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Summary:“CassieSullivanandhercompanionslivedthroughtheOthers’fourwavesofdestruction.Now,withthehumanracenearlyexterminatedandthe5thWaverollingacrossthelandscape,theyfaceachoice:braceforwinterandhopeforEvanWalker’sreturn,orsetoutinsearchofothersurvivorsbeforetheenemyclosesin”—Providedbypublisher.
[1.Extraterrestrialbeings—Fiction.2.Survival—Fiction.3.War—Fiction.4.Sciencefiction.]I.Title.PZ7.Y19197Inf2014[Fic]—dc232014022058
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Contents
TitlePageCopyrightDedicationEpigraph
THEWHEAT
BOOKONE
I:THEPROBLEMOFRATSChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10
II:THERIPPINGChapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14
III:THELASTSTARChapter15Chapter16Chapter17Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20
Chapter21Chapter22Chapter23Chapter24Chapter25Chapter26Chapter27Chapter28Chapter29
IV:MILLIONSChapter30
V:THEPRICEChapter31Chapter32Chapter33Chapter34Chapter35Chapter36Chapter37Chapter38Chapter39Chapter40Chapter41Chapter42Chapter43Chapter44Chapter45Chapter46Chapter47Chapter48
VI:THETRIGGERChapter49
BOOKTWO
VII:THESUMOFALLTHINGSChapter50Chapter51
Chapter52Chapter53Chapter54Chapter55Chapter56Chapter57Chapter58Chapter59Chapter60Chapter61Chapter62Chapter63Chapter64Chapter65Chapter66Chapter67Chapter68Chapter69Chapter70Chapter71Chapter72Chapter73Chapter74Chapter75Chapter76Chapter77Chapter78Chapter79Chapter80Chapter81Chapter82Chapter83
VIII:DUBUQUEChapter84
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ForSandy,guardianoftheinfinite
Mybountyisasboundlessasthesea,Myloveasdeep;themoreIgivetothee,ThemoreIhave;forbothareinfinite.
—WilliamShakespeare
THEWHEAT
THEREWOULDBEnoharvest.Thespringrainswokethedormant tillers,andbrightgreenshootssprangfromthemoistearthand
rose like sleepers stretchingafter a longnap.As springgaveway to summer, thebrightgreen stalksdarkened, became tan, turned golden brown. The days grew long and hot. Thick towers of swirlingblackcloudsbroughtrain,andthebrownstemsglistenedintheperpetualtwilightthatdwelledbeneaththe canopy. The wheat rose and the ripening heads bent in the prairie wind, a rippling curtain, anendless,undulatingseathatstretchedtothehorizon.Atharvesttime,therewasnofarmertopluckaheadfromthestalk,rubtheheadbetweenhiscallused
hands,andblowthechafffromthegrain.Therewasnoreapertochewthekernelsorfeelthedelicateskincrackbetweenhisteeth.Thefarmerhaddiedoftheplague,andtheremnantsofhisfamilyhadfledtothenearesttown,wherethey,too,succumbed,addingtheirnumberstothebillionswhoperishedinthe3rdWave.Theoldhousebuiltbythefarmer’sgrandfatherwasnowadesertedislandsurroundedbyaninfiniteseaofbrown.Thedaysgrewshortandthenightsturnedcool,andthewheatcrackledinthedrywind.Thewheathadsurvived thehail and lightningof the summer storms,but luckcouldnotdeliver it
fromthecold.Bythetimetherefugeestookshelterintheoldhouse,thewheatwasdead,killedbythehardfistofadeepfrost.Fivemen and twowomen, strangers to one another on the eve of that final growing season, now
boundbytheunspokenpromisethattheleastofthemwasgreaterthanthesumofallofthem.Themenrotatedwatchesontheporch.Duringthedaythecloudlessskywasapolished,brilliantblue
and the sun riding low on the horizon painted the dull brown of thewheat a shimmering gold. ThenightsdidnotcomegentlybutseemedtoslamdownangrilyupontheEarth,andstarlighttransformedthegoldenbrownofthewheattothecolorofpolishedsilver.Themechanizedworld had died.Earthquakes and tsunamis had obliterated the coasts. Plague had
consumedbillions.Andthemenontheporchwatchedthewheatandwonderedwhatmightcomenext.Early one afternoon, themanonwatch saw thedead sea of grain parting andknew someonewas
coming,crashingthroughthewheattowardtheoldfarmhouse.Hecalledtotheothersinside,andoneofthe women came out and stood with him on the porch, and together they watched the tall stalksdisappearing into the sea of brown as if the Earth itself were sucking them under. Whoever—orwhatever—itwascouldnotbeseenabovethesurfaceofthewheat.Themansteppedofftheporch.Heleveledhis rifleat thewheat.Hewaited in theyardand thewomanwaitedon theporchand therestwaitedinsidethehouse,pressingtheirfacesagainst thewindows,andnoonespoke.Theywaitedforthecurtainofwheattopart.Whenitdid,achildemerged,andthestillnessofthewaitingwasbroken.Thewomanranfromthe
porchandshovedthebarreloftherifledown.He’sjustababy.Wouldyoushootachild?Andtheman’sfacewastwistedwithindecisionandtherageofeverythingevertakenforgrantedbetrayed.Howdoweknow?hedemandedofthewoman.Howcanwebesureofanythinganymore?Thechildstumbledfrom
thewheatandfell.Thewomanrantohimandscoopedhimup,pressingtheboy’sfilthyfaceagainstherbreast,andthemanwiththegunsteppedinfrontofher.He’sfreezing.Wehavetogethiminside.Andthemanfeltagreatpressureinsidehischest.Hewassqueezedbetweenwhattheworldhadbeenandwhattheworldhadbecome,whohewasbeforeandwhohewasnow,andthecostofalltheunspokenpromisesweighingonhisheart.He’s justababy.Wouldyoushootachild?Thewomanwalkedpasthim,upthesteps,ontotheporch,intothehouse,andthemanbowedhisheadasifinprayer,thenliftedhisheadasifinsupplication.Hewaitedafewminutestoseeifanyoneelseemergedfromthewheat,foritseemedincredibletohimthatatoddlermightsurvivethislong,aloneanddefenseless,withnoonetoprotecthim.Howcouldsuchathingbepossible?Whenhesteppedinsidetheparloroftheoldfarmhouse,hesawthewomanholdingthechildinher
lap.Shehadwrappedablanketaroundhimandbroughthimwater,littlefingersslappedredbythecoldwrappedaroundthecup,andtheothershadgatheredintheroomandnoonespoke,buttheystaredatthechildwithdumbstruckwonder.Howcouldsuchathingbe?Thechildwhimpered.Hiseyesskitteredfromfacetoface,searchingforthefamiliar,buttheywerestrangerstohimastheyhadbeenstrangerstooneanotherbeforetheworldended.Hewhinedthathewascoldandsaidthathisthroathurt.Hehadabadowieinhisthroat.Thewomanholdinghimproddedthechildtoopenhismouth.Shesawtheinflamedtissueattheback
ofhismouth,butshedidnotseethehair-thinwireembeddedneartheopeningofhisthroat.Shecouldnotseethewireorthetinycapsuleconnectedtothewire’send.Shecouldnotknow,asshebentoverthe child to peer into hismouth, that the device inside the childwas calibrated to detect the carbondioxideinherbreath.Ourbreaththetrigger.Ourchildtheweapon.Theexplosionvaporizedtheoldfarmhouseinstantly.Thewheattooklonger.Nothingwasleftofthefarmhouseortheoutbuildingsorthesilothatinevery
otheryearhadheldtheabundantharvest.Butthedry,lithestalksconsumedbyfireturnedtoash,andatsunset, a stiff northerly wind swept over the prairie and lifted the ash into the sky and carried ithundredsofmilesbefore theashcamedown,agrayandblacksnow, tosettle indifferentlyonbarrenground.
BOOKONE
1
THEWORLDISaclockwindingdown.Ihearitinthewind’sicyfingersscratchingagainstthewindow.Ismellitinthemildewedcarpeting
andtherottingwallpaperoftheoldhotel.AndIfeelitinTeacup’schestasshesleeps.Thehammeringofherheart,therhythmofherbreath,warminthefreezingair,theclockwindingdown.Acrosstheroom,CassieSullivankeepswatchbythewindow.Moonlightseepsthroughthetinycrack
inthecurtainsbehindher,lightinguptheplumesoffrozenbreathexplodingfromhermouth.Herlittlebrothersleeps in thebedclosest toher,a tiny lumpbeneath themoundedcovers.Window,bed,backagain,herheadturnslikeapendulumswinging.Theturningofherhead,therhythmofherbreath,likeNugget’s,likeTeacup’s,likemine,markingthetimeoftheclockwindingdown.Ieaseoutofbed.Teacupmoansinhersleepandburrowsdeeperunderthecovers.Thecoldclamps
down,squeezingmychest, thoughI’mfullydressedexceptformybootsandtheparka,whichIgrabfromthefootofthebed.SullivanwatchesasIpullontheboots,thenwhenIgototheclosetformyrucksackandrifle.Ijoinherbythewindow.IfeellikeIshouldsaysomethingbeforeIleave.Wemightnotseeeachotheragain.“Sothisisit,”shesays.Herfairskinglowsinthemilkylight.Thesprayoffrecklesseemstofloat
abovehernoseandcheeks.Iadjusttherifleonmyshoulder.“Thisisit.”“Youknow,DumboIget.Thebigears.AndNugget,becauseSamissosmall.Teacup,too.ZombieI
don’tgetsomuch—Benwon’tsay—andI’mguessingPoundcakehassomethingtodowithhisroly-poly-ness.ButwhyRinger?”Isensewherethisisgoing.BesidesZombieandherbrother,sheisn’tsureofanyoneanymore.The
nameRingergivesherparanoiaanudge.“I’mhuman.”“Yeah.”Shelooksthroughthecrackinthecurtainstotheparkinglottwostoriesbelow,shimmering
withice.“Someoneelsetoldmethat,too.And,likeadummy,Ibelievedhim.”“Notsodumb,giventhecircumstances.”“Don’tpretend,Ringer,”shesnaps.“Iknowyoudon’tbelievemeaboutEvan.”“Ibelieveyou.It’shisstorythatdoesn’tmakesense.”I head for the door before she tears intome.Youdon’t pushCassieSullivan on theEvanWalker
question.Idon’tholditagainsther.Evanisthelittlebranchgrowingoutofthecliffthatsheclingsto,andthefactthathe’sgonemakesherhangoneventighter.Teacupdoesn’tmakeasound,butIfeelhereyesonme;Iknowshe’sawake.Igobacktothebed.“Takemewithyou,”shewhispers.Ishakemyhead.We’vebeenthroughthisahundredtimes.“Iwon’tbegonelong.Acoupledays.”“Promise?”Noway, Teacup. Promises are the only currency left. Theymust be spentwisely.Her bottom lip
quivers;hereyesmist.“Hey,”Isaysoftly.“WhatdidItellyouaboutthat,soldier?”Iresisttheimpulsetotouchher.“What’sthefirstpriority?”“Nobadthoughts,”sheanswersdutifully.
“Becausebadthoughtsdowhat?”“Makeussoft.”“Andwhathappensifwegosoft?”“Wedie.”“Anddowewanttodie?”Sheshakesherhead.“Notyet.”Itouchherface.Coldcheek,warmtears.Notyet.Withnotimeleftonthehumanclock,thislittlegirl
hasprobablyreachedmiddleage.Sullivanandme,we’reold.AndZombie?Theancientofdays.He’swaitingformeinthelobby,wearingaskijacketoverabrightyellowhoodie,bothscavenged
from the remains inside thehotel:Zombie escaped fromCampHavenwearingonly a flimsypair ofscrubs.Beneathhisscruffybeard,hisfaceisthetelltalescarletoffever.ThebulletwoundIgavehim,rippedopen inhis escape fromCampHaven andpatchedupbyour twelve-year-oldmedic,must beinfected. He leans against the counter, pressing his hand against his side and trying to look likeeverything’scool.“Iwasstartingtothinkyouchangedyourmind,”Zombiesays,darkeyessparklingasifhe’steasing,
thoughthatcouldbethefever.Ishakemyhead.“Teacup.”“She’ll be okay.”To reassureme, he releases his killer smile from its cage. Zombie doesn’t fully
appreciatethepricelessnessofpromisesorhewouldn’ttossthemoutsocasually.“It’snotTeacupI’mworriedabout.Youlooklikeshit,Zombie.”“It’sthisweather.Wreakshavoconmycomplexion.”Asecondsmileleapsoutatthepunchline.He
leansforward,willingmetoanswerwithmyown.“Oneday,PrivateRinger,you’regoingtosmileatsomethingIsayandtheworldwillbreakinhalf.”“I’mnotpreparedtotakeonthatresponsibility.”HelaughsandmaybeIheararattledeepinhischest.“Here.”Heoffersmeanotherbrochureofthe
caverns.“Ihaveone,”Itellhim.“Takethisone,too,incaseyouloseit.”“Iwon’tloseit,Zombie.”“I’msendingPoundcakewithyou,”hesays.“No,you’renot.”“I’mincharge.SoIam.”“YouneedPoundcakeheremorethanIneedhimoutthere.”Henods.HeknewIwouldsayno,buthecouldn’tresistonelasttry.“Maybeweshouldabort,”he
says.“Imean,itisn’tthatbadhere.Aboutathousandbedbugs,afewhundredrats,andacoupledozendeadbodies,buttheviewisfantastic...”Stilljoking,stilltryingtomakemesmile.He’slookingatthebrochureinhishand.Seventy-fourdegreesyear’round!“Until we get snowed in or the temperature drops again. The situation is unsustainable, Zombie.
We’vestayedtoolongalready.”Idon’tgetit.We’vetalkedthistodeathandnowhewantstokeepbeatingthecorpse.Iwonderabout
Zombiesometimes.“Wehave tochance it,andyouknowwecan’tgo inblind,” Igoon.“Theoddsare there’reother
survivorshidinginthosecavesandtheymaynotbereadytothrowoutthewelcomemat,especiallyifthey’vemetanyofSullivan’sSilencers.”“Orrecruitslikeus,”headds.“SoI’llscopeitoutandbebackinacoupleofdays.”“I’mholdingyoutothatpromise.”
“Itwasn’tapromise.”There’snothingleft tosay.There’reamillionthingsleft tosay.Thismightbethelast timewesee
eachother,andhe’sthinkingit,too,becausehesays,“Thankyouforsavingmylife.”“Iputabulletinyoursideandnowyoumightdie.”Heshakeshishead.Hiseyessparklewithfever.Hislipsaregray.Whydidtheyhavetonamehim
Zombie? It’s like anomen.The first time I sawhim,hewasdoingknucklepush-ups in theexerciseyard, face contortedwith anger andpain, bloodpoolingon the asphalt beneathhis fists.Whois thatguy? Iasked.Hisname isZombie.Hefought theplagueandwon, they toldme,andIdidn’tbelievethem.Nobodybeatstheplague.Theplagueisadeathsentence.AndReznikthedrillsergeantbendingoverhim,screamingat thetopofhis lungs,andZombiein thebaggybluejumpsuit,pushinghimselfpastthepointwhereonemorepushisimpossible.Idon’tknowwhyIwassurprisedwhenheorderedmetoshoothimsohecouldkeephisunkeepablepromisetoNugget.Whenyoulookdeathintheeyeanddeathblinksfirst,nothingseemsimpossible.Evenmindreading.“Iknowwhatyou’rethinking,”hesays.“No.Youdon’t.”“You’rewonderingifyoushouldkissmegood-bye.”“Whydoyoudothat?”Iask.“Flirtwithme.”Heshrugs.Hisgriniscrooked,likehisbodyleaningagainstthecounter.“It’s normal.Don’t youmiss normal?” he asks. Eyes digging deep intomine, always looking for
something,I’mneversurewhat.“Youknow,drive-thrusandmoviesonaSaturdaynightandicecreamsandwichesandcheckingyourTwitterfeed?”Ishakemyhead.“Ididn’tTwitter.”“Facebook?”I’mgettingalittlepissed.Sometimesit’shardformetoimaginehowZombiemadeitthisfar.Pining
forthingswelost is thesameashopingfor thingsthatcanneverbe.Bothroadsdead-endindespair.“It’snotimportant,”Isay.“Noneofthatmatters.”Zombie’slaughcomesfromdeepinhisgut.Itbubblestothesurfacelikethesuperheatedairofahot
spring,andI’mnotpissedanymore.Iknowhe’sputtingonthecharm,andsomehowknowingwhathe’sdoingdoesnothingtoblunttheeffect.AnotherreasonZombie’salittleunnerving.“It’sfunny,”hesays.“Howmuchwethoughtallofitdid.Youknowwhatreallymatters?”Hewaits
formyanswer.IfeelasifI’mbeingsetupforajoke,soIdon’tsayanything.“Thetardybell.”Nowhe’sforcedmeintoacorner.Iknowthere’smanipulationgoingonhere,butIfeelhelplessto
stopit.“Tardybell?”“Mostordinarysoundintheworld.Andwhenallof this isdone, there’llbetardybellsagain.”He
presses thepoint.Maybehe’sworried I don’t get it. “Think about it!Whena tardybell rings again,normalisback.Kidsrushingtoclass,sittingaroundbored,waitingforthefinalbell,andthinkingaboutwhat they’ll do that night, thatweekend, that next fifty years.They’ll be learning likewe did aboutnaturaldisastersanddiseaseandworldwars.Youknow:‘Whenthealienscame,sevenbillionpeopledied,’and then thebellwill ringandeverybodywillgo to lunchandcomplainabout thesoggyTaterTots.Like,‘Whoa,sevenbillionpeople, that’sa lot.That’ssad.Areyougoingtoeatall thoseTots?’That’snormal.That’swhatmatters.”Soitwasn’tajoke.“SoggyTaterTots?”“Okay,fine.Noneofthatmakessense.I’mamoron.”Hesmiles.Histeethseemverywhitesurroundedbythescruffybeard,andnow,becausehesuggested
it,Ithinkaboutkissinghimandifthestubbleonhisupperlipwouldtickle.Ipushthethoughtaway.Promisesarepriceless,andakissisakindofpromise,too.
2
UNDIMMED,THESTARLIGHTsearsthroughtheblack,coatingthehighwayinpearlywhite.Thedrygrassshines; thebare trees shimmer.Except for thewindcuttingacross thedead land, theworld iswinterquiet.I hunker beside a stalled SUV for one last look back at the hotel. A nondescript two-storywhite
rectangleamongaclusterofothernondescriptwhiterectangles.OnlyfourmilesfromthehugeholethatusedtobeCampHaven,wenicknamedittheWalkerHotel,inhonorofthearchitectofthathugehole.SullivantoldusthehotelwasherandEvan’sprearrangedrendezvouspoint.Ithoughtitwastooclosetothe scene of the crime, too difficult to defend, and anyway, EvanWalkerwas dead: It takes two torendezvous,IremindedZombie.Iwasoverruled.IfWalkerreallywasoneofthem,hemayhavefoundawaytosurvive.“How?”Iasked.“Therewereescapepods,”Sullivansaid.“So?”Hereyebrowscametogether.Shetookadeepbreath.“So...hecouldhaveescapedinone.”Ilookedather.Shelookedback.Neitherofussaidanything.ThenZombiesaid,“Well,wehaveto
take shelter somewhere,Ringer.”Hehadn’t found the brochure for the caverns yet. “Andwe shouldgivehimthebenefitofthedoubt.”“Thebenefitofwhatdoubt?”Iasked.“Thatheiswhohesaysheis.”ZombielookedatSullivan,whowasstillglaringatme.“Thathe’ll
keephispromise.”“Hepromisedhe’dfindme,”sheexplained.“Isawthecargoplane,”Isaid.“Ididn’tseeanescapepod.”Beneaththefreckles,Sullivanwasblushing.“Justbecauseyoudidn’tseeone...”I turned toZombie.“Thisdoesn’tmakesense.Abeing thousandsofyearsmoreadvanced thanus
turnsonitsownkind—forwhat?”“Iwasn’tfilledinonthewhypart,”Zombiesaid,halfsmiling.“Hiswhole story is strange,” I said. “Pure consciousness occupying a humanbody—if they don’t
needbodies,theydon’tneedaplanet.”“Maybetheyneedtheplanetforsomethingelse.”Zombiewastryinghard.“Likewhat?Raisinglivestock?Avacationgetaway?”Somethingelsewasbotheringme,anagging
littlevoicethatsaid,Somethingdoesn’taddup.ButIcouldn’tpindownwhatthatsomethingwas.EverytimeIchasedafterit,itskitteredaway.“Therewasn’ttimetogointoall thedetails,”Sullivansnapped.“Iwassortoffocusedonrescuing
mybabybrotherfromadeathcamp.”Iletitgo.Herheadlookedlikeitwasabouttoexplode.Icanmakeoutthatsameheadnowonmylastlookback,silhouettedinthesecond-storywindowof
the hotel, and that’s bad, really bad: She’s an easy target for a sniper. The next Silencer Sullivanencountersmightnotbeaslovestruckasthefirstone.
Iduckintothethinlineoftreesthatborderstheroad.Stiffwithice,theautumnruinscrunchbeneathmyboots.Leavescurleduplikefists, trashandhumanbonesscatteredbyscavengers.Thecoldwindcarriesthefaintodorofsmoke.Theworldwillburnforahundredyears.Firewillconsumethethingswemadefromwoodandplasticandrubberandcloth,thenwaterandwindandtimewillchewthestoneandsteelintodust.HowbafflingitisthatweimaginedcitiesincineratedbyalienbombsanddeathrayswhenalltheyneededwasMotherNatureandtime.Andhumanbodies,accordingtoSullivan,despitethefactthat,alsoaccordingtoSullivan,theydon’t
needbodies.Avirtualexistencedoesn’trequireaphysicalplanet.WhenI’dfirstsaidthat,Sullivanwouldn’tlistenandZombieactedlikeitdidn’tmatter.Forwhatever
reason,hesaid,thebottomlineistheywantallofusdead.Everythingelseisjustnoise.Maybe.ButIdon’tthinkso.Becauseoftherats.IforgottotellZombieabouttherats.
3
BYSUNRISE,IreachthesouthernoutskirtsofUrbana.Halfwaythere,rightonschedule.Cloudshave rolled in from thenorth; the sun risesbeneath the canopyandpaints itsunderbelly a
glisteningmaroon.I’llholeupinthetreesuntilnightfall,thenhittheopenfieldstothewestofthecityandpray thecloudcoverhangsaround forawhile, at leastuntil Ipickup thehighwayagainon theother side.GoingaroundUrbanaaddsa fewmiles,but theonly thing riskier thannavigatinga townduringthedayistryingitatnight.Andit’sallaboutrisk.Mistrisesfromthefrozenground.Thecoldisintense.Itsqueezesmycheeks,makesmychestache
witheachbreath.Ifeeltheancientyearningforfireembeddeddeepinmygenes.Thetamingoffirewasourfirstgreatleap:Fireprotectedus,keptuswarm,transformedourbrainsbychangingourdietsfromnuts and berries to protein-richmeat. Now fire is another weapon in our enemy’s arsenal. As deepwintersetsin,we’recrushedbetweentwounacceptablerisks:freezingtodeathoralertingtheenemytoourlocation.Sittingwithmybackagainstatree,Ipulloutthebrochure.Ohio’sMostColorfulCaverns!Zombie’s
right.Wewon’tsurvivetillspringwithoutshelter,andthecavesareourbest—maybeonly—bet.Maybethey’vebeen takenordestroyedby the enemy.Maybe they’reoccupiedby survivorswhowill shootstrangersonsight.Buteverydaywestayatthathotel,theriskgrowstenfold.Wedon’thaveanalternative if thecavesdon’tpanout.Nowhere to run,nowhere tohide,and the
ideaoffightingisludicrous.Theclockwindsdown.WhenIpointedthisouttohim,ZombietoldmeIthinktoomuch.Hewassmiling.Thenhestopped
smilingandsaid,“Don’tlet’emgetinsideyourhead.”AsifthiswereafootballgameandIneededahalftimepeptalk.Ignorethefifty-sixtonothingscore.Playforpride!It’smomentslikethosethatmakemewanttoslaphim,notthatslappinghimwoulddoanygood,butitwouldmakemefeelbetter.Thebreezedies.There’sanexpectanthushintheair,thestillnessbeforeastorm.Ifitsnows,we’llbe
trapped.Meinthesewoods.Zombieinthehotel.I’mstilltwentyorsomilesfromthecaverns—shouldIrisktheopenfieldsbydayorriskthesnowholdingoffatleasttillnightfall?BacktotheRword. It’sallabout risk.Not justours.Theirs, too:embedding themselves inhuman
bodies,establishingdeathcamps,trainingkidstofinishthegenocide,allofitcrazyrisky,stupidrisky.LikeEvanWalker,discordant,illogical,andjustdamnstrange.Theopeningattackswerebrutalintheirefficiency,wipingout98percentofus,andeventhe4thWavemadesomesense:It’shardtomusterameaningful resistance if you can’t trust one another. But after that, their brilliant strategy starts tounravel.TenthousandyearstoplantheeradicationofhumansfromEarthandthisisthebesttheycancomeupwith?That’sthequestionIcan’tstopturningoverandoverinmyhead,andhaven’tbeenableto,sinceTeacupandthenightoftherats.Deeperinthewoods,behindmeandtomyleft,asoftmoanslicesthroughthesilence.Irecognizethe
sound immediately; I’ve heard it a thousand times since they came. In the early days, itwas nearlyomnipresent,aconstantbackgroundnoise, like thehumof trafficonabusyhighway: thesoundofahumanbeinginpain.
I pull the eyepiece frommy rucksack and adjust the lens carefully overmy left eye.Deliberately.Withoutpanic.Panicshutsdownneurons.Istandup,checktheboltcatchontherifle,andeasethroughthetreestowardthesound,scanningtheterrainforthetelltalegreenglowofan“infested.”Mistshroudsthetrees;theworldisdrapedinwhite.Myfootstepsthunderonthefrozenground.Mybreathsaresonicbooms.Thedelicatewhitecurtainparts,andtwentyyardsawayIseeafigureslumpedagainsta tree,head
back,handspressedintoitslap.Theheaddoesn’tglowinmyeyepiece,whichmeanshe’snocivilian;he’spartofthe5thWave.Iaimtherifleathishead.“Hands!Letmeseeyourhands!”Hismouthhangsopen.Hisvacanteyesregardthegrayskythroughbarebranchesglisteningwithice.
Istepcloser.Arifleidenticaltomineliesonthegroundbesidehim.Hedoesn’treachforit.“Where’stherestofyoursquad?”Iask.Hedoesn’tanswer.Ilowermyweapon.I’manidiot.Inthisweather,Iwouldseehisbreathandthereisnone.ThemoanI
heardmusthavebeenhislast.Idoaslow360,holdingmybreath,butseenothingbuttreesandmist,hearnothingbutmyownbloodroaringinmyears.ThenIstepovertothebody,forcingmyselfnottorush,tonoticeeverything.Nopanic.Panickills.Samegun asmine.Same fatigues.And there’s his eyepieceon thegroundbesidehim.He’s a 5th
Waverallright.I studyhis face.He looksvaguely familiar. I’mguessinghe’s twelveor thirteen, aroundDumbo’s
age.Ikneelbesidehimandpressmyfingertipsagainsthisneck.Nopulse.Iopenthejacketandpulluphisblood-soakedshirttolookforthewound.Hewashitinthegutbyasingle,high-caliberround.AroundIdidn’thear.Eitherhe’sbeenlyinghereforawhileortheshooterisusingasilencer.Silencer.
•••
According to Sullivan, Evan Walker took out an entire squad by himself, at night, injured andoutnumbered,sortofawarm-uptohissingle-handedblowingupofanentiremilitary installation.Atthetime,IfoundCassie’sstoryhardtobelieve.Nowthere’sadeadsoldieratmyfeet.HissquadMIA.Andmealonewiththesilenceofthewoodsandthemilkywhitescreenoffog.Doesn’tseemthatfar-fetchednow.Thinkfast.Don’tpanic.Likechess.Weightheodds.Measuretherisk.Ihavetwooptions.Stayputuntilsomethingdevelopsornightfalls.Orgetoutofthesewoods,fast.
Whoeverkilledhimcouldbemilesawayorhunkereddownbehindatree,waitingforaclearshot.Thepossibilitiesmultiply.Where’shissquad?Dead?Huntingdownthepersonwhoshothim?What
if thepersonwhoshothimwasa fellowrecruitwhowentDorothy?Forgethissquad.Whathappenswhenreinforcementsarrive?Ipulloutmyknife.It’sbeenfiveminutessinceIfoundhim.I’dbedeadbynowifsomeoneknewI
washere.I’llwaittilldark,butIhavetopreparefortheprobabilitythatanotherbreakerofthe5thWaveisrollingtowardme.Ipressagainst thebackofhisneckuntil I find the tinybulgebeneath thescar.Staycalm. It’s like
chess.Moveandcountermove.Isliceslowlyalongthescaranddigoutthepelletwiththetipoftheknife,whereitsitssuspendedon
adropletofblood.Sowe’llalwaysknowwhereyouare.Sowecankeepyousafe.Risk.Theriskoflightingupinaneyepiece.Theopposingriskoftheenemyfryingmybrainwiththe
touchofabutton.
Thepelletinitsbedofblood.Theawfulstillnessofthetreesandtheclinchingcoldandthefogthatcurlsbetweenbrancheslikefingersinterlacing.AndZombie’svoiceinmyhead:Youthinktoomuch.Ituckthepelletbetweenmycheekandgums.Stupid.Ishouldhavewipeditofffirst.Icantastethe
kid’sblood.
4
IAMNOTALONE.Ican’tseehimorhearhim,butIfeelhim.Everyinchofmybodytingleswiththesensationofbeing
watched.Anuncomfortablyfamiliarfeelingnow,presentsincetheverybeginning.Justthemothershipsilentlyhoveringinorbitforthefirsttendayscausedcracksinthehumanedifice.Adifferentkindofviralplague:uncertainty, fear,panic.Cloggedhighways,desertedairports,overrunemergencyrooms,governments in lockdown, foodandgasshortages,martial law insomeplaces, lawlessness inothers.Thelioncrouchesinthetallgrass.Thegazellesniffstheair.Theawfulstillnessbeforethestrike.Forthefirsttimeintenmillennia,weknewwhatitfeltliketobepreyagain.The trees are crowdedwith crows.Shinyblackheads, blankblack eyes, their hunched-shouldered
silhouettesremindingmeoflittleoldmenonparkbenches.Therearehundredsofthemperchedinthetreesandhoppingabouttheground.Iglanceatthebodybesideme,itseyesblankandbottomlessasthecrows’.Iknowwhythebirdshavecome.They’rehungry.Iam,too,soIdigoutmybaggieofbeefjerkyandonly-slightly-expiredgummybears.Eatingisa
risk,too,becauseI’llhavetoremovethetrackerfrommymouth,butIneedtostayalert,andtostayalert, I need fuel. The crowswatchme, cocking their heads as if straining to hear the sound ofmychewing.Youfatasses.Howhungrycouldyoube?Theattacksyieldedmillionsoftonsofmeat.Attheheight of the plague, huge flocks blotted out the sky, their shadows racing across the smolderinglandscape.The crows andother carrionbirds closed the loopof the3rdWave.They fedon infectedbodies,thenspreadthevirustonewfeedinggrounds.Icouldbewrong.Maybewe’realone,meandthisdeadkid.Themoresecondsthatslipby,thesaferI
feel.Ifsomeoneiswatching,Icanthinkofonlyonereasonwhyhe’dholdtheshot:He’swaitingtoseeifanymoreidiotickidsplayingsoldiershowup.I finishmybreakfastandslip thepelletback intomymouth.Theminutescrawl.Oneof themost
disorienting things about the invasion—after watching everyone you know and love die in horribleways—was how time slowed down as events sped up. Ten thousand years to build civilization, tenmonthstotearitdown,andeachdaylastedtentimeslongerthantheonebefore,andthenightslastedtentimesaslongasthedays.Theonlythingmoreexcruciatingthantheboredomofthosehourswastheterrorofknowingthatanyminutetheycouldend.Midmorning:Themistliftsandthesnowbeginstofallinflakessmallerthancrows’eyes.There’snot
abreathofwind.Thewoodsaredrapedinadreamlike,glossywhiteglow.Aslongasthesnowstaysthislight,I’mgoodtilldark.If I don’t fall asleep. I haven’t slept in over twenty hours, and I feel warm and comfortable and
slightlyspacy.In thegossamerstillness,myparanoia ratchetsup.Myhead isperfectlycentered inhiscrosshairs.
He’shighinthetrees;he’slyingmotionlesslikealioninthebrush.I’mapuzzletohim.Ishouldbepanicking. So he holds his fire, allowing the situation to develop. There must be some reason I’mhangingoutherewithacorpse.ButIdon’tpanic.Idon’tboltlikeafrightenedgazelle.Iammorethanthesumofmyfear.
Itisn’tfearthatwilldefeatthem.Notfearorfaithorhopeorevenlove,butrage.Fuckyou,SullivansaidtoVosch.It’stheonlypartofherstorythatimpressedme.Shedidn’tcry.She
didn’tpray.Shedidn’tbeg.Shethoughtitwasover,andwhenit’sover,whentheclockhaswoundtothefinalsecond,thetime
forcrying,praying,andbeggingisover.“Fuckyou,”Iwhisper.Saying thewordsmakesmefeelbetter. Isay themagain, louder.Myvoice
carriesfarinthewinterair.A flutter of blackwings deep in the trees tomy right, the petulant squawking of the crows, and
throughmyeyepiece,atinygreendotsparklingamongthebrownandwhite.Foundyou.Theshotwillbetough.Tough,notimpossible.I’dneverhandledafirearminmylifeuntiltheenemy
foundmehidinginthereststopoutsideCincinnati,broughtmetotheircamp,andplacedarifleinmyhand,atwhichpointthedrillsergeantwonderedaloudifcommandhadslippedaringerintotheunit.Sixmonthslater,Iputabulletintothatman’sheart.Ihaveagift.Thefierygreenlightiscomingcloser.MaybeheknowsI’vespottedhim.Itdoesn’tmatter.Icaress
the smoothmetal of the trigger andwatch the blob of light expand through the eyepiece.Maybe hethinkshe’soutofrangeorispositioninghimselfforabettershot.Doesn’tmatter.ItmightnotbeoneofSullivan’ssilentassassins.Itmightbejustsomepoorlostsurvivorhopingfor
rescue.Doesn’tmatter.Onlyonethingmattersanymore.Therisk.
5
ATTHEHOTEL,Sullivantoldmeastoryaboutshootingasoldierbehindsomebeercoolersandhowbadshefeltafterward.“Itwasn’tagun,”shetriedtoexplain.“Itwasacrucifix.”“Whyisthatimportant?”Iasked.“ItcouldhavebeenaRaggedyAnndollorabagofM&Ms.What
choicedidyouhave?”“Ididn’t.That’smypoint.”I shookmy head. “Sometimes you’re in thewrong place at thewrong time andwhat happens is
nobody’sfault.Youjustwanttofeelbadsoyou’llfeelbetter.”“Bad so I feel better?”With a deep blush of anger spreading beneath her freckles. “That makes
absolutelynofriggin’sense.”“‘Ikilledaninnocentguy,butlookhowguiltyIfeelaboutit,’”Iexplained.“Guy’sstilldead.”Shestaredatmeforalongtime.“Well.IseewhyVoschwantedyoufortheteam.”
•••
Thegreenblobofhisheadadvancestowardme,weavingthroughthetrees,andnowIcanseetheglintofariflethroughthelanguidsnow.I’mprettysureitisn’tacrucifix.Cradlingmy rifle, leaningmyhead against the tree as if I’mdozingor looking at the flakes float
betweentheglisteningbarebranches,lionessinthetallgrass.Fiftyyardsaway.ThemuzzlevelocityofaM16is3,100feetpersecond.Threefeetinayard,which
meanshehastwo-thirdsofasecondleftonEarth.Hopehespendsitwisely.Iswingtheriflearound,squaremyshoulders,andletloosethebulletthatcompletesthecircle.Themurder of crows rockets from the trees, a riot of blackwings andhoarse, scolding cries.The
greenballoflightdropsanddoesn’trise.Iwait.Bettertowaitandseewhathappensnext.Fiveminutes.Ten.Nomotion.Nosound.Nothing
butthethunderoussilenceofsnow.Thewoodsfeelveryemptywithoutthecompanyofthebirds.Withmybackpressedagainstthetree,Islideupandholdstillanothercoupleofminutes.NowIcanseethegreenglowagain,on theground,notmoving. Istepover thebodyof thedeadrecruit.Frozen leavescracklebeneathmyboots.Eachfootstepmeasuresoutthetimewindingdown.Halfwaytothebody,IrealizewhatI’vedone.Teacupliescurledintoatightballbesideafallentree,herfacecoveredinthecrumbsoflastyear’s
leaves.Behindarowofemptybeercoolers,adyingmanhuggedabloodycrucifix tohischest.Hiskiller
didn’thaveachoice.Theygavehernochoice.Becauseoftherisk.Toher.Tothem.Ikneelbesideher.Hereyesarewidewithpain.Shereachesformewithhandsdarkcrimsoninthe
graylight.“Teacup,”Iwhisper.“Teacup,whatareyoudoinghere?Where’sZombie?”
Iscanthewoodsbutdon’thearorseehimoranyoneelse.Herchestheavesandfrothybloodboilsoverherlips.She’schoking.Igentlypushherfacetowardthegroundtoclearhermouth.Shemusthaveheardmecursing.That’showshefoundme,bymyownvoice.Teacup screams. The sound knifes through the stillness, bounces and ricochets off the trees.
Unacceptable.Ipressmyhanddownhardoverherbloodylipsandtellhertohush.Idon’tknowwhoshotthekidIfound,butwhoeverdiditcan’tbefar.Ifthesoundofmyrifledoesn’tbringhimbacktoinvestigate,herscreamingwill.Damnit,shutup.Shutup.Whatthehellareyoudoingouthere,sneakinguponmelikethat,youlittle
shit?Stupid.Stupid,stupid,stupid.Teeth scrape frantically againstmy palm.Tiny fingers seekmy face.My cheeks paintedwith her
blood.Withmyfreehand,Itugopenherjacket.I’vegottocompressthewoundorshe’llbleedout.Igrabthecollarofhershirtandripdownward,exposinghertorso.Iwaduptheremnantandpressit
justbelowherribcage,againstthebulletholeweepingblood.Shejerksatmytouchwithastrangledsob.“WhatdidItellyouaboutthat,soldier?”Iwhisper.“What’sthefirstpriority?”Slicklipsslideovermypalm.Nowordscomeout.“Nobadthoughts,”Itellher.“Nobadthoughts.Nobadthoughts.Becausebadthoughtsmakeusgo
soft.Theymakeussoft.Soft.Soft.Andwecan’tgosoft.Wecan’t.Whathappenswhenwegosoft?”The woods brim with menacing shadows. Deep in the trees, there’s a snapping sound. A boot
crunchingonthefrozenground?Oranice-encrustedbranch,splintering?Wecouldbesurroundedbyahundredenemies.Orzero.Iracethroughouroptions.Therearen’tmany.Andtheyallsuck.First option: We stay. The problem is stay for what. The dead recruit’s unit is unaccounted for.
Whoeverkilledthekidisalsounaccountedfor.AndTeacuphasnochanceofsurvivingwithoutmedicalattention.Shehasminutes,nothours.Secondoption:Werun.Theproblem iswhere.Thehotel?Teacupwouldbleed todeathbeforewe
make itback,plusshemayhave takenoff foragood reason.Thecaverns?Can’t riskgoing throughUrbana,whichmeansaddingmilesofopenfieldsandmanyhourstoajourneythatendsataplacethatprobablyisn’tsafe,either.There’sathirdoption.Theunthinkableone.Andtheonlyonethatmakessense.Thesnowfallsheavier, thegraydeepens.Icupherfacewithonehandandpresstheotherintothe
wound,butIknowit’shopeless.Mybullettorethroughhergut;theinjuryiscatastrophic.Teacupisgoingtodie.Ishouldleaveher.Now.But Idon’t. Ican’t.LikeI toldZombieon thenightCampHavenblew, theminutewedecideone
persondoesn’tmatter,they’vewon,andnowmywordsarethechainthatbindsmetoher.Iholdherinmyarmsintheawfuldeadstillnessofthewoodsinsnow.
6
IEASEHERDOWNontotheforestfloor.Drainedofallcolor,herfaceisonlyslighterdarkerthanthesnow.Hermouthhangsopen,hereyelidsflutter.She’sslippedintounconsciousness.Idon’tthinkshe’llwakeagain.Myhandsareshaking.I’mstrugglingtokeepittogether.I’mpissedashellather,atmyself,atthe
sevenbillionimpossibledilemmastheirarrivalbrought,at theliesandthemaddeninginconsistenciesandalltheridiculous,hopeless,stupidunspokenpromisesthathavebeenbrokensincetheycame.Don’tgosoft.Thinkaboutwhatmatters,righthere,rightnow;you’regoodatthat.Idecidetowait.Itcan’tbemuchlonger.Maybeaftershe’sdead,thesoftnessinsidemewillpassand
I’llbeabletothinkclearly.EveryuneventfulminutemeansIstillhavetime.Buttheworldisaclockwindingdown,andtherearenosuchthingsasuneventfulminutesanymore.Aheartbeat after Idecide to staywithher, thepercussive thrumof rotors shatters the silence.The
soundofthechopperssnapsthespell.Knowingwhatmatters:besidesshooting,thethingI’mbestat.Ican’tletthemtakeTeacupalive.If they take her, they may be able to save her. And if they save her, they’ll run her through
Wonderland.There’sthetiniestchancethatZombie’sstillsafeatthehotel.AchancethatTeacupwasn’trunning fromanything, just snuckoff to findme.One trip by either of us down the rabbit hole andeverybody’sdoomed.Ipullmysidearmfromtheholster.Theminutewedecide...IwishIhadaminute.IwishIhadthirtyseconds.Thirtysecondswouldbe
alifetime.Aminutewouldbeaneternity.Ilevelthegunatherheadandliftupmyfacetothegray.Snowsettlesonmyskin,whereitquivers
foramomentbeforemelting.SullivanhadherCrucifixSoldierandnowIhavemine.No.Iamthesoldier.Teacupisthecross.
7
IFEELHIMTHEN,theonestandingdeepinthetrees,motionless,watchingme.Ilook,andthenIseehim,alighterhuman-shapedshadowbetweenthedarktrunks.Foramoment,neitherofusmoves.Iknow,withoutunderstandinghow,thatheistheonewhoshotthekidandtheothermembersofhissquad.AndIknowtheshootercan’tbearecruit.Hisheaddoesnotglowinmyeyepiece.Thesnowspins,thecoldsqueezes.Iblink,andtheshadowisgone.Iftheshadowwaseverthere.I’mlosingmygrip.Toomanyvariables.Toomuchrisk.Shakinguncontrollably,Iwonderifthey’ve
finallybrokenme;aftersurvivingthetsunamithattookmyhome,theplaguethattookmyfamily,thedeathcampthattookmyhope,theinnocentlittlegirlwhotookmybullet,Iamterminal,done,finished,andwasiteverinquestion,neverifbutalwayswhen?Thechoppersbeardown.IhavetofinishwhatIstartedwithTeacuporI’lljoinherwhereshelies.Isightalongthebarrelofmypistolintothepale,angelicfaceatmyfeet,myvictim,mycross.And the roar of the Black Hawks’ approach makes my thoughts seem like the tiny squeaking
whimpersofadyingrodent.It’sliketherats,isn’tit,Cup?Justliketherats.
8
THEOLDHOTELswarmedwithvermin.Thecoldhadkilledoffthecockroaches,butotherpestssurvived,especiallybedbugsandcarpetbeetles.Andtheywerehungry.Withinaday,allofuswerecoveredwithbites.Thebasementbelonged to the flies,wherecorpseshadbeenbroughtduring theplague.By thetimewecheckedin,mostoftheflieshaddiedoff.Somanydeadfliesthattheirblackhuskscrunchedbeneathourfeetwhenwewentdownthere thefirstday.Thatwasalso the lastdaywewent into thebasement.Theentirebuildingreekedofrot,andItoldZombiethatopeningthewindowswouldhelpdissipate
thesmellandkilloffsomeofthebugs.Hesaidhe’drathergetbitandgagthanfreezetodeath.Ashesmiledtodrenchyouinhisirresistiblecharm.Relax,Ringer.It’sjustanotherdayinthealienwild.Thebugsandthesmelldidn’tbotherTeacup.Itwastheratsthatdrovehercrazy.Theyhadchewed
theirwayintothewalls,andatnighttheirgnawingandscratchingkepther(andthereforeme)awake.She tossed and turned, whined and bitched and generally obsessed, because practically any otherthoughtsaboutoursituationendedupinabadplace.Inavainattempttodistracther,Ibeganteachingherchess,usingatowelforaboardandcoinsforthepieces.“Chessisastupidgameforstupidpeople,”sheinformedme.“No,it’sverydemocratic,”Isaid.“Smartpeopleplay,too.”Teacuprolledhereyes.“Youwanttoplayjustsoyoucanbeatme.”“No,IwanttobecauseImissplayingit.”Hermouthdroppedopen.“That’swhatyoumiss?”Ispreadthetowelonthebedandpositionedthecoins.“Don’tdecidehowyoufeelaboutsomething
beforeyoutryit.”IwasaroundheragewhenIbegan.Thebeautifulwoodenboardonastandinmyfather’sstudy.Thegleamingivorypieces.Thesternking.Thehaughtyqueen.Thenobleknight.Thepiousbishop.Andthegameitself,thewayeachpiececontributeditsindividualpowertothewhole.Itwassimple.Itwascomplex.Itwassavage;itwaselegant.Itwasadance;itwasawar.Itwasfiniteandeternal.Itwaslife.“Penniesarepawns,”Itoldher.“Nickelsarerooks,dimesareknightsandbishops,quartersarekings
andqueens.”Sheshookherhead.Ringerisanidiot.“Howcandimesandquartersbeboth?”“Heads:knightsandkings.Tails:bishopsandqueens.”Thecoolnessoftheivory.Thewaythefelt-coveredbasesslidoverthepolishedwood,likewhispered
thundercrashing.Myfather’sfacebentovertheboard,leanandunshaven,red-eyedandpurse-lipped,encrusted with shadows. The sickly sweet smell of alcohol and fingers that thrummed likehummingbirds’wings.It’scalledthegameofkings,Marika.Wouldyouliketolearnhowtoplay?“It’sthegameofkings,”IsaidtoTeacup.“Well,I’mnotaking.”Shecrossedherarms.Sooverme.“Ilikecheckers.”“Thenyou’lllovechess.Chessischeckersonsteroids.”Myfathertappinghischippednailsonthetabletop.Theratsscratchinginsidethewalls.
“Here’showthebishopmoves,Teacup.”Thisishowtheknightmoves,Marika.She jammed a stale piece of gum into hermouth and chewed angrily as the dry shards crumbled.
Mintybreath.Whiskeybreath.Scratch,scratch,tap,tap.“Giveitachance,”Ibeggedher.“You’llloveit.Ipromise.”Shegrabbedthecornerofthetowel.“Here’swhatIfeel.”Isawitcoming,butstillflinchedwhenshe
flungthetowelandthecoinsexplodedintotheair.Anickelpoppedherintheforeheadandshedidn’tevenblink.“Ha!”Teacupshouted.“Iguessthat’scheckmate,bitch!”Reactingwithoutthinking,Islappedher.“Don’tevercallmethat.Ever.”Thecoldmadetheslapmorepainful.Herbottomlippokedout,hereyeswelledup,butshedidn’t
cry.“Ihateyou,”shesaid.“Idon’tcare.”“No,Ihateyou,Ringer.Ihateyourfuckingguts.”“Cussingdoesn’tmakeyougrown-up,youknow.”“Then I guess I’m a baby. Shit, shit, shit! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” She started to touch her cheek. She
stoppedherself.“Idon’thavetolistentoyou.Youaren’tmymotherormysisteroranybody.”“Thenwhyhaveyoubeenlatchedontomelikeapilotfishsinceweleftcamp?”Nowateardidfall,asingledropthattraileddownherscarletcheek.Shewassopaleandthin,her
skinasluminescentasoneofmyfather’schesspieces.Iwassurprisedtheslaphadn’tshatteredherintoa thousand bits. I didn’t knowwhat to say or how to unsaywhat had been said, so I said nothing.Instead,Ilaidahandonherknee.Shepushedmyhandaway.“Iwantmygunback,”shesaid.“Whydoyouwantyourgunback?”“SoIcanshootyou.”“Thenyou’redefinitelynotgettingyourgunback.”“CanIhaveitbacktoshootalltherats?”Isighed.“Wedon’thaveenoughbullets.”“Thenwepoisonthem.”“Withwhat?”Shethrewupherhands.“Okay,sowesetthehotelonfireandburnthemallup!”“That’sagreatidea,onlywehappentobelivinghere,too.”“Thenthey’regonnawin.Againstus.Abunchofrats.”Ishookmyhead.Ididn’tfollowher.“Win—how?”Hereyeswidenedindisbelief.Ringerthemoron.“Listentothem!They’reeatingit.Andprettysoon
wewon’tbelivingherebecausetherewon’tbeanyheretolivein!”“That’snotwinning,”Ipointedout.“Theywouldn’thaveahome,either.”“They’rerats,Ringer.Theycan’tthinkthatfarahead.”Notjusttherats,Ithoughtthatnightaftershefinallyfellasleepnexttome.Ilistenedtotheminside
thewalls,chewing,scratching,screeching.Eventually,withthehelpofweather,insects,andtime,theoldhotelwouldcollapse.Inanotherhundredyears,onlythefoundationwouldremain.Inathousand,nothingatall.Hereoranywhere.Itwouldbeasifwehadneverexisted.WhoneedsthekindofbombsusedatCampHavenwhentheycanturntheelementsthemselvesagainstus?Teacupwaspressedtightagainstme.Evenundermoundsofcovers,thecoldsqueezedhard.Winter:
awavetheydidn’thavetoengineer.Thecoldwouldkilloffthousandsmore.Nothing that happens is insignificant,Marika,my father toldme during one ofmy chess lessons.
Everymovematters.Masteryisinunderstandinghowmucheachtime,everytime.Itnaggedatme.Theproblemofrats.NotTeacup’sproblem.Nottheproblemwithrats.Theproblem
ofrats.
9
ISEETHECHOPPERSclosinginthroughtheleaflessbranchesclothedinwhite,threeblackdotsagainstthegray.Ihaveseconds.Options:FinishTeacupandtakemychancesagainstthreeBlackHawksequippedwithHellfiremissiles.LeaveTeacuptobefinishedbythem—orworse,saved.Onelastoption:Finishbothofus.Abulletforher.Abulletforme.Idon’tknowifZombieisokay.Idon’tknowwhat—ifanything—droveTeacupfromthehotel.What
Idoknowisourdeathsmaybehisonlychancetolive.Iwillmyselftosqueezethetrigger.IfIcanfirethefirstround,thesecondwillbemucheasier.Itell
myselfit’stoolate—toolateforherandtoolateforme.There’snoavoidingdeath,anyway.Isn’tthatthelessonthey’vebeenhammeringintoourheadsformonths?Nohidingfromit,norunningfromit.Putitoffforaday,anddeathwillsurelyfindyoutomorrow.Shelookssobeautiful,notevenreal,nestledinabowerofsnow,herdarkhairshimmeringlikeonyx,
herexpressioninsleeptheindescribableserenityofanancientstatue.Iknowthatkillingbothofusistheonlyoptionwiththeleastrisktothemostpeople.AndIthinkof
ratsagainandhowsometimes,topasstheinterminablehours,TeacupandIwouldplotourcampaignagainstthevermin,stratagemsandtactics,wavesofattack,eachmoreridiculousthanthelast,untilshedissolvedintohystericallaughter,andIgaveherthesamespeechIgaveZombieonthefiringrange,thesamelessonthatnowcomeshometome,thefearthatbindskillertopreyandthebulletconnectingbothasifbyasilvercord.NowIamthekillerandtheprey,acircleofacompletelydifferentkind,andmymouthhasgonedryasthesterileair,myheartascold:Thetemperatureoftruerageisabsolutezero,andmineisdeeperthantheocean,widerthantheuniverse.Soitisn’thopethatmakesmeslipthesidearmbackintoitsholster.Itisn’tfaithanditsureisn’tlove.It’srage.Rage,andthefactthatIhaveadeadrecruit’simplantstilllodgedbetweenmycheekandgums.
10
ILIFTHERUP.Herheadfallsagainstmyshoulder.Wetakeoffthroughthetrees.ABlackHawkthundersoverhead.Theothertwochoppershavesplitoff,onetotheeast,onetothewest,cuttingoffanyescape.Thehigh,thinbranchesbend.Snowwhipssidewaysintomyface.Teacupweighsnothing;Icouldbecarryingawadofdiscardedclothes.Wecomeoutof the treesasaBlackHawkroars infromthenorth.Theblastofairwhipsmyhair
withcyclonicfury.Thechopperhoversaboveusandnowwearemotionless,standinginthemiddleoftheroad.Nomorerunning.Nomore.IlowerTeacuptotheblacktop.Thehelicopterissoclose,Icanseetheblackvisorofthepilotandthe
opendoor to theholdand theclusterofbodies inside,andIknowI’min themiddleofahalfdozensights,meandthelittlegirlatmyfeet.AndeverysecondthatpassesmeansI’vesurvivedthatsecondand,witheachsecond, theincreasedprobabilityI’llsurvivethenext.Itmightnotbetoolate,notforme,notforher,notyet.Idonotglowintheireyepieces.Iamoneofthem.Imustbe,right?Islingtheriflefrommyshoulderandslipmyfingerthroughthetriggerguard.
11
FROMTHETIMEIcouldbarelywalk,myfatherwouldaskme,Cassie,doyouwanttofly?Andmyarmswouldshootovermyhead.Areyoukiddingme,oldman?DamnstraightIwanttofly!Andhewouldgrabmywaistandtossmeintotheair.MyheadwouldsnapbackandIwouldhurtle
likearockettowardthesky.Foraninstantthatlastedathousandyears,itfeltasifI’dkeepflyinguntilIreached thestars. Iwouldscreamwith joy, that fierceroller-coaster-ridefear,myfingersclutchingatclouds.Fly,Cassie,fly!Mybrotherknewthatfeeling,too.Betterthanme,becausethememorywasfresher.Evenafterthe
Arrival,Dadwas launchinghimintoorbit. I sawhimdo itatCampAshpita fewdaysbeforeVoschshowedupandmurderedhiminthedirt.Sam,m’boy, do youwant to fly?Lowering his voice frombaritone to bass like an old-time carny
hustler,thoughtheridehewassellingwasfree—andpriceless.Dadthelaunchingpad.Dadthelandingzone.Dad the tether thatkeptSams—andme—fromhurtling into thenullityofdeepspace,anullityhimselfnow.IwaitedforSamtoask.That’stheeasiestwaytobreakhorriblenews.Alsothelowest.Hedidn’task,
though.Hetoldme.“Daddy’sdead.”Atinylumpbeneathamoundofcovers,browneyesbigandroundandblankliketheteddybear’s
pressedagainsthischeek.Teddybearsare forbabies,he toldme the firstnight atHotelHell. I’masoldiernow.Burrowedinthebednexttohis,anothersolemn,pint-sizedsoldierstaringatme,theseven-year-old
theycallTeacup.Theonewiththeadorablebaby-dollfaceandhauntedeyeswhodoesn’tshareabedwithastuffedanimal;shesleepswitharifle.Welcometothepost-humanage.“Oh, Sam.” I left my post by the window and sat beside the cocoon of covers swaddling him.
