying

to

be

helpful.

“Silencers.

It’s

a

good

name

for

us.

We

were

silent,

hiding

inside

human

bodies,

hiding

inside

human

lives.

We

didn’t

have

to

pretend

to

be

you.

We

were

you.

Human

and

Other.

Evan

didn’t

die

when

I

awakened.

He

was…absorbed.”

Ever

the

noticer,

Evan

notices

I’m

totally

creeped

out

by

this.

He

reaches

out

totouch

me

and

flinches

when

I

pull

away.

“So

what

are

you,

Evan?”

I

whisper.

“Where

are

you?

You

said

you

were…what

did

you

say?”

My

mind’s

racing

a

gazillion

miles

an

hour.

“Inserted.

Inserted

where?”

“Maybe

inserted

isn’t

the

best

word.

I

guess

the

concept

that

comes

closest

is

downloaded.

I

was

downloaded

into

Evan

when

his

brain

was

still

developing.”

I

shake

my

head.

For

a

being

centuries

more

advanced

than

I

am,

he

sure

has

a

hardtime

answering

a

simple

question.

“But

what

are

you?

What

do

you

look

like?”

He

frowns.

“You

know

what

I

look

like.”

“No!

Oh

God,

sometimes

you

can

be

so…”Careful,

Cassie,

don’t

go

there.

Remember

what

matters.

“Before

you

became

Evan,

before

you

came

here,

when

you

were

on

your

way

to

Earthfrom

wherever

it

is

you

came

from,

what

did

you

look

like?”

“Nothing.

We

haven’t

had

bodies

in

tens

of

thousands

of

years.

We

had

to

give

them

up

when

we

left

our

home.”

“You’re

lying

again.

What,

you

look

like

a

toad

or

a

warthog

or

a

slug

or

something?

Every

living

thing

looks

like

something.”

“We

are

pure

consciousness.

Pure

being.

Abandoning

our

bodies

and

downloading

our

psyches

into

the

mothership’s

mainframe

was

the

only

way

we

could

make

the

journey.”

He

takes

my

hand

and

curls

my

fingers

into

a

fist.

“This

is

me,”

he

says

softly.

He

covers

my

fist

with

his

hands,

enfolding

it.

“This

is

Evan.

It’s

not

a

perfect

analogy,

because

there’s

no

place

where

I

end

and

he

begins.”

He

smiles

shyly.

“I’m

not

doing

very

well,

am

I?

Do

you

want

me

to

show

you

who

I

am?”

Holy

crap!

“No.

Yes.

What

do

you

mean?”

I

picture

him

peeling

off

his

face

like

a

creature

froma

horror

movie.

His

voice

shakes

a

little.

“I

can

show

you

what

I

am.”

“It

doesn’t

involve

any

kind

of

insertion,

does

it?”

He

laughs

softly.

“I

guess

it

does.

In

a

way.

I’ll

show

you,

Cassie,

if

you

want

to

see.”

Of

course

I

want

to

see.

And

of

course

I

don’t

want

to

see.

It’s

clear

he

wants

toshow

me—will

showing

me

get

me

one

step

closer

to

Sams?

But

this

isn’t

totally

about

Sammy.

Maybe

if

Evan

shows

me,

I’ll

understand

why

he

saved

me

when

he

should

have

killed

me.

Why

he

held

me

in

the

dark

night

after

night

to

keep

me

safe—and

to

keep

me

sane.

He’s

still

smiling

at

me,

probably

delighted

that

I’m

not

clawing

his

eyes

out

or

laughing

him

off,

which

might

hurt

worse.

My

hand

is

lost

in

his,

gently

bound,

like

the

tender

heart

of

a

rose

within

the

bud,

waiting

for

the

rain.

“What

do

I

have

to

do?”

I

whisper.

He

lets

go

of

my

hand.

Reaches

toward

my

face.

I

flinch.

“I

would

never

hurt

you,Cassie.”

I

breathe.

Nod.

Breathe

some

more.

“Close

your

eyes.”

He

touches

my

eyelidsgently,

so

gently,

a

butterfly’s

wings.

“Relax.

Breathe

deep.

Empty

your

mind.

If

you

don’t,

I

can’t

come

in.

Do

you

wantme

to

come

in,

Cassie?”

Yes.

No.

Dear

God,

how

far

do

I

have

to

go

to

keep

my

promise?

I

whisper,

“Yes.”

It

doesn’t

begin

inside

my

head

like

I

expected.

Instead

a

delicious

warmth

spreadsthrough

my

body,

expanding

from

my

heart

outward,

and

my

bones

and

muscles

and

skin

dissolve

in

the

warmth

that

spreads

out

from

me,

until

the

warmth

overcomes

the

Earth

and

the

boundaries

of

the

universe.

The

warmth

is

everywhere

and

everything.

My

bodyand

everything

outside

my

body

belongs

to

it.

Then

I

feel

him;

he

is

in

the

warmth,

too,

and

there’s

no

separation

between

us,

no

spot

where

I

end

and

he

begins,

and

I

open

up

like

a

flower

to

the

rain,

achingly

slow

and

dizzyingly

fast,

dissolving

in

the

warmth,

dissolving

in

him

and

there’s

nothing

to

see,

that’s

just

the

convenient

word

he

used

because

there

is

no

word

to

describe

him,

he

just

is.

And

I

open

to

him,

a

flower

to

the

rain.

72

THE

FIRST

THING

I

do

after

I

open

my

eyes

is

break

out

in

heart-wrenching

sobs.

cIan’t

help

it:

I’ve

never

felt

so

abandoned

in

my

life.

“Maybe

that

was

too

soon,”

he

says,

pulling

me

into

his

arms

and

stroking

my

hair.

And

I

let

him.

I’m

too

weak,

too

confused,

too

empty

and

forlorn

to

do

anything

elsebut

let

him

hold

me.

“I’m

sorry

I

lied

to

you,

Cassie,”

he

murmurs

into

my

hair.

The

cold

squeezes

back

down.

Now

I

have

just

the

memory

of

the

warmth.

“You

must

hate

being

trapped

inside

there,”

I

whisper,

pressing

my

hand

against

his

chest.

I

feel

his

heart

push

back.

“It

doesn’t

feel

like

I’m

trapped,”

he

says.

“In

a

way,

it

feels

like

I’ve

been

freed.”

“Freed?”

“To

feel

something

again.

To

feel

this.”

He

kisses

me.

A

different

kind

of

warmth

spreads

through

my

body.

Lying

in

the

enemy’s

arms.

What’s

the

matter

with

me?

These

beings

burned

us

alive,

crushed

us,

drowned

us,

infected

us

with

a

plague

that

made

us

bleed

to

death

from

the

inside

out.

I

watched

them

kill

everyone

I

knew

and

loved—with

one

special

exception—and

here

I

am,

playing

sucky-face

with

one!

I

let

him

inside

my

soul.

I

shared

something

with

him

more

precious

and

intimate

than

my

body.

For

Sammy’s

sake,

that’s

why.

A

good

answer,

but

complicated.

The

truth

is

simple.

“You

said

you

lost

the

argument

over

what

to

do

about

the

human

disease,”

I

say.

“What

was

your

answer?”

“Coexistence.”

Talking

to

me,

but

addressing

the

stars

above

us.

“There

aren’t

that

many

of

us,

Cassie.

Only

a

few

hundred

thousand.

We

could

have

inserted

ourselves

in

you,

lived

out

our

new

lives

without

anyone

ever

knowing

we

were

here.

Not

many

of

my

people

agreed

with

me.

They

saw

pretending

to

be

human

as

beneath

them.

They

were

afraid

the

longer

we

pretended

to

be

human,

the

more

human

we

would

become.”

“And

who

would

want

that?”

“I

didn’t

think

I

would,”

he

admits.

“Until

I

became

one.”

“When

you…‘woke

up’

in

Evan?”

He

shakes

his

head

and

says

simply,

as

if

it’s

the

most

obvious

thing

in

the

world,

“When

I

woke

up

in

you,

Cassie.

I

wasn’t

fully

human

until

I

saw

myself

in

your

eyes.”

And

then

there

are

real

human

tears

in

his

real

human

eyes,

and

it’s

my

turn

to

hold

him

while

his

heart

breaks.

My

turn

to

see

myself

in

his

eyes.

Somebody

might

say

that

I’m

not

the

only

one

lying

in

the

enemy’s

arms.

I

am

humanity,

but

who

is

Evan

Walker?

Human

and

Other.

Both

and

neither.

By

lovingme,

he

belongs

to

no

one.

He

doesn’t

see

it

that

way.

“I’ll

do

whatever

you

say,

Cassie,”

he

says

helplessly.

His

eyes

shine

brighter

than

the

stars

overhead.

“I

understand

why

you

have

to

go.

If

it

were

you

inside

that

camp,

I

would

go.

A

hundred

thousand

Silencers

couldn’t

stop

me.”

He

presses

his

lips

against

my

ear

and

whispers

low

and

fierce,

as

if

he’s

sharing

the

most

important

secret

in

the

world,

which

maybe

he

is.

“It’s

hopeless.

And

it’s

stupid.

It’s

suicidal.

But

love

is

a

weapon

they

have

no

answer

for.

They

know

how

you

think,

but

they

can’t

know

what

you

feel.”

Not

we.

They.

A

threshold

has

been

crossed,

and

he

isn’t

stupid.

He

knows

it’s

the

kind

you

can’t

cross

back

over.

73

WE

SPEND

OUR

LAST

DAY

TOGETHER

sleeping

under

the

highway

overpass

like

two

homeless

people,

which

literally

we

both

are.

One

person

sleeps,

the

other

keeps

watch.

Whenit’s

his

turn

to

rest,

he

gives

my

guns

back

without

hesitating

and

falls

asleep

instantly,

as

if

it

doesn’t

occur

to

him

I

could

easily

run

away

or

shoot

him

in

the

head.

I

don’t

know;

maybe

it

does

occur

to

him.

Our

problem

has

always

been

that

we

don’t

think

like

they

do.

It’s

why

I

trusted

him

in

the

beginning

and

why

he

knew

I

would

trust

him.

Silencers

kill

people.

Evan

didn’t

kill

me.

Ergo,

Evan

couldn’t

be

a

Silencer.

See?

That’s

logic.

Ahem—human

logic.

At

dusk

we

finish

the

rest

of

our

provisions

and

hike

up

the

embankment

to

take

cover

in

the

trees

bordering

Highway

35.

The

buses

run

only

at

night,

he

tells

me.

And

you’ll

know

when

they’re

coming.

You

can

hear

the

sound

of

their

engines

for

miles

because

that’s

the

only

sound

for

miles.

First

you

see

the

headlights,

and

then

you

hear

them,

and

then

they’re

whizzing

past

like

big

yellow

race

cars

because

the

highway’s

been

cleared

of

wrecks

and

there

aren’t

speed

limits

anymore.

He

doesn’t

know:

Maybe

they’ll

stop,

maybe

they

won’t.

Maybe

they’ll

just

slow

down

long

enough

for

one

of

the

soldiers

on

board

to

put

a

bullet

between

my

eyes.

Maybe

they

won’t

come

at

all.

“You

said

they

were

still

gathering

people,”

I

point

out.

“Why

wouldn’t

they

come?”

He’s

watching

the

road

beneath

us.

“At

some

point

the

‘rescued’

will

figure

out

they’ve

been

duped,

or

the

survivors

on

the

outside

will.

When

that

happens,

they’ll

shut

down

the

base—or

the

part

of

the

base

that’s

dedicated

to

cleansing.”

He

clears

his

throat.

Staring

down

at

the

road.

“What

does

that

mean,

‘shut

down

the

base’?”

“Shut

it

down

the

way

they

shut

down

Camp

Ashpit.”

I

think

about

what

he’s

saying.

Like

him,

looking

at

the

empty

road.

“Okay,”

I

say

finally.

“Then

we

hope

Vosch

hasn’t

pulled

the

plug

yet.”

I

scoop

up

a

handful

of

dirt

and

twigs

and

dead

leaves

and

rub

it

over

my

face.

Another

handful

for

my

hair.

He

watches

me

without

saying

anything.

“This

is

the

point

where

you

bop

me

over

the

head,”

I

say.

I

smell

like

the

earth,

and

for

some

reason

I

think

about

my

father

kneeling

in

the

rose

bed

and

the

white

sheet.

“Or

offer

to

go

in

my

place.

Or

bop

me

in

the

head

and

then

go

in

my

place.”

He

jumps

to

his

feet.

For

a

second

I’m

afraid

he

is

going

to

bop

me

over

the

head,he’s

that

upset.

Instead,

he

wraps

his

arms

around

himself

like

he’s

cold—or

he

does

it

to

keep

himself

from

bopping

me

over

the

head.

“It’s

suicide,”

he

snaps.

“We’re

both

thinking

it.

One

of

us

might

as

well

say

it.

Suicide

if

I

go,

suicide

if

you

go.

Dead

or

alive,

he’s

lost.”

I

pull

the

Luger

from

my

waistband.

Put

it

on

the

ground

at

his

feet.

Then

the

M16.

“Save

these

for

me,”

I

tell

him.

“I’m

going

to

need

them

when

I

get

back.

And

by

theway,

somebody

should

say

this:

You

look

ridiculous

in

those

pants.”

I

scooch

over

to

the

backpack

without

getting

up.

Pull

out

Bear.

No

need

to

dirty

him

up;

he’s

already

rough-looking.

“Are

you

listening

to

me?”

he

demands.

“The

problem

is

you

don’t

listen

to

yourself,”

I

shoot

back.

“There’s

only

one

wayin,

and

that’s

the

way

Sammy

took.

You

can’t

go.

I

have

to.

So

don’t

even

open

your

mouth.

If

you

say

anything,

I’ll

slap

you.”

I

stand

up,

and

a

weird

thing

happens:

As

I

rise,

Evan

seems

to

shrink.

“I’m

goingto

get

my

little

brother,

and

there’s

only

one

way

I

can

do

it.”

He’s

looking

up

at

me,

nodding.

He

has

been

inside

me.

There

has

been

no

place

where

he

ended

and

I

began.

He

knows

what

I’m

going

to

say:

Alone.

74

THERE

ARE

THE

STARS,

the

pinpricks

of

light

stabbing

down.

There

is

the

empty

road

beneath

the

light

stabbing

down

and

the

girl

on

the

road

with

the

smudged

face

and

twigs

and

dead

leaves

entangled

in

her

short,

curly

hair,

clutching

a

battered

old

teddy

bear,

on

the

empty

road,

beneath

the

stars

stabbing

down.

There

is

the

growl

of

engines

and

then

the

twin

bars

of

the

headlights

cutting

across

the

horizon,

and

the

lights

grow

larger,

brighter,

like

two

stars

going

supernova,

bearing

down

on

the

girl,

who

has

secrets

in

her

heart

and

promises

to

keep,

and

she

faces

the

lights

that

bear

down

on

her,

she

does

not

run

or

hide.

The

driver

sees

me

with

plenty

of

time

to

stop.

The

brakes

squeal,

the

door

hisses

open,

and

a

soldier

steps

onto

the

asphalt.

He

has

a

gun

but

he

doesn’t

point

it

at

me.

He

looks

at

me,

pinned

in

the

headlights,

and

I

look

back

at

him.

He’s

wearing

a

white

armband

with

a

red

cross

on

it.

His

name

tag

says

PARKER.

I

remember

that

name.

My

heart

skips

a

beat.

What

if

he

recognizes

me?

I’m

supposed

to

be

dead.

What’s

my

name?

Lizbeth.

Am

I

hurt?

No.

Am

I

alone?

Yes.

Parker

does

a

slow

360,

surveying

the

landscape.

He

doesn’t

see

the

hunter

in

the

woods

who

is

watching

this

play

out,

his

scope

trained

on

Parker’s

head.

Of

course

Parker

doesn’t

see

him.

The

hunter

in

the

woods

is

a

Silencer.

Parker

takes

my

arm

and

helps

me

onto

the

bus.

It

smells

like

blood

and

sweat.

Halfthe

seats

are

empty.

There

are

kids.

Adults,

too.

They

don’t

matter,

though.

Only

Parker

and

the

driver

and

the

soldier

with

the

name

tag

HUDSON

matter.

I

flop

into

the

last

seat

by

the

emergency

door,

the

same

seat

Sam

sat

in

when

he

pressed

his

little

hand

to

the

glass

and

watched

me

shrink

until

the

dust

swallowed

me.

Parker

hands

me

a

bag

of

smushed

gummies

and

a

bottle

of

water.

I

don’t

want

either,

but

I

consume

both.

The

gummies

have

been

in

his

pocket

and

are

warm

and

gooey,

and

I’m

afraid

I’m

going

to

be

sick.

The

bus

picks

up

speed.

Someone

near

the

front

is

crying.

Besides

that,

there’s

the

hum

of

the

wheels

and

the

high

rev

of

the

engine

and

the

cold

wind

rushing

through

the

cracked

windows.

Parker

comes

back

with

a

silver

disk

that

he

presses

against

my

forehead.

To

take

my

temperature,

he

tells

me.

The

disk

glows

red.

I’m

good,

he

says.

What’s

my

bear’s

name?

Sammy,

I

tell

him.

Lights

on

the

horizon.

That’s

Camp

Haven,

Parker

tells

me.

It’s

perfectly

safe.

Nomore

running.

No

more

hiding.

I

nod.

Perfectly

safe.

The

light

grows,

seeps

slowly

through

the

windshield,

then

rushes

in

as

we

get

closer,

flooding

the

bus

now,

and

we’re

pulling

up

to

the

gate

and

a

loud

bell

goes

off

and

the

gate

rolls

open.

The

silhouette

of

a

soldier

high

in

the

watchtower.

We

stop

in

front

of

a

hangar.

A

fat

man

bounds

onto

the

bus,

light

on

the

balls

of

his

feet

like

a

lot

of

fat

guys.

His

name

is

Major

Bob.

We

shouldn’t

be

afraid,

he

tells

us.

We

are

perfectly

safe.

There

are

only

two

rules

to

remember.

Rule

one

is

remember

our

colors.

Rule

two

is

listen

and

follow.

I

fall

into

line

with

my

group

and

follow

Parker

to

the

side

door

of

the

hangar.

He

pats

Lizbeth

on

the

shoulder

and

wishes

her

good

luck.

I

find

a

red

circle

and

sit

down.

There

are

soldiers

everywhere.

But

most

of

these

soldiers

are

kids,

some

not

much

older

than

Sam.

They

all

look

veryserious,

especially

the

younger

ones.

The

really

young

ones

are

the

most

serious

of

all.

You

can

manipulate

a

kid

into

believing

almost

anything,

into

doing

almost

anything,

Evan

explained

in

our

mission

briefing.

With

the

right

training,

there

are

few

things

more

savage

than

a

ten-year-old.

I

have

a

number:

T-sixty-two.

T

for

Terminator.

Ha.

The

numbers

are

called

out

over

a

loudspeaker.

“SIXTY-TWO!

TEE-SIXTY-TWO!

PROCEED

TO

THE

RED

DOOR,

PLEASE!

NUMBER

TEESIXTY-TWO!”

The

first

station

is

the

shower

room.

On

the

other

side

of

the

red

door

is

a

thin

woman

wearing

green

scrubs.

Everythingcomes

off

and

into

the

hamper.

Underwear,

too.

They

love

children

here

but

not

lice

and

ticks.

There’s

the

shower.

Here’s

the

soap.

Put

on

the

white

robe

when

you’re

finished

and

wait

to

be

called.

I

sit

the

bear

against

the

wall

and

step

naked

onto

the

cold

tiles.

The

water

is

tepid.

The

soap

has

a

pungent

mediciny

smell.

I’m

still

damp

when

I

slip

on

the

paper

robe.

It

clings

to

my

skin.

You

can

almost

see

through

it.

I

pick

up

Bear

and

wait.

Prescreening

is

next.

A

lot

of

questions.

Some

are

nearly

identical.

That’s

to

test

your

story.

Stay

calm.

Stay

focused.

Through

the

next

door.

Up

onto

the

exam

table.

A

new

nurse,

heavier,

meaner.

She

barely

looks

at

me.

I

must

be,

like,

the

thousandth

person

she’s

seen

since

the

Silencers

took

the

base.

What’s

my

full

name?

Elizabeth

Samantha

Morgan.

How

old

am

I?

Twelve.

Where

am

I

from?

Do

I

have

any

brothers

or

sisters?

Is

anyone

in

my

family

still

alive?What

happened

to

them?

Where

did

I

go

after

I

left

home?

What

happened

to

my

leg?

How

was

I

shot?

Who

shot

me?

Do

I

know

where

any

other

survivors

are?

What

are

my

siblings’

names?

My

parents’?

What

did

my

father

do

for

a

living?

What

was

the

name

of

my

best

friend?

Tell

her

again

what

happened

to

my

family.

When

it’s

over,

she

pats

me

on

the

knee

and

tells

me

not

to

be

scared.

I’m

perfectly

safe.

I

hug

Bear

to

my

chest

and

nod.

Perfectly

safe.

The

physical’s

next.

Then

the

implant.

The

incision

is

very

small.

She’ll

probably

seal

it

with

glue.

The

woman

named

Dr.

Pam

is

so

nice,

I

like

her

in

spite

of

myself.

The

dream

doctor:kind,

gentle,

patient.

She

doesn’t

rush

right

in

and

start

poking

me;

she

talks

first.

Lets

me

know

everything

she’s

going

to

do.

Shows

me

the

implant.

Like

a

pet

chip,

only

better!

Now

if

something

happens,

they’ll

know

where

to

find

me.

“What’s

your

teddy

bear’s

name?”

“Sammy.”

“Okay

if

I

sit

Sammy

in

this

chair

while

we

put

in

the

tracker?”

I

roll

onto

my

stomach.

I’m

irrationally

concerned

she

can

see

my

butt

through

the

paper

robe.

I

tense,

anticipating

the

bite

of

the

needle.

The

device

can’t

download

you

until

it’s

linked

to

Wonderland.

But

once

it’s

in

you,

it’s

fully

operational.

They

can

use

it

to

track

you,

and

they

can

use

it

to

kill

you.

Dr.

Pam

asks

what

happened

to

my

leg.

Some

bad

people

shot

it.

That

won’t

happen

here,she

assures

me.

There

are

no

bad

people

at

Camp

Haven.

I’m

perfectly

safe.

I’m

tagged.