“Sammy,Ididn’tknowhow—”He slugged me in the cheek with a balled-up, apple-sized fist. I never saw it coming, in both
meaningsofthephrase.Brightstarsexplodedinmyvision.ForasecondIwasafraidhe’ddetachedmyretina.Okay.Rubbingmycheek.Ideservedthat.“Whydidyou lethimdie?”hedemanded.Hedidn’tcryorscream.Hisvoicewas lowandfierce,
simmeringwithrage.“Youweresupposedtotakecareofhim.”“Ididn’tlethimdie,Sams.”Myfatherbleeding,crawlinginthedirt—Whereareyougoing,Dad?—andVoschstandingoverhim,
watchingmyfathercrawlthewayasadistickidmightaflythathe’sdewinged,grimlysatisfied.Teacupfromherbed:“Hitheragain.”Samsnarledather,“Youshutup.”“Itwasn’tmyfault,”Iwhispered,myarmwrappedaroundthebear.
“Hewassoft,”Teacupsaid.“That’swhathappenswhenyougo—”Samwasonher in twoseconds.Then itwasall fists andkneesand feet anddust flying from the
blanketsandDearGod, there’sarifle in thatbed!and I shovedTeacupaway, scoopedSam intomyarms,andheldhimtightlyagainstmychestwhileheswunghisarmsandkickedhislegs,spittingandgnashinghisteeth,andTeacupwasshoutingobscenitiesathimandpromisingshe’dputhimdownlikea dog if he ever touched her again. The door flew open and Ben burst into the roomwearing thatridiculousyellowhoodie.“It’scool!”Ishoutedoverthescreaming.“I’vegotthis!”“Cup!Nugget!Standdown!”Likeaswitchbeingflipped, theminuteBenbarkedtheorder,bothkidsfellsilent.Samwentlimp.
Teacupfloppedagainsttheheadboardandfoldedherarmsoverherchest.“Shestartedit.”Sampouted.“IwasjustthinkingofpaintingabigredXontheroof,”Bensaid.Heholsteredhispistol.“Thanks,
guys, for savingme the trouble.”He grinned atme. “Maybe Teacup should bunk inmy room untilRingergetsback.”“Good!”Teacupsaid.Shejumpedoutofbed,marchedtothedoor,turnedonherheel,wentbackto
thebed,grabbedtherifle,andyankedonBen’swrist.“Let’sgo,Zombie.”“Inaminute,”hesaidgently.“Dumbo’sonthewatch.Takehisbed.”“Mybednow.”Shecouldn’tresistapartingshot:“A-holes.”“You’rethea-hole!”Sammyshoutedafterher.Thedoorslammedinthatquick,violentwayofhotel
doors.“A-hole.”Benlookedatme,righteyebrowcocked.“Whathappenedtoyourface?”“Nothing.”“Ihither,”Sammysaid.“Youhither?”“Forlettingmydaddydie.”NowSam lost it.As in tears,not fists, and thenext thing Iknew,Benwaskneelingandmybaby
brotherwas crying in his arms, andBenwas saying, “Hey, it’s okay, soldier. It’s going to beokay.”StrokingthecrewcutIwasstillgettingusedto—Sammyjustdidn’tseemlikeSammywithoutthemopofhair—saying thatdumb-asscampnameoverandover.Nugget,Nugget. Iknew it shouldn’t,but itbotheredmethateveryonehadanomdeguerrebutme.IlikedDefiance.Benpickedhimupanddepositedhiminthebed.ThenhefoundBearlyingonthefloorandplaced
himonthepillow.Samknockedhimaway.Benpickedhimupagain.“YoureallywanttodecommissionTeddy?”heasked.“Hisnameisn’tTeddy.”“PrivateBear,”Bentried.“JustBear,andIneverwanttoseehimagain!”Samyankedthecoversoverhishead.“Nowgoaway!
Everybody.Just.Go.Away!”Itookasteptowardhim.Bentskedatmeandjerkedhisheadtowardthedoor.Ifollowedhimoutof
theroom.Alargeshadowhulkedbythewindowdownthehall:thebig,silentkidnamedPoundcake,whosesilencedidnotfallintothecreepycategory,moreliketheprofoundstillnessofamountainlakevariety.Benleanedagainst thewall,huggingBeartohischest,mouthslightlyopen,sweatingdespitethe freezing temperature. Exhausted after a tusslewith a couple of kids, Benwas in trouble, whichmeantweallwere.“Hedidn’tknowyourdadwasdead,”hesaid.Ishookmyhead.“Hedidandhedidn’t.Oneofthosethings.”“Yeah.”Bensighed.“Thosethings.”
AleadballofsilencethesizeofNewarkdroppedbetweenus.BenwasabsentlystrokingBear’sheadlikeanoldmanstrokesacatwhilereadingthenewspaper.“Ishouldgobacktohim,”Isaid.Bensidesteppedtothedoor,blockingmyway.“Maybeyoushouldn’t.”“Maybeyoushouldn’tpokeyournoseinto—”“Notthefirstpersoninhislifetodie.He’lldeal.”“Wow.Thatwasharsh.”We’retalkingabouttheguywhowasmyfather,too,Zombieboy.“YouknowwhatImeant.”“Whydopeoplealwayssaythataftertheysaysomethingtotallycruel?”ThenIsaidit,becauseImay
have certain issues with self-editing: “I happen to know what it’s like to ‘deal’ with death all byyourself. Justyouandnothingelsebut thebigemptyofwhereeverythingused tobe. Itwouldhavebeennice,really,reallynice,tohavehadsomeonetherewithme...”“Hey,”Bensaidsoftly.“Hey,Cassie,Ididn’t—”“No, you didn’t. You really didn’t.” Zombie.Because he didn’t have feelings, dead inside like a
zombie?TherewerepeopleatAshpitlikethat.Shufflers,Icalledthem,human-shapedsackfulsofdust.Something irreplaceablehad crumbled inside.Toomuch loss.Toomuchpain.Shuffling, blank-eyed,slack-jawedmutterers.Was thatBen?Washe a shuffler?Thenwhydidhe risk everything to rescueSam?“Whereveryouwere,”Bensaidslowly,“wewerethere,too.”Thewordsstung.Becausetheyweretrueandbecausesomeoneelsesaidpracticallythesamethingto
me:You’renottheonlyonewho’slosteverything.Thatsomeoneelsesufferedtheultimateloss.Allformysake,thecretinwhomustbereminded,again,thatshe’snottheonlyone.Lifeisfulloflittleironies,butit’salsopockmarkedwithsomethesizeofthatbigrockinAustralia.Timetochangethesubject.“DidRingerleave?”Bennodded.Stroke,stroke.Thebearwasbuggingme.Ituggeditfromhisarms.“I tried to send Poundcakewith her,” he said.He laughed softly. “Ringer.” Iwondered if hewas
awareofhowhesaidhername.Quietly,likeaprayer.“Youknowwehavenobackupplanifshedoesn’tcomeback.”“She’llcomeback,”hesaidfirmly.“Whatmakesyousosure?”“Becausewehavenobackupplan.”Nowanall-out,fullsmile,andit’sdisorienting,seeingtheold
smilethatlitupclassroomsandhallwaysandyellowschoolbusesoverlaidonhisnewface,reshapedbydiseaseandbulletsandhunger.Like turningacorner inastrangecityandrunning intosomeoneyouknow.“That’sacircularargument,”Ipointedout.“Youknow,someguysmightfeelthreatenedbeingsurroundedbypeoplesmarterthantheyare.Butit
justmakesmemoreconfident.”Hesqueezedmyarmandlimpedacrossthehalltohisroom.Thenit’sthebearandthebigkiddown
thehallandthecloseddoorandmeinfrontofthecloseddoor.Itookadeepbreathandsteppedinsidetheroom.Satbesidethelumpofcovers.Ididn’tseehimbutknewhewasthere.Hedidn’tseemebutknewIwasthere.“Howdidhedie?”Muffledvoiceburied.“Hewasshot.”“Didyousee?”“Yes.”Ourfathercrawling,handsclawingthedirt.“Whoshothim?”
“Vosch.”Iclosedmyeyes.Badidea.Thedarksnappedthesceneintosharpfocus.“Wherewereyouwhenheshothim?”“Hiding.”Ireachedtopulldownthecovers.ThenIcouldn’t.Whereveryouwere.Inthewoodssomewhereoff
anemptyhighway,agirlzippedherselfupinasleepingbagandwatchedherfatherdieagainandagain.Hidingthen,hidingnow,watchinghimdieagainandagain.“Didhefight?”“Yes,Sam.Hefoughtveryhard.Hesavedmylife.”“Butyouhid.”“Yes.”CrushingBearagainstmystomach.“Likeabigfatchicken.”“Notlikethat,”Iwhispered.“Itwasn’tlikethat.”Heslungtheblanketsasideandboltedupright.Ididn’trecognizehim.I’dneverseenthiskidbefore.
Faceuglyandtwistedbyrageandhate.“I’mgoingtokillhim.I’mgoingtoshoothiminthehead!”Ismiled.Ortriedto,anyway.“Sorry,Sams.Ihavedibs.”Welookedateachotherandtimefoldedinonitself,thetimewehadlostinbloodandthetimewe
hadpurchased inblood, the timewhen Iwas just thebossybig sister andhewas theannoying littlebrother,thetimewhenIwasthethingworthlivingforandhewasthethingworthdyingfor,andthenhecrumpledintomyarms,thebearsmushedbetweenusthewayweweretrappedbetweenthebefore-timeandtheafter-time.Ilaydownnexttohimandtogetherwesaidhisprayer:IfIshoulddiebeforeIwake...AndthenI
toldhimthestoryofhowDaddied.Howhestoleagunfromoneofthebadguysandsingle-handedlytookouttwelveSilencers.HowhestooduptoVosch,tellinghim,Youcancrushourbodiesbutneverourspirit.HowhesacrificedhimselfsoIcouldescapetorescueSamfromtheevilgalactichorde.SoonedaySamcouldgathertheragtagremnantsofhumanityandsavetheworld.Sohismemoriesofhisfather’slastmomentsaren’tofabroken,bleedingmancrawlinginthedirt.Afterhefellasleep,Islippedoutofbedandreturnedtomypostbythewindow.Astripofparking
lot,adecrepitdiner(“AllYouCanEatWednesdays!”),andastretchofgrayhighwayfadingintoblack.TheEarthdarkandquiet,thewayitwasbeforeweshoweduptofillitwithnoiseandlight.Somethingends.Somethingnewbegins.Thiswasthein-betweentime.Thepause.On the highway, beside an SUV that had run into the median strip, starlight glinted off the
unmistakable shape of a rifle barrel, and for a secondmyheart stopped.The shadow toting the gundartedintothetreesandIsawtheshimmerofjet-blackhair,glossyandperfectly,annoyinglystraight,andIknewtheshadowwasRinger.RingerandIdidn’tstartoffontherightfoot,andtherelationshipjustwentdownhillfromthere.She
treatedeverythingIsaidwithakindoficycontempt,likeIwaslyingorstupidorjustcrazy.EspeciallywhenEvanWalkercameup.Areyousure?Thatdoesn’tmakeanysense.Howcouldhebebothhumanandalien?Thehotter Igot, thecolder shegot,untilwecanceledeachotherout likeeither sideofachemicalequation.LikeE=MC2,thekindofchemicalequationthatmakesmassiveexplosionspossible.Ourpartingwordswereaperfectexample.“Youknow,DumboIget,”Itoldher.“Thebigears.AndNugget,becauseSamissosmall.Teacup,
too.ZombieIdon’tgetsomuch—Benwon’tsay—andI’mguessingPoundcakehassomethingtodowithhisroly-poly-ness.ButwhyRinger?”Heranswerwasanicystare.“Itmakesmefeelalittleleftout.Youknow,theonlygangmemberwithoutastreetname.”“Nomdeguerre,”shesaid.
I lookedatherforaminute.“Letmeguess,NationalMeritScholar,chessclub,math team, topofyour class?And you play an instrument,maybe a violin or cello, somethingwith strings.Your dadworkedinSiliconValleyandyourmomwasacollegeprofessor,I’mthinkingphysicsorchemistry.”Shedidn’tsayanythingforacouplethousandyears.Thenshesaid,“Anythingelse?”IknewIshouldstop.ButIwasinnow,andwhenIgoin,Igoallthewayin.That’stheSullivanway.
“You’re theoldest—no,anonlychild.YourdadisaBuddhist,butyourmomisanatheist.Youwerewalking at tenmonths.Your grandmother raised you because your parentsworked all the time. Shetaughtyoutaichi.Youneverplayedwithdolls.Youspeakthreelanguages.OneofthemisFrench.Youwere on theOlympic development team.Gymnastics.Youbrought home aBonce and your parentstookawayyourchemistrysetandlockedyouinyourroomforaweek,duringwhichtimeyoureadthecompleteworksofWilliamShakespeare.”Shewasshakingherhead.“Okay,notthecomedies.Youjustcouldn’tgetthehumor.”“Perfect,”shesaid.“That’samazing.”Hervoicewasasflatandthinasapieceofaluminumfoilfresh
fromtheroller.“CanItryyou?”Istiffenedupalittle,bracingmyself.“Youcantry.”“You’vealwaysbeenself-consciousaboutyourlooks,especiallyyourhair.Thefrecklesareaclose
second.You’resociallyawkward,soyoureadalotandyou’vekeptajournalsincemiddleschool.Youhadonlyoneclosefriendandyourrelationshipwascodependent,whichmeanseverytimeyoufoughtwithher,youslidintoadeepdepression.You’readaddy’sgirl,neverthatclosetoyourmother,whoalwaysmadeyoufeellikenomatterwhatyoudid,itwasn’tgoodenough.Itdidn’thelpthatshewasprettierthanyou.Whenshedied,youfeltguiltyforsecretlyhatingherandforbeingsecretlyrelievedthat shewasgone.You’re stubbornand impulsiveanda littlehyper, soyourparents enrolledyou insomethingtohelpwithyourcoordinationandconcentration,likeballetorkarate,probablykarate.Youwantmetogoon?”Well,whatwasIgoingtodo?Isawonlytwooptions:laughorpunchherintheface.Okay,three:
laugh,punchherintheface,orgivebackoneofherownstoicstares.Ioptedfornumberthree.Badidea.“Okay,”Ringer said. “You’renota tomboyandyou’renotagirlygirl.You’re in thatgrayarea in
between.Beinganin-betweenmeantyoualwayssecretlyenviedtheoneswhoweren’t,butyousavedmostofyourresentmentfortheprettygirls.You’vehadcrushesbutneveraboyfriend.Youpretendyouhateboysyoulikeandlikeboysyouhate.Wheneveryou’rearoundsomeonewho’sprettierorsmarterorbetter thanyouinanyway,yougetangryandsarcastic,becausetheyremindyouofhowordinaryyoufeelinside.Goon?”Andtiny-voicedme:“Sure.Whatever.”“UntilEvanWalkercamealong,youhadneverevenheldaboy’shand,exceptonelementaryschool
fieldtrips.Evanwaskindandundemandingand,asanaddedbonus,almosttoobeautifultolookat.Hemadehimself an empty canvasyou couldpaintwithyour longing for aperfect relationshipwith theperfectguywhowouldeaseyourfearbyneverhurtingyou.Hegaveyouallthosethingsyouimaginedthe pretty girls had that you never did, so being with him—or the ideaof him—was mostly aboutrevenge.”Iwasbitingmylowerlip.Myeyesburned.Iclenchedmyfistssohard,mynailswerebitingintomy
palms.Why,oh,whydidn’tIgowithoptiontwo?Shesaid,“Youwantmetostopnow.”Notaquestion.Iliftedmychin.AndDefianceshallbemynomdeguerre!“What’smyfavoritecolor?”“Green.”“Wrong.It’syellow,”Ilied.Sheshrugged.SheknewIwaslying.Ringer:thehumanWonderland.
“Seriously,though,why‘Ringer’?”That’sit.Putherbackonthedefensive.Well,sheneveractuallywasonthedefensive.Thatwouldbeme.“I’mhuman,”shesaid.“Yeah.”Ipeekedthroughthecrackinthecurtainstotheparkinglottwostoriesbelow.WhydidIdo
that?DidIreallythinkI’dseehimstandingthere,lurkerthathewas,smilingupatme?See?IsaidI’dfindyou.“Someoneelsetoldmethat,too.And,likeadummy,Ibelievedhim.”“Notsodumb,giventhecircumstances.”Oh,nowshewasbeingkind?Nowshewascuttingmesomeslack?Ididn’tknowwhichwasworse:
icemaidenRingerorcompassionatequeenRinger.“Don’tpretend,”Isnapped.“Iknowyoudon’tbelievemeaboutEvan.”“Ibelieveyou.It’shisstorythatdoesn’tmakesense.”Thenshewalkedoutoftheroom.Justlikethat.Rightinthemiddle,beforeanythingwasresolved.
Who,besideseverymalepersoneverborn,doesthat?Avirtualexistencedoesn’trequireaphysicalplanet...WhowasEvanWalker?Shiftingmyeyesfromthehighwaytomybabybrotherandbackagain.Who
wereyou,EvanWalker?Iwasanidiotfortrustinghim,butIwashurtandalone(aloneas in thinkingIwas the lasthuman
being in the freakinguniverse) andmajorlymind screwedbecause I had alreadykilledone innocentperson,andthisperson,thisEvanWalker,didn’tendmylifewhenhecouldhave;hesavedit.Sowhenthe bells went off, I ignored them. Plus it didn’t hurt (help?) that he was impossibly gorgeous andequallyimpossiblyobsessedwithmakingmefeellikeImatteredmoretohimthanhedidtohimself,frombathingmetofeedingmetoteachingmehowtokilltotellingmeIwastheonethinghehadleftworthdyingfortoprovingitallbydyingforme.HebeganasEvan,wokeupthirteenyearslatertofindouthewasn’t,thenwokeagain,hetoldme,
whenhesawhimselfthroughmyeyes.Hefoundhimselfinme,andthenIfoundhiminmeandIwasinhimand therewasno spacebetweenus.Hebeganby tellingmeeverything Iwanted tohear andendedtellingmethethingsIneededto:Theprincipalweapontoeradicatethehumanhangers-onwerethehumansthemselves.Andwhenthelastofthe“infested”weredead,Voschandcompanywouldpulltheplugonthe5thWave.Purgeover.Housecleanandreadytomovein.WhenItoldBenandRingerallthis—minusthepartaboutEvanbeinginsideme,abittoonuanced
for Parish—there was a lot of dubious staring and significant looks from which I was painfullyexcluded.“Oneofthemwasinlovewithyou?”RingeraskedwhenIfinished.“Wouldn’tthatbelikeusfalling
inlovewithacockroach?”“Oramayfly,”Ishotback.“Maybetheyhaveathingforinsects.”WeweremeetinginBen’sroom.OurfirstnightattheWalkerHotel,asRingerdubbedit,mostly,I
think,togetundermyskin.“Whatelsedidhetellyou?”Benasked.Hewassprawledonthebed.FourmilesfromCampHaven
to thehotel,andhe looked likehe’d justsprintedamarathon.ThekidwhopatchedmeandSamup,Dumbo,wouldn’tcommitwhenIaskedhimaboutBen.Wouldn’tsayifhe’dgetbetter.Wouldn’tsayifhe’dgetworse.Ofcourse,Dumbowasonlytwelve.“Capabilities?Weaknesses?”“Theyhavenobodiesanymore,”Isaid.“Evantoldmethatitwastheonlywaytheycouldmakethe
journey.Someweredownloaded—him,Vosch, theotherSilencers—somearestillon themothership,waitingforustobegone.”Ben rubbedhismouthwith thebackofhishand. “Thecampswere setup towinnowout thebest
candidatesforbrainwashing...”“Andtodisposeoftheoneswhoweren’t,”Ifinished.“Oncethe5thWavewasrolledout,alltheyhad
todowassitbackandletthestupidhumansdotheirdirtywork.”Ringerwassittingbythewindow,silentasashadow.“But why use us at all?” Benwondered. “Why not download enough of their troops into human
bodiestofinishusoff?”“Notenoughofthem,maybe,”Iguessed.“Orsettingupthe5thWaveposedtheleastrisk.”“Whatrisk?”Shadow-Ringersaid,breakinghersilence.Idecidedtoignoreher.Foralotofreasons,themainonebeingyouengagedwithRingeratyourown
peril.Shecouldhumiliateyouwithasingleword.“Youwere there,” I remindedBen.“YouheardVosch.They’dbeenwatchingus forcenturies.But
Evanprovedthat,evenwiththousandsofyearstoplan,somethingcanstillgowrong.Idon’tthinkiteveroccurredtothemthatbybecomingus,theymightactuallybecomeus.”“Right,”Bensaid.“Sohowcanweusethat?”“We can’t,” Ringer answered. “There’s nothing Sullivan’s told us thatwill help, unless this Evan
personsomehowsurvivedtheblastandcanfillintheblanks.”Benwasshakinghishead.“Nothingcouldhavesurvivedthat.”“Therewere escape pods,” I said, grasping at the same straw I’d been reaching for since he said
good-bye.“Really?”Ringerdidn’tsoundlikeshebelievedme.“Thenwhydidn’theputyouinone?”Itoldher,“Look,Iprobablyshouldn’ttellsomeoneholdingahigh-poweredsemiautomaticriflethis,
butyou’rereallystartingtogetonmynerves.”Sheactedsurprised.“Why?”“We’vegottogetahandleonthis,”Bensaidsharply,cuttingoffmyanswer,whichwasagoodthing:
RingerwasholdinganM16andBenhadtoldmeshewasthebestshotinthecamp.“What’stheplan?WaitforEvantoshowuporrun?Andifwerun,whereto?”Cheeksflamingwithfever,eyesshining.It’sfourthandlongwithfoursecondsleft.“IsthereanythingelseEvantoldyouthatmighthelp?Whataretheygoingtodowiththecities?”“They’renotgoingtoblowthemup,”Ringersaid.Shedidn’twaitformetoanswer.Thenshedidn’t
waitformetoaskhowthehellshewouldknowthat.“Ifthatwastheplan,theywould’veblownthemupfirst.Overhalftheworld’spopulationlivedinurbanareas.”“Sotheyplantousethem,”Bensaid.“Becausethey’reusinghumanbodies?”“Wecan’thideinacity,Zombie,”Ringersaid.“Anycity.”“Why?”“Becauseit isn’tsafe.Fires,sewage,diseasefromalltherottingcorpses,othersurvivorswhomust
knowbynowthey’reusinghumanbodies.Ifwewanttostayaliveaslongaspossible,wehavetokeepmoving.Keepmovingandstayaloneaslongaspossible.”Oh,boy.WheredidIhear thatrulebefore?Myheadfelt light.Mykneewaskillingme.Theknee
shotbyaSilencer.MySilencer.I’ll findyou,Cassie.Don’t Ialways findyou?Not this time,Evan. Idon’tthinkso.IsatonthebednexttoBen.“She’sright,”Isaidtohim.“Stayinganywhereformorethanafewdaysisnotagoodidea.”“Orstayingtogether.”Ringer’swordshungintheicyair.Besideme,Benstiffened.Iclosedmyeyes.Heardthatrule,too:
Trustnoone.“Notgoingtohappen,Ringer,”Bensaid.“ItakeTeacupandPoundcake.Youtaketherest.Ourchancesdouble.”“Whystopthere?”Iaskedher.“Whydon’tweallsplitup?Ourchancesquadruple.”“Septuple,”shecorrectedme.“Well,I’mnomathwhiz,”Bensaid.“Butitseemstomesplittingupplaysrightintotheirstrategy.
Isolate,thenexterminate.”HegaveRingerahardlook.“Personally,Iliketheideaofsomeonehavingmyback.”He pushed himself from the bed and swayed for a second.Ringer told him to lie back down.He
ignoredher.“Wecan’tstay,butwehavenowheretogo.Youcan’tgettonowherefromhere,sowheredowego?”
heasked.“South,”Ringersaid.“Asfarsouthaspossible.”Shewaslookingoutthewindow.Iunderstood—a
decentsnowandyou’retrappeduntilitthaws.Ergo,getsomewherewhereitdoesn’tsnow.“Texas?”Bensaid.“Mexico,”Ringeranswered.“OrCentralAmerica,oncethewaterrecedes.Youcouldhideintherain
forestforyears.”“I like it,”Bensaid.“Back tonature.There’s justone little flaw.”Hespreadhishands.“Wedon’t
havepassports.”Hewatchedher,holdingthegesture,likehewaswaitingforsomething.Ringerlookedbackathim,
expressionless.Bendroppedhishandswithashrug.“You’renotserious,”Isaid.Thiswasgettingridiculous.“CentralAmerica?Inthemiddleofwinter,
onfoot,withBenhurtandtwolittlekids.We’llbeluckytomakeittoKentucky.”“Beatshangingaroundherewaitingforyouralienprincetocome.”Thatdidit.Ididn’tcareifshewasholdinganM16.Iwasgrabbingahandfulofthosesilkylocksand
slingingheroutthatwindow.Bensawitcomingandsteppedbetweenus.“We’re all on the same team here, Sullivan. Let’s keep it together, okay?” He turned to Ringer.
“You’reright.Heprobablydidn’tmakeit,butwe’regonnagiveEvanachancetokeephispromise.I’minnoshapeforaroadtripanyway.”“I didn’t come back for you and Nugget so we could be the featured guests at a turkey shoot,
Zombie,”Ringersaid.“Dowhatyouthinkisright,butifthingsgethot,I’moutofhere.”IsaidtoBen,“Teamplayer.”“Maybeyou’reforgettingwhosavedyourlife,”Ringersaid.“Oh,kissmyass.”“Thatdoesit!”Benboomedinhisbestquarterback,I’m-the-guy-in-charge-herevoice.“Idon’tknow
howwe’remakingitthroughthisunholymess,butIdoknowthatthisisnottheway.Stowthecrap,bothofyou.That’sanorder.”Hefellbackontothebed,gaspingforair,ahandpressedagainsthisside.RingerlefttofindDumbo,
whichleftBenandmealoneforthefirsttimesinceourreuniondeepinthebowelsofCampHaven.“Somethingweird,”Bensaid.“Youwouldthink,withninety-ninepercentofusgone,thetwopercent
wouldgetalongbetter.”Um,thatwouldbeonepercent,Parish.Istartedtopointthatoutandthensawhimsmiling,waiting
forme to correct hismath, knowing itwouldnearly impossible forme to resist.Heplayedwith thestereotype of the dumb jock the way someone Sammy’s age played with sidewalk chalk: in broad,clumsystrokes.“She’sapsycho,”Isaid.“Seriously,something’soff.Youlookinhereyesandthere’snoonethere
there.”Heshookhishead.“Ithinkthere’salotthere.It’sjust...realdeep.”He winced, hand tucked in the pocket of that hideous hoodie like he was doing a Napoleon
impression,pressingonthebulletwoundthatRingerhadgivenhim.Awoundheaskedfor.Awoundsohecouldriskeverythingtosavemylittlebrother.Awoundthatnowmaycosthimhislife.“Itcan’tbedone,”Iwhispered.“Ofcourseitcan,”hesaid.Helaidhishandontopofmine.
Ishookmyhead.Hedidn’tunderstand.Iwasn’ttalkingaboutus.The shadow of their coming fell upon us andwe lost sight of something fundamental within the
absolutedarkof that shadow.Butsimplybecausewecouldn’t see itdidn’tmean itwasn’t there:Myfathermouthing tome,Run! when he couldn’t. Evan pullingme from the belly of the beast beforegivinghimselfuptoit.BenplungingintothejawsofhelltosnatchSamfromthem.Thereweresomethings—well, there was probably only one thing—unblemished by the shadow. Confounding.Indefatigable.Undefeatable.Theycankillus,evendowntothelastofus,buttheycan’tkill—canneverkill—whatlastsinus.Cassie,doyouwanttofly?Yes,Daddy.Iwanttofly.
12
THESILVERHIGHWAYthatfadedintotheblack.Theblacksearedbystarlightunleashed.Theleaflesstreeswitharmsupraisedlikethievescaughtintheact.Mybrother’sbreathcongealinginthefrigidairasheslept.ThewindowfoggingasIbreathed.And,beyondthefrostyglass,besidethesilverhighwayinthesearingstarlight,atinyfiguredartingbeneaththeupraisedarmsofthetrees.Oh,crap.I launchedacross the roomandsmashed into thehall,wherePoundcakewhippedaround, rifleup,
Relax, big boy, then busted into Ben’s room, where Dumbo leaned against the windowsill and Bensprawled on the bed closest to the door. Dumbo stood up. Ben sat up. And I spoke up: “Where’sTeacup?”DumbopointedatthebednexttoBen’s.“Righthere.”GivingmealooklikeThiscrazychick’slostit.Iwenttothebedandwhippedasidethemoundofcovers.BencursedandDumbobackedupagainst
thewall,hisfaceturningred.“IsweartoGodshewasjustthere!”“Isawher,”ItoldBen.“Outside—”“Outside?”Herolledhislegsoffthesideofthebed,gruntingwiththeeffort.“Onthehighway.”Thenheunderstood.“Ringer.She’sgoingafterRinger.”Heslappedhisopenhandonthemattress.
“Damnit!”“I’llgo,”Dumbosaid.Ben held up his hand. “Poundcake!” he hollered. You could hear the big kid coming. The floor
protestedhispassage.Hestuckhisheadintheroom,andBensaid,“Teacuptookoff.AfterRinger.GograbherlittlebuttandbringitbackheresoIcanwhaleonit.”PoundcakelumberedoffandthefloorwentThanksalot!Benwasstrappingonhisholster.“Whatareyoudoing?”Iasked.“TakingPoundcake’spostuntilhegetsbackwiththatlittleshit.YoustaywithNugget.Imean,Sam.
Whoever.Weneedtopickonenameandsticktoit.”Hisfingerswereshaking.Fever.Fear.Alittleofboth.Dumbo’smouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.Ben noticed. “At ease,Bo.Not your
bad.”“I’lltakethehall,”Dumbosaid.“Youstayhere,Sarge.Youshouldn’tbeonyourfeet.”He rushed from the roombeforeBen could stop him.Ben, now looking atmewith sparkly eyes,
feverbright.“Idon’tthinkItoldyou,”hesaid.“AfterwewentrogueinDayton,Voschdispatchedtwosquadstohuntusdown.Iftheywerestillinthefieldwhenthecampblew...”He didn’t finish the thought. Either he thought he didn’t need to or he couldn’t. He stood up.
Staggered.Iwenttohimandhethrewhisarmaroundmyshoulderswithoutembarrassment.There’snoniceway tosay this:BenParishsmelledsick.Thesourodorof infectionandoldsweat.For thefirsttimesinceIrealizedhewasn’tacorpse,Ithoughthemightbeonesoon.“Getbackinbed,”Itoldhim.Heshookhishead,thenhishandloosedonmyshoulderandhefell
back,hittingtheedgeofthemattresswithhisbuttandslidingdowntothefloor.“Dizzy,”hemurmured.“GogetNuggetandbringhiminherewithus.”“Sam.CanwegowithSam?”WheneverIheardNugget,IthoughtoftheMcDonald’sdrive-thruand
hotFrench fries and strawberry-banana smoothies andMcCaféFrappéMochas toppedwithwhippedcreamanddrizzledwithchocolate.Bensmiled.Anditbrokemyheart, thatluminoussmileonthatwastedface.“We’llgowithit,”he
said.SambarelysighedwhenIpulledhimfromthebedandcarriedhimintoBen’sroom.I laidhimin
Teacup’svacatedbed,tuckedhimin,touchedhischeekwiththebackofmyhand,anoldhabitleftoverfromtheplaguedays.Benwasstillsittingonthefloor,headthrownback,staringattheceiling.Istartedtowardhim,andhewavedmeback.“Window,”hegasped.“Nowwe’reblindononeside.Thanksalot,Teacup.”“Whywouldshetakeofflike—?”“EversinceDayton,she’sbeenlatchedontoRingerlikeapilotfish.”“AllIeversawthemdoisfight.”Thinkingofthechessbrawl,thecoinsmackingTeacupinthehead,
andIhateyourfuckingguts!Benchuckled.“It’sathinline.”Iglanceddownattheparkinglot.Theasphaltshonelikeonyx.Latchedontoherlikeapilotfish.I
thoughtofEvanlurkingbehinddoorsandaroundcorners.Ithoughtoftheunblemishedthing,thethingthatlasts,andIthoughttheonlythingwiththepowertosaveusalsohadthepowertoslayus.“Youreallyshouldn’tbeonthefloorlikethat,”Iscoldedhim.“It’swarmeruponthebed.”“A half of a half of a half of a degree, right. This is nothing, Sullivan. A head cold next to the
plague.”“Youhadtheplague?”“Oh,yeah.RefugeecampoutsideWright-Patterson.Aftertheytookoverthebase,theyhauledmein,
pumpedmefullofantivirals,thenputarifleinmyhandandtoldmetogokillsomepeople.Howaboutyou?”Acrucifixclutchedinabloodyhand.Youcaneitherfinishmeorhelpme.Thesoldierbehindthebeer
coolerswasthefirst.No.ThefirstwastheguywhoshotCriscoinapitofashes.That’stwo,andthenthereweretheSilencers,theoneIshotrightbeforeIfoundSamandtheonerightbeforeEvanfoundme.Four, then.Was Imissing somebody?The bodies pile up and you lose track.OhGod, you losetrack.“I’vekilledpeople,”Isaidsoftly.“Imeanttheplague.”“No.Mymom...”“Howaboutyourdad?”“Differentkindofplague,”Isaid.Heglancedoverhisshoulderatme.“Vosch.Voschmurderedhim.”ItoldhimaboutCampAshpit.TheHumveesandbigflatbedfulloftroops.Thesurrealappearanceof
theschoolbuses.Justthekids.Roomonlyforthelittleones.ThegatheringoftherestinthebarracksandDadsendingmewithmyfirstvictimtofindCrisco.ThenDadinthedirt,Voschtoweringoverhim,whileIhidinthewoods,andDadmouthingRun.“Weird that they didn’t put you on a bus,” Ben said. “If the point was to build an army of
brainwashedkids.”“Isawmostlylittlekids,Sam’sage,someevenyounger.”“Atcamp,theyseparatedanyoneunderfive,kepttheminthebunker...”Inodded.“Ifoundthem.”Inthesaferoom,theirfaceslifteduptomineasIhuntedforSam.“Whichmakesyouwonder:Whykeep them?”Bensaid. “UnlessVoschexpectsavery longwar.”
Thewayhesaidit,asifhedoubtedthatthatwasthereason.Hedrummedhisfingersonthemattress.“WhatthehellisgoingonwithTeacup?Theyshouldbebackbynow.”“I’llgocheck,”Isaid.“Likehellyouwill.Thisisturningintoeveryhorrormovieevermade.Youknow?Gettingpickedoff
onebyone.Uh-uh.Fivemoreminutes.”Wefellsilent,listening.Buttherewasonlythewindwhisperinginthepoorlysealedwindowandthe
constantundercurrentofratsscratchinginthewalls.Teacupwasobsessedwiththem.IlistenedtohoursofherandRingerplottingtheirdemise.ThatannoyinglecturingtoneofRinger’s,explaininghowthepopulationwasoutofcontrol:Thehotelhadmoreratsthanwehadbullets.“Rats,”Bensaid,asifhereadmymind.“Rats,rats,rats.Hundredsofrats.Thousandsofrats.More
ratsthanusnow.Planetoftherats.”Helaughedhoarsely.Maybehewasdelirious.“Youknowwhat’sbeenbuggingthehelloutofme?Voschtellingusthey’vebeenwatchingusforcenturies.Like,howisthatpossible?Oh, Igethow it’spossible,but Idon’tgetwhy theydidn’t attackus then.HowmanypeoplewereonEarthwhenwebuiltthepyramids?Whywouldyouwaituntilthere’resevenbillionofusspreadoutovereverycontinentwithtechnologyalittlemoreadvancedthanspearsandclubs?Youlike a challenge? The time to exterminate the vermin in your new house isn’t after the verminoutnumberyou.WhataboutEvan?Hesayanythingaboutthat?”Iclearedmythroat.“Hesaidtheyweredividedoverwhethertoexterminateus.”“Huh.Somaybetheydebateditforsixthousandyears.Dickedaroundbecausenobodycouldmake
uphismind,untilsomeonesaid,‘Oh,whatthehell,let’sjustoffthebastards.’”“Idon’tknow.Idon’thavetheanswers.”Iwasfeelingalittledefensive.AsifknowingEvanmeantI
shouldknoweverything.“Voschcouldhavebeenlying,Iguess,”Benmused.“Idon’tknow,togetinourheads,messwithus.
Hemessedwithmefromthestart.”He lookedatme, then lookedaway.“Shouldn’tadmit this,but Iworshippedtheguy.Ithoughthewas,like...”Hetwirledhishandintheair,searchingforthewords.“Thebestofus.”Hisshouldersbegantoshake.Atfirst,Ithoughtitmustbethefever,andthenIthoughtitcouldbe
somethingelse,soIleftmyspotbythewindowandwenttohim.Forguys,breakingdownisaprivatething.Neverletthemseeyoucry,meansyou’reweak,means
you’re soft, a baby, awuss.Not verymanly and all thatBS. I couldn’t imagine thepre-ArrivalBenParishcryinginfrontofanyone,theguywhohadeverything,theboywhoalltheotherboyswantedtobe,theonewhobrokeothers’heartsandneversufferedhisowntobebroken.Isatbesidehim.Ididn’ttouchhim.Ididn’tspeak.HewaswherehewasandIwaswhereIwas.“Sorry,”hesaid.Ishookmyhead.“Don’tbe.”Hewipedthebackofhishandagainstonecheek,thentheothercheek.“Youknowwhathetoldme?
Well,morelikepromised.Hepromisedhewouldemptyme.Hewouldemptymeandfillmeupwithhate.Buthebrokethatpromise.Hedidn’tfillmewithhate.Hefilledmewithhope.”I understood. In the safe room, a billion upraised faces populating the infinite, and the eyes that
soughtmine,andthequestioninthoseeyestoohorribletoputintowords,WillIlive?It’sallconnected.TheOthersunderstoodthat,understooditbetterthanmostofus.Nohopewithoutfaith,nofaithwithouthope,no lovewithout trust, no trustwithout love.Removeoneand theentirehumanhouseof cardscollapses.ItwaslikeVoschwantedBentodiscover the truth.Wanted to teachhimthehopelessnessofhope.
Andwhatcouldbethepointofthat?Iftheywantedtoannihilateus,whydidn’ttheyjustgoaheadandannihilateus?Theremustbeadozenwaystowipeusoutquickly,buttheydrewitoutinfivewavesofescalatinghorror.Why?
Uptonow,IalwaysthoughtthattheOthersfeltnothingtowardusexceptdisdainwithmaybealittledisgustmixedin,thewaywefeelaboutratsandcockroachesandbedbugsandothernastylowerformsof life.Nothingpersonal,humans,butyougottago. Itneveroccurred tome that itcouldbeentirelypersonal.Thatsimplykillingusisn’tenough.“Theyhateus,”Isaid,asmuchtomyselfastohim.Benlookedatme,startled.AndIlookedbackat
him,scared.“There’snootherexplanation.”“Theydon’thateus,Cassie,”hesaidgently,thewayyoutalktoafrightenedlittlekid.“Wejusthad
whattheywant.”“No.”Nowmycheekswerewetwith tears.The5thWavehadoneexplanationandonlyone.Any
otherpossiblereasonwasabsurd.“Thisisn’taboutrippingtheplanetawayfromus,Ben.Thisisaboutrippingus.”
13
“THAT’SIT,”Bensaid.“Time’sup.”Thenhewasup,buthedidn’tgetveryfar.Halfwaytohisfeetbeforeploppingdownhardonhisbutt.
Iputahandonhisshoulder.“I’llgo.”He smacked his thighwith his palm. “Can’t let it happen,” hemuttered as I opened the door and
pokedmyheadintothehallway.Can’tletwhathappen?LosingTeacupandPoundcake?Losingallofusonebyone?Losingthebattleagainsthisinjuries?Orlosingthewaringeneral?Thehallwasempty.FirstTeacup.ThenPoundcake.NowDumbo.Weweredisappearingfasterthancampersinaslasher
movie.“Dumbo!” I called softly. The ridiculous name echoed in the cold, stagnant air. My mind raced
throughthepossibilities.Leastlikelytomost:Somebodyquietlyneutralizedhimandstashedhisbody;hewascaptured;hesaworheardsomethingandwenttoinvestigate;hehadtopee.Ilingeredinthedoorwayforacoupleofsecondsincasethelastpossibilitywastrue.Whenthehall
stayedempty,Isteppedbackintotheroom.Benwasupright,checkingthemagazineofhisM16.“Don’tmakemeguess,”hesaid.“Nevermind.Idon’tneedtoguess.”“StayherewithSam.I’llgo.”Heshuffledtoastopaninchfrommynose.“Sorry,Sullivan.He’syourbrother.”I stiffened. The room was freezing; my blood was colder. His voice was hard, flat, without any
feelingatall.Zombie.WhydotheycallyouZombie,Ben?Then he smiled, a very real, very Ben Parish–y smile. “Those guys out there—they’re all my
brothers.”He sidestepped me and stumbled toward the door. The situation was escalating quickly from
impossiblydangeroustodangerouslyimpossible.Icouldn’tseeanyotherway:IscrambledoverBen’sbedandgrabbedSamby theshoulders.Shookhimhard.Hewokeupwithasoftcry. I slammedmyhandoverhismouthtostopperthenoise.“Sams!Listen!Something’swrong.”IpulledtheLugerfromtheholsterandpresseditintohislittle
hands.Hiseyeswidenedwithfearandsomethingthatunnervinglyresembledjoy.“BenandIhavetocheckitout.Putonthenightlatch—youknowwhatanightlatchis?”Big-eyednod.“Andputachairundertheknob.Lookthroughthelittlehole.Don’tlet...”DidIneedtospellouteverything?“Look,Sams, this is important, very important.Very, very important.You knowhowwe tell the good guysfromthebadguys?Thebadguysshootatus.”Bestlessonmyfatherevertaughtme.IkissedthetopofSam’sheadandlefthimthere.Thedoor clicked shut behindme. I heard thenight latch slide into thenotch.Goodboy.Benwas
halfwaydownthehall.Hemotionedformetojoinhim.Hepressedhislips,fever-hot,againstmyear.“Wecleartherooms,thenwegodown.”Weworked together. I took thepointwhileBen coveredme.TheWalkerHotel had anopendoor
policy:Every lockhadbeenbustedat somepoint as survivors sought refugeduring thewaves.Also
helpfulwasthefactthattheWalkerwasperfectforthefamilyonabudget.TheroomswereroughlythesizeofBarbie’sDreamhouse.Thirtysecondstocheckone.Fourminutestoclearthemall.Backinthehall,Bencrushedhislipsintomyearagain.“Theshaft.”Hedroppedtoonekneeinfrontof theelevatordoors.Gesturedformetocoverthestairwaydoor,
thenpulledouthis ten-inchcombatknifeandshovedtheblade into thecrack.Ah,I thought.Theoldhide-in-the-elevatortrick!SowhywasIcoveringthestairs?Benpushedopenthedoorsandwavedmeover.IsawrustycablesandalotofdustandsmelledwhatIassumedtobedeadrat.Ihopeditwasdead
rat.Hepointedatthedarknesspoolingbelow,andthenIunderstood.Weweren’tcheckingtheshaft—wewereusingit.“I’mclearingthestairs,”hebreathedinmyear.“Youstayintheelevator.Waitformysignal.”Heplacedhisfootagainstonedoorandleanedbackagainsttheothertoholdthemopen.Pattedthe
tinyspacebetweenhishipandtheedge.Mouthed,Let’sgo.CarefullyIeasedoverhislegs,plantedmybuttinthespace,anddroppedmylegsovertheside.Thetopoftheelevatorlookedtwentymilesdown.Bensmiledreassuringly:Don’tworry,Sullivan.Iwon’tletyoufall.I inchedforwarduntilmybuttdangled inopenspace.Nope, thatwon’twork. Iswungback to the
edge,thenmaneuveredontomyknees.Bengrabbedmywristandgavemeathumbs-upwithhisfreehand.Iknee-walkeddowntheshaftwall,grippingtheedgeuntilmyarmswerefullyextended.Okay,Cassie.Timetoletgonow.Ben’sgotyou.Yeah,dumbass,andBen’shurtandaboutasstrongasathree-year-old.Whenyou letgo,yourweight isgoing topullhimoffhisperchandyou’llbothdrop.He’lllandon topofyouandbreakyourneckand thenhe’ll slowlybleed todeathalloveryourparalyzedbody...Oh,whatthehell.I letgo. IheardBengrunt softly,buthedidn’tdropmeandhedidn’t tumbledownon topofme.
Bendingfromthewaistasheloweredmedown,untilIsawhisheadsilhouettedintheopening,hisfacemaskedinshadow.Mytoesbrushedagainsttheroofoftheelevator.Igavehimathumbs-up,thoughIwasn’tsureifhecouldseeit.Threeseconds.Four.Andthenheletgo.Isanktomykneesandfeltaroundfortheservicehatch.Somegrease,somedirt,andalotofgreasy
dirt.Beforeelectricity,theymeasuredbrightnessincandlepower.Thelightdownherewasaboutonehalf
ofonehalfofonecandle.Thenthedoorsabovemeclosedandthecandlepowerdroppedtozero.Thanks,Parish.YoucouldhavewaitedtillIfoundthehatch.And,whenIdid,thelatchwasstuck,probablyrustedshut.IreachedformyLugerwiththethought
ofusingthebuttendasahammer, thenrememberedI’dentrustedmysemiautomaticpistol toafive-year-old’scare.Ipulledthecombatknifefrommyankleholsterandgavethelatchthreehardwhackswiththehandle.Themetalscreeched.Averyloudscreech.Somuchforstealth.But thelatchgave.Ipulledthehatchopen,whichresultedinanotherveryloudscreech,thistimefromtherustyhinge.Well,sure, this sounds really loud toyou,kneeling right next to it.Outside the shaft, probablyonlya tinymouselikesqueaky-squeak.Don’tgetparanoid!Myfatherhadasayingaboutparanoia.Ineverthoughtitwasveryfunny,especiallyafterhearingittwothousandtimes:I’monlyparanoidbecauseeveryoneisagainstme.Onlyajoke,Iusedtothink.Notanomen.Idroppedintotheutterdarkoftheelevatorcar.Waitformysignal.Whatsignal?Benneglectedto
coverthat.Ipressedmyeartothecrackbetweenthecoldmetaldoorsandheldmybreath.Countedtoten. Breathed. Counted to ten again. Breathed. After six ten counts and four breaths and hearingnothing, I started getting a little antsy.Whatwas happeningout there?WherewasBen?Wherewas
Dumbo?Our littlebandwasbeing rippedapartonepersonat a time.Abigmistake splittingup,buteachtimewedidn’thaveachoice.Wewerebeingoutplayed.Someonewasmakingthislookfoolishlyeasy.Ormultiplesomeones:AfterwewentrogueinDayton,Voschdispatchedtwosquadstohuntusdown.Thatwasit.Thathadtobeit.Oneorpossiblybothsquadshadfoundourhidingplace.Wewaited
heretoolong.That’sright,andwhydidyouwait,Cassiopeia“Defiance”Sullivan?Ohyeah,becausesomedead
guypromisedhe’dfindyou.Soyouclosedyoureyesandjumpedoffthecliff intothatemptiness,andnowyou’reshockedthere’snobigfatmattressatthebottom?Yourfault.Whateverhappensnow.You’reresponsible.The elevator was not large, but in the pitch dark it seemed the size of a football stadium. I was
standing in a vast underground pit, no light, no sound, a lifeless, lightless void, frozen to the spot,paralyzedbyfearanddoubt.Knowing—withoutunderstandinghowIknew—thatBen’ssignalwasn’tcoming.Understanding—withoutknowinghowIunderstood—thatEvanwasn’tcoming,either.Youneverknowwhenthetruthwillcomehome.Youcan’tchoosethetime.Thetimechoosesyou.
I’dhaddaystofacethetruththatnowfacedmeinthatcold,blackspace,andI’drefused.Iwouldn’tgothere.Sothetruthdecidedtocometome.Whenhe touchedmeonour lastnight together, therewasnospacebetweenus,no spotwherehe
endedandIbegan,andnowtherewasnospacebetweenmeandthedarknessofthepit.Hepromisedhewouldfindme.Don’tIalwaysfindyou?AndIbelievedhim.AfterdistrustingeverythinghesaidfromthemomentImethim,forthefirsttime,inthelastwordshespoke,Ibelieved.Ipressedmyfaceagainst thecoldmetaldoors. Ihad thesensationof falling,milesuponmilesof
emptyairbeneathme.Iwouldneverstopfalling.You’reamayfly.Hereforadayandthengone.No.I’mstillhere,Evan.You’retheonewho’sgone.“Youknewfromthemomentweleftthefarmhousewhatwouldhappen,”Iwhisperedintothevoid.
“Youknewyouweregoingtodie.Andyouwentanyway.”Icouldn’tstayuprightanymore.Ihadnochoice.Isliddowntomyknees.Falling.Falling.Iwould
neverstopfalling.Letgo,Cassie.Letgo.“Letgo?I’mfalling.I’mfalling,Evan.”ButIknewwhathemeant.I’d never let him go.Not really. I toldmyself a thousand times a day he couldn’t have survived.
Lecturedmyselfthatourholingupinthisfleabagmotelwasuseless,dangerous,crazy,suicidal.ButIclungtohispromisebecauselettinggoofthepromisemeantIwaslettinggoofhim.“Ihateyou,EvanWalker,”Iwhisperedtothevoid.Frominsidethevoid—andfromthevoidinside—silence.Can’tgoback.Can’tgoforward.Can’tholdon.Can’tletgo.Can’t,can’t,can’t,can’t.Whatcanyou
do?Whatcanyoudo?Iliftedmyface.Okay.Icandothat.Istoodup.That,too.Isquaredmyshouldersandslippedmyfingertipsintotheplacewherethetwodoorsmet.I’msteppingoutnow,Itoldthesilentdeep.I’mlettinggo.Iforcedthedoorsapart.Lightfloodedintothevoid,devouringthesmallestshadow,downtothelast
one.
14
ISTEPPEDINTOthelobby,ourbravenewworldinmicrocosm.Shatteredglass.Moundsoftrashpiledintocorners,likeautumnleavesblowntherebythewind.Deadbugsontheirbacks,legscurledup.Bittercold.Soquiet,yourbreathwastheonlysound:AftertheHumvanished,theHush.NosignofBen.Betweenthesecondfloorandthestairs,somethingmusthavehappenedtohimand
notagoodsomething.Ieasedtowardthestairwaydoor,fightingtheinstinct tohaulassbacktoSambeforehedisappearedlikeBen,likeDumbo,likePoundcakeandTeacup,like99.9percentofeveryoneonEarth.Debriscracklingbeneathmyboots.Coldairburningmyfaceandhands.Myhandsgrippingtherifle
andmyeyesbarelyblinkingintheweakstarlightthatblaredspotlight-brightaftertheabsolutedarkoftheelevator.Slow.Slow.Nomistakes.Stairwaydoor.Iheldthemetalhandleforagoodthirtyseconds,earpressedagainstthewood,butall
Iheardwasthethumpingofmyheart.Slowly,Ipusheddownthehandle,pulledthedooropentocreateacrackjustwideenoughtopeekthrough.Totallydark.Totallysoundless.Damnit,Parish.Wherethehellareyou?Nowhere to go but up. I slid into the stairwell. Snick:The door closed behind me. Plunged into
darknessagain,butthistimeIwasdeterminedtokeepitontheoutside,whereitbelonged.The tart smell of death hung in the musty air. A rat, I told myself. Or a raccoon or some other
woodland creature that got trapped in here.My boot came down on something squishy. Tiny bonescrunched.Iwipedoffthegooeyremainsontheedgeofastep;Ididn’twanttoslip,tumbledowntothebottom, breakmyneck, lie helplesslywaiting forwhoever itwas to findme and put a bullet inmybrain.Thatwouldbebad.I reached the tiny landing,onemore flight, deep breath, almost there,and then the shot rang out,
followedbyanother,thenathird,thenawholebarrageaswhoeverwasshootingemptiedthemagazine.I rocketedup the remaining steps, slammed through thedoor, and chargeddown thehall toward theroom that was now missing a door, the room where my baby brother was, and my toe caught onsomething—asoftsomethingIdidn’tseeinmymaddashforSam—andIwentairborne,landingwithajaw-poppingforceonthethincarpeting,jumpedup,glancedback,andsawBenParishlyinglifelesslythere,armsoutstretched,darkwetblotchofbloodseeping throughthat ridiculousyellowhoodie,andthenSamscreamedandI’mnottoolate,nottoolate,andhereIcome,yousonofabitch,hereIcome,andintheroomatallshadowloomedoverthetinyfigurewhosetinyfingeryankedimpotentlyatthetriggeroftheemptygun.Ifired.Theshadowwhirledtowardme,thenpitchedforward,reachingforme.I slammedmy foot down on its neck and jammed themuzzle of the rifle against the back of the
shadow’shead.“Excuseme,”Igasped;Ihadnobreath.“Butyouhavethewrongroom.”
15
ASACHILD,hedreamedofowls.Hehadn’t thoughtof thedreaminyears.Now,ashis lifeslippedaway, thememorycameback to
him.Thememorywasnotpleasant.Thebirdperchedonthewindowsill,staringintohisroomwithbrightyelloweyes.Theeyesblinked
slowly,rhythmically;otherwise,theowlnevermoved.Watching theowlwatchinghim,paralyzedwithfearwithoutunderstandingwhy,unable tocall for
hismotherand,afterward,thesickfeelingallover,nauseated,dizzy,feverish,andthejittery,unnervingsensationofbeingwatchedthatlingeredfordays.Whenheturnedthirteen,thedreamsstopped.Hehadawakened;therewasnoneedtohidethetruth
anymore.When the timecame,hisawakenedselfwouldneed thegifts that the“owl”hadgiven.Heunderstoodthedreams’purposebecausehispurposehadbeenrevealed.Makeready.Preparetheway.Theowlhadbeenalietoprotectthetenderpsycheofhishostbody.Afterheawakened,anotherlie
tookitsplace:hislife.Hishumanitywasalie,amask,likethedreamofowlsinthedark.Nowhewasdying.Andtheliewasdyingwithhim.Therewasnopain.Hedidnotfeel thebittercold.Hisbodyseemedtofloatonawarm,boundless
sea.Thealarmsignalsfromhisnervestothepaincentersofhisbrainhadbeenshutdown.Thisgentle,painlesseasingofhishumanbodyintooblivionwouldbethefinalgift.Andthen,afterthelasthumanbeingwasdead:rebirth.Anewhumanbodyunburdenedby thememoryofbeinghuman.Hewouldnot remember thepast
eighteenyears.Thosememoriesand theemotionsattached to themwouldbe forever lost—and therewasnothingthatcouldbedoneabouttheagonyattendingthatknowledge.Lost.Everythinglost.Thememoryofherface.Lost.Thetimewithher.Lost.Thewardeclaredbetweenwhathewasand
whathepretendedtobe.Lost.In the quiet of thewinter-drapedwoods, floating on a boundless sea, he reached for her, and she
slippedaway.Heknewwhatwouldcomeofit.Hehadalwaysknown.Oncehefoundherimprisonedinsnowand
carriedherbackandmadeherwhole,hisdeathwouldbetheprice.Virtuesarevicesnow,anddeathisthecostoflove.Notthedeathofhisbody.Hisbodywasthelie.Truedeath.Thedeathofhishumanity.Thedeathofhissoul.Inthewoods, inthebittercold,onthesurfaceofaboundlesssea,whisperinghername,entrusting
hermemorytothewind,totheembraceofthesilentsentineltreesandtothecareofthefaithfulstars,hernamesake,pureandeverlasting,theuncontaineduniversecontainedinher:Cassiopeia.
16
HEWOKETOPAIN.Blindingpaininhishead,hischest,hishands,hisankle.Hisskinwasonfire.Hefeltasifhe’dbeen
dippedinboilingwater.Abirdperchedonatreebranchabovehim,acrow,regardinghimwithregalindifference.Theworld
belongedtothecrowsnow,hethought.Therestwereinterlopers,short-timers.Smokecurledinthebarebranchesoverhead:acampfire.Andthesmellofmeatsizzlinginapan.Hewasproppedupagainstatree,coveredbyaheavywoolblanket,witharolled-upwinterparkafor
apillow.Slowly,he liftedhisheadan inchandrealized immediately thatanymovementatallwasaverybadidea.Atallwomancameintoviewcarryinganarmloadofwood,thenvanishedfromsightforamoment
whileshefedthefire.“Goodmorning.”Hervoicewaslow-pitched,lilting,andvaguelyfamiliar.Shesatbesidehim,pulledherkneestoherchest,andwrappedherlongarmsaroundherlegs.Her
facewasfamiliar,too.Fair-skinned,blond,Nordicfeatures,likeaVikingprincess.“Iknowyou,”hewhispered.Histhroatburned.Shepressedthemouthofhercanteenagainsthisraw
lips,andhedrankforalongtime.“That’s good,” she said. “You were talking nonsense last night. I was worried you’d suffered
somethingalittlemoreseriousthanaconcussion.”Shestoodupanddisappearedfromviewagain.Whenshecameback,shewasholdingafryingpan.
Shesatnexttohim,placingthepanonthegroundbetweenthem.Shewasstudyinghimwiththesamehaughtyindifferenceasthecrow.“I’mnothungry,”hesaid.“Youhavetoeat.”Notpleading.Statingafact.“Freshrabbit.Imadeastew.”“Howbadisit?”“Notbad.I’magoodcook.”Heshookhisheadandforcedasmile.Sheknewwhathemeant.“It’sprettybad,”shesaid.“Sixteenbrokenbones,skullfracture,second-degreeburnsovermostof
yourbody.Notyourhair,though.Youstillhaveyourhair.That’sthegoodnews.”Thewoman dipped a spoon into the stew, brought the spoon to her lips, blew gently, swiped her
tongueslowlyaroundtheedge.“What’sthebadnews?”heasked.“Yourankleisfractured.Fairlybadly.That’sgoingtotakesometime.Therest. . .”Sheshrugged,
sippedthestew,pursedherlips.“Needssalt.”Hewatchedherdigintoherrucksack,searchingforthesalt.“Grace,”hesaidsoftly.“Yournameis
Grace.”“Oneofthem,”thewomansaid.Thenshesaidherrealname,theonesheborefortenthousandyears.
“Ihavetobehonest.IlikeGracebetter.Somucheasiertopronounce!”Sheswirledthesoupwiththespoon.Offeredhimasip.Hislipstightened.Thethoughtoffood...
Sheshruggedandtookanothersip.“Ithoughtitwasdebrisfromtheexplosion,”shewenton.“Ineverexpectedtofindoneoftheescapepods—oryouinit.Whathappenedtotheguidancesystem?Didyoudisarmit?”Hethoughtcarefullybeforeheanswered.“Malfunction.”“Malfunction?”“Malfunction,”hesaidlouder.Histhroatwasonfire.Sheheldthecanteenforhimwhilehedrank.“Nottoomuch,”shecautionedhim.“You’llgetsick.”Waterdribbleddownhischin.Shewipeditforhim.“Thebasewascompromised,”hesaid.Sheseemedsurprised.“How?”Heshookhishead.“Notsure.”“Whywereyouthere?That’sthecuriousthing.”“Ifollowedsomeonein.”Thiswasnotgoingwell.Forapersonwhoseentirelifehadbeenalie,lying
did not come easily to him.He knewGracewould not hesitate to terminate his current body if shesuspectedthatthe“compromise”extendedtohim.Theyallunderstoodtheriskindonningthehumanmantle.Sharingabodywithahumanpsychecarriedwith it thedangerofadoptinghumanvices—aswellashumanvirtues.Andfarmoredangerousthangreedorlustorenvyoranyofthosethings—oranything—waslove.“You...followedsomeone?Ahuman?”“Ididn’thaveachoice.”Thatmuchwastrueatleast.“Thebasewascompromised.Byahuman.”Sheshookherheadwithwonder.“Andyouabandoned
yourpatroltostopit.”Heclosedhiseyes.Perhapsshe’dthinkhepassedout.Thesmellofthestewmadehisstomachroll.“Verycurious,”Gracesaid.“Therewasalwaysriskofacompromise,butfromwithintheprocessing
center.Howcouldahumaninyoursectorknowanythingaboutthecleansing?”Playingpossumwasn’tgoingtowork.Heopenedhiseyes.Thecrowhadnotmoved.Thebirdstared
athim,andherememberedtheowlonthesillandthelittleboyinthebedandthefear.“I’mnotsureshedid.”“She?”“Yes.Itwasa...afemale.”“Cassiopeia.”Helookedsharplyather,couldn’thelpit.“Howdoyou...?”“I’vehearditalotoverthepastthreedays.”“Threedays?”Hisheartquickened.Hehadtoask.Buthowcouldhe?Askingmightmakehermoresuspiciousthan
shealreadywas.Itwouldbefoolishtoask.Sohesaid,“Ithinkshemighthaveescaped.”Gracesmiled.“Well,ifshedid,I’msurewe’llfindher.”Helethisbreathoutslowly.Gracewouldhavenoreasontolie.IfshehadfoundCassie,shewould
havekilledherandhadnoreservationsintellinghim.ThoughGracenotfindingherwasnoproofoflife:Cassiestillmaynothavesurvived.Gracereachedintoherrucksackagainandtookoutabottleofcream.“Fortheburns,”sheexplained.
Gingerly, shepulled theblanketdown,exposinghisnakedbody to the freezingair.Above them, thecrowcockeditspolishedblackheadandwatched.Thecreamwascold.Herhandswerewarm.Gracehadbroughthimoutoffire;hehadbroughtCassie
outofice.He’dcarriedherthroughtheundulatingseaofwhitetotheoldfarmhouse,whereheremovedherclothesandplungedherfreezingbodyintowarmwater.AsGrace’shands,slickwithsalve,roamedhisbody,hisfingershadworkedthroughtheiceencrustedinCassie’sthickhair.Removingthebulletas
shefloatedinthewaterstainedpinkbyherblood.Thebulletmeantforherheart.Hisbullet.And,afterhepulledherfromthewaterandbandagedthewound,carryinghertohissister’sbed,avertinghiseyesashedressedherinhissister’sgown;Cassiewouldhavebeenmortifiedwhensherealizedhe’dseenherunclothed.Grace’seyesfixedonhim.Hiseyesfixedontheteddybearonthepillow.Hepulledthecovers to
Cassie’schin.Gracepulledtheblankettohis.You’regoingtolive,hetoldCassie.Moreofaprayerthanapromise.“You’regoingtolive,”Gracetoldhim.Youhavetolive,hesaidtoCassie.“Ihaveto,”hesaidtoGrace.Thewayshecockedherheadasshelookedathim,likethecrowinthetree,theowlonthesill.“Weallhaveto,”Gracesaid,noddingslowly.“It’swhywecame.”Sheleanedforwardandkissedhimgentlyonthecheek.Warmbreath,coollips,andthefaintodorof
woodsmoke.Herlipsslidfromhischeektowardhismouth.Heturnedhishead.“How did you know her name?” she whispered in his ear. “Cassiopeia. How did you know
Cassiopeia?”“Ifoundhercamp.Abandoned.Shekeptajournal...”“Ah.Andthat’showyouknewsheplannedtostormthebase.”“Yes.”“Well,itallmakesperfectsense,then.Didshesayinherjournalwhyshewasstormingthebase?”“Herbrother...takenfromarefugeecamptoWright-Patterson...sheescaped...”“That’sremarkable.Thensheovercomesourdefensesanddestroystheentirecommandcenter.That’s
evenmoreremarkable.Itbordersontheunbelievable.”Shepickedupthepan,slungthecontentsintothebrush,androsetoherfeet.Shetoweredoverhim,a
six-footblondcolossus.Hercheekswereflushed,perhapsfromthecold,perhapsfromthekiss.“Rest,”shesaid.“You’rewellenoughtotravelnow.We’releavingtonight.”“Where’rewegoing?”EvanWalkerasked.Shesmiled.“Myplace.”
17
ATSUNSET,Gracekilled the fire, slipped the backpack and rifle over her shoulder, and scoopedEvanfromthegroundforthesixteen-milehiketoherstationhouseonthesouthernoutskirtsofUrbana.Shewouldkeeptothehighwaytomakebettertime.Therewaslittleriskinitatthisstageofthegame:Shehadn’tseenahumanbeinginweeks.Thoseshehadn’tkilledhadbeentakenbythebusesorhadtakenrefuge against the onslaught ofwinter. Thiswas the in-between time. In another year, perhaps two,thoughnomorethanfive,therewouldbenoneedforstealth,becausetherewouldbenomorepreytostalk.Thetemperatureplungedwiththesun.Raggedcloudsracedacrosstheindigosky,drivenbyanorth
windthattoyedwithherbangsandplayfullyflippedthecollarofherjacket.Thefirststarsappeared,themoon rose, and the road shoneahead, a silver ribbon twistingacross theblackbackdropofdeadfieldsandemptylotsandtheguttedshellsofhouseslongabandoned.ShestoppedoncetorestanddrinkandspreadmoresalveoverEvan’sburns.“There’ssomethingdifferentaboutyou,”shemused.“Ican’tputmyfingeronit.”Puttingherfingers
alloverhim.“Ididn’thaveaneasyawakening,”hesaid.“Youknowthat.”Shegruntedsoftly.“You’reabrooder,Evan,andaverysoreloser.”Shewrappedhimbackupinthe
blanket.Ranherlongfingersthroughhishair.Lookeddeeplyintohiseyes.“There’ssomethingyou’renottellingme.”Hesaidnothing.“I felt it,” she said. “The first night,when I hauled you out of thewreckage.There’s a . . .” She
searchedfortherightwords.“Ahiddenroomthatwasn’ttherebefore.”Hisvoicesoundedhollowtohim,emptyasthewind.“Nothingishidden.”Gracelaughed.“Youshouldneverhavebeenintegrated,EvanWalker.Youfeelfartoomuchforthem
tobeoneofthem.”Shepickedhimupaseasilyasamotherhernewbornchild.Sheliftedherfacetothenightskyand
gasped. “I seeher!Cassiopeia, thequeenof thenight.”Shepressedher cheekagainst the topofhishead.“Ourhuntisover,Evan.”
18
GRACE’SSTATIONWASanold,one-storywoodenframehouseonHighway68,locatedattheexactcenterofherassignedsix-square-milepatrolsector.Asidefromboardingupthebrokenwindowsandrepairingthe exterior doors, she’d left the house as she found it. Family portraits on thewalls, heirlooms andmementostoolargetocarryeasily,smashedfurnitureandopendrawersandthethousandpiecesoftheoccupants’ lives deemedworthless by looterswere scattered in every room.Grace did not bother tocleanupthemess.Whenspringarrivedandthe5thWaverolledout,shewouldbegone.ShecarriedEvan to the secondbedroomat the rearof thehouse, thekids’ room,withbrightblue
wallpaper and toys littering the floor and amobile of the solar system hanging dejectedly from theceiling.Shelaidhiminoneofthetwinbeds.Achildhadscratchedhisinitialsintotheheadboard:K.M.Kevin?Kyle?Thetinyroomsmelledliketheplague.Therewasn’tmuchlight—Gracehadboardedthewindowinhere,too—buthiseyesightwasmuchmoreacutethananordinaryhuman’s,andEvancouldseethedarksplotchesofbloodthathadbeenflungonthebluewallsduringsomeone’sdeaththroes.Shelefttheroom,returningafterafewminuteswithmoresalveandarollofbandages.Sheworked
quickly wrapping the burns, as if she had pressing business elsewhere. Neither spoke until she hadcoveredhimagain.“Whatdoyouneed?”Graceasked.“Somethingtoeat?Bathroom?”“Clothes.”Sheshookherhead.“Notagoodidea.Aweekontheburns.Two,maybethreeontheankle.”Idon’thavethreeweeks.Threedaysistoolong.Forthefirsttime,hethoughtitmightbenecessarytoneutralizeGrace.Shetouchedhischeek.“Callifyouneedanything.Stayoffthatankle.Ihavetogetsomesupplies;I
wasn’texpectingcompany.”“Howlongwillyoubegone?”“Nomorethanacouplehours.Trytosleep.”“I’llneedaweapon.”“Evan, there isn’t anyone within a hundred miles.” She smiled. “Oh. You’re worried about the
saboteur.”Henodded.“Iam.”Shepressedherpistolintohishand.“Don’tshootme.”Hewrappedhisfingersaroundthegrip.“Iwon’t.”“I’llknockfirst.”Henoddedagain.“Thatwouldbeagoodidea.”Shepausedbythedoor.“Welostthedroneswhenthebasefell.”“Iknow.”“Whichmeanswe’rebothoffthegrid.Ifsomethingshouldhappentooneofus—oranyofus...”“Doesitmatternow?It’salmostover.”Gracenoddedthoughtfully.“Doyouthinkwe’llmissthem?”“The humans?”Hewondered if she wasmaking a joke. He’d never heard her try before; joking
wasn’tinhercharacter.“Not the ones out there.” She gestured beyond thewalls, at thewiderworld. “The ones in here.”
Handtoherchest.“Youcan’tmisswhatyoudon’tremember,”hesaid.“Oh,IthinkI’llkeephermemories,”Gracesaid.“Shewasahappylittlegirl.”“Thenthere’llbenothingtomiss,willthere?”Shefoldedherarmsoverherchest.Shewasleavingandnowshewasn’t.Whydidn’tsheleave?“Iwon’tkeepallofthem,”shesaid,meaningthememories.“Onlythegoodones.”“That’s beenmyworry from thebeginning,Grace:The longerweplay at beinghuman, themore
humanwebecome.”Shelookedathimquizzicallyandsaidnothingforaverylong,veryuncomfortablemoment.“Who’splayingatbeinghuman?”sheasked.
19
HEWAITEDUNTILherfootfallsfaded.Windwhistledinthecracksbetweentheplywoodandthewindowframe;otherwise,heheardnothing.Likehiseyesight,hishearingwasexquisitelyacute.IfGracewassittingontheporchcombingherhair,hewouldhearit.Firstthegun.Hepulledthemagazinefromtheframe.Justashesuspected:nobullets.Hethoughtthe
gunhadbeen too light.Evanallowedhimself aquiet laugh.The ironywas toomuch.Theirprimarymissionhadnotbeen tokill,but tosowmistrustamong thesurvivorsanddrive them like frightenedsheeptoslaughterhouseslikeWright-Patterson.Whathappenswhenthesowersofmistrustbecomeitsreapers?Reapers.Hefoughtbackahystericalgiggle.Hetookadeepbreath.Thiswasgoingtohurt.Hesatup.Theroomspun.Heclosedhiseyes.No.
That made it worse. He opened his eyes and willed himself to remain upright. His body had beenaugmented inpreparation forhisawakening.Thatwas the truth thedreamof theowldisguised.Thesecret that the screenmemorykept him from seeing and therefore from remembering:While he andGraceandtensofthousandsofchildrenlikethemhadslept,giftshadbeendeliveredinthenight.Giftstheywouldneedintheyearstocome.Giftsthatwouldturntheirbodiesintofinelytunedweapons,forthedesignersoftheinvasionhadunderstoodasimple, thoughcounterintuitive,truth:Wherethebodywent,themindfollowed.Givesomeonethepowerofthegodsandhewillbecomeasindifferentasthegods.Thepainsubsided.Thedizzinesseased.Heslidhislegsofftheedgeofthebed.Heneededtotestthe
ankle.The anklewas the key.The other injurieswere serious but inconsequential; he couldmanagethose.Gently,heappliedpressuretotheballofhisfoot,andalightningboltofagonyrocketeduphisleg.Hefellontohisback,gasping.Overhead,dustyplanetswerefrozeninorbitaroundadentedsun.Hesatupandwaitedforhisheadtoclear.Hewasn’tgoingtofindawayaroundthepain.Hewould
havetofindawaythroughit.He eased himself onto the floor, using the side of the bed to support his weight. Then he forced
himselftorest.Noneedtorush.IfGracereturned,hecouldexplainthathefelloutofbed.Slowly,byinches,hescootedhisbuttalongthecarpetuntilhewasflatonhisback,seeingthesolarsystembehindashowerofwhite-hotmeteorsthatcascadedacrosshisfieldofvision.Theroomwasfreezing,buthewassweatingprofusely.Outofbreath.Heartracing.Skinonfire.Hefocusedonthemobile,thefadedblueoftheEarth,theduskyredofMars.Thepaincameinwaves;hefloatednowinadifferentkindofsea.Theslatsbeneaththebedwerenailedintoplaceandweigheddownbytheheavyframeandmattress.
Nomatter.Hewiggledintothetightspacebeneath,thebodiesofdecayedinsectscrunchingunderhisweight,andtherewasatoycaronitsbackandthetwistedlimbsofaplasticactionfigurefromthetimewhenheroespopulatedchildren’sdaydreams.Hebroke theboard freewith threehardwhacksof theheelofhishand,scoochedback thewayhecame,andbroke theotherendfree.Dustsettled intohismouth.Hecoughed,sendinganothertsunamiofpainacrosshischest,downhisside,tocurlanaconda-likearoundhisstomach.Tenminuteslaterhewascontemplatingthesolarsystemagain,worriedthatGracewouldfindhim
passedout,clutchingafour-by-sixbedslattohischest.Thatmightbealittlemoredifficulttoexplain.Theworldspun.Theplanetsheldstill.There’sahiddenroom...Hehadcrossedthethresholdintothatroom,whereasimplepromisethrew
athousandbolts:I’llfindyou.Thatpromise,likeallpromises,createditsownmorality.Tokeepit,hewouldhavetocrossaseaofblood.Theworldunloosed.Theplanetsbound.
20
NIGHTHADFALLENbythetimeGracereturned,herarrivalpresagedbytheglowofalampexpandinginthehalloutside.Sheset thelamponthebedsidetable,andthelight threwshadowsthatengulfedherface.Hedidnotprotestwhenshedrewdownthecovers,unwrappedthebandagescoveringhiswounds,andexposedhisbodytothefrigidair.“Didyoumissme,Evan?”shemurmured,fingertipsslickwithsalveslidingoverhisskin.“Idon’t
meantoday.Howoldwerewethen?Fifteen?”“Sixteen,”heanswered.“Hmm.YouaskedmeifIwasafraidofthefuture.Doyouremember?”“Yes.”“Sucha...humanquestion.”Thefingersofonehandmassaginghimwhilethefingersoftheotherslowlyunbuttonedhershirt.“NotasmuchastheotheroneIasked.”Shetiltedherheadinquisitively.Herhairfelloverhershoulder.Herfacelostinshadowandhershirt
fallingopenlikeacurtaindrawnback.“Whatwasthat?”shewhispered.“Ifyou’dnotbeen,foraverylongtime,inexpressiblylonely.”Thecoolnessofherfingers.Theheatofhissearedflesh.“Yourheartisbeatingveryfast,”shebreathed.Shestoodup.Heclosedhiseyes.Forthepromise.Justoutsidethecircleoflight,Gracesteppedout
ofthepantsthatpooledaroundherankles.Hedidnotwatch.“Notsolonely,”Gracesaid,herbreathcaressinghisear.“Beinglockedinthesebodiesdoeshaveits
compensations.”Forthepromise.AndCassietheislandheswamtoward,risingfromablood-filledsea.“Notsolonely,Evan,”Gracesaid.Shetouchedhislipswithherfingers,hisneckwithherlips.Hehadnochoice.Hispromiseaffordednone.Gracewouldneverlethimgo;shewouldnothesitate
tokillhimifhetried.Therecouldbenooutrunningherorhidingfromher.Nochoice.Heopenedhiseyes,reachedupwithhisrighthandandranhisfingersthroughherhair.Hislefthand
slidbeneaththepillow.Abovethem,hecouldseethelonelysunstrippedofitsoffspring,shininginthelamplight.He thoughtGracemight notice the planetsweremissing.He expected her to askwhy heneededtoremovethem,thoughitwasn’ttheplanetsheneeded.Itwasthewire.ButGracehadn’tnoticed.Hermindhadbeenonotherthings.“Touchme,Evan,”shewhispered.Herolledhardtohisrightandsmashedhisleftforearmintoherjaw.Shestumbledbackwardashe
cameoffthebed,drivinghisshoulderintohermidsection.Shesankhernailsdeepintotheburnsonhisbackandripped.Theroomwentblackforamoment,buthedidn’tneedtosee—hejustneededtobeclose.Shemayhaveseenthemakeshiftgarroteofbrokenwoodandmobilewireinhishand,orshemight
havebeenjustlucky,butherfistclosedaroundthewireandpushedashedrewittight.Hesweptherleg
withtheoutsideofhisgoodankleandtookhertothefloor,followingherbodydown,crushinghiskneeintoherlowerbackonimpact.Nochoice.He summoned every ounce of augmented strength that remained into tightening thewire, until it
slicedthroughherpalmandhitbone.Shebuckedagainsthisweight.Heswunghisrightkneearoundandgrounditintoherhead.Tighter.
Tighter.Hesmelledblood.His.Hers.Theroomspunaround.Sinkingdeepintoblood,his,hers,EvanWalkerheldstill.
21
WHENITWASDONE,hecrawledtothebedandpulledoutthebrokenslat.Alittlelongforacrutch—hehadtoholdtheboardatadifficultangle—butitwouldhavetodo.Hehobbledtotheotherbedroom,wherehefoundmen’sclothing:apairofjeans,aplaidshirt,ahand-knitsweater,andaleatherjacketwiththenameoftheowner’sbowlingteam,TheUrbanaPinheads,emblazonedontheback.Thefabricscrapedandrubbedagainsthisrawskin,makingeverymovementastudyinpain.Thenheshuffledintothelivingroom,wherehefoundGrace’srucksackandrifle.Hethrewbothoverhisshoulder.Hourslater,restinginthenestlikemangleofmetalinthemiddleofaneight-carpileuponHighway
68,heopenedthesacktotakeinventoryandfounddozensofplasticbaggieslabeledwithblackmarker,eachbagcontainingclippingsofhumanhair.Atfirsthewaspuzzled.Whosehairwasthisandwhywasitinbaggies,eachneatlymarkedwithdates?Thenheunderstood:Gracewastakingtrophiesfromherkills.Wherethebodywent,themindfollowed.Hefashionedasplintforhisanklefromtwopiecesofbrokenmetalandtherestofthebandageroll.
Hedrankafewsipsofwater.Hisbodyachedforsleep,buthewouldnotsleepagainuntilhekepthispromise.Heliftedhisfacetothepinpricksofpurelightfixedabovehiminthelimitlessdark.Don’t Ialwaysfindyou?Theheadlampofthecarbesidehimexplodedinashowerofpulverizedglassandplastic.Hedove
beneaththenearestvehicle,draggingtheriflebehindhim.Grace.Ithadtobe.Gracewasalive.Helefttooquickly.Heassumedtoomuch,hopedtoomuch.Andnowhewastrapped,pinneddown
withnowayout,andEvanrealizedinthatmomenthowpromisescanbekeptinthemostunexpectedofways:He’dfoundCassiebybecomingher.Wounded,trappedbeneathacar,unabletorun,unabletorise,atthemercyofafaceless,merciless
hunter,aSilencerengineeredtosnuffoutthehumannoise.
22
HEMET—foundwouldbemoreaccurate—Gracethesummertheybothturnedsixteen,at theHamiltonCountyFair.Evanwasstandingoutside theexoticpettingzoo tentwithhis littlesister,Val,whohadbeendemanding tosee thewhite tigersince theyarrivedearly thatmorning. ItwasAugust.The linewas long.Valwas tired and grouchy and stickywith sweat.He’d put her off. He didn’t like to seeanimalsincaptivity.Whenhelookedintotheireyes,somethingintheireyeslookedbackathim.HefoundGracefirst,standingbesidethefunnelcaketrailer,adrippingwedgeofwatermeloninher
hand.Blondhairthatfelltothemiddleofherback,cool,nearlyarcticfeatures,especiallytheice-blueeyes,and thecynical turnofhermouth,glisteningwith juice.She turned towardhimandhequicklylookedaway,tothefaceofhisbabysister,whowouldbedeadinlessthantwoyears.Afacthecarriedwithin him, locked away in a different kind of hidden room. Sometimes it was hard to shake—theknowledge thatevery facehesawwas the faceofacorpse-to-be.Hisworldwaspeopledwith livingghosts.“What?”Valasked.He shookhis head.Nothing.He took a deep breath and glanced toward the trailer again. The tall
blondgirlwasgone.Insidethetent,behindasteelmeshfence,thewhitetigerpantedintheheat.Smallchildrencrowded
infront.Behindthem,camerasandsmartphonesclicked.Thetigerremainedregallyindifferenttotheattention.“Beautiful,”ahuskyvoicemurmuredinEvan’sear.Hedidnotturn.Heknew,withoutlooking,itwas
thegirlwiththelongblondhairandlipsthatglistenedwithwatermelonjuice.Theexhibitwaspacked;herbarearmbrushedagainsthis.“Andsad,”Evansaid.“No,”Gracesaid.“Hecouldtearthroughthatfenceintwoseconds.Ripoffakid’sfaceinthree.He’s
choosingtobethere.That’sthebeautifulthing.”He lookedather.Hereyeswereevenmorestartlingupclose.Theybored intohis,and inaknee-
weakeninginstant,heknewtheentityhidinginsideGrace’sbody.“Weshouldtalk,”Gracewhispered.
23
ATDUSK, the lights of theFerriswheelwere switched on and the tinnymusicwas turnedup and thecrowd swelled along the midway, cutoff shorts and flip-flops and the smell of coconut-scentedsunscreenandthewaddleofbig-belliedmeninJohnDeerecapswithdeeplycallusedhandsandwalletsattachedtobeltloopsbulginginbackpockets.HehandedValofftotheirmother,thenheadedfortheFerriswheel towait nervously forGrace.Shematerialized out of the crowd, holding a large stuffedanimal:awhiteBengaltiger,plasticbrightblueeyesonlyslightlydarkerthanhers.“I’mEvan,”hesaid.“I’mGrace.”Theywatchedthegiantwheelturnagainstthepurplesky.“Doyouthinkwe’llmissitwhenit’sgone?”heasked.“Iwon’t.”Hernosecrinkled.“Thesmellofthemishorrible.Ican’tgetusedtoit.”“You’rethefirstI’vemetsince...”Shenodded.“Metoo.Doyouthinkit’sanaccident?”“No.”“Iwasn’tcomingtoday,but thismorningwhenIwokeup, therewas this littlevoice.Go.Didyou
hearit?”Henodded.“Yes.”“Good.”Shesoundedrelieved.“ForthreeyearsI’vebeenwonderingifI’mcrazy.”“You’renot.”“Youdon’twonder?”“Notanymore.”Shesmiledarchly.“Doyouwanttogoforawalk?”Theywanderedovertothedesertedshowgroundsandsatonthebleachers.Thefirststarsappeared.
Thenightwaswarm,theairmoist.Graceworeapairofshortsandasleevelesswhiteblousewithalacecollar.Sittingclosetoher,Evancouldsmelllicorice.“Thisisit,”hesaid,noddingattheemptycorralwithitsmangledfloorofsawdustandmanure.“What?”“Thefuture.”Shelaughedasifhe’dmadeajoke.“Theworldends.Theworldendsandtheworldbeginsagain.It’s
alwaysbeenthatway.”“You’reneverafraidofwhat’scoming?Never?”“Never.”Huggingthestuffedtigerinherlap.Hereyesseemedtotakeonthecolorofwhatevershe
lookedat.Nowshewaslookingupatthedarkeningsky,andhereyeswereabottomlessblack.Theyspokeforafewminutesintheirnativelanguage,butitwasdifficultandtheygaveupquickly.
Too many words were unpronounceable. He noticed that she was much calmer afterward, and herealizeditwasn’tthefuturethatfrightenedher;itwasthepast,thefactthatshefearedtheentityinsideherbodywasafigmentofayounghumangirl’sshatteredmind.MeetingEvanvalidatedherexistence.“You’renotalone,”hetoldher.Helookeddownanddiscoveredherhandinhis.Onehandforhim,
theotherforthetiger.“That’sbeentheworstpart,”sheagreed.“Feelingasifyou’retheonlypersonintheuniverse.That
thewholethingishere,”touchingherchest,“andnowhereelse.”Years later,hewouldreadsomethingquitesimilar in thediaryofanothersixteen-year-oldgirl, the
onehefoundandlost,found,thenlostagain:SometimesIthinkImightbethelasthumanonEarth.
24
THE CAR’S UNDERCARRIAGE against his back. The cold asphalt against his cheek. The useless rifleclutchedinhishand.Hewastrapped.Gracehadseveraloptions.Hehadtwo.No.Iftherewasanyhopeofkeepinghispromise,hehadjustone:Cassie’schoice.She hadmade a promise, too. A hopeless, suicidal promise to the one person on Earth who still
mattered to her—mattered to hermore than her own life. She stood up that day to face the facelesshunterbecauseherdeathwasnothingcomparedtothedeathofthatpromise.Iftherewasanyhopeleft,itlayinlove’shopelesspromises.Hecrawled forward,past the frontbumper, into theopenair, and then, likeCassieSullivan,Evan
Walkerstoodup.Hetensed,waitingfor thefinishinground.WhenCassiestoodupthatcloudlessautumnafternoon,
herSilencerhadrun.HedidnotthinkGracewouldrun.Gracewouldfinishwhatshebegan.Butnofinishcame.Nosilencingbullet,connectingGracetohimasifbyasilvercord.Heknewshe
wasthere.Knewshecouldseehimstandingcrookedlyinfrontofthecar.Andherealizedtherewasnoescaping thepast,nododging inevitableconsequences:Cassie’s terror,heruncertaintyandpain, theybelongedtohimnow.Overhead, the stars. Straight ahead, the road that shone in the stars’ light. The tight grip of the
freezing air and themedicinal smell of the ointmentGrace had spread over his burns.Your heart isbeatingveryfast.She’snotgoing tokillyou, he toldhimself.Not thegoal. If killingyouwas thegoal, shewouldn’t
havemissedthatshot.Therecouldbeonlyoneanswer:Graceintendedtofollowhim.Hewasariddletoherandfollowing
himwasthewaytosolvetheriddle.Hehadescapedthetraponlytosinkdeeperintothepit.Keepinghispromisenowwasnotbeingfaithful;itwasanactofbetrayal.He couldn’t outrun her, not with the bad ankle. He couldn’t reason with her—he could barely
articulatehisownreasonsanymore.Hecouldwaitherout.Stayhere,donothing. . .andriskCassiebeingdiscoveredbysoldiersofthe5thWaveorabandoningthehotelbeforehisstalematewithGraceended.Hecouldforceaconfrontation,buthe’dfailedonceandtheoddswerehewouldagain.Hewastooweak,toohurt.Heneededtimetohealandtherewasnotime.Heleanedagainstthehoodofthecarandlookedupatthestar-encrustedsky,undimmedbyhuman
lights, scrubbed clean of contaminants, and these the same stars that shone on the world beforehumankindwalkeduponit.Forbillionsofyears,thesesamestars,andwhatwastimetothem?“Mayfly,”Evanwhispered.“Mayfly.”He shouldered the rifle andwormedhisway through thepileupback to thebackpackof supplies,
whichhethrewovertheothershoulder.Tuckedthemakeshiftcrutchbeneathhisarm.Thegoingwouldbeslow,painfullyslow,buthewouldforceGracetochoosebetweenlettinghimgoandfollowinghim,deserting her assigned territory at the moment when desertion could mean a serious setback in the
carefully constructed timetable. He would swing north of the hotel—north toward the nearest base.Northwhere the enemy had fled and retrenched andwaited for spring to launch the final, finishingassault.That’s where hope lay—where all hope had been from the beginning—on the shoulders of the
brainwashedchild-soldiersofthe5thWave.
25
LATERTHATEVENINGonthedaytheymet,EvanandGracewalkedalongthemidwaybeneaththelightsthatbeatbackthedark,weavingtheirwaythroughthecrowd,pasttheringtossandballoondartgameandbasketballfreethrow.Musicblaredfromspeakersmountedonthelightpoles,andbubblingbeneaththemusicwasthesoundofathousandconversations,likeanundercurrent,andtheflowofthecrowdwas likea river, too,eddyingandswirling,swifthere, languid there.Talland lissomeandstriking intheirgoodlooks,EvanandGracedrewattentionfromthepassersby,whichmadehimuncomfortable.He never liked crowds, preferring the solitude of the woods and the fields of the family farm, aninclinationthatwouldservehimwellwhenthetimeofcleansingarrived.Time.Abovethem,thestarsturnedlikethepointsoflightontheFerriswheelthatloomedabovethe
fairgrounds,thoughtooslowlyforthehumaneyetoregister,thehandsoftheuniversalclockthatwaswindingdown,thathadbeenwindingdownfromthebeginning,andthefacesthatpassedmarkingthetime, like the stars themselves, prisoners to it. Evan and Grace were not. They had conquered theunconquerable,deniedtheundeniable.Thelaststarwoulddie,theuniverseitselfwouldpassaway,buttheywouldgoonandon.“Whatareyouthinking?”sheasked.“‘Myspiritwillnotcontendwithhumansforever,fortheyaremortal.’”“What?”Shewassmiling.“It’sfromtheBible.”Sheshiftedthestuffedtigertoherotherhandsoshecouldtakehis.“Don’tbemorbid.It’sabeautiful
nightandwewon’tseeeachotheragainuntilit’sover.Yourproblemisyoudon’tknowhowtoliveinthemoment.”Shetuggedhimfromthemainconcourseintotheshadowsbetweentwotents,whereshekissedhim,
pressingherbodytightlyagainsthis,andsomethingopenedinsidehim.Sheenteredintohimandtheterriblelonelinesshe’dfeltsincehisawakeningeased.Grace pulled away. Her cheekswere flushed, her eyes burningwith a pale fire. “I think about it
sometimes.Thefirstkill.Whatitwillbelike.”Henodded.“Ithinkaboutit,too.Mostly,though,Ithinkaboutthelastone.”
26
HELEFT THEHIGHWAY, cutting throughopen fields, crossing lonelycountry lanes,pausing to refill hiscanteenwithwater froman icystream,navigatingas theancientsdid,by theNorthStar.His injuriesforcedhim to rest often, andeach timehe sawGrace in thedistance.Shedidn’tbother tohide.Shewantedhimtoknowshewasthere,justoutsidetherangeoftherifle.BydawnhehadreachedHighway68,themajorarteryconnectingHuberHeightsandUrbana.Inasmallstandoftreesborderingtheroad,hegatheredwoodforafire.Hishandswereshaking.Hefeltfeverish.Heworriedtheburnshadbecomeinfected.Hisbodily systemshadbeenaugmented,but anenhancedbodycould reacha tippingpointfromwhich therewas no return.His anklewas swollen to twice its normal size, the skin hot to thetouch,andthewoundthrobbedwitheachbeatofhisheart.Hedecidedtospendadayhere,maybetwo,andkeepthefireburning.Abeacontodrawthemintothetrap.Iftheywereoutthere.Iftheycouldbedrawn.Theroadbeforehim.Thewoodsbehindhim.Hewouldremainintheopen.Gracewouldstayinthe
woods.Shewouldwaitwithhim.Outofherassignedterritory,fullycommittednow,nogoingback.Hewarmedhimselfbythefire.Gracemadenofire.Histhelightandwarmth.Hersthedarkandcold.
He shrugged out of the jacket, pulled off the sweater, slipped off the shirt. Already the burns werescabbingover,buttheyhadbeguntoitchhorribly.Todistracthimself,hewhittledanewcrutchfromatreebranchsalvagedfromthewoods.Hewondered if Gracewould risk sleep. She knew his strength grewwith each passing hour and
everyhourshedelayed,herchancesofsuccesswaned.Hesawheratmidafternoononthesecondday,ashadowamongshadows,ashegatheredmorewood
forthefire.Fiftyyardsintothetrees,holdingahigh-poweredsniper’srifle,abloodybandagewrappedaroundherhand,anotheraroundherneck.Inthesubzeroair,hervoiceseemedtocarryintotheinfinite.“Whydidn’tyoufinishme,Evan?”Hedidn’tansweratfirst.Hecontinuedgatheringkindlingforthebeacon.Thenhesaid,“IthoughtI
did.”“No.Youcouldn’thavethoughtthat.”“MaybeI’msickofmurder.”“Whatdoesthatmean?”Heshookhishead.“Youwouldn’tunderstand.”“WhoisCassiopeia?”Herosetohisfullheight.Thelightwasweakinthetreesbeneathasheetofiron-grayclouds.Even
so,hecouldseethecynicalsetofherlipsandthepalebluefireofhereyes.“Theonewhostoodupwhenanyoneelsewouldhavestayeddown,”Evansaid.“TheoneIcouldn’t
stopthinkingaboutbeforeIevenknewher.Thelastone,Grace.ThelasthumanbeingonEarth.”Shedidn’tsayanythingforalongtime.Heremained.Sheremained.“You’re in lovewith a human.”Her voicewas full ofwonder.And then the obvious: “That’s not
possible.”“Weusedtothinkthesameaboutimmortality.”
“Itwouldbe likeoneof themfalling in lovewitha seaslug.”Smilingnow.“You’remad.You’vegoneinsane.”“Yes.”Heturnedhisbacktoher,invitingthebullet.Hewasmad,afterall,andmadnesscamewithitsown
armor.“Itcan’tbethat!”sheshoutedafterhim.“Whywon’tyoutellmewhat’sreallygoingon?”Hestopped.Thekindlingclatteredtothefrozenground.Thecrutchtoppledfromhisside.Heturned
hisheadbutdidnotturnaround.“Takecover,Grace,”hesaidsoftly.Herfingertwitchedonthetrigger.Normalhumaneyesmighthavemissedit.Evan’sdidnot.“Or—
what?”shedemanded.“You’llattackmeagain?”Heshookhishead.“I’mnotgoingtoattackyou,Grace.Theyare.”Shecockedherheadathim,likethebirdinthetreewhenheawakenedinhercamp.“They’rehere,”Evansaid.Thefirstbulletstruckherupper thigh.Sherockedbackwardbut remainedupright.Thenext round
punchedintoherleftshoulderandtherifleslippedfromherhand.Thethirdround,mostlikelyfromasecondshooter,explodedinthetreedirectlybesidehim,missinghisheadbymillimeters.Gracedovetotheground.Evanran.
27
RANWAS AN EXAGGERATION.More like a frantic hop, swinging his bad legwide to keepmost of hisweightonthegoodone,andeachtimehisheelhittheground,pinwheelsofbrightlightexplodedinhisvision.Pastthesmolderingcampfire,thebeaconthathadburnedfortwodays,thesignhe’dhunginthewoods,Hereweare!Snatchingtheriflefromthegroundinstride;hehadnointentionofstandinghisground.Gracewoulddrawtheirfire—apatrolofatleasttworecruits,perhapsmore.Hehopedmore.MorewouldkeepGracebusyforawhile.How far? Tenmiles? Twenty?Hewouldn’t be able tomaintain this pace, but as long as he kept
moving,heshouldbeclosetothehotelbydawnthenextday.Hecouldhearthefirefightbehindhim.Sporadicpops,notcontinuousfire,whichmeantthatGrace
wasbeingmethodical.Thesoldierswouldbewearingtheeyepieces,eveningtheplayingfieldabit.Notmuch,butabit.He abandoned any attempt at stealth and hit the highway, loping down the center of the road, a
solitaryfigureundertheimmensityofaleadensky.Amurderofcrowsathousandstrongwhippedandwheeled over him, heading north. He keptmoving, gruntingwith pain, every stride a lesson, everyjoltingfootfallareminder.Histemperaturesoared,hislungsburned,hisheartslammedinhischest.Thefrictionfromtheclothestoreopenthedelicatescabsandsoonhewasbleeding.Bloodplasteredhisshirttohisback,soakedthroughthejeans.Hewaspushingit,heknew.Thesysteminstalledtomaintainhislifepastallhumanendurancecouldcrash.Hecollapsedwhenthesundidbeneath thedomeof thesky,aslow-motionstumblingkindoffall,
hittingshoulderfirstandrollingtotheedgeoftheroad,wherehecametorestflatonhisback,armsspreadwide,numbfromthewaistdown,shakinguncontrollably,burninghotinthebitterair.DarknessrolledoverthefaceoftheEarth,andEvanWalkertumbleddowntothelightlessbottom,toahiddenroomthatdancedinlightandherfacethesourceofthatlight,andhehadnoexplanationforit,howherfaceillumedthelightlessplaceinside.You’remad.You’vegoneinsane.He’dthoughtso,too.Hefoughttokeepheralivewhileeverynighthe lefther tokill therest.Whyshouldone live though theworlditselfwillperish?Sheilluminedthelightless—herlifethelamp,thelaststarinadyinguniverse.Iamhumanity,shehadwritten.Self-centered,stubborn,sentimental,childish,vain.Iamhumanity.
Cynical,naïve,kind,cruel,softasdown,hardastungstensteel.Hemustgetup.Ifhecan’t,thelightwillgoout.Theworldwillbeconsumedbythecrushingdark.
Butthetotalityoftheatmospherepushedhimdownandheldhimunder,fivequadrilliontonsofbone-breakingforce.Thesystemhadcrashed.Taxedpastitslimits,thealientechnologyinstalledinsidehishumanbody
when hewas thirteen had shut down.Therewas nothing to sustain or protect himnow.Burned andbroken,hishumanbodywasnodifferentfromhisformerprey’s.Fragile.Delicate.Vulnerable.Alone.Hewasnotoneofthem.Hewascompletelyoneofthem.WhollyOther.Fullyhuman.Herolledontohisside.Hisbackspasmed.Bloodrushedintohismouth.Hespatitout.Onto his stomach. Then knees. Then hands. His elbows quivered, his wrists threatened to buckle
under his own weight. Self-centered, stubborn, sentimental, childish, vain. I am humanity. Cynical,
naïve,kind,cruel,softasdown,hardastungstensteel.Iamhumanity.Hecrawled.Iamhumanity.Hefell.Iamhumanity.Hegotup.
28
ALIFETIMELATER, fromhishidingplacebeneath thehighwayoverpass,Evanwatched thedark-hairedgirlsprintacrossthehotelparkinglot,crosstheinterstateaccessramp,trotafewhundredyardsnorthonHighway 68, then pause beside an SUV to look back at the building.He followed her gaze to asecond-storywindow,whereashadowflittedforaninstant,thenwasgone.Mayfly.Thedark-hairedgirlvanishedintothetreesborderingthehighway.Whyshehadleftandwhereshe
wasgoingwereunknown.Perhapsthegroupwassplittingup—itwouldincreasethechanceofsurvivalalittle—orperhapsshewasscoutingamoresecurehidingplacetorideoutthewinter.Whicheverthecase,hehadthesensehe’dfoundthemjustintime.Thedark-hairedgirlwasone,leavingatleastfourinside,theoneshehadseenmanningthewindows.
Hedidnotknowifanyofthemhadsurvivedtheexplosion.Hewasn’tevensureithadbeenCassie’sshadowinthewindow.Notthatitmattered.He’dmadeapromise.Hehadtogoin.He couldn’t approach openly. The situation was complicated by too many unknowns.What if it
wasn’tCassiebutasquadof5thWavesoldierscutoffwhenthebaseblew—likethesquadhe’dleftinGrace’scare?He’dbedeadbeforehecrossedadozenfeet.TheriskwasnearlyasgreatevenifitwasCassieandagroupofsurvivors:Theymightdrophimbeforetheyrealizedwhohewas.Goinginnow,though,poseditsownsetofrisks.Hedidn’tknowhowmanytherewereinside.Didn’t
know if he could manage two, much less four, heavily armed trigger-happy kids jacked up onadrenaline,readytoblowawayanythingthatmoved.Thesystemthataugmentedhisbodyhadcrashed.I’mfullyhuman,he’dtoldCassie.Nowthatwasliterallytrue.Hewasstillweighingtheoptionswhenatinyfigureappearedintheparkinglot.Achildwearing5th
Wave fatigues.Not Sam—Samhad been dressed in thewhite jumpsuit of the underaged and newlyprocessed—butyoung.Sixorseven,heguessed.Followingthesamerouteasthedark-hairedgirl,evenpausing by the same SUV to look back at the hotel. This time he saw no shadow in the window;whoeverhadbeentherewasgone.That made two. Were they abandoning the hotel one at a time? Tactically, it made some sense.
Shouldn’thesimplywait,then,forCassietocomeout,ratherthanriskhislifegoingin?Andthestarsspunoverhead,markingthetimewindingdown.Hestartedtogetup,thensankback.Anotheroneexitedthehotel,muchlargerthantheonebefore,a
big kidwith a large head, toting a rifle.Three now, none of themCassie orSamor the friend fromCassie’shighschool—whatwashisname?Ken?Witheachexodus,theoddsofCassienotbeinginthisgroupincreased.Shouldheevenattemptentry?Hisinstinctsaidgo.Noanswers,noweapons,andhardlyanystrength.Instinctwasallhehadleft.Hewent.
29
FOROVERFIVEYEARShe’d reliedon thegifts thatmadehimsuperior tohumans inalmosteveryway.Hearing.Eyesight.Reflexes.Agility.Strength.Thegiftshadspoiledhim.He’dforgottenwhatnormalfeltlike.Hewasgettingacrashcoursenow.Heslippedintoaground-floorroomthroughabroken-outwindow.Hobbledtothedoorandpressed
hisearagainstit,butallhecouldhearwasthethunderingofhisheart.Easingthedooropen,slidingintothehall,listening,waitinginvainforhiseyestoadjusttothedark.Downthehallandintothelobby.Hisownbreath,frostinginthefrigidair,otherwisesilence.Apparentlythegroundfloorwasdeserted.Heknewsomeonewasstandingatthesmallhallwaywindowupstairs;hecaughtaglimpseofhimashemaneuveredhiswayintothebuilding.Stairwell.Twoflights.Bythetimehereachedthesecondlanding,hewasdizzyfromthepainandout
ofbreathfromtheeffort.Hetastedblood.Therewasnolight.Hewasentombedinutterdarkness.Iftherewasonlyonepersonontheothersideofthisdoor,hehadseconds.Morethanoneandtime
didn’tmatter;hewasdead.Everyinstinctsaidwait.Hewent.Inthehallontheothersideofthedoorwasasmallkidwithextraordinarilylargeearsandamouth
flyingopeninastonishmentthemomentbeforeEvanlockedhiminthechokehold,pressinghisforearmhardagainstthekid’scarotid,cuttingoffthebloodsupplytohisbrain.Hedraggedhissquirmingcatchbackintotheblackpitofthestairwell.Thekidwentlimpbeforethedoorclickedshutagain.Evanwaited for a few seconds on the other side. The hall had been empty, the snatch quick and
relativelyquiet.Itcouldbeawhilebeforetheothers—iftherewereothers—realizedtheirsentrywasgone.Hedragged thekid to thebottomof the stairs and tuckedhisunconsciousbody into the smallspacebetween thestepsand thewall.Wentbackup.Crackedopen thedoor.Halfwaydown thehall,another door opened and two shadowy figures emerged. He watched them cross the hall and enteranotherroom.Theyreappearedamomentlaterandwenttoanotherdoor.Theywerecheckingeachroom.Thestairswouldbenext.Ortheelevator;he’dforgottenaboutthe
elevator.Wouldtheydropdowntheshaftandtakethestairsfrombelow?No.If there’reonlytwo,they’llsplitup.Oneforthestairs,onedowntheshaft,andmeetupinthe
lobby.Hewatchedthemcomeoutofthelastroom,thengototheelevator,whereoneheldthedoorswhile
theotherdroppedoutofsightintotheshaft.Theonewhoremainedhadtroublestanding,holdinghisstomachandgruntingsoftlyfromtheeffort,favoringonesideashelimpedtowardEvan.Hewaited.Twentyfeet.Ten.Five.Holdingtherifleinhisrighthand,hisgutwithhisleft.Standing
ontheothersideofthedoor,Evansmiled.Ben.NotKen.Ben.Foundyou.ToodangeroustotrustthatBenwouldrecognizehimandnotshoothimonthespot.Heburstthrough
thedoorandrammedhisfistashardashecouldintoBen’swoundedstomach.Theblowknockedthebreathoutofhim,butBenrefusedtogodown.Rockingback,hebroughthisrifleup.Evanslungitto
onesideandhithimagain,samespot,andthistimeBenwentdown,droppingtohiskneesatEvan’sfeet.Hisheadfellback.Theireyesmet.“Iknewyouweren’tforreal,”Bengasped.“Where’sCassie?”Heknelt,grabbedtwofistfulsoftheyellowhoodieBenwaswearing,andbroughttheirfacesclose.“Where’sCassie?”Ifhehadbeenhisoldself,ifthesystemhadn’tcrashed,hewouldhaveseentheblurofthebladeasit
came around, heard the infinitesimally smallwhistle of it cutting through the air. Instead, hewasn’tawareoftheknifeuntilBenhadburieditinhisthigh.He fell back, draggingBenwith him.Hurled him to one side asBen ripped the knife free. Evan
slammedhiskneedownonBen’swristtoneutralizethethreatandclampedbothhandsoverBen’sface,coveringhisnoseandmouthandpushinghard.Timespunout.Beneathhim,Benthrashedandkicked,whipped his head from side to side, his free hand clawing for the rifle less than an inch from hisfingertips,andtimefroze.ThenBenwentstillandEvanfellaway,gulpingair,drenchedinbloodandsweatandfeelingasifhis
bodymightburstintoflames.Notimetorecover,though:Downthehall,throughacrackinthedoor,asmall,heart-shapedfaceturnedhisway.Sam.Hepushedhimselftohisfeet,losthisbalance,careenedintothewall,fell.Backupagain,convinced
nowitwasCassiewhohaddroppedintotheshaft,buthehadtosecureSamfirst,exceptthekidhadslammedthedoorandwasnowscreamingobscenitiesthroughit,andthen,asEvandroppedhishandontheknob,heopenedfire.HethrewhimselfagainstthewallnexttothedoorwhileSamemptiedthemagazine.Whenthepause
came,hedidn’thesitate.Samhadtobeneutralizedbeforehecouldreload.Evanhadachoice:kickopenthedoorwiththebadfootorputallhisweightonitwhilehekicked
withtheother.Neitheroptionwasgood.Hechosetokickwiththebrokenone;hecouldn’trisklosinghisbalance.Threehard,sharpkicks.Threekicksthatproducedpainashe’dneverexperienceditbefore.Butthe
lockbrokewitha loudwallopand thedoorslammed into thewallon theotherside.Hefell into theroomand therewasCassie’sbrothercrab-crawling toward thewindowandsomehowEvan remainedupright, something held him up and propelled him toward the child, hand outstretched, I’m here,rememberme?Isavedyoubefore;I’llsaveyouagain...Andthen,behindhim,thelastone,thefinalstar,theonehecarriedacrossaninfiniteseaofwhite,the
onethinghe’dfoundworthdyingfor,openedfire.Andthebulletconnectedthemwhenitweddedbone,bindingthemtogetherasifbyasilvercord.