I

feel

like

she’s

hung

a

twenty-pound

rock

around

my

neck.

Time

for

the

last

test,

she

tells

me.

A

program

seized

from

the

enemy.

They

call

it

Wonderland.

I

grab

Bear

from

his

seat

and

follow

her

into

the

next

room.

White

walls.

White

floor.White

ceiling.

White

dentist

chair,

straps

hanging

from

the

arms

and

the

leg

rests.

A

keyboard

and

monitor.

She

tells

me

to

have

a

seat

and

steps

over

to

the

computer.

“What

does

Wonderland

do?”

I

ask.

“Well,

that’s

kind

of

complicated,

Lizbeth,

but

essentially

Wonderland

records

a

virtual

map

of

your

cognitive

functions.”

“A

brain

map?”

“Something

like

that,

yes.

Have

a

seat

in

the

chair,

honey.

It

won’t

take

long,

and

I

promise

it

doesn’t

hurt.”

I

sit

down,

hugging

Bear

to

my

chest.

“Oh

no,

honey,

Sammy

can’t

be

in

the

chair

with

you.”

“Why

not?”

“Here,

give

him

to

me.

I’ll

put

him

right

over

here

by

my

computer.”

I

give

her

a

suspicious

look.

But

she’s

smiling

and

she

has

been

so

kind.

I

should

trust

her.

After

all,

she

completely

trusts

me.

But

I’m

so

nervous,

Bear

slips

out

of

my

hand

when

I

hold

him

out

for

her.

He

fallsbeside

the

chair

onto

his

fat,

fluffy

head.

I

twist

around

to

scoop

him

up,

but

Dr.

Pam

says

to

sit

still,

she’ll

get

him,

and

then

she

bends

over.

I

grab

her

head

with

both

hands

and

bring

it

straight

down

into

the

arm

of

the

chair.

The

impact

makes

my

forearms

sing

with

pain.

She

falls,

stunned

by

the

blow,

but

doesn’t

collapse

completely.

By

the

time

her

knees

hit

the

white

floor,

I’m

out

of

the

chair

and

swinging

around

behind

her.

The

plan

was

a

karate

punch

to

her

throat,

but

her

back

is

to

me,

so

I

improvise.

I

grab

the

strap

hanging

from

the

chair

arm

and

wrap

it

twice

around

her

neck.

Her

hands

come

up,

too

late.

I

yank

the

strap

tight,

putting

my

foot

against

the

chair

for

leverage,

and

pull.

Those

seconds

waiting

for

her

to

pass

out

are

the

longest

of

my

life.

She

goes

limp.

I

immediately

let

go

of

the

strap,

and

she

falls

face-first

onto

the

floor.

I

check

her

pulse.

I

know

it’ll

be

tempting,

but

you

can’t

kill

her.

She

and

everyone

else

running

the

base

is

linked

to

a

monitoring

system

located

in

the

command

center.

If

she

goes

down,

all

hell

breaks

loose.

I

roll

Dr.

Pam

onto

her

back.

Blood

runs

from

both

nostrils.

Probably

broken.

I

reachup

behind

my

head.

This

is

the

squishy

part.

But

I’m

jacked

up

on

adrenaline

and

euphoria.So

far

everything

has

gone

perfectly.

I

can

do

this.

I

rip

off

the

bandage

and

pull

hard

on

either

side

of

the

incision,

and

it

feels

like

a

hot

match

pressing

down

as

the

wound

comes

open.

A

pair

of

tweezers

and

a

mirror

would

come

in

handy

right

about

now,

but

I

don’t

have

either

one

of

those,

so

I

use

my

fingernail

to

dig

out

the

tracker.

The

technique

works

better

than

I

expected:

After

three

tries,

the

device

jams

beneath

my

nail

and

I

bring

it

cleanly

out.

It

only

takes

ninety

seconds

to

run

the

download.

That

give

you

three,

maybe

four

minutes.

No

more

than

five.

How

many

minutes

in?

Two?

Three?

I

kneel

beside

Dr.

Pam

and

shove

the

tracker

as

far

as

I

can

up

her

nose.

Ugh.

No,

you

can’t

shove

it

down

her

throat.

It

has

to

be

near

her

brain.

Sorry

about

that.

You’re

sorry,

Evan?

Blood

on

my

finger,

my

blood,

her

blood,

mixed

together.

I

step

over

to

the

keyboard.

Now

the

truly

scary

part.

You

don’t

have

Sammy’s

number,

but

it

should

be

cross-referenced

to

his

name.

If

one

variation

doesn’t

work,

try

a

dif

erent

one.

There

should

be

a

search

function.

Blood

is

trickling

down

the

back

of

my

neck,

trailing

down

between

my

shoulder

blades.

I’m

shivering

uncontrollably,

which

makes

it

hard

to

type.

In

the

blinking

blue

box

I

tap

out

the

word

search.

It

take

two

tries

to

spell

it

correctly.

ENTER

NUMBER.

I

don’t

have

a

number,

damn

it.

I

have

a

name.

How

do

I

get

back

to

the

blue

box?

I

hit

the

enter

button.

ENTER

NUMBER.

Oh,

I

get

it

now.

It

wants

a

number!

I

key

in

Sullivan.

DATA

ENTRY

ERROR.

I’m

wavering

between

throwing

the

monitor

across

the

room

and

kicking

Dr.

Pam

untilshe’s

dead.

Neither

will

help

me

find

Sam,

but

both

would

make

me

feel

better.

I

hitthe

escape

button

and

get

the

blue

box

and

type

search

by

name.

The

words

vanish.

Vaporized

by

Wonderland.

The

blue

box

blinks,

blank

again.

I

fight

back

a

scream.

I’m

out

of

time.

If

you

can’t

find

him

in

the

system,

we’ll

have

to

go

to

Plan

B.

I’m

not

crazy

about

Plan

B.

I

like

Plan

A,

where

his

location

pops

up

on

a

map

andI

run

right

to

him.

Plan

A

is

simple

and

clean.

Plan

B

is

complicated

and

messy.

One

more

try.

Five

more

seconds

can’t

make

that

big

a

difference.

I

type

Sullivan

into

the

blue

box.

The

display

goes

haywire.

Numbers

begin

to

race

across

the

gray

background,

fillingthe

screen,

like

I

just

gave

it

a

command

to

calculate

the

value

of

pi.

I

panic

and

start

hitting

random

buttons,

but

the

scroll

doesn’t

stop.

I’m

well

past

five

minutes.

Plan

B

sucks,

but

B

it

is.

I

duck

into

the

adjoining

room,

where

I

find

the

white

jumpsuits.

I

grab

one

off

theshelf

and

wisely

attempt

to

dress

without

taking

off

the

robe

first.

With

a

grunt

of

frustration,

I

shrug

out

of

it,

and

for

a

second

I’m

totally

naked,

the

second

in

which

that

door

beside

me

will

fly

open

and

a

battalion

of

Silencers

will

flood

into

the

room.

That’s

the

way

things

happen

in

all

Plan

Bs.

The

suit

is

way

too

big,

but

better

too

big

than

too

small,

I

think,

and

I’m

quickly

zipped

up

and

back

inthe

Wonderland

room.

If

you

can’t

find

him

through

the

main

interface,

there’s

a

good

possibility

she

has

a

handheld

unit

somewhere

on

her.

It

works

on

the

same

principle,

but

you

have

to

be

very

careful.

One

function

is

a

locator,

the

other

is

a

detonator.

Key

in

the

wrong

command

and

you

won’t

find

him,

you’ll

fry

him.

When

I

burst

back

in,

she’s

sitting

up,

holding

Bear

in

one

hand

and

a

small

silver

thing

that

looks

like

a

cell

phone

in

the

other.

Like

I

said,

Plan

B

sucks.

75

HER

NECK

IS

FLAMING

RED

where

I

choked

her.

Her

face

is

covered

in

blood.

But

hehrands

are

steady,

and

her

eyes

have

lost

all

their

warmth.

Her

thumb

hovers

over

a

green

button

below

a

numeric

display.

“Don’t

press

it,”

I

say.

“I’m

not

going

to

hurt

you.”

I

squat

down,

hands

open,

palmstoward

her.

“Seriously,

you

really

do

not

want

to

press

that

button.”

She

presses

the

button.

Her

head

snaps

back,

and

she

flops

down.

Her

legs

kick

twice,

and

she’s

gone.

I

leap

forward,

snatch

Bear

out

of

her

dead

fingers,

and

race

back

through

the

jumpsuitroom

and

into

the

hallway

beyond.

Evan

never

bothered

to

tell

me

how

long

after

the

alarm

sounds

before

the

Stormtroopers

are

mobilized,

the

base

is

locked

down,

and

the

interloper

captured,

tortured,

and

put

to

a

slow

and

agonizing

death.

Probably

not

that

long.

So

much

for

Plan

B.

Hated

it

anyway.

The

only

downside

is

Evan

and

I

never

drew

up

a

Plan

C.

He’ll

be

in

a

squad

with

older

kids,

so

your

best

bet

is

the

barracks

that

ring

the

parade

grounds.

Barracks

that

ring

the

parade

grounds.

Wherever

that

is.

Maybe

I

should

stop

someoneand

ask

for

directions,

because

I

only

know

one

way

out

of

this

building,

and

that’s

the

way

I

came

in,

past

the

dead

body

and

the

old

fat

mean

nurse

and

the

young

thin

nice

nurse

and

right

into

the

loving

arms

of

Major

Bob.

There’s

an

elevator

at

the

end

of

the

hall

with

a

single

call

button:

It’s

a

one-way

express

ride

to

the

underground

complex,

where

Evan

says

Sammy

and

the

other

“recruits”

are

shown

the

phony

creatures

“attached”

to

real

human

brains.

Festooned

with

security

cameras.

Crawling

with

Silencers.

Only

two

other

ways

out

of

this

hallway:

the

door

just

to

the

right

of

the

elevator

and

the

door

I

came

out

of.

Finally,

a

no-brainer.

I

slam

through

the

door

and

find

myself

in

a

stairwell.

Like

the

elevator,

the

stairs

go

in

one

direction:

down.

I

hesitate

for

a

half

second.

The

stairwell

is

quiet

and

small,

but

it’s

a

good,

cozy

kind

of

small.

Maybe

I

should

stay

here

awhile

and

hug

my

bear,

perhaps

suck

my

thumb.

I

force

myself

to

take

it

slow

down

the

five

flights

to

the

bottom.

The

steps

are

metal,

cold

against

my

bare

feet.

I’m

waiting

for

the

shriek

of

alarms

and

the

pounding

of

heavy

boots

and

the

rain

of

bullets

from

above

and

below.

I

think

of

Evan

at

Camp

Ashpit,

taking

out

four

heavily

armed,

highly

trained

killers

in

near

total

darkness,

and

wonder

why

I

ever

thought

it

was

wise

to

stroll

into

the

lion’s

den

alone

when

I

could

have

had

a

Silencer

by

my

side.

Well,

not

totally

alone.

I

do

have

the

bear.

I

press

my

ear

against

the

door

at

the

bottom

and

rest

my

hand

on

the

lever.

I

hear

my

own

heartbeat

and

that’s

all.

The

door

flies

inward,

forcing

me

back

against

the

wall,

and

then

I

do

hear

the

poundingof

boots

as

men

toting

semiautomatics

race

up

the

stairs.

The

door

starts

to

swing

closed

and

I

grab

the

lever

to

keep

the

door

in

front

of

me

until

they

make

the

first

turn

and

thunder

out

of

sight.

I

whip

around

into

the

corridor

before

the

door

closes.

Red

lights

mounted

from

the

ceiling

spin,

throwing

my

shadow

against

the

white

walls,

wiping

it

away,

throwing

it

again.

Right

or

left?

I’m

a

little

turned

around,

but

I

think

the

front

of

the

hangar

is

to

the

right.

I

jog

in

that

direction,

then

stop.

Where

am

I

most

likelyto

find

the

majority

of

Silencers

in

an

emergency?

Probably

clustered

around

the

main

entrance

to

the

scene

of

the

crime.

I

turn

around

and

run

smack

into

the

chest

of

a

very

tall

man

with

piercing

blue

eyes.

I

wasn’t

close

enough

to

see

his

eyes

at

Camp

Ashpit.

But

I

remember

the

voice.

Deep,

hard-edged,

razor-sharp.

“Well,

hello

there,

little

lamb,”

Vosch

says.

“You

must

be

lost.”

76

HIS

GRIP

ON

MY

SHOULDER

is

as

hard

as

his

voice.

“Why

are

you

down

here?”

he

asks.

“Who

is

your

group

leader?”

I

shake

my

head.

The

tears

welling

up

in

my

eyes

aren’t

fake.

I

have

to

think

fast,and

my

first

thought

is

Evan

was

right:

This

solo

act

was

doomed,

no

matter

how

manybackup

plans

we

concocted.

If

only

Evan

were

here…

If

Evan

were

here!

“He

killed

her!”

I

blurt

out.

“That

man

killed

Dr.

Pam!”

“What

man?

Who

killed

Dr.

Pam?”

I

shake

my

head,

bawling

my

little

eyes

out,

crushing

my

battered

teddy

against

my

chest.

Behind

Vosch,

another

squad

of

soldiers

races

down

the

corridor

toward

us.

He

shoves

me

at

them.

“Secure

this

one

and

meet

me

upstairs.

We

have

a

breach.”

I’m

dragged

to

the

nearest

door,

shoved

inside

a

dark

room,

and

the

lock

clicks.

The

lights

flicker

on.

The

first

thing

I

see

is

a

frightened,

young-looking

girl

in

a

white

jumpsuit

holding

a

teddy

bear.

I

actually

give

a

startled

yelp.

Beneath

the

mirror

is

a

long

counter

on

which

a

monitor

and

keyboard

sit.

I’m

in

the

execution

chamber

Evan

described,

where

they

show

the

new

recruits

the

fake

brainspiders.

Forget

the

computer.

I’m

not

about

to

start

hitting

buttons

again.

Options,

Cassie.

What

are

your

options?

I

know

there’s

another

room

on

the

other

side

of

the

mirror.

And

there

has

to

be

at

least

one

door,

which

may

or

may

not

be

locked.

I

know

the

door

to

this

room

is

locked,

so

I

can

wait

for

Vosch

to

come

back

for

me

or

I

can

bust

through

this

looking

glass

to

the

other

side.

I

pick

up

one

of

the

chairs,

rear

back,

and

hurl

it

against

the

mirror.

The

impact

rips

the

chair

from

my

hands

and

it

falls

to

the

floor

with

a

deafening—at

least

to

me—clatter.

I’ve

put

a

large

scratch

in

the

thick

glass,

but

that’s

the

only

damage

I

see.

I

pick

up

the

chair

again.

Take

a

deep

breath.

Lower

my

shoulders,

rotate

my

hips

as

I

bring

the

chair

around.

That’s

what

they

teach

you

in

karate

class:

Power

is

in

rotation.

I

aim

for

the

scratch.

Focus

every

ounce

of

my

energy

on

that

single

spot.

The

chair

bounces

off

the

glass,

throwing

me

off

balance,

and

I

land

on

my

butt

witha

teeth-jarring

thump.

So

jarring,

in

fact,

that

I

bite

down

hard

on

my

tongue.

Mymouth

fills

with

blood,

and

I

spit

it

out,

hitting

the

girl

in

the

mirror

right

in

the

nose.

I

yank

up

the

chair

again,

breathing

deep.

I

forgot

one

thing

I

learned

in

karate:your

eich!

The

war

cry.

Laugh

at

it

all

you

want;

it

does

concentrate

your

power.

The

third

and

final

blow

shatters

the

glass.

My

momentum

slams

me

into

the

waist-highcounter,

and

my

feet

come

off

the

floor

as

the

chair

tumbles

into

the

adjoining

room.

I

can

see

another

dentist

chair,

a

bank

of

processors,

wires

running

across

the

floor,

and

another

door.

Please,

God,

don’t

let

it

be

locked.

I

pick

up

Bear

and

climb

through

the

hole.

I

imagine

Vosch

returning

and

the

look

on

his

face

when

he

sees

the

busted

mirror.

The

door

on

the

other

side

isn’t

locked.

It

opens

into

another

white

cinderblock

corridor

lined

with

unmarked

doors.

Ah,

the

possibilities.

But

I

don’t

step

into

that

corridor.

I

hover

in

the

doorway.

Before

me,

the

unmarked

path.

Behind

me,

the

one

I’ve

marked:

They’llsee

the

hole.

They’ll

know

which

direction

I’ve

taken.

How

long

can

I

stay

ahead

ofthem?

My

mouth

has

filled

with

blood

again,

and

I

force

myself

to

swallow

it.

Can’t

make

it

too

easy

for

them

to

track

me.

Too

easy:

I

forgot

to

jam

the

chair

under

the

door

handle

in

the

first

room.

It

won’tstop

them

from

getting

in,

but

it

would

drop

some

precious

seconds

into

my

piggy

bank.

If

something

goes

wrong,

don’t

overthink,

Cassie.

You

have

good

instincts;

trust

them.

Thinking

through

every

step

is

fine

if

you’re

playing

chess,

but

this

isn’t

chess.

I

run

back

through

the

killing

room

and

dive

through

the

hole.

I

misjudge

the

widthof

the

counter

and

flip

off

the

edge,

somersaulting

onto

my

back,

smacking

my

head

hard

against

the

floor.

I

lie

there

for

a

fuzzy

second,

bright

red

stars

burning

in

my

vision.

I’m

looking

at

the

ceiling

and

the

metal

ductwork

running

beneath

it.

I

saw

the

same

setup

in

the

corridors:

the

bomb

shelter’s

ventilation

system.

And

I

think,

Cassie,

that’s

the

bomb

shelter’s

freaking

ventilation

system.

77

SCUTTLING

FORWARD

on

my

stomach,

worrying

that

I’m

too

heavy

for

the

supports

and

that

at

any

second

the

entire

section

of

pipe

will

collapse,

I

scoot

along

the

shaft,

pausing

at

each

juncture

to

listen.

Listen

for

what,

I’m

not

really

sure.

The

cryingof

frightened

children?

The

laughter

of

happy

children?

The

air

in

the

shaft

is

cold,

brought

in

from

the

outside

and

funneled

underground,

sort

of

like

me.

The

air

belongs

here;

I

don’t.

What

did

Evan

say?

Your

best

bet

is

the

barracks

that

ring

the

parade

grounds.

That’s

it,

Evan.

That’s

the

new

plan.

I’ll

find

the

nearest

air

shaft

and

climb

up

to

the

surface.

I

won’t

know

where

I

am

or

how

far

I

am

from

the

parade

grounds,

and

of

course

the

entire

base

is

going

to

be

in

full

lockdown,

crawling

with

Silencers

and

their

brainwashed

child-soldiers

looking

for

the

girl

in

the

white

jumpsuit.

And

don’t

forget

the

teddy

bear.

Talk

about

a

dead

giveaway!

Why

did

I

insist

on

bringing

this

damn

bear?

Sam

would

understand

if

I

left

Bear

behind.

My

promise

wasn’t

to

bring

Bear

to

him.

My

promise

was

to

bring

me

to

him.

What

is

the

deal

with

this

bear?

Every

few

feet

a

choice:

turn

right,

turn

left,

or

keep

going

straight?

And

every

few

feet

a

pause

to

listen

and

to

clear

the

blood

from

my

mouth.

Not

worried

about

my

blood

dripping

in

here:

It’s

the

bread

crumbs

that

mark

my

way

back.

My

tongue

is

swelling,

though,

and

throbs

horribly

with

each

beat

of

my

heart,

the

human

clock

ticking

down,

measuring

out

the

minutes

I

have

left

before

they

find

me,

take

me

to

Vosch,

and

he

finishes

me

the

way

he

finished

my

father.

Something

brown

and

small

is

scurrying

toward

me,

very

fast,

like

he’s

on

an

important

errand.

A

roach.

I’ve

encountered

cobwebs

and

loads

of

dust

and

some

mysterious

slimy

substance

that

might

be

toxic

mold,

but

this

is

the

first

truly

gross

thing

I’ve

seen.

Give

me

a

spider

or

a

snake

over

a

cockroach

any

day.

And

now

he’s

heading

right

toward

my

face.

With

very

vivid

mental

images

of

the

thing

crawling

inside

my

jumpsuit,

I

use

the

only

thing

available

to

squash

it.

My

bare

hand.

Yuck.

I

keep

moving.

There’s

a

glow

up

ahead,

sort

of

greenish

gray;

in

my

head

I

call

itmothership

green.

I

inch

toward

the

grate

from

which

the

glow

emanates.

Peek

throughthe

slats

into

the

room

below—only

calling

it

a

room

doesn’t

do

it

justice.

It’s

huge,

easily

the

size

of

a

football

stadium,

shaped

like

a

bowl,

with

rows

and

rows

of

computer

stations

at

the

bottom,

manned

by

over

a

hundred

people—only

to

call

them

people

is

doing

real

people

an

injustice.

They’re

them,

Vosch’s

inhuman

humans,

and

I

have

no

clue

what

they’re

up

to,

but

I’m

thinking

this

must

be

it,

the

heart

of

the

operation,

ground

zero

of

the

“cleansing.”

A

massive

screen

takes

up

an

entire

wall,

projecting

a

map

of

the

Earth

that’s

dotted

with

bright

green

spots—the

source

of

the

sickly

green

light.

Cities,

I’m

thinking,

and

then

I

realize

the

green

dots

must

represent

pockets

of

survivors.

Vosch

doesn’t

need

to

hunt

us

down.

Vosch

knows

exactly

where

we

are.

I

wiggle

on,

forcing

myself

to

go

slowly

until

the

green

glow

is

as

small

as

the

dots

on

the

map

in

the

control

room.

Four

junctures

down

I

hear

voices.

Men’s

voices.

And

the

clang

of

metal

on

metal,

the

squeak

of

rubber

soles

on

hard

concrete.

Keep

moving,

Cassie.

No

more

stopping.

Sammy’s

not

down

there

and

Sammy

is

the

objective.

Then

one

of

the

guys

says,

“How

many

did

he

say?”

And

the

other

one

goes,

“At

least

two.

The

girl

and

whoever

took

out

Walters

and

Pierceand

Jackson.”

Whoever

took

out

Walters,

Pierce,

and

Jackson?

Evan.

It

has

to

be.

What

the…?