30
THEBOYSTOPPEDtalkingthesummeroftheplague.Hisfatherhaddisappeared.Theirsupplyofcandlesranlowandheleftonemorningtofindmore.He
nevercameback.Hismotherwassick.Herheadhurt.Sheachedallover.Evenherteethhurt,shetoldhim.Thenights
were theworst.Her fever shot up.Her tummy couldn’t hold anything down. The nextmorning shewould feel better.Maybe I’ll get over it, she said. She refused to go to the hospital. They’d heardstories,terriblestories,aboutthehospitalsandwalk-inclinicsandemergencyshelters.Onebyone,familiesfledtheneighborhood.Lootingwasgettingbadandgangsroamedthestreetsat
night.Themanwholivedtwodoorsdownwaskilled,shotinthehead,forrefusingtosharehisfamily’sdrinkingwater.Sometimesastrangerwanderedinto theneighborhoodandtoldstoriesofearthquakesandwallsofwaterfivehundredfeethigh,floodingthelandasfareastasLasVegas.Thousandsdead.Millions.Whenhismotherbecametooweaktogetoutofbed,thebabybecamehisresponsibility.Theycalled
himthebaby,buthewasactuallyalmostthree.Don’tbringhimnearme,hismothertoldhim.He’llgetsick.Thebabywasn’tthatmuchwork.Hesleptalot.Heplayedonlyalittle.Hewasjustatinykid;hedidn’tknow.SometimeshewouldaskwherehisdaddywasorwhatwasthematterwithMommy.Mostofthetime,heaskedforfood.Theywererunningoutoffood.Buthismotherwouldn’tlethimleave.It’stoodangerous.You’llget
lost.You’llgetabducted.You’llgetshot.Hewouldarguewithher.Hewaseightandverybigforhisage,thetargetofschool-yardtauntsandcruelinsultssincehewassix.Hewastough.Hecouldhandlehimself.Butshewouldn’t lethimgo.Ican’tkeepanythingdownandyoucouldstandto losea littleweight anyway. She wasn’t being cruel; she was trying to be funny. He didn’t think it was funny,though.Thentheyweredowntotheirlastcanofcondensedsoupandwrapperofstalecrackers.Heheatedthe
soupinthefireplace,overafirehefedwithpiecesofbroken-upfurnitureandhisfather’soldhuntingmagazines.Thebabyateallthecrackersbutsaidhedidn’twantthesoup.Hewantedmacandcheese.Wedon’thavemacandcheese.Wehavesoupandcrackers,andthat’sallwehave.Thebabycriedandrolledonthefloorinfrontofthefireplace,screamingformacandcheese.Hebrought a cupof the soup tohismother.Her feverwasbad.Thenightbefore, shehad started
throwingupthelumpyblackstuff,whichwastheliningofherstomachmixedwithblood,thoughhedidn’tknowthatthen.Shewatchedhimcomeintotheroomwithdead,expressionlesseyes,thefixedstareoftheRedDeath.Whatdoyouthinkyou’redoing?Ican’teatthat.Takeitaway.Hetookitawayandateitstandingatthekitchensinkwhilehisbabybrotherrolledonthefloorand
screamedandhismothersankdeeperintomindlessness,thevirusspreadingintoherbrain.Inthefinalhours,hismotherwoulddisappear.Herpersonality,hermemory,thewhoofwhoshewas,surrenderingbeforeherbody.Heatethelukewarmsoupandthenlickedthebowlclean.Hewouldhavetoleaveinthemorning.Therewasnomorefood.Hewouldtellhislittlebrothertostayinsidenomatterwhatand
hewouldn’tcomebackuntilhefoundsomethingforthemtoeat.Hesnuckoutthenextmorning.Helookedinabandonedgroceriesandconveniencestores.Helooked
in looted restaurants and fast-food places. He found Dumpsters reeking of decaying produce andoverflowingwithtorn-opengarbagebagswheremanyhandsbeforehishadsearched.Bylateafternoon,he’dfoundonlyoneediblemorsel:asmallcakeaboutthesizeofhispalm,stillinitsplasticwrapper,underneathanemptyshelfinagasstation.Itwasgettinglate;thesunwasgoingdown.Hedecidedtogohomeandreturnthenextmorning.Maybethereweremorecakesandotherkindsoffoodstashedorlostandheneededtolookharder.When he got home, the front door was ajar. He remembered closing it behind him, so he knew
somethingwaswrong.Heraninside.Hecalledforthebaby.Hewentroomtoroom.Helookedunderbedsandinsideclosetsandinthecarsthatsatcoldanduselessinthegarage.Hismothercalledhimintoherroom.Wherehadhebeen?Thebabywouldn’tstopcryingforhim.Heaskedhismotherwherethebabywasandshesnappedathim,Can’tyouhearhim?Butheheardnothing.Hewentoutsideandyelledthebaby’sname.Hecheckedthebackyard,walkedovertotheneighbor’s
houseandbangedon thedoor.Hebangedoneverydooron the street.Nobodyanswered.Either thepeople insidewere tooscared tocomeoutor theyweresickordeador justgone.Hewalkedseveralblocksoneway,thenseveralmoretheotherway,callinghisbrother’snameuntilhewashoarse.Anoldwomantotteredoutontoherporchandscreamedathimtogoaway;shehadagun.Hewenthome.Thebabywasgone.Hedecidednottotellhismother.Whatwouldshedoaboutit?Hedidn’twant
hertothinkhewasbadforleaving.Heshouldhavebroughthimalong,buthethoughtitwassaferathome.YourhomeisthesafestplaceonEarth.Thatnight,hismothercalledtohim.Whereismybaby?Hetoldherthebabywasasleep.Itwasthe
worstnightyet.Bloodytissueswaddedonthebed.Bloodytissuescrowdingthenightstand,litteringthefloor.Bringmemybaby.He’sasleep.Iwanttoseemybaby.Youmightmakehimsick.Shecursedhim.Shetoldhimtogotohell.Shespatbloodyphlegmathim.Hestoodinthedoorway,
handsnervouslyfiddlinginhispockets,andthecakewrappercrackled,theplasticdamagedbytheheat.Wherehaveyoubeen?Lookingforfood.Shegagged.Don’tsaythatword!Watchinghimwithbrightred,bloodyeyes.Whywereyoulookingforfood?Youdon’tneedanyfood.You’rethemostdisgustingpieceofpig
lardI’veeverseen.Youcouldlivetillwinteronjustyourbellyfat.Hedidn’t sayanything.Heknew itwas theplague talking,nothismother.Hismother lovedhim.
Whentheteasingatschoolgotbad,shewent to theprincipalandsaidshewouldfilea lawsuit if thebullyingdidn’tstop.What’sthatnoise?What’sthathorriblenoise?Hetoldherhedidn’thearanything.Shegotveryangry.Shestartedtocurseagainandbloodyspittle
spatteredontheheadboard.It’scomingfromyou.Whatareyouplayingwithinyourpocket?Therewasnothinghecoulddo.Hehadtoshowher.Hepulledoutthecakeandshescreamedforhim
toputitawayandnevertakeitoutagain.Nowonderhewassofat.Nowonderhisbabybrotherwasstarvingwhileheatecakesandcandiesandallthemacandcheese.Whatsortofmonsterwashethathe
ateallhisbabybrother’smacandcheese?Hetriedtodefendhimself.Buteverytimehestartedtalking,shescreamedathimtoshutup,shutup,
shutUP.Hisvoicemadehersick.Hemadehersick.Hedidit.Hedidsomethingtoherhusbandandhedid something tohisbabybrotherandhedid something toher,madeher sick, poisonedher, hewaspoisoningher.Andeverytimehetriedtospeak,shescreamedathim.Shutup,shutup,shutUP.Shediedtwodayslater.Hewrappedherinacleansheetandcarriedherbodyintothebackyard.Hedousedthebodywithhis
father’scharcoallighterfluidandsetitonfire.Heburnedhismother’sbodyandallthebedding,too.Hewaitedanotherweekforhisbabybrothertocomehome,butheneverdid.Hesearchedforhim—and for food. He found food, but not his brother. He stopped calling for him. He stopped talkingaltogether.Heshutup.Sixweekslater,hewaswalkingdownahighwaydottedwithstalled-outcarsandwrecksofcarsand
trucksandmotorcycleswhenhesawblacksmokeinthedistanceand,afterafewminutes,thesourceofthesmoke,ayellowschoolbusfullofchildren.Thereweresoldiersonthebusandthesoldiersaskedhisnameandwherehewasfromandhowoldhewas,andlaterherememberednervouslystuffinghishandsinhispocketsandfindingtheoldpieceofcake,stillinitswrapper.Piglard.Livetillwinteronyourbellyfat.What’sthematter,kid?Can’tyoutalk?Hisdrillsergeantheardthestoryofhowhecametocampwithnothingbuttheclothesonhisback
andapieceofcakeinhispocket.Beforeheheardthestory,thedrillsergeantcalledhimFatboy.Afterheheardthestory,thedrillsergeantrenamedhimPoundcake.Ilikeyou,Poundcake.Ilikethefactthatyou’reabornshooter.Ibetyoupoppedoutofyourmomma
withaguninonehandandadoughnutintheother.IlikethefactthatyougotthelooksofElmerFuddandthegoddamnedheartofMufasa.AndIespeciallylikethefactthatyoudon’ttalk.Nobodyknowswhereyou’refrom,whereyou’vebeen,whatyouthink,howyoufeel.Hell,Idon’tknowandIdon’tgiveashit,andyoushouldn’t,either.You’reamute-assed,stone-coldkillerfromtheheartofdarknesswithahearttomatch,aren’tyou,PrivatePoundcake?Hewasn’t.Notyet.
31
THEFIRSTTHINGIplannedtodowhenhewokeupwaskillhim.Ifhewokeup.Dumbowasn’tsurethatwouldhappen.“He’smessedupbad,”hetoldmeafterwestrippedhimdown
andDumbo got a good look at the damage. Stabbed in one leg, shot in the other, covered in burns,bonesbroken,shakingwithahighfever—thoughwepiledcoversonhim,Evanstillshooksoviolentlythatitlookedlikethebedwasvibrating.“Sepsis,”Dumbomuttered.Henoticedme staringdumbly at himandadded, “When the infection
getsintoyourbloodstream.”“Whatdowedo?”Iasked.“Antibiotics.”“Whichwedon’thave.”Isatontheotherbed.Samscootedtothefoot,clutchingtheemptypistol.Herefusedtogiveitup.
Benwas leaningon thewall, cradlinghis rifle andeyeingEvanwarily, likehewas sureany secondEvanwouldboltoutofbedandmakeanotherattempttotakeusout.“Hedidn’thaveachoice,” I toldBen.“Howcouldhe just strollup in thedarkwithout somebody
shootinghim?”“IwanttoknowwherePoundcakeandTeacupare,”Bensaidthroughgrittedteeth.Dumbotoldhimtogetoffhisfeet.He’drepackedthebandages,butBenhadlostalotofblood.Ben
wavedhimaway.Hepushedhimselffromthewall,limpedtoEvan’sbedside,andwhackedhimacrossthecheekwiththebackofhishand.“Wakeup!”Whack.“Wakeup,yousonofabitch!”IshotfromthebedandgrabbedBen’swristbeforehecouldpopEvanagain.“Ben,thiswon’t—”“Fine.”Heyankedhisarmawayandlurchedtowardthedoor.“I’llfindthemmyself.”“Zombie!”Samcalledout.Hepoppedupandrantohisside.“I’llcome,too!”“Cutitout,bothofyou,”Isnapped.“Nobody’sgoinganywhereuntilwe—”“What,Cassie?”Benyelled.“Untilwewhat?”Mymouthopenedandnowordscameout.Samwastuggingonhisarm:Comeon,Zombie!Myfive-
year-oldbrotherwavingaroundanemptygun;there’sametaphorforyou.“Ben,listentome.Areyoulisteningtome?Yougoouttherenow—”“Iamgoingouttherenow—”“—andwemight loseyou, too!”Shoutingoverhim.“Youdon’tknowwhathappenedout there—
EvanprobablyknockedthemoutlikehedidyouandDumbo.Butmaybehedidn’t—maybethey’reonthewaybackrightnow,andgoingoutthereisastupidrisk—”“Don’tlecturemeaboutstupidrisks.Iknowallabout—”Benswayed.Thecolordrainedfromhisfaceandhewentdowntooneknee,Samgrabbingfutilely
onhissleeve.DumboandIpulledhimupandgothimtotheemptybed,wherehefellback,cussingusandcussingEvanWalkerandcussingthewholefucked-upsituationingeneral.Dumbowasgivingmea
deer-in-headlightslook,likeYougottheanswers,right?Youknowwhattodo,right?Wrong.
32
IPICKEDUPDumbo’srifleandpusheditintothekid’schest.“We’re blind,” I told him. “Stairway, both hall windows, east-side rooms, west-side rooms, keep
movingandkeepyoureyesopen.I’llstayherewiththealphamalesandtrytokeepthemfromkillingeachother.”Dumbowasnoddinglikeheunderstood,buthewasn’tmoving.Iputmyhandsonhisshouldersand
focusedonhisjigglyeyes.“Stepup,Dumbo.Understand?Stepup.”Hejerkedhisheadupanddown,ahumanPEZdispenser,andslumpedoutoftheroom.Leavingwas
thelastthinghewantedtodo,butwe’dbeenatthatpointforalongtimenow,thepointofdoingthelastthingwewantedtodo.Behindme,Bengrowled,“Whydidn’tyoushoothiminthehead?Whytheknee?”“Poeticjustice,”Imuttered.IsatnexttoEvan.Icouldseehiseyesquiveringbehindthelids.Hehad
beendead.I’dsaidgood-bye.NowhewasaliveandImightnotbeabletosayhello.We’reonlyaboutfourmilesfromCampHaven,Evan.Whattookyousolong?“We can’t stay here,” Ben announced. “It was a bad call sending Ringer ahead. I knew we
shouldn’t’vesplitup.We’rebuggingoutofhereinthemorning.”“Howarewegoingtodothat?”Iasked.“You’rehurt.Evanis—”“Thisisn’tabouthim,”Bensaid.“Well,Iguessitistoyou—”“He’sthereasonyou’realiverightnowtobitch,Parish.”“I’mnotbitching.”“Yes,youare.You’rebitchinglikeajuniormissbeautyqueen.”Sammylaughed.Idon’tthinkI’dheardmybrotherlaughsinceourmotherdied.Itstartledme,like
findingalakeinthemiddleofadesert.“Cassiecalledyouabitch,”SaminformedBen,incasehemissedit.Benignoredhim.“Wewaitedhereforhimandnowwe’retrappedherebecauseofhim.Dowhatyou
want,Sullivan.Inthemorning,I’moutofhere.”“Metoo!”Samssaid.Bengotup,leanedonthesideofthebedforaminutetocatchhisbreath,thenhobbledtothedoor.
Samtrailedafterhim,andIdidn’ttrytostopeitheroneofthem.Whatwouldbethepoint?Bencrackedthedoorandcalledsoftly toDumbonot toshoothim—hewascomingout tohelp.ThenEvanandIwerealone.IsatonthebedBenhadjustabandoned.Itwasstillwarmfromhisbody.IgrabbedSammy’sbear
andpulleditintomylap.“Canyouhearme?”Iasked—Evan,notthebear.“Guesswe’reevennow,huh?Youshootmeinthe
knee;Ishootyouintheknee.Youseemebuttnaked;Iseeyoubuttnaked.Youprayoverme;I—”Theroomswamoutoffocus.ItookBearandpoppedEvaninthechestwithit.“Andwhatwaswiththatridiculousjacketyouwerewearing?ThePinheads,that’saboutright.That
nailsit.”Ihithimagain.“Pinhead.”Again.“Pinhead.”Again.“Andnowyou’regoingtocheckoutonme?Now?”
Hislipsmovedandawordleakedoutslowly,likeairescapingfromatire.“Mayfly.”
33
HISEYESOPENED.WhenIrecalledwritingabouttheirwarm,meltedchocolateness,somethinginmewentgah.Whydidhehave this knees-to-jelly effect onme?Thatwasn’tme.Whydid I let himkiss andcuddleandgenerallymopearoundafterme likea forlorn little lost alienpuppy?Whowas thisguy?Fromwhatwarpedversionofrealitydidhetransportintomyownpersonalwarpedversionofreality?Noneofitfit.Noneofitmadesense.Fallinginlovewithmemightbelikemefallinginlovewithacockroach,butwhatdoyoucallmyreactiontohim?What’sthatcalled?“Ifyouweren’tdyingandall,I’dtellyoutogotohell.”“I’mnotdying,Cassie.”Flutterylids.Sweatyface.Shakyvoice.“Okay,thengotohell.Youleftme,Evan.Inthedark,justlikethat,andthenyoublewuptheground
beneathme.Youcouldhavekilledallofus.Youabandonedmerightwhen—”“Icameback.”Hereachedouthishand.“Don’ttouchme.”NoneofyourcreepyVulcanmind-meldtricks.“Ikeptmypromise,”hewhispered.Well, what snarky comeback did I have for that? A promisewaswhat broughtme to him in the
beginning.AgainIwasstruckbyhowreallyweirditwasthathewaswhereIhadbeenandIwaswherehe had been.His promise formine.My bullet for his.Down to stripping each other naked becausethere’snochoice;clingingtomodestyintheageoftheOthersislikesacrificingagoattomakeitrain.“Youalmost got shot in thehead,moron,” I toldhim. “It didn’t occur toyou to just shout up the
stairs,‘Hey,it’sme!Holdyourfire!’?”Heshookhishead.“Toorisky.”“Oh,right.Muchmoreriskythanchancingyourheadgettingblownoff.Where’sTeacup?Where’s
Poundcake?”Heshookhisheadagain.Who?“Thelittlegirlwhotookoffdownthehighway.Thebigkidwhochasedafterher.Youmusthaveseen
them.”Nowhenodded.“North.”“Well,Iknowwhichdirectiontheywent...”“Don’tgoafterthem.”Thatbroughtmeupshort.“Whatdoyoumean?”“Itisn’tsafe.”“Nowhereissafe,Evan.”Hiseyeswererollingbackinhishead.Hewaspassingout.“There’sGrace.”“Whatdidyousay?Grace?Asin‘AmazingGrace’orwhat?What’sthatmean,‘There’sgrace’?”“Grace,”hemurmured,andthenheslippedaway.
34
ISTAYEDWITHHIMtilldawn.Sittingwithhimlikehesatwithmeintheoldfarmhouse.Hebroughtmetothatplaceagainstmywillandthenmywillbroughthimtothisplace,andmaybethatmeantwesortofownedeachother.Orowedeachother.Anyway,nodebtiseverfullyrepaid,notreally,nottheonesthatreallymatter.Yousavedme,hesaid,andbackthenIdidn’tunderstandwhatIhadsavedhimfrom.Thatwasbeforehetoldmethetruthaboutwhohewas,andafterwardIthoughthemeantIhadsavedhimfromthatwholehumangenocide,mass-murdererthing.NowIwasthinkinghedidn’tmeanIsavedhimfromanything,butforsomething.Thetrickypart,theunanswerablepart,thepartthatscaredthecrapoutofme,waswhatthatsomethingmightbe.Hemoanedinhissleep.Hisfingersclawedatthecovers.Delirious.Beenthereanddonethat, too,
Evan.Itookhishand.Burnedandbruisedandbroken,andIhadwonderedwhattookhimsolongtofindme?Hemusthavecrawledhere.Hishandwashot;hisfaceshonewithsweat.ForthefirsttimeitoccurredtomethatEvanWalkermightdie—sosoon,too,afterrisingfromthedead.“You’regoing to live,” I toldhim.“Youhave to live.Promise,Evan.Promisemeyou’regoing to
live.Promiseme.”Islippedalittle.Triednotto.Couldn’thelpit:“That’llcompletethecircle,thenwe’redone;we’rebothdone,meandyou.YoushotmeandIlived.
I shot you andyou live. See?That’s how itworks.Ask anybody.Plus the fact that you’reMr.Ten-Centuries-OldSuperbeingdestinedtosaveuspitifulhumansfromtheintergalacticswarm.That’syourjob.Whatyouwereborn todo.Orbred to.Whatever.Youknow, asplans to conquer theworldgo,yourshasbeenprettysucky.Almostayear into itandwe’restillhere,andwho’s theone flatonhisbacklikeabugwithdroolonhischin?”Actually,hedidhavesomedroolonhischin.Idabbeditupwithacorneroftheblanket.Thedooropenedandbigol’Poundcakesteppedintotheroom.ThenDumbo,grinningfrombigearto
bigear,thenBen,andfinallySam.FinallyasinnoTeacup.“Howishe?”Benasked.“Burningup,”Ianswered.“Delirious.Hekeepstalkingaboutgrace.”Benfrowned.“Like‘AmazingGrace’?”“Maybesayinggrace,likebeforeameal,”Dumbosuggested.“He’sprobablystarving.”Poundcake lumbered over to the window and stared down at the icy parking lot. I watched him
Eeyore-walkacrosstheroom,thenturnedtoBen.“Whathappened?”“Hewon’tsay.”“Thenmakehimsay.You’rethesarge,right?”“Idon’tthinkhecan.”“SoTeacup’svanishedandwedon’tknowwhereorwhy.”“ShecaughtupwithRinger,”Dumboguessed.“AndRingerdecidedtotakehertothecaverns,not
wasteanytimebringingherback.”IjerkedmyheadtowardPoundcake.“Wherewashe?”“Foundhimoutside,”Bensaid.
“Doingwhat?”“Just...hangingout.”“Justhangingout?Really?YouguyseverwonderwhichteamPoundcakemightbeplayingfor?”Benshookhisheadwearily.“Sullivan,don’tstart—”“Seriously. The mute act could be just an act. Keeps you from having to answer any awkward
questions.Plus the fact that itmakes a lotof senseplantingoneofyourown into eachbrainwashedsquad,incaseanybodystartstowise—”“Right,andbeforePoundcakeitwasRinger.”Benwaslosingit.“Nextit’llbeDumbo.Orme.When
theguywhoadmittedhewastheenemyislyingrightthere,holdingyourhand.”“Actually,I’mholdinghishand.Andheisn’ttheenemy,Parish.Ithoughtwecoveredthis.”“Howdoweknowhedidn’tkillTeacup?OrRinger?Howdoweknowthat?”“Oh,Christ,lookathim.Hecouldn’tkilla...a...”Itriedtothinkoftheproperthinghehadthe
strength to kill, but the only thingmyhungry, sleep-deprivedbrain could comeupwithwasmayfly,whichwouldhavebeenareally,reallybadchoiceofwords.Likeaninadvertentomen,ifanomencanbeinadvertent.Ben whipped around to Dumbo, who flinched. I think he preferred Ben’s wrath be directed at
anybodybuthim.“Willhelive?”Dumboshookhishead,thetipsofhisearsgrowingbrightpink.“It’sbad.”“That’smyquestion.Howbad?Howsoonbeforehecantravel?”“Notforawhile.”“Damnit,Dumbo,when?”“Acoupleweeks?Amonth?Hisankle’sbroke,butthat’snottheworst.Theinfection, thenyou’ve
gottheriskofgangrene...”“Amonth?Amonth!”Benlaughedhumorlessly.“Hestormsthisplace,takesyouout,beatsthecrap
outofme,andacouplehourslaterhecan’tmoveforamonth!”“Thengo!”Ishoutedacrosstheroomathim.“Allofyou.Leavehimwithme,andwe’llfollowyou
assoonaswecan.”Ben’smouth,whichhadbeenhangingopen,snappedclosed.SamwashoveringnearBen’sleg,one
tinyfingerhookedintohisbigbuddy’sbeltloop.Somethinginmyheartgavealittleatthesight.Bentoldmetheycalledmylittlebrother“Zombie’sdog”incamp,meaningeverfaithfullybyhisside.Dumbowasnodding.“Makessensetome,Sarge.”“Wehadaplan,”Bensaid.His lipsbarelymoved.“Andwe’resticking to theplan. IfRinger isn’t
backbythistimetomorrow,we’rebuggingout.”Heglaredatme.“Allofus.”HejabbedhisthumbatPoundcakeandDumbo.“Theycancarryyourboyfriend,ifheneedstobecarried.”Benturned,bumpedintothewall,pinballedoffit,lurchedthroughthedoorandintothehall.Dumbotrailedafterhim.“Sarge,where’reyou...?”“Bed,Dumbo,bed!IgottaliedownorI’mgonnafalldown.Takethefirstwatch.Nugget—Sam—
whateveryournameis—whatareyoudoing?”“I’mcomingwithyou.”“Staywithyoursister.Wait.You’reright.She’sgotherhandsfull—literally.Poundcake!Sullivanhas
theduty.Getsomeshut-eye,youbigmutemother...”Hisvoicefadedaway.DumbocamebacktothefootofEvan’sbed.“Sargeisstrungout,”heexplained,likeIneededhimtoexplain.“He’susuallyprettychill.”“Metoo,”Isaid.“I’mthelaid-backtype.Noworries.”Hewouldn’tgoaway.Hewas lookingatmeandhischeekswereasbright redashisears. “Ishe
reallyyourboyfriend?”“Who?No,Dumbo.He’sjustaguyImetonedaywhilehewastryingtokillme.”
“Oh.Good.”Heseemedrelieved.“He’slikeVosch,youknow.”“He’snothinglikeVosch.”“Imean he’s one of them.” Lowering his voice like he was sharing a dark secret. “Zombie says
they’renotlikethesetinybugsinourbrains,butsomehowtheydownloadedthemselvesintouslikeacomputervirusorsomething.”“Yeah.Somethinglikethat.”“That’sweird.”“Well,Iguesstheycouldhavedownloadedthemselvesintohousecats,butgoingthatroutewould’ve
madeourexterminationmoretime-consuming.”“Onlybyamonthor two,”Dumbosaid, and I laughed.LikeSammy’s,mine surprisedme. Ifyou
wanted toseparatehumans from theirhumanity, I thought,killing laughterwouldbeagoodplace tostart. Iwasneververygoodathistory,butIwasprettysuredouchebagslikeHitlerdidn’t laughverymuch.“Istilldon’tgetit,”hewenton.“Whyoneofthemwouldbeonourside.”“I’mnotsurehecompletelyunderstandstheanswertothatquestion.”Dumbonodded,squaredhisshoulders,tookadeepbreath.Hewasdeadonhisfeet.Weallwere.I
calledsoftlytohimbeforehesteppedoutside.“Dumbo.”Ben’squestion,unanswered.“Ishegoingtomakeit?”Hedidn’tsayanythingforalongtime.“IfIwereanalienandIcouldpickanybodyIwanted,”he
saidslowly,“I’dpickareallystrongone.Andthen,justtomakesureI’dlivethroughthewar,I’dlike,Idon’tknow,makemyselfimmunetoeveryvirusandbacteriaonEarth.Oratleastresistant.Youknow,likegettingyourdogvaccinatedforrabies.”Ismiled.“You’reprettysmart,youknowthat,Dumbo?”Heblushed.“That’sanicknamebasedonmyears.”Heleft.Ihadtheeeriefeelingofbeingwatched.BecauseIwasbeingwatched:Poundcakestaredat
mefromhispostbythewindow.“Andyou,”Isaid.“What’syourstory?Whydon’tyoutalk?”Heturnedaway,andhisbreathfoggedthewindow.
35
“CASSIE!CASSIE,wakeup!”Iboltedupright.I’dbeencurledupnexttoEvan,myheadpressedagainsthis,myhandinhis,and
howthehelldidthathappen?Samwasstandingbesidethebed,pullingonmyarm.“Getup,Sullivan!”“Don’tcallmethat,Sams,”Imumbled.Thelightwasbleedingfromtheroom;itwaslateafternoon.
I’dsleptthroughtheday.“What...?”Heputonefingertohislipsandpointedattheceilingwithanother.Listen.Iheardit:theunmistakablesoundofachopper’srotors—faintbutgrowinglouder.Ijumpedfromthe
bed,grabbedmyrifle,andfollowedSamintothehall,wherePoundcakeandDumbohuddledaroundBen,theformerquarterbacksquattingonhishaunches,callingtheplay.“Mightbe just apatrol,”hewaswhispering. “Not evenafterus.Therewere two squadsout there
whenthecampblew.Mightbearescuemission.”“They’llpickupoursignatures,”Dumbosaid,panicking.“We’redone,Sarge.”“Maybenot,”Bensaidhopefully.He’dgottenbacksomeofhismojo.“Hearit?Fadingalready...”Nothisimagination:Thesoundwasfainter.Youhadtoholdyourbreathtohearit.Wehungtherein
thehallforanothertenminutesuntilthesounddisappeared.Waitedanothertenanditdidn’tcomeback.Benblewouthischeeks.“Thinkwe’regood...”“Forhowlong?”Dumbowantedtoknow.“Weshouldn’tstayheretonight,Sarge.Isayweheadfor
thecavernsnow.”“AndchancemissingRingeronherwayback?”Benshookhishead.“Orriskthatchoppercoming
backwhilewe’reexposed?No,Dumbo.Westicktotheplan.”He pushed himself to his feet. His eyes fell on my face. “What’s up with Buzz Lightyear? No
change?”“HisnameisEvanandno.Nochange.”Bensmiled.Idon’tknow,maybeimminentperilmadehimfeelmorealivesomehow,forthesame
reasonzombiesarecarnivoreswithonlyoneitemonthemenu.Youneverheardofundeadvegetarians.Where’sthechallengeinattackingaplateofasparagus?Samsgiggled.“Zombiecalledyourboyfriendaspaceranger.”“Heisn’taspaceranger—andwhyiseveryonecallinghimmyboyfriend?”Ben’ssmilebroadened.“He’snotyourboyfriend?Buthekissedyou...”“Fullon?”Dumboasked.“Oh,yeah.Twice.That’swhatIsaw.”“Withtongue?”“Ewww.”Sammymouth’sformedasourlemonpout.“Ihaveagun,”Iannounced,onlyhalfjoking.“Ididn’tseeanytongue,”Bensaid.“Wantto?”Istuckmytongueoutathim.Dumbolaughed.EvenPoundcakesmiled.
That’swhenthegirlappeared,steppingintothehallwayfromthestairwell,andtheneverythinggotverystrange,veryfast.
36
AMUD-(oritcouldhavebeenblood-)stained,tatteredpinkHelloKittyT-shirt.Apairofshortsthatoncehadbeentan,maybe,fadedtoadirtywhite.Grungywhiteflip-flopswithacouplestubbornrhinestonesclingingtothestraps.Anarrow,pixieishfacedominatedbyhugeeyes,toppedbyamassoftangleddarkhair.Andyoung,aroundSammy’sage,thoughshewassothin,herfacelookedlikealittleoldlady’s.Nobody said anything.We were shocked. Seeing her at the far end of the hall, teeth chattering,
knobbykneesknockinginthefreezingcold,wasanotherCampAshpit,yellow-school-bus-pulling-up-when-school-would-never-exist-againmoment.Somethingthatsimplycouldnotbe.ThenSammywhispered,“Megan?”AndBensaid,“WhothehellisMegan?”Whichwasverymuchwhattherestofuswerethinking.Samtookoffbeforeanybodycouldgrabhim.Pulleduphalfwaytoher.Thelittlegirldidn’tmove.
Didn’thardlyblink.Hereyesseemedtoshineinthedwindlinglight,brightandbirdlike,likeawizenedowl’s.Samturnedtousandsaid,“Megan!”Asifhewerepointingouttheobvious.“It’sMegan,Zombie.
Shewasonthebuswithme!”Heturnedbacktoher.“Hi,Megan.”Casually,liketheyweremeetingupatthemonkeybarsforaplaydate.“Poundcake,” Ben said softly. “Check the stairs. Dumbo, take thewindows. Then sweep the first
floor,bothofyou.There’snowayshe’salone.”Shespoke,andhervoicecameoutinahigh-pitched,scratchywhinethatremindedmeoffingernails
scrapingacrossablackboard.“Mythroathurts.”Herbigeyesrolledbackinherhead.Herkneesbuckled.Samracedtowardher,buthewastoolate:
Shewentdownhard,smackingthethincarpetingwithherforeheadasecondbeforeSamcouldreachher.BenandIrushedover,andhebentdowntopickherup.Ipushedhimaway.“Youshouldn’tbeliftinganything,”Iscoldedhim.“Shedoesn’tweighanything,”heprotested.Ipickedherup.Hewasnearlyright.Meganweighedlittlemorethanasackofflour;bonesandskin
andhairandteethandthat’saboutit.IcarriedherintoEvan’sroom,putherintheemptybed,andpiledsixlayersofblanketsoverherquakinglittlebody.ItoldSamtofetchmyriflefromthehall.“Sullivan,”Bensaidfromthedoorway.“Thisdoesn’tfit.”Inodded.Worsethantheoddsofherluckingintothishotelatrandomweretheoddsofhersurviving
thisweather inhersummeroutfit.BenandIwere thinking thesamething:Twentyminutesafterourhearingthechopper,Li’lMissMeganappearedonourdoorstep.Shedidn’twanderinhereonherown.Shewasdelivered.“Theyknowwe’rehere,”Isaid.“Butinsteadoffirebombingthebuilding,theydropherin.Why?”Sam came backwithmy rifle.He said, “That’sMegan.Wemet on the bus on theway toCamp
Haven,Cassie.”“Smallworld,huh?”Ipushedhimawayfromthebed,towardBen.“Thoughts?”
Herubbedhischin.Irubbedmyneck.Toomanythoughtsskitteringaroundbothourheads.Istaredat him rubbing his chin and he stared at me rubbing my neck, and that’s when he said, “Tracker.They’veimplantedherwithapellet.”Ofcourse.ThatmustbewhyBen’sincharge.He’stheIdeaMan.ImassagedthebackofMegan’s
pencil-thinneck,probingforthetelltalelump.Nothing.IlookedatBenandshookmyhead.“Theyknowwe’dlookthere,”hesaidimpatiently.“Searchher.Everyinch,Sullivan.Sam,youcome
withme.”“Whycan’tIstay?”Samwhined.Afterall,he’djustreunitedwithalong-lostfriend.“Youwanttoseeanakedgirl?”Benmadeaface.“Gross.”BenpushedSamoutthedoorandbackedoutoftheroom.Idugmyknucklesintomyeyes.Damnit.
Goddamnit.Ipulledthecoverstothefootofthebed,exposingherwastedbodytothedyinglightofamidwinter’sevening.Coveredinscabsandbruisesandopensoresandlayersofdirtandgrime,whittleddowntoherbonesbythehorriblecrueltyofindifferenceandthebrutalindifferenceofcruelty,shewasoneofusandshewasallofus.ShewastheOthers’masterwork,theirmagnumopus,humanity’spastanditsfuture,whattheyhaddoneandwhattheypromisedtodo,andIcried.IcriedforMeganandIcried formeand Icried formybrotherand Icried forall theones toostupidorunlucky tobedeadalready.Suckitup,Sullivan.We’rehere,thenwe’regone,andthatwastruebeforetheycame.That’salways
beentrue.TheOthersdidn’tinventdeath;theyjustperfectedit.Gavedeathafacetoputbackinourface,becausetheyknewthatwastheonlywaytocrushus.Itwon’tendonanycontinentorocean,nomountainorplain,jungleordesert.Itwillendwhereitbegan,whereithadbeenfromthebeginning,onthebattlefieldofthelastbeatinghumanheart.Istrippedherofthefilthy,threadbaresummerclothes.IspreadherarmsandlegsliketheDaVinci
drawingof the nakeddude inside the box, containedwithin the circle. I forcedmyself to go slowly,methodically,startingwithherheadandmovingdownherbody.Iwhisperedtoher,“I’msorry,I’msosorry,”pressing,kneading,probing.Iwasn’tsadanymore.IthoughtofVosch’sfingerslammingdownonthebuttonthatwouldfrymy
five-year-oldbrother’sbrains,andIwantedtotastehisbloodsobadly,mymouthbegantowater.Yousayyouknowhowwethink?ThenyouknowwhatI’mgoingtodo.I’llripyourfaceoffwitha
pairoftweezers.I’lltearyourheartoutwithasewingneedle.I’llbleedyououtwithsevenbilliontinycuts,oneforeachoneofus.That’s the cost. That’s the price.Get ready, becausewhen you crush the humanity out of humans,
you’releftwithhumanswithnohumanity.Inotherwords,yougetwhatyoupayfor,motherfucker.
37
ICALLEDBENintotheroom.“Nothing,”Itoldhim.“AndIchecked...everywhere.”“Whataboutherthroat?”Bensaidquietly.Hecouldheartheresidualrageinmyvoice.Hegotthat
hewastalkingtoacrazypersonandhadtotreadlightly.“Rightbeforeshefainted,shesaidherthroathurt.”Inodded.“Ilooked.There’snopelletinher,Ben.”“Areyoupositive?‘Mythroathurts’isaveryweirdthingforafreezing,malnourishedkidtosaythe
minutesheshowsup.”He sidledover to thebed, I don’tknow,maybebecausehewas concerned Imight jumphim in a
momentofmisplacedfury.Notthatthat’severhappened.Hegingerlypressedonehandtoherforeheadwhilepryinghermouthopenwiththeother.Stuckhiseyeclose.“Hardtoseeanything,”hemuttered.“That’swhyIusedthis,”Isaid,handinghimSam’scamp-issuedpenlight.Heshonethelightdownherthroat.“It’sprettyred,”heobserved.“Right.Whichiswhyshesaidithurt.”Ben scratched his stubble, worrying over the problem. “Not ‘help me’ or ‘I’m cold’ or even
‘resistanceisfutile.’Just‘mythroathurts.’”Icrossedmyarmsovermychest.“‘Resistanceisfutile’?Really?”Samwashoveringinthedoorway.Bigbrownsaucereyes.“Issheokay,Cassie?”heasked.“She’salive,”Isaid.“Sheswallowedit!”Bensaid.TheIdeaMan.“Youdidn’tfinditbecauseit’sinherstomach!”“Thosetrackingdevicesarethesizeofagrainofrice,”Iremindedhim.“Whywouldswallowingone
hurtherthroat?”“I’mnotsayingthedevicehurtherthroat.Herthroathasnothingtodowithit.”“Thenwhyareyousoworriedaboutitbeingsore?”“Here’swhat I’mworried about,Sullivan.”Hewas tryingveryhard to stay calm,because clearly
somebodyhadtobe.“Hershowingupoutofthebluelikethiscouldmeanalotofthings,butnoneofthose things couldbe a good thing. In fact, it canonlybe a bad thing.Averybad thingmade evenbadderbythefactthatwedon’tknowthereasonshewassenthere.”“Badder?”“Ha-ha.Thedumb jockwhocan’t talk theQueen’sEnglish. I swear toGod, thenext personwho
correctsmygrammargetspunchedintheface.”Isighed.Theragewasleachingoutofme,leavingmeahollow,bloodless,human-shapedlump.BenlookedatMeganforalongmoment.“Wehavetowakeherup,”hedecided.ThenDumboandPoundcakecrowdedintotheroom.“Don’ttellme,”BensaidtoPoundcake,whoof
coursewouldn’t.“Youdidn’tfindnothing.”“Anything,”Dumbocorrectedhim.Ben didn’t punch him in the face. But he did hold out his hand. “Give me your canteen.” He
unscrewedthecapandheldthecontaineroverMegan’sforehead.Adropofwaterhungquiveringon
thelipforaneternity.Beforeeternityended,acroakyvoicespokeupbehindus.“Iwouldn’tdothatifIwereyou.”EvanWalkerwasawake.
38
EVERYBODYFROZE.Eventhedropofwater,swellingattheedgeofthecanteen’smouth,heldstill.Fromhisbed,Evanwatcheduswithred,fever-brighteyes,waitingforsomeonetoasktheobviousquestion,whichBenfinallydid:“Why?”“Wakingherlikethatcouldmakehertakeaverydeepbreath,andthatwouldbebad.”Benturnedtofacehim.Thewaterdribbledontothecarpet.“Whatthehellareyoutalkingabout?”Evanswallowed,grimacingfromtheeffort.Hisfacewasaswhiteasthepillowcasebeneathit.“She
isimplanted—butnotwithatrackingdevice.”Ben’slipstightenedintoahard,whiteline.Hegotitbeforetherestofus.HewhippedonDumboand
Poundcake.“Out.Sullivan,youandSam,too.”“I’mnotgoinganywhere,”Itoldhim.“Youshould,”Evansaid.“Idon’tknowhowfinelyit’sbeencalibrated.”“Howfinelywhat’sbeencalibratedtowhat?”Idemanded.“TheincendiarydevicetoCO2.”Hiseyescutaway.Thenextwordswerehardforhim.“Ourbreath,
Cassie.”Everybodyunderstoodbythatpoint.Butthere’sadifferencebetweenunderstandingandaccepting.
The idea was unacceptable. After all we had experienced, there were still places our minds simplyrefusedtogo.“Getdownstairsnow,allofyou,”Bensnarled.Evanshookhishead.“Notfarenough.Youshouldleavethebuilding.”BengrabbedDumbo’sarmwithonehandandPoundcake’swiththeotherandslungthemtowardthe
door.Samhadbackedintothebathroomentrance,tinyfistpressedagainsthismouth.“Also,somebodyshouldopenthatwindow,”Evangasped.I pushed Sam into the hall, trotted over to thewindow, and pushed hard against the frame, but it
wouldn’tbudge,probablyfrozenshut.Benpushedmeoutofthewayandsmashedouttheglasswiththebuttofhisrifle.Freezingairrushedintotheroom.BenstrodebacktoEvan’sbedandconsideredhimforasecondbeforegrabbingahandfulofhishairandyankinghimforward.“Yousonofabitch...”“Ben!”Iputmyhandonhisarm.“Lethimgo.Hedidn’t—”“Oh,right.Iforgot.He’sagoodevilalien.”Heletgo.Evanfellback;hedidn’thavethestrengthto
stayup.ThenBensuggestedhedosomethingtohimselfthatwasanatomicallyimpossible.Evan’seyescutovertome.“Inherthroat.Suspendeddirectlyabovetheepiglottis.”“She’sabomb,”Bensaid,hisvoicequaveringwithrageanddisbelief.“Theytookachildandturned
herintoanIED.”“Canweremoveit?”Iasked.Evanshookhishead.“How?”“That’swhatshe’saskingyou,dipshit,”Benbarked.“The explosive is connected to a CO2 detector imbedded in her throat. If the connection’s lost, it
detonates.”
“Thatdoesn’tanswermyquestion,”Ipointedout.“Canweremoveitwithoutblowingourselvesintoorbit?”“It’sfeasible...”“Feasible.Feasible.”Benwaslaughingthisweird,hiccuppingkindoflaugh.Iwasworriedthathe
mightbefallingovertheproverbialedge.“Evan,”IsaidassoftlyandcalmlyasIcould.“Canwedoitwithout...”Icouldn’tsayit,andEvan
didn’tmakeme.“Theoddsofitnotdetonatingarealotbetterifyoudid.”“Doitwithout...what?”Benwashavingahardtimefollowing.Nothisfault.Hewasstillflailingin
theunthinkableplacelikeapoorswimmercaughtinariptide.“Killingherfirst,”Evanexplained.
39
BEN AND I CONVENED the latest oh-we’re-screwed planning meeting in the hallway. Ben orderedeverybodyelsetogoacrosstheparkinglotandhideinthedineruntilhegavethemtheall-clear—orthehotel blew up, whichever came first. Sam refused. Ben got stern. Sam teared up and pouted. Benremindedhimthathewasasoldierandagoodsoldierfollowsorders.Besides,ifhestayed,whowasgoingtoprotectPoundcakeandDumbo?Beforeheleft,Dumbosaid,“I’mthemedic.”He’dfiguredoutwhatBenwasupto.“Ishoulddoit,
Sarge.”Benshookhishead.“Getoutofhere,”hesaidtersely.Thenwewerealone.Ben’seyeswouldnotstaystill.Thetrappedcockroach.Thecorneredrat.The
fallingman,offthecliffandnoscrawnyshrubtograsp.“Well,Iguessthebigriddle’sbeenanswered,huh?”hesaid.“WhatIdon’tgetiswhytheydidn’tjust
wasteuswithacoupleofHellfiremissiles.Theyknowwe’rehere.”“Nottheirstyle,”Isaid.“Style?”“Hasn’t it ever struck you how personal it’s been—from the beginning? There’s something about
killingusthatgetsthemoff.”Benlookedatmewithsickwonder.“Yeah.Well.Icanseewhyyou’dwanttodateoneofthem.”Not
the thing to say. He realized it immediately and quickly backed off. “Who’re we kidding, Cassie?There’snothingreallytodecide,exceptwho’sgoingtodoit.Maybeweshouldflipacoin.”“MaybeitshouldbeDumbo.Didn’tyoutellmehetrainedinfieldsurgeryatthecamp?”Hefrowned.“Surgery?You’rekidding,right?”“Well,howelsearewe...?”ThenIunderstood.Couldn’taccept,butunderstood.Iwaswrongabout
Ben.Hehaddroppedfartherthanmeintothatunthinkableplace.Hewasfivethousandfathomsdown.He read the look on my face and dropped his chin toward his chest. His face was flushed. Not
embarrassedsomuchasangry,intenselyangry,theangerthat’spastallwords.“No,Ben.Wecan’tdothat.”Heliftedhishead.Hiseyesshone.Hishandsshook.“Ican.”“No,youcan’t.”BenParishwasdrowning.Hewas so farunder, Iwasn’t sure I could reachhim,
wasn’tsureIhadthestrengthtopullhimbacktothesurface.“Ididn’taskforthis,”hesaid.“Ididn’taskforanyofthis!”“Neitherdidshe,Ben.”HeleanedcloseandIsawadifferentkindoffeverburninginhiseyes.“I’mnotworriedabouther.
Anhourago,shedidn’texist.Understand?Shewasnothing,literallynothing.Ihadyou,andIhadyourlittlebrother,andIhadPoundcakeandDumbo.Shewastheirs.Shebelongstothem.Ididn’ttakeher.Ididn’ttrickherintogettingonabusandtellhershewasperfectlysafeandthenstuffabombdownherthroat.Thisisn’tmyfault.Itisn’tmyresponsibility.Myjobistokeepmyassandyourassaliveforaslongaspossible,andifthatmeanssomebodyelsewhoisnothingtomedies,thenIguessthat’swhatitmeans.”
Iwasn’tholdingupwell.Hewastoodeep,therewastoomuchpressure,Icouldn’tbreathe.“That’sit,”hesaidbitterly.“Cry,Cassie.Cryforher.Cryforallthechildren.Theycan’thearyouand
theycan’tseeyouandtheycan’tfeelhowreallybadyoufeel,butcryforthem.Atearforeachofthem,fillupthefuckingocean,cry.“YouknowI’mright.YouknowIdon’thaveachoice.AndyouknowRingerwasright.It’saboutthe
risk.It’salwaysbeenabouttherisk.Andifonelittlegirlhastodiesosixpeoplecanlive,thenthat’stheprice.That’stheprice.”Hepushedpastme and limpeddown thehall to thebrokendoor, and I couldn’tmove, I couldn’t
speak.Ididn’tliftafingerorframeanargumenttostophim.I’dreachedtheendofwords,andgesturesseemedpointless.Stophim,Evan.Please,stophim,becauseIcan’t.Inthesaferoomunderground,theirfaceslifteduptome,andmysilentprayer,myhopelesspromise:
Climbontomyshoulders,climbontomyshoulders,climbontomyshoulders.Hewouldn’tshoother.Becauseoftherisk.He’dsmotherher.Placeapillowoverherfaceandpress
untilhedidn’tneed topressanymore.Hewouldn’t leaveherbody there: the risk.Hewouldcarry itoutside,buthewouldn’tburyitorburnit:therisk.Hewouldtakeitfarintothewoodsandtossitonthefrozengroundlikesomuchtrashforthebuzzardsandcrowsandinsects.Therisk.Isankdownthewallanddrewmykneestomychest,duckedmyhead,andcovereditupwithmy
arms.Istoppedmyears.Iclosedmyeyes.AndtherewasVosch’sfingerslammingdownonthebutton,Ben’s hands holding the pillow, my finger on the trigger. Sam, Megan. The Crucifix Soldier. AndRinger’svoice,speakingoutofthesilentdark:Sometimesyou’reinthewrongplaceatthewrongtimeandwhathappensisnobody’sfault.AndwhenBencameout,alltornupandempty,IwouldgetupandIwouldgotohimandIwould
comforthim.Iwouldtakethehandthatmurderedachildandwewouldgrieveforourselvesandthechoiceswemadethatweren’tchoicesatall.Bencameout.Hesatagainstthewalltendoorsdown.Afteraminute,Igotupandwenttohim.He
didn’tlookup.Herestedhisforearmsonhisupraisedkneesandbowedhishead.Isatnexttohim.“You’rewrong,”Isaid.Hetwirledhishand:Whatever.“Shedidbelongtous.Theyallbelongtous.”Hisheadfellbackagainstthewall.“Hearthem?Thosemother-effingrats.”“Ben,Ithinkyouneedtogo.Now.Don’twaittillmorning.TakeDumboandPoundcakeandgetto
thecavernsasfastasyoucan.”MaybeRingercouldhelphim.Helistenedtoher,alwaysseemedalittleintimidatedbyher,evenawed.He laughed from a spot deep in his gut. “I’m kind of busted up right now. Broke. I’m broke,
Sullivan.”Helookedatme.“AndWalkerisinnoshapetodoit.”“Noshapetodowhat?”“Cutthedamnthingout.You’retheonlyoneherewhohashalfachance.”“Youdidn’t...?”“Icouldn’t.”Helaughedagain.Hisheadbrokethesurfaceandhetookadeep,life-givingbreath.“Icouldn’t.”
40
THEROOMWHEREshelaywascolderthanawalk-infreezer,andEvanwassittingupnow,watchingmeasIwalkedin.ApillowonthefloorwhereBenhaddroppedit,andmepickingitupandsittingatthefootofEvan’sbed.Ourbreathscongealingandourheartsbeatingandthesilencethickeningbetweenus.UntilIsaid,“Why?”Andhesaid,“Toblowapartwhatremains.Tobreakthefinal,unbreakablebond.”Ihuggedthepillowtomychestandrockedslowlybackandforth.Cold.Socold.“Noonecanbe trusted,” Isaid.“Notevenachild.”Thecoldboreddowntomybonesandcurled
insidethemarrow.“Whatareyou,EvanWalker?Whatareyou?”Hewouldn’tlookatme.“Itoldyou.”Inodded.“Yes,youdid.Mr.GreatWhiteShark.I’mnot,though.Notyet.We’renotgoingtokillher,
Evan.I’mgoingtopullitout,andyou’regoingtohelpme.”Hedidn’targue.Heknewbetter.Benhelpedmegatherthesuppliesbeforehelefttojointheothersinthedineracrosstheparkinglot.
Washcloth.Towels.Acanofairfreshener.Dumbo’sfieldkit.Wesaidgood-byeatthestairwaydoor.Itoldhimtobecareful,thereweresomeslipperyratgutsonthewaydown.“I lost it back there,” he said, lowering his eyes and scrubbing his foot across the carpet like an
embarrassedlittleboycaughtinalie.“Thatwasn’tcool.”“Yoursecretissafewithme.”Hesmiled.“Sullivan...Cassie...incaseyoudon’t...Iwantedtotellyou...”Iwaited.Ididn’tpushhim.“Theymadeamajormistake,”heblurtedout,“thedumbbastards,whentheydidn’tstartbykilling
youfirst.”“BenjaminThomasParish, thatwasthesweetestandmostbizarrecomplimentanyone’severgiven
me.”Ikissedhimonthecheek.Hekissedmeonthemouth.“Youknow,”Iwhispered,“ayearago,Iwouldhavesoldmysoulforthat.”Heshookhishead.“Notworthit.”And,forone–tenthousandthofasecond,allofitfellaway,the
despairandgriefandangerandpainandhunger,andtheoldBenParishrosefromthedead.Theeyesthatimpaled.Thesmilethatslayed.Inanothermoment,hewouldfade,slidebackintothenewBen,theone called Zombie, and I understood something I hadn’t before: He was dead, the object of myschoolgirldesires,justastheschoolgirlwhodesiredhimwasdead.“Getoutofhere,”Itoldhim.“Andifyouletanythinghappentomylittlebrother,I’llhuntyoudown
likeadog.”“Imaybedumb,butI’mnotthatdumb.”Hedisappearedintotheabsolutedarkofthestairwell.Iwentbacktotheroom.Icouldn’tdothis.Ihadtodothis.Evanscootedbackinthebeduntilhis
butt touched the headboard. I slid my arms beneathMegan and slowly lifted her, turned, and then
loweredhercarefullyontoEvan, leaningherheadback intohis lap. Ipickedup thespraycanofairfreshener(ADelicateBlendofEssences!)andsaturatedthewashcloth.Myhandswereshaking.NowaycouldIdothis.NowayIcouldn’t.“A five-prongedhook,”Evansaidquietly. “Embeddedbeneath the right tonsil.Don’t try topull it
out.Getagoodgriponthewire,makethecutasclosetothehookasyoucan,thenpullthehookout—slowly.Ifthewirecomesloosefromthecapsule...”Inoddedimpatiently.“Kaboom.Iknow.Youalreadytoldmethat.”Iopenedthemedkitandtookoutapairof tweezersandsurgicalscissors.Small,but theyseemed
huge.Iclickedonthepenlightandstuckthebuttendbetweenmyteeth.IhandedEvanthewashclothreekingofpine.HepressedtheclothoverMegan’snoseandmouth.Her
bodyjerked,hereyelidsflutteredopen,hereyesrolledtothebackofherhead.Herhands,foldedprimlyinherlap,twitched,becamestill.Evandroppedtheclothontoherchest.“If she wakes up while I’m in there . . .” I said around the flashlight, sounding like a very bad
ventriloquist:Ehcheewecksuh...Evannodded.“Ahundredwaysitcangowrong,Cassie.”Hetiltedherheadbackandforcedhermouthopen.Istareddownaglisteningredtunnelthewidthof
arazorandamiledeep.Tweezersinmylefthand.Scissorsinmyright.Bothhandsthesizeoffootballs.“Canyouopenitanywider?”Iasked.“IfIopenitanywider,I’lldislocateherjaw.”Well,inthegrandschemeofthings,adislocatedjawwasbetterthanbeingabletopickupourpieces
withthispairoftweezers.Butwhatever.“Thisone?”Touchingthetonsilgentlywiththeendofthetweezers.“Ican’tsee.”“Whenyousaidrighttonsil,youmeantherright,notmyright,right?”“Herright.Yourleft.”“Okay,”Ibreathed.“Justwantedtomakesure.”Icouldn’tseewhatIwasdoing.Ihadthetweezersdownherthroatbutnotthescissors,andIdidn’t
knowhowIwasgoingtostuffbothinthetinymouthofthislittlegirl.“Hookthewirewiththeendofthetweezers,”Evansuggested.“Thenveryslowlyliftitupsoyoucan
seewhatyou’redoing.Don’tyank.Ifthewiredisconnectsfromthecapsule—”“Dear Jesus Christ, Walker, you don’t have to warn me every two minutes what happens if the
freakingwiredisconnectsfromthefreakingcapsule!”Ifeltthetipofthetweezerscatchonsomething.“Okay,IthinkI’vegotit.”“It’sverythin.Black.Shiny.Yourlightshouldreflect—”“Pleasebequiet.”Or,inpenlightspeak:Pweezbeqwiwet.Mywholebodywasshakingbutmyhands,miraculously,hadbecomerocksteady.Iforcedmyright
handintohermouthbypushingagainsttheinsideofhercheek,maneuveringthetipsofthescissorsintoposition.Wasthatit?DidIactuallyhaveit?Thewire,ifthatwasthewireshininginmylight,wasasthinasastrandofhumanhair.“Slowly,Cassie.”“Shut.Up.”“Ifsheswallowsit—”“I am going to kill you, Evan. Seriously.” I had the wire now, pinched between the tines of the
tweezers.IcouldseethetinyhookembeddedinherenflamedfleshasItugged.Slow,slow,slow.Makesureyoucutontherightendofthewire.Theclawend.“You’retooclose,”hewarnedme.“Stoptalkinganddon’tbreathedirectlyintohermouth...”Right.Soinstead,IthinkI’mgoingtopunchyoudirectlyinyours.
Ahundredwaysitcouldgowrong,hesaid.Butthere’swrongways,reallywrongways,andreallyreallywrongways.WhenMegan’s eyes flipped open and her body bucked beneathmine, wewentdownareallyreallyone.“She’sawake!”Iyelledunnecessarily.“Don’tletgoofthewire!”heshoutedback,necessarily.Her teeth clampeddownhardonmyhand.Herheadwhipped from side to side.My fingerswere
trappedinsidehermouth.Itriedtoholdthetweezersstill,butonehardtugandthecapsulewouldpullfree...“Evan,dosomething!”Hefumbledfortheragsoakedinairfreshener.Ishouted,“No,holdherheadstill,moron!Don’tlether—”“Letgoofthewire,”hegasped.“What?Youjustsaiddon’tletgoofthe...”Hepinchedhernoseshut.Letgo?Don’tletgo?IfIletgo,thewiremighttwistaroundthetweezers
and pull free. If I don’t let go, all the turning and twisting andwhipping aroundmight yank it free.Megan’seyesrolledinherhead.Painandterrorandconfusion,theconstantmixtheOthersneverfailedtodeliver.HermouthflewopenandIjammedthescissorsdownherthroat.“Ihateyourightnow,”Ibreathedathim.“IhateyoumorethanIhateanyoneelseintheworld.”I
feltlikeheneededtoknowthatbeforeIsnappedthescissorsclosed.Incasewewerevaporized.“Doyouhaveit?”heasked.“IhavenofreakingclueifIhaveit!”“Doit.”Thenhesmiled.Smiled!“Cutthewire,Mayfly,”hesaid.Icutthewire.
41
“IT’SATEST,”Evansaid.The green liquid-gelcap-looking thing lay on the desk, safely—we hoped—sealed inside a clear
plasticbaggie,thekindyourmomusedinthelong-gonegoodolddaystokeepyoursandwichandchipsfreshforlunchperiod.“What,likehumanIEDsarestillintheR-and-Dphase?”Benasked.Hewasleaningonthesillofthe
busted-outwindow,shivering,butsomeonehadtowatchtheparkinglot,andhewasn’tlettinganyoneelsetaketherisk.Atleasthehadchangedoutoftheblood-soaked,hideous(itwashideousbeforeitwasblood-soaked) yellow hoodie and into a black sweatshirt that almost brought him back to his pre-Arrival,buffed-outperiod.Fromthebed,Samgiggledhesitantly,unsureifhisbelovedZombieleaderwasmakingajoke.I’mno
shrink,butIguessedSamshadundergonesometransferenceduetoseriouslyunresolveddaddyissues.“Notthebomb,”Evananswered.“Us.”“Great,”Bengrowled.“FirsttestI’vepassedinthreeyears.”“Cutitout,Parish,”Isaid.Whopassedthelawthatsaidjockshadtoactstupidtobecool?“Iknow
forafactyouwereaNationalMeritFinalistlastyear.”“Really?”Dumbo’searsperkedup.Okay,Ishouldn’tmakeremarksabouthisears,buthedidappear
tobedumbfounded.“Yes,really,”BensaidwithapatentedParishsmile.“Butitwasaveryweakyear.Aliensinvaded.”
HelookedatEvan.Hissmiledied,whichhissmileusuallydidwhenhelookedatEvan.“Whataretheytestingusfor?”“Knowledge.”“Yeah, thatwould be the purpose of a test.Youknowwhatwould be really helpful right now? If
you’dknockoff theenigmaticalienroutineandget thefuckreal.Becauseeverysecondthatgoesbyand that thingdoesn’tgooff”—nodding to thebaggie—“isasecond thatdoublesour risk.Soonerorlater,andI’mleaningtowardsooner,they’recomingbackandblowingourassestoDubuque.”“Dubuque?”Dumbosqueaked.Hedidn’tgetthereferenceandthatfrightenedhim.Whatwaswrong
inDubuque?“Justatown,Dumbo,”Bensaid.“Arandomtown.”Evanwasnodding.IglancedoveratPoundcakefillingthedoorway,hismouthhangingopenslightly
ashisbigheadping-pongedtofollowtheconversation.“Theywillcomeback,”Evansaid.“Unlesswefailthetestsotheydon’thaveto.”“Failit?Wepassed,didn’twe?”Benturnedtome.“Ifeelasifwepassed.Howaboutyou?”“Failingmeanswetookherin,allfat,dumb,andhappy,”Iexplained,“andthengotourassesblown
backtoDubuque.”“Dubuque,”Dumboechoed,mystified.“The absence of detonation can mean only one of three things,” Evan said. “One, the device
malfunctioned.Two,thedevicewasincorrectlycalibrated.Orthree...”Benhelduphishand.“Orthree,someoneinthehotelknowsaboutthebomb-childrenandwasable
to remove it, put it in a plastic baggie, and conduct a seminar on how to instill panic and paranoiaamongthedopeyhumans.ThetestistoseeifwehaveaSilenceramongus.”“Wedo!”Samyelled.HejabbedhisfingeratEvan.“You’reaSilencer!”“Somethingyouabsolutelycan’tknowforsureifyouvaporizethejointwithacoupleofwell-placed
Hellfiremissiles,”Benfinished.“Whichraisesthequestion,”Evansaidquietly.“Whywouldtheysuspectsuchathing?”A silence settled over the room. Ben drummed his fingers on his forearm. Poundcake’s mouth
snappedclosed.Dumbotuggedonanearlobe.Irockedbackandforthinthechair,pluckingatBear’spaw. Ididn’tknowhowIcame intopossessionofBear.Maybe IgrabbedhimwhilePoundcakewasmoving Megan into the adjacent room. I remembered his getting knocked to the floor but didn’trememberpickinghimup.“Well, it’sobvious,”Bensaid.“Theymusthaveawayofknowingyou’rehere.Right?Otherwise,
youruntheriskoftakingoutyourownplayers.”“IftheyknewIwashere,therewouldbenoneedforatest.TheysuspectI’mhere.”ThenIgotit.Andgettingitdidnotbringmeanycomfort.“Ringer.”Ben’sheadwhippedtowardme.Theslightestbreathofwindwouldhavetoppledhimfromhisperch.“She’sbeencaptured,”Isaid.“OrTeacup.Orboth.”IturnedtoEvan,becausethelookonBen’sface
wastoomuchtobear.“Thatmakesthemostsense,”Evanagreed.“Bullshit!Ringerwouldnevergiveusup,”Benbarkedathim.“Notwillingly,”Evansaid.“Wonderland,”Ibreathed.“They’vedownloadedhermemories...”Bencameoffthesillthen,losthisbalance,staggeredforward,knockedagainsttheedgeofSammy’s
bed.Hewasshaking,andnotfromthecold.“Ohno.No,no,no.Ringerhasnotbeencaptured.She’ssafeandTeacup’ssafeandwearenotgoingthere...”“No,”Evansaid.“We’realreadythere.”I slid out of the chair and went to Ben. One of thosemoments when you know you have to do
somethingbutyouhavenoideawhat.“Ben,he’sright.Thereasonwe’realiverightnowis thesamereasontheysentMegan.”“Whatisitwithyou?”Bendemanded.“Youbuyintoeverythinghesayslikehe’sMosescomedown
fromthemountaintop.If theythinkhe’shere, forwhateverreason, thentheyknowhe’sa traitorandwouldstillsenduspackingtoDubuque.”EverybodylookedatDumbo,waitingforit.“Theydon’twanttokillme,”Evansaidfinally.Hehadasad,sicklookonhisface.“That’sright,Iforgot,”Bensaid.“Thatwouldbeme.”Hepulledawayfrommeandshuffledbackto
thewindow, leanedhishandson the sill and studied thenight sky. “Stayhere,we’redone.Bugout,we’re done.We’re like five-year-olds playing chesswithBobbyFischer.”He swung back around toEvan.“Youcouldhavebeenspottedbyapatrol,followedhere.”Hepointedatthebaggie.“Thatdoesn’tmeantheyhaveRingerorCup.Allitmeansiswe’reoutoftime.Can’thide,can’trun,sothequestioncirclesbacktosamequestionit’salwaysbeen:not ifwe’regonnadie,buthow.Howarewegoingtodie?Dumbo,howdoyouwanttodie?”Dumbostiffened.Hisshoulderssquared,hischincameup.“Standingup,sir.”BenlookedatPoundcake.“Cake,doyouwanttodiestandingup?”Poundcakehadcometoattention,too.Henoddedsmartly.Bendidn’thavetoaskSam.Mylittlebrothersimplystoodupandveryslowlyanddeliberatelygave
hiscommandingofficerasalute.
42
OH,BROTHER.Guys.ItossedBearonthedesk.“I’vebeenherebefore,”ItoldtheMachoBrigade.“Runequalsdie.Stay
equalsdie.SobeforewegoallO.K.Corralonthis,let’sconsiderthethirdoption:Weblowitup.”Thatsuggestionsuckedall theair fromtheroom.Evangot it first,noddingslowly,butclearlynot
happywiththeidea.Lotsofvariables.Athousandwaysitcangowrong,onlyonewayright.Ben cut right to the gooey guts of the problem: “How?Who has the duty of breathing on it and
gettingvaporized?”“I’lldoit,Sarge,”Dumbosaid.Hisearshadturnedred,likehewasembarrassedbyhisowncourage.
Hesmiledshyly.He’dfinallygottenit:“I’vealwayswantedtoseeDubuque.”“Humanbreathisn’ttheonlysourceofCO2,”IpointedouttotheNationalMeritFinalist.“Coke!”Dumbofairlyshouted.“Goodluckfindingoneofthose,”Bensaid.Itwastrue.Alongwithanythingalcoholic,softdrinks
wereoneofthefirstcasualtiesoftheinvasion.“Acanorabottle,yes,”Evansaid.“Cassie,didn’tyoutellmetherewasadinernextdoor?”“TheCO2canistersforthefountaindrinks,”Istarted.“Areprobablystillthere,”hefinished.“Attachthebombtothecanister...”“RigthecanistertodispensetheCO2...”“Aslowleak...”“Inaconfinedspace...”“Theelevator!”wesaidinunison.“Wow,”Benbreathed.“Brilliant.ButI’malittleunclearonhowthissolvestheproblem.”“They’ll thinkwe’re dead,Zombie,”Sam said.The five-year-old understood, but he lackedBen’s
burdenofexperienceinoutwittingVoschandcompany.“Thentheycheckitout,theyfindnobodies,theyknow,”Bensaid.“Butitwillbuyustime,”Evanpointedout.“Andmyguessisbythetimetheyrealizethetruth,it’ll
betoolate.”“Becauseobviouslywe’rejusttoodarncleverforthem?”Benasked.Evansmiledgrimly.“Becausewe’regoingtothelastplacethey’dthinktolook.”
43
THEREWASNOTIMEformoredebate;wehadtopullthetriggeronOperationEarlyCheckoutbeforethe5thWave pulled the trigger on us. Ben and Poundcake left to fetch a CO2 canister from the diner.Dumbotookhallpatrol.I toldSamhehadtowatchMegan,herbeingapalfromtheolddaysontheschoolbus.Heaskedforthegunback.Iremindedhimthathavingthegundidn’thelpsomuchthelasttime:He’demptiedthemagazinewithoutevennickingthetarget.ItriedtogivehimBear.Herolledhiseyes.Bearwassosixmonthsago.ThenEvanandIwerealone.Justhim,me,andalittlegreenbombmadethree.“Spillit,”Iorderedhim.“Spillwhat?”EyesallbigandinnocentasBear’s.“Yourguts,Walker.You’reholdingback.”“Whydoyou—?”“Becausethat’syourstyle.Yourmodusoperandi.Likeaniceberg,three-quartersunderthesurface,
butthere’snowayI’mlettingyouturnthishotelintotheTitanic.”Hesighed,avoidingmyglare.“Penandpaper?”“What? Time for a tender love poem?” That was his style, too: Every time I edged too close to
something, he deflected by telling me how much he loved me or how I saved him or some otherswoony,pseudo-profoundobservationaboutthenatureofmymagnificence.ButIgrabbedthepadandpenfromthedeskandhandedthemoverbecause,attheendoftheday,whomindsgettingatenderlovepoem?Insteadhedrewamap.“Single-story,white—orusedtobewhite—woodframe,Idon’tremembertheaddress,butit’sright
onHighway68.Nexttoaservicestation.Hasoneofthoseoldmetalsignshangingoutfront,HavolineOilorsomethinglikethat.”Hetoreoffthesheetandpresseditintomyhand.“Andwhyisthisthelastplacethey’dlookforus?”Iwasfallingforthedeflectingtechniqueagain,
not thatHavolineOilhadanythingcloyinglypoeticalabout it.“Andwhyareyoudrawingmeamapwhenyou’recomingwithus?”“Incasesomethinghappens.”“Toyou.Whatifsomethinghappenstobothofus?”“You’reright.I’llmakefivemore.”Hestartedonthenextone.Iwatchedfortwoseconds,thengrabbedthepadoutofhishandandthrew
itathishead.“Yousonofabitch.Iknowwhatyou’redoing.”“Iwasdrawingamap,Cassie.”“RiggingadetonatorfromasodafountainMission: Impossible style, really?Whileweall run like
hell for the Havoline sign with you in the lead on your broken ankle and stabbed leg, sporting ahundred-and-six-degreetemperature...”“IfIhadahundred-and-six-degreetemperature,I’dbedead,”hepointedout.
“No,andyouwanttoknowwhy?Becausedeadpeoplehavenotemperature!”Hewasnoddingthoughtfully.“God,I’vemissedyou.”“There! There it is, right there! Just like theWalker homestead, just like Camp Ashpit, just like
Vosch’sdeathcamp.WheneverI’vegotyoucornered...”“YouhadmecorneredtheminuteIlaid—”“Stopit.”Hestopped.Isatonthebednexttohim.MaybeIwasgoingaboutthisallwrong.Youcatchmore
flieswithhoney,mygrandmotheralwayssaid.Theproblemwasthatwomanlywilesweren’tsomethingIcarriedinmywheelhouse.Itookhishand.Ilookeddeeplyintohiseyes.Iconsideredunbuttoningmyshirtabit,butdecidedhemightseethroughthatlittleploy.Notthatmyployswerethatlittle.“I’mnotlettingyoupullanotherCampHavenonme,”Isaid,addingwhatIhopedtobeanalluring
purr to the timbre. “That isn’t going to happen.You’re comingwith us. Poundcake andDumbo cancarryyou.”Hereachedupwithhisotherhandandtouchedmycheek.Iknewthattouch.I’dmissedit.“Iknow,”
hesaid.Theexpressioninhischocolatey(gah)eyeswasinfinitelysad.Iknewthatlook,too.I’dseenitbefore,inthewoodswhenheconfessedwhohereallywas.“Butyoudon’tknoweverything.Youdon’tknowaboutGrace.”“Grace,”Iechoed,pushinghishandfrommycheek,forgettingallaboutthehoney.Ilikedhistouch
toomuch,Idecided.Ineededtoworkonnotlikingitsomuch.AndalsoworkonnotlikingthewayhelookedatmeasifIwerethelastpersononEarth,whichIactuallythoughtIwasbeforehefoundme.That’saterriblething,anawfulburdentoputonsomeone.Youmakeyourwholeexistencedependentonanotherhumanbeingandyou’reaskingforaworldoftrouble.Thinkofeverytragiclovestoryeverwritten.AndIdidn’twant toplayJuliet toanybody’sRomeo,not if Icouldhelp it.Even if theonlycandidateavailablewaswillingtodieformeandsittingrightbesidemeholdingmyhandandlookingdeeplyintomyeyeswiththenot-so-gah-noweyesthecolorofmeltedchocolate.PlusbeingpracticallynakedunderthosecoversandpossessingthebodyofaHollisterdude. . .butI’mnotgettingintoallthat.“Graceagain.YoukeptmentioninggraceafterIshotyou,”Itoldhim.“Youdon’tknowGrace.”Well,thatstung.Ineverknewhewassoreligious—orjudgmental.Thetwousuallygohandinhand,
still...“Cassie,Ihavetotellyousomething.”“You’reaBaptist?”“That day on the highway after I—let you get away, I was very afraid. I didn’t understandwhat
happened,whyIcouldn’t...dowhatIcametodo.DowhatIwasborntodo.Itdidn’tmakesensetome.Andinalotofways,itstilldoesn’tmakesense.Youthinkyouknowyourself.Youthinkyouknowthe person you see in themirror. I found you, but in finding you, I lostmyself. Nothingwas clearanymore.Nothingwassimple.”Inodded.“Irememberthat.Iremembersimple.”“Inthebeginning,afterIbroughtyouback,Ireallydidn’tknowifyouweregoingtomakeit.AndI
wouldsittherewithyouandI’dthink,Maybesheshouldn’t.”“Gee,Evan.That’ssoromantic.”“Iknewwhatwascoming,”hesaid,andthatsurewassomethingclearandsimple.Hegrabbedboth
my hands and pulledme close, and I fell a thousandmiles into those damn eyes,which iswhy thehoneytechniquedoesn’tfitme:I’mmoretheflywhenI’maroundhim.“Iknowwhat’scoming,Cassie,anduntilnowIthoughtthedeadweretheluckyones.ButIseeitnow.Iseeit.”“What?Whatdoyousee,Evan?”Myvoicequivering.Hewasscaringme.Maybeitwasthefever
talking,butEvanwasactingveryun-Evanish.“Thewayout.Theway to finish it.TheproblemisGrace.Grace is toomuchforyou—foranyof
you.GraceisthedoorwayandI’mtheonlyonewhocanwalkthroughit.Icangiveyouthat.Andtime.Thosetwothings,Graceandtime,andthenyoucanfinishit.”
44
THENDUMBO,withperfecttiming,poppedhisheadintotheroom.“They’reback,Sullivan.Zombiesaid—”Hestopped.Obviouslyhe’dinterruptedanintimatemoment.ThankGodIhadn’tunbuttonedmyshirt.IpulledmyhandsfromEvan’sandstoodup.“Didtheyfindacanister?”Dumbonodded.“They’reputtingitintheelevatornow.”HelookedatEvan.“Zombiesaidanytime
you’reready.”Evan nodded slowly. “Okay.” But he didn’t move. I didn’t move. Dumbo stood there for a few
seconds.“Okay,”hesaid.Evandidn’tsayanything.Ididn’tsayanything.ThenDumbosaid,“Seeyouguys
later—inDubuque!Heh-heh.”Hebackedoutoftheroom.IwhirledonEvan.“Allright.RememberwhatBensaidabouttheenigmaticalienthing?”ThenEvanWalkerdidsomethingI’dneverseenhimdo—orheardhimsay,tobeaccurate.“Shit,”hesaid.Dumbowasbackinthedoorway,slack-jawed,red-eared,andinthegraspofatallgirlwithacascade
of honey-blond hair and striking Norwegian-model-type features, piercing blue eyes, full, pouty,collagen-packedlips,andthewillowyfigureofarunwayfashionprincess.“Hello,Evan,”CosmoGirlsaid.Andofcoursehervoicewasdeepandslightlyscratchylikeevery
seductivevillainesseverconceivedbyHollywood.“Hello,Grace,”Evansaid.
45
GRACE:APERSON,notaprayeroranythingclosetobeingconnectedtoGod.Andarmedtotheteeth:ShehadDumbo’sM16inadditiontotheheftysniperriflehangingfromherback.Sheshovedthekidintotheroomandthenblewoutmyeyesightwithhermegawattsmile.“And you must be Cassiopeia, queen of the night sky. I’m surprised, Evan. She’s nothing like I
pictured.Kindofaginger.Didn’tknowthatwasyourtype.”IlookedatEvan.“Whothehellisthisperson?”“Graceislikeme,”Evansaid.“Wegowayback.Tencenturies,giveortake.Speakingoftaking...”Gracemotionedformyrifle.I
tosseditatherfeet.“Sidearm,too.Andthatknifestrappedtoyourankle,underthefatigues.”“Letthemgo,Grace,”Evansaid.“Wedon’tneedthem.”Grace ignoredhim.Shegavemy rifle a littlekick and toldme to toss it out thewindowwith the
Lugerand theknife.Evannoddedatmeas if tosay,Betterdo it.SoIdid.Myheadwasspinning. Icouldn’tgrabholdofasinglecoherentthought.GracewasaSilencerlikeEvan—thatoneIcouldhugtight.ButhowdidsheknowmynameandwhywasshehereandhowdidEvanknowshewascomingandwhatdidhemeanbyGraceisthedoorway?Thedoorwaytowhat?“Iknewshewashuman.”GracewasbackonEvan’s favorite subject. “But I never imaginedhow
completelyhumanshewas.”Evanknewitwascoming,buthetriedtostopitanyway.“Cassie...”“Fuckyouandthehorseyourodeinon,youfuckingalienmotherfucker.”“Colorful.Imaginative.Nice.”GracemotionedwithDumbo’srifleformetosit.Again,Evanshotmealook:Doit,Cassie.SoIsatonthebednexttohis,besideDumbo,whowas
breathingthroughhismouthlikeanasthmatic.Graceremainedinthedoorwaysoshecouldkeepaneyeon the hall.Maybe she didn’t knowaboutSamandMegan in the next roomorBen andPoundcakewaitingforEvanin theelevatordownstairs.IunderstoodEvan’sstrategythen:Stall.Buytime.WhenBenandPoundcakecameuptoseewhatthehellwasgoingon,thatwouldbeourchance.IrememberedEvan taking out an entire squad of 5thWavers, outgunned and outnumbered, in pitch darkness, andthought,No,whentheyshowup,thatwillbeherchance.I studied her, theway she leaned against the jambwith one ankle thrown casually over the other,
golden tresses flowing over one shoulder, her head turned slightly to display for our admiration herstunningNordicprofile,andIthought,Sure,makessense.Ifyoucandownloadyourselfintoanysortofhumanbody,whynotpickanimpeccableone?Evan,too.Inthatsense,hewasnothingbutabigphony.Andthat’sweirdtothinkabout.Deepdown,thedudewhogavemetheJell-Okneeswasaneffigy,amaskoverafacelessfacethatprobablytenthousandyearsagolookedlikeasquidorsomething.“Well,theydidtellustherewasrisk,livingsolongashumansamonghumans,”Gracesaid.“Tellme
something,Cassiopeia:Don’tyouthinkhe’sperfectlyperfectinbed?”“Whydon’tyoutellme,”Ishotback.“Youextraterrestrialslut.”“Feisty,”GracesaidtoEvanwithasmile.“Likehernamesake.”“Theyhavenothingtodowiththis,”Evansaid.“Letthemgo,Grace.”
“Evan,I’mnotevensureIunderstandwhatthisis.”Sheleftherpostandfloated—there’snootherwordforit—tohisbedside.“AndnobodyisgoinganywhereuntilIdo.”Sheleanedoverandtookhisfaceinherhandsandkissedhimlongandlingeringonthelips.Hefoughther—Icouldseethat—butsheimmobilizedhimwithherotherworldlyüberwiles,whichshecarriedinspadesinherwheelhouse.“Didyoutellher,Evan?”shemurmuredagainsthischeek,thoughshemadesureIcouldhear.“Doessheknowhowallofthisends?”“Like this,”Isaid,and launchedmyselfather, leading,asIusuallydid,withmyhead,aiming the
hardcrownpartofitat thesoft templepartofhers.Theimpactknockedhersidewaysintotheclosetdoors.IendedupsprawledacrossEvan’slap.Perfectlyperfect,Ithought,alittleincoherently.IpushedmyselfupandEvanwrappedhisarmsaroundmywaistandyankedmebackdown.“No,
Cassie.”ButhewasweakandIwasstrongandIrippedfreeeasilyandjumpedfromthebedontoherback.
Thatwasabigmistake:Shegrabbedmyarmandhurledmeacrosstheroom.Ismashedagainstthewallbesidethewindowandploppedstraightdownonmyass,sendingahotjoltofpainupmyback.Fromthehallway,Iheardadoorflyopen,andIshouted,“Getout,Sam!GetZombie!Get—”Shewasgonebefore Igot the secondgetout.The last time I sawsomeonemove that fastwasat
CampAshpit,when thephonysoldiers fromWright-Patterson spottedmehiding in thewoods.Like,cartoonfast,whichmightbehumorousifnotforthereasonshebolted.Ohnoyoudon’t,bitch.Notmylittlebrother.IracedpastDumbo,pastEvan,whohadthrownoffthecoversandwasstrugglingtoswinghisbadly
woundedselfoutofbed, into thehall,whichwasempty,notagood thing,notgoodatall, then twostepstoSam’sroom,andwhenmyfingerstouchedthehandle,awreckingballsmashedintothebackofmy head and my nose smacked into the wood. Something went crunch, and it wasn’t the wood. Isteppedbackward,bloodpouringdownmyface.Icouldtastemybloodandsomehowitwasthetastethatkeptmeupright—Ididn’tknowtillthenthatragehadatasteandittastedlikeyourownblood.ColdfingerslockedaroundmyneckandIwatchedmyfeetleavethegroundthroughashowerofred
rain.ThenIwassoaringdownthelengthofthehallway,comingdownhardonmyshoulder,androllingtoastopafootfromthewindowatthefarend.Grace:“Staythere.”ShewasstandingbySammy’sdoor,alitheshadowdownadimlylittunnel,shimmeringontheother
sideofthetearsthatwelleduncontrollablyandspilleddownmycheekstomixwithblood.“Leave.My.Brother.Alone.”“Thatadorablelittleboy?He’syourbrother?I’msorry,Cassiopeia,Ididn’tknow.”Shakingherhead
inmocksadness.Liketheymockedeverydecenthumanthing.“He’salreadydead.”
46
THREETHINGSHAPPENEDthen,allatthesametime.Four,ifyoucountedmyheartblowingapart.I ran—notaway but toward. Iwas going to rip her cover-model face off. Iwas going to tear her
pseudo-humanheartfrombetweenherperfectlyshapedhumanboobs.Iwasgoingtoopenherupwithmyfingernails.Thatwasthefirstthing.The second was the stairway door flying open and Poundcake entering the hall in anything but
Eeyorefashion,shovingmebackwithonearmastheotherbroughthisrifletobearonGrace.Notaneasyshotbyanymeans,butPoundcakewasthesquad’sbestmarksmanafterRinger,accordingtoBen.Thethirdthingwasashirtless,boxer-shorts-wearingEvanWalker,crawlingoutoftheroombehind
Grace.Expertmarksmanornot, ifPoundcakemissed. . .orifGracedivedoutofthewayat thelastsecond...So I did the diving, wrapping my arms around the kid’s ankles. He toppled forward, his rifle
discharged,andthenIheardthestairwaydooragainandBenshouting,“Freeze!”justliketheyusedtointhemovies,butnobodyfroze,notme,notPoundcake,andnotEvan—andcertainlynotGrace,whowasgone.Shewasthereandthenshewasn’t.BenhoppedovermeandPoundcakeandlimpeddownthehalltotheroomoppositeSam’s.Sam.Ijumpedupandraceddownthehall.BenwasmotioningtoPoundcake,saying,“She’sinthere.”Iyankedonthehandle.Locked.Thankyou,God!Ipoundedonthedoor.“Sam!Sam,openup!It’s
me!”Andfromtheotherside,avoicenolouderthanamouse’ssqueak:“It’satrick!You’retrickingme!”Ilostit.Pressedmybloodycheekagainstthedoorandhadagood,solid,andverysatisfyingmini-
breakdown.I’dletmyguarddown.I’dforgottenhowcrueltheOtherscouldbe.Notenoughtopunchaholethroughmyheartwithabullet.No,firstyouhavetopummelitandstomponitandcrushitinyourhandsuntilthetissueoozesfrombetweenyourfingerslikePlay-Doh.“Okay,okay,okay,”Iwhimpered.“Stayinthere,okay?Nomatterwhat,Sam.Don’tcomeouttillI
comeback.”Poundcakewasstandingtoonesideofthedooracrossthehall.BenwashelpingEvantohisfeet—or
trying to. Every time he loosened his grip, Evan’s knees buckled. Ben finally decided to lean himagainstthewall,whereEvanrocked,gaspingforair,hisskinthecoloroftheashesatthecampwheremyfatherdied.Evanlookedoveratmeandhehardlyhadthebreathforthewords:“Getoutofthishallway.Now.”The drywall in front of Poundcake blew apart in a rain of fine white dust and chunks of moldy
wallpaper. He staggered backward. His rifle fell from his limp fingers. He knocked into Ben, whograbbedhimbytheshoulderandthrewhimintotheroomwithDumbo.Benreachedformenext,butIslappedhishandawayandtoldhimtograbEvanbeforepickingupPoundcake’srifleandopeninguponGrace’sdoor.Thesoundwasdeafeninginthenarrowhall.IemptiedthemagazinebeforeBengotholdofmeandpulledmeback.
“Don’tbeanidiot!”heshouted.Heslappedafullmagazineintomyhandandtoldmetowatchthedoorbutstaydown.The scene played out like a TV show going on in another room: just voices. I was flat on my
stomach, restingmyupperbodyonmyelbows, therifle trainedon thedoordirectlyacrossfromme.Comeon,icemaiden.Ihavealittlesomethingforyou.Runningmytongueovermybloodylips,hatingthetaste,lovingthetaste.Comeon,youcreepySwede.Ben:Dumbo,howisit?Dumbo!Dumbo:It’sbad,Sarge.Ben:Howbad?Dumbo:Prettybad...Ben:Oh,Christ.Icanfreakingseethatit’sbad,Dumbo!Evan:Ben—listentome—youhavetolistentome—wehavetogetoutofhere.Now.Ben:Why?Wegothercontained—Evan:Notforlong.Ben:Sullivancanhandleher.Whothehellisshe,anyway?Evan:(unintelligible)Ben:Well,sure.Themorethemerrier.Guesswe’rewellintoPlanB.I’vegotyou,Walker.Dumbo,
youhavePoundcake.Sullivanwilltakethekids.Beneaseddownbesideme,placinghishandonthesmallofmyback.Henoddedtowardthedoor.“Wecan’tbugoutuntilthethreat’sneutralized,”hewhispered.“Hey,whathappenedtoyournose?”Ishrugged.Swipe,swipewentthetongue.“How?”IsoundedlikeIhadabadheadcold.“Prettysimple.Somebodytakesthedoor,onelow,onehigh,onetotheright,onetotheleft.Worst
partthefirsttwoandahalfseconds.”“What’sthebestpart?”“Thelasttwoandahalfseconds.Ready?”“Cassie,wait.”Evan,onhiskneesbehinduslikeapilgrimatthealtar.“Bendoesn’tknowwhathe’s
dealingwith—butyoudo.Tellhim.Tellhimwhatshe’scapa—”“Shutup,loverboy,”Bengrowled.Hetuggedonmyshirt.“Let’sroll.”“She’snoteveninthereanymore—Iguaranteeyou,”Evansaid,raisinghisvoice.“What?Shejumpedtwostories?”Benlaughed.“That’sgreat.I’llpopherbroken-leggedasswhenI
getdownthere.”“Sheprobablyhas jumped—butshedidn’tbreakanything.Grace is likeme.”Evanwas talking to
bothofusbutlookingdesperatelyatme.“Likeme,Cassie.”“Butyou’rehuman—Imean,yourbodyis,”Bensaid.“Andnohumanbodycould—”“Herbodycould.Notmineanymore.Minehas...crashed.”“Yougettingallthis?”Benaskedme.“Becausetome,thissoundslikemoreofMr.E.T.’sbullshit.”“Whatdoyousuggestwedo,Evan?”Iasked.Despitethemightytastybloodinmymouth,therage
wasdrainingoutofme,replacedbytheveryuncomfortableand,bynow,veryfamiliarfeelingofbeinginfivethousandfathomsovermyhead.“Getout.Now.Itisn’tyoushewants.”“Sacrificialgoat,”Bensaidwithanastysmile.“Ilikeit.”“She’ll just letuswalkaway,” I said, shakingmyhead.Mysenseofdrowningwasgrowingmore
acute.CouldBenberight?WhatwasIthinking,trustingEvanWalkerwithmylifeandthelifeofmybrother?Somethingwasoffhere.Somethingwaswrong.“Justlikethat.”“Idon’tknow,”Evananswered,whichwasapoint inhisfavor.Hecouldhavesaid,Sure,she’san
okaypersononceyougetpastheritsy-bitsysadismproblem.“ButIdoknowwhatwillhappenifyoustay.”
“Goodenoughforme,”Benannounced.Hebackedintotheroom.“Changeofplans,boys.I’llhandlePoundcake.Dumbo,youtakeMegan.Sullivan’sgotherbrother.Dropyourtrunkandgrabyourjunk,we’regoin’toaparty!”“Cassie.”Evan scooted besideme.He turnedmy face toward his, ran his thumb overmy bloody
cheek.“It’stheonlyway.”“I’mnotleavingyou,Evan.AndI’mnotlettingyouleaveme.Notagain.”“AndSam?Youmadeapromisetohim,too.Youcan’tkeepboth.Graceismyproblem.She...she
belongstome.NotthewaythatSambelongstoyou;Idon’tmeanthat...”“Really?I’msurprised,Evan.You’reusuallysoclearabouteverything.”Isatup,tookadeepbreath,andslappedhisbeautifulface.Icouldhaveshothimbutdecidedtolet
himoffeasy.And that’swhenweheard it, like the slapwas the signal it hadbeenwaiting for: the soundof an
attackhelicopter,cominginfast.
47
THESPOTLIGHTHITNEXT:Brilliantbrightlightfloodedthehall,pouredintotheroom,flunghard-edgedshadowsagainstthewallsandfloor.Benracedoverandyankedmetomyfeet;IgrabbedEvan’sarmandtugged.Hepulledfree,shakinghishead.“Justleaveagunwithme.”“Yougotit,pal,”Bensaid,handingoverhissidearm.“Sullivan,getyourbrother.”“What’sthematterwithyouguys?”Isaid.Icouldn’tbelieveit.“Wecan’trunnow.”“What’syourplan?”Benshouted.Hehadtoshout.Theroarofthechoppersmasheddownanything
softer—bytheangleoflightandthesound,directlyoverthehotelnow.Evanwrappedhisfingersaroundthesplintereddoorjambandheavedhimself tohisfeet—ortohis
foot;hecouldn’tputanyweightontheotherone.Ishoutedinhisear,“Justtellmeonething,andforonceinyourten-thousand-year-oldlifebehonest.Youneverintendedtorigabombandescapewithus.YouknewGracewascomingandyouwereplanningtoblowbothof—”At thatmoment,Sammybangedoutofhis room,onehandlockedaroundMegan’swrist.Atsome
point,thelittlegirlhadacquiredBear.Samsprobablygaveittoher—hewasalwayspassingthatbeartosomeoneinneed.“Cassie!”Hebarreledintome,hittingmehardinthegutwithhishead.Ihauledhimontomyhip,swayed,Jesus,he’sgettingheavy,andgrabbedMegan’shand.Amaelstromoficywindroaredthroughthebrokenwindow,andIheardDumboscream,“They’re
landingontheroof!”Iheardhimbecausehewaspracticallyclimbingintomybackpockettryingtogetintothehall.Ben
wasrightbehindhim,Poundcakeleaningagainsthisside,thebigkid’sarmdrapedaroundhisshoulder.“Sullivan!”Benshouted.“Moveit!”Evan locked his fingers around my elbow. “Wait.” He looked up at the ceiling. His lips moved
soundlessly,ormaybetherewassoundandIjustcouldn’thearit.“Wait?”Ihollered.Thegeneralsenseofpanichadbecomequitespecific.“Waitforwhat?”Eyesstillheavenward:“Grace.”Abansheehowlroseoverthethrummingoftherotors,increasinginvolumeandpitchuntilitbecame
an ear-piercing, unearthly scream. The whole building shook. A crack raced down the ceiling. Thehorrible hotel prints in their cheap frames toppled from the walls. The spotlight winked out, and asecondlater,theexplosion,andasuperheatedblastofairrumbledintotheroom.“Shegotthepilot,”Evansaidwithanod.Hepulledme,Sams,andMeganintothehallandsaidover
hisshouldertoBen,“Nowyougo.”Thentome:“Thehouseonthemap.It’sGrace’snow,butitwon’tbe after tonight. Don’t leave it. There’s food and water and plenty of supplies to last through thewinter.”Speakingveryquicklynow,almostoutoftime—the5thWavemightnotbecoming,butGracewas.“You’llbesafethere,Cassie.Attheequinox...”Ben,Dumbo,andPoundcakehadreachedthestairs.Benwasfranticallywavingatus,Comeon!“Cassie!Areyoulistening?Attheequinox,themothershipwillsendapodtoextractGracefromthe
safehouse...”“Sullivan!Now!”Benbellowed.
“Ifyoucanfigureoutawaytorigit...”Hewaspressingsomethingintomystomach,butmyhandswerefull.Iwatchedwide-eyedasmylittlebrothersnatchedtheplasticbaggieholdingthebombfromEvan’shand.ThenEvanWalkercuppedmyfaceinhishandsandkissedmehardonthemouth.“Youcanendit,Cassie.You.Andthat’sthewayitshouldbe.Itshouldbeyou.You.”Kissingmeagain,andmybloodmarkinghisface,histearsmarkingmine.“Ican’tmakeanypromisesthistime,”hehurriedon.“Butyoucan.Promiseme,Cassie.Promiseme
you’llendit.”Inodded.“I’llendit.”Andthepromiseasentencehandeddown,acelldoorslammingshut,astone
aroundmynecktocarrymedowntothebottomofaninfinitesea.
48
IPAUSEDFORahalfsecondatthestairwaydoor,knowingImightbeseeinghimforthelasttimeor,moreaccurately,forthesecondlasttime.Thentheplungeintopitchdark,notunlikethefirst lasttime,andwhisperingtoMegantowatchoutforratguts,andthenintothelobby,wheretheboyswhobroughtmetothispartyhungbythefrontdoors,theirbodiessilhouettedintheduskyorangeglowoftheburningchopper.Fleeing through themain entrancewas a brilliantly counterintuitivemove, I thought.GraceprobablyassumedwewerebarricadedinaroomupstairsandwouldMatrix-hopherwayupawalltothebusted-outwindowontheothersideofthebuilding.“Cassie,”Samsaidinmyear.“Yournoseisreallybig.”“That’sbecauseit’sbroken.”Likemyheart,kid.It’saset.PoundcakewasnolongerleaningagainstBenwithhisarmaroundhisneck.Hiswholebigbodywas
drapedoverBen’sinafireman’scarry.AndBendidnotlooklikehewasenjoyingit.“Thatisn’tgoingtowork,youknow,”Iinformedhim.“Youwon’tgetahundredyards.”Benignoredme.“Bo,you’vegotMeganduty.Sam,you’regonnahavetoclimbdown;yoursister’s
takingthepoint.I’vegottherear.”“Ineedagun!”Sammysaid.Benignoredhim,too.“Stages.StageOne:theoverpass.StageTwo:thetreesontheothersideofthe
overpass.StageThree—”“East,”Isaid. IsetSammyonthegroundandpulled thecrumpledmapfrommypocket.Benwas
looking at me like I’d lost my mind. “We’re going here.” Pointing at the tiny square representingGrace’ssafehouse.“Noooo,Sullivan.We’regoingtothecavernstomeetupwithRingerandTeacup.”“Idon’tcarewherewego,aslongasit’snotDubuque!”Dumbocried.Benshookhishead.“You’rekillingit,Dumbo.Justkillingit.Okay,herewego.”Wewent.A light snowwas falling, the tiny crystals ignited in the orange light spinning, and you
couldsmelltheoilystenchofthefuelburningandfeeltheheatpressingdownonyourhead,andItooktheleadasBensuggested—well,ordered—SammyhangingontoabeltloopandDumborightbehindwith Megan, who hadn’t spoken a word, and who could blame her? She was in shock, probably.Halfwayacrosstheparkinglot,nearingthestripofdirtthatseparateditfromtheinterstateon-ramp,IglancedbehindmeintimetoseeBengodownundertheweightofhisburden.IslungSammytowardDumboandskiddedacrosstheslickpavementtoBen.Ontheroofofthehotel,IcouldseethemangledmetalremainsoftheBlackHawk.“Itoldyouthiswouldn’twork!”Iwhisper-yelledathim.“I’mnot leaving him . . .”Benwas on all fours, gasping, retching.His lips shone crimson in the
firelight;hewascoughingupblood.ThenDumbowasstandingbesideme.“Sarge.Hey,Sarge...?”Something inDumbo’s voice grabbed his attention.He lookedup atDumbo,who shookhis head
slowly:He’snotgoingtomakeit.And Ben Parish slammed his open hand onto the frozen ground, arching his back and yelling
incoherently,andI’mthinking,OhGod,ohGod,notthetimeforanexistentialcrisis.We’redoneifhelosesit.Wearesodone.I knelt beside Ben. His face was contorted by pain and fear and rage, the anger rooted in the
unchangeable,ever-presentpast,wherehissistercriedforhimandhestillabandonedhertodeath.Heabandonedherbutshewouldnotabandonhim.Shewouldalwaysbewithhim.Shewouldbewithhimuntilhetookhislastbreath.Shewaswithhimnow,bleedingoutafootaway,andtherewasnothinghecoulddotosaveher.“Ben,”Isaid,runningmyfingersoverthebackofhishead.Hishairshimmered,dottedincrystalline
snow.“It’sover.”A shadow flitted past us, racing toward the hotel. I jumped up and took off after it, because the
shadowwasattachedtomybabybrotherandhewashaulingasstowardthefrontdoors.Icaughthimandyankedhimofftheground,andhecommencedkickingandsquirmingandgenerallygoingberserk,and Iwas sureDumbowas going to pop next, and three lunaticswere toomany for any person tomanage.Iwasworriedfornothing,though.DumbohadBenonhisfeetandMeganbythehand,urgingboth
towardtheroad,havinganeasiertimeofitthanIwaswithSammyhookedundermyarmfacedown,armsandlegsflailing,yelling,“Wegottagoback,Cassie!Wegottagoback!”Acrosstheon-ramp,downthesteephill to theoverpass,StageOnecomplete,andthenIdeposited
Sammyonthegroundandwhackedhimhardonthebuttandtoldhimtoknockitofforhe’dgetusallkilled.“What’sthematterwithyou,anyway?”Iasked.“Iwastryingtotellyou!”hesobbed.“Butyouwouldn’tlisten.Youneverlisten!Idroppedit!”“Youdropped—?”“Thebag,Cassie.Runningout,I...Idroppedit!”IlookedoveratBen.Hunchedover,headdown,forearmsrestingonhisupraisedknees.Ilookedat
Dumbo.Slump-shouldered,wide-eyed,handholdingMegan’s.“Ihaveabadfeelingaboutthis,”hewhispered.Theworldwentbreathless.Eventhesnowseemedtohangsuspendedintheair.Thehotelblewapartinablindingfireballofneongreen.Thegroundshuddered.Airrushedintothe
vacuum,knockingthefourofusoffourfeet.Thenthedebrisroaringtowardus,andIthrewmyselfoverSammy.Awaveofconcrete,glass,wood,andmetalparticles(and—yes—bitsofBen’seffingrats)nolargerthangrainsofsandbarreleddownthehill,agrayboilingmassthatengulfedus.WelcometoDubuque.
49
HEDIDN’TLIKEbeingaroundthesmallestkidsatthecamp.Theyremindedhimofhisbabybrother,theonehelost.Theonethatwastherethemorninghewentoutlookingforfoodandwasn’ttherewhenhereturned.Theoneheneverfound.Atcamp,whenhewasn’ttrainingoreatingorsleepingorwashingdownthebarracksorshininghisbootsorcleaninghisrifleorpullingKPdutyorworkingintheP&Dhangar,hewasvolunteeringinthechildren’shousingorworkingthebusesastheycamein.Hedidn’tlikebeingaroundthelittlekids,buthediditanyway.Heneverlosthopethatonedayhe’dfindhisbabybrother.Thatonedayhewouldwalkintothereceivinghangarandfindhimsittinginoneofthebigredcirclespaintedonthefloor,orseehimswingingfromtheoldtirehungfromthetreeinthemakeshiftplaygroundnexttotheparadegrounds.Butheneverfoundhim.At thehotel,whenhediscoveredtheenemywasplantingbombsinchildren,hewonderedif that’s
whathappenedtohisbrother.Iftheyfoundhimandtookhimandmadehimswallowthegreencapsuleandsenthimoutagain tobefoundbysomeoneelse.Probablynot.Mostchildrenweredead.Onlyahandfulweresavedandbroughttothecamp.Hisbrotherprobablydidn’tlivemanydayspastthedayhedisappeared.Buthecouldhavebeen taken.Hecouldhavebeen forced to swallow thegreencapsule.Hecould
havebeenthrownbackoutintotheworldandlefttowanderuntilhestumbledontoagroupofsurvivorswhowouldtakehiminandfeedhimandfill theroomwiththeirbreath.Itcouldhavehappenedthatway.What’sbotheringyou?Zombiewantedtoknow.TheyhadgoneacrosstheparkinglottofindaCO2
canisterintheolddiner.Zombiehadgivenuptalkingtohimunlesshewasgivinganorder,andhe’dgivenuptryingtogethimtotalk.Whenheaskedthequestion,Zombiereallydidn’texpectananswer.I can always tellwhen something’s botheringyou.Youget like this constipated look.Likeyou’re
tryingtocrapabrick.Thecanisterwasn’tthatheavy,butZombiewashurtandtookthepointonthewayback.Zombiewas
nervous,jumpingateveryshadow.Hekeptsayingtherewassomethingwrong.SomethingwrongaboutthisEvanWalkerandsomethingwrongaboutthesituationingeneral.Zombiethoughttheywerebeingtricked.Backinthehotel,ZombiesentDumboupstairstogetEvan.Thentheywaitedinsidetheelevatorfor
Evantocomedown.See,Cake,thisgoesbacktomypoint,rightbacktoit.EMPsandtsunamisandplaguesandaliensin
disguise and brainwashed kids and nowkidswith bombs inside them.Why are theymaking this sodamncomplicated?It’sliketheywantafight.Orwantthefighttobeinteresting.Hey.Maybethat’sit.Maybe you reach a certain point in evolutionwhere boredom is the greatest threat to your survival.Maybethisisn’taplanetarytakeoveratall,butagame.Likeakidpullingwingsoffflies.Astheminutespassed,Zombiegotmorenervous.Whatnow?Wherethehell ishe?OhChrist,youdon’tthink. . .?Bettergetupthere,Poundcake.
Throwhisassoveryourshoulderandcarryhimdownhereifyouhaveto.
Halfwayupthestairs,heheardaheavythumpoverhishead,thenasecond,softerthump,andthenheheardsomeonescream.Hegot to thedoor in time toseeCassie’sbodyflypastandhit thefloor.Hefollowedher trajectorybackwardandsawthetallgirlstandingbesidetheroomwiththebusteddoor.Andhedidn’thesitate,heburstintothehallandheknewthetallgirlwouldnotsurvive.Hewasagoodshot,thebestinhissquaduntilRingercame,andheknewthathewouldnotmiss.ExceptCassietackledhimandthetallgirlslippedfromhissights.HewouldhavekilledherifCassie
hadn’tdonethat.Hewassureofit.Thenthetallgirlshothimthroughthewall.Dumbotoreopenhisshirtandpressedawadded-upsheetintothewound.Hetoldhimthatitwasn’t
bad,thathewasgoingtomakeit,butheknewhewasn’t.He’dbeenaroundtoomuchdeath.Heknewwhatitsmelledlike,tastedlike,feltlike.Hecarrieddeathinsidehiminthememoriesofhismotherandtheten-footpyresandthebonesalongtheroadandtheconveyorbeltcarryinghundredsintothefurnaceofthepowerplantatcamp,thedeadburnedtolighttheirbarracksandheattheirwaterandkeepthemwarm.Dyingdidn’tbotherhim.Dyingwithoutknowingwhathappenedtohisbrotherbotheredhim.Dying, hewas takendownstairs.Dying, hewas thrownoverZombie’s shoulders.And then in the
parkinglotZombiefellandtheothersgatheredaroundandZombiepoundedthefrozenpavementuntiltheskinonhispalmsburstopen.Theylefthimafterthat.Hewasn’tangry.Heunderstood.Hewasdying.Andthenhegotup.Notatfirst.Atfirst,hecrawled.Thetallgirlwasstandinginthelobbywhenhedraggedhimselfinside.Shewasbesidethedoorthat
opened to the stairs, holding a pistol in both hands, bowing her head as if she were listening forsomething.That’swhenhestoodup.Thetallgirlstiffened.Sheturned.Sheraisedthegunandthenshelowereditwhenshesawhewas
dying.She smiled and saidhello.Shewaswatchinghimbeside the frontdoors and couldn’t see theelevatororEvandroppingdownintoitfromtheescapehatch.Evansawhimandfroze,likehedidn’tknowwhattodo.Iknowyou.Thetallgirlwaswalkingtowardhim.Ifsheturnednow,ifsheglancedbehindher,she
wouldseeEvan,sohedrewhissidearmtodistracther,butthegunslippedfromhishandandlandedonthe floor.Hehad losta lotofblood.Hisbloodpressurewasdropping.Hisheartcouldn’tpumphardenoughandhewaslosingfeelinginhishandsandfeet.Hedropped tohiskneesand reached for thegun.She shothim in thehand.He fellontohisbutt,
jammingthewoundedhandintohispocketasifthatmightprotectit.Gosh,you’reabig,strongboy,aren’tyou?Howoldareyou?Shewaitedforhimtoanswer.What’sthematter?Catgotyourtongue?Sheshothimintheleg.Thenshewaitedforhimtoscreamorcryorsaysomething.Whenhedidn’t,
sheshothimintheotherleg.Behindher,Evandropped tohis stomach and started to crawl toward them.He shookhis head at
Evan,gulpingair.Hefeltnumballover.Therewasnopain,butagraycurtainhaddrawndownoverhiseyes.The tall girl camecloser.ShewasnowhalfwaybetweenhimandEvan.She aimed thegunat the
middleofhisforehead.SaysomethingorIwillblowyourbrainsout.Where’sEvan?Shestartedtoturn.ShemighthaveheardEvancrawlingtowardher.Sohestoodupforthenextto
last time todistracther.Hedidn’t standup fast. It tookoveraminute,bootsslippingon the tilewet
frommeltedsnow,risingup,floppingbackdown,thefactthathekepthishandinhispocketmakingittwiceashard.Thetallgirlsmiledandchuckled,smirkingthewaythekidsdidatschool.Hewasfat.Hewasclumsy.Hewasstupid.Hewaspiglard.Whenhefinallygottohisfeet,sheshothimagain.Pleasehurryup.I’mwastingammo.Theplasticofthecakewrapperhadbeenstiffandcrinklyandalwaysmadeanoisewhenheplayed
withitinhispocket.That’showhismomknewhehaditthedayhisbrotherdisappeared.That’showthe soldierson thebusknew, too.And thedrill sergeantcalledhimPoundcakebecausehe loved thestoryofthefatkidcomingintocampwithjusttheclothesonhisbackandawrapperfullofstalecakecrumbsinhispocket.Theplasticsandwichbagthathefoundjustoutsidethehoteldoorsdidn’tcrinkle.Itwasmuchsofter.
Therewasnonoisewhenhepulleditfromhispocket.Thebagslidoutsilently,assilentashehadbeenafterhewastoldtoshutup,shutup,shutUP.Thetallgirl’ssmilewentaway.AndPoundcake startedmovingagain.Not towardher andnot toward the elevator, but toward the
sidedoorattheendofthehall.Hey,whathaveyougotthere,bigfella?Huh?Whatisthat?I’mguessingitisn’taTylenol.Thetallgirl’ssmilecameback.Adifferentkindofsmile,though.Anicesmile.Shewasverypretty
whenshesmiledlikethat.Shewasprobablytheprettiestgirlhehadeverseen.You’vegottobeverycarefulwiththat.Doyouunderstand?Hey.Hey,youknowwhat?I’llmakea
dealwithyou.I’llputmygundownifyouputthatdown,okay?How’sthatsound?Andthenshedid.Shelaidhergunonthefloor.Shetooktherifleoffhershoulderandlaidthatdown,
too.Thensheheldupherhands.Icanhelpyou.PutthatdownandI’llhelpyou.Youdon’thavetodie.Iknowhowtofixyou.I’m—
I’mnotlikeyou.I’mdefinitelynotasbraveandstrongasyou,that’sforsure.Ican’tbelieveyou’restillstandinglikethat.Shewasgoingtowait.Shewouldwaituntilhepassedoutorfelloverdead.Allshehadtodowas
keeptalkingandsmilingandpretendingshelikedhim.Heunzippedthebag.Thetallgirlwasn’tsmilingnow.Shewasrunningtowardhim,fasterthanhe’dseenanyoneruninhis
life.Thegrayveil shimmeredas shecameon.Whenshewasclose,her feet left thegroundand shejavelinedintothespotwherethefirstbullethithim,hurlinghimbackwardandsmashinghimintothemetaldoorframe.Thebaggieflewfromhisnumbfingersandslidlikeahockeypuckacrossthetile.Thegrayveilturnedblackforasecond.Thetallgirlpivotedasgracefullyasaballerinatowardthebag.Hehookedheranklewithhislegandsenthersprawling.Shewastooquickandhewastoohurt.She’dgettherebeforehim.Sohepickedupthegunthathe
haddroppedandshotherintheback.Thenhegotup for the last time.He tossed thegunaway.Hesteppedoverherwrithingbody,and
that’sasfarashegotbeforefallingforthelasttime.Hecrawledtowardthebag.Shecrawledafterhim.Shecouldn’tstandup.Thebullethadshattered
herspinalcord.Shewasparalyzedfromthewaistdown.Butshewasstrongerthanhimandhadn’tlostasmuchblood.Hescoopedtheplasticbagfromthefloor.Herhandfellonhisarmandyankedhimtowardherasif
heweighednothingatall.Shewouldfinishhimwithasinglepunchtohisdyingheart.Butallhehadtodowasbreathe.Heslappedtheopeningofthebagoverhismouth.Andbreathed.
BOOKTWO
50
I’M SITTING ALONE in a windowless classroom. Blue carpet, white walls, long white tables. Whitecomputermonitorswithwhite keyboards. I’mwearing thewhite jumpsuit of new recruits.Differentcamp,samedrill,downtotheimplantinmyneckandatriptoWonderland.I’mstillpayingforthattrip.You don’t feel empty after they drain your memories. You’re sore as hell all over. Muscles retainmemory,too.That’swhytheyhavetostrapyoudownfortheride.ThedooropensandCommanderAlexanderVoschstepsintotheroom.Hecarriesawoodenboxthat
hesetsdownonthetableinfrontofme.“You’relookingwell,Marika,”hesays.“MuchbetterthanIexpected.”“MynameisRinger.”He nods. He understands exactlywhat Imean.More than once I’vewondered if the information
gatheredbyWonderlandflowsbothways. Ifyoucandownloadhumanexperience,whycouldn’tyouupload it? It’s possible the personwho is smiling atme now contains thememories of every singlehumanbeingwho’sbeenthroughtheprogram.Hemaynotbehuman—andIhavemydoubtsaboutthat—buthemayalsobethesumofallhumanswhohavepassedthroughWonderland’sgates.“Yes.Marikaisdead.”Hesitsdownacrossfromme.“Andnowhereyouare,risingphoenixlikefrom
herashes.”HeknowswhatI’mgoingtosay.Icantellbythetwinklinginhisbaby-blueeyes.Whycan’thejust
tellme?WhydoIhavetoask?“IsTeacupalive?”“Whichanswerareyoumorelikelytotrust?Yesorno?”Thinkbeforeyourespond.Chessteachesthat.“No.”“Why?”“Yescouldbealietomanipulateme.”He’snoddingappreciatively.“Togiveyoufalsehope.”“Togainleverage.”Hecockedhisheadand lookeddownhisnarrownoseatme. “Whywould someone likemeneed
leverageoversomeonelikeyou?”“Idon’tknow.Theremustbesomethingyouwant.”“Otherwise...?”“OtherwiseI’dbedead.”Hedoesn’tsayanythingforalongmoment.Hisstarepiercesdowntomybones.Hegesturesatthe
woodenbox.“Ibroughtyousomething.Openit.”Ilookatthebox.Lookbackathim.“I’mnotgoingtodoit.”“It’sjustabox.”“Whateveryouwantmetodo,Iwon’t.You’rewastingyourtime.”“Andtimeis theonlycurrencywehaveleft, isn’t it?Time—andpromises.”Tappingthe lidof the
box. “I spent agreatdealof that first precious commodity to findoneof these.”Henudges thebox
towardme.“Openit.”I open it.He goes on. “Benwouldn’t playwith you.Or littleAllison—ImeanTeacup;Allison is
dead,too.Youhaven’tplayedagameofchesssinceyourfatherdied.”I shakemyhead.Not inanswer tohisquestion. I shakemyheadbecause Idon’tget it.Thechief
architectofthegenocidewantstoplaychesswithme?I’mshiveringinthepaper-thinjumpsuit.Theroomisverycold.Smiling,Voschiswatchingme.No.