For

a

whole

minute

or

two,

I’m

really

furious

at

him.

Our

only

hope

wasin

my

going

alone,

sliding

past

their

defenses

unnoticed

and

snatching

Sam

before

they

realized

what

was

going

on.

Of

course,

it

hadn’t

quite

worked

out

that

way,

but

Evan

had

no

way

of

knowing

that.

Still.

The

fact

that

Evan

had

ignored

our

carefully

thought-out

plan

and

infiltratedthe

base

also

means

that

Evan

is

here.

And

Evan

does

what

he

has

the

heart

to

do.

I

edge

closer

to

their

voices,

passing

right

over

their

heads

until

I

reach

the

grating.

I

peer

through

the

metal

slats

and

see

two

Silencer

soldiers

loading

eye-shaped

globes

into

a

large

handcart.

I

recognize

what

they

are

right

away.

I’ve

seen

one

before.

The

Eye

will

take

care

of

her.

I

watch

them

until

the

cart

is

loaded

and

they

wheel

it

slowly

out

of

sight.

A

point

will

come

when

the

cover

isn’t

sustainable.

When

that

happens,

they’ll

shut

down

the

base—or

the

part

of

the

base

that’s

expendable.

Oh

boy.

Vosch

is

going

all

Ashpit

on

Camp

Haven.

And

the

minute

that

realization

hits

me,

the

siren

goes

off.

78

TWO

HOURS.

The

minute

Vosch

leaves,

a

clock

inside

my

head

begins

to

tick.

No,

not

a

clock.

More

like

a

timer

ticking

down

to

Armageddon.

I’m

going

to

need

every

second,

so

where

is

the

orderly?

Right

when

I’m

about

to

pull

out

the

drip

myself,

he

shows

up.

A

tall,

skinny

kid

named

Kistner;

we

met

the

last

time

I

was

laid

up.

He

has

a

nervous

habitof

picking

at

the

front

of

his

scrubs,

like

the

material

irritates

his

skin.

“Did

he

tell

you?”

Kistner

asks,

keeping

his

voice

down

as

he

leans

over

the

bed.

“We’ve

gone

Code

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.

Ticktock.

I

throw

back

the

covers

and

swing

my

legs

off

the

bed.

Gritting

my

teeth;

this

isthe

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.

SoI

sit

still

for

a

minute,

waiting

for

my

head

to

clear.

Step

two:

the

bathroom.

Force

yourself

to

go

slow.

Take

small

steps.

Shuf

le.

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

hisnarrow

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’tmatter.

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

wondering

why

I’m

not

going

back

to

my

bunk.

Through

the

swinging

doors,

now

in

the

scrub

room,

where

a

weary-looking

doctor

is

soaped

up

to

his

elbows,

preparing

for

surgery.

He

jumps

when

I

come

in.

“What

are

you

doing

in

here?”

he

demands.

“I

was

looking

for

some

gloves.

We’ve

run

out

up

front.”

The

surgeon

jerks

his

head

toward

a

row

of

cabinets

on

the

opposite

wall.

“You’re

limping,”

he

says.

“Are

you

hurt?”

“I

pulled

a

muscle

getting

a

fat

guy

to

the

john.”

The

doctor

rinses

the

green

soap

from

his

forearms.

“You

should

have

used

a

bedpan.”

Boxes

of

latex

gloves,

surgical

masks,

antiseptic

pads,

rolls

of

tape.

Where

the

hell

is

it?

I

can

feel

his

breath

against

the

back

of

my

neck.

“There’s

the

box

right

in

front

of

you,”

he

says.

The

guy’s

giving

me

a

funny

look.

“Sorry,”

I

say.

“Haven’t

had

much

sleep.”

“Tell

me

about

it!”

The

surgeon

laughs

and

elbows

me

square

in

the

gunshot

wound.

The

room

spins.

Hard.

I

grit

my

teeth

to

keep

from

screaming.

He

hurries

through

the

inner

doors

to

the

operating

theater.

I

move

down

the

row

of

cabinets,

throwing

open

doors,

rummaging

through

the

supplies,

but

I

can’t

find

what

I’m

looking

for.

Lightheaded,

out

of

breath,

my

side

throbbing

like

hell.

How

long

will

Kistner

stay

out?

How

long

before

someone

ducks

in

for

a

piss

and

finds

him?

There’s

a

bin

on

the

floor

beside

the

cabinets

labeled

HAZARDOUS

WASTE—USE

GLOVES

IN

HANDLING.

Yank

off

the

top

and,

bingo,

there

it

is

with

wads

of

bloody

surgical

sponges

and

used

syringes

and

discarded

catheters.

Okay,

so

the

scalpel’s

coated

in

dried

blood.

I

guess

I

could

sterilize

it

with

an

antiseptic

wipe

or

wash

it

in

the

sink,

but

there’s

no

time,

and

a

dirty

scalpel

is

the

least

of

my

worries.

Lean

against

the

sink

to

steady

yourself.

Push

your

fingers

against

your

neck

to

locate

the

tracker

under

the

skin,

and

then

press,

don’t

slice,

the

dull,

dirty

blade

into

your

neck

until

it

splits

open.

79

STEP

FIVE:

NUGGET.

A

very

young-looking

doctor

hurries

down

the

corridor

toward

the

elevators,

wearing

a

white

lab

coat

and

a

surgical

mask.

Limping,

favoring

his

left

side.

If

you

pulled

open

his

white

coat,

you

might

see

the

dark

red

stain

on

his

green

scrubs.

If

you

pulled

down

his

collar,

you

might

also

see

the

hastily

applied

bandage

on

his

neck.

But

if

you

tried

to

do

either

of

these

things,

the

young-looking

doctor

would

kill

you.

Elevator.

Closing

my

eyes

as

the

car

descends.

Unless

somebody’s

conveniently

left

a

golf

cart

unattended

by

the

front

doors,

walking

distance

to

the

yard

is

ten

minutes.

Then

the

hardest

part,

finding

Nugget

among

the

fifty-plus

squads

bivouacked

there

and

getting

him

out

without

waking

anybody.

So

maybe

half

an

hour

to

seek

and

snatch.

Another

ten

or

so

to

slip

over

to

the

Wonderland

hangar

where

the

buses

unload.

This

is

where

the

plan

begins

to

break

down

into

a

series

of

wild

improbabilities:

stowing

away

on

an

empty

bus,

overcoming

the

driver

and

any

soldiers

on

board

once

we’re

clear

of

the

gate,

and

then

when,

where,

and

how

to

dump

the

bus

and

take

off

on

foot

to

rendezvous

with

Ringer?

What

if

you

have

to

wait

for

the

bus?

Where

are

you

going

to

hide?

I

don’t

know.

And

once

you’re

on

the

bus,

how

long

will

you

have

to

wait?

Thirty

minutes?

An

hour?

I

don’t

know.

You

don’t

know?

Well,

here’s

what

I

know:

It’s

too

much

time,

Zombie.

Somebody’s

going

to

sound

the

alarm.

She’s

right.

It

is

too

much

time.

I

should

have

killed

Kistner.

It

had

been

one

of

the

original

steps:

Step

four:

kill

Kistner.

But

Kistner

isn’t

one

of

them.

Kistner’s

just

a

kid.

Like

Tank.

Like

Oompa.

Like

Flint.Kistner

didn’t

ask

for

this

war

and

he

didn’t

know

the

truth

about

it.

Maybe

he

wouldn’t

have

believed

me

if

I

told

him

the

truth,

but

I

never

gave

him

that

chance.

You’re

soft.

You

should

have

killed

him.

You

can’t

rely

on

luck

and

wishful

thinking.

The

future

of

humanity

belongs

to

the

hardcore.

So

when

the

elevator

doors

slide

open

to

the

main

lobby,

I

make

a

silent

promise

to

Nugget,

the

promise

I

didn’t

make

to

my

sister,

whose

locket

he

wears

around

his

neck.

If

anyone

comes

between

you

and

me,

they’re

dead.

And

the

minute

I

make

that

promise,

it’s

like

something

in

the

universe

decides

to

answer,

because

the

air

raid

sirens

go

off

with

an

eardrum-busting

scream.

Perfect!

For

once

things

are

going

my

way.

No

crossing

the

length

of

the

camp

now.

No

sneaking

into

the

barracks

searching

for

the

Nugget

in

a

haystack.

No

race

to

the

buses.

Instead,

a

straight

shot

down

the

stairwell

to

the

underground

complex.

Grab

Nugget

in

the

organized

chaos

of

the

safe

room,

hide

out

until

the

all-clear

sounds,

and

then

on

to

the

buses.

Simple.

I’m

halfway

to

the

stairs

when

the

deserted

lobby

lights

up

in

a

sickly

green

glow,

the

same

smoky

green

that

danced

around

Ringer’s

head

when

I

slipped

on

the

eyepiece.

The

overhead

fluorescents

have

cut

off,

standard

procedure

in

a

drill,

so

the

light

isn’t

coming

from

inside,

but

from

somewhere

in

the

parking

lot.

I

turn

around

to

look.

I

shouldn’t

have.

Through

the

glass

doors,

I

see

a

golf

cart

racing

across

the

parking

lot,

headingtoward

the

airfield.

Then

I

see

the

source

of

the

green

light

sitting

in

the

covered

entranceway

of

the

hospital.

Shaped

like

a

football,

only

twice

as

big.

It

reminds

me

of

an

eye.

I

stare

at

it;

it

stares

back

at

me.

Pulse…Pulse…Pulse…

Flash,

flash,

flash.

Blinkblinkblink.

80

THE

SIREN’S

BLARE

is

so

loud,

I

can

feel

the

hairs

on

the

back

of

my

neck

vibrating.

I

am

scooting

backward

toward

the

main

duct,

away

from

the

armory,

when

I

stop.

Cassie,

it’s

the

armory.

Back

to

the

grate,

through

which

I

stare

for

a

full

three

minutes,

scanning

the

roombelow

for

any

sign

of

movement

while

the

siren

pounds

against

my

ears,

making

it

very

difficult

to

concentrate,

thank

you,

Colonel

Vosch.

“Okay,

you

damn

bear,”

I

mumble

with

my

swollen

tongue.

“We’re

going

in.”

I

slam

the

heel

of

my

bare

foot

into

the

grate.

Eich!

It

pops

open

with

one

kick.

When

I

quit

karate,

Mom

asked

why,

and

I

said

it

just

didn’t

challenge

me

anymore.

That

was

my

way

of

saying

I

was

bored,

which

you

were

not

allowed

to

say

in

front

of

my

mother.

If

she

heard

you

complain

that

you

were

bored,

you

found

yourself

with

a

dust

rag

in

your

hand.

I

drop

into

the

room.

Well,

more

a

medium-size

warehouse

than

a

room.

Everything

an

alien

invader

might

need

to

run

a

human

extermination

camp.

Against

that

wall

you

have

your

Eyes,

several

hundred

of

them,

stacked

neatly

in

their

own

specially

designed

cubby.

On

the

opposite

wall,

rows

and

rows

of

rifles

and

grenade

launchers

and

other

weaponry

that

I

would

have

no

clue

what

to

do

with.

Smaller

weapons

over

there,

semiautomatics

and

grenades

and

ten-inch-long

combat

knives.

There’s

a

wardrobe

section,

too,

representing

every

branch

of

the

service

and

every

possible

rank,

with

all

the

gear

to

go

with

it,

belts

and

boots

and

the

military

version

of

the

fanny

pack.

And

me

like

a

kid

in

a

candy

shop.

First,

off

comes

the

white

jumpsuit.

I

pull

the

smallest

set

of

fatigues

I

can

findand

put

them

on.

Slip

on

the

boots.

Time

to

gear

up.

A

Luger

with

a

full

clip.

A

couple

of

grenades.

M16?

Why

not?

Ifyou’re

going

to

play

the

part,

look

the

part.

I

drop

a

couple

extra

clips

into

my

fanny

pack.

Oh,

look,

my

belt

even

has

a

holster

for

one

of

those

ten-inch,

wicked-looking

knives!

Hi

there,

ten-inch,

wicked-looking

knife.

There’s

a

wooden

box

beside

the

gun

cabinet.

I

peek

inside

and

see

a

stack

of

graymetal

tubes.

What

are

these,

some

kind

of

stick-grenade?

I

pick

one

up.

It’s

hollow

and

threaded

at

one

end.

Now

I

know

what

it

is.

A

silencer.

And

it

fits

perfectly

on

the

barrel

of

my

new

M16.

Screws

right

in.

I

stuff

my

hair

under

a

cap

that

is

too

large

for

me

and

wish

I

had

a

mirror.

I’mhoping

to

pass

for

one

of

Vosch’s

tween

recruits,

but

I

probably

look

more

like

GI

Joe’s

little

sister

playing

dress-up.

Now

what

to

do

with

Bear.

I

find

a

leather

satchel-looking

thing

and

stuff

him

inside,

throw

the

strap

crossways

over

my

shoulder.

I’ve

stopped

noticing

the

blaring

siren

by

this

point.

I’m

all

jacked

up.

Not

only

have

I

evened

the

odds

a

little,

I

know

Evan

is

here,

and

Evan

will

not

give

up

until

I

am

safe

or

he

is

dead.

Back

to

the

ductwork,

and

I’m

debating

whether

to

attempt

it,

weighed

down

as

I

am

with

twenty

or

so

extra

pounds,

or

take

my

chances

in

the

corridors.

What

good

is

a

disguise

if

you’re

going

all

stealthy

with

it?

I

turn

around

and

head

toward

the

door,

and

that’s

when

the

siren

cuts

off

and

silence

slams

down.

I

don’t

take

that

as

a

good

sign.

It

also

occurs

to

me

that

being

in

an

armory

full

of

green

bombs—one

of

which

can

level

a

square

mile—while

a

dozen

or

so

of

their

closest

friends

are

being

set

off

upstairs

might

not

be

such

a

good

idea.

I

haul

ass

for

the

door,

but

I

don’t

make

it

before

the

first

Eye

goes.

The

entireroom

jiggles.

Only

a

few

feet

left,

and

the

next

Eye

blinks

its

last

blink,

and

this

one

must

be

closer,

because

dust

rains

down

from

the

ceiling,

and

the

duct

at

the

other

end

snaps

free

of

its

supports

and

comes

crashing

down.

Um,

Voschy,

that

was

kind

of

close,

don’t

you

think?

I

push

through

the

door.

No

time

to

scout

the

territory.

The

more

distance

I

can

putbetween

me

and

the

remaining

Eyes,

the

better.

I

sprint

under

the

swirling

red

lights,

turning

down

hallways

at

random,

trying

not

to

think

anything

through,

just

going

on

instinct

and

luck.

Another

explosion.

The

walls

tremble.

The

dust

falls.

From

above

the

sound

of

thebuildings

being

ripped

and

shredded

down

to

their

last

nails.

And

here

below,

the

screaming

of

terrified

children.

I

follow

the

screams.

Sometimes

I

make

a

wrong

turn

and

the

cries

grow

fainter.

I

backtrack,

then

try

the

next

corridor.

This

place

is

like

a

maze,

and

me

the

lab

rat.

The

booming

from

above

has

stopped,

at

least

for

the

moment,

and

I

slow

to

a

trot,

gripping

the

rifle

hard

with

both

hands,

trying

one

passage,

backtracking

when

the

crying

fades,

moving

on

again.

I

hear

Major

Bob’s

voice

on

a

bullhorn

bouncing

along

the

walls,

coming

from

everywhere

and

nowhere.

“Okay,

I

want

you

all

to

stay

seated

with

your

group

leader!

Everybody

quiet

downand

listen

to

me!

Stay

with

your

group

leaders!”

I

turn

a

corner

and

see

a

squad

of

soldiers

running

right

at

me.

Teenagers,

mostly.

I

throw

myself

against

the

wall,

and

they

rush

past

me

without

even

glancing

in

my

direction.

Why

would

they

notice

me?

I’m

just

another

recruit

on

her

way

to

battle

the

alien

horde.

They

turn

a

corner,

and

I’m

moving

again.

I

can

hear

the

kids

jabbering

and

whimpering,

despite

Major

Bob’s

scolding,

around

the

next

bend.

Almost

there,

Sam.

Now

you

be

there.

“Halt!”

Shouted

from

behind

me.

Not

a

kid’s

voice.

I

stop.

Square

my

shoulders.

Stay

still.

“Where’s

your

duty

station,

soldier?

Soldier,

I’m

talking

to

you!”

“Ordered

to

guard

the

children,

sir!”

I

say

in

the

deepest

voice

I

can

muster.

“Turn

around!

Look

at

me

when

you

address

me,

soldier.”

I

sigh.

Turn.

He’s

in

his

midtwenties,

not

bad

looking,

an

all-American-boy

type.

I

don’t

know

military

insignia,

but

I

think

he

might

be

an

officer.

To

be

absolutely

safe,

anyone

over

eighteen

is

suspect.

There

may

be

some

human

adults

in

positions

of

authority,

but

knowing

Vosch,

I

doubt

it.

So

if

it’s

an

adult,

and

especially

if

it’s

an

of

icer,

I

think

you

can

assume

they

are

not

human.

“What’s

your

number?”

he

barks.

My

number?

I

blurt

out

the

first

thing

that

pops

into

my

head.

“Tee-sixty-two,

sir!”

He

gives

me

a

puzzled

look.

“Tee-sixty-two?

Are

you

sure?”

“Yes

sir,

sir!”

Sir,

sir?

Oh

God,

Cassie.

“Why

aren’t

you

with

your

unit?”

He

doesn’t

wait

for

an

answer,

and

good

thing,

because

nothing

is

really

coming

to

mind.

He

steps

forward

and

looks

me

up

and

down,

and

clearly

I’m

not

in

regulation.

Officer

Alien

does

not

like

what

he

sees.

“Where’s

your

name

tag,

soldier?

And

what

are

you

doing

with

a

suppressor

on

your

weapon?

And

what

is

this?”

He

pulls

on

the

bulging

leather

satchel

holding

Bear.

I

pull

back.

The

satchel

pops

open

and

I’m

busted.

“It’s

a

teddy

bear,

sir.”

“A

what?”

He

stares

down

at

my

upturned

face

and

something

crosses

over

his

as

the

lightbulb

comes

on

and

he

realizes

who

he’s

looking

at.

His

right

hand

flies

toward

his

sidearm,

but

that’s

a

really

dumb

move

when

all

he

had

to

do

was

lay

his

fist

upside

my

teddy-bear-toting

head.

I

swing

the

silencer

in

a

slicing

arc,

stopping

it

an

inch

from

his

boyish

good

looks,

and

pull

the

trigger.

Now

you’ve

done

it,

Cassie.

Blown

the

one

chance

you

had,

and

you

were

so

close.

I

can’t

just

leave

Officer

Alien

where

he

fell.

They

might

miss

all

the

blood

in

thehurly-burly

of

battle,

and

it’s

nearly

invisible

anyway

in

the

spinning

red

light,

but

not

the

body.

What

am

I

going

to

do

with

the

body?

I’m

close,

so

close,

and

I’m

not

going

to

let

some

dead

guy

keep

me

from

Sammy.

Igrab

him

by

the

ankles

and

drag

him

back

down

the

corridor,

into

another

passageway,

around

another

corner,

and

then

drop

him.

He’s

heavier

than

he

looks.

I

take

a

moment

to

stretch

out

the

kink

in

my

lower

back

before

hurrying

away.

Now

if

someone

stops

me

before

I

can

reach

the

safe

room,

my

plan

is

to

say

whatever

is

necessary

to

avoid

killing

again.

Unless

I’m

given

no

choice.

And

then

I

will

kill

again.

Evan

was

right:

It

does

get

a

little

easier

each

time.

The

room

is

packed

with

kids.

Hundreds

of

kids.

Dressed

in

identical

white

jumpsuits.Sitting

in

big

groups

spread

over

an

area

about

the

size

of

a

high

school

gymnasium.

They’ve

quieted

down

some.

Maybe

I

should

just

shout

out

Sam’s

name

or

borrow

MajorBob’s

bullhorn.

I

pick

my

way

through

the

room,

lifting

my

boots

high

to

avoid

stepping

on

any

little

fingers

or

toes.

So

many

faces.

They

begin

to

blur

together.

The

room

expands,

explodes

past

the

walls,

extending

to

infinity,

filled

with

billions

of

little

upturned

faces,

and

oh

those

bastards,

those

bastards,

what

have

they

done?

In

my

tent

I

cried

for

myself

and

the

silly,

stupid

life

that

had

been

taken

from

me.

Now

I

beg

forgiveness

from

the

infinite

sea

of

upturned

faces.

I’m

still

stumbling

around

like

a

zombie

when

I

hear

a

little

voice

calling

my

name.

Coming

from

a

group

I

had

just

passed,

and

it’s

funny

he

recognized

me

and

not

the

other

way

around.

I

go

still.

I

do

not

turn.

I

close

my

eyes,

but

can’t

bring

myself

to

turn

around.

“Cassie?”

I

lower

my

head.

There

is

a

lump

the

size

of

Texas

caught

in

my

throat.

And

then

Iturn

and

he’s

staring

at

me

with

something

like

fear,

like

this

might

be

the

last

straw,

seeing

a

dead

ringer

for

his

sister

tiptoeing

around

dressed

up

like

a

soldier.

Like

he’s

reached

the

outer

limits

of

the

Others’

cruelty.

I

kneel

in

front

of

my

brother.

He

doesn’t

rush

into

my

arms.

He

stares

at

my

tear-streaked

face

and

brings

his

fingers

to

my

wet

cheek.

Across

my

nose,

forehead,

chin,

over

my

fluttering

eyelids.

“Cassie?”

Is

it

okay

now?

Can

he

believe?

If

the

world

breaks

a

million

and

one

promises,

canyou

trust

the

million

and

second?

“Hey,

Sams.”

He

cocks

his

head

slightly.

I

must

sound

funny

to

him

with

the

bloated

tongue.

I

fumble

with

the

clasp

of

the

leather

satchel.

“I,

um,

I

thought

you

might

want

this

back.”

I

pull

out

the

battered

old

teddy

bear

and

hold

it

toward

him.

He

frowns

and

shakes

his

head

and

doesn’t

reach

for

it,

and

I

feel

like

he’s

punched

me

in

the

gut.

Then

my

baby

brother

slaps

that

damned

bear

out

of

my

hand

and

crushes

his

face

against

my

chest,

and

beneath

the

odors

of

sweat

and

strong

soap

I

can

smell

it,

his

smell,

Sammy’s,

my

brother’s.