Not justwatching.This isn’t likeWonderland. It isn’t just yourmemories he knows.He knowswhatyou’rethinking,too.Wonderlandisadevice.Itrecords,butVoschreads.“They’regone,”Iblurtout.“They’renotatthehotel.Andyoudon’tknowwheretheyare.”Thathas
tobeit.Icanthinkofnootherreasonwhyhehasn’tkilledme.Acrappyreason,though.Inthisweatherandwithhisresources,howhardcoulditbetofindthem?I
clampmycoldhandsbetweenmykneesandforcemyselftobreatheslowlyanddeeply.Heopensthelid,removestheboard,andtakesoutthewhitequeen.“White?Youpreferwhite.”Long,nimblefingerssetuptheboard.Thefingersofamusician,asculptor,apainter.Herestshis
elbowsonthetableandlacesthosefingerstomakeashelfforhischin,likemyfatherdideverytimeheplayed.“Whatdoyouwant?”Iask.Heraisesaneyebrow.“Iwanttoplayagameofchess.”Staring at me silently. Five seconds becomes ten. Ten becomes twenty. After thirty seconds, an
eternity has passed. I think I know what he’s doing: playing a game within a game. I just don’tunderstandwhy.I openwith theRuyLopez.Not themost original opening in thehistoryof thegame; I’ma little
stressed.Asweplay,hehumssoftly,tunelessly,andnowIknowhe’sdeliberatelymockingmyfather.Mystomachrollswithrevulsion.TosurviveIbuiltwalls,anemotionalfortressthatprotectedmeandkeptmesaneinaworldgonedangerouslyinsane,buteventhemostopenpersonhasaprivate,sacredplacewherenooneelsemaygo.Iunderstandthegamewithinthegamenow:Thereisnothingprivate,nothingsacred.Thereisnopart
ofmehiddenfromhim.Mystomachchurnswithrevulsion.He’sviolatedmorethanmymemories.He’smolestingmysoul.Themouseandkeyboardtomyrightarewireless.Butthemonitorbesidehimisn’t.Alungeacross
thetable,awallopupsidehishead,andawrapofthecordaroundhisneck.Executedinfourseconds,overinfourminutes.Unlesswe’rebeingwatched,andweprobablyare.Voschwilllive,TeacupandIwilldie.AndevenifImanagetotakehimoutfirst,thevictorywillbePyrrhic,assumingEvanWalker’sclaimistrue.Atthehotel,IpointedthisouttoSullivanwhenshesaidEvanhadsacrificedhimselftoblowup thebase: If theycandownload themselves intohumanbodies, theycanalsomakecopiesofthemselves.The setof “Evans”and“Voschs”wouldbe infinite.Evancouldkillhimself. I couldkillVosch.Wouldn’tmatter.Bydefinition,theentitiesinsidethemareimmortal.You need to pay close attention to what I’m telling you, Sullivan said with exaggerated patience.
There’sahumanEvanwhomergedwiththealienconsciousness.He’snotoneortheother;he’sboth.Sohecandie.Nottheimportantpart.Right,shesnapped.Justtheinsignificanthumanpart.Voschisleaningovertheboard.Hisbreathsmellslikeapples.Ipressmyhandsintomylap.Heraises
aneyebrow.Problem?“I’mgoingtolose,”Itellhim.Hefeignssurprise.“Whatmakesyouthinkso?”“YouknowmymovesbeforeImakethem.”
“You’rereferringtotheWonderlandprogram.Butyou’reforgettingthatwearemorethanthesumofourexperiences.Humanbeingscanbemarvelouslyunpredictable.YourrescueofBenParishduringthefallofCampHaven,forexample,defiedlogicandignoredthefirstprerogativeofalllivingthings:tocontinueliving.Oryourdecisionyesterdaytogiveyourselfupwhenyourealizedcapturewasthelittlegirl’sonlychancetosurvive.”“Didshe?”“You already know the answer to that question.” Impatiently, like a harsh teacher to a promising
student.Hegesturesattheboard:Play.I wrap a hand aroundmy fist and squeeze as hard as I can. Imaginingmy fist is his neck. Four
minutestochokethelifeoutofhim.Justfourminutes.“Teacup’salive,”Itellhim.“Youknowthethreattofrymybrainwon’tmakemedowhatyouwant
metodo.ButyouknowI’lldoitforher.”“Youbelongtoeachothernow,yes?Connectedasifbyasilvercord?”Smiling.“Anyway,besides
theseriousinjuriesfromwhichshemaynotrecover,you’vegivenherthepricelessgiftoftime.ThereisasayinginLatin.Vincitquipatitur.Doyouknowwhatitmeans?”I’mbeyondcold.I’vereachedabsolutezero.“YouknowIdon’t.”“‘Heconquerswhoendures.’RememberpoorTeacup’srats.Whatcantheyteachus?Itoldyouwhen
youfirstcametome;itisn’tsomuchaboutcrushingyourcapacitytofightasitisyourwilltofight.”Theratsagain.“Ahopelessratisadeadrat.”“Ratsdonotknowhope.Orfaith.Orlove.Youwererightaboutthosethings,PrivateRinger.They
will not deliver humanity through the storm. You were wrong, however, about rage. Rage isn’t theanswer,either.”“What’stheanswer?”Idon’twanttoask,don’twanttogivehimthesatisfaction,butIcan’thelpit.“You’reclosetoit,”hesays.“Ithinkyoumightbesurprisedhowcloseyouare.”“Closetowhat?”Myvoicesoundsassmallasarat’s.Heshakeshishead,impatientagain.“Play.”“It’spointless.”“AworldinwhichchessdoesnotmatterisnotaworldinwhichIwishtolive.”“Stopdoingthat.Stopmockingmyfather.”“Your fatherwas agoodman in thrall to a terrible disease.You shouldn’t judgehimharshly.Nor
yourselfforabandoninghim.”Pleasedon’tgo.Don’tleaveme,Marika.Long,nimblefingersclawingatmyshirt,thefingersofanartist.Facesculptedbythemercilessknife
ofhunger,theinfuriatedartistwiththehelplessclay,andredeyesrimmedinblack.I’llcomeback.Ipromise.You’regoingtodiewithoutit.Ipromise.I’llcomeback.Voschissmilingsoullessly,ashark’ssmileoraskull’ssneer,andifrageisnottheanswer,whatis?
I’m squeezingmy fist hard enough to forcemy nails intomy palm.Here’s how Evan described it,Sullivansaid,wrappingherfistinherhand.ThisisEvan.Thisisthebeinginside.Myhandistherage,butwhatismyfist?Whatisthethingwrappedupinrage?“Onemovefrommate,”Voschsayssoftly.“Whywon’tyoumakeit?”Mylipsbarelymove.“Idon’tliketolose.”Hepullsasilverdevicethesizeofacellphonefromhisbreastpocket.I’veseenonebefore.Iknow
whatitdoes.Theskinaroundthetinypatchofadhesivesealingtheinsertionpointonmyneckbeginstoitch.“We’realittlebeyondthatstage,”hesays.Bloodinsidethefistthat’swithinthehandclenchingthefist.“Pushthebutton.Idon’tgiveashit.”Henodsapprovingly.“Nowyou’reveryclosetotheanswer.Butitisnotyourimplantlinkedtothis
transmitter.Doyoustillwantmetopushit?”Teacup.Ilookdownattheboard.Onemovefrommate.Thematchwasoverbeforeitbegan.When
thegameisfixed,howdoyouavoidlosing?A seven-year-old knew the answer to that question. I slidemyhandbeneath the board andhurl it
towardhishead.Iguessthat’scheckmate,bitch!He sees it coming and ducks easily out of the way. Pieces clatter on the table, roll lazily on the
tabletopbeforefallingofftheedge.Heshouldn’thavetoldmethatthedeviceislinkedtoTeacup:Ifhepushesthebutton,heloseshisleverageoverme.Voschpushesthebutton.
51
MYREACTIONISmonthsinthemaking.Andinstantaneous.Ileapacrossthetable,drivemykneehardintohischest,andknockhimstraightbackontothefloor.I
land on top of him and smash the heel of my bloody hand into his aristocratic nose, rotating myshouldersintotheblowtomaximizetheimpact,textbookperfect,justlikemytrainersatCampHaventaughtme.Drillafterdrillafterdrilluntilthere’snoneedtothink:Musclesretainmemory,too.Hisnosebreaks with a satisfying crunch. This is the point, the instructors told me, when a wise soldierwithdraws. Hand-to-hand is unpredictable and every second you remain engaged increases the risk.GettingofftheXwastheexpression.Vincitquipatitur.Butthere’snogettingoffthisparticularX.Theclock’sdowntothefinaltick;I’moutoftime.The
doorfliesopenandsoldierspourintotheroom.I’mtakendownquickandhard,yankedoffVoschandthrownface-firstontothefloor,ashinpressedagainstmyneck.Ismellblood.Notmine,his.“Youdisappointme,”hewhispersinmyear.“Itoldyouragewasn’ttheanswer.”Theypullmetomyfeet.ThelowerhalfofVosch’sfaceiscoveredinblood.Itsmearshischeekslike
warpaint.Hiseyesarealreadyswelling,givinghimaweird,piglikeappearance.Heturnstothesquadleaderstandingbesidehim,aslender,fair-skinnedrecruitwithblondhairand
soulfuldarkeyes.“Prepher.”
52
HALLWAY:LOWCEILINGS,flickeringfluorescents,cinder-blockwalls.Thepressofbodiesaroundme,oneinfront,onebehind,twooneithersideholdingmyarms.Thesqueakofrubber-soledshoesagainstthegrayconcretefloorandthefaintodorofsweatandthebittersweetsmellofrecycledair.Stairwell:metalrailspaintedgraylikethefloors,cobwebsflutteringincorners,dustyyellowlightbulbsinwirecages,descendingintowarmer,mustierair.Anotherhall:unmarkeddoorsandlargeredstripesrunningdowneach gray wall and signs that read NO ACCESS and AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Room: small,windowless.Cabinetsononewall, ahospital bed in themiddle,vital signsmonitorbeside it, screendark.Oneithersideofthebed,twopeoplewearingwhitecoats.Amiddle-agedman,ayoungerwoman,forcingsmiles.Thedoorclangs shut. I’malonewith theWhiteCoats, except for theblond recruit standingat the
doorbehindme.“Easyorhard,”themaninthewhitecoatsays.“Yourchoice.”“Hard,”Isay.Iwhiparoundanddroptherecruitwithapunchtothethroat.Hissidearmclattersonto
thetile.IscoopitupandturnbacktotheWhiteCoats.“There’snoescape,”themansayscalmly.“Youknowthat.”Idoknowthat.Butescapingisn’tthereasonIneedthegun.Notescapinginthesensehemeansit.
I’mnottakinghostagesandI’mnotkillinganyone.Killinghumanbeingsistheenemy’sgoal.Behindme,thekidwrithesonthefloor,makinghiccupping,gurglingsounds.Imayhavefracturedhislarynx.I glance up at the camera mounted in the far corner of the room. Is he watching? Thanks to
Wonderland,heknowsmebetterthananyoneonEarth.HemustknowwhyItookthegun:I’mmated.Andit’stoolatetoresignthegame.Ipressthecoldmuzzleagainstmytemple.Thewoman’smouthcomesopen.Shetakesasteptoward
me.“Marika.”Kindeyes.Softvoice.“She’salivebecauseyouare.Ifyouaren’t,shewon’tbe.”Itclicksthen.Hetoldmerageisn’ttheanswer,andrageistheonlyexplanationforhimhittingthe
killswitchwhenIupendedtheboard.That’swhatIthoughtwhenithappened.Itneveroccurredtomethathemightbebluffing.And it shouldhave.There’snowayhe’dgiveuphis leverage.Whydidn’t I see that? I’m theone
blindedbyrage,nothim.I’mdizzy;theroomwon’tstaystill.Bluffsinsidebluffs,feintswithincounterfeints.I’minagamein
whichIdon’tknowtherulesoreventheobject.TeacupisalivebecauseIam.I’malivebecausesheis.“Takemetoher,”Isaytothewoman.Iwantproofthatthatonefundamentalassumptionistrue.“Notgoingtohappen,”themansays.“Sonowwhat?”Goodquestion.Buttheissuehastobepressedandpressedhard,ashardasIpressthegunagainstmy
temple.“TakemetoherorIsweartoGodI’lldoit.”“Youcan’t,”theyoungwomansays.Softvoice.Kindeyes.Handoutstretched.She’sright.Ican’t.Itcouldbealie;Teacupcouldbedead.Butachanceremainsthatshe’salive,and
ifI’mgone,there’snoreasontokeepherthatway.Theriskisunacceptable.
Thisisthebind.Thisisthetrap.Thisiswheretheroadofimpossiblepromisesdead-ends.Thisistheonly possible outcomeof the antiquated belief that the insignificant life of a seven-year-old kid stillmatters.I’msorry,Teacup.Ishouldhavefinishedthisbackinthewoods.Ilowerthegun.
53
THEMONITORFLICKERSon.Pulse,bloodpressure,breathing, temperature.ThekidI tookdownisbackup,leaningagainstthedoor,onehandmassaginghisthroat,theotherholdingthegun.Heglowersatmelyingonthebed.“Something to help you relax,” the woman with the soft voice and kind eyes murmurs. “A little
stick.”The bite of the needle. The walls disappear into colorless nothing. A thousand years pass. I am
groundtodustbeneaththeheeloftime.Theirvoiceslumber,theirfacesexpand.Thethinfoambeneathmedissolves.Iamfloatingonanunboundedoceanofwhite.Adisembodiedvoiceemergesfromthefog.“Andnowlet’sreturntotheproblemofrats,shallwe?”Vosch.Idon’tseehim.Hisvoicehasnosource.Itoriginatesfromeverywhereandnowhere,asifhe’s
insideme.“You’ve lost your home. And the lovely one—the only one—that you’ve found to replace it is
infestedwithvermin.Whatcanyoudo?Whatareyourchoices?Resignyourselftolivepeaceablywiththe destructive pests or exterminate them before they can destroy your new home? Do you say toyourself,‘Ratsaredisgustingcreatures,butneverthelesstheyarelivingthingswiththesamerightsasme’?Or doyou say, ‘We are incompatible, these rats and I. If I am to live here, these verminmustdie’?”From a thousandmiles away, I hear themonitor beeping,marking the beat ofmy heart. The sea
undulates.Iriseandfallwitheachrollofthesurface.“But it isn’t really about the rats.”His voice pounds, dense, thick as thunder. “It neverwas. The
necessity of exterminating them is a given. It’s the method that troubles you. The real issue, thefundamentalproblem,isrocks.”Thewhite curtain peels away. I’m still floating, but now I’m far above the Earth in a black void
awashwithstars,andthesunkissingthehorizonpaintstheplanet’ssurfacebeneathmeashimmeringgold.Themonitorbeepsfrantically,andavoicesays,“Oh,crap,”andthenVosch’s:“Breathe,Marika.You’reperfectlysafe.”Perfectlysafe.Sothat’swhytheysedatedme.Iftheyhadn’t,myheartprobablywouldhavestopped
from shock. The effect is three-dimensional, indistinguishable from reality, except I would not bebreathinginspace.OrhearingVosch’svoiceinaplacewheresounddoesnotexist.“This is theEarthas itwas sixty-sixmillionyearsago.Beautiful, isn’t it?Edenic.Unspoiled.The
atmospherebeforeyoupoisonedit.Thewaterbeforeyoufouledit.Thelandlushwithlifebeforeyou,rodentsthatyouare,shreddedittopiecestofeedyourvoraciousappetitesandbuildyourfilthynests.Itmayhaveremainedpristineforanothersixty-sixmillionyears,unsulliedbyyourmammaliangluttony,ifnotforachanceencounterwithanalienvisitorone-quarterthesizeofManhattan.”Itwhizzes pastme, pockmarked and craggy, blotting out the stars as it barrels toward the planet.
When itbreaks through theatmosphere, the lowerhalfof theasteroidbegins toglow.Brightyellow,thenwhite.“Andthusthefateoftheworldisdecided.Byarock.”
NowI’mstandingontheshoresofavast,shallowsea,watchingtheasteroidfall,atinydot,apebble,insignificant.“Whenthedustfromtheimpacthassettled,three-quartersofalllifeonEarthwillbegone.Theworld
ends.Theworldbegins again.Humanityowes its existence to abit of cosmicwhimsy.Toa rock. Itreallyisremarkablewhenyouthinkaboutit.”Thegroundshudders.Adistantboom,thenaneeriesilence.“Andthereinliestheconundrum,theriddleyou’vebeenavoiding,becauseconfrontingtheproblem
shakes apart the very foundation, doesn’t it? It defies explanation. It renders all that’s happenedimpossiblydiscordant,absurd,nonsensical.”The sea roils; steam whips and swirls. The water is boiling away. A massive wall of dust and
pulverizedstone roars towardme,blottingout thesky.Theair is filledwithhigh-pitchedscreeching,likethescreamsofadyinganimal.“Idon’thavetostatetheobvious,doI?Thequestionhasbeenbotheringyouforaverylongtime.”I can’tmove. I know it isn’t real, butmypanic is as the thunderingwall of steamanddust bears
down.Amillionyearsofevolutionhastaughtmetotrustmysenses,andtheprimitivepartofmybrainisdeaftotherationalpartthatscreamsinahighpitchlikeadyinganimal,Notrealnotrealnotrealnotreal.“Electromagneticpulses.Giantmetalrodsrainingfromthesky.Viralplague...”Hisvoiceriseswith
eachwordandthewordsarelikethunderclapsortheheelofabootslammingdown.“Sleeperagentsimplantedinhumanbodies.Armiesofbrainwashedchildren.Whatisthis?That’sthecentralquestion.Theonlyonethatreallymatters:Whybotherwithanyofitwhenallyouneedisavery,verybigrock?”Thewaverollsoverme,andIdrown.
54
I’MBURIEDFORMILLENNIA.Miles aboveme, theworldwakes. In the cool shadows pooling on the rain forest floor, a ratlike
creaturedigs for tender roots. Itsdescendantswill tamefire, invent thewheel,discovermathematics,createpoetry,rerouterivers,levelforests,buildcities,exploredeepspace.Fornow,theonlyimportantbusinessisfindingfoodandstayingalivelongenoughtomakemoreratlikecreatures.Annihilatedinfireanddust,theworldisreborninahungryrodentdigginginthedirt.Theclockticks.Nervously,thecreaturesniffsthewarm,moistair.Themetronomicbeatoftheclock
speedsup,andIrisetowardthesurface.WhenIemergefromthedust,thecreaturehastransformed:It’ssitting in a chair beside my bed, wearing a pair of jeans stiff with dirt and a torn T-shirt. Stoop-shouldered,unshaven,hollow-eyedinventorofthewheel,inheritor,caretaker,prodigal.Myfather.Thebeep-beepofthemonitor.ThedrippingIVandthestiffsheetsandthehardpillowandthelines
snaking frommy arms.And theman sitting beside the bed, sallow and sweaty, coveredwith grime,restless,nervouslypluckingathisshirt,bloodshoteyesandwet,swollenlips.“Marika.”Iclosemyeyes.It’snothim.It’sthedrugVoschpumpedintoyou.Again:“Marika.”“Shutup.You’renotreal.”“Marika,there’ssomethingIwanttotellyou.Somethingyoushouldknow.”“Idon’tunderstandwhyyou’redoingthistome,”IsaytoVosch.Iknowhe’swatching.“Iforgiveyou,”myfathersays.Ican’tcatchmybreath.There’sasharppaininmychest,likeaknifedrivinghome.“Please,”IbegVosch.“Pleasedon’tdothis.”“Youhad to leave,”myfather says.“Youdidn’thaveachoice,andanyway,whathappened ismy
owndamnfault.Youdidn’tmakemeadrunk.”Instinctively,Ipressmyhandsagainstmyears.Buthisvoiceisn’tintheroom;it’sinme.“Ididn’tlastlongafteryouleft,”myfathertriestoreassureme.“Onlyacouplehours.”WemadeitasfarasCincinnati.Alittleoverahundredmiles.Thenhisstashranout.Hebeggedme
nottoleavehim,butIknewifIdidn’tfindsomealcoholfast,he’ddie.Ifoundsome—abottleofvodkatuckedunderneathamattress—afterbreakingintosixteenhouses, ifyoucancall itbreakingin,sinceeveryhousewasabandonedandallIhadtodowasstepthroughabrokenwindow.Iwassohappytofindthatbottle,Iactuallykissedit.ButIwastoolate.HewasdeadbythetimeImadeitbacktoourcamp.“Iknowyoubeatyourselfupoverthat,butIwould’vediedeitherway,Marika.Eitherway.Youdid
whatyouthoughtyouhadtodo.”There’snohidingfromhisvoice.Norunningfromit,either.Iopenmyeyesandlookstraightinto
his.“Iknowthisisalie.Youaren’treal.”He smiles. The same smile as when I made a particularly goodmove in a match. The delighted
teacher.“That’swhatI’vecometotellyou!”Herubshislongfingersagainsthisthighs,andIcanseethedirt
encrustedbeneaththenails.“That’sthelesson,Marika.That’swhattheywantyoutounderstand.”Warmhandagainstcoolskin:He’s touchingmyarm.The last timeI felthishandwasagainstmy
cheek,inhard,stingingslapswhiletheotherhandheldmestill.Bitch!Don’tleaveme.Don’tyoueverleaveme,bitch!Eachbitch!punctuatedbyaslap.Hismindwasgone.Seeingthingsthatweren’ttherein the profound darkness that slammed down every night. Hearing things in the awful silence thatthreatenedtocrushyoueveryday.Onthenighthedied,hewokeupscreaming,clawingathiseyes.Hecouldfeelbugsinsidethem,crawling.Thosesameswolleneyesstaringatmenow.Andtheclawmarksbeneaththemstillfresh.Another
circle, another silver cord:Now I am theone seeing things,hearing things, feeling things that aren’tthereinawfulsilence.“First they taughtusnot to trust them,”hewhispers. “Then they taughtusnot to trust eachother.
Nowthey’reteachinguswecan’teventrustourselves.”AndIwhisperback,“Idon’tunderstand.”He’s fading away.As I drop deeper into lightless depths,my father fades into depthless light.He
kissesmeontheforehead.Abenediction.Acurse.“Youbelongtothemnow.”
55
THECHAIRISEMPTYAGAIN.I’malone.ThenIremindmyselfIwasalonewhenthechairwasn’tempty.Iwaitforthepoundingofmyhearttosubside.Iwillmyselftostaycalm,tocontrolmybreathing.ThedrugwillworkitswaythroughmysystemandI’llbefine.You’resafe,Itellmyself.Perfectlysafe.The blond recruit I punched in the throat comes in. He’s carrying a tray of food: a slab of gray
mysterymeat,potatoes,amushypileofbeans,andatallglassoforangejuice.Hesetsthetraybythebed,pushesthebuttontoraisemetoasittingposition,rotatesthetrayinfrontofme,thenstandsthere,armscrossed,asifhe’swaitingforsomething.“Letmeknowhowittastes,”hewhispershoarsely.“Ican’teatsolidfoodforthreemoreweeks.”Hisskinisfair,whichmakeshisbrown,deep-seteyesseemevendarker.Heisn’tbig,notbufflike
ZombieorblockylikePoundcake.He’stallandlean,aswimmer’sbody.There’saquietintensityabouthim, in theway he carries himself but especially in the eyes, a carefully contained force coiled justbeneaththesurface.I’mnotsurewhatheexpectsmetosay.“Sorry.”“Suckerpunch.”Drumminghisfingersonhisforearm.“You’renotgoingtoeat?”Ishakemyhead.“Nothungry.”Is the food real? Is the kid who brings the food real? The uncertainty of my own experience is
crushing.Iamdrowninginaninfinitesea.Sinkingslowly,theweightofthelightlessdepthsforcingmedown,forcingtheairfrommylungs,squeezingthebloodfrommyheart.“Drinkthejuice,”hescolds.“Theysaidyoushouldatleastdrinkthejuice.”“Why?”Imanagetochokeout.“What’sinthejuice?”“Alittleparanoid?”“Alittle.”“Theyjustdrainedaboutapintofbloodfromyou.Sotheysaidmakesureyoudrinkthejuice.”I havenomemoryof their takingmyblood.Did that happenwhile Iwas “talking” tomy father?
“Whyaretheydrainingmyblood?”Dead-eyedstare.“Let’sseeifIcanremember.Theytellmeeverything.”“Whatdidtheytellyou?WhyamIhere?”“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” he says. Then: “They told us you’re a VIP. Very important
prisoner.”Shakinghishead.“Idon’tgetit.Inthegoodolddays,Dorothysjust...disappeared.”“I’mnotaDorothy.”Heshrugs.“Idon’taskquestions.”ButIneedhimtoanswersome.“DoyouknowwhathappenedtoTeacup?”“Ranawaywiththespoon,whatIheard.”“Thatwasthedish.”“Iwasmakingajoke.”“Idon’tgetit.”“Well.Fuckyou.”“Thelittlegirlwhochopperedinwithme.Badlywounded.Ineedtoknowifshe’salive.”
Noddingseriously.“I’llgetrightonthat.”I’mgoingaboutthiswrong.Iwasnevergoodwithpeople.MynicknameinmiddleschoolwasHer
MajestyMarikaandadozenvariationsofthesame.MaybeIshouldestablisharapportbeyondeff-you.“Myname’sRinger.”“That’swonderful.Youmustbeverysatisfiedwiththat.”“Youlookfamiliar.WereyouatCampHaven?”Hestartstosaysomething.Stopshimself.“Ihaveordersnottotalktoyou.”IalmostsayThenwhyareyou?ButIcatchmyself.“It’sprobablyagoodidea.Theydon’twantyou
toknowwhatIknow.”“Oh,Iknowwhatyouknow:It’sallalie,we’vebeentrickedbytheenemy,they’reusingustowipe
outsurvivors,blah,blah,blah.TypicalDorothycrap.”“Iusedtothinkallthat,”Iadmit.“NowI’mnotsosure.”“You’llfigureitout.”“Iwill.”Rocksandratsandlife-formsevolvedbeyondtheneedforphysicalbodies.I’llfigureitout,
butprobablytoolate,thoughit’sprobablyalreadytoolate.Whydidtheytakemyblood?WhyisVoschkeepingmealive?WhatcouldIhavethathecouldpossiblyneed?Whydotheyneedme,thisblondkid,oranyhuman?Iftheycouldgeneticallyengineeravirusthatkillsnineoutoftenpeople,whynottenoutoften?Or,asVoschsaid,whybotherwithanyofit,whenallyouneedisaverybigrock?Myheadhurts.I’mdizzy.Nauseated.Imissbeingabletothinkclearly.Itusedtobemynumberone
favoritething.“DrinkyourdamnjuicesoIcango,”hesays.“TellmeyournameandI’lldrinkit.”Hehesitates,then:“Razor.”Idrinkthejuice.Hepicksupthetrayandleaves.Igothisnameatleast.Aminorvictory.
56
THEWOMANINthewhitelabcoatshowsup.ShesayshernameisDr.Claire.Dark,wavyhairpulledbackfromherface.Eyesthecolorofanautumnsky.Shesmellslikebitteralmonds,whichisalsotheodorofcyanide.“Whydidyoutakemyblood?”Shesmiles.“BecauseRingerissosweet,wedecidedtocloneahundredofher.”Thereisnotahintof
sarcasminhervoice.ShedisconnectstheIVandstepsbackquickly,asifshe’safraidI’llleapfromthebed and strangle her. Strangling herdidoccur tome, briefly, but I’d rather stab her to deathwith apocketknife.Idon’tknowhowmanystabsthatwouldtake.Alot,probably.“That’sanotherthingthatdoesn’tmakesense,”Itellher.“Whydownloadyourconsciousnessintoa
humanbodywhenyoucancloneasmanyasyoulikeinyourmothership?Zerorisk.”EspeciallysinceoneofyourdownloadscangoallEvanWalkeronyouandfallinlovewithahumangirl.“That’sagoodpoint.”Noddingseriously.“I’llbringthatupatthenextplanningmeeting.Maybewe
needtorethinkthiswholehostile-takeoverthingy.”Shemotionstowardthedoor.“March.”“Where?”“You’llfindout.Don’tworry.”Claireadds,“You’regoingtoenjoyit.”Wedon’tgofar.Twodoorsdown.Theroomisspare.Asinkandacabinet,atoiletandashowerstall.“Howlonghasitbeensinceyou’vehadadecentshower?”sheasks.“CampHaven.ThenightbeforeIshotmydrillsergeantintheheart.”“Didyou?”sheaskscasually,as if I’d toldherIused to live inSanFrancisco.“Towelright there.
Toothbrush, comb,deodorant in thecabinet. I’ll be righton theother sideof thedoor.Knock ifyouneedanything.”Alone, I open the cabinet. Roll-on antiperspirant. A comb. A travel-sized tube of toothpaste. A
toothbrush in a plastic wrapper. No floss. I’d hoped there’d be floss. I waste a couple of minuteswonderinghowlongitwouldtaketosharpentheendofthetoothbrushintoapropercuttinginstrument.ThenIslipoutofthejumpsuitandstepintotheshower,andIthinkofZombie,notbecauseI’mnakedin a shower, but remembering him talking about Facebook and drive-thrus and tardy bells and theendless list of all things lost, like greasy fries and musty bookstores and hot showers. I turn thetemperatureashighasIcanstanditandletthewaterrainovermeuntilmyfingertipspucker.Lavendersoap.Fruity shampoo.Thehard lumpof the tiny transmitter rollsbeneathmy fingers.Youbelong tothemnow.Ihurltheshampoobottleagainsttheshowerwall.Slammyfistintothetileagainandagainuntilthe
skinonmyknucklessplitsopen.Myangerisgreaterthanthesumofalllostthings.
•••
Vosch iswaiting forme back in the room two doors down.He says nothing asClaire bandagesmyhand,silentuntilwe’realone.“Whatdidyouaccomplish?”heasks.
“Ineededtoprovesomethingtomyself.”“Painbeingtheonlytrueproofoflife?”Ishakemyhead.“IknowI’malive.”Henodsthoughtfully.“Wouldyouliketoseeher?”“Teacupisdead.”“Whydoyouthinkthat?”“There’snoreasontoletherlive.”“That’s correct, if we proceed from the assumption that the only reason to keep her alive is to
manipulateyou.Really,thenarcissismoftoday’syouth!”Hepressesabuttononthewall.Ascreenlowersfromtheceiling.“You can’t force me to help you.” Fighting down a rising sense of panic, of losing control of
somethingIneverhadcontrolover.Voschholdsouthishand.Inhispalmisashinygreenobjectthesizeandshapeofalargegelcapsule.
Ahair-thinwireprotrudesfromoneend.“Thisisthemessage.”Thelightsdim.Thescreenflickerstolife.Thecamerasoarsoverawinter-killedfieldofwheat.Inthe
distance,afarmhouseandacoupleofoutbuildings,arustysilo.Atinyfigurestumblesfromastandoftreesborderingthefieldandlurchesthroughthedryandbrokenstalkstowardtheclusterofbuildings.“Thatisthemessenger.”Fromthisheight,Ican’ttellifit’saboyorgirl,onlythatit’sasmallchild.Nugget’sage?Younger?“CentralKansas,”Voschgoeson.“Yesterdayatapproximatelythirteenhundredhours.”Another figure comes intoviewon theporch steps.After aminute, someone else comesout.The
childbeginstoruntowardthem.“Thatisn’tTeacup,”Iwhisper.“No.”Crashingthroughthebrittlechafftowardtheadultswhowatchmotionlessly,andoneofthemholdsa
gun,andthereisnosound,whichsomehowmakesitmoreterrible.“It’s theancient instinct: In timesofgreatdanger,bewaryof strangers.Trustnooneoutsideyour
circle.”Mybody tenses. I knowhow this ends; I lived it. Themanwith the gun:me.The child crashing
towardhim:Teacup.Thechildfalls.Getsup.Runs.Fallsagain.“Butthere’sanotherinstinct,farolder,asoldaslifeitself,nearlyimpossibleforthehumanmindto
override:Protecttheyoungatallcosts.Preservethefuture.”Thechildbreaks through thewheat into theyardand falls for the last time.Theonewith thegun
doesn’t lower it,buthiscompanionraces to the fallenchildandscoops itoff thefrozenground.Thegunmanblockstheirwaybackintothehouse.Thetableauholdsforseveralseconds.“It’sallaboutrisk,”Voschobserves.“Yourealizedthat longago.Soofcourseyouknowwhowill
win the argument.After all, howmuch riskdoes a little childpose?Protect the young.Preserve thefuture.”Thepersoncarryingthechildsidestepstheonewiththegunandrushesupthestepsintothehouse.
Thegunmandropshisheadasifinprayer,thenliftshisheadasifinsupplication.Thenheturnsandgoesinside.Theminutesspinout.Besideme,Voschmurmurs,“Theworldisaclock.”The farmhouse, the outbuildings, the silo, the brown fields, and the blur of numbers as the time
displayatthebottomofthescreenticksoffthesecondsbythehundredths.Iknowwhat’scomingbutstill I flinch when the silent flash whites out the scene. Then roiling dust and debris and billowingsmoke:Thewheatisburning,consumedinamatterofseconds,tenderfodderforthefire,andwherethe
buildings used to be, a crater, a black hole bored into the Earth. The feed goes black. The screenretracts.Thelightsstaydim.“Iwantyou tounderstand,”Voschsaysgently.“You’vewonderedwhywekept the littleones, the
onestooyoungtofight.”“I don’t understand.” Tiny figure in acres of brown, dressed in denim overalls, barefoot, running
throughthewheat.He misreads my confusion. “The device inside the child’s body is calibrated to detect minute
fluctuationsincarbondioxide,thechiefcomponentofhumanbreath.WhentheCO2reachesacertainthreshold,indicatingthepresenceofmultipletargets,thedevicedetonates.”“No,” I whisper. They brought him inside, wrapped him in a warm blanket, brought him water,
washedhisface.Thegroupgatheredaroundhim,bathinghimintheirbreath.“They’dbejustasdeadifyoudroppedabomb.”“Itisn’taboutthedead,”hesnapsimpatiently.“Itneverwas.”Thelightscomeup,thedoorcomesopen,andClairecomesinwheelingametalcart,followedbyher
white-coatedbuddyandRazor,wholooksatmeandthenlooksaway.Thatgottomemorethanthecartwithitsarrayofsyringes:Hecouldn’tbringhimselftolookatme.“Itdoesn’t changeanything.”Myvoice rising. “Idon’t carewhatyoudo. I don’t evencare about
Teacupanymore.I’llkillmyselfbeforeIhelpyou.”Heshakeshishead.“You’renothelpingme.”
57
CLAIRETIES a rubber straparoundmyarmand taps the insideofmyelbow tobringupavein.Razorstandsontheothersideofthebed.Themaninthewhitecoat—Inevergothisname—isbythemonitor,holdingastopwatch.Voschleansagainstthesink,watchingmewithbright,flintyeyesglittering,likethe crows’ in the woods on the day I shot Teacup, curious but curiously indifferent, and then IunderstandthatVoschisright:Theanswertotheirarrivalisnotrage.Theanswerisrage’sopposite.Theonlypossibleansweristheoppositeofallthings,likethepitwherethefarmhouseoncestood:simplynothing.Nothate,notanger,notfear,notanythingatall.Emptyspace.Thesoullessindifferenceoftheshark’seye.“Toohigh,”murmuredMr.WhiteCoat,lookingatthemonitor.“Firstsomethingtorelaxyou.”Claireslidestheneedleintomyarm.IlookatRazor.Helooksaway.“Better,”WhiteCoatsays.“Idon’tcarewhatyoudotome,”ItellVosch.Mytonguefeelsbloated,clumsy.“Itdoesn’tmatter.”HenodsatClaire,whopicksupthesecondsyringe.“Insertingthehubonmymark,”shesays.Thehub?“Uh-oh,”WhiteCoatsays.“Careful.”Eyeingthemonitorasmyheartratekicksupanotch.“Don’t be afraid,”Vosch says. “It won’t harm you.” Claire gives him a startled look. He shrugs.
“Well.Werantests.”Heflickshisfingerather:Getonwithit.Iweigh tenmillion tons.Mybonesare iron; therest isstone. Idon’t feel theneedleslide intomy
arm.Clairesays,“Mark,”andWhiteCoatclicksthestopwatch.Theworldisaclock.“Thedeadhavetheirreward,”Voschsays.“Itistheliving—youandI—whostillhaveworktodo.
Call it what you like, fate, luck, providence. You have been delivered into my hands to be myinstrument.”“Appendingtothecerebralcortex.”FromClaire.Hervoicesoundsmuffled,asifmyearshavebeen
stuffedwithcotton.Irollmyheadtowardher.Athousandyearsgoby.“You’veseenonebefore,”Voschsays,athousandmilesaway.“Inthetestingroom,onthedayyou
arrivedatCampHaven.Wetoldyouitwasaninfestationofanalienlife-formattachedtothehumanbrain.Thatwasalie.”IcanhearRazorbreathing,loud,likeadiver’sbreaththrougharegulator.“Itisactuallyamicroscopiccommandhubaffixedtotheprefrontallobeofyourbrain,”Voschsays.
“ACPU,ifyouwill.”“Bootingup,”Clairesays.“Lookinggood.”“Nottocontrolyou...,”Voschsays.“Introducingfirstarray.”Needleglintinginfluorescentlight.Blackspeckssuspendedinamberfluid.
Ifeelnothingassheinjectsitintomyvein.“Buttocoordinatethefortythousandorsomechanizedgueststowhichyouwillplayhost.”“Tempninety-ninepointsix,”WhiteCoatsays.Razorbesidemebreathing.
“Ittooktheprehistoricratsmillionsofyearsandathousandgenerationstoreachthecurrentstageinhumanevolution,”Voschsays.“Itwilltakeyoudaystoachievethenext.”“Link with the first array complete,” Claire says, bending over me again. Bitter almond breath.
“Introducingsecondarray.”Theroomisfurnace-hot.I’mdrenchedinsweat.WhiteCoatannouncesthatmytemperatureisone
hundredandtwo.“It’samessybusiness,evolution,”Voschsays.“Manyfalsestartsandblindalleys.Somecandidates
aren’tsuitablehosts.Theirimmunesystemscrashortheysufferfrompermanentcognitivedissonance.Inlayman’sterms,theygomad.”I’mburning.Myveins are filledwith fire.Water flows frommy eyes, trickles downmy temples,
poolsinmyears.IseeVosch’sfaceleaningoverthesurfaceoftheundulatingseaofmytears.“ButIhavefaithinyou,Marika.Youdidnotcomethroughfireandbloodonlytofallnow.Youwill
bethebridgethatconnectswhat-wastowhat-will-be.”“We’relosingher,”WhiteCoatcallsout,tremble-voiced.“No,”Voschmurmurs,coolhandonmywetcheek.“Wehavesavedher.”
58
THEREISNODAYornightanymore,onlythesterileglowofthefluorescentlights,andthoselightsnevergoout.ImeasurethehoursbyRazor’svisits,threetimesadaytodelivermealsIcan’tkeepdown.Theycan’tcontrolmyfever.Can’tstabilizemybloodpressure.Can’tsubduemynausea.Mybodyis
rejectingtheelevenarraysdesignedtoaugmenteachofmybiologicalsystems,eacharrayconsistingoffourthousandunits,whichmakesatotalofforty-fourthousandmicroscopicroboticinvaderscoursingthroughmybloodstream.Ifeellikeshit.After every breakfast, Claire comes in to examine me, tinker with my meds, and make cryptic
remarkslike,Youbetterstartfeelingbetter.Thewindowofopportunityisclosing.Orsnideones like,I’mstartingtothinkthewholevery-big-rockideawastherightwaytogo.SheseemstoresentthatI’vereactedbadlytoherpumpingmefulloffortythousandalienmechanisms.“It’snotlikethere’sanythingyoucandoaboutit,”shetoldmeonce.“Theprocedureisirreversible.”“Thereisonething.”“What? Oh. Sure. Ringer the irreplaceable.” She pulled the kill switch device from her lab coat
pocketandhelditup.“Gotyoukeyedin.I’llpushthebutton.Goahead.Tellmetopushthebutton.”Smirking.“Pushthebutton.”She laughed softly. “It’s amazing. Whenever I start wondering what he sees in you, you say
somethinglikethat.”“Who?Vosch?”Her smile faded. Her eyes went shark-eyed blank. “We will terminate the upgrade if you can’t
adjust.”Terminatetheupgrade.She peeled the bandages away frommy knuckles.No scabs, no bruises, no scars.As if it hadn’t
happened.AsifI’dneverpoundedmyfistintothewalluntiltheskinsplitdowntothebone.IthoughtofVoschappearing inmy roomcompletelyhealed,days after I smashedhisnose andgavehim twoblackeyes.AndSullivan,whotoldthestoryofEvanWalkertornapartbyshrapnelandyet,somehow,hourslater,abletoinfiltrateandtakeoutanentiremilitaryinstallationbyhimself.First they tookMarika andmade her Ringer. Now they’ve takenRinger and “upgraded” her into
someonecompletelydifferent.Someonelikethem.Orsomething.Thereisnodayornightanymore,onlyaconstantsterileglow.
59
“WHATHAVETHEYdone tome?” I askRazor one daywhenhe carts in another inediblemeal. I don’texpectananswer,buthe’sexpectingmetoaskthequestion.ItmuststrikehimasweirdthatIhaven’t.Heshrugs,avoidingmygaze.“Let’sseewhat’sonthemenutoday.Oooh.Meatloaf!Luckyduck.”“I’mgoingtovomit.”Hiseyeswiden.“Really?”Helooksaroundfortheplasticupchuckcontainer,desperate.“Please,takethetrayaway.Ican’t.”Hefrowns.“They’llpulltheplugonyouifyoudon’tgetyourshittogether.”“Theycouldhavedonethistoanyone,”Isay.“Whydidtheydoittome?”“Maybeyou’respecial.”Ishakemyheadandanswerasifhewereserious.“No.Ithinkit’sbecausesomeoneelseis.Doyou
playchess?”Startled:“Playwhat?”“Maybewecouldplay.WhenI’mfeelingbetter.”“I’mmoreofabaseballguy.”“Really?Iwouldhaveguessedswimming.Ortennis.”Hecockshishead.Hiseyebrowscometogether.“Youmustbefeelingbad.Makingconversationlike
you’rehalfwayhuman.”“Iamhalfwayhuman.Literally.Theotherhalf...”Ishrug.Itcoaxesoutagrin.“Oh,the12thSystemisdefinitelytheirs,”hesays.The 12th System?What did thatmean exactly? I’mnot sure, but I suspect it’s in reference to the
elevennormalsystemsofthehumanbody.“Wefoundaway toyank themoutofTeds’bodiesand . . .”Razor trailsoff,gives thecameraan
abashedlook.“Anyway,youhavetoeat.Ioverheardthemtalkingaboutafeedingtube.”“Sothat’stheofficialstory?LikeWonderland:We’reusingtheirtechnologyagainstthem.Andyou
believethat.”Heleansagainstthewall,crosseshisarmsoverhischest,andhums“FollowtheYellowBrickRoad.”
Ishakemyhead.Amazing.Itisn’tthattheliesaretoobeautifultoresist.It’sthatthetruthistoohideoustoface.“CommanderVoschisimplantingbombsinsidechildren.He’sturningkidsintoIEDs,”Itellhim.He
hums louder. “Littlekids.Toddlers.They’re separatedwhen theycome in,aren’t they?TheywereatCampHaven.Anyoneyounger than five is cartedoff andyounever see themagain.Haveyou seenany?Wherearethechildren,Razor?Wherearethey?”Hestopshumminglongenoughtosay,“Shutup,Dorothy.”“And does that make sense: loading up a Dorothy with superior alien technology? If command
decidedto‘enhance’peopleforthewar,doyoureallythinkitwouldpickthecrazyones?”“Idon’tknow.Theypickedyou,didn’tthey?”Hegrabsthetrayofuntouchedfoodandheadsforthe
door.“Don’tgo.”
Heturns,surprised.Myfaceishot.Thefevermustbespiking.Thathastobeit.“Why?”heasks.“You’retheonlyhonestpersonIhavelefttotalkto.”Helaughs.It’sagoodlaugh,authentic,unforced;Ilikeit,butIamfeverish.“WhosaysI’mhonest?”
heasks.“We’reallenemiesindisguise,right?”“Myfatherusedtotellthisstoryaboutsixblindmenandanelephant.Onemanfelttheelephant’sleg
andsaidanelephantmustlooklikeapillar.Anotherfeltthetrunkandsaidanelephantmustlooklikeatreebranch.Blindguynumberthreefeltthetailandsaidanelephantislikearope.Fourthguyfeelsthebelly:Theelephantislikeawall.Fifthguy,ear:Theelephantisshapedlikeafan.Sixthguy,atusk,soanelephantmustbelikeapipe.”Razorstaresatmestone-facedforalongmoment,thensmiles.It’sagoodsmile;Ilikeit,too.“That’sabeautifulstory.Youshouldtellitatparties.”“Thepointis,”Itellhim,“fromthemomenttheirshipappeared,we’veallbeenblindmenpattingan
elephant.”
60
INTHECONSTANTsterileglow,Imeasurethedaysbytheuneatenmealshebrings.Threemeals,oneday.Six,twodays.Onthetenthday,afterhesetsthetrayinfrontofme,Iaskhim,“Whydoyoubother?”Myvoicelikehisnow,athroatycroak.I’msoakedinsweat,feverspiking,headpounding,heartracing.Hedoesn’t answer.Razorhasn’t spoken tome in seventeenmeals.He seems jittery,distracted, evenangry.Claire’sgonesilent,too.ShecomestwiceadaytochangemyIVbag,lookintomyeyeswithanotoscope,testmyreflexes,changeoutthecatheterbag,andemptythebedpan.Everysixthmeal,Igetaspongebath.Oneday, shebringsa tapemeasureandwraps it aroundmybiceps, Iguess to seehowmuchmuscleI’velost.Idon’tseeanyoneelse.NoMr.WhiteCoat.NoVoschordeadfatherspumpedintomyheadbyVosch.I’mnotsooutofitthatIdon’tknowwhatthey’redoing:holdingvigil,waitingtoseeifthe“enhancement”killsme.She’s rinsing out the bedpan onemorningwhenRazor comes inwithmy breakfast, and hewaits
silentlyuntilshe’sfinished,andthenIhearhimwhisper,“Isshedying?”Claireshakesherhead.Ambivalent:couldbeno,couldbeyourguessisasgoodasmine.Iwaittill
she’sgonetosay,“You’rewastingyourtime.”Heglancesatthecameramountedintheceiling.“Ijustdowhattheytellme.”Ipickupthetrayandhurlitontothefloor.Hislipstighten,buthedoesn’tsayanything.Silently,he
cleansupthemesswhileIliepanting,exhaustedfromtheeffort,sweatpouringoffme.“Yeah,pickthatup.Makeyourselfuseful.”Whenmy fever shoots up, something inmymind loosens, and I imagine I can feel the forty-four
thousandmicrobotsswarminginmybloodstreamandthehubwithitsdelicatelaceoftendrilsburrowedinto every lobe, and I understandwhatmy father felt in his dying hours as he clawed at himself tosubduetheimaginaryinsectscrawlingbeneathhisskin.“Bitch,”Igasp.Fromthefloor,Razorlooksupatme,startled.“Leaveme,bitch.”“Noproblem,”hemutters.Onhishandsandknees,usingawetragtomopupthemess,andthetart
smellofdisinfectant.“FastasIcan.”He stands up. His ivory cheeks are flushed. Deliriously, I think the color brings out the auburn
highlights in his blond hair. “Itwon’twork,” he tellsme. “Starving yourself. So you better think ofsomethingelse.”I’ve tried.But there’snoalternative. Icanbarely liftmyhead.Youbelong to themnow.Vosch the
sculptor,mybodytheclay,butnotmyspirit,nevermysoul.Unconquered.Uncrushed.Uncontained.Iamnotbound;theyare.Languish,die,orrecover,thegame’sover,thegrandmasterVoschmated.“Myfatherhada favoritesaying,” I tellRazor.“Wecallchess thegameofkingsbecause, through
chess,welearnhowtorulekings.”“Againwiththechess.”He drops the dirty rag into the sink and slams out the door.When he returnswith the nextmeal,
there’safamiliarwoodenboxbesidethetray.Withoutaword,Razorpicksupthefoodanddumpsitinto the trash, tosses themetal tray into the sink, where it lands with a loud clang. The bed hums,maneuveringmybodyintoasittingposition,andheslidestheboxinfrontofme.
“Yousaidyoudidn’tplay,”Iwhisper.“Soteachme.”Ishakemyheadandsaytothecamerabehindhim,“Nicetry.Butstuffitupyourass.”Razorlaughs.“Nottheiridea.Butspeakingofasses,youcanbetyoursIgotpermissionfirst.”Heopensthebox,pullsouttheboard,fumbleswiththepieces.“Yougotyourqueensandkingsand
theprawnsandtheseguard-tower-lookingthings.Howcomeeverypieceislikeapersonexceptthose?”“Pawns,notprawns.Aprawnisabigshrimp.”Henods.“That’sthenameofaguyinmyunit.”“Shrimp?”“Prawn.Neverknewwhatthehellitmeant.”“You’resettingitupwrong.”“ThatcouldbebecauseIdon’tknowhowtofreakingplay.Youdoit.”“Idon’twanttodoit.”“Thenyou’reconcedingdefeat?”“Resigning.It’scalledresigning.”“That’sgoodtoknow.Ihaveafeelingthat’llcomeinhandy.”Smiling.NottheZombiehigh-voltage
type.Smaller,subtler,moreironic.HesitsbesidethebedandIcatchawhiffofbubblegum.“Whiteorblack?”“Razor,I’mtooweaktoevenlift—”“ThenyoupointwhereyouwanttogoandI’llmoveyou.”He’s not giving up. I didn’t really expect him to. By this point, wafflers and wusses have been
winnowedout.Therearenopussiesleft.Itellhimwheretoplacethepiecesandhoweachonemoves.Describethebasicrules.Lotsofnoddinganduh-huhs,butIgetthefeelingthere’salotofagreeingandnotmuch grasping. Then we play and I slaughter him in fourmoves. The next game, he falls intoarguinganddenying:Youcan’tdothat!Tellmethatisn’tthestupidestdamnruleever.GamethreeandI’msurehe’sregrettingthewholeidea.Myspiritsaren’tbeingliftedandhisarebeingtotallycrushed.“Thisisthedumbest-assedgameeverinvented,”hepouts.“Chesswasn’tinvented.Itwasdiscovered.”“LikeAmerica?”“Likemathematics.”“Iknewgirlsjustlikeyouinschool.”Heleavesthepointthereandstartstosetuptheboardagain.“That’sallright,Razor.I’mtired.”“TomorrowI’mbringingsomecheckers.”Spokenlikeathreat.Hedoesn’t,though.Tray,box,board.Thistimehesetsupthepiecesinastrangeconfiguration:the
blackkinginthecenterfacinghim,thequeenontheedgefacingtheking,threepawnsbehindthekingat ten, twelve, and twoo’clock, oneknight on theking’s right, another onhis left, a bishopdirectlybehindhimand,nexttothebishop,anotherpawn.ThenRazorlooksatme,wearingthatseraphicgrin.“Okay.”I’mnodding,notsurewhy.“I’veinventedagame.Areyouready?It’scalled...”Hetapsonthebedrailtoproduceadrumroll.
“Chaseball!”“Chaseball?”“Chess-baseball.Chaseball.Getit?”Heplopsacoinbesidetheboard.“What’sthat?”Iask.“It’saquarter.”“Iknowit’saquarter.”“Forthepurposesofthegame,it’stheball.Well,notreallytheball,butitrepresentstheball.Orwhat
happenswiththeball.Ifyou’dbequietasecond,Icouldexplainalltherules.”
“Iwasn’ttalking.”“Good. You give me a headache when you talk. Name-calling and Yoda quotes about chess and
crypticelephantstories.Youwanttoplayornot?”Hedoesn’twaitforananswer.Heplacesawhitepawnjustinfrontoftheblackqueen,sayingthat’s
him,thebatter.“Youshouldleadoffwithyourqueen.She’sthemostpowerful.”“That’s why she bats cleanup.” He shakes his head. My ignorance is astounding. “Real simple:
Defense,that’syou,flipsfirst.Heads,it’sastrike.Tails,aball.”“Acoinwon’twork,”Ipointout.“Therearethreepossibilities:strike,ball,orahit.”“Actually,therearefour,countingfouls.Yousticktochess;I’llhandlebaseball.”“Chaseball,”Icorrecthim.“Anyway.Ifyouflipaball,that’saball,andyouflipagain.Comesupheads,though,andthenIget
thecoin.See,thatgivesmeachancetogetahit.HeadsIconnect,tailsImiss.IfImiss,strikeone.Andsoon.”“Igetit.Andifyouflipheads,IgetthecoinbacktoseeifIcanfieldit.HeadsIthrowyouout...”“Wrong!Sowrong!No.FirstIflip,threetimes.FourtimesifIgetaTT.”“TT?”“Twotails.That’satriple.WithaTTyougetonemoreflip:headsisahomerun;tails,justatriple.
Heads-headsisasingle;heads-tailsisadouble.”“Maybeweshouldjuststartplayingandyoucan—”“Thenyou get the coin back to see if you can fieldmypotentialsingle, double, triple, or homer.
Heads,I’mout.Tails,I’monbase.”Hetakesadeepbreath.“Unlessit’sahomerun,ofcourse.”“Ofcourse.”“Areyoumakingfunofme?BecauseIdon’tknow—”“I’mjusttryingtoabsorb—”“Itkindofsoundslikeyouare.Youhavenoideahowlongittookmetocomeupwiththis.It’spretty
complicated.Imean,notlikethegameofkings,butyouknowwhattheycallbaseball,don’tyou?Thenationalpastime.Baseballiscalledthenationalpastimebecause,byplayingit,welearnhowtomastertime.Orthepast.Oneof’em.”“Nowyou’retheonemakingfunofme.”“Actually,I’mtheonlyonemakingfunofyourightnow.”Hewaits.Iknowwhathe’swaitingfor.
“Youneversmile.”“Doesitmatter?”“Once,when Iwas a kid, I laughed so hard, I peedmy pants.Wewere at Six Flags. The Ferris
wheel.”“Whatmadeyoulaugh?”“Ican’tremembernow.”Heslideshishandbeneathmywristandliftsmyarmtopressthequarter
intomyupturnedpalm.“Flipthedamncoinsowecanplay.”Idon’twanttohurthisfeelings,butthegameisn’tthatcomplicated.Hegetsveryexcitedonhisfirst
hit, triumphantly fist pumping, then proceeding tomove the black pieces around the boardwhile hecallstheplayinahoarse,high-pitchedimitationofanannouncer’svoice,likeakidplayingwithactionfigures.“It’s a deep drive into center field!” The center-field pawn slides toward second base, the bishop
secondbasemanand thepawnshortstopdropback,and the left-fieldpawnrunsup, thencuts towardcenter.That’swithonehandwhiletheothermanipulatesthequarter,turningitinhisfingerslikeaballspinning in flight, lowering it as if in slowmotion to land in center-left field. It’s so ridiculous andchildishthatIwouldhavesmiledifIstillsmiled.
“He’ssafe!”Razorbellows.No. Not childish. Childlike. Eyes fever bright, voice rising in excitement, he’s ten again. Not all
thingsarelost,nottheimportantthings.Hisnexthitisablooperthatdropsbetweenfirstbaseandrightfield.Hecreatesadramaticcollision
between my fielder and baseman, first base sliding back, right field sliding up, then smack! Razorcacklesattheimpact.“Wouldn’tthatbeanerror?”Iask.“It’sacatchableball.”“Catchable ball? Ringer, it’s just a dorky game Imade up in fiveminuteswith a bunch of chess
piecesandaquarter.”Twomore hits; he’s three runs up at the top of the first. I’ve always sucked at games of chance.
Always hated them for that reason. Razor must sense my enthusiasm waning. He amps up thecommentarywhileslidingthepiecesaround(despitemypointingoutthey’remypieces,sinceI’mondefense). Another drive deep center-left. Another floater behind first base. Another impact of firstbasemanandoutfielder.Idon’tknowifhe’srepeatinghimselfbecausehethinksit’sfunnyorbecausehehasaseriousdeficitinimagination.There’sapartofmethatfeelsasifIshouldbedeeplyaffrontedonbehalfofchessplayerseverywhere.Bythethirdinning,I’mexhausted.“Let’spickitupagaintonight,”Isuggest.“Ortomorrow.Tomorrowwouldbebetter.”“What?Youdon’tlikeit?”“No.It’sfun.I’mjusttired.Reallytired.”Heshrugslikeitdoesn’tmatter,whichitdoes,orhewouldn’tshrug.Heslipsthequarterbackinto
hispocketandpacksupthebox,mutteringunderhisbreath.Icatchthewordchess.“Whatdidyousay?”“Nothing.”Cuttinghiseyesaway.“Somethingaboutchess.”“Chess, chess, chess. Chess on the brain. Sorry chaseball has nothing on chess in the sheer thrill
category.”He shoves theboxunderhis armand stomps to thedoor.One lastparting shotbeforehegoes: “I
thoughtmaybeI’dcheeryouupalittle,that’sall.Thanks.Wedon’thavetoplayanymore.”“Areyouangryatme?”“Igavechessachance,didn’tI?Youdidn’tseemebitching.”“Youdidn’t.Andyoudid.Alot.”“Justthinkaboutit.”“Thinkaboutwhat?”Heshoutsacrosstheroom:“Justthinkaboutit!”Heslamsoutthedoor.I’moutofbreath,shaky,andcan’tfigureoutwhy.
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I’MREADYWITHanapologywhenthedooropensthatnight.ThemoreIthinkaboutitwithmyfeverishmind,themoreIfeellikethebullyatthebeachwhokicksoversomelittlekid’ssandcastle.“Hey,Razor,I’m—”Mymouthdropsopen.There’sastrangerholdingthetray,akidaroundtwelveorthirteen.“Where’sRazor?”Iask.Well,morelikedemand.“Idon’tknow,”thekidsqueaks.“Theyhandedmethetrayandsaidtakeit.”“Takeit,”Iechostupidly.“Yeah.Takeit.Takethetray.”TheypulledRazoroffRingerduty.Maybechaseball’sagainstregs.MaybeVoschgotticked,twokids
acting like kids for a couple of hours. Despair is addictive, for the one watching it and the oneexperiencingit.OrmaybeRazor’s the tickedpartyhere.Maybehe asked to be reassigned, tookhis chaseball and
wenthome.Idon’tsleepwellthatnight,ifyoucancallitnightundertheconstantsterileglow.Myfevershoots
uptoahundredandthreeasmyimmunesystemlaunchesitsfinal,desperateassaultonthearrays.Icanseetheblurrygreennumbersonthemonitorinchingupward.Islipintoasemi-deliriousdoze.Bitch!Leaveme.Youknowwhytheycallitbaseball,don’tyou?It’sadeepdriveintocenterfield!I’m
done.Takecareofyourself.Thegrungysilver turning inRazor’s fingers. It’sadeepdrive.Adeepdrive.Lowering toward the
boardinslowmotion,wherethefielderscomeup,secondbaseandshortstopgoback,leftgoesright.Blooperonthefirst-baseline!Fielderracesup,basemanback,boom.Fieldersup,infieldback,cuttotheright.Firstbasemanback,rightfielderup,boom.Up,back,cut.Back,up.Boom.Overandover,let’sgototheinstantreplay,up,back,cut.Back,up.Boom.NowI’mwide-awake,staringattheceiling.No.Can’tseeitaswell.Betterwithmyeyesclosed.Centerandleftslashdown.Leftcutsacross:HRightstepsup.Firstbaserunsback:IOh,comeon.Ridiculous.You’redelusional.WhenIgotback toourcampthatnightwith thevodka, I foundmydeadfathercurled intoafetal
position, his face covered in bloodwhere he had clawed at the bugs born inside hismind.Bitch,hecalledmebeforeIlefttofindthepoisonthatwouldsavehim.Hecalledmeanothername,too,thenameofthewomanwholeftuswhenIwasthree.HethoughtIwasmymother,whichwasironic.FromthetimeIwasfourteen, Iwasmore likehismother, feedinghim,washinghisclothes, takingcareof thehouse,makingsurehedidn’tdosomethingcatastrophicallystupidtohimself.AndeverydayIwenttoschoolinmyperfectlypresseduniformandtheycalledmeHerMajestyMarikaandsaidIthoughtIwasbetterthaneverybodyelsebecausemyfatherwasasemi-famousartist,thereclusivegeniustype,when
thetruthwasthatmostdaysmyfatherdidn’tknowwhatplanethewason.BythetimeIgothomefromschool,he’dbefull-ondelusional.AndIletpeopleontheoutsideholdtheirdelusions,too.IletthemthinkIthoughtIwasbetter,thewayIletSullivanthinkshewasrightaboutme.Ididn’tjustfosterthedelusions.Ilivedthem.Evenaftertheworldcrashedaroundus,Iclungtothem.Butafterhedied,Itoldmyselfnomore.Nomorebravefrontsorfalsehopesorpretendingeverything’sokaywhennothingis.Ithought I was being tough by pretending, calling it being optimistic, brave, keepingmy head up orwhateverbullshitseemedtofitthemoment.That’snottough.That’stheverydefinitionofsoft.Iwasashamedofhisdiseaseandangryathim,butIwasjustasguilty.Iplayedrightintotheliesrightuptotheend:Whenhecalledmemymother’sname,Ididn’tcorrecthim.Delusional.Inthecorner,thecamera’sblank,soullesseyestaring.WhatdidRazorsay?Justthinkaboutit!That’s not all you said, is it? I ask him, looking blankly back at the blank, black eye.That isn’t
everything.
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IHOLDMYBREATHwhenthedooropensthenextmorning.AllnightIseesawedbetweenbeliefanddoubt.Iwallowedineveryaspectofthenewreality.First option: Razor didn’t invent chaseball anymore than I invented chess. The game is Vosch’s
creationforreasonstoomurkytoseeclearly.Secondoption:Razor,forreasonsonlycleartoRazor,hasdecidedtoseriouslymesswithmyhead.It
wasn’t just the hardhearted and resilient who survived the winnowing of the human race. A lot ofsadistic assholespersisted, too.That’s thewayof everyhumancatastrophe.Thedouchebag isnearlyindestructible.Thirdoption:Allofitisentirelyinmyhead.Chaseballisasillygamemadeupbyakidtotakemy
mindoffthefactthatImaybedying.There’snootherpoint,nosecretmessagestracedonachessboard.Myseeingletterswheretherearenolettersisthehumanbrain’stendencytofindpatterns,evenwheretherearenopatterns.AndIholdmybreathforanotherreason:Whatifit’sthesqueaky-voicedkidagain?WhatifRazor
doesn’tcomeback,evercomeback?There’sa realpossibility thatRazor isdead. Ifhewas trying tosecretlycommunicatewithmeandVoschfigureditout,I’msureVosch’sresponsewouldbeonethingandonlyonething.Iletoutmybreathslowandsteadywhenhestepsintotheroom.Thebeepingofthemonitorkicksup
anotch.“What?”Razorasks,narrowinghiseyesatme.Hesensessomething’suprightaway.Isayit.“Hi.”Hiseyescutright,cutleft.“Hi.”Drawingthetinywordoutslowly,asifhe’snotsureifhe’switha
lunatic.“Hungry?”Ishakemyhead.“Notreally.”“Youshouldtrytoeatthis.YoulooklikemycousinStacey.Shewasamethaddict.Idon’tmeanyou
literallylooklikeamethaddict.Just . . .”Faceturningred.“Youknow,likesomethingiseatingyoufromtheinside.”Hepushesthebuttonbesidethebed.Irise.Hesays,“YouknowwhatI’maddictedto?SourPatch
Kids.Raspberry.Notsocrazyaboutthelemon.Ihaveastash.I’llbringyousomeifyouwant.”Hesets the tray in frontofme.Coldscrambledeggs, friedpotatoes,ablackened,crusty thing that
mayormaynotbebacon.Mystomachclenches.Ilookupathim.“Trytheeggs,”hesuggests.“They’refresh.Freerange,organic,chemicalfree.Weraisethemright
hereincamp.Thechickens,nottheeggs.”Dark,soulfuleyesandthatsmall,mysterious,beatificsmile.WhatdidhisreactionmeanwhenIsaid
hi?WashestartledIofferedhimahalfwayhumangreetingorwashestartledbecauseIhadfiguredouttherealpointofchaseball?OrwashenotstartledatallandI’mpickingupcuesthataren’tthere?“Idon’tseethebox.”“Whatbox?Oh. Itwaskindofastupidgame.”He looksawayandsayssoftly tohimself,“Imiss
baseball.”
He’s quiet for the next couple of minutes while I move the cold eggs around the plate. I missbaseball.Auniverseoflossinfoursyllables.“No,Ilikedit,”Itellhim.“Itwasfun.”“Really?”Alook:Areyouserious?Hedoesn’tknowthatIam99.99999percentofthetime.“You
didn’tseemtoodownwithitatthetime.”“IguessI’mjustnotfeelingwelllately.”He laughs and then seems surprised at his own reaction. “Okay.Well, I left it inmyquarters. I’ll
bringitsomedayifnobodyswipesit.”Theconversationmeandersoffthegame.IdiscoverRazorwastheyoungestoffivekids,grewupin
AnnArbor,wherehisdadworkedasanelectricianandhismomasamiddleschool librarian,playedbaseballandsoccerandlovedMichiganfootball.Untilhewastwelve,hisgreatambitionwastobethestartingquarterbackfortheWolverines.Buthegrewtall,notbig,andbaseballbecamehispassion.“Momwantedmetobeadoctororalawyer,buttheoldmandidn’tthinkIwassmartenough...”“Wait.Yourdaddidn’tthinkyouweresmart?”“Smartenough.There’sadifference.”Defendinghisfatherevenindeath.Peopledie;loveendures.
“Hewantedmetobeanelectricianlikehim.Dadwasabigunionguy,presidentofhislocal,stufflikethat.Thatwastherealreasonhedidn’twantmetobealawyer.Suits,hecalledthem.”“Hehadaproblemwithauthority.”Razorshrugs.“‘Beyourownman,’healwayssaid.‘Don’tbetheMan’sman.’”Heshuffleshisfeet,
embarrassed,likehe’stalkingtoomuch.“Whataboutyouroldman?”“Hewasanartist.”“That’scool.”“Hewasalsoadrunk.Didmoredrinkingthanpainting.”Thoughnotalways.Yellowedphotographs
ofshowingshangingcrookedindustyframesandthestudentsbuzzinginhisstudionervouslycleaningbrushesandthecathedralhushthatfellwhenhewalkedintoacrowdedroom.“Whatkindofshitdidhepaint?”Razorasks.“Mostlythat.Shit.”Notalways,though.NotwhenhewasyoungerandIwassmallandthehandthat
heldminewasstainedwithrainbowcolors.Helaughs.“Thewayyoujoke.Likeyoudon’tevenknowit’sajoke,andit’syourownjoke.”Ishakemyhead.“Iwasn’tjoking.”Henods.“Maybethat’swhyyoudon’tknowit.”
63
AFTERTHEEVENINGmealIdon’teatandtheforcedbanterandtheminusculeawkwardsilencesthatdropbetweenoursentences,andaftertheboardcomesoutofthewoodenboxandhe’ssetupthepiecesandwefliptoseewho’sthehometeamandhewins,ItellhimIthinkIcanhandlemyownfielding,andhesmirks,Yeah,right,let’sgo,girl,afterhe’ssittingbesidemeontheedgeofthebedandafterweeksoflearning to letgoofmy rageandembrace thehowlingemptinessandafteryearsoferecting fortresswallsaroundpainandlossandthefeelingthatIwillneverfeelagain,afterlosingmyfatherandlosingTeacupandlosingZombieandlosingeverythingbutthehowlingemptinessandthatisnothing,nothingatall,Isilentlysaytheword:HIRazornods.“Yeah.”Hetapshisfingerontheblanket.Ifeelthetapagainstmythigh.“Yeah.”Tap.
“Notbad,thoughit’scoolerwhenyoudoitinslo-mo.”Hedemonstrates.“Getitnow?”“Ifyouinsist.”Isigh.“Yeah.”Itapmyfingeronthebedrail.“Well,tobehonestIdon’treallyseethe
point.”“No?”Tap-tapontheblanket.“No.”Tap-tapontherail.Thenextwordtakesovertwentyminutestotrace:HLPTap.“DidIevertellyouaboutmysummerjobbeforetherewerenomoresummerjobs?”heasks.
“Doggrooming.Worstpartofthejob?Expressingtheanalglands...”He’sonaroll.Fourrunsandnotasingleout.HOWIwon’tgetananswer foranother fortyminutes. I’ma little tiredandmore thana little frustrated.
Thisisliketextingwithsomeoneathousandmilesawayusingone-leggedrunners.Timeslowsdown;eventsspeedup.PLNIhavenoideawhatthatmeans.Ilookathimbuthe’slookingattheboard,movingthepiecesback
intoposition,talking,fillinginthetinysilencesthatdrop,stuffingtheemptyspacewithchatter.“That’s what they actually called it: expressing,” he says, still on the dogs. “Rinse, wash, rinse,
express,repeat.Sofreakingboring.”Andtheblack,soulless,unblinkingeyeofthecamera,staringdown.“Ididn’tunderstandthatlastplay,”Itellhim.“Chaseballisn’tsomelame-assgamelikechess,”hesayspatiently.“Thereareintricacies.Intricacies.
Towin,yougottahaveaplan.”“Andthat’syou,Iguess.Themanwiththeplan.”“Yes,that’sme.”Tap.
64
IHADN’TSEENVoschindays.Thatchangesthenextmorning.“Let’shearit,”hetellsClaire,who’sstandingbesideMr.WhiteCoatlookinglikeamiddle-schooler
draggedintotheprincipal’sofficeforbullyingthescrawnykid.“She’slosteightpoundsandtwentypercentofhermusclemass.She’sonDiovanforthehighblood
pressure,Phenerganforthenausea,amoxicillinandstreptomycintokeepherlymphaticsystemtampeddown,butwe’restillstrugglingwiththefever,”Clairereports.“‘Strugglingwiththefever’?”Claire’seyescutaway.“Ontheupside,herliverandkidneysarestillfunctioningnormally.Abitof
fluidinherlungs,butwe’re—”Voschwavesheroffandstepsuptomybedside.Brightbirdeyesglittering.“Doyouwanttolive?”Ianswerwithouthesitating.“Yes.”“Why?”Thequestiontakesmeoffguardforsomereason.“Idon’tunderstand.”“Youcannotovercomeus.Noonecan.Notifyounumberedseventimessevenbillionwhenitbegan.
Theworldisaclockandtheclockhaswoundtoitsfinalsecond—whywouldyouwanttolive?”“Idon’twanttosavetheworld,”Itellhim.“I’mjusthopingImightgettheopportunitytokillyou.”Hisexpressiondoesn’tchange,buthiseyesglitteranddance.Iknowyou,hiseyessay.Iknowyou.“Hope,”hewhispers.“Yes.”Nodding:He’spleasedwithme.“Hope,Marika.Clingtoyourhope.”
HeturnstoClaireandMr.WhiteCoat.“Pullheroffthemeds.”Mr.WhiteCoat’sfaceturnsthecolorofhissmock.Clairestartstosaysomething,thenlooksaway.
Voschturnsbacktome.“Whatistheanswer?”hedemands.“Itisn’trage.Whatisit?”“Indifference.”“Tryagain.”“Detachment.”“Again.”“Hope.Despair.Love.Hate.Anger.Sorrow.”I’mshaking;myfevermustbespiking.“Idon’tknow.I
don’tknow.Idon’tknow.”“Better,”hesays.
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ITGETSSOBADthatnight,Icanbarelymakeitthroughfourinningsofchaseball.XMEDS“Heardarumorgoingaroundtheytookyouoffyourmeds,”Razorsays,shakingthequarterinhis
closedfist.“True?”“TheonlythingleftinmyIVbagissalinetokeepmykidneysfromshuttingdown.”Heglancesatmyvitalsonthemonitor.Frowning.WhenRazorfrowns,heremindsmeofalittleboy
who’sstubbedhistoeandthinkshe’stoobigtocry.“Soyoumustbegettingbetter.”“Guessso.”Tap-taponthebedrail.“Okay,”hebreathes.“Myqueenisup.Lookout.”Mybackstiffens.Myvisionblurs.Ileantothesideandemptymystomach,whatlittleisinsidemy
stomach,ontothewhitetile.Razorleapsupwithadisgustedcry,topplingtheboard.“Hey!”heshouts.Notatme.Attheblackeyeaboveus.“Hey,alittlehelphere!”Nohelpcomes.Helooksatthemonitor,looksatme,andsays,“Idon’tknowwhattodo.”“I’mokay.”“Sure.You’refine,justfine!”Hegoestothesink,wetsacleantowel,andlaysitacrossmyforehead.
“Fine,myass!Whythehelldidtheytakeyouoffthemeds?”“Whynot?”I’mfightingtheurgetohurlagain.“Oh,Idon’tknow.Maybebecauseyou’lldiewithoutthem.”Heglaresatthecamera.“Maybeyoushouldhandmethatcontaineroverthere.”Hedabsatthecrudstickingonmychin,refoldsthecloth,grabsthecontainer,andplacesitonmy
lap.“Razor.”“Yeah?”“Pleasedon’tputthatbackonmyface.”“Huh?Oh.Shit.Yeah.Hangon.”Hegrabsacleantowelandrunsitunderthewater.Hishandsare
shaking.“Youknowwhatitis?Iknowwhatitis.Whydidn’tIthinkofit?Whydidn’tyouthinkofit?Themedsmustbeinterferingwiththesystem.”“Whatsystem?”“The12thSystem.Theone they injected intoyou,Sherlock.Thehubandhis forty thousand little
friends to supercharge the other eleven.”Heputs the cool towel onmy forehead. “You’re cold.Youwantmetofindanotherblanket?”“No,I’mburningup.”“It’sawar,”hesays.Hetapshischest.“Inhere.Yougottadeclareatruce,Ringer.”Ishakemyhead.“Nopeace.”Henods,squeezingmywristbeneaththethinblanket.Squatsonthefloortogatherthefallenchess
pieces.Curseswhenhecan’tfindthequarter.Decideshecan’tleavethevomitjustlyingthere.Grabsthedirtytowelheusedtowipemychinandswabsthedeckonhishandsandknees.He’sstillcursing
whenthedooropensandClairecomesintotheroom.“Goodtiming!”Razorbarksather.“Hey,can’tyouatleastgivehertheanti-pukeserum?”Clairejerksherheadtowardthedoor.“Getout.”Shepointsatthebox.“Andtakethatwithyou.”Razor glowers at her, but he does it. I see again the tightly contained force behind his angelic
features.Careful,Razor.That’snottheanswer.Thenwe’realone,andClairestudiesthemonitorforalong,silentmoment.“Wereyoutellingthetruthearlier?”sheasks.“YouwanttolivesoyoucankillCommanderVosch?
You’resmarterthanthat.”Inthetoneofamotherscoldingaveryyoungchild.“You’re right,” I answer. “I’llneverget that chance.But I’mgoing tohave theopportunity tokill
you.”Shelooksstartled.“Killme?Whywouldyouwant tokillme?”WhenIdon’tanswer,shesays,“I
don’tthinkyou’regoingtolivethroughthenight.”Inod.“Andyou’renotgoingtoliveoutthemonth.”Shelaughs.Thesoundofherlaughtercausesbiletoriseintomythroat.Burning.Burning.“Whatareyougoingtodo?”shesayssoftly.Sheyanksthetowelfrommyforehead.“Smotherme
withthis?”“No. I’mgoing toovercome theguardbysmashinghishead inwithaheavyobject,and then I’m
goingtotakehisgunandshootyouintheface.”Shelaughsthroughthewholething.“Well,goodluckwiththat.”“Itwon’tbeluck.”
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CLAIRETURNSOUTtobewrongaboutmebeingdeadbymorning.Nearlyamonthlater,bymyreckoningofthreemealsperday,andI’mstillhere.Idon’tremembermuch.AtsomepointtheydisconnectedmefromtheIVandthemonitor,andthe
silencethatslammeddownafter theconstantbeepingwasloudenoughtocrackmountains.Theonlyperson I saw during that time was Razor. He’s my full-time caretaker now. Feeds me, empties mybedpan,washesmyfaceandhands,turnsmesoIdon’tdevelopbedsores,playschaseballinthehourswhenI’mnotdelirious,andtalksnonstop.Hetalksabouteverything,whichisanotherwayofsayinghetalksaboutnothing.Hisdeadfamily,hisdeadfriends,hissquadmates,thedrudgeryofwintercamp,thefightsborneofboredomandfatigueandfear(butmostlyfear),therumorsthatwhenspringcomestheTedsarelaunchingamajoroffensive,alast-ditchefforttopurgetheworldofthehumannoise,ofwhichRazorisverymuchanactivepart.Hetalksandtalksandtalks.Hehadagirlfriend,hernamewasOliviaandherskinwasdarklikeamuddyriverandsheplayedclarinetintheschoolbandandwasgoingtobeadoctorandhatedRazor’sdadbecausehedidn’tthinkRazorcouldbeadoctor.HeletsitslipthathisgivennameisAlexlikeA-RodandhisdrillsergeantnamedhimRazornotbecausehewasslenderbutbecause he cut himself shaving one morning. I have very sensitive skin.His sentences are withoutperiods,without commas,without paragraphs, or, to be accurate, it’s all one long paragraphwith nomargins.Heshutsupjustonetimeafternearlyamonthof theverbaldiarrhea.He’sgoingonabouthowhe
wonfirstplaceinthefifth-gradesciencefairwithhisprojectabouthowtoturnapotatointoabatterywhenhestopsinmidsentence.Hissilenceisjarring,likethestillnessafterabuildingimplodes.“Whatisthat?”heasks,staringintentlyintomyface,andnobodystaresmoreintentlythanRazor,not
evenVosch.“Nothing.”Iturnmyheadawayfromhim.“Areyoucrying,Ringer?”“Myeyesarewatering.”“No.”“Don’ttellmeno,Razor.Idon’tcry.”“Bullshit.”Atapontheblanket.Tap-tapontherailing.“Diditwork?”Iask,turningbacktohim.Whatdoesitmatterifheseesme
cry?“Thepotatobattery.”“Sureitworked.It’sscience.Neveradoubtaboutitworking.Youplanitallout,followthesteps,and
itcan’tgowrong.”Squeezingmyhandthroughtheblanket:Don’tbescared.Everything’sset.Iwon’tletyoudown.It’stoolatetogobacknowanyway:Hiseyeswandertothefoodtraybesidethebed.“Youateallthe
pudding tonight.Youknowhow theymakechocolatepuddingwithout chocolate?Youdon’twant toknow.”“Letmeguess.Ex-Lax.”“What’sEx-Lax?”
“Seriously?Youdon’tknow?”“Oh,sosorryIdon’tknowwhatEx-Lax-who-gives-a-shitis.”“It’sachocolate-flavoredlaxative.”Hemakesaface.“That’ssick.”“That’sthepoint.”Hegrins.“Thepoint?OhGod,didyoujustmakeajoke?”“HowwouldIknow?JustpromisemenobodyslippedEx-Laxintomypudding.”“Promise.”Tap.Ilastforafewhoursafterheleaves,longafterlights-outineveryotherpartofthecamp,deepinto
thebellyof thewinternight, before thepressurebecomesunbearable, and then,when I can’t take itanymore,Istartshoutingforhelp,wavingatthecameraandthenrollingovertopressmychestagainstthecoldmetal railings,poundingmy fist into thepillow in frustrationand fury,until thedoorburstsopenandClairechargesin,followedcloselybyabigbearofarecruit,whosehandimmediatelyfliestocoverhisnose.“Whathappened?”Clairesays,thoughthesmellshouldtellherallsheneedstoknow.“Oh,crap!”therecruitburblesbehindhishand.“Exactly,”Igasp.“Great.Justgreat,”Clairesays,throwingtheblanketandsheetontothefloorandmotioningforthe
recruittohelpher.“Finejob,missy.Ihopeyou’reproudofyourself.”“Notyet,”Iwhimper.“Whatareyoudoing?”Claireshoutsattherecruit.Goneisthesoftvoice.Vanishedarethekindeyes.
“Helpmewiththis.”“Help youwithwhat,ma’am?”He has a flattened nose and very small eyes and a forehead that
bulgesinthemiddle.Hisbellyhangsoverhisbeltandhispantsareaninchtooshort.He’shuge;he’sgotaboutahundredpoundsormoreonme.Itwon’tmatter.“Getup,”Clairesnapsatme.“Comeon.Getyour legsunderyou.”She takesonearmandJumbo
Recruit takes the other and together they haul me out of the bed. Big Recruit’s smushed-in face istwistedwithrevulsion.“Ah,God.It’severywhere!”hesoftlywails.“Idon’tthinkIcanwalk,”ItellClaire.“Then I’ll make you crawl,” she snarls. “I should just leave you like this. It’s so perfectly
metaphorical.”Theyhaulmetwodoorsdownandintotheshowerroom.BigRecruitiscoughingandgaggingand
ClaireisbitchingandI’mapologizingwhileshestripsoffthejumpsuitandthrowsitatJumboRecruit,tellinghim towait outside. “Don’t leanonme.Leanon thewall,” she orders harshly.Myknees arebuckling.Ihangontotheshowercurtaintokeepupright;Ihaven’tusedmylegsinamonth.Withonehandlockedaroundmyleftarm,Clairepushesmeunderthewater,bendingatthewaistto
staydry.Thesprayisicy.Shedidn’tbothertoadjustthetemperature.Theslapofcoldwateragainstmybodyislikeanalarmgoingoff,snappingmefromalongwinter’shibernation,andIreachupandgrabtheshowerheadpipecomingfromthewallandtellClaireIthinkI’vegotit;IthinkIcanstand;shecanletgo.“Areyousure?”sheasks,holdingon.“Prettysure.”IwrenchthepipedownwardwithalltheforceIhave.Thepipebreaksoffatthejointwithametallic
squealand thecoldwatergushesout ina ropeysnarl.Leftarmup,slipping throughClaire’s fingers,thenI’vegotherbythewristandIswingmybodytowardher,rotatingmyhipstomaximizetheblow,
andslamthejaggededgeofthebrokenpipeintoherneck.Iwasn’tsureIcouldbreakasteelpipewithmybarehands,butIwasprettysure.Ihavebeenenhanced.
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CLAIRESTAGGERSAWAY,bloodpouring from the two-inchpuncturewound inherneck.The fact that Ididn’tdropherdoesn’tsurpriseme;I’dassumedshewouldbeenhanced,too,butI’dhopedtogetluckyandseverhercarotidartery.Shefumblesinthepocketofherlabcoatforthekillswitch.Ianticipatedthat.I tossthebrokenpipeaway,grabthebolted-inshowerrod,breakitfromitsbracketsandsmashoneendintothesideofherhead.Theimpactbarelyrocksher.Inamillisecond,fasterthanmyeyescanfollowthemotion,shehasthe
endoftherodinhergrip.Iletgoinhalfamillisecond,sowhensheyanksthere’snothingholdingtheother end, and she stumbles back into thewall, hittingwith enough force to crack the tiles. I barreltoward her. She swings the rod towardmy head, but I anticipated that, too—counted on it, when Irehearsedthisinthethousandsilenthoursbeneaththeconstantglow.Igrabtheotherendoftherodasitarcstowardme,firstwithmyrighthand,thenwiththeleft,hands
shoulder-widthapart,andpowertherodintoherneck,spreadingmylegsforthebalanceandleveragenecessarytocrushherwindpipe.Ourfacesareinchesapart.I’mcloseenoughtosmellthecyanidebreathtricklingoutofherparted
lips.Her hands are on either side ofmine, pushing backwhile I push forward. The floor is slick; I’m
barefoot,sheisn’t;I’mgoingtolosetheadvantagebeforesheblacksout.Ihavetodropher—fast.Islidemyfoottotheinsideofherankleandkickout.Perfect:ShefallstothefloorandIfollowher
down.Shelandsonherback.Ilandonherstomach.Iclampmykneestightlyagainsthersidesandshove
theroddownhardintoherneck.ThenthedoorbehindusfliesopenandJumboRecruitlumbersin,gundrawn,shoutingincoherently.
ThreeminutesinandthelightinClaire’seyesisfading,butit’snotallthewayout,andIknowIhavetotakearisk.Idon’tlikerisk,neverdid;Ijustlearnedtoacceptit.Somethingsyoucanchooseandsomeyoucan’t, likeSullivan’sCrucifixSoldier, likeTeacup,likegoingbackforZombieandNuggetbecausenotgoingbackmeantthere’snovaluetoanythinganymore,notlife,nottime,notpromises.AndIhaveapromisetokeep.Jumbo’s gun: The 12th System locks in on it and thousands of microscopic droids go to work
augmentingthemuscles,tendons,andnervesinmyhands,eyes,andbraintoneutralizethethreat.Inamicrosecond,objectiveidentified,informationprocessed,methoddetermined.Jumbodoesn’thaveaprayer.Theattackhappensfasterthanhisunenhancedbraincanprocessit.Idoubtheevenseesthecurtain
rodwhizzingtowardhishand.Thegunfliesacrosstheroom.Hegoesoneway—forthegun—whileIgotheother—forthetoilet.Thetanklidissolidceramic.Andheavy.Icouldkillhim;Idon’t.ButIsmackhimhardenoughin
thebackofheadtoputhimoutforalongtime.Jumbo falls down. Claire rises up. I sling the lid toward her head. Her arm rises to block the
projectile.Myenrichedhearingpicksup the soundofabonesnapping from thecollision.Thesilver
device in her hand clatters to the floor. She dives for it as I step forward. I slam one foot on heroutstretchedhandandwiththeotherkickthedevicetotheothersideoftheroom.Done.Andsheknowsit.Shelookspastthebarrelofthegunleveledatherface—beyondthetinyholefilled
withimmensenothingness—intomyeyes,andhersarekindagainandhervoiceissoftagain,thebitch.“Marika...”No.Marika was slow, weak, sentimental, dimwitted.Marika was a little girl clinging to rainbow
fingers,helplesslywatchingthetimewinddown,teeteringontherazor’sedgeofthebottomlessabyss,exposedbehindherfortresswallsbypromisesshecouldneverkeep.ButIwillkeepherfinalpromisetoClaire,thebeastwhostrippedhernakedandbaptizedherinthecoldwaterthatstillroarsinthebrokenshower.IwillkeepMarika’spromise.Marikaisdead,andIwillkeepherpromise.“MynameisRinger.”Ipullthetrigger.
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JUMBOSHOULDHAVEaknifeonhim.Standardissueforallrecruits.Ikneelbesidehisunconsciousbody,sliptheknifefromitssheath,andcarefullycutoutthepelletembeddednearthespinalcordatthebaseofhisskull.Islipitbetweenmycheekandgums.Nowmine.NopainwhenIcut itout,andonlyasmallamountofbloodtricklesfromtheincision.
Botstodeadensensation.Botstorepairdamage.That’swhyClairedidn’tdiewhenIrammedabrokenpipeintoherneckandwhy,aftertheinitialgush,thebleedingquicklystopped.Also why, after six weeks flat on my back with very little food and a burst of intense physical
activity,I’mnotevenoutofbreath.IinsertthetinypelletfrommyneckintoJumbo’s.Trackmenow,CommanderAsshole.Freshjumpsuitfromthestackunderthesink.Shoes:Claire’sfeetaretoosmall;Jumbo’smuchtoo
large. I’llworkon shoes later.Thebigkid’s leather jacketmight come inhandy, though.The jackethangsonmelikeablanket,butIliketheextraroominthesleeves.There’s something I’m forgetting. I glance around the small room. The kill switch, that’s it. The
screengotcrackedinthemelee,but thedevicestillworks.Anumberglowsabovetheflashinggreenbutton.Mynumber.Iswipemythumboverthedisplayandthescreenfillswithnumbers,hundredsofsequencesrepresentingeveryrecruitonthebase.Iswipeagaintoreturntomynumber,taponit,andamappopsupshowingmyimplant’spreciselocation.Izoomoutandthescreenfillswithtiny,glowinggreendots:thelocationofeveryimplantedsoldierintheentirebase.Jackpot.Andcheckmate.Withaswipeofmythumbandatapofmyfinger,Icanhighlightallthenumbers.
Thebuttononthebottomofthedevicewilllightup.Afinaltapandeveryrecruitneutralized,gone.Icanpracticallystrollout.Ican—ifI’mwillingtostepoverseveralhundredcorpsesofinnocenthumanbeings,kidswhoareno
lessvictimsthanIam,whosesolecrimeisthesinofhope.Ifthewageofsinisdeath,thenvirtueisavicenow:Adefenseless,starvingchildlostinawheatfieldisgivenshelter.Awoundedsoldiercriesoutforhelpbehindarowofbeercoolers.Alittlegirlshotbymistakeisdeliveredtoherenemiesinordertosaveher.AndIdon’tknowwhichismoreinhuman:thealienbeingsthatcreatedthisnewworldorthehuman
beingwhoconsiders,ifonlyforaninstant,pressingthegreenbutton.Three large clumpsof stationarydots hover on the right side of the screen: the sleeping.Adozen
isolated individuals on the periphery: sentries. Two in themiddle:mine in Jumbo’s neck, his inmymouth.Anotherthreeorfourveryclose,onthesamefloor:thesickandinjured.Onefloordown,theICU,where only one green sphere glows. So: barracks, observation posts, hospital.A couple of thesentrydotsaremanning themagazinebuilding. Iwon’thave toguesswhich two. I’llknow ina fewminutes.Comeon,Razor,let’sgo.I’vegotonelastpromisetokeep.Watchingthegusherpourfromthebrokenpipe.
69
“DOYOUPRAY?”Razoraskedmeafteranexhaustingnightofchaseball,whilehepackedup thegameboardandpieces.Ishookmyhead.“Doyou?”“DamnrightIdo.”Noddinghisheademphatically.“Noatheistsinfoxholes.”“Myfatherwasone.”“Afoxhole?”“Anatheist.”“Iknowthat,Ringer.”“Howdidyouknowmyfatherwasanatheist?”“Ididn’t.”“Thenwhydidyouaskifhewasafoxhole?”“Ididn’t. Itwasa freaking—”Hesmiled.“Oh, Iget it. Iknowwhatyou’redoing.Thedisturbing
thingtomeiswhy.Likeyou’renottryingtobefunnybuttryingtoprovehowsuperioryouare.Orthinkyouare.You’renoteither.Funnyorsuperior.Whydon’tyoupray?”“Idon’tlikeputtingGodonthespot.”Hepickedupthequeenandexaminedherface.“Youevercheckedherout?Sheisonescary-looking
she-bitch.”“Ithinkshelooksregal.”“Shelookslikemythird-gradeteacher,alotofmanandverylittlewo.”“What?”“Youknow:heavyonthemale,lightonthefe.”“She’sjustfierce.Awarriorqueen.”“Mythird-grade teacher?”Hestudiedmyface.Waiting.Waiting.“Sorry, tried that jokeonce.Epic
fail.”Heplacedthepieceinthebox.“Mygrandmabelongedtoaprayercircle.Youknowwhataprayercircleis?”“Yes.”“Really?Ithoughtyouwereanatheist.”“My father was an atheist. Andwhy couldn’t an atheist knowwhat a prayer circle is? Religious
peopleknowaboutevolution.”“Iknowwhatitis.I’vegotit,”hesaidthoughtfully,dark,intenseeyesstillonmyface.“Youwere,
like,fiveorsixandsomerelativeremarkedinaverypositivewaywhataseriouslittlegirlyouwere,andfromthenon,youthoughtseriousnesswasattractive.”“Whathappenedintheprayercircle?”Attemptingtogethimbackontrack.“Ha!Soyoudon’tknowwhatitis!”Hesettheboxdownandscoochedfartherontothebed.Hisbutt
now touching my thigh. I eased my leg away. Subtly, I hoped. “I’ll tell you what happened. Mygrandma’sdoggotsick.Oneofthosepursedogsthatbiteseverybodyandlivesabouttwenty-fiveyears,biting people. So her petition had to dowithGod saving thatmean little dog so it could bitemorepeople.Andhalftheoldladiesinhergroupagreedandhalfdidn’t,I’mnotsurewhy,ImeanaGodwho
doesn’tlikedogswouldn’tbeGod,butanyway,therewasthisbigdebateaboutwastedprayer,whichbecameanargumentabout if therecouldbesucha thingaswastedprayer,which turned intoa fightabouttheHolocaust.SoinfiveminutesitwentfromanippyoldpursedogtotheHolocaust.”“Sowhathappened?Didtheyprayforthedog?”“No,theyprayedforthesoulsoftheHolocaust.Thenthenextdaythedogdied.”Andnowhewas
noddingthoughtfully.“Grandmaprayedforhim.Prayedeverynight.Toldallusgrandkidstopray,too.SoIprayedforadogthatterrorizedandhatedmeandgavemethis.”Heswunghislegontothebedandpulleduphispantstoexposehiscalf.“Seethescar?”Ishookmyhead.“No.”“Well,it’sthere.”Hepusheddownthepantslegbutkepthisfootonthebed.“Soafteritdied,Isaid
toGrandma,‘IprayedreallyhardandFlubbystilldied.DoesGodhateme?’”“Whatdidshesay?”“SomeBSaboutGodwantingFlubbyinheaven,whichwasimpossibleformysix-year-oldbrainto
process. There are nippy old purse dogs in heaven? Isn’t heaven supposed to be a nice place? Itbotheredmeforalongtime.Like,everynight,whileIsaidmyprayers,Icouldn’thelpbutwonderifIevenwantedtogotoheavenandspendeternitywithFlubby.SoIdecidedhemustbeinhell.Otherwise,theologyfallsapart.”Hewrappedhislongarmsaroundhisupraisedknee,whereherestedhischinandstaredintospace.
Hewasbackinatimewhenalittleboy’squestionsaboutprayerandGodandheavenstillmattered.“Ibrokeacuponce,”hewenton.“PlayingaroundinMom’schinacabinet,partofherweddingset,
thisdaintylittlecupfromateaset.Didn’ttotallybreakit.Droppeditontheflooranditcracked.”“Thefloor?”“No,notthefloor.Thecu—”Hiseyeswidenedinshock.“Didyoujustmakethesame...?”Ishookmyhead.Hepointedhisfingeratme.“Naw,Icaughtyou!Amomentoflightheartedlevity
fromRingerthewarriorqueen!”“Ijokeallthetime.”“Right.Butthey’resosubtlethatonlysmartpeoplegetthem.”“Thecup,”Iproddedhim.“SoI’vecrackedMom’spreciouschina.Iputitbackinthecabinet,turningitscrackedsidetoward
thebacksomaybeshewon’tnotice,eventhoughIknowit’sonlyamatteroftimebeforeshedoesandI’mdeadmeat.KnowwhereIturnforhelp?”Ididn’thavetothinkhard.Iknewwherethestorywasgoing.“God.”“God.IprayedforGodtokeepMomawayfromthatcup.Like,for therestofher life.Orat least
untilImovedawaytocollege.ThenIprayedthathecouldhealthecup.He’sGod,right?Hecanhealpeople—what’satinyfreakingmade-in-Chinacup?Thatwastheoptimalsolutionandthat’swhathe’sallabout,optimalsolutions.”“Shefoundthecup.”“Youbetyourassshefoundthecup.”“I’msurprisedyoustillpray.AfterFlubbyandthecup.”Heshookhishead.“Notthepoint.”“There’sapoint?”“Ifyou’dletmefinishthestory—yes,thereisapoint.Hereitis:AftershefoundthecupandbeforeI
knewshe’dfoundit,shereplacedit.Sheorderedanewcupandthrewawaytheoldone.OneSaturdaymorning—IguessI’dbeenprayingforaboutamonth—Iwenttothecabinettoprovetheprayercirclewrongaboutwastedprayer,andIsawit.”“Thenewcup,”Isaid.Razornodded.“Butyoudidn’tknowyourmomreplacedit.”He threwhis hands into the air. “It’s a fuckingmiracle!What’s cracked has been uncracked!The
brokenmadewhole!Godexists!Inearlycrappedmypants.”“Thecupwashealed,”Isaidslowly.Hisdarkeyesdugdeepintomine.Hishandfelltomyknee.Asqueeze.Thenatap.Yes.
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IN THE BATHROOM, the gush becomes a stream, the stream becomes a trickle, the trickle becomes ananemicdribble.Thewaterslowsandmyheartquickens.Myparanoiawasgettingthebetterofme.AdecadepassedwhileIwaitedforthewatertobecutoff:thegosignalfromRazor.The hall outside is deserted. I already know that thanks to Claire’s tracking device. I also know
exactlywhereI’mgoing.Stairs. One flight down. One last promise. I pause long enough on the landing to slip Jumbo’s
sidearmintothejacketpocket.ThenIslamthroughthedoorandhit thehallrunning.Straightaheadisthenurses’station.Isprint
straighttowardit.Thenursepopsoutofherchair.“Takecover!”Ishout.“It’sgoingtoblow!”Iswervepastthecounterandracetowardtheswingingdoorsthatleadtotheward.“Hey!”sheshouts.“Youcan’tgobackthere!”Anydaynow,Razor.Shehitsthelockdownbuttononherdesk.Itdoesn’tmatter.Ihurtleintothedoorsatfullspeedand
smashbothofftheirhinges.“Freeze!”shescreams.Theentirelengthofthehallwayremains;Iwon’tmakeit.I’vebeenenhanced,butIcan’toutruna
bullet.Iskittertoahalt.Razor,I’mserious.Nowwouldbeaverygoodtime.“Hands on your head!Now.” Struggling to catch her breath. “Good job. Now walk toward me,
backward.Slow.Veryslow,orIsweartoGodI’llshootyou.”I obey, shuffling toward the sound of her voice. She orders me to stop. I stop. I’m still, but the
mechanismsinsidemearen’t.Herpositionisfixed:Idon’thavetoseehertoknowexactlywhereshe’sstanding. The hub’s dispatched the managers of my muscular and nervous systems to execute thedirectivewhencalledupon.Iwon’thavetothinkwhenthetimecomes.Thehubwilltakeover.ButIwon’towemylifeentirelytothe12thSystem:ItwasmyideatograbJumbo’sjacket.Andthatremindsme:“Shoes,”Imurmur.“Whatdidyousay?”Hervoiceisquivering.“Ineedshoes.Whatsizeareyou?”“Huh?”At the speed of light the hub’s signal fires.Mybodydoesn’tmove quite that fast, but double the
speedthatisprobablynecessary.RighthandjamsintoJumbo’sbaggysleeve,whereIslippedtheten-inchknife,pivottotheleft,then
throw.Anddownshegoes.Ipulltheknifefromherneck,slidethebloodybladebackintotheleftsleeveofthejacket,andcheck
outhershoes.Apairofthosewhite,thick-solednurse’sshoes.Ahalfsizetoobig,butthey’llwork.
At theendof thehallway, I step into the last roomon the right. It’sdark,butmyeyeshavebeenenhanced:Icanseeherclearlyinthebed,fastasleep.Ordoped.I’llhavetodeterminewhich.“Teacup?It’sme.Ringer.”The thick, dark lashes flutter. I’m so jacked up by this point, I swear I can hear the tiny hairs
thrummingtheair.She whispers something without opening her eyes. Too soft for the unenhanced to hear, but the
auditorybotstransmittheinformationtothehub,whichrelaysittotheinferiorcolliculus,thehearingcenterofmybrain.“You’redead.”“Notanymore.Andneitherareyou.”
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THEWINDOWBESIDEthebedjigglesinitsframe.Thefloorquivers.Brightorangelightfloodstheroom,winks out, then an earsplitting roar and a fine mist of plaster floating down from the ceiling. Thesequencerepeats.Thenagain.Thenagain.Razor’shitthemagazinebuilding.“Teacup,wehavetogo.”Islideonehandbehindherheadandliftgently.“Gowhere?”“Asfaraswecan.”Bracingthebackofherheadwithonehand,Ihitherintheforeheadwiththeheeloftheother.The
preciseamountofforce,nomore,noless.Herbodygoeslimp.Iheaveheroutofthebed.Anotherblastastheordnanceinthemagazinecontinuestodetonate.Ikickoutthewindow.Bittercoldaircrashesintotheroom.Isitonthesillfacingthebed,cradlingTeacupagainstmychest.Myintentalertsthehub:I’mtwostoriesabovetheground.Reinforcementsracetothebonesandtendonsinmyfeet,ankles,shins,knees,andpelvis.Wedeploy.Iflipaswedrop,likeacatfallingoffacountertop.Welandsafely,likeacat,exceptTeacup’shead
bouncesupon impactandsmacksmehardunder thechin. In frontofus thehospital.Behindus theblazing ammunition storehouse. And to our right, exactly where Razor said it would be, the blackDodgeM882.I throwopen thedoor, shoveTeacup into thepassenger seat, jumpbehind thewheel, and takeoff
across the parking lot, cutting hard to the left to make the turn north toward the airfield. A sirenscreams. Floodlights blare. In the rearview mirrors, emergency vehicles race toward the burningmagazine. The fire brigade will have a hard time of it since someone has shut down the pumpingstation.Anotherhardleft,andnowstraightaheadarethehulkingbodiesoftheBlackHawks,glisteninglike
thebodiesofblackbeetlesintheharshlightofthefloods.Igripthewheelhardandtakeadeepbreath.Thisisthetrickiestpart.IfRazorcouldn’tkidnapapilot,we’reallscrewed.Ahundredyardsaway,Iseesomeonejumpfromoneofthechoppers’holds.He’swearingaheavy
parka and toting an assault rifle.His face is partially obscuredby thehood, but I’dknow that smileanywhere.IhopfromtheM882.AndRazorsays,“Hi.”“Where’sthepilot?”Iask.Hejerkshisheadtowardthecockpit.“Igotmine.Where’syours?”IpullTeacupfromthetruckandjumpinsidethechopper.AguywearingnothingbutadrabgreenT-
shirt and amatching pair of boxer shorts sits behind the controls. Razor slides into the copilot seatbesidehim.“Fire her up, Lieutenant Bob.” Razor grins at the pilot. “Oh. Manners. Ringer, Lieutenant Bob.
LieutenantBob,Ringer.”
“There’snowaythisisgoingtowork,”LieutenantBobsays.“They’llcomeafterushard.”“Yeah?What’sthis?”Razorholdsupamassoftangledelectricalwire.Thepilotshakeshishead.Socold,hislipsareturningblue.“Idon’tknow.”“NeitherdoI,butI’mguessingthey’reveryimportantfortheproperoperationofahelicopter.”“Youdon’tunderstand...”Razorleanstowardhimandallhisplayfulnessisgone.Hisdeep-seteyesburnasifbacklitandthe
coiledforceIsensedfromthebeginningspringsfreewithsuchferocity,Iactuallyflinch.“Listentome,youaliensonofabitch,youfirethismother-effingstickbuddyupASAPorI’m—”Thepilotshoveshishandsintohislapandstaresstraightahead.Aftergettingoneintothechopper
undetected,mybiggestconcernwasgettingapilottocooperate.Ileanforward,grabBobbythewrist,andbendhispinkyfingerbackward.“I’llbreakit,”Ipromisehim.“Goahead!”I break it.His teeth clampdownon his bottom lip.His legs jerk.His eyes swimwith tears.That
shouldn’thappen.Ipressmyfingersagainstthebackofhisneck,thenturntoRazor.“He’simplanted.Heisn’toneofthem.”“Yeah,well,whothehellareyou?”thepilotsqueals.Ipull the trackingdevice frommypocket.There’s thehospital and themagazine surroundedbya
swarmofgreendots.Andtherearethreedotsglowingontheairstrip.“Youcutyoursout,”IsaytoRazor.He’snodding.“Andleft itundermypillow.Thatwas theplan.Orwas that theplan?Shit,Ringer,
wasn’tthattheplan?”Alittlepanicky.Idroptheknifeintomyhand.“Holdhim.”Razorunderstands immediately.HegrabsLieutenantBobandputshiminaheadlock.Bobdoesn’t
putupmuchresistance.Iworrynowthathemightgointoshock.Ifhedoes,it’sover.Thereisn’tmuchlightandRazorcan’tholdhimperfectlystill,soItellBobtochillorImightsever
hisspinalcord,addingparalysistotheproblemofabrokenfinger.Ipulloutthepellet,tossitontothetarmac,yankBob’sheadback,andwhisperinhisear,“I’mnottheenemyandIhaven’tgoneDorothy.I’mjustlikeyou—”“Onlybetter,”Razorfinishes.Heglancesthroughthewindowandsays,“Uh,Ringer...”Iseethem:Theglowofheadlightsexpandinglikeapairofstarsgoingsupernova.“They’recoming,
andwhentheygethere,theywillkillus,”ItellBob.“Youtoo.Theywon’tbelieveyouandtheywillkillyou.”Bobstaresintomyface,tearsofpainstreamingdownhis.“Youhavetotrustme,”Isay.“Orshe’llbreakanotherfinger,”Razoradds.Adeep,shudderingbreath,shakinguncontrollably,cradlinghiswoundedhand,bloodtricklingdown
hisneckandsoakingintothecollarofhisT-shirt.“It’shopeless,”hewhispers.“They’ll justshootusdown.”On impulse, I reach forwardandpressmyhandagainsthis cheek.Hedoesn’t recoil.Hebecomes
verystill.Idon’tunderstandwhyItouchedhimorwhat’shappeningnowthatIam,butIfeelsomethingopeninginsideme,likeabudspreadingitsdelicatepetalstowardthesun.I’mfreezingcold.Myneckisonfire.Andthelittlefingeronmyrighthandthrobstothebeatofmyheart.Thepainbringstearstomyeyes.Hispain.“Ringer!”Razorbarks.“Whatthehellareyoudoing?”IpourmywarmthintothemanItouch.Idousethefire.Icaressthepain.Isoothehisfear.Hisbreath
evensout.Hisbodyrelaxes.
“Bob,wereallyhavetogo,”Itellhim.Andtwominuteslater,wedo.
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ASWEASCEND, the truck screeches to a stopanda tallman stepsout, andhis face is a study indeepshadowsthrownbythefloods,butIseehiseyeswitheyesenhanced,brightandhardlikethecrows’inthewoods,polishedbluewhile the crows’wereblack, and itmustbe a trickof lightor shadow, thesmall,tightsmileheseemstowear.“Keepuslow,”IorderBob.“Wherearewegoing?”“South.”Thechopperbanks;thegroundrushestowardus.Iseethemagazineburningandthespinninglights
ofthefiretrucksandrecruitsswarmingaroundlikeants.Wepassoverariver,blackwatersparkinginthespillover light fromthefloods.Behindusnow, thecampisanoasisof light inadesertofwinterdark.Weplungeintothatdark,skimmingsixfeetabovethetreetops.IslideintotheseatnexttoTeacup,leanherintomychest,andpullherhairtooneside.Ihopethisis
thelasttimeIhavetodothis.WhenI’mdone,Icrushtheimplantwiththeheeloftheknife.Razor’svoicesquawksinmyheadset:“How’sshedoing?”“Okay,Ithink.”“How’reyoudoing?”“Good.”“Glitches?”“Minor.You?”“Smoothasanewbornbaby’sass.”I ease Teacup back into the seat, stand up, and open compartments until I find the chutes. Razor
rattlesonasIchecktheassemblies.“Anythingyouwanttosaytome?Like,Idon’tknow,Thankyou,Razor, forsavingmyassfroma
lifetime of alien servitude after I punched you in the throat and generally acted like a douchebag?Somethingalongthoselines?Youknow,itwasn’texactlyliketakingawalkinbaseball,secretcodesembeddedinbogusgamesandslippinglaxativeinpuddingandriggingexplosivesandstealingtrucksandkidnappingpilotswithfingersforyoutobreak.MaybeHey,Razor,Icouldn’thavedoneitwithoutyou.You rock.Something like that.Doesn’t have to beword-for-word, just something to capture thegeneralspirit.”“Whydidyou?”Iask.“Whatmadeyoudecidetotrustme?”“Whatyousaid thatdayabout thekids—turningkids intobombs. Ididsomeaskingaround.Next
thingIknow,I’mintheWonderlandchairandthentheytakemetothecommanderandhe’salldownonmyassaboutsomethingyousaid,andheordersmetostoptalkingtoyoubecausehecan’tordermetostoplistening,andthemoreIthinkaboutit,thestinkieritgets.TheytrainustoterminateTedsandthenloaddowntoddlerswithalienordnance?Who’rethegoodguyshere?AndthenI’mlike,whoamIhere?Itgotreallyangsty,arealexistentialcrisis.Whattippeditforme,though,wasthemath.”“Math?”“Yeah,math.Aren’tallyouAsiansreallygoodatmath?”