81

THE

GREEN

EYE

looked

at

me

and

I

looked

back

at

it,

and

I

don’t

remember

what

snatched

me

back

from

the

edge

between

the

blinking

eye

and

what

came

next.

My

first

clear

memory?

Running.

Lobby.

Stairwell.

Basement

level.

First

landing.

Second

landing.

When

I

hit

the

third

landing,

the

concussion

of

the

blast

slams

into

my

back

like

a

wrecking

ball,

hurling

me

down

the

stairs

and

into

the

door

that

opens

to

the

bomb

shelter.

Above

me,

the

hospital

screams

as

it’s

torn

apart.

That’s

what

it

sounds

like:

a

living

thing

screaming

as

it’s

being

ripped

to

pieces.

The

thunderous

crack

of

mortar

and

stone

shattering.

The

screech

of

nails

snapping

and

the

shriek

of

two

hundred

windows

exploding.

The

floor

buckles,

splits

open.

I

dive

headfirst

into

the

hallway

of

reinforced

concrete

as

the

building

above

me

disintegrates.

The

lights

flicker

once,

and

then

the

corridor

plunges

into

darkness.

I’ve

never

beento

this

part

of

the

complex,

but

I

don’t

need

the

luminescent

arrows

on

the

walls

to

show

me

the

way

to

the

safe

room.

All

I

have

to

do

is

follow

the

terrified

screams

of

the

children.

But

first

it

would

be

helpful

to

stand.

The

fall

has

completely

torn

open

the

sutures;

I’m

bleeding

heavily

now,

from

both

wounds:

where

Ringer’s

bullet

went

in

and

where

it

came

out.

I

try

to

stand

up.

I

give

it

my

best

shot,

but

my

legs

won’t

hold

me

up.

I

get

halfway

up

and

then

down

again

I

go,

head

spinning,

gasping

for

air.

A

second

explosion

knocks

me

flat

out

on

the

floor.

I

manage

to

crawl

a

few

inches

before

a

third

blast

knocks

me

down

again.

Damn

it,

what

are

you

doing

up

there,

Vosch?

If

it

is

too

late,

we’ll

have

no

choice

but

to

execute

the

option

of

last

resort.

Well,

guess

that

particular

mystery

is

solved.

Vosch

is

blowing

up

his

own

base.

Destroying

the

village

in

order

to

save

it.

But

save

it

from

what?

Unless

it

isn’t

Vosch.

Maybe

Ringer

and

I

are

totally

wrong.

Maybe

I’m

risking

my

life

and

Nugget’s

for

nothing.

Camp

Haven

is

what

Vosch

says

it

is

and

that

means

Ringer

walked

into

a

camp

of

infesteds

with

her

guard

down.

Ringer

is

dead.

Ringer

and

Dumbo

and

Poundcake

and

little

Teacup.

Christ,

have

I

done

it

again?

Run

when

I

should

have

stayed?

Turned

my

back

when

I

should

have

fought?

The

next

explosion

is

the

worst.

It

hits

directly

overhead.

I

cover

my

head

with

botharms

as

chunks

of

concrete

as

big

as

my

fist

rain

down.

The

concussions

from

the

bombs,

the

drug

lingering

in

my

system,

the

loss

of

blood,

the

darkness…all

of

it

conspires

to

pin

me

down.

From

a

distance,

I

can

hear

someone

screaming—and

then

I

realize

that

it’s

me.

You

have

to

get

up.

You

have

to

get

up.

You

have

to

keep

your

promise

to

Sissy…

No.

Not

Sissy.

Sissy’s

dead.

You

left

her

behind,

you

stinking

bag

of

regurgitated

puke.

Damn,

it

hurts.

The

pain

of

the

wounds

that

bleed

and

the

pain

of

the

old

wound

that

will

not

heal.

Sissy,

with

me

in

the

dark.

I

can

see

her

hand

reaching

for

me

in

the

dark.

I’m

here,

Sissy.

Take

my

hand.

Reaching

for

her

in

the

dark.

82

SISSY

PULLS

AWAY,

and

I’m

alone

again.

When

the

moment

comes

to

stop

running

from

your

past,

to

turn

around

and

face

the

thing

you

thought

you

could

not

face—the

moment

when

your

life

teeters

between

giving

up

and

getting

up—

when

that

moment

comes,

and

it

always

comes,

if

you

can’t

get

up

and

you

can’t

give

up,

either,

here’s

what

you

do:

Crawl.

Sliding

forward

on

my

stomach,

I

reach

the

intersection

of

the

main

corridor

thatruns

the

length

of

the

complex.

Have

to

rest.

Two

minutes,

no

more.

The

emergency

lights

flicker

on.

I

know

where

I

am

now.

Left

to

the

air

shaft,

right

to

the

central

command

hub

and

the

safe

room.

Tick-tock.

My

two-minute

break

is

over.

I

push

myself

to

my

feet

using

the

wall

for

support,

and

I

nearly

black

out

from

the

pain.

Even

if

I

grab

Nugget

without

gettinggrabbed

myself,

how

will

I

get

him

out

of

here

in

this

condition?

Plus

I

sincerely

doubt

there

are

any

buses

left.

Or

any

Camp

Haven,

for

that

matter.Once

I

grab

him—if

I

grab

him—where

the

hell

are

we

going

to

go?

I

shuffle

down

the

corridor,

keeping

one

hand

on

the

wall

to

steady

myself.

Ahead,

I

can

hear

someone

shouting

at

the

kids

in

the

safe

room,

telling

them

to

stay

calm

and

stay

seated,

everything

was

going

to

be

okay

and

they

were

perfectly

safe.

Tick-tock.

Right

before

the

final

turn,

I

glance

to

my

left

and

see

something

crumpled

against

the

wall:

a

human

body.

A

dead

human

body.

Still

warm.

Wearing

a

lieutenant’s

uniform.

Half

its

face

blasted

away

by

a

high-caliber

bullet

fired

at

close

range.

Not

a

recruit.

One

of

them.

Has

someone

else

figured

out

the

truth

here?

Maybe.

Or

maybe

the

dead

guy

was

shot

by

a

trigger-happy,

jacked-up

recruit,

mistaking

him

for

a

Ted.

No

more

wishful

thinking,

Parish.

I

pull

the

sidearm

from

the

dead

man’s

holster

and

slip

it

into

the

pocket

of

the

lab

coat.

Then

I

pull

the

surgical

mask

over

my

face.

Dr.

Zombie,

you’re

wanted

in

the

safe

room,

stat!

And

there

it

is,

straight

ahead.

A

few

more

yards

and

I’m

there.

I

made

it,

Nugget.

I’m

here.

Now

you

be

here.

And

it’s

like

he

heard

me,

because

there

he

is

walking

toward

me,

carrying—believe

it

or

not—a

teddy

bear.

Only

he

isn’t

alone.

There’s

someone

with

him,

a

recruit

around

Dumbo’s

age

in

a

baggy

uniform

and

a

cap

pulled

down

low,

the

brim

resting

just

above

his

eyes,

carrying

an

M16

with

some

kind

of

metal

pipe

attached

to

its

barrel.

No

time

to

think

it

through.

Because

faking

my

way

through

this

one

will

take

toomuch

time

and

rely

too

much

on

luck,

and

it

isn’t

about

luck

anymore.

It’s

about

being

hardcore.

Because

this

is

the

last

war,

and

only

the

hardcore

will

survive

it.

Because

of

the

step

in

the

plan

I

skipped

over.

Because

of

Kistner.

I

drop

my

hand

into

the

coat

pocket.

I

close

the

gap.

Not

yet,

not

yet.

My

wound

throwsoff

my

stride.

I

have

to

take

him

down

with

the

first

shot.

Yes,

he’s

a

kid.

Yes,

he’s

innocent.

And,

yes,

he’s

toast.

83

I

WANT

TO

DRINK

IN

his

sweet

Sammy

smell

forever,

but

I

can’t.

The

place

is

crawlingwith

armed

soldiers,

some

of

them

Silencers—or

anyway,

not

teens,

so

I

have

to

assume

they’re

Silencers.

I

lead

Sammy

over

to

a

wall,

putting

a

group

of

kids

between

us

and

the

nearest

guard.

I

scrunch

down

as

low

as

possible

and

whisper,

“Are

you

okay?”

He

nods.

“I

knew

you’d

come,

Cassie.”

“I

promised,

right?”

He’s

wearing

a

heart-shaped

locket

around

his

neck.

What

the

heck?

I

touch

it,

and

he

pulls

back

a

little.

“Why

are

you

dressed

like

that?”

he

asks.

“I’ll

explain

later.”

“You’re

a

soldier

now,

aren’t

you?

What

squad

are

you

in?”

Squad?

“No

squad,”

I

tell

him.

“I’m

my

own

squad.”

He

frowns.

“You

can’t

be

your

own

squad,

Cassie.”

This

isn’t

really

the

time

to

get

into

the

whole

ridiculous

squad

thing.

I

glance

around

the

room.

“Sam,

we’re

getting

out

of

here.”

“I

know.

Major

Bob

says

we’re

going

on

a

big

plane.”

He

nods

toward

Major

Bob,

startsto

wave

at

him.

I

push

his

hand

down.

“A

big

plane?

When?”

He

shrugs.

“Soon.”

He’s

picked

up

Bear.

Now

he

examines

him,

turning

him

over

in

hishands.

“His

ear’s

ripped,”

he

points

out

accusingly,

like

I’ve

shirked

my

duty.

“Tonight?”

I

ask.

“Sam,

this

is

important.

You’re

flying

out

tonight?”

“That’s

what

Major

Bob

said.

He

said

they’re

vaculating

all

nonessentials.”

“Vaculating?

Oh.

Okay,

so

they’re

evacuating

the

kids.”

My

mind

is

racing,

trying

to

work

through

it.

Is

that

the

way

out?

Just

stroll

on

board

with

the

others

and

take

our

chances

when

we

land—

wherever

we

land?

God,

why

did

I

ditch

the

white

jumpsuit?

But

even

if

I

kept

it

and

was

able

to

sneak

onto

the

plane,

that

wasn’t

the

plan.

There’s

going

to

be

escape

pods

somewhere

on

the

base—probably

near

the

command

center

or

Vosch’s

quarters.

Basically

they’re

one-man

rockets,

preprogrammed

to

land

you

safely

at

some

spot

far

from

the

base.

Don’t

ask

me

where.

But

the

pods

are

your

best

bet—not

human

technology,

but

I’ll

explain

how

you

operate

one.

If

you

can

find

one,

and

if

both

of

you

can

fit

in

one,

and

if

you

live

long

enough

to

find

one

to

fit

in.

That’s

a

lot

of

ifs.

Maybe

I

should

beat

up

a

kid

my

size

and

take

her

jumpsuit.

“How

long

have

you

been

here,

Cassie?”

Sam

asks.

I

think

he

suspects

I’ve

been

avoidinghim,

maybe

because

I

let

Bear’s

ear

get

torn.

“Longer

than

I

wanted

to

be,”

I

mutter,

and

that

decides

it:

We’re

not

staying

here

a

minute

longer

than

we

have

to,

and

we’re

not

taking

some

one-way

flight

to

Camp

Haven

II.

I’m

not

trading

one

death

camp

for

another.

He’s

playing

with

Bear’s

torn

ear.

Not

his

first

injury

by

a

long

shot.

I’ve

lost

count

of

how

many

times

Mom

had

to

patch

him

up.

He

has

more

stitches

in

him

thanFrankenstein.

I

lean

over

to

get

Sammy’s

attention,

and

that’s

when

he

looks

right

at

me

and

asks,

“Where’s

Daddy?”

My

mouth

moves,

but

no

sound

comes

out.

I

hadn’t

even

thought

about

telling

him—or

how

to

tell

him.

“Dad?

Oh,

he’s…”

No,

Cassie.

Don’t

get

complicated.

I

don’t

want

him

having

a

meltdown

right

as

we’re

preparing

to

make

our

getaway.

I

decide

to

let

Dad

live

a

little

longer.

“He’s

waiting

for

us

back

at

Camp

Ashpit.”

His

lower

lip

starts

to

quiver.

“Daddy

isn’t

here?”

“Daddy

is

busy,”

I

say,

hoping

to

shut

him

down,

and

I

feel

like

crap

doing

it.

“That’s

why

he

sent

me.

To

get

you.

And

that’s

what

I’m

doing,

right

now,

getting

you.”

I

pull

him

to

his

feet.

He

goes,

“But

what

about

the

plane?”

“You’ve

been

bumped.”

He

gives

me

a

puzzled

look:

Bumped?

“Let’s

go.”

I

grab

his

hand

and

head

for

the

tunnel,

keeping

my

shoulders

back

and

my

head

up,

because

skulking

toward

the

nearest

exit

like

Shaggy

and

Scooby

tinkle-toeing

is

sure

to

draw

attention.

I

even

bark

at

some

kids

to

get

out

of

the

way.

If

someone

tries

to

stop

us,

I

won’t

shoot

them.

I’ll

explain

that

the

kid

is

sick

and

I’m

getting

him

to

a

doctor

before

he

pukes

all

over

himself

and

everybody

else.

If

they

don’t

buy

my

story,

then

I

shoot

them.

And

then

we’re

in

the

tunnel

and,

incredibly,

there

is

a

doctor

walking

straight

at

us,

half

his

face

hidden

behind

a

surgical

mask.

His

eyes

widen

when

he

sees

us,

and

there

goes

my

clever

cover

story,

which

means

if

he

stops

us

I’ll

have

to

shoot

him.

As

we

draw

closer,

I

see

him

casually

drop

his

hand

into

the

pocket

of

his

white

coat,

and

the

alarm

sounds

inside

my

head,

the

same

alarm

that

went

off

in

the

convenience

store

behind

the

beer

coolers

right

before

I

pumped

an

entire

clip

into

a

crucifix-holding

soldier.

I

have

one

half

of

one

half

second

to

decide.

This

is

the

first

rule

of

the

last

war:

Trust

no

one.

I

level

the

silencer

at

his

chest

as

his

hand

emerges

from

the

pocket.

The

hand

that

holds

a

gun.

But

my

hand

holds

an

M16

assault

rifle.

How

long

is

one

half

of

one

half

second?

Long

enough

for

a

little

boy

who

doesn’t

know

the

first

rule

to

leap

between

the

gun

and

the

rifle.

“Sammy!”

I

yell,

pulling

up

the

shot.

My

little

brother

hops

onto

his

toes;

his

fingerstear

at

the

doctor’s

mask

and

yank

it

down.

I’d

hate

to

see

the

look

on

my

face

when

that

mask

came

down

and

I

saw

the

face

behind

it.

Thinner

than

I

remember.

Paler.

The

eyes

sunk

deep

into

their

sockets,

kind

of

glazed

over,

like

he’s

sick

or

hurt,

but

I

recognize

it,

I

know

whose

face

was

hidden

behind

that

mask.

I

just

can’t

process

it.

Here,

in

this

place.

A

thousand

years

later

and

a

million

miles

from

the

halls

of

George

Barnard

High

School.

Here,

in

the

belly

of

the

beast

at

the

bottom

of

the

world,

standing

right

in

front

of

me.

Benjamin

Thomas

Parish.

And

Cassiopeia

Marie

Sullivan,

having

a

full-bore

out-of-body

experience,

seeing

herselfseeing

him.

The

last

time

she

saw

him

was

in

their

high

school

gymnasium

after

the

lights

went

out,

and

then

only

the

back

of

his

head,

and

the

only

times

that

she’s

seen

him

since

happened

in

her

mind,

the

rational

part

of

which

always

knew

Ben

Parish

was

dead

like

everyone

else.

“Zombie!”

Sammy

calls.

“I

knew

it

was

you.”

Zombie?

“Where

are

you

taking

him?”

Ben

says

to

me

in

a

deep

voice.

I

don’t

remember

it

beingthat

deep.

Is

my

memory

bad

or

is

he

lowering

it

on

purpose,

to

sound

older?

“Zombie,

that’s

Cassie,”

Sam

chides

him.

“You

know—Cassie.”

“Cassie?”

Like

he’s

never

heard

the

name

before.

“Zombie?”

I

say,

because

I

really

haven’t

heard

that

name

before.

I

pull

off

the

cap,

thinking

it

might

help

him

recognize

me,

then

immediately

regret

it.

I

know

what

my

hair

must

look

like.

“We

go

to

the

same

high

school,”

I

say,

drawing

my

fingers

hastily

through

my

chopped-off

locks.

“I

sit

in

front

of

you

in

Honors

Chemistry.”

Ben

shakes

his

head

like

he’s

clearing

out

the

cobwebs.

Sammy

goes,

“I

told

you

she

was

coming.”

“Quiet,

Sam,”

I

scold

him.

“Sam?”

Ben

asks.

“My

name

is

Nugget

now,

Cassie,”

Sam

informs

me.

“Well,

sure

it

is.”

I

turn

to

Ben.

“You

know

my

brother.”

Ben

nods

carefully.

I

still

don’t

get

his

attitude.

Not

that

I

expect

him

to

throwhis

arms

around

me

or

even

remember

me

from

chemistry

class,

but

his

voice

is

tight,

and

he’s

still

holding

the

gun

by

his

side.

“Why

are

you

dressed

like

a

doctor?”

Sammy

asks.

Ben

like

a

doctor.

Me

like

a

soldier.

Like

two

kids

playing

dress-up.

A

fake

doctor

and

a

fake

soldier

debating

with

themselves

whether

to

blow

the

other

one’s

brains

out.

Those

first

few

moments

between

me

and

Ben

Parish

were

very

strange.

“I

came

to

get

you

out

of

here,”

Ben

says

to

Sam,

still

looking

at

me.

Sam

glances

over

at

me.

Isn’t

that

why

I

came?

Now

he’s

really

confused.

“You’re

not

taking

my

brother

anywhere,”

I

say.

“It’s

a

lie,”

Ben

blurts

out

at

me.

“Vosch

is

one

of

them.

They’re

using

us

to

kill

off

the

survivors,

to

kill

each

other…”

“I

know

that,”

I

snap.

“How

do

you

know

that,

and

what

does

that

have

to

do

with

taking

Sam?”

Ben

seems

stunned

by

my

response

to

his

bombshell.

Then

I

get

it.

He

thinks

I’ve

been

indoctrinated

like

everybody

else

in

the

camp.

It’s

so

ridiculous,

I

actually

laugh.

While

I’m

laughing

like

an

idiot,

I

get

something

else:

He

hasn’t

been

brainwashed,

either.

Which

means

I

can

trust

him.

Unless

he’s

playing

me,

getting

me

to

lower

my

guard—and

my

weapon—so

he

can

waste

me

and

take

Sam.

Which

means

I

can’t

trust

him.

I

also

can’t

read

his

mind,

but

he

must

be

thinking

along

the

same

lines

when

I

burstout

laughing.

Why

is

this

crazy

girl

with

the

helmet-hair

laughing?

Because

he’s

stated

the

obvious

or

because

I

think

his

story’s

crap?

“I

know,”

Sammy

says

to

broker

the

peace.

“We

can

all

go

together!”

“Do

you

know

a

way

out

of

here?”

I

ask

Ben.

Sammy’s

more

trusting

than

I

am,

but

theidea’s

worth

exploring.

Finding

the

escape

pods—if

they

even

exist—has

always

been

the

weakest

part

of

my

getaway

plan.

He

nods.

“Do

you?”

“I

know

a

way—I

just

don’t

know

the

way

to

the

way.”

“The

way

to

the

way?

Okay.”

He

grins.

He

looks

like

hell,

but

the

smile

hasn’t

changeda

bit.

It

lights

up

the

tunnel

like

a

thousand-watt

bulb.

“I

know

the

way

and

the

way

to

the

way.”

He

drops

the

gun

into

his

pocket

and

holds

out

his

empty

hand.

“Let’s

go

together.”

The

thing

that

gets

me

is

whether

I’d

take

that

hand

if

it

belonged

to

anyone

other

than

Ben

Parish.

84

SAMMY

NOTICES

THE

BLOOD

before

I

do.

“It’s

nothing,”

Ben

grunts.

I

don’t

get

that

from

the

look

on

his

face.

From

the

look

on

his

face,

it’s

a

lot

more

than

nothing.

“It’s

a

long

story,

Nugget,”

Ben

says.

“I’ll

tell

you

later.”

“Where

are

we

going?”

I

ask.

Not

that

we’re

getting

there—wherever

there

is—very

fast.Ben

is

shuffling

along

the

maze

of

corridors

like

an

actual

zombie.

The

face

of

the

Ben

I

remember

is

still

there,

but

it’s

faded…or

maybe

not

faded,

but

congealed

into

a

leaner,

sharper,

harder

version

of

his

old

face.

Like

someone

cut

away

the

parts

that

weren’t

absolutely

necessary

for

Ben

to

maintain

his

Ben

essence.

“In

general?

The

hell

out

of

here.

After

this

next

tunnel

coming

up

on

the

right.

It

leads

to

an

air

shaft

that

we

can—”

“Wait!”

I

grab

his

arm.

In

my

shock

at

seeing

him

again,

I’d

completely

forgotten.

“Sammy’s

tracker.”

He

stares

at

me

for

a

second,

and

then

laughs

ruefully.

“I

completely

forgot.”

“Forgot

what?”

Sammy

asks.

I

go

to

one

knee,

take

his

hands

in

mine.

We’re

several

corridors

away

from

the

safe

room,

but

Major

Bob’s

megaphoned

voice

still

bounces

and

skips

along

the

tunnels.

“Sams,

there’s

something

we

have

to

do.

Something

very

important.

The

people

here,

they’re

not

who

they

say

they

are.”

“Who

are

they?”

he

whispers.

“Bad

people,

Sam.

Very

bad

people.”

“Teds,”

Ben

puts

in.

“Dr.

Pam,

the

soldiers,

the

commander…even

the

commander.

They’re

all

infesteds.

They

tricked

us,

Nugget.”

Sammy’s

eyes

are

big

as

pie

plates.

“The

commander,

too?”

“The

commander,

too,”

Ben

answers.

“So

we’re

getting

out

of

here

and

we’re

going

tomeet

up

with

Ringer.”

He

catches

me

staring

at

him.

“That’s

not

her

real

name.”

“Really?”

I

shake

my

head.