“Don’tberacist.AndI’mthree-quartersAsian.”“‘Three-quarters.’See?Math. It comesdown tosimpleaddition.As in itdoesn’taddup.Okay, so
maybe we get lucky and seize theWonderland program from them. Even super-superior aliens canscrewup,nobody’sperfect.Butwedon’tjustsnatchWonderland.Wehavetheirbombs,wehavetheirtrack-and-kill implants, their super-sophisticated nanobot system—shit,we even have the technologycapableofdetectingthem.Whaduhfuh?We’vegotmoreoftheirweaponsthantheydo!Buttherealkickercamethatdaytheyjackedyouup,whenVoschsaidtheyliedtousabouttheorganismattachedtohumanbrains.Unbelievable!”“Becauseifthat’salie...”“Theneverything’salie.”Belowus the land is covered in a blanket ofwhite.The horizon is indiscernible in the dark, lost.
Everythingisalie.IthoughtofmydeadfathertellingmethatIbelongedtothemnow.Instinctively,IgatherTeacup’slittlehandintomine:truth.IhearBobsayintheheadset,“I’mconfused.”“Relax,Bob,”Razorsays.“Hey,Bob.Wasn’tthatthemajor’snameatCampHaven?What’sitwith
officersandthenameBob?”Analarmsounds.IreturnTeacup’shandtoherlapandshuffleforward.“Whatisit?”“Company,”Bobsays.“Sixo’clock.”“Choppers?”“Negative.F-15s.Threeofthem.”“Howmuchtimebeforethey’reinrange?”Heshakeshishead.Despite thecold,hisshirt issoaked insweat.Hisfaceshineswith it.“Five to
seven.”“Bringusup,”Itellhim.“Maximumaltitude.”IgrabacoupleparachuterigsanddroponeintoRazor’slap.“We’rebailing?”heasks.“Wecan’tengageandwecan’toutrun.You’rewithTeacup.Tandemjump.”“I’mwithTeacup?Whoareyouwith?”Bobglancesat theotherrig inmyhand.“I’mnotbailing,”hesays.Andthen, just incaseIdidn’t
hearordon’tunderstand:“I’m.Not.Bailing.”Noplanisperfect.I’dplannedforaSilencerBob,whichmeantmyplanentailedkillinghimbefore
webailedfromthechopper.Nowit’scomplicated.Ididn’tkillJumboforthesamereasonIdon’twanttokillBob.KillenoughJumbos,murderenoughBobs,andyou’veplungedtothesamedepthsastheoneswhoshoveabombdownatoddler’sthroat.Ishrugtohidemyuncertainty.Tosstherigintohislap.“ThenIguessyougetincinerated.”We’reatfivethousandfeet.Darksky,darkground,nohorizon,alldark.Thebottomofthelightless
sea.Razorislookingattheradarscreen,buthesaystome,“Where’syourchute,Ringer?”I ignore thequestion.“Canyougivemeasixty-secondETAon their range?” IaskBob.Henods.
Razorasksthequestionagain.“It’smath,”Itellhim.“WhichI’mthree-quartersreallygoodat.Iftherearefourofusandtheymarktwochutes,thatleavesatleastoneofusonboard.One,maybetwoofthemwillstaywiththechopper,atleastuntiltheycantakeitdown.It’llbuytime.”“Whatmakesyouthinkthey’llstaywiththechopper?”Ishrug.“It’swhatI’ddo.”“Stilldoesn’tanswermyquestionaboutyourchute.”“They’rehailingus,”Bobannounces.“Orderingustosetitdown.”“Tell them to suck it,”Razor says.He stuffs a piece of bubble gum into hismouth. Taps his ear.
“Popping’s bad.” Jams the gum wrapper into his pocket. Notices I’m watching and smiles. “Never
noticedallthecrapintheworlduntiltherewasnobodylefttopickitup,”heexplains.“TheEarthismycharge.”ThenBobcallsout,“Sixtyseconds!”ItugonRazor’sparka.Now.Helooksupatmeandsaysslowlyanddistinctly,“Where’syourfreakingchute?”Ihaulhimoutoftheseatone-handed.Hechirpsinsurprise,stumblingtowardtheback.Ifollowhim,
squatinfrontofTeacuptoremoveherharness.“Fortyseconds!”“Howarewegoingtofindyou?”Razoryells,standingrightnexttome.“Headforthefire.”“Whatfire?”“Thirtyseconds!”Ihaulopen thehatchdoor.Theblastof air thatpunches into theholdblowsRazor’shoodoffhis
head.IscoopupTeacupandpressherintohischest.“Don’tletherdie.”Henods.“Promise.”Nodsagain:“Ipromise.”“Thankyou,Razor,”Isay.“Foreverything.”Heleansforwardandkissesmehardonthemouth.“Don’teverdothatagain,”Itellhim.“Why?Becauseyoulikeditorbecauseyoudidn’t?”“Both.”“Fifteenseconds!”RazormaneuversTeacupoverhisshoulder,grabsthesafetycable,andshufflesbackuntilhisheels
touchthejumppad.Silhouettedintheopening,theboyandthechildovertheboy’sshoulder,andfivethousandfeetbeneaththem,thelimitlessdark.TheEarthismycharge.Razorreleasesthecable.Hedoesn’tseemtofall.Heissuckedoutintotheravenousvoid.
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IHEADBACKtothecockpit,whereIfindthepilot’sdoorunlatched,theseatempty,andnoBob.Iwonderedwhythecountdownstopped;nowIknow:Hechangedhismindaboutthewholebailing
issue.Wemustbeinrange,whichmeanstheydon’tintendtoshootusdown.They’vemarkedthelocation
ofRazor’sdrop,andthey’llstaywiththechopperuntilIbailoritrunsoutoffuelandI’mforcedtobail.Bythispoint,VoschhasfiguredoutwhyJumbo’s implant isonthisaircraftwhile itsowner is in theinfirmarybeingtreatedforaverybadheadache.Withthetipofmytongue,Ipushthepelletfrommymouthandlickitontomypalm.Doyouwanttolive?Yes,andyouwantthat,too,ItellVosch.Idon’tknowwhyand,hopefully,Ineverwill.Iflickthepelletfrommyhand.The hub’s response is instantaneous.My intent alerted the central processor,which calculated the
overwhelming probability of terminal failure and shut down all but the essential functions of mymuscularsystem.The12thSystemhasthesameorderIgaveRazor:Don’tletherdie.Likeaparasite’s,thesystem’slifedependsonthecontinuationofmine.The instantmy intentchanges—Okay, fine. I’llparachuteout—thehubwill releaseme.Then and
onlythen.Ican’tlietoitorbargainwithit.Can’tpersuadeit.Can’tforceit.UnlessIchangemymind,itcan’tletmego.Unlessitletsmego,Ican’tchangemymind.Heartonfire.Bodyofstone.There’snothingthatthehubcandoaboutmysnowballingpanic.Itcanrespondtoemotions;itcan’t
controlthem.Endorphinsrelease.Neuronsandmastocytesdumpserotoninintomybloodstream.Otherthanthesephysiologicaladjustments,it’sasparalyzedasIam.Theremustbeananswer.Theremustbeananswer.Theremustbeananswer.Whatistheanswer?
AndIseeVosch’spolished,birdlikebrighteyesboringintomine.What is theanswer?Notrage,nothope,notfaith,notlove,notdetachment,notholdingon,notlettinggo,notfighting,notrunning,nothiding,notgivingup,notgivingin,notnotnot,knot,knot,knot,naughtnaughtnaught.Naught.Whatistheanswer?heasked.AndIanswered,Nothing.
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ISTILLCAN’TMOVE—notevenmyeyes—butI’vegotaprettygoodangleontheinstruments,includingthe altimeter and fuel gauge.We’re five thousand feet up and the fuel won’t last forever. Inducingparalysismightstopmefromjumping,butitwon’tkeepmefromfalling.Theprobabilityofterminalfailureinthatscenarioisabsolute.Ithasnootheroption:Thehub releasesme, and the sensation is likebeinghurled the lengthof a
footballfield.I’mshovedbackintomybody,hard.Okay,Ringer2.0.Let’sseehowgoodyouare.Igrabthehandleofthepilot’sdoorandkilltheengines.Analarmsounds.Ikillthat,too.Thereisthewindnowandonlythewind.Forafewseconds,momentumkeepsthechopperlevel,thenfreefall.I’mthrowntotheceiling;myheadsmacksagainstthewindshield.Whitestarsexplodeinmyvision.
Thechopperbeginstospinasitdrops,andIlosemygriponthedoor.I’mtossedaroundlikeadieinaYahtzeecup,graspingatemptyspace,searchingforahandhold.Thechopper flips,noseup,andI’mflungtwelvefeetintotherearoftheaircraft,thenslungbackasitflipsagain,smashingchest-firstintothebackofthepilot’sseat.Ahotkniferipsacrossmyside:I’vebrokenarib.Theloosenylonstrapofthepilot’sharnesssmacksmeinthefaceandIsnatchitbeforeI’mthrownagain.Anotherflip,andthecentrifugalforcewhipsmebackintothecockpit,whereIsmashintothedoor.ItfliesopenandIjammywhite-solednurse’sshoeagainsttheseatforleverageandheavemyselfhalfwayout.Releasethestrap,lockmyfingersaroundthehandle,andpushhard.Roll, pitch, flip, somersault, flashes of gray andblack and sparklingwhite. I’mhangingon to the
handleasthechopperrollspilotsideupandthedoorslamsclosedonmywrist,snappingtheboneandtearingmyfingersfromthehandle.MybodybouncesandtwistsalongthelengthoftheBlackHawkuntil itwhacks into therearwheel, rocketingstraightup,andwhenthe tail rotatesskyward, I’mshottowardthehorizonlikearockfromaslingshot.Ihavenosensationoffalling.I’msuspendedontheupdraftofwarmerairpressingagainstthecolder,
ahawk sailing in thenight skyonoutstretchedwings,behindandbelowme the tumblinghelicopterprisoner to thegravity that I deny. I don’t hear the explosionwhen it crashes. Just thewind and theblood roaring inmyears, and there is nopain from thebeating inside the chopper. I amdeliriously,exhilaratinglyempty.Iamnothing.Thewindismoresubstantialthanmybones.TheEarthrushestowardme.Iamnotafraid.I’vekeptmypromises.I’veredeemedthetime.Istretchoutmyarms.Ispreadmyfingerswide.Iliftmyfacetowardthelinewheretheskymeetsthe
Earth.Myhome.Mycharge.
75
I AM FALLING at terminal velocity toward a featureless landscape of white, a vast nothingness thatgobblesupeverythinginitspath,explodingtowardthehorizoninalldirections.It’salake.Averybiglake.Afrozen-oververybiglake.Going in feet-first ismyonlyoption. If the ice ismore thana foot thick, I’mdone.Noamountof
alienenhancementwillprotectme.Thebonesinmylegswillshatter.Myspleenwillrupture.Mylungswillcollapse.Ihavefaithinyou,Marika.Youdidnotcomethroughfireandbloodonlytofallnow.Actually,Commander,Idid.Thewhiteworldbeneathmeshineslikepearls,ablankcanvas,analabasterabyss.Ascreamingwall
ofwindpushesagainstmylegsasIdrawmykneestomychesttoexecutetherotation.Ihavetogoinatninetydegrees.Straightentoosoonandthewindwillknockmeoff-kilter.ToolateandI’llhitwithmyassormychest.Iclosemyeyes;Idon’tneedthem.Thehub’sperformedperfectlysofar;timeformetogiveitallmy
trust.Mymindempties:blankcanvas,alabasterabyss.Iamthevessel,thehubthepilot.Whatistheanswer?AndIsaid,Nothing.Nothingistheanswer.Bothlegskickouthard.Mybodyswivelsupright.Myarmscomeup,foldthemselvesovermychest.
Myhead fallsback,my face to the sky.Mymouthopens.Deepbreath, exhale.Deepbreath, exhale.Deepbreath,hold.Verticalnow,releasedbythewind,Ifallfaster.Ihittheicestraighton,feet-first,atahundredmiles
anhour.Idon’tfeeltheimpact.Orthecoldwaterclosingoverme.OrthepressureofthatwaterasIplummetintoinkydarkness.Ifeelnothing.Mynerveshavebeenshutdownorthepainreceptorsinmybrainturnedoff.Hundredsoffeetaboveme,atinypointoflight,apinprick,faintasthefartheststar:theentrypoint.
Also the exit point. I kick toward the star. My body is numb.My mind is empty. I’ve completelysurrenderedtothe12thSystem.Itisn’tpartofmeanymore.The12thSystemisme.Weareone.Iamhuman.AndIamnot.Risingtowardthestarthatshinesintheice-encrustedvault,aprotogod
ascending from the primordial deep, fully human, wholly alien, and I understand now; I know theanswertotheimpossibleriddleofEvanWalker.Ishootintotheheartofthestarandhurlmyselfovertheedgeontotheicecap.Acoupleofbroken
ribs,afracturedwrist,adeepgashinmyforeheadfromthepilot’sharness,totallynumb,completelyoutofbreath,empty,whole,aware.Alive.
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I REACH THE SMOLDERINGwreckage of the chopper by dawn.The crash sitewasn’t hard to find: TheBlackHawkwentdowninthemiddleofanopenfieldcoveredinafreshfallofsnow.Youcouldseethefire’sglowformiles.Iapproachslowlyfromthesouth.Tomyright,thesunbreaksthehorizonandlightshootsacrossthe
winterscape,settingablazeacrystallineinferno,asifabilliondiamondshadfallenfromthesky.Mywater-soaked clothes are frozen, crackling like kindlingwhen Imove, and sensation has been
returned tome.The12thSystemperpetuatesmyexistence toperpetuate itsown. It’scalling for rest,food,helpwiththehealingprocess;that’sthepurposeofgivingmebackmypain.No.NorestuntilIfindthem.Theskyisempty.Thereisnowind.Smokecurlsfromthemangledremainsofthechopper,blackand
gray,likethesmokethatroseoverCampHavencarryingtheincineratedremainsoftheslaughtered.Whereareyou,Razor?The sunclimbsand theglare comingoff the snowbecomesblinding.Thevisual arrayadjustsmy
eyes:Adarkfilterwithnodiscernabledifferencefromsunglassesdropsovermyvision,andthenIseeablotintheperfectionofwhiteaboutamiletothewest.Ilieflatonmystomach,usingabreaststrokemotiontodigmyselfasmalltrench.Atitdrawscloser,thedarkimperfectiontakesonahumanshape.Tall and thin,wearing a heavy parka and carrying a rifle,moving slowly against the ankle-grippingsnow.Thirtyminutescrawlby.Whenhe’sahundredyardsaway,Irise.Hedropsasifshot.Icallhisname,notloudly,though;soundcarriesfartherinwinterair.Hisvoicefloatsbacktome,highpitchedwithanxiety.“Holyshit!”Heslogsforafewsteps,thentakesoffrunning,liftinghiskneeshighandpumpinghisarmslikea
determinedcardiofiendonatreadmill.Hestopsanarm’slengthfromme,warmbreathexplodingfromhisopenmouth.“You’realive,”hewhispers.Iseeitinhiseyes:Impossible.“Where’sTeacup?”Hejerkshisheadbehindhim.“She’sokay.Well,Ithinkherlegmightbebroken...”Isteparoundhimandstartwalking thewayhecame.He trudgesafterme, fussingforme toslow
down.“Iwasabout togiveuponyou,”hepuffs.“Nochute!What,youcan flynow?Whathappened to
yourhead?”“Ihitit.”“Oh.Well,youlooklikeanApache.Youknow,warpaint.”“That’stheotherquarter:Apache.”“Seriously?”“Whatdoyoumean,youthinkshebrokeherleg?”“Well,whatImeanisIthinkherlegmightbebroken.Withthehelpofyourx-rayvision,maybeyou
candefinitivelydiagnose—”“Thisisstrange.”I’mstudyingtheskyaswewalk.“Where’sthepursuit?Theywouldhavemarked
thelocation.”“I’veseennothing.Liketheyjustgaveup.”Ishakemyhead.“Theydon’tgiveup.Howmuchfarther,Razor?”“Anothermile?Don’tworry,Igothertuckedawayniceandsafe.”“Why’dyouleaveher?”He looks at me sharply, dumbstruck for a second. But only for a second. Razor doesn’t stay
speechlessforlong.“Tolookforyou.Youtoldmetomeetyoubythefire.Sortofgenericdirections.Youcouldhavesaid,‘MeetmeatthecrashsitewhereIputthischopperdown.Thatfire.’”Wewalkforafewminutesinsilence.Razorisoutofbreath.I’mnot.Thearrayswillsustainmeuntil
Ireachher,butIhaveafeelingthatwhenIcrash,I’llcrashhard.“Sowhatnow?”heasks.“Restupafewdays—oraslongaswecan.”“Then?”“South.”“South.That’stheplan?South.Alittleelaborate,isn’tit?”“WehavetogetbacktoOhio.”Hestopsasifhe’drunintoaninvisiblewall.Itrudgeonforafewsteps,thenturn.Razorisshaking
hisheadatme.“Ringer,doyouhaveanyideawhereyouare?”Inod.“AbouttwentymilesnorthofoneoftheGreatLakes.I’mguessingErie.”“Whatareyou—Howarewe—YoudorealizeOhioisoverahundredmilesfromhere,”hesputters.“Wherewe’regoing,moreliketwohundred.Asthecrowflies.”“‘Asthe...’Well,toofuckingbad,wearen’tcrows!What’sinOhio?”“Myfriends.”Icontinuewalking,followingtheimprintofhisbootsinthesnow.“Ringer,Idon’twanttoburstyourbubble,but—”“Youdon’twanttoburstmybubblebutt?”“Thatsoundedsuspiciouslylikeajoke.”“Iknowthey’reprobablydead.AndIknowI’llprobablydielongbeforeIreachthem,evenifthey’re
not.ButImadeapromise,Razor. Ididn’t think itwasapromiseat the time.I toldmyself itwasn’t.Toldhimitwasn’t.Butthere’rethethingswetellourselvesaboutthetruth,andthere’rethethingsthetruthtellsaboutus.”“What you just saidmakes no sense.You know that, right?Must be the head injury.You usually
makealot.”“Headinjuries?”“Now,thatdefinitelywasajoke!”Hefrowns.“Madeapromisetowho?”“A naïve, thick-headed, stereotypical jock who thinks he’s God’s gift to the world when he isn’t
thinkingtheworldisGod’sgifttohim.”“Oh.Okay.”Hedoesn’t sayanything fora fewshufflingsteps, then:“Sohow longhasMr.Naïve
Thick-headedStereotypicalJockbeenyourboyfriend?”Istop.Iturn.Igrabhisfacewithbothhandsandkisshimhardonthemouth.Hiseyesarewideand
filledwithsomethingthatcloselyresemblesfear.“Whatwasthatfor?”Ikisshimagain.Ourbodiespressedclose.Hiscoldfacecradledinmycolderhands.Icansmellthe
bubblegumonhisbreath.TheEarthismycharge.Wearetwopillarsrisingfromanundulatingseaofdazzlingwhite.Limitless.Withoutborders,withoutboundaries.Hebroughtmefromthetomb.Heraisedmefromthedead.HeriskedhislifesoImighthavemine.
Easiertoturnaside.Easiertoletmego.Easiertobelievethebeautifulliethanthehideoustruth.Aftermy father died, I built a fortress safe and strong to last a thousand years.Amighty stronghold thatcrumbleswithakiss.“Nowwe’reeven,”Iwhisper.“Notexactly,”hesayshoarsely.“Ionlykissedyouonce.”
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AS WE APPROACH, the complex seems to rise from the snow like a leviathan from the deep. Silos,conveyors, bins, mixers, storage and office buildings, an enormous warehouse twice the size of anairplanehangar,allsurroundedbyarustychain-linkfence.Itseemscreepilysymbolic,fittingsomehow,for this toendataconcreteplant.Concrete is theomnipresenthumansignature,ourprincipalartisticmediumontheworld’sblankcanvas:Whereverwewent,theEarthslowlydisappearedbeneathit.Razorpullsasideasectionoftherottingfenceformetoduckthrough.Colorhighinhischeeks,nose
brightredfromthecold,soft,soulfuleyesdartingabout.MaybehefeelsasexposedasIdointheopen,dwarfedbythetoweringsilosandmassiveequipment,beneaththebright,cloudlesssky.Maybe,thoughIdoubtit.“Givemeyourrifle,”Itellhim.“Huh?”He’sclutchingtheweaponagainsthischest,triggerfingernervouslytapping.“I’mabettershot.”“Ringer,I’vecheckeditallout.There’snobodyhere.It’sperfectly—”“Safe,”Ifinishforhim.“Right.”Iholdoutmyhand.“Comeon,she’srightoverthereinthewarehouse...”Idon’tmove.Herollshiseyes,tipshisheadbacktoconsidertheemptysky,looksbackatme.“Iftheywerehere,youknowwe’dalreadybedead.”“Therifle.”“Fine.”Heshovesitatme.Ipulltheriflefromhishandsandsmashthestockagainstthesideofhis
head.Hedropstohisknees,eyesonmyface,butthere’snothinginthoseeyes,nothingatall.“Fall,”Itellhim.Hepitchesforwardandliesstill.Idon’tthinkshe’sinthewarehouse.There’sareasonhewantedmetogointhere,butIdon’tbelieve
thatreasonhadanythingtodowithTeacup.Idoubtshe’swithinahundredmilesofthisplace.Ihavenochoice,though.AslightadvantagewiththerifleandRazorneutralized,andthat’sall.Heopenedup tomewhen I kissedhim. I don’t knowhow the enhancement opens an empathetic
pathway into another human being. Maybe it turns the carrier into a kind of human lie detector,gathering and collating data from a myriad of sensory inputs and funneling it through the hub forinterpretation and analysis. However it works, I felt the blank spot insideRazor, a nullity, a hiddenroom,andIknewsomethingwasterriblywrong.Lieswithinlieswithinlies.Feintsandcounterfeints.Likeadesertmirage,nomatterhowhardyou
rantowardit,itstayedforeverinthedistance.Findingthetruthwaslikechasingthehorizon.AsIentertheshadowofthebuilding,somethingloosensinside.Mykneesbegintoshake.Mychest
acheslikeI’vebeenhitwithabatteringram.Ican’tcatchmybreath.The12thSystemcansustainandstrengthenme, superchargemy reflexes, enhancemysenses tenfold,healme,andprotectmeagainsteveryphysicalhazard,but there’snothingmy forty thousanduninvitedguestscandoaboutabrokenheart.Can’t,can’t.Can’tgosoftnow.Whathappenswhenwegosoft?Whathappens?Ican’tgoinside.Imustgoinside.
I leanagainst the coldmetalwall of thewarehouse,beside theopendoor,wheredarknessdwells,profoundasthegrave.
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ROTTENMILK.ThestenchoftheplagueissointensewhenIstepinsidethatIgag.Theolfactoryarrayimmediately
suppressesmysenseofsmell.Mystomachsettles.Myeyesclear.Thewarehouseistwicethesizeofafootballfieldandsectionedintothreeascendingtiers.Thebottomsection,inwhichI’mstanding,hadbeen converted into a field hospital. Hundreds of cots, wads of bedding, and tipped-over carts ofmedicalsupplies.Bloodeverywhere.Glisteninginthelightstreamingthroughtheholesinthepartiallycollapsedceilingthreestoriesovermyhead.Frozensheetsofbloodonthefloor.Bloodsmearedonthewalls.Blood-soakedsheetsandpillows.Blood,blood,bloodeverywhere,butnobodies.Iclimbthefirstsetofstairstothesecondtier.Supplylevel:bagsofflourandotherdrygoods,ripped
open,contents strewnby ratsandother scavengers, stacksofcannedgoods, jugsofwater,barrelsofkerosene.Stockpiledinanticipationofwinter,buttheRedTsunamicaughtthemfirstanddrownedthemintheirownblood.Iclimbthesecondsetofstairstothethirdtier.Acolumnofsunlightcutsthroughthedustyairlikea
spotlight.I’vereachedtheend.Thefinallevel.Theplatformislitteredwithcorpses,stackedsixhighinsome places, the ones on the bottomwrapped carefully in sheets, the ones closer to the top hastilytossed there, a discordant jumble of arms and legs, a twistedmass of bone and desiccated skin andskeletalfingersgraspinguselesslyattheemptyair.Themiddleof thefloorhasbeencleared.Awooden tablesits in thecenterof thecolumnof light.
Andonthetable,awoodenboxand,besidethewoodenbox,achessboard,setupinanendgamethatIinstantlyrecognize.And then his voice, coming from everywhere and nowhere, like the whisper of distant thunder,
impossibletoplace.“Weneverfinishedourgame.”Ireachforwardandtopplethewhiteking.Ihearasighlikeahighwindinthetrees.“Whyareyouhere,Marika?”“Itwasatest,”Iwhisper.Thewhitekingonhisback,blankstare,theeyesanalabasterabysslooking
backatme.“Youneededtotestthe12thSystemwithoutmeknowingitwasatest.Ihadtobelieveitwasreal.ItwastheonlywayI’dcooperate.”“Anddidyoupass?”“Yes.Ipassed.”I turnmyback to the light.He’s standing at the topof the stairs, alone, face in shadow, though I
swearIcanseehisbrightblue,birdlikeeyesglitteringinthecharneldark.“Notquiteyet,”hesays.Iaimtherifleatthespacebetweenthoseglitteringeyesandpullthetrigger.Theclicksechofromthe
emptychamber:Click,click,click,click,click,click.“You’ve come so far,Marika. Don’t disappoint me now,” Vosch says. “Youmust have known it
wouldn’tbeloaded.”IdroptherifleandshufflebackwarduntilIknockagainstthetable.Ipressmyhandsonthetopto
steadymyself.“Askthequestion,”heordersme.“Whatdidyoumean,‘Notquiteyet’?”“Youknowtheanswertothat.”Ipickupthetableandhurlitathim.Heslapsitawaywithonearm,andbythattimeI’vereached
him, launching myself from six feet away, hitting him square in the chest with my shoulder andwrappingmyarmsaroundhiminabearhug.Weflyoffthethirdlevelandsmashontothesecond.Theboardsbeneathusgiveathunderouscrack.Theimpactloosensmygrip.Hewrapsthelongfingersofonehandaroundmyneckandslingsmetwentyfeetintoatowerofcannedgoods.I’monmyfeetinlessthanasecond,buthestillbeatsme,movingsofast,hisrisingtracesanafterimageinmyvision.“The poor recruit in thewashroom,” he says. “The nurse outside the ICU, the pilot,Razor—even
Claire,poorClaire,whowasatadistinctdisadvantagefromthebeginning.Notenough,notenough.Totrulypass,youmustovercomewhatcannotbeovercome.”Hespreadshisarmswide.Aninvitation.“Youwantedtheopportunity,Marika.Well.Hereitis.”
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THERE’SLITTLEDIFFERENCEbetweenwhathappensnextandourchessgame.HeknowshowIthink.Heknowsmystrengths,myweaknesses.KnowseverymovebeforeImakeit.Hepaysparticularattentiontomyinjuries:mywrist,myribs,myface.Bloodstreamsfromthereopenedwoundonmyforehead,steaminginthesubzeroair,runningintomymouth,myeyes;theworldturnscrimsonbehindabloodycurtain.AfterIfallathirdtime,hesays,“Enough.Staydown,Marika.”Igetup.Heputsmedownafourthtime.“You’lloverloadthesystem,”hecautionsme.I’monmyhandsandknees,watchingdumblyasblood
spattersfrommyfacetothefloor,arainofblood.“Itcouldcrash.Ifthathappens,yourinjuriesmightkillyou.”I’m screaming. Pouring from the very bottom of my soul: the death howls of seven billion
slaughteredhumanbeings.Thesoundricochetsaroundthecavernousspace.Then I’mupagain for the last time.Evenenhanced,myeyescan’t followhis fists.Likequantum
particles, they’reneitherherenor there, impossibletoplace, impossibletopredict.Heflingsmylimpbodyfromtheplatformtotheconcretefloorbelow,throughwhichIseemtofallforever,intodarknessthickerthanthatwhichengulfedtheuniversebeforethebeginningoftime.Irollontomystomachandpushmyselfup.Hisbootslamsintomyneckandstampsdown.“Whatistheanswer,Marika?”Hedoesn’thavetoexplain.Finally,Iunderstandthequestion.Finally,Igettheriddle:Heisn’tasking
aboutouranswertotheproblemofthem.Heneverwas.He’saskingabouttheiranswertotheproblemofus.SoIsay,“Nothing.Nothingistheanswer.They’renothere.Theyneverwere.”“Who?Who’snothere?”Mymouthisfullofblood.Iswallow.“Therisk...”“Yes.Verygood.Theriskisthekey.”“They’re not here. There are no entities downloaded into human bodies. No alien consciousness
insideanyone.Becauseoftherisk.Therisk.Theriskisunacceptable.It’sa...aprogram,adelusionalconstruct.Insertedintotheirmindsbeforetheywereborn,switchedonwhentheyreachedpuberty—alie,it’salie.They’rehuman.Enhancedlikeme,buthuman...humanlikeme.”“Andme?Ifyouarehuman,whatamI?”“Idon’tknow...”Thebootpressesdown,crushingmycheekagainsttheconcrete.“WhatamI?”“Idon’tknow.Thecontroller.Thedirector.Idon’tknow.Theonechosento...Idon’tknow,Idon’t
know.”“AmIhuman?”“Idon’tknow!”AndIdidn’t.We’dcometotheplaceIcouldnotgo.TheplacefromwhichIcould
notreturn.Above:theboot.Below:theabyss.“Butifyouarehuman...”“Yes.Finishit.IfIamhuman...what?”
Iamdrowninginblood.Notmine.Thebloodofthebillionswhodiedbeforeme,aninfiniteseaofbloodthatenvelopsmeandbearsmedowntothelightlessbottom.“Ifyouarehuman,thereisnohope.”
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HELIFTSMEfromthefloor.Hecarriesmetooneofthecotsandgentlylaysdownmybody.“Youarebent, but not broken. The steelmust bemelted before the sword can be forged.You are the sword,Marika.Iamtheblacksmithandyouarethesword.”Hecupsmyface.Hiseyesshinewiththefervorofareligiouszealot,thelookofastreet-cornercrazy
preacher,exceptthiscrazyholdsthefateoftheworldinhishands.Herunshisthumbovermybloodycheek.“Restnow,Marika.You’resafehere.Perfectlysafe.I’m
leavinghimtotakecareofyou.”Razor.Ican’ttakethat.Ishakemyhead.“Please.No.Please.”“Andinaweekortwo,you’llbeready.”Hewaitsforthequestion.He’sverypleasedwithhimself.Orwithme.Orwhathehasachievedin
me.Idon’task,though.Andthenhe’sgone.Later, Ihear thechoppercometo takehimaway.After that,Razorappears, lookingas ifsomeone
shovedanappleundertheskinthatcoveredhischeek.Hedoesn’tsayanything.Idon’tsayanything.Hewashesmyfacewithwarm,soapywater.Hebandagesmywounds.Hebindsmyfracturedribs.Hesplintsmybrokenwrist.Hedoesn’tbothertooffermewater,thoughhemustknowI’mthirsty.HejabsanIVintomyarmandhooksupasalinedrip.Thenheleavesmeandsitsinafoldingchairbytheopendoor,cocoonedintheheavyparka,rifleacrosshislap.Whenthesunsets,helightsakerosenelampandplacesitonthefloorbesidehim.Lightflowsupandbatheshisface,buthiseyesarehiddenfromme.“Where’sTeacup?”Myvoiceechoesinthevastspace.Hedoesn’tanswer.“Ihaveatheory,”Itellhim.“It’saboutrats.Doyouwanttohearit?”Silence.“Tokilloneratiseasy.Allyouneedisapieceofoldcheeseandaspring-loadedtrap.Buttokilla
thousandrats,amillionrats,abillion—orsevenbillion—that’salittlebitharder.Forthatyouneedbait.Poison.Youdon’thavetopoisonallsevenbillionofthem,justacertainpercentagethatwillcarrythepoisonbacktothecolony.”Hedoesn’tmove.Ihavenoideaifhe’slisteningorevenawake.“We’retherats.Theprogramdownloadedintohumanfetuses—that’sthebait.What’sthedifference
betweenahumanwhocarriesanalienconsciousnessandahumanwhobelievesthathedoes?Thereisno difference except one. Risk. Risk is the difference. Not our risk. Theirs. Why would they riskthemselveslikethat?Theansweristheydidn’t.Theyaren’there,Razor.Theyneverwere.It’sjustus.It’salwaysbeenjustus.”Hebendsforwardveryslowlyanddeliberatelyandextinguishesthelight.Isigh.“Butlikealltheories,thereareholes.Youcan’treconcileitwiththebigrockquestion.Why
botherwithanyofitwhenalltheyhadtodowasthrowaverybigrock?”Veryquietlynow,soquietlyIwouldn’thearhimwithouttheenhancementarray:“Shutup.”“Whydidyoudoit,Alex?”IfAlexisreallyhisname.Hisentirehistorycouldbealiedesignedby
Voschtomanipulateme.Theoddsareitis.“I’masoldier.”“Youwerejustfollowingorders.”“I’masoldier.”“It’snotyourstoreasonwhy.”“I.Am.A.SOLDIER!”Iclosemyeyes.“Chaseball.WasthatVosch’s,too?Sorry.Stupidquestion.”Silence.“It’sWalker,”Isay,myeyessnappingopen.“Ithastobe.It’s theonlythingthatmakessense.It’s
Evan,isn’tit,Razor?HewantsEvanandI’mtheonlypathtohim.”Silence.The implosion ofCampHaven and the disabled drones raining from the sky:Why did they need
drones?Thequestionalwaysbotheredme.Howhardcoulditbetofindpocketsofsurvivorswhenthereweresofewsurvivors leftandyouhadplentyofhumantechnologyinyourpossessiontofindthem?Survivorsclustered.Theycrowdedtogetherlikebeesinahive.Thedronesweren’tbeingusedtokeeptrackofus.Theywerebeingused tokeep trackof them, thehumans likeEvanWalker, solitary anddangerously enhanced, scattered over every continent, armed with knowledge that could bring thewholeedificecrashingdowniftheprogramdownloadedintothemmalfunctioned—asitclearlydidinhiscase.Evanisoff thegrid.Voschdoesn’tknowwherehe isor ifhe’saliveordead.But ifEvanisalive,
Voschneedssomeoneontheinside,someoneEvanwouldtrust.Iamtheblacksmith.Youarethesword.
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FORAWEEK,heismysolecompanion.Guard,nursemaid,watchman.WhenI’mhungry,hebringsmefood.WhenIhurt,heeasesmypain.WhenI’mdirty,hebathesme.Heisconstant.Heisfaithful.HeistherewhenIwakeandtherewhenIfallasleep.Inevercatchhimsleeping:Heisconstant,butmysleepneveris;Iwakeseveraltimesanight,andhe’salwayswatchingfromhisspotbythedoor.Heissilentandsullenandstrangelynervous,thisguywhoeffortlesslyconnedmeintobelievinghimand inhim.As if Imight try to escape,when he knows I can butwon’t,when he knows I am imprisoned by apromisemorebindingthanathousandchains.Ontheafternoonofthesixthday,Razortiesaragoverhisnoseandmouth,clumpsupthestairsto
thethirdlevel,andcomesbackcartingabody.Hecarriesitoutside.Thenbackupthestairs,histreadasheavyempty-handedasit isburdenedwithacorpse,andanotherbodydescendstothebottom.I losecountatonehundredtwenty-three.Heemptiesthewarehouseofthedead,pilingthemintheyard,andatdusk,hesetsthepileonfire.Thebodieshavemummifiedandthefirecatchesquicklyandburnsveryhot andbright.Thepyre canbe seen formiles, if there are any eyes to see it. Its light glows in thedoorway,lapsacrossthefloor,turnstheconcreteintoagolden,undulatingseabed.Razorloungesinthedoorway watching the fire, a lean shadow haloed like a lunar eclipse. He shrugs out of his jacket,removeshis shirt, rollsup the sleeveofhisundershirt toexposehis shoulder.Thebladeofhisknifeglimmersintheyellowglowasheetchessomethingintohisskinwiththetip.Thenightwearson; thefiredwindles; thewindshiftsandmyheartacheswithnostalgia—summer
campsandcatchinglightningbugsandAugustskiesaflamewithstars.Thewaythedesertsmellsandthelong,wistfulsighofwindrushingdownfromthemountainsasthesundipsbeneaththehorizon.Razorlightsthekerosenelampandwalksovertome.Hesmellslikethesmokeand,faintly,likethe
dead.“Whydidyoudothat?”Iask.Abovetherag,hiseyesswimwithtears.Idon’tknowifhe’stearyfromthesmokeorsomethingelse.
“Orders,”hesays.HepullstheIVfrommyarmandwrapsthetubingoverthehookonthestand.“Idon’tbelieveyou,”Isay.“Well,I’mshocked.”It’sthemosthe’sspokensinceVoschleft.I’msurprisedthatI’mrelievedtohearhisvoiceagain.He’s
examiningthewoundonmyforehead,faceveryclosebecausethelightisdim.“Teacup,”Iwhisper.“Whatdoyouthink?”hesayscrossly.“She’salive.She’stheonlyleveragehehas.”“Okay,then.She’salive.”He spreads antibacterial ointment over the cut. An unenhanced human being would have needed
severalstitches,butinafewdaysnoonewillbeabletotellthatIwasinjured.“Icouldcallhisbluff,”Isay.“Howcanhekillhernow?”Razorshrugs.“Becausehedoesn’tgiveashitaboutonelittlekidwhenthefateofthewholeworldis
atstake?Justaguess.”“Afterallthat’shappened,aftereverythingyouheardandeverythingyousaw,youstillbelievehim.”Helooksdownatmewithsomethingthatcloselyresemblespity.“Ihavetobelievehim,Ringer.Ilet
goofthatandI’mdone.I’mthem.”Henodstowardtheyardwheretheblackenedbonessmolder.Hesitsonthecotnexttomineandpullsdownthemakeshiftmask.Thelanternbetweenhisfeetand
thelightthatflowsoverhisfaceandtheshadowsthatpoolinhisdeep-seteyes.“Toolateforthat,”Itellhim.“Right.We’realldeadalready.Sothereisnoleverage,right?Killme,Ringer.Killmerightnowand
run.Run.”I’dbeoffthecotbeforehecouldblinkagain.Asinglepunchtohischestandtheaugmentedblow
would shove a shattered rib into his heart. And then I could walk out, walk away, walk into thewildernesswhere I canhide foryears, decades, until I amold andbeyond the capabilityof the12thSystemtosustainme.Imightoutliveeveryone.ImightwakeonedaythelastpersononEarth.Andthen.Andthen.Hemustbefreezing,sittingtherewithnothingbutaT-shirton.Icanseealineofdriedbloodacross
hisbiceps.“Whatdidyoudotoyourarm?”Iask.Hepullsuphissleeve.Thelettersarecrudelydrawn,bigandblockyandshaky,thewayalittlekid
makesthemwhenhe’sfirstlearning:VQP“Latin,”hewhispers.“Vincitquipatitur.Itmeans—”“Iknowwhatitmeans,”Iwhisperback.Heshakeshishead.“Ireallydon’tthinkthatyoudo.”Hedoesn’tsoundangry.Hesoundssad.Alexturnshisheadtowardthedoorway,beyondwhichthedeadarebornetowardtheindifferentsky.
Alex.“IsAlexreallyyourname?”Iask.HelooksatmeagainandIseetheplayfullyironicsmile.Likehearinghisvoiceagain,I’msurprised
atmyselfformissingit.“Ididn’tlieaboutanyofthat.Onlytheimportantstuff.”“DidyourgrandmotherhaveadognamedFlubby?”Helaughssoftly.“Yes.”“That’sgood.”“Whyisthatgood?”“Iwantedthatparttobetrue.”“Becauseyoulovemeanlittlenippypursedogs?”“BecauseIlikethatonceuponatimethereweremeanlittlenippypursedogsnamedFlubby.That’s
good.That’sworthremembering.”He’soffthecotbeforeIcanblinkagain,andhe’skissingme,andIplungeinsidehimwherenothing
ishidden.He’sopentomenow,theonewhosustainedmeandtheonewhobetrayedme,theonewhobroughtmebacktolifeandtheonewhodeliveredmebacktodeath.Rageisnottheanswer,no,andnothate.Layerbylayer,thatwhichseparatesusfallsaway,untilIreachthecenter,thenamelessregion,thedefenselessstronghold,anageless,bottomlessache,thelonelysingularityofhissoul,unspoiledbytimeorexperience,beyondthought,infinite.AndIamtherewithhim—Iamalreadythere.Withinthesingularity,Iamalreadythere.“That can’t be true,” I whisper. Within the center of everything, where nothing is, I found him
holdingme.“Idon’tbelieveallofyourbullshit,”hemurmurs.“Butyou’rerightaboutthis:Somethings,downto
thesmallestofthings,areworththesumofallthings.”
Outside,thebitterharvestburns.Inside,heslipsthesheetsdown,andthesearethehandsthatheldme,thehandsthatbathedandfedandliftedmewhenIcouldnotliftmyself.Hebroughtmetodeath;hebringsme to life.That’swhyheremoved thedeadfromtheupper tier.Hebanished them,consignedthemtothefire,nottodesecratethembuttosanctifyus.Theshadowthatwrestleswithlight.Thecoldthatcontendswithfire.It’sawar,hetoldmeonce,and
we are the conquerors of the undiscovered country, an island of life centered in a boundless sea ofblood.The piercing cold. The searing heat. His lips sliding over my neck and my fingers feeling his
shatteredcheek,thewoundIgavehim,andthewoundsonhisarm—VQP—thathegavehimself,thenmyhandsslidingdownhisback.Don’tleaveme.Pleasedon’tleaveme.Thesmellofbubblegumandthesmellofsmokeandthesmellofhisblood,andthewayhisbodyslidesovermineandthewayhissoulslicesintomine:Razor.Thebeatofourheartsandtherhythmofourbreathandthespinningstarswecouldnotsee,markingthetime,measuringtheshrinkingintervalsuntiltheendofus,himandmeandeverythingelse.Theworldisaclockandtheclockwindsdown,andtheircominghadnothingtodowiththat.The
worldhasalwaysbeenaclock.Eventhestarswillwinkoutonebyoneandtherewillbenolightorheat,andthisisthewar,theendless,futilewaragainstthelightless,heatlessvoidrushingtowardus.He entwines his fingers behindmy back and pulls me tightly against him. No space between us
anymore.NospotwhereheendsandIbegin.Theemptinessfilled.Thevoiddefied.
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HELINGERSBESIDEMEuntilourbreathevensandourheartsslow,runninghisfingersthroughmyhair,staringatmyfaceintentlyasifhecannotleaveuntilhe’smemorizedeveryaspect.Hetouchesmylips,mycheeks,myeyelids.Runsthetipofhisfingeralongthelengthofmynose,aroundthecurveofmyear.Hisfacemoreinshadow,minemoreinlight.“Run,”hewhispers.Ishakemyhead.“Ican’t.”Herisesfromthecot,butIhavethesensationoffallingasheremainsstill.Hepullsonhisclothes
quickly.Ican’treadhisexpression.Razorhasclosedhimselfofftome.Iamboundinsidetheemptinessagain. I can’t bear it. It will crush me, the absence I lived with for so long that I hardly noticed.Unnoticeduntilthismoment:Heshowedmehowenormoustheemptinesswasbyfillingit.“Theywon’tcatchyou,”hepresses.“Howcouldtheyevercatchyou?”“HeknowsIwon’trunaslongashehasher.”“OhChrist.Whatisshetoyou,anyway?Issheworthyourlife?Howcanonepersonbeworthyour
wholelife?”It’saquestionhealreadyknowstheanswerto.“Fine.Dowhatyouwant.LikeIcare.Likeitmatters.”“That’sthelessontheytaughtus,Razor.Whatmattersandwhatdoesn’t.Theonetruthatthecenter
ofallthelies.”Hepicksuphis rifle and slings it over his shoulder.Hekissesmeon the forehead.Ablessing.A
benediction. Then he picks up the lamp and walks unsteadily to the doorway, the watchman, thecaretaker,theonewhodoesnotrestorgrowwearyorfalter.Heleansagainsttheopendoor,facingthenight,andtheskyabovehimburnswiththecoldlightoftenthousandpyresmarkingthetimetickingdown.“Run,”Ihearhimsay.Idon’tthinkhe’sspeakingtome.“Run.”
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ONTHEEIGHTHDAY,thechopperreturnsforus.IletRazorhelpwithmyclothes,butbesidesacoupleofsoreribsandapairofweaklegs,thetwelvearrayscollectivelyknownasRingerarefullyoperational.Myfacehascompletelyhealed;notevenascarremains.Ontheridebacktothebase,Razorsitsacrossfromme,studyingthefloor,lookingupatmeonlyonce.Run,hemouths.Run.Whiteland,darkriver,thehelicopterbankshard,swoopingaroundthecontroltowerattheairfield,
closeenoughformetoseeatall,solitaryfigurebehindthetintedwindows.Wesetdowninthesamespotfromwhichwetookoff,anothercirclecomplete,andRazorputshishandonmyelbowtoguidemeintothetower.Ontheridetothetop,hishandwrapsbrieflyaroundmine.“Iknowwhatmatters,”hesays.Voschstandsat theotherendof theroomwithhisback towardus,butIcanseehisfacereflected
dimlyintheglass.Besidehimstandsaburlyrecruitgrippingarifletohischestwiththedesperationofsomeonehangingover a ten-mile-deepgorgebya shoestring.Sittingnext to the recruit,wearing thestandard-issuewhitejumpsuit,isthereasonI’mhere,myvictim,mycross,mycharge.Teacupstartstogetupwhensheseesme.Thebigrecruitputshishandonhershoulderandpushes
herbackdown.Ishakemyheadandmouthtoher,No.Theroomisquiet.Razorisonmyrightside,standingslightlybehindme.Ican’tseehim,buthe’s
closeenoughthatIcanhearhimbreathing.“So.”Voschdrawsouttheword,aprelude.“Haveyousolvedtheriddleoftherocks?”“Yes.”Iseehimsmiletightlyinthedarkglass.“And?”“Throwingaverybigrockwoulddefeatthepurpose.”“Andwhatisthepurpose?”“Forsometolive.”“Thatbegsthequestion.You’rebetterthanthat.”“Youcouldhavekilledallofus.Butyoudidn’t.You’reburningthevillageinordertosaveit.”“Asavior.IsthatwhatIam?”Heturnstofaceme.“Refineyouranswer.Mustitbeallornothing?If
thegoalistosavethevillagefromthevillagers,asmallerrockwouldhaveachievedthesameresult.Whya seriesof attacks?Why the ruses anddeceit?Whyengineer-enhanced,delusionalpuppets likeEvanWalker?Arockissomuchmoresimpleanddirect.”“I’mnotsure,”Iconfess.“ButIthinkithassomethingtodowithluck.”Hestaresatmeforalongmoment.Thenhenods.Heseemspleased.“Whathappensnow,Marika?”“You’retakingmetohislastknownlocation,”Ianswer.“You’redroppingmeintotrackhimdown.
Heisananomaly,aflawinthesystemthatcan’tbetolerated.”“Really?Andhowcouldonepoorhumanpawnposeanydangerwhatsoever?”“Hefellinlove,andloveistheonlyweakness.”“Why?”Besideme,Razor’sbreath.Beforeme,Teacup’supliftedface.“Becauseloveisirrational,”ItellVosch.“Itdoesn’tfollowrules.Notevenitsownrules.Loveisthe
onethingintheuniversethat’sunpredictable.”“I would have to respectfully disagree with you on that point,” Vosch says. He looks at Teacup.
“Love’strajectoryisentirelypredictable.”Hestepsclose,loomingoverme,acolossuscutfromfleshandbonewitheyesclearasamountain
lakeboringallthewaydowntothebottomofmysoul.“WhywouldIneedyoutotrackhimoranyonedown?”“Youlostthedronesthatmonitorhimandalltheotherslikehim.He’soffthegrid.Hedoesn’tknow
thetruth,butheknowsenoughtocauseseriousdamageifheisn’tstopped.”Voschraiseshishand.Iflinch,buthishandcomesdownonmyshoulder,whichhesqueezeshard,his
faceglowingwithsatisfaction.“Verygood,Marika.Very,verygood.”Andbesideme,Razorwhispers,“Run.”Hissidearmexplodesbesidemyear.Voschbackpedalstowardthewindow,butheisn’thit.Thebig
recruitgoesdowntohisknees,rammingtherecoilpadofhisrifleagainsthisshoulder,butheisn’thit,either.Razor’stargetwasthesmallestthingthatisthesumofallthings,hisbullettheswordthatseversthe
chainthatboundme.TheimpacthurlsTeacupbackward.Herheadsmacksintothecounterbehindher;herstick-thinarms
flyintotheair.Iwhiptomyright,towardRazor,intimetoseehischestblownapartbythekneelingrecruit’sround.Hepitchesforwardandmyarmscomeupinstinctively,buthefallstoofast.Ican’tcatchhim.Andhissoft,soulfuleyesliftuptomine,attheendofatrajectorythatevenVoschfailedtopredict.“You’refree,”Alexwhispers.“Run.”Therecruitswingstherifletowardme.Voschstepsbetweenuswithanenraged,gutturalcry.Thehub lights up themuscular array as I sprint straight for thewindowsoverlooking the landing
field,leapingfromsixfeetawayandrotatingmyrightshouldertowardtheglass.AndthenI’mintheopenair,falling,falling,falling.You’refree.Falling.
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COVEREDINASHanddust,fivegrayghostsoccupyingthewoodsatdawn.MeganandSamfinallydriftingofftosleep,thoughmoreofapassingoutthanadriftingoff.Shewas
clutchingBeartoherchest.Whereverthereissomeoneinneed,Bearsaidtome,Iwillgo.Benwatchingthesunrisewithhisrifleacrosshislap,silent,wrappedtightwithangerandgrief,but
mostlygrief.Dumbo,thepracticalone,digginginhisrucksackforsomethingtoeat.Andme,wrappedtight,too,withangerandgrief,butmostlyanger.Hello,good-bye.Hello,good-bye.Howmanytimesdo I have to relive this cycle?What happened wasn’t hard to figure out; it was just impossible tounderstand.Evan found the baggie that Samdropped and blew (literally) bothGrace and himself tolime-green oblivion.Which had beenEvan’s plan from the beginning, the self-sacrificing, idealistic,alien-humanhybridasshole.DumbocameoverandaskedifIwantedhimtotakealookatmynose.Iaskedhimhowhecould
missit.Helaughed.“TakecareofBen,”Itoldhim.“Hewon’tletme,”hesaid.“Well,”Isaid,“therealwoundyourmedicalmojocan’ttouch,Dumbo.”Hehearditfirst(thebigearsmaybe?),headcomingup,lookingovermyshoulderintothetrees:the
snapandcrackleofthefrozengroundbreakinganddeadleavescrunching.Istoodupandswungmyrifle toward the sound. In the deep shadows, a lighter shadowmoved. A survivor of the crashwhofollowedushere?AnotherEvanorGrace,aSilencerfindingusinhis territory?No.Couldn’tbe.NoSilencerwouldbecaughtdeadtrampingthroughthewoodswithallthestealthofabullinachinashop—ortheywouldbecaughtdeaddoingit.The shadowraised its armshigh in theair and Iknew—knewbefore Iheardmyname—thathe’d
foundmeagain,keeperofthepromisehecouldn’tmake,theoneIhadmarkedwithmybloodandwhohadmarkedmewithhistears,aSilencerallright,mySilencer,stumblingtowardmeintheimpossiblypurelightofalatewinter’ssunrisepromisingspring.IhandedmyrifletoDumbo.Ilefthim.Thegoldenlightandthedarktreesglisteningwithiceandthe
waytheairsmellsoncoldmornings.Thethingsweleavebehindandthethingsthatneverleaveus.Theworld endedonce. Itwill end again.Theworld ends, then theworld comesback.Theworld alwayscomesback.Istoppedafewstepsfromhim.Hestopped,too,andweregardedeachotheracrossanexpansewider
thantheuniverse,withinaspacethinnerthanarazor’sedge.“Mynoseisbroken,”Isaid.DamnthatDumbo.Mademeself-conscious.“Myankle’sbroken,”hesaid.“ThenI’llcometoyou.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Goingin,Ididn’tfullyappreciatethetollthisprojectmighttake.Oneofmyflawsasawriter(oneofmany,Godknows)is thatI tendtodivetoodeeplyintotheinner livesofmycharacters.I ignorethesageadvicetoremainabovethefray,tobeasindifferentasthegodstothesufferingwithinmycreation.Whenyou’rewritinga longstoryspanning threevolumesabout theendof theworldasweknowit,you’reprobablybetteroffnottakingittooseriously.Otherwise,you’reinforsomedarknightsofthesoul,aswellasfatigue,malaise,untowardmoodswings,hypochondria,cryingjags,andpuerilehissyfits.Youtellyourself(andthepeoplearoundyou)thatactinglikeafour-year-oldwhocriesbecausehedidn’tgetwhathewantedforChristmasisaperfectlynormalwaytobehave,butdeepdownyouknowyou’rebeingdisingenuous.Deepdownyouknowthat,whentheclockhaswounddownandthetimeisup,therewillbemorethanacknowledgmentsowed;therewillbeapologies,too.TothegoodpeopleatPutnam,particularlyDonWeisberg,JenniferBesser,andAriLewin:Forgive
meforgettinglostinthethickets,fortakingmyselfandmybookstooseriously,forblamingothersformyownshortcomings,forgettingboggeddowninthemuddytrenchesoftheimpossibledilemmasofmyownmaking.Youhavebeengenerousandpatientandincrediblysupportive.Tomyagent,BrianDeFiore:Tenyearsago,youhadnoideawhatyouweregettinginto.Tobefair,
neitherdidI,butthanksforhanginginthere.It’snicetoknowthatthere’ssomeoneIcancallanytimeandyellatfornoreasonatall.Tomyson,Jake:ThankyouforalwaysansweringmytextsandnotfreakingoutwhenIwas.Thanks
forreadingmymoodsandforgivingthemevenwhenyoudidn’tunderstandthem.Thanksforinspiringme andpushingme and alwaysdefendingme againstmeanpeople.And thanks for notminding toomuchyourfather’sannoyinghabitofpepperinghisspeechwithobscurequotesfrombooksyouhaven’treadandmoviesyouhaven’tseen.Finally,toSandy,mywifeofnearlytwentyyears,whorecognizedinherhusbandadreamunfulfilled
andwhounderstoodbetterthanhedidhowtomakethatdreamreal:Mydarling,youtaughtmecouragein the faceofoverwhelmingoddsand incalculable loss.Youshowedme faith in the faceofdespair,courageinthehoursoflightlessconfusion,patienceintheshadowofloomingpanicoverlosttimeandwastedeffort.Forgivemeforthehoursofsilenceyouendured,theinarticulateangerandhopelessness,the inexplicableswingsfromeuphoria (“I’magenius!”) toangst (“Isuck!”).Theonlyfool I’veeverseen you suffer gladly is me. Ruined holidays, forgotten obligations, unheard questions. Nothing ismorepainfulthanthelonelinessofbeingwithsomeonewhoisnevercompletelythere.I’veincurredadebtthatishopelessformetorepay,thoughIpromisetotry.Because,intheend,withoutlovealloureffortiswasted,allwedoisinvain.Vincitquipatitur.