Zombie,

Nugget,

Ringer.

Must

be

an

army

thing.

I

turn

backto

Sam.

“They

lied

about

a

lot

of

things,

Sam.

About

almost

everything.”

I

let

goof

his

hand

and

run

my

fingers

up

the

back

of

his

neck,

finding

the

small

lump

beneath

the

skin.

“This

is

one

of

their

lies,

this

thing

they

put

in

you.

They

use

it

to

track

you—but

they

can

also

use

it

to

hurt

you.”

Ben

squats

down

beside

me.

“So

we

have

to

get

it

out,

Nugget.”

Sam

nods,

fat

bottom

lip

quivering,

big

eyes

filling

up

with

tears.

“Oh-kay-ay…”

“But

you

have

to

be

very

quiet

and

very

still,”

I

caution

him.

“You

can’t

yell

or

cry

or

twist

around.

Think

you

can

do

that?”

He

nods

again,

and

a

tear

pops

out

and

drops

on

my

forearm.

I

stand

up,

and

Ben

andI

step

away

for

a

brief

preoperative

conference.

“We’ll

have

to

use

this,”

I

say,

showing

him

the

ten-inch

combat

knife,

which

I’m

careful

not

to

let

Sammy

see.

Ben’s

eyes

widen.

“If

you

say

so,

but

I

was

going

to

use

this.”

And

he

pulls

a

scalpel

from

his

lab

coat

pocket.

“That’s

probably

better.”

“You

want

to

do

it?”

“I

should

do

it.

He’s

my

brother.”

But

the

thought

of

cutting

into

Sammy’s

neck

gives

me

the

squishies.

“I

can

do

it,”

Ben

offers.

“You

hold

him,

and

I’ll

cut.”

“So

it’s

not

a

disguise?

You

earned

your

MD

here

at

E.T.

University?”

He

smiles

grimly.

“Just

try

to

keep

him

as

still

as

possible

so

I

don’t

slice

into

something

important.”

We

return

to

Sam,

who’s

sitting

now

with

his

back

against

the

wall,

pressing

Bear

into

his

chest

and

watching

us,

eyes

flicking

fearfully

back

and

forth.

I

whisper

to

Ben,

“If

you

hurt

him,

Parish,

I’m

sticking

this

knife

into

your

heart.”

He

looks

at

me,

startled.

“I

would

never

hurt

him.”

I

ease

Sam

into

my

lap.

Roll

him

over

so

he’s

lying

facedown

across

my

legs,

his

chinhanging

over

the

edge

of

my

thigh.

Ben

kneels

down.

I

look

at

the

hand

holding

the

scalpel.

It’s

shaking.

“I’m

okay,”

Ben

whispers.

“Really.

I’m

okay.

Don’t

let

him

move.”

“Cassie…!”

Sammy

whimpers.

“Shhhh.

Shhhh.

Stay

very

still.

He’ll

be

quick,”

I

say.

“Be

quick,”

I

tell

Ben.

I

hold

Sam’s

head

with

both

hands.

As

Ben’s

hand

approaches

with

the

scalpel,

it

becomes

rock

steady.

“Hey,

Nugget,”

he

says.

“Okay

if

I

take

the

locket

back

first?”

Sammy

nods,

and

Benundoes

the

clasp.

The

metal

clinks

in

his

hand

as

he

pulls

it

free.

“It’s

yours?”

I

ask

Ben,

startled.

“My

sister’s.”

Ben

drops

the

chain

into

his

pocket.

The

way

he

says

it,

I

know

she’s

dead.

I

turn

my

head.

Thirty

minutes

ago

I’d

blown

a

guy’s

face

off,

and

now

I

can’t

watch

someone

make

the

tiniest

of

cuts.

Sammy

jerks

when

the

blade

breaks

his

skin.

He

bites

down

on

my

leg

to

keep

from

screaming.

Bites

hard.

It

takes

everything

in

me

to

remain

still.

If

I

move,

Ben’s

hand

might

slip.

“Hurry,”

I

squeak,

mouse-voiced.

“Got

it!”

The

tracker

adheres

to

the

end

of

Ben’s

bloody

middle

finger.

“Get

rid

of

it.”

Ben

shakes

it

off

his

hand

and

slaps

a

bandage

over

the

wound.

He

came

prepared.

Icame

with

a

ten-inch

combat

knife.

“Okay,

it’s

over,

Sam,”

I

moan.

“You

can

stop

biting

me

now.”

“It

hurts,

Cassie!”

“I

know,

I

know.”

I

pull

him

up

and

give

him

a

big

hug.

“And

you

were

very

brave.”

He

nods

seriously.

“I

know.”

Ben

offers

me

his

hand,

helps

me

to

my

feet.

His

hand

is

tacky

with

my

brother’s

blood.

He

drops

the

scalpel

into

his

pocket

and

then

the

gun

is

back

in

his

hand.

“We

better

get

moving,”

he

says

calmly,

like

we

might

miss

a

bus.

Back

into

the

main

corridor,

Sammy

leaning

hard

against

my

side.

We

make

the

last

turn,

and

Ben

stops

so

suddenly,

I

run

right

into

his

back.

The

tunnel

echoes

with

the

sound

of

a

dozen

semiautomatics

being

racked,

and

I

hear

a

familiar

voice

say,

“You’re

late,

Ben.

I

expected

you

much

sooner.”

A

very

deep

voice,

hard

as

steel.

85

I

LOSE

SAMMY

for

a

second

time.

A

Silencer-soldier

takes

him

away,

back

to

the

saferoom

to

be

evacuated

with

the

other

kids,

I

guess.

Another

Silencer

brings

Ben

and

me

to

the

execution

room.

The

room

with

the

mirror

and

the

button.

The

room

where

innocent

people

are

wired

up

and

electrocuted.

The

room

of

blood

and

lies.

Seems

fitting.

“Do

you

know

why

we

will

win

this

war?”

Vosch

asks

us

after

we’re

locked

inside.

“Why

we

cannot

lose?

Because

we

know

how

you

think.

We’ve

been

watching

you

for

six

thousand

years.

When

the

pyramids

rose

in

the

Egyptian

desert,

we

were

watching

you.

When

Caesarburned

the

library

at

Alexandria,

we

were

watching

you.

When

you

crucified

that

first-century

Jewish

peasant,

we

were

watching.

When

Columbus

set

foot

in

the

New

World…when

youfought

a

war

to

free

millions

of

your

fellow

humans

from

bondage…when

you

learned

how

to

split

the

atom…when

you

first

ventured

beyond

your

atmosphere…What

were

we

doing?”

Ben

isn’t

looking

at

him.

Neither

of

us

is.

We’re

both

sitting

in

front

of

the

mirror,

looking

straight

ahead

at

our

distorted

reflections

in

the

broken

glass.

The

room

on

the

other

side

is

dark.

“You

were

watching

us,”

I

say.

Vosch

is

sitting

in

front

of

the

monitor,

about

a

foot

away

from

me.

On

my

other

side,

Ben,

and

behind

us,

a

very

well-built

Silencer.

“We

were

learning

how

you

think.

That’s

the

secret

to

victory,

as

Sergeant

Parish

here

already

knows:

understanding

how

your

enemy

thinks.

The

arrival

of

the

mothership

was

not

the

beginning,

but

the

beginning

of

the

end.

And

now

here

you

are,

in

a

front-row

seat

for

the

finale,

a

special

sneak

peek

into

the

future.

Would

you

like

to

see

the

future?

Your

future?

Would

you

like

to

stare

all

the

way

down

to

the

bottom

of

the

human

cup?”

Vosch

presses

a

button

on

the

keyboard.

The

lights

in

the

room

on

the

other

side

of

the

mirror

flicker

on.

There

is

a

chair,

a

Silencer

standing

beside

it,

and

strapped

to

the

chair

is

my

brother,

Sammy,

thick

wires

attached

to

his

head.

“This

is

the

future,”

Vosch

whispers.

“The

human

animal

bound,

its

death

at

our

fingertips.

And

when

you

have

finished

the

work

that

we’ve

given

you,

we

will

press

the

execute

button

and

your

deplorable

stewardship

of

this

planet

will

come

to

an

end.”

“You

don’t

have

to

do

this!”

I

shout.

The

Silencer

behind

me

puts

a

hand

on

my

shoulder

and

squeezes

hard.

But

not

hard

enough

to

keep

me

from

jumping

out

of

the

chair.

“All

you

have

to

do

is

implant

us

and

download

us

into

Wonderland.

Won’t

that

tell

you

everything

you

want

to

know?

You

don’t

have

to

kill

him…”

“Cassie,”

Ben

says

softly.

“He’s

going

to

kill

him

anyway.”

“You

shouldn’t

listen

to

him,

young

lady,”

Vosch

says.

“He’s

weak.

He’s

always

been

weak.

You’ve

shown

more

pluck

and

determination

in

a

few

hours

than

he

has

in

his

miserable

lifetime.”

He

nods

to

the

Silencer,

who

yanks

me

back

into

the

chair.

“I

am

going

to

‘download’

you,”

Vosch

tells

me.

“And

I

am

going

to

kill

Sergeant

Parish.

But

you

can

save

the

child.

If

you

tell

me

who

helped

you

infiltrate

this

base.”

“Won’t

downloading

me

tell

you

that?”

I

ask.

While

I’m

thinking,

Evan

is

alive!

And

then

I

think,

No,

maybe

he

isn’t.

He

could

have

been

killed

in

the

bombing,

vaporized

like

everything

else

on

the

surface.

It

could

be

that

Vosch,

like

me,

doesn’t

know

whether

Evan’s

alive

or

dead.

“Because

someone

helped

you,”

Vosch

says,

ignoring

my

question.

“And

I

suspect

thatsomeone

is

not

someone

like

Mr.

Parish

here.

He—or

they—would

be

someone

more

like…well,me.

Someone

who

would

know

how

to

defeat

the

Wonderland

program

by

hiding

your

true

memories,

the

same

method

we

have

used

for

centuries

to

hide

ourselves

from

you.”

I’m

shaking

my

head.

I

have

no

idea

what

he’s

talking

about.

True

memories?

“Birds

are

the

most

common,”

Vosch

says.

He’s

absently

running

his

finger

over

the

button

marked

EXECUTE.

“Owls.

Duringthe

initial

phase,

when

we

were

inserting

ourselves

into

you,

we

often

used

the

screen

memory

of

an

owl

to

hide

the

fact

from

the

expectant

mother.”

“I

hate

birds,”

I

whisper.

Vosch

smiles.

“The

most

useful

of

this

planet’s

indigenous

fauna.

Diverse.

Considered

benign,

for

the

most

part.

So

ubiquitous

they’re

practically

invisible.

Did

you

know

they’re

descended

from

the

dinosaurs?

There’s

a

very

satisfying

irony

in

that.

The

dinosaurs

made

way

for

you,

and

now,

with

the

help

of

their

descendants,

you

will

make

way

for

us.”

“No

one

helped

me!”

I

screech,

cutting

off

the

lecture.

“I

did

it

all

myself!”

“Really?

Then

how

is

it,

at

the

precise

moment

you

were

killing

Dr.

Pam

in

HangarOne,

two

of

our

sentries

were

shot,

another

eviscerated,

and

a

fourth

hurled

a

hundred

feet

down

from

his

post

on

the

south

watchtower?”

“I

don’t

know

anything

about

that.

I

just

came

to

find

my

brother.”

His

face

darkens.

“There

really

is

no

hope,

you

know.

All

your

daydreams

and

childish

fantasies

about

defeating

us—useless.”

I

open

my

mouth

and

the

words

come

out.

They

just

come

out.

“Fuck

you.”

And

his

finger

comes

down

hard

on

the

button,

like

he

hates

it,

like

the

button

has

a

face

and

its

face

is

a

human

face,

the

face

of

the

sentient

cockroach,

and

his

finger

the

boot,

stomping

down.

86

I

DON’T

KNOW

what

I

did

first.

I

think

I

screamed.

I

know

I

also

ripped

free

fromthe

Silencer’s

grip

and

lunged

at

Vosch

with

the

intention

of

tearing

his

eyeballs

out.

But

I

don’t

remember

which

came

first,

the

scream

or

the

lunge.

Ben

throwing

his

arms

around

me

to

hold

me

back,

I

know

that

came

after

the

scream

and

the

lunge.

He

threw

his

arms

around

me

and

pulled

me

back

because

I

was

focused

on

Vosch,

on

my

hate.

I

didn’t

even

look

through

the

mirror

at

my

brother,

but

Ben

had

been

looking

at

the

monitor

and

the

word

that

popped

up

when

Vosch

hit

the

execute

button:

OOPS.

I

whip

around

to

the

mirror.

Sammy

is

still

alive—crying

buckets,

but

alive.

Beside

me,

Vosch

stands

up

so

fast,

the

chair

flies

across

the

room

and

smacks

against

the

wall.

“He’s

hacked

into

the

mainframe

and

overwritten

the

program,”

he

snarls

at

the

Silencer.

“He’ll

cut

the

power

next.

Hold

them

here.”

He

yells

at

the

man

standing

beside

Sammy.

“Secure

that

door!

No

one

leaves

until

I

get

back.”

He

slams

out

of

the

room.

The

lock

clicks.

No

way

out

now.

Or

there

is

a

way,

the

way

I

took

the

first

time

I

was

trapped

in

this

room.

I

glance

up

at

the

grating.

Forget

it,

Cassie.

It’s

you

and

Ben

against

two

Silencers,

and

Ben’s

hurt.

Don’t

even

think

about

it.

No.

It’s

me

and

Ben

and

Evan

against

the

Silencers.

Evan

is

alive.

And

if

Evan’s

alive,

we

haven’t

reached

the

end—the

bottom

of

the

human

cup.

The

boot

hasn’t

crushed

the

roach.

Not

yet.

And

that’s

when

I

see

it

drop

between

the

slats

and

tumble

onto

the

floor,

the

body

of

a

real

cockroach,

freshly

squashed.

I

watch

it

fall

in

slow

motion,

so

slow

I

can

see

the

tiny

bounce

when

it

hits

the

floor.

You

want

to

compare

yourself

to

an

insect,

Cassie?

My

eyes

fly

back

to

the

grate,

where

a

shadow

flickers,

like

the

flurry

of

a

mayfly’s

wings.

And

I

whisper

to

Ben

Parish,

“The

one

with

Sammy—he’s

mine.”

Startled,

Ben

whispers

back

to

me,

“What?”

I

drive

my

shoulder

into

our

Silencer’s

gut,

catching

him

off

guard,

and

he

stumbles

backward

beneath

the

grate,

his

arms

flailing

for

balance,

and

Evan’s

bullet

tears

into

his

fully

human

brain,

killing

him

instantly.

I

have

his

gun

before

he

hits

the

floor,

and

I

have

one

chance,

one

shot

through

the

hole

I

had

made

earlier.

If

I

miss,

Sammy

is

dead—his

Silencer

is

turning

on

him

even

as

I

turn

on

him.

But

I

had

an

excellent

instructor.

One

of

the

best

marksmen

in

the

world—even

whenthere

were

seven

billion

people

in

it.

It

isn’t

exactly

like

shooting

a

can

from

a

fence

post.

It’s

actually

a

lot

easier:

His

head

is

closer

and

a

heck

of

a

lot

bigger.

Sammy

is

halfway

to

me

before

the

guy’s

body

hits

the

floor.

I

pull

him

through

the

hole.

Ben

is

looking

at

us,

at

the

dead

Silencer,

at

the

other

dead

Silencer,

at

the

gun

in

my

hand.

He

doesn’t

know

what

to

look

at.

I’m

looking

up

at

the

grate.

“We’re

clear!”

I

call

up

to

him.

He

knocks

once

against

the

side.

I

don’t

get

it

at

first,

and

then

I

laugh.

Let’s

establish

a

code

for

when

you

want

to

go

all

creeper

on

me.

One

knock

means

you’d

like

to

come

in.

“Yes,

Evan.”

I’m

laughing

so

hard,

it’s

starting

to

hurt.

“You

can

come

in.”

I’m

about

to

pee

myself

with

relief

that

we’re

all

alive,

but

mostly

because

he

is.

He

drops

into

the

room,

landing

on

the

balls

of

his

feet

like

a

cat.

I’m

in

his

armsin

the

time

it

takes

to

say

“I

love

you,”

which

he

does,

stroking

my

hair,

whispering

my

name

and

the

words,

“My

mayfly.”

“How

did

you

find

us?”

I

ask

him.

He’s

so

completely

with

me,

so

there,

it’s

like

I’m

seeing

his

yummy

chocolate

eyes

for

the

first

time,

feeling

his

strong

arms

and

his

soft

lips

for

the

first

time.

“Easy.

Somebody

was

up

there

ahead

of

me

and

left

a

blood

trail.”

“Cassie?”

It’s

Sammy,

holding

on

to

Ben,

because

he’s

feeling

the

Ben

thing

a

little

more

than

he

is

the

Cassie

one

at

the

moment.

Who’s

this

guy

falling

from

the

ductwork,

and

what’s

he

doing

with

my

sister?

“This

must

be

Sammy,”

Evan

says.

“This

is

Sammy,”

I

say.

“Oh!

And

this

is—”

“Ben

Parish,”

Ben

says.

“Ben

Parish?”

Evan

looks

at

me.

That

Ben

Parish?

“Ben,”

I

say,

my

face

on

fire.

I

want

to

laugh

and

crawl

under

the

counter

at

the

same

time.

“This

is

Evan

Walker.”

“Is

he

your

boyfriend?”

Sammy

asks.

I

don’t

know

what

to

say.

Ben

looks

totally

lost,

Evan

completely

amused,

and

Sammyjust

damned

curious.

It’s

my

first

truly

awkward

moment

in

the

alien

lair,

and

I’d

been

through

my

share

of

moments.

“He’s

a

friend

from

high

school,”

I

mutter.

And

Evan

corrects

me,

since

it’s

clear

I’ve

lost

my

mind.

“Actually,

Sam,

Ben

is

Cassie’sfriend

from

high

school.”

“She’s

not

my

friend,”

Ben

says.

“I

mean,

I

guess

I

kind

ofremember

her…”

Then

Evan’s

words

sink

in.

“How

do

you

know

who

I

am?”

“He

doesn’t!”

I

fairly

shout.

“Cassie

told

me

about

you,”

Evan

says.

I

elbow

him

in

the

ribs,

and

he

gives

me

a

look

like

What?

“Maybe

we

can

chat

about

how

everybody

knows

one

another

later,”

I

plead

with

Evan.

“Right

now

don’t

you

think

it

would

be

a

good

idea

for

us

to

leave?”

“Right.”

Evan

nods.

“Let’s

go.”

He

looks

at

Ben.

“You’re

injured.”

Ben

shrugs.

“A

couple

of

torn

stitches.

I’m

okay.”

I

slip

the

Silencer’s

gun

into

my

empty

holster,

realize

Ben

will

need

a

weapon,

and

pop

through

the

hole

in

the

mirror

to

fetch

it.

They’re

all

still

just

standing

around

when

I

get

back,

Ben

and

Evan

smiling

at

each

other—knowingly,

in

my

opinion.

“What

are

we

standing

around

for?”

I

ask,

my

voice

harsher

than

I’d

intended.

I

scootthe

chair

beside

the

Silencer’s

body

and

motion

toward

the

grate.

“Evan,

you

should

take

point.”

“We’re

not

going

that

way,”

Evan

says

back.

He

takes

a

key

card

from

the

Silencer’s

pouch

and

swipes

it

through

the

door

lock.

The

light

flashes

green.

“We’re

walking

out?”

I

ask.

“Just

like

that?”

“Just

like

that,”

Evan

answers.

He

checks

out

the

corridor

first,

then

motions

for

us

to

follow,

and

we

step

out

of

the

execution

room.

The

door

locks

behind

us.

The

hallway

is

eerily

quiet,

feels

deserted.

“He

said

you

were

going

to

cut

the

power,”

I

whisper,

pulling

the

gun

from

my

holster.

Evan

holds

up

a

silver

object

that

looks

like

a

flip

phone.

“I

am.

Right

now.”

He

hits

a

button,

and

the

corridor

plunges

into

darkness.

I

can’t

see

anything.

Myfree

hand

shoots

into

the

dark,

searching

for

Sammy’s.

I

find

Ben’s

instead.

He

grips

my

hand

hard

before

letting

it

go.

Little

fingers

tug

at

my

pant

leg

and

I

pull

them

up,

hook

one

through

my

belt

loop.

“Ben,

hold

on

to

me,”

Evan

says

softly.

“Cassie,

hold

on

to

Ben.

It

isn’t

far.”

I

expect

a

slow

shuffle

of

this

rumba

line

through

the

pitch

dark,

but

we

take

off

fast,

nearly

tripping

over

one

another’s

heels.

He

must

be

able

to

see

in

the

dark,

another

catlike

quality.

We

don’t

go

very

far

before

we’re

clustered

around

a

door.

At

least

I

think

it’s

a

door.

It’s

smooth,

not

like

the

textured

cinder-block

walls.

Someone—it

has

to

be

Evan—pushes

against

the

smooth

surface

and

there’s

a

puff

of

fresh,

cold

air.

“Stairs?”

I

whisper.

I’m

completely

blind

and

disoriented,

but

I

think

these

might

be

the

same

stairs

I

came

down

when

I

first

got

here.

“Halfway

up

you’re

going

to

hit

some

debris,”

Evan

says.

“But

you

should

be

able

tosqueeze

through.

Be

careful;

it

might

be

a

little

unstable.

When

you

get

to

the

top,

head

due

north.

Do

you

know

which

way

is

north?”

Ben

says,

“I

do.

Or

at

least

I

know

how

to

figure

it

out.”

“What

do

you

mean,

when

we

get

to

the

top?”

I

demand.

“Aren’t

you

coming

with

us?”

I

feel

his

hand

on

my

cheek.

I

know

what

this

means

and

I

slap

his

hand

away.

“You’re

coming

with

us,

Evan,”

I

say.

“There’s

something

I

have

to

do.”

“That’s

right.”

My

hand

flails

for

his

in

the

dark.

I

find

it

and

pull

hard.

“You

have

to

come

with

us.”

“I’ll

find

you,

Cassie.

Don’t

I

always

find

you?

I—”

“Don’t,

Evan.

You

don’t

know

you’ll

be

able

to

find

me.”

“Cassie.”

I

don’t

like

the

way

he

says

my

name.

His

voice

is

too

soft,

too

sad,

toomuch

like

a

good-bye

voice.

“I

was

wrong

when

I

said

I

was

both

and

neither.

I

can’tbe;

I

know

that

now.

I

have

to

choose.”

“Wait

a

minute,”

Ben

says.

“Cassie,

this

guy

is

one

of

them?”

“It’s

complicated,”

I

answer.

“We’ll

go

over

it

later.”

I

grab

Evan’s

hand

in

both

of

mine

and

press

it

against

my

chest.

“Don’t

leave

me

again.”

“You

left

me,

remember?”

He

spreads

his

fingers

over

my

heart,

like

he’s

holding

it,

like

it

belongs

to

him,

the

hard-fought-for

territory

he’s

won

fair

and

square.

I

give

in.

What

am

I

going

to

do,

put

a

gun

to

his

head?He’s

gotten

this

far,

I

tell

myself.

He’ll

get

the

rest

of

the

way.

“What’s

due

north?”

I

ask,

pushing

against

his

fingers.

“I

don’t

know.

But

it’s

the

shortest

path

to

the

farthest

spot.”

“The

farthest

spot

from

what?”

“From

here.

Wait

for

the

plane.

When

the

plane

takes

off,

run.

Ben,

do

you

think

you

can

run?”

“I

think

so.”

“Run

fast?”

“Yes.”

He

doesn’t

sound

too

confident

about

it,

though.

“Wait

for

the

plane,”

Evan

whispers.

“Don’t

forget.”

He

kisses

me

hard

on

the

mouth,

and

then

the

stairwell

goes

all

Evanless.

I

can

feelBen’s

breath

on

my

neck,

hot

in

the

cool

air.

“I

don’t

understand

what’s

happening

here,”

Ben

says.

“Who

is

that

guy?

He’s

a…Whatis

he?

Where’d

he

come

from?

And

where’s

he

going

now?”

“I’m

not

sure,

but

I

think

he’s

found

the

armory.”

Somebody

was

up

there

ahead

of

me

and

left

a

blood

trail.

Oh

God,

Evan.

No

wonder

you

didn’t

tell

me.

“He’s

going

to

blow

this

whole

place

to

hell.”

87

IT’S

NOT

A

RACE

up

the

stairs

to

freedom.

We

practically

crawl

up,

hanging

on

to

oneanother

as

we

climb,

me

in

the

lead,

Ben

at

the

rear,

and

Sammy

between

us.

The

closed

space

is

choked

with

fine

particles

of

dust,

and

soon

we’re

all

coughing

and

wheezing

loud

enough,

it

seems

to

me,

to

be

heard

by

every

Silencer

in

a

two-mile

radius.

Imove

with

one

hand

extended

in

front

of

me

in

the

blackness

and

call

out

our

progress

softly.

“First

landing!”

A

hundred

years

later

we

reach

the

second

landing.

Almost

halfway

to

the

top,

but

we

haven’t

hit

the

debris

Evan

warned

us

about.

I

have

to

choose.

Now

that

he’s

gone

and

it’s

too

late,

I’ve

come

up

with

about

a

dozen

good

arguments

for

why

he

shouldn’t

leave

us.

My

best

argument

is

this:

You

won’t

have

time.

The

Eye

takes—what?—about

a

minute

or

two

from

activation

to

detonation.

Barely

enoughtime

to

get

to

the

armory

doors.

Okay,

so

you’re

going

to

go

all

noble

and

sacrifice

yourself

to

save

us,

but

then

don’t

say

things

like

I’ll

find

you,

which

implies

there’ll

be

an

I

to

find

me

after

you

unleash

the

green

fireball

from

hell.

Unless…Maybe

the

Eyes

can

be

detonated

remotely.

Maybe

that

little

silver

thing

he’s

carrying

around…

No.

If

that

was

a

possibility,

he

would

have

come

with

us

and

set

them

of

once

we

were

a

safe

distance

away.

Damn

it.

Every

time

I

think

I’m

starting

to

understand

Evan

Walker,

he

slips

away.

It’s

like

I’m

blind

from

birth,

trying

to

visualize

a

rainbow.

If

what

I

think

is

about

to

happen

actually

happens,

will

I

feel

his

passing

like

he

felt

Lauren’s,

like

a

punch

in

the

heart?

We’re

halfway

to

the

third

landing

when

my

hand

smacks

into

stone.

I

turn

to

Ben

and

whisper,

“I’m

going

to

see

if

I

can

climb

it—there

might

be

room

to

squeeze

through

at

the

top.”

I

hand

my

rifle

to

him

and

get

a

good

grip

with

both

hands.

I’ve

never

done

much

rockclimbing—

okay,

my

experience

is

zero—but

how

hard

could

it

be,

really?

I’m

maybe

three

feet

up

when

a

rock

slips

beneath

my

foot

and

I

come

back

down,

smackingmy

chin

hard

on

the

way.

“I’ll

try,”

Ben

says.

“Don’t

be

stupid.

You’re

hurt.”

“I’d

have

to

try

if

you

made

it,

Cassie,”

he

points

out.

He’s

right,

of

course.

I

hold

on

to

Sammy

while

Ben

scales

the

mass

of

broken

concreteand

shattered

reinforcement

rods.

I

can

hear

him

grunting

every

time

he

reaches

up

for

the

next

handhold.

Something

wet

drops

onto

my

nose.

Blood.

“Are

you

okay?”

I

call

up

to

him.

“Um.

Define

okay.”

“Okay

means

you’re

not

bleeding

to

death.”

“I’m

okay.”

He’s

weak,

Vosch

said.

I

remember

the

way

Ben

used

to

stroll

down

the

hallways

at

school,

his

broad

shoulders

rolling,

zapping

people

with

his

death-ray

smile,

the

master

of

his

universe.

I

never

would

have

called

him

weak

then.

But

the

Ben

Parish

I

knew

then

is

very

different

from

the

Ben

Parish

who

now

pulls

himself

up

a

jagged

wall

of

broken

stone

and

twisted

metal.

The

new

Ben

Parish

has

the

eyes

of

a

wounded

animal.

I

don’t

know

everything

that’s

happened

to

him

between

that

day

in

the

gym

and

now,

but

I

do

know

the

Others

have

succeeded

in

winnowing

the

weak

from

the

strong.

The

weak

have

been

swept

away.

That’s

the

flaw

in

Vosch’s

master

plan:

If

you

don’t

kill

all

of

us

all

at

once,

those

who

remain

will

not

be

the

weak.

It’s

the

strong

who

remain,

the

bent

but

unbroken,

like

the

iron

rods

that

used

to

give

this

concrete

its

strength.

Floods,

fires,

earthquakes,

disease,

starvation,

betrayal,

isolation,

murder.

What

doesn’t

kill

us

sharpens

us.

Hardens

us.

Schools

us.

You’re

beating

plowshares

into

swords,

Vosch.

You

are

remaking

us.

We

are

the

clay,

and

you

are

Michelangelo.

And

we

will

be

your

masterpiece.

88

“WELL?”

I

SAY

after

several

minutes

pass

and

Ben

doesn’t

come

down—the

slow

way

orthe

fast

way.

“Just…enough…room.

I

think.”

His

voice

sounds

tiny.

“It

goes

back

pretty

far.

ButI

can

see

light

up

ahead.”

“Light?”

“Bright

light.

Like

floodlights.

And…”

“And?

And

what?”

“And

it’s

not

very

stable.

I

can

feel

it

slipping

underneath

me.”

I

squat

down

in

front

of

Sammy,

tell

him

to

climb

aboard,

and

wrap

his

arms

around

my

neck.

“Hold

on

tight,

Sam.”

He

puts

me

in

a

choke

hold.

“Ahhh,”

I

gasp.

“Not

that

tight.”

“Don’t

let

me

fall,

Cassie,”

he

whispers

into

my

ear

as

I

start

up.

“I

won’t

let

you

fall,

Sam.”

He

presses

his

face

against

my

back,

completely

trusting

I

won’t

let

him

fall.

He’s

been

through

four

alien

attacks,

suffered

God

knows

what

in

Vosch’s

death

factory,

and

my

brother

still

trusts

that

somehow

everything

will

be

okay.

There

really

is

no

hope,

you

know,

Vosch

said.

I’ve

heard

those

words

before,

in

another

voice,

my

voice,

in

the

tent

in

the

woods,

under

the

car

on

the

highway.

Hopeless.

Useless.

Pointless.

What

Vosch

spoke,

I

believed.

In

the

safe

room

I

saw

an

infinite

sea

of

upturned

faces.

If

they

had

asked,

wouldI

have

told

them

there

was

no

hope,

that

it

was

pointless?

Or

would

I

have

told

them,

Climb

onto

my

shoulders,

I

will

not

let

you

fall?

Reach.

Grab.

Pull.

Step.

Rest.

Reach.

Grab.

Pull.

Step.

Rest.

Climb

onto

my

shoulders.

I

will

not

let

you

fall.

89

BEN

GRABS

MY

WRISTS

when

I

near

the

top

of

the

debris,

but

I

gasp

for

him

to

pulSlammy

up

first.

I’ve

got

nothing

left

for

that

final

foot.

I

just

hang

there,

waitingfor

Ben

to

grab

me

again.

He

heaves

me

into

the

narrow

gap,

a

sliver

of

space

between

the

ceiling

and

the

top

of

the

slide.

The

darkness

up

here

is

not

as

dense,

and

I

can

see

his

gaunt

face

dusted

in

concrete,

bleeding

from

fresh

scratches.

“Straight

ahead,”

he

whispers.

“Maybe

a

hundred

feet.”

No

room

to

stand

or

sit

up:We’re

lying

on

our

stomachs

nearly

nose

to

nose.

“Cassie,

there’s…nothing.

The

entire

camp’s

gone.

Just…gone.”

I

nod.

I’ve

seen

what

the

Eyes

can

do

up

close

and

personal.

“Have

to

rest,”

I

pant,and

for

some

reason

I’m

worried

about

the

quality

of

my

breath.

When

was

the

lasttime

I

brushed

my

teeth?

“Sams,

you

okay?”

“Yes.”

“Are

you?”

Ben

asks.

“Define

okay.”

“That’s

a

definition

that

keeps

changing,”

he

says.

“They’ve

lit

the

place

up

out

there.”

“The

plane?”

“It’s

there.

Big,

one

of

those

huge

cargo

planes.”

“There’s

a

lot

of

kids.”

We

crawl

toward

the

bar

of

light

seeping

through

the

crack

between

the

ruins

and

the

surface.

It’s

hard

going.

Sammy

starts

to

whimper.

His

hands

are

scraped

raw,

his

body

bruised

from

the

rough

stone.

We

squeeze

through

spots

so

narrow,

our

backs

scrape

against

the

ceiling.

Once

I

get

stuck

and

it

takes

Ben

several

minutes

to

work

me

free.

The

lightpushes

back

the

dark,

grows

bright,

so

bright

I

can

see

individual

particles

of

dust

spinning

against

the

inky

backdrop.

“I’m

thirsty,”

Sammy

whines.

“Almost

there,”

I

assure

him.

“See

the

light?”

At

the

opening

I

can

see

across

Death

Valley

East,

the

same

barren

landscape

of

CampAshpit

times

ten,

thanks

to

the

floodlights

swinging

from

hastily

erected

poles

anchored

in

the

shafts

that

funneled

air

into

the

complex

below.

And

above

us,

the

night

sky

peppered

with

drones.

Hundreds

of

them,

hovering

a

thousand

feet

up,

motionless,

their

gray

underbellies

glimmering

in

the

light.

On

the

ground

below

them,

and

far

to

my

right,

an

enormous

plane

sits

perpendicular

to

our

position:

When

it

takes

off,

it’ll

pass

right

by

us.

“Have

they

loaded

the—”

I

start.

Ben

cuts

me

off

with

a

hiss.

“They’ve

started

the

engines.”

“Which

way

is

north?”

“About

two

o’clock.”

He

points.

His

face

has

no

color.

None.

His

mouth

hangs

opena

little,

like

a

dog

panting.

When

he

leans

forward

to

look

at

the

plane,

I

can

see

his

entire

shirtfront

is

wet.

“Can

you

run?”

I

ask.

“I

have

to.

So,

yes.”

I

turn

to

Sam.

“Once

we

get

out

in

the

open,

climb

back

on,

okay?”

“I

can

run,

Cassie,”

Sammy

protests.

“I’m

fast.”

“I’ll

carry

him,”

Ben

offers.

“Don’t

be

ridiculous,”

I

say.

“I’m

not

as

weak

as

I

look.”

He

must

be

thinking

about

Vosch.

“Of

course

not,”

I

say

back.

“But

if

you

go

down

with

him,

we’re

all

dead.”

“Same

with

you.”

“He’s

my

brother.

I’m

carrying

him.

Besides,

you’re

hurt

and—”

That’s

all

I

get

out.

The

rest

is

buried

under

the

roar

of

the

huge

plane

coming

toward

us,

picking

up

speed.

“This

is

it!”

Ben

shouts,

but

I

can’t

hear

him.

I

have

to

read

his

lips.

90

WE

CROUCH

AT

THE

OPENING,

tips

of

our

fingers,

balls

of

our

feet.

The

cold

air

vibrateisn

sympathy

for

the

deafening

thunder

of

the

big

plane

screaming

over

the

hard-packed

ground.

It’s

even

with

us

when

the

front

wheel

rises,

and

that’s

when

the

first

blast

hits.

And

I

think,

Um,

a

little

early

there,

Evan.

The

ground

heaves

and

we

take

off,

Sammy

bouncing

up

and

down

on

my

back,

and

behind

us

the

stairwell

seems

to

collapse

soundlessly,

because

all

sound

is

buried

beneath

the

roar

of

the

plane.

The

blowback

of

the

engines

slams

against

my

left

side,

and

I

stumble

sideways

and

nearly

slip.

Ben

catches

me

and

hurls

me

forward.

Then

I

go

airborne.

The

earth

bulges

like

a

balloon

inflating

and

then

snaps

back,the

ground

splitting

apart

with

such

force,

I’m

afraid

my

eardrums

have

shattered.

Luckily

for

Sam,

I

land

on

my

chest,

but

that’s

unlucky

for

me,

because

the

impact

knocks

every

cubic

inch

of

breath

out

of

my

lungs.

I

feel

Sammy’s

weight

disappear

and

see

Ben

sling

him

over

his

shoulder,

and

then

I’m

up

but

falling

behind

and

thinking,

Like

hell

weak,

like

hell.

Before

us

the

ground

seems

to

stretch

to

infinity.

Behind

us,

it’s

being

sucked

into

a

black

hole,

and

the

hole

chases

us

as

it

expands,

devouring

everything

in

its

path.

One

slip

and

we’ll

be

sucked

in,

our

bodies

ground

into

microscopic

pieces.

I

hear

a

high-pitched

screaming

from

above,

and

a

drone

slams

into

the

earth

a

dozen

yards

away.

The

impact

blows

it

apart,

turns

it

into

a

grenade

the

size

of

a

Prius,

and

a

thousand

pieces

of

razorsharp

shrapnel

from

the

blast

shred

my

khaki

T-shirt

and

tear

into

my

exposed

skin.

There’s

a

rhythm

to

this

rain

of

drones.

First

the

banshee

scream.

Then

the

explosionwhen

they

meet

the

rock-hard

ground.

Then

the

blast

of

debris.

And

we

dodge

between

these

raindrops

of

death,

zigzagging

across

the

lifeless

landscape

as

that

landscape

is

consumed

by

the

hungry

black

hole

chasing

us.

I

have

another

problem,

too.

My

knee.

The

old

injury

where

a

Silencer

in

the

woodscut

me

down.

Every

time

my

foot

strikes

the

hard

ground,

a

stabbing

pain

shoots

downmy

leg,

throwing

off

my

stride,

slowing

me

down.

I’m

falling

farther

and

farther

behind,

and

that’s

what

it

feels

like,

not

running

so

much

as

falling

forward

while

someone

smashes

a

sledgehammer

against

my

knee,

over

and

over.

A

scar

appears

in

the

perfect

nothingness

ahead.

Grows

larger.

It’s

coming

on

fast,

barreling

straight

toward

us.

“Ben!”

I

yell,

but

he

can’t

hear

me

over

the

screaming

and

booms

and

the

ear-shatteringimplosion

of

two

hundred

tons

of

rock

collapsing

into

the

vacuum

created

by

the

Eyes.

The

fuzzy

shadow

coming

toward

us

hardens

into

a

shape,

and

then

the

shape

becomes

a

Humvee,

bristling

with

gun

turrets,

bearing

down.

Determined

little

bastards.

Ben

sees

it

now

but

we

have

no

choice,

we

can’t

stop,

we

can’t

turn

back.

At

least

it

will

suck

them

down,

too,

I

think.

And

then

I

fall.

I’m

not

sure

why.

I

don’t

remember

the

fall

itself.

One

minute

I’m

up,

the

next

myface

is

against

hard

stone

and

I’m

like,

Where

did

this

wall

come

from?

Maybe

my

knee

locked

up.

Maybe

I

slipped.

But

I’m

down

and

I

feel

the

earth

beneathme

crying

and

screaming

as

the

hole

tears

it

apart,

like

a

living

creature

being

eaten

alive

by

a

hungry

predator.

I

try

to

push

myself

up,

but

the

ground

is

not

cooperating.

It

buckles

beneath

me,

and

I

fall

again.

There’s

Ben

and

Sam

several

yards

ahead,

still

on

their

feet,

and

there’s

the

Humvee,

cutting

in

front

of

them

at

the

last

second,

burning

rubber.

It

barely

slows

down.

The

door

flies

open

and

a

skinny

kid

leans

out,

his

hand

reaching

for

Ben.

Ben

hurls

Sammy

toward

the

kid,

who

hauls

my

brother

inside

and

then

bangs

his

hand

hard

against

the

side

of

the

vehicle

like

he’s

saying,

Let’s

go,

Parish,

let’s

go!

And

then,

instead

of

jumping

onto

the

Humvee

like

a

normal

person,

Ben

Parish

turnsand

races

back

for

me.

I

wave

him

back.

No

time,

no

time,

no

time

no

time

no

time

no

time.

I

can

feel

the

breath

of

the

beast

on

my

bare

legs—hot,

dusty,

pulverized

stone

and

dirt—and

then

the

ground

splits

open

between

Ben

and

me

as

the

chunk

I’m

lying

onbreaks

free

and

starts

to

slide

into

its

lightless

mouth.

Which

makes

me

start

to

slide

backward,

away

from

Ben,

who’s

wisely

thrown

himself

on

his

stomach

at

the

edge

of

the

fissure

to

avoid

riding

the

chunk

with

me

straight

into

the

black

hole.

Our

fingertips

touch,

flirt

with

one

another,

his

pinky

hooks

around

mine—Save

me,

Parish,

pinky

swear,

okay?—but

he

can’t

pull

me

up

by

my

pinky,

so

in

the

half

second

he

has

to

decide,

he

decides,

flicks

my

finger

free,

and

takes

his

one

and

only

shot

to

grab

my

wrist.

I

see

his

mouth

open

but

hear

nothing

come

out

as

he

throws

himself

backward,

haulingme

up

and

over,

and

he

doesn’t

let

go,

he

hangs

on

to

my

wrist

with

both

hands

and

spins

around

like

a

shotputter,

launching

me

toward

the

Humvee.

I

think

my

feet

actually

leave

the

ground.

Another

hand

catches

my

arm

and

pulls

me

inside.

I

end

up

straddling

the

skinny

guy’s

legs,

only

now

up

close

I

see

it

isn’t

a

guy

but

a

dark-eyed

girl

with

shiny,

straight

black

hair.

Over

her

shoulder

I

see

Ben

leap

for

the

back

of

the

Humvee,

but

I

can’t

see

if

he

makes

it.

Then

I’m

slammed

against

the

door

as

the

driver

whips

the

wheel

hard

to

the

left

to

avoid

a

falling

drone.

He

floors

the

gas.

The

hole

has

gobbled

up

all

the

lights

by

this

point,

but

it’s

a

clear

night

and

I

have

no

trouble

watching

the

edge

of

the

pit

rocketing

toward

the

Humvee,

the

mouth

of

the

beast

opening

wide.

The

driver,

who

is

way

too

young

to

have

even

a

permit,

whips

the

wheel

back

and

forth

to

avoid

the

torrent

of

drones

exploding

all

around

us.

One

hits

a

car

length

in

front

of

us,

no

time

to

swerve

around

it,

so

we

barrel

through

the

blast.

The

windshield

disintegrates,

showering

us

with

glass.

The

back

wheels

slip,

we

jounce,

then

leap

forward,

inches

ahead

of

the

hole

now.

I

can’t

look

at

it

anymore,

so

I

look

up.

Where

the

mothership

sails

serenely

across

the

sky.

And

beneath

it,

dropping

fast

toward

the

horizon,

another

drone.

No,

not

a

drone,

I

think.

It’s

glowing.

A

falling

star,

it

must

be,

its

fiery

tail

like

a

silver

cord

connecting

it

to

the

heavens.

91

BY

THE

TIME

dawn

approaches,

we’re

miles

away,

hunkering

beneath

a

highway

overpass,where

the

kid

with

the

very

big

ears

they

call

Dumbo

kneels

beside

Ben,

applying

a

fresh

dressing

to

the

wound

in

his

side.

He’s

already

worked

on

me

and

Sammy,

pulling

out

pieces

of

shrapnel,

swabbing,

stitching,

bandaging.

He

asked

what

happened

to

my

leg.

I

told

him

I

was

shot

by

a

shark.

He

doesn’t

react.Doesn’t

seem

confused

or

amused

or

anything.

Like

getting

shot

by

a

shark

is

a

perfectly

natural

thing

in

the

aftermath

of

the

Arrival.

Like

changing

your

name

to

Dumbo.

WhenI

asked

him

what

his

real

name

was,

he

said

it

was…Dumbo.

Ben

is

Zombie,

Sammy

is

Nugget,

Dumbo

is

Dumbo.

Then

there’s

Poundcake,

a

sweet-facedkid

who

doesn’t

talk,

whether

he

can’t

or

won’t,

I

don’t

know.

Teacup,

a

little

girl

not

much

older

than

Sams,

who

might

be

seriously

messed

up,

and

that

worries

me,

because

she

holds

and

strokes

and

cuddles

with

an

M16

that

appears

to

be

carrying

a

full

clip.

Finally

the

pretty

dark-haired

girl

called

Ringer,

who’s

about

my

age,

who

not

only

has

very

shiny

and

very

straight

black

hair,

but

also

has

the

flawless

complexion

of

an

airbrushed

model,

the

kind

you

see

on

the

covers

of

fashion

magazines

smiling

arrogantly

at

you

in

the

checkout

line.

Except

Ringer

never

smiles,

like

Poundcake

never

talks.

So

I’ve

decided

to

cling

to

the

possibilitythat

she’s

missing

some

teeth.

There’s

also

something

between

her

and

Ben.

Something

as

in

they

appear

to

be

tight.

They

spent

a

long

time

talking

when

we

first

got

here.

Not

that

I

was

spying

on

themor

anything,

but

I

was

close

enough

to

overhear

the

words

chess,

circle,

and

smile.

Then

I

heard

Ben

ask,

“Where’d

you

get

the

Humvee?”

“Got

lucky,”

she

said.

“They

moved

a

bunch

of

equipment

and

supplies

to

a

staging

area

about

two

klicks

due

west

of

the

camp,

I

guess

in

anticipation

of

the

bombing.

Guarded,

but

Poundcake

and

I

had

the

advantage.”

“You

shouldn’t

have

come

back,

Ringer.”

“If

I

hadn’t,

we

wouldn’t

be

talking

right

now.”

“That’s

not

what

I

mean.

Once

you

saw

the

camp

blow,

you

should

have

fallen

back

to

Dayton.

We

might

be

the

only

ones

who

know

the

truth

about

the

5th

Wave.

This

is

bigger

than

me.”

“You

went

back

for

Nugget.”

“That’s

different.”

“Zombie,

you’re

not

that

stupid.”

Like

Ben

is

only

a

little

bit

stupid.

“Don’t

youget

it

yet?

The

minute

we

decide

that

one

person

doesn’t

matter

anymore,

they’ve

won.”

I

have

to

agree

with

Li’l

Miss

Microscopic

Pores

on

that

point.

While

I

hold

my

littlebrother

in

my

lap

to

keep

him

warm.

On

the

rise

of

ground

that

overlooks

the

abandoned

highway.

Beneath

a

sky

crowded

with

a

billion

stars.

I

don’t

care

what

the

stars

say

about

how

small

we

are.

One,

even

the

smallest,

weakest,

most

insignificant

one,

matters.

It’s

almost

dawn.

You

can

feel

it

coming.

The

world

holds

its

breath,

because

there’s

really

no

guarantee

that

the

sun

will

rise.

That

there

was

a

yesterday

doesn’t

mean

there

will

be

a

tomorrow.

What

did

Evan

say?

We’re

here,

and

then

we’re

gone,

and

it’s

not

about

the

time

we’re

here,

but

what

we

do

with

the

time.

And

I

whisper,

“Mayfly.”

His

name

for

me.

He

had

been

in

me.

He

had

been

in

me

and

I

had

been

in

him,

together

in

an

infinitespace,

and

there

had

been

no

spot

where

he

ended

and

I

began.

Sammy

stirs

in

my

lap.

He

dozed

off;

now

he’s

awake

again.

“Cassie,

why

are

you

crying?”

“I’m

not.

Shush

and

go

back

to

sleep.”

He

brushes

his

knuckles

across

my

cheek.

“You

are

crying.”

Someone

is

coming

toward

us.

It’s

Ben.

I

hurriedly

wipe

the

tears

away.

He

sits

besideme,

very

carefully,

with

a

soft

grunt

of

pain.

We

don’t

look

at

each

other.

We

watch

the

fiery

hiccups

of

the

fallen

drones

in

the

distance.

We

listen

to

the

lonely

wind

whistling

through

dry

tree

branches.

We

feel

the

coldness

of

the

frozen

ground

seeping

up

through

the

soles

of

our

shoes.

“I

wanted

to

thank

you,”

he

says.

“For

what?”

I

ask.

“You

saved

my

life.”

I

shrug.

“You

picked

me

up

when

I

fell,”

I

say.

“So

we’re

even.”

My

face

is

covered

in

bandages,

my

hair

looks

like

a

bird

nested

in

it,

I’m

dressed

up

like

one

of

Sammy’s

toy

soldiers,

and

Ben

Parish

leans

over

and

kisses

me

anyway.

A

light

little

peck,

half

cheek,

half

mouth.

“What’s

that

for?”

I

ask,

my

voice

coming

out

in

a

tiny

squeak,

the

little

girl’s

from

long

ago,

the

freckle-faced

Cassie-I-was

withthe

fuzzy

hair

and

knobby

knees,

an

ordinary

girl

who

shared

an

ordinary

yellow

school

bus

with

him

for

an

ordinary

day.

In

all

my

fantasies

about

our

first

kiss—and

there’d

been

about

six

hundred

thousand

of

them—I

never

once

imagined

it

would

be

like

that

one.

Our

dream

kiss

usually

involved

moonlight,

or

fog,

or

moonlight

and

fog,

a

very

mysterious

and

romantic

combination,

at

least

in

the

right

locale.

Moonlit

fog

beside

a

lake

or

a

lazy

river:

romantic.

Moonlit

fog

in

almost

any

other

place,

like

a

narrow

alleyway:

Jack

the

Ripper.

Do

you

remember

the

babies?

I

asked

in

my

fantasies.

And

Ben

always

goes,

Oh

yes.

Sure

I

do.

The

babies!

“Hey,

Ben,

I

was

wondering

if

you

remember…We

rode

the

bus

together

in

middle

school,

and

you

were

talking

about

your

little

sister,

and

I

told

you

Sammy

was

just

born,

too,

and

I

was

wondering

if

you

remembered

that.

About

them

being

born

together.

Not

together,

that

would

make

them

twins,

ha-ha—I

mean

at

the

same

time.

Not

the

exact

same

time,

but

about

a

week

apart.

Sammy

and

your

sister.

The

babies.”

“I’m

sorry…Babies?”

“Never

mind.

It’s

not

important.”

“Nothing

is

not

important

anymore.”

I’m

shaking.

He

must

notice,

because

he

puts

his

arm

around

me

and

we

sit

like

that

for

a

while,

my

arms

around

Sammy,

Ben’s

arm

around

me,

and

together

the

three

of

us

watch

the

sun

break

over

the

horizon,

obliterating

the

dark

in

a

burst

of

golden

light.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing

a

novel

may

be

a

solitary

experience,

but

seeing

it

to

a

finished

book

is

not,

and

I

would

be

a

total

schmuck

to

claim

all

credit

for

myself.

I

owe

an

enormous

debt

to

the

team

at

Putnam

for

their

immeasurable

enthusiasm

that

only

seemed

to

intensify

as

the

project

grew

past

all

our

expectations.

Huge

thanks

to

Don

Weisberg,

Jennifer

Besser,

Shanta

Newlin,

David

Briggs,

Jennifer

Loja,

Paula

Sadler,

and

Sarah

Hughes.

There

were

times

when

I

was

convinced

that

my

editor,

the

unconquerable

Arianne

Lewin,

was

channeling

some

demonic

spirit

bent

on

my

creative

destruction,

testing

my

endurance,

pushing

me,

as

all

great

editors

do,

to

the

shadowy

boundaries

of

my

ability.

Through

multiple

drafts,

endless

revisions,

and

countless

changes,

Ari

never

wavered

in

her

belief

in

the

manuscript—and

in

me.

My

agent,

Brian

DeFiore,

should

be

awarded

a

medal

(or

at

least

a

fancy

certificatetastefully

framed)

as

manager

extraordinaire

of

my

writer’s

angst.

Brian

is

that

rarest

breed

of

agent

who

never

hesitates

to

wander

into

the

deepest

thickets

with

his

client,

always

willing—I

won’t

say

always

eager—to

lend

an

ear,

hold

a

hand,

and

read

the

four

hundred

and

seventy-ninth

version

of

an

everchanging

manuscript.

He

would

never

say

he’s

the

best,

but

I

will:

Brian,

you’re

the

best.

Thanks

to

Adam

Schear

for

his

expert

handling

of

the

foreign

rights

to

the

novel,

and

a

special

thank-you

to

Matthew

Snyder

at

CAA

for

navigating

that

strange

and

wonderfuland

baffling

world

of

film,

working

his

mystical

powers

with

awe-inspiring

efficiency—before

the

book

was

even

finished.

I

wish

that

I

were

half

the

writer

that

he

is

an

agent.

A

writer’s

family

bears

a

particular

burden

during

the

composition

of

a

book.

I

honestly

don’t

know

how

they

took

it

sometimes,

the

long

nights,

the

moody

silences,

the

blank

stares,

the

distracted

answers

to

questions

they

never

really

asked.

To

my

son,

Jake,

I

owe

hearty

thanks

for

providing

his

old

man

with

a

teen’s

perspective

and

particularly

for

the

word

“boss”

when

I

needed

it

most.

There

is

no

one

to

whom

I

am

more

indebted

than

my

wife,

Sandy.

It

was

a

late-nightconversation

filled

with

the

same

exhilarating

mixture

of

hilarity

and

fear

so

characteristic

of

many

of

our

late-night

conversations

that

was

the

genesis

of

this

book.

That

and

a

very

odd

debate

a

few

months

later

comparing

an

alien

invasion

to

a

mummy

attack.

She

is

my

fearless

guide,

my

finest

critic,

my

most

rabid

fan,

and

my

fiercest

defender.

She

is

also

my

best

friend.

I

lost

a

dear

friend

and

companion

during

the

writing

of

this

book,

my

faithful

writing

dog,

Casey,

who

braved

every

assault,

stormed

every

beach,

and

fought

for

every

inch

of

ground

by

my

side.

I

will

miss

you,

Case.

ONE

“A

Singular

Curiosity”

These

are

the

secrets

I

have

kept.

This

is

the

trust

I

never

betrayed.

But

he

is

dead

now

and

has

been

for

more

than

forty

years,

the

one

who

gave

me

his

trust,

the

one

for

whom

I

kept

these

secrets.

The

one

who

saved

me…and

the

one

who

cursed

me.

I

can’t

recall

what

I

had

for

breakfast

this

morning,

but

I

remember

with

nightmarishclarity

that

spring

night

in

1888

when

he

roused

me

roughly

from

my

slumber,

his

hair

unkempt,

eyes

wide

and

shining

in

the

lamplight,

the

excited

glow

upon

his

finely

chiseled

features,

one

with

which

I

had,

unfortunately,

become

intimately

acquainted.

“Get

up!

Get

up,

Will

Henry,

and

be

quick

about

it!”

he

said

urgently.

“We

have

a

caller!”

“A

caller?”

I

murmured

in

reply.

“What

time

is

it?”

“A

little

after

one.

Now

get

dressed

and

meet

me

at

the

back

door.

Step

lively,

Will

Henry,

and

snap

to!”

He

withdrew

from

my

little

alcove,

taking

the

light

with

him.

I

dressed

in

the

darkand

scampered

down

the

ladder

in

my

stocking

feet,

putting

on

the

last

of

my

garments,

a

soft

felt

hat

a

size

too

small

for

my

twelve-year-old

head.

That

little

hat

was

all

I

had

left

from

my

life

before

coming

to

live

with

him,

and

so

it

was

precious

to

me.

He

had

lit

the

jets

along

the

hall

of

the

upper

floor,

though

but

a

single

light

burned

on

the

main

floor,

in

the

kitchen

at

the

rear

of

the

old

house

where

just

the

two

of

us

lived,

without

so

much

as

a

maid

to

pick

up

after

us:

The

doctor

was

a

private

man,

engaged

in

a

dark

and

dangerous

business,

and

could

ill

afford

the

prying

eyes

and

gossiping

tongue

of

the

servant

class.

When

the

dust

and

dirt

became

intolerable,

about

every

three

months

or

so,

he

would

press

a

rag

and

a

bucket

into

my

hands

and

tell

me

to

“snap

to”

before

the

tide

of

filth

overwhelmed

us.

I

followed

the

light

into

the

kitchen,

my

shoes

completely

forgotten

in

my

trepidation.

This

was

not

the

first

nocturnal

visitor

since

my

coming

to

live

with

him

the

year

before.

The

doctor

had

numerous

visits

in

the

wee

hours

of

the

morning,

more

than

I

cared

to

remember,

and

none

were

cheerful

social

calls.

His

business

was

dangerous

and

dark,

as

I

have

said,

and

so,

on

the

whole,

were

his

callers.

The

one

who

called

on

this

night

was

standing

just

outside

the

back

door,

a

gangly,

skeletal

figure,

his

shadow

rising

wraithlike

from

the

glistening

cobblestones.

His

face

was

hidden

beneath

the

broad

brim

of

his

straw

hat,

but

I

could

see

his

gnarled

knuckles

protruding

from

his

frayed

sleeves,

and

knobby

yellow

ankles

the

size

of

apples

below

his

tattered

trousers.

Behind

the

old

man

a

brokendown

nag

of

a

horse

stamped

and

snorted,

steam

rising

from

its

quivering

flanks.

Behind

the

horse,

barely

visible

in

the

mist,

was

the

cart

with

its

grotesque

cargo,

wrapped

in

several

layers

of

burlap.

The

doctor

was

speaking

quietly

to

the

old

man

as

I

came

to

the

door,

a

comforting

hand

upon

his

shoulder,

for

clearly

our

caller

was

nearly

mad

with

panic.

He

had

done

the

right

thing,

the

doctor

was

assuring

him.

He,

the

doctor,

would

take

the

matter

from

here.

All

would

be

well.

The

poor

old

soul

nodded

his

large

head,

which

appeared

all

the

larger

with

its

lid

of

straw

as

it

bobbed

on

its

spindly

neck.

“’Tis

a

crime.

A

bloody

crime

of

nature!”

he

exclaimed

at

one

point.

“I

shouldn’t

have

taken

it;

I

should

have

covered

it

back

up

and

left

it

to

the

mercy

of

God!”

“I

take

no

stances

on

theology,

Erasmus,”

said

the

doctor.

“I

am

a

scientist.

Butis

it

not

said

that

we

are

his

instruments?

If

that

is

the

case,

then

God

broughtyou

to

her

and

directed

you

hence

to

my

door.”

“So

you

won’t

report

me?”

the

old

man

asked,

with

a

sideways

glance

toward

the

doctor.

“Your

secret

will

be

as

safe

with

me

as

I

hope

mine

will

be

with

you.

Ah,

here

is

Will

Henry.

Will

Henry,

where

are

your

shoes?

No,

no,”

he

said

as

I

turned

to

fetch

them.

“I

need

you

to

ready

the

laboratory.”

“Yes,

doctor,”

I

responded

dutifully,

and

turned

to

go

a

second

time.

“And

put

a

pot

on.

It’s

going

to

be

a

long

night.”

“Yes,

sir,”

I

said.

I

turned

a

third

time.

“And

find

my

boots,

Will

Henry.”

“Of

course,

sir.”

I

hesitated,

waiting

for

a

fourth

command.

The

old

man

called

Erasmus

was

staring

at

me.

“Well,

what

are

you

waiting

for?”

the

doctor

said.

“Snap

to,

Will

Henry!”

“Yes,

sir,”

I

said.

“Right

away,

sir!”

I

left

them

in

the

alley,

hearing

the

old

man

ask

as

I

hurried

across

the

kitchen,

“He

is

your

boy?”

“He

is

my

assistant,”

came

the

doctor’s

reply.

I

set

the

water

on

to

boil

and

then

went

down

to

the

basement.

I

lit

the

lamps,

laid

out

the

instruments.

(I

wasn’t

sure

which

he

might

need,

but

had

a

strong

suspicion

the

old

man’s

delivery

was

not

alive—I

had

heard

no

sounds

coming

from

the

old

cart,

and

there

didn’t

seem

to

be

great

urgency

to

fetch

the

cargo

inside…though

this

may

have

been

more

hope

than

suspicion.)

Then

I

removed

a

fresh

smock

from

the

closet

and

rummaged

under

the

stairs

for

the

doctor’s

rubber

boots.

They

weren’t

there,

and

for

a

moment

I

stood

by

the

examination

table

in

mute

panic.

I

had

washed

them

the

week

before

and

was

certain

I

had

placed

them

under

the

stairs.

Where

were

the

doctor’s

boots?

From

the

kitchen

came

the

clumping

of

the

men’s

tread

across

the

wooden

floor.

He

was

coming,

and

I

had

lost

his

boots!

I

spied

the

boots

just

as

the

doctor

and

Erasmus

began

to

descend

the

stairs.

Theywere

beneath

the

worktable,

where

I

had

placed

them.

Why

had

I

put

them

there?

I

setthem

by

the

stool

and

waited,

my

heart

pounding,

my

breath

coming

in

short,

ragged

gasps.

The

basement

was

very

cold,

at

least

ten

degrees

colder

than

the

rest

of

the

house,

and

stayed

that

way

year

round.

The

load,

still

wrapped

tightly

in

burlap,

must

have

been

heavy:

The

muscles

in

the

men’s

necks

bulged

with

the

effort,

and

their

descent

was

painfully

slow.

Once

the

old

man

cried

for

a

halt.

They

paused

five

steps

from

the

bottom,

and

I

could

see

the

doctor

was

annoyed

at

this

delay.

He

was

anxious

to

unveil

his

new

prize.

They

eventually

heaved

their

burden

onto

the

examining

table.

The

doctor

guided

the

old

man

to

the

stool.

Erasmus

sank

down

upon

it,

removed

his

straw

hat,

and

wiped

his

crinkled

brow

with

a

filthy

rag.

He

was

shaking

badly.

In

the

light

I

could

see

that

nearly

all

of

him

was

filthy,

from

his

mudencrusted

shoes

to

his

broken

fingernails

to

the

fine

lines

and

crevasses

of

his

ancient

face.

I

could

smell

the

rich,

loamy

aroma

of

damp

earth

rising

from

him.

“A

crime,”

he

murmured.

“A

crime!”

“Yes,

grave-robbing

is

a

crime,”

said

the

doctor.

“A

very

serious

crime,

Erasmus.

A

thousanddollar

fine

and

five

years’

hard

labor.”

He

shrugged

into

his

smock

and

motioned

for

his

boots.

He

leaned

against

the

banister

to

tug

them

on.

“We

are

coconspirators

now.

I

must

trust

you,

and

you

in

turn

must

trust

me.

Will

Henry,

where

is

my

tea?”

I

raced

up

the

stairs.

Below,

the

old

man

was

saying,

“I

have

a

family

to

feed.

Mywife,

she’s

very

ill;

she

needs

medicine.

I

can’t

find

work,

and

what

use

is

gold

and

jewels

to

the

dead?”

They

had

left

the

back

door

ajar.

I

swung

it

closed

and

threw

the

bolt,

but

not

until

I

checked

the

alley.

I

saw

nothing

but

the

fog,

which

had

grown

thicker,

and

the

horse,

its

face

dominated

by

its

large

eyes

that

seemed

to

implore

me

for

help.

I

could

hear

the

rise

and

fall

of

the

voices

in

the

basement

as

I

prepared

the

tea,

Erasmus’s

with

its

high-pitched,

semi-hysterical

edge,

the

doctor’s

measured

and

low,

beneath

which

lurked

an

impatient

curtness

no

doubt

born

of

his

eagerness

to

unwrap

the

old

man’s

unholy

bundle.

My

unshod

feet

had

grown

quite

cold,

but

I

tried

my

best

to

ignore

the

discomfort.

I

dressed

the

tray

with

sugar

and

cream

and

two

cups.

Though

the

doctor

hadn’t

ordered

the

second,

I

thought

the

old

man

might

need

a

cup

to

repair

his

shattered

nerves.

“…halfway

to

it,

the

ground

just

gave

beneath

me,”

the

old

grave-robber

was

saying

as

I

descended

with

the

tray.

“As

if

I

struck

a

hollow

or

pocket

in

the

earth.

I

fell

face-first

upon

the

top

of

the

casket.

Don’t

know

if

my

fall

cracked

the

lid

or

if

it

was

cracked

by

the…cracked

before

I

fell.”

“Before,

no

doubt,”

said

the

doctor.

They

were

as

I

had

left

them,

the

doctor

leaning

against

the

banister,

the

old

man

shivering

upon

the

stool.

I

offered

him

some

tea,

and

he

accepted

the

proffered

cup

gladly.

“Oh,

I

am

chilled

to

my

very

bones!”

he

whimpered.

“This

has

been

a

cold

spring,”

the

doctor

observed.

He

struck

me

as

at

once

bored

and

agitated.

“I

couldn’t

just

leave

it

there,”

the

old

man

explained.

“Cover

it

up

again

and

leave

it?

No,

no.

I’ve

more

respect

than

that.

I

fear

God.

I

fear

the

judgment

of

eternity!A

crime,

Doctor.

An

abomination!

So

once

I

gathered

my

wits,

I

used

the

horse

anda

bit

of

rope

to

haul

them

from

the

hole,

wrapped

them

up…brought

them

here.”

“You

did

the

right

thing,

Erasmus.”

“‘There’s

but

one

man

who’ll

know

what

to

do,’

I

said

to

myself.

Forgive

me,

but

youmust

know

what

they

say

about

you

and

the

curious

goings-on

in

this

house.

Only

the

deaf

would

not

know

about

Pellinore

Warthrop

and

the

house

on

Harrington

Lane!”

“Then

I

am

fortunate,”

said

the

doctor

dryly,

“that

you

are

not

deaf.”

He

went

to

the

old

man’s

side

and

placed

both

hands

on

his

shoulders.

“You

have

my

confidence,

Erasmus

Gray.

As

I’m

certain

I

have

yours.

I

will

speak

tono

one

of

your

involvement

in

this

‘crime,’

as

you

call

it,

as

I’m

sure

you

will

keep

mum

regarding

mine.

Now,

for

your

trouble…”

He

produced

a

wad

of

bills

from

his

pocket

and

stuffed

them

into

the

old

man’s

hands.

“I

don’t

mean

to

rush

you

off,

but

each

moment

you

stay

endangers

both

you

and

my

work,

both

of

which

matter

a

great

deal

to

me,

though

one

perhaps

a

bit

more

than

the

other,”

he

added

with

a

tight

smile.

He

turned

to

me.

“Will

Henry,

show

our

caller

to

the

door.”

Then

he

turned

back

to

Erasmus

Gray.

“You

have

done

an

invaluable

service

to

the

advancement

of

science,

sir.”

The

old

man

seemed

more

interested

in

the

advancement

of

his

fortunes,

for

he

was

staring

openmouthed

at

the

cash

in

his

still-quivering

hands.

Dr.

Warthrop

urged

him

to

his

feet

and

toward

the

stairs,

instructing

me

not

to

forget

to

lock

the

back

door

and

find

my

shoes.

“And

don’t

lollygag,

Will

Henry.

We’ve

work

to

last

us

the

rest

of

the

night.

Snap

to!”

Old

Erasmus

hesitated

at

the

back

door,

a

dirty

paw

upon

my

shoulder,

the

other

clutching

his

tattered

straw

hat,

his

rheumy

eyes

straining

against

the

fog,

which

had

now

completely

engulfed

his

horse

and

cart.

Its

snorts

and

stamping

against

the

stones

were

the

only

evidence

of

the

beast’s

existence.

“Why

are

you

here,

boy?”

he

asked

suddenly,

giving

my

shoulder

a

hard

squeeze.

“This

is

no

business

for

children.”

“My

parents

died

in

a

fire,

sir,”

I

answered.

“The

doctor

took

me

in.”

“The

doctor,”

Erasmus

echoed.

“They

call

him

that—but

what

exactly

is

he

a

doctor

of?”

The

grotesque,

I

might

have

answered.

The

bizarre.

The

unspeakable.

Instead

I

gave

the

same

answer

the

doctor

had

given

me

when

I’d

asked

him

not

long

after

my

arrival

at

the

house

on

Harrington

Lane.

“Philosophy,”

I

said

with

little

conviction.

“Philosophy!”

Erasmus

cried

softly.

“Not

what

I

would

call

it,

that

be

certain!”

He

jammed

the

hat

upon

his

head

and

plunged

into

the

fog,

shuffling

forward

until

it

engulfed

him.

A

few

minutes

later

I

was

descending

the

stairs

to

the

basement

laboratory,

having

thrown

the

bolt

to

the

door

and

having

found

my

shoes,

after

a

moment

or

two

of

frantic

searching,

exactly

where

I

had

left

them

the

night

before.

The

doctor

was

waiting

for

me

at

the

bottom

of

the

stairs,

impatiently

drumming

his

fingers

upon

the

rail.

Apparently

he

did

not

think

there

was

enough

“snap”

in

my

“to.”

As

for

myself,

I

was

not

looking

forward

to

the

rest

of

the

evening.

This

was

not

the

first

time

someone

had

called

at

our

back

door

in

the

middle

of

the

night

bearing

macabre

packages,

though

this

certainly

was

the

largest

since

I

had

come

to

live

with

the

doctor.

“Did

you

lock

the

door?”

the

doctor

asked.

I

noticed

again

the

color

high

in

his

cheeks,

the

slight

shortness

of

breath,

the

excited

quaver

in

his

voice.

I

answered

that

I

had.

He

nodded.

“If

what

he

says

is

true,

Will

Henry,

if

I

have

not

been

taken

for

a

fool—which

would

not

be

the

first

time—then

this

is

an

extraordinary

find.

Come!”

We

took

our

positions,

he

by

the

table

where

lay

the

bundle

of

muddy

burlap,

I

behind

him

and

to

his

right,

manning

the

tall

rolling

tray

of

instruments,

with

pencil

and

notebook

at

the

ready.

My

hand

was

shaking

slightly

as

I

wrote

the

date

across

the

top

of

the

page,

April

15,

1888.

He

donned

his

gloves

with

a

loud

pop!

against

his

wrists

and

stamped

his

boots

on

the

cold

stone

floor.

He

pulled

on

his

mask,

leaving

just

the

top

of

his

nose

and

his

intense

dark

eyes

exposed.

“Are

we

ready,

Will

Henry?”

he

breathed,

his

voice

muffled

by

the

mask.

He

drummed

his

fingers

in

the

empty

air.

“Ready,

sir,”

I

replied,

though

I

felt

anything

but.

“Scissors!”

I

slapped

the

instrument

handle-first

into

his

open

palm.

“No,

the

big

ones,

Will

Henry.

The

shears

there.”

He

began

at

the

narrow

end

of

the

bundle,

where

the

feet

must

have

been,

cutting

down

the

center

of

the

thick

material,

his

shoulders

hunched,

the

muscles

of

his

jaw

bunching

with

the

effort.

He

paused

once

to

stretch

and

loosen

his

cramping

fingers,

then

returned

to

the

task.

The

burlap

was

wet

and

caked

with

mud.

“The

old

man

trussed

it

tighter

than

a

Christmas

turkey,”

the

doctor

muttered.

After

what

seemed

like

hours,

he

reached

the

opposite

end.

The

burlap

had

parted

aninch

or

two

along

the

cut,

but

no

more.

The

contents

remained

a

mystery

and

would

remain

so

for

a

few

more

seconds.

The

doctor

handed

me

the

shears

and

leaned

against

the

table,

resting

before

the

final,

awful

climax.

At

last

he

straightened,

pressing

his

hands

upon

the

small

of

his

back.

He

took

a

deep

breath.

“Very

well,

then,”

he

said

softly.

“Let’s

have

it,

Will

Henry.”

He

peeled

away

the

material,

working

it

apart

in

the

same

direction

as

he

had

cut

it.

The

burlap

fell

back

on

either

side,

draping

over

the

table

like

the

petals

of

a

flower

opening

to

welcome

the

spring

sun.

Over

his

bent

back

I

could

see

them.

Not

the

single

corpulent

corpse

that

I

had

anticipated,but

two

bodies,

one

wrapped

about

the

other

in

an

obscene

embrace.

I

choked

back

the

bile

that

rushed

from

my

empty

stomach,

and

willed

my

knees

to

be

still.

Remember,

I

was

twelve

years

old.

A

boy,

yes,

but

a

boy

who

had

already

seen

his

fair

share

of

grotesqueries.

The

laboratory

had

shelves

along

the

walls

that

held

large

jars

wherein

oddities

floated

in

preserving

solution,

extremities

and

organs

of

creatures

that

you

would

not

recognize,

that

you

would

swear

belonged

to

the

world

of

nightmares,

not

our

waking

world

of

comfortable

familiarity.

And,

as

I’ve

said,

this

was

not

the

first

time

I

had

assisted

the

doctor

at

his

table.

But

nothing

had

prepared

me

for

what

the

old

man

delivered

that

night.

I

daresay

your

average

adult

would

have

fled

the

room

in

horror,

run

screaming

up

the

stairs

and

out

of

the

house,

for

what

lay

within

that

burlap

cocoon

laid

shame

to

all

the

platitudes

and

promises

from

a

thousand

pulpits

upon

the

nature

of

a

just

and

loving

God,

of

a

balanced

and

kind

universe,

and

the

dignity

of

man.

A

crime,

the

old

grave-robber

had

called

it.

Indeed

there

seemed

no

better

word

for

it,

though

a

crime

requires

a

criminal…and

who

or

what

was

the

criminal

in

this

case?

Upon

the

table

lay

a

young

girl,

her

body

partially

concealed

by

the

naked

form

wrapped

around

her,

one

massive

leg

thrown

over

her

torso,

an

arm

draped

across

her

chest.

Her

white

burial

gown

was

stained

with

the

distinctive

ochre

of

dried

blood,

the

source

of

which

was

immediately

apparent:

Half

her

face

was

missing,

and

below

it

I

could

see

the

exposed

bones

of

her

neck.

The

tears

along

the

remaining

skin

were

jagged

and

triangular

in

shape,

as

if

someone

had

hacked

at

her

body

with

a

hatchet.

The

other

corpse

was

male,

at

least

twice

her

size,

wrapped

as

I

said

around

her

diminutive

frame

as

a

mother

nestles

with

her

child,

the

chest

a

few

inches

from

her

ravaged

neck,

the

rest

of

its

body

pressed

tightly

against

hers.

But

the

most

striking

thing

was

not

its

size

or

even

the

startling

fact

of

its

very

presence.

No,

the

most

remarkable

thing

about

this

most

remarkable

tableau

was

that

her

companion

had

no

head.

“Anthropophagi,”

the

doctor

murmured,

eyes

wide

and

glittering

above

the

mask.

“It

must

be…but

how

could

it?

This

is

most

curious,

Will

Henry.

That

he’s

dead

is

curious

enough,

but

more

curious

by

far

is

that

he’s

here

in

the

first

place!…Specimen

is

male,

approximately

twenty-five

to

thirty

years

of

age,

no

signs

of

exterior

injury

or

trauma….

Will

Henry,

are

you

writing

this

down?”

He

was

staring

at

me.

I

in

turn

stared

back

at

him.

The

stench

of

death

had

alreadyfilled

the

room,

causing

my

eyes

to

sting

and

fill

with

tears.

He

pointed

at

the

forgotten

notebook

in

my

hand.

“Focus

upon

the

task

at

hand,

Will

Henry.”

I

nodded

and

wiped

away

the

tears

with

the

back

of

my

hand.

I

pressed

the

lead

point

against

the

paper

and

began

to

write

beneath

the

date.

“Specimen

appears

to

be

of

the

genus

Anthropophagi,”

the

doctor

repeated.

“Male,

approximately

twenty-five

to

thirty

years

of

age,

with

no

signs

of

exterior

injury

or

trauma….”

Focusing

on

the

task

of

reporter

helped

to

steady

me,

though

I

could

feel

the

tugof

morbid

curiosity,

like

an

outgoing

tide

pulling

on

a

swimmer,

urging

me

to

look

again.

I

nibbled

on

the

end

of

the

pencil

as

I

struggled

with

the

spelling

of

“Anthropophagi.”

“Victim

is

female,

approximately

seventeen

years

of

age,

with

evidence

of

denticulated

trauma

to

the

right

side

of

the

face

and

neck.

The

hyoid

bone

and

lower

mandible

are

completely

exposed,

exhibiting

some

scoring

from

the

specimen’s

teeth….”

Teeth?

But

the

thing

had

no

head!

I

looked

up

from

the

pad.

Dr.

Warthrop

was

bent

over

their

torsos,

fortuitously

blocking

my

view.

What

sort

of

creature

could

bite

if

it

lacked

the

mouth

with

which

to

do

it?

On

the

heels

of

that

thought

came

the

awful

revelation:

The

thing

had

been

eating

her.

He

moved

quickly

to

the

other

side

of

the

table,

allowing

me

an

unobstructed

view

of

the

“specimen”

and

his

pitiful

victim.

She

was

a

slight

girl

with

dark

hair

that

curled

upon

the

table

in

a

fall

of

luxurious

ringlets.

The

doctor

leaned

over

and

squinted

at

the

chest

of

the

beast

pressed

against

her,

peering

across

the

body

of

the

young

girl

whose

eternal

rest

was

broken

by

this

unholy

embrace,

this

death

grip

of

an

invader

from

the

world

of

shadows

and

nightmare.

“Yes!”

he

called

softly.

“Most

definitely

Anthropophagi.

Forceps,

Will

Henry,

and

a

tray,

please

—No,

the

small

one

there,

by

the

skull

chisel.

That’s

the

one.”

I

somehow

found

the

will

to

move

from

my

spot,

though

my

knees

were

shaking

badly

and

I

literally

could

not

feel

my

feet.

I

kept

my

eyes

on

the

doctor

and

tried

my

best

to

ignore

the

nearly

overwhelming

urge

to

vomit.

I

handed

him

the

forceps

and

held

the

tray

toward

him,

arms

shaking,

breathing

as

shallowly

as

possible,

for

the

reek

of

decay

burned

in

my

mouth

and

lay

like

a

scorching

ember

at

the

back

of

my

throat.

Dr.

Warthrop

reached

into

the

thing’s

chest

with

the

forceps.

I

heard

the

scraping

of

the

metal

against

something

hard—an

exposed

rib?

Had

this

creature

also

been

partially

consumed?

And,

if

it

had,

where

was

the

other

monster

that

had

done

it?

“Most

curious.

Most

curious,”

the

doctor

said,

the

words

muffled

by

the

mask.

“Nooutward

signs

of

trauma,

clearly

in

its

prime,

yet

dead

as

a

doornail….

What

killed

you,

Anthropophagus,

hmmm?

How

did

you

meet

your

fate?”

As

he

spoke,

the

doctor

tapped

thin

strips

of

flesh

from

the

forceps

into

the

metal

tray,

dark

and

stringy,

like

half-cured

jerky,

a

piece

of

white

material

clinging

to

one

or

two

of

the

strands,

and

I

realized

he

wasn’t

peeling

off

pieces

of

the

monster’s

flesh:

The

flesh

belonged

to

the

face

and

neck

of

the

girl.

I

looked

down

between

my

outstretched

arms,

to

the

spot

where

the

doctor

worked,

and

saw

he

had

not

been

scraping

at

an

exposed

rib.

He

had

been

cleaning

the

thing’s

teeth.

The

room

began

to

spin

around

me.

The

doctor

said,

in

a

calm,

quiet

voice,

“Steady,

Will

Henry.

You’re

no

good

to

me

unconscious.

We

have

a

duty

this

night.

We

are

students

of

nature

as

well

as

its

products,

all

of

us,

including

this

creature.

Born

of

the

same

divine

mind,

if

you

believe

in

such

things,

for

how

could

it

be

otherwise?

We

are

soldiers

for

science,

and

we

will

do

our

duty.

Yes,

Will

Henry?

Yes,

Will

Henry?”

“Yes,

Doctor,”

I

choked

out.

“Yes,

sir.”

“Good

boy.”

He

dropped

the

forceps

into

the

metal

tray.

Flecks

of

flesh

and

bits

of

blood

speckled

the

fingers

of

his

glove.

“Bring

me

the

chisel.”

Gladly

I

returned

to

the

instrument

tray.

Before

I

brought

him

the

chisel,

however,

I

paused

to

steel

myself,

as

a

good

foot

soldier

for

science,

for

the

next

assault.

Though

it

lacked

a

head,

the

Anthropophagus

was

not

missing

a

mouth.

Or

teeth.

The

orifice

was

shaped

like

a

shark’s,

and

the

teeth

were

equally

sharklike:

triangular,

serrated,

and

milky

white,

arranged

in

rows

that

marched

toward

the

front

of

the

mouth

from

the

inner,

unseen

cavity

of

its

throat.

The

mouth

itself

lay

just

below

the

enormous

muscular

chest,

in

the

region

between

the

pectorals

and

the

groin.

It

had

no

nose

that

I

could

see,

though

it

had

not

beenblind

in

life:

Its

eyes

(of

which

I

confess

I

had

seen

only

one)

were

located

on

the

shoulders,

lidless

and

completely

black.

“Snap

to,

Will

Henry!”

the

doctor

called.

I

was

taking

too

long

to

steel

myself.

“Rollthe

tray

closer

to

the

table;

you’ll

wear

yourself

out

trotting

back

and

forth.”

When

the

tray

and

I

were

in

position,

he

reached

out

his

hand,

and

I

smacked

the

chiselinto

his

palm.

He

slipped

the

instrument

a

few

inches

into

the

monster’s

mouth

and

pushed

upward,

using

the

chisel

as

a

pry

bar

to

spread

the

jaws.

“Forceps!”

I

slapped

them

into

his

free

hand

and

watched

as

they

entered

the

fang-encrusted

maw…deeper,

then

deeper

still,

until

the

doctor’s

entire

hand

disappeared.

The

muscles

of

his

forearm

bulged

as

he

rotated

his

wrist,

exploring

the

back

of

the

thing’s

throat

with

the

tips

of

the

forceps.

Sweatshone

on

his

forehead.

I

patted

it

dry

with

a

bit

of

gauze.

“Would

have

dug

a

breathing

hole—so

it

didn’t

suffocate,”

he

muttered.

“No

visible

wounds…

deformities…outward

sign

of

trauma….

Ah!”

His

arm

became

still.

His

shoulder

jerked

as

he

pulled

on

the

forceps.

“Stuck

tight!

I’ll

need

both

hands.

Take

the

chisel

and

pull

back,

Will

Henry.

Use

both

hands

if

you

must,

like

this.

Don’t

let

it

slip,

now,

or

I

shall

lose

my

hands.

Yes,

that’s

it.

Good

boy.

Ahhhh!”

He

fell

away

from

the

table,

left

hand

flailing

to

regain

his

balance,

in

his

right

the

forceps,

and

in

the

forceps,

a

tangled

strand

of

pearls,

stained

pink

with

blood.

Finding

his

balance,

the

monstrumologist

held

high

his

hard-won

prize.

“I

knew

it!”

he

cried.

“Here

is

our

culprit,

Will

Henry.

He

must

have

torn

it

offher

neck

in

his

frenzy.

It

lodged

in

his

throat

and

choked

him

to

death.”

I

let

go

the

chisel,

stepped

back

from

the

table,

and

stared

at

the

crimson

strand

dangling

from

the

doctor’s

hand.

Light

danced

off

its

coating

of

blood

and

gore,

and

I

felt

the

very

air

tighten

around

me,

refusing

to

fully

fill

my

lungs.

My

knees

began

to

give

way.

I

sank

onto

the

stool,

struggling

to

breathe.

The

doctor

remained

oblivious

to

my

condition.

He

dropped

the

necklace

into

a

tray

and

called

for

the

scissors.

To

the

devil

with

him,

I

thought.

Let

him

fetch

his

own

scissors.

He

called

again,

his

back

to

me,

hand

outstretched,

bloody

fingers

flexing

and

curling.

I

rose

from

the

stool

with

a

shuddering

sigh

and

pressed

the

scissors

into

his

hand.

“A

singular

curiosity,”

he

muttered

as

he

cut

down

the

center

of

the

girl’s

burial

gown.

“Anthropophagi

are

not

native

to

the

Americas.

Northern

and

western

Africa,

the

Caroli

Islands,but

not

here.

Never

here!”

Gingerly,

almost

tenderly,

he

parted

the

material,

exposing

the

girl’s

perfect

alabaster

skin.

Dr.

Warthrop

pressed

the

end

of

his

stethoscope

upon

her

belly

and

listened

intently

as

he

slowly

moved

the

instrument

toward

her

chest,

then

down

again,

across

her

belly

button,

until,

back

where

he

began,

he

paused,

eyes

closed,

barely

breathing.

He

remained

frozen

this

way

for

several

seconds.

The

silence

was

thundering.

Finally

he

tugged

the

’scope

from

his

ears.

“As

I

suspected.”

He

gestured

toward

theworktable.

“An

empty

jar,

Will

Henry.

One

of

the

big

ones.”

He

directed

me

to

remove

the

lid

and

place

the

open

container

on

the

floor

beside

him.

“Hold

on

to

the

lid,

Will

Henry,”

he

instructed.

“We

must

be

quick

about

this.

Scalpel!”

He

bent

to

his

work.

Should

I

confess

that

I

looked

away?

That

I

could

not

will

myeyes

to

remain

upon

that

glittering

blade

as

it

sliced

into

her

flawless

flesh?

For

all

my

desire

to

please

and

impress

him

with

my

steely

resolve

as

a

good

foot

soldier

in

the

service

of

science,

nothing

could

bring

me

to

watch

what

came

next.

“They

are

not

natural

scavengers,”

he

said.

“Anthropophagi

prefer

fresh

kill,

but

there

are

drives

even

more

powerful

than

hunger,

Will

Henry.

The

female

can

breed,

butshe

cannot

bear.

She

lacks

a

womb,

you

see,

for

that

location

of

her

anatomy

is

given

to

another,

more

vital

organ:

her

brain….

Here,

take

the

scalpel.”

I

heard

a

soft

squish

as

he

plunged

his

fist

into

the

incision.

His

right

shoulder

rotated

as

his

fingers

explored

inside

the

young

girl’s

torso.

“But

nature

is

ingenious,

Will

Henry,

and

marvelously

implacable.

The

fertilized

eggis

expelled

into

her

mate’s

mouth,

where

it

rests

in

a

pouch

located

along

his

lower

jaw.

He

has

two

months

to

find

a

host

for

their

offspring,

before

the

fetus

bursts

from

its

protective

sac

and

he

swallows

it

or

chokes

upon

it….

Ah,

this

must

be

it.

Ready

now

with

the

lid.”

His

body

tensed,

and

all

became

still

for

a

moment.

Then

with

a

single

dramatic

flourish,

he

yanked

from

the

split-open

stomach

a

squirming

mass

of

flesh

and

teeth,

a

doll-size

version

of

the

beast

curled

about

the

girl,

encased

in

a

milky

white

sac

that

burst

open

as

the

thing

inside

fought

against

the

doctor’s

grasp,

spewing

a

foul-smelling

liquid

that

soaked

his

coat

and

splattered

around

his

rubber

boots.

He

nearly

dropped

it,

holding

it

against

his

chest

while

it

twisted

and

flailed

its

tiny

arms

and

legs,

its

mouth,

armed

with

tiny

razor-sharp

teeth,

snapping

and

spitting.

“The

jar!”

he

cried.

I

slid

it

toward

his

feet.

He

dropped

the

thing

into

the

container,

and

I

did

not

need

his

urging

to

slap

on

the

lid.

“Screw

it

tight,

Will

Henry!”

he

gasped.

He

was

covered

head

to

toe

in

the

blood-fleckedgoop,

the

smell

of

it

more

pungent

than

that

of

the

rotting

flesh

upon

the

table.

The

tinyAnthropophagus

flipped

and

smacked

inside

the

jar,

smearing

the

glass

with

amniotic

fluid,

clawing

at

its

prison

with

needle-size

fingernails,

mouth

working

furiously

in

the

middle

of

its

chest,

like

a

landed

fish

gasping

upon

the

shore.

Its

mewling

cries

of

shock

and

pain

were

loud

enough

to

penetrate

the

thick

glass,

a

haunting,

inhuman

sound

that

I

am

doomed

to

remember

to

my

last

day.

Dr.

Warthrop

picked

up

the

jar

and

placed

it

on

the

workbench.

He

soaked

some

cotton

in

a

mixture

of

halothane

and

alcohol,

dropped

it

into

the

jar,

and

screwed

the

lid

back

on.

The

infant

monster

attacked

the

cotton,

stripping

the

fibers

apart

with

its

little

teeth

and

swallowing

chunks

of

it

whole.

Its

aggression

hastened

the

effects

of

the

euthanizing

agent:

In

less

than

five

minutes

the

unholy

spawn

was

dead